Vicky Peterwald: Survivor (Vicky Peterwald Series Book 2) by Mike Shepherd Page A

her palms.
    You’re a businesswoman this morning. Stay focused,
some other self scolded.
    “Why all the guns and stuff?” came, again, from the mob.
    “She’s the Grand Duchess, you doofus. Her new stepmom wants her dead. Don’t you follow anything on net?” a woman’s voice answered.
    “So that bit of palace intrigue has made it out even to here,” Vicky muttered.
    “We may be out here, but we aren’t totally in the dark about news from the bigger sphere,” the young woman said, dropping something that might have passed for a curtsy at the palace.
    From a cute three-year-old.
    “If you’ll come this way, Your Grace,” the man said, and pointed toward a dimly lit hall of crude construction.
    The Marines closed in on Vicky. The Rangers began to disperse under whispered orders from their officers and NCOs. Her commander’s frown lines stayed deep. He might have talked Vicky into this little visit, but he didn’t look all that happy about it.
    The hall was made of thin plywood held up by rough-hewn two-by-fours. Mud bricks provided some insulation and protection to the outside. Windows had plywood shutters. It must get rough out here in the winter. Around the hall were plenty of buildings a lot smaller and with more mud bricks and less wood. Vicky would never have thought people could live like this.
    There was a long wooden table down the center of the building. Its plywood was dinted and dinged, with undetermined stains and the occasional carved word. Benches lined both sides of the table. A single rough-worked chair stood at the head of the table.
    Vicky was directed to it.
    Once she was settled, with her commander and a Marine captain standing at her back, there was a long round of introductions.
    The old man was Gus. He spoke for the Guild of Independent Prospectors. The woman was Molly. She spoke for the Tinkers Group.
    Vicky lost track of the introductions after that. C OMPUTER, RECORD ALL THIS AND BE READY TO GIVE ME A NAME IF I NEED IT.
    Y ES, Y OUR G RACE.
    The room fell silent after the last name. That pause stretched and folded into a nice bow, so Vicky tossed out her first question.
    “Who
are
you people? I thought everyone worked for the mines. Tinkers? Independent Prospectors? How do you fit into the big picture?”
    “Think of us as the mice hiding in the walls,” Molly said.
    “Not all of us,” Gus said with a cough. “Some of us are independent contractors to the co-op. Others, well, we’re the people that don’t exist on the record.”
    “Excuse me,” Vicky said, “but I don’t understand matters any better now than when I asked that question.”
    Molly glanced at Gus, then said, “Most of the crystal that is taken out of Presov comes from the hard rock mines. The companies drill deep underground, find a vein, and extract the huge crystals that industry needs. Us, or the independent prospectors, go out and find crystal veins on the surface. Others pan for it. The smaller, water-polished crystals are used for art or musical instruments.”
    “I think I understand what you’re getting at. But what’s a tinker?” Vicky asked.
    “I guess you’d call us craftsmen, but we kind of prefer tinkers. We get a lot of tinker’s damns from the prospectors,” Molly said with a lovely smile. “We’re the people with the fast fingers and good eyes that keep a prospector’s gear working long after the co-op would have scrapped it. Hell, much of what they use, they take from the co-op’s scrap heap and have to pay a sweet price for it, I’ll tell you.”
    “Is there much scrap these days?” the commander asked.
    “Damn little,” Molly said. “And they want an arm and a leg for it. Half our group have been hired by the co-op of late. Even their mechanics and machinists can’t keep the crap they’ve got up and running.”
    “So you live off the table scraps of the co-op,” the commander said.
    “Pretty much. You get banged up and hurt in the mines too bad to work for the co-op,