He sat up in the chair. Faced her. Swallowed. “They gave us a promise. They wouldn’t bomb Rhuddlan. When they come back. They’ll bomb others. Bundoran’s going to be pounded under the waves, that’s where the Fierans are. But they won’t bomb us.”
Getting angry at him would stop him. She needed him to keep talking. In a calm, almost sympathetic voice, she said, “You believed them?”
“Sure. We’d been working for the Censorate for generations. They reward good work.”
“So, this was just out of habit? Not a decision?”
“We made a decision.” He was irked, wanting to defend the choice. “The Censorate will win. The Fierans needed everything they had to defeat a tiny part of the Censorate. When the whole Censorate strikes back they’ll win. It’s inevitable.”
That was a full confession—he claimed the backing of his clan for his actions. The interrogation room recorders had copied it down in triplicate. Wynny asked more questions, wanting to extract all the details of the sabotage before he regained his balance.
***
For a case of this magnitude, everyone wanted the best judge they could get. Judge Terwyn flew in from Arnvon. It still took a week to go through the evidence and arguments.
The trial was outdoors in a fourth level park. All space not used by the court was packed with spectators. Controlling the floaters hanging overhead to watch and record drove the Rhuddlan police to borrow cops from nearby cities.
“As to Clan Tolog’s last argument,” pronounced Judge Terwyn, “that even if they had committed those acts, which they deny . . .” Terwyn paused for the crowd’s laughter to die down. “The act would be a legitimate act of war in the conflict between Fiera and the Censorate. This claim cannot be considered within the traditions of Clan Law, as we have no history of warfare. The Censorate’s rule is that it may do as it wills and no one may act against its will. I do not find this a fit basis for my ruling.”
More laughter.
“Our Fieran friends do have a tradition of warfare. They also have the history of warfare back to Old Earth. Under their rules, to be a lawful act of war, the actor must be under the command of someone taking responsibility for their actions, he must not disguise himself as other than an enemy soldier, and he must comply with the rules of war.”
Terwyn thumped his staff on the stone slab he stood on. “I find that the Censorate spies fled the planet before the sabotage, not taking responsibility for the actions they ordered. I find the saboteurs were in disguise as common workers. Therefore, this is not a lawful act of war. It is arguably treason, but there is no tradition of prosecuting treason under Clan Law.”
Thump.
“I find that the members of Clan Tolog committed the act of sabotage. I find that the elders and members of Clan Tolog agreed that this act should be committed. I find that the members of Clan Tolog benefitted from the payment for this act.”
Thump. “The recompense and bloodprice exceed the assets of Clan Tolog. The clan has petitioned Forge Twenty-Nine to become workers there. Manager Tomas, how do you respond?”
The manager of the nearest industrial island stepped forward. His suit was an ugly brown. There was a burn scar on his cheek. He projected his voice to the whole crowd. “Forge Twenty-Nine always needs hard workers. If you’re tired of big city life, we’ll give you a home. But we don’t want traitors and saboteurs. It’s too much work to watch them. Request denied.”
That received mutters of approval from the bloodthirsty members of the crowd.
Thump.
The judge spoke harshly. “Clan Tolog, all you own is confiscated, and as that is not enough to pay for the damage you’ve done, we will have your blood. Surrender what you have, shirt to shoes.”
Clan Tolog was completely present. The Rhuddlan police had cleared out the clanhome to ensure all attended. Two elders were in float chairs.
The circle of police surrounding them brandished their shock sticks. The clan began to strip their clothes off. Anyone stubborn received a jolt. A woman flung her earrings in opposite directions, removed her dress, then turned to help her aged mother.
When Clan Tolog was entirely naked the police parted to let them out of the park. They marched toward the down escalator. Gleaners moved in to gather the abandoned clothes. They’d be sold and the proceeds shared among those owed bloodprices.
Marcus put his arm around Wynny. He realized this was the reason she’d asked him to come to the last day of the trial. Seeing this would be rough on her.
“I thought the clan was bigger,” he said.
“It was, a week ago,” Wynny answered. “There’s been many divorces, and some hasty outmarriages.”
“In that case . . . I’m surprised there’s so many couples left.”
“A clan doesn’t have to take divorcees back. It’s normal to, most clans do, but if there’s any reason not to . . . they don’t have to take you back. Especially for someone who had a personal hand in the crime, or voted in favor of doing it. They could bring liability to their new clan.”
A floatercab put them on the roof of the third level ardal where Clan Tolog was marching along the outer walkway. It was lined with people watching the procession. Some jeered. Others studied the clanfolk.
A middle-aged woman stepped out of the crowd. She reached for the infant held by a young mother. The Clan Tolog mother handed the child over and kept walking. The other passed through the crowd, headed for the nearest door.
“Did you see that?” said Marcus. “She just took the baby.”
Wynny nodded. “There’s going to be many adoptions today.”
When Clan Tolog passed out of sight, another cab took them to the roof of a first level ardal. The edge was packed solid with spectators. When they saw Wynny’s hat a hole appeared.
Marcus studied the condemned as they came into view. All the little children were gone. There was a third float chair, supporting an unconscious man.
“Figure he made a break for it?” asked Marcus.
“Yes. He’d’ve been better off going over the railing.”
A teenager was gesturing as he answered questions from a man in the crowd.
Marcus pointed at them. “That looks like a job interview.”
Wynny shrugged. “Marriages or adoptions, it’s all about work.”
Marcus shivered. He was glad he’d left Niko with the nanny for this trip. He was too young to remember any of it . . . but there were things a child shouldn’t see.
The procession headed for one of the hatches in the outer wall. This one led to a pier popular with fishermen. The sewer system kept some organics in its output, using them to fertilize the ecosystem as a more cost-effective way to produce food than extracting them to use in the vats.
The sewage fed plankton, which fed small fish, and so on up the chain to Corwynt’s many, many native predators.
One man jumped off the pier as soon as he was through the hatch. He briskly stroked toward the spaceport. Twenty seconds later he vanished under the water.
“That’s pretty active,” said Marcus. “I thought people swam in these waters.”
“They were chumming the water to attract them. And everybody puts swimming cages on the other side of the city from the sewer pipes.”
Clan Tolog filled the outer half of the pier. Police waved their shock sticks at the end of the crowd. They just packed in closer. Jolting the two closest clan members caused spasms, pushing others into the water.
Marcus was glad they couldn’t hear anything inside the city.
Some people shoved by the crowd shoved back. More went into the water. Fins flashed. Blooms of red appeared in the water.
The unconscious man went into the water with his floatchair.
An elderly woman tried to crawl between two cops. They rolled her into the water.
The survivors retreated. There was enough room on the pier for them now. They packed together toward the end, trying to stay clear of the police shock sticks.
A
tentacle reached out of the water, wrapped around a man’s ankle, and pulled him into the water.
The police marched forward. The people at the edge of the crowd recoiled from them, pushing others into the water, including the two elders in floatchairs. A scuffle broke out. More fell off the pier.
The surviving remnant of Clan Tolog braced against each other.
The police gave up on having their work done for them. They shocked everyone in reach. Some spasmed and fell into the water. Others dropped to their knees. The cops kicked them off the edge.
Then there were only police on the pier and three floatchairs hovering just above the ocean.
A questing tentacle slid onto the pier. A shock stick smacked it with a spark. It vanished.
Wynny leaned into Marcus. “My work’s done. Let’s go home.”
***
Welly Goch burst into Vychan’s study, waving her tablet. “Fulke dropped out of the race! We did it!”
“Rumor or fact?” demanded Vychan.
She played a short clip of Fulke Renowden declaring, “And since people no longer support my key proposal, there is no point in my wasting effort in running for office.”
“Well. That’s definite. And here’d I’d just been hoping his support would be weakened.”
At Vychan’s discreet urging, Nyrath, leader of their history-preserving secret society, had given an interview with Ceri Harri. He’d explained the concept of hyperinflation, with examples of societies destroyed by it on Earth and later colonies. Neither had mentioned Fulke Renowden or his plan for using the Censorial currency printers to make everyone flush.
Voters made the connection. Posters of Fulke were torn down. A bookie declared he couldn’t give odds for Fulke’s candidacy. “Everyone who put money on him bought the bet back.”
Vychan said thoughtfully, “Nyrath did a superb job of taking down Fulke. I wonder how he’ll want me to repay him.”
Welly switched files on her tablet. “Right now, his voters are up for grabs. We need to do something to take them. I recommend the loan program. You can announce it in the speech you’re giving on second level tomorrow.”
The candidate read through the file with a frown.
“I thought you liked this concept,” said Welly.
“Mmmm. I think it’s a sound policy. I think it will help many people. But there will be some failures. I’ll be the one forcing a bankrupt clan out of their home and shipping them off to an industrial island. I don’t like that.”
She opened another file. “We worked out a grant program. Clans wouldn’t have to pay those back.”
Vychan shook his head. “The city couldn’t afford nearly as many grants. Taxpayers wouldn’t like their money being given away. The loans are the best choice. I’ll have to do what it takes to make them succeed.”
“Let’s rehearse the speech,” said Welly. “The new part should go at the end.” She sent the text to his tablet.
He read it, made some changes, and argued with Welly about others. Fifteen minutes later they were both satisfied.
Standing behind his desk, he scanned across a shelf of nearly full bottles as he talked. Pretending he was facing an audience didn’t come easily to him.
“Many clans are facing hard times. This is a result of the changes our world is going through. There’s no shame in a business becoming unprofitable because of a Fieran import or the abolishment of a Censorial law.”
He suppressed a smirk. The last item described why he needed a new job.
“There are many needs waiting to be fulfilled. But it’s hard for a clan to switch to a new business. Buying equipment, training workers, finding customers, all take time and money.”
Vychan stared hard at a brandy bottle as he added emphasis.
“As mayor, I will use the city’s accumulated tax money to issue loans to clans needing to convert to new businesses. This will not be for living expenses, just what’s needed for new businesses. Loans will only be made to clans with solid plans for the business they want to enter.”
Stern voice. “To ensure the taxpayers do not lose money, loans will be secured by the clanhome. Repayment will be taken as a share of the gross profits of the business.”
Uplifting now. “As a city project, these loans will ensure every clan in the city of Bundoran will participate in the bright future we have ahead of us.”
Welly said, “I like it. Let’s go practice it on the clan.”
***
The comm rang as Marcus was in mid-diaper change. Fortunately, it was for Wynny. He heard her side of the conversation.
“This is she. What? Oh, good. Ah. Oh, my. I would need my expenses covered in advance. Then yes. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
She turned off the comm and dropped into a chair.
“Death creditor work?” asked Marcus, still wiping.
“Maybe judge work. Or counsel,” she said. “There was a sabotage attempt in Narbeth. Four men hijacked a freight hauler and tried to ram it into a Concord destroyer in port for maintenance. A chandlery truck crashed into it before it reached the ship. Then some mechanics pulled out the men and beat them to death.”
Marcus winced. “Ugly. But I can’t blame them.”
Wynny took a deep breath. “Then they took the bodies to their clanhome, gave their names to the doorguard, and dared the clan to sue.”
That made Marcus pause in strapping the new diaper on. “Will they?”
“I don’t know. If they don’t, they’re leaving every member of the clan vulnerable to assault without fear of retaliation. If they do, the clan could be found liable for attempted destruction of property. That’s a few hundredth of the property’s value, I have to check.”
“One percent of a destroyer is probably more than their clanhome’s worth.” He wiped his hands clean.
“What’s worse, somebody with a grudge is trying to find a way to accuse his target of sabotage right now.”
Marcus swung Niko up to his shoulder. Exhausted from what he’d done to the diaper, the baby fell asleep. “Look at the bright side. Any sleeper cell planning sabotage is having second thoughts now.”
***
From their breakfast table, Bridge and Dulcinea Yeager could see the Navy shuttle touch down on the Proconsular Palace’s landing pad.
“There’s my ride,” he said.
Dulcinea’s reserve broke. “Oh, Bridge, do you have to go? I know you had to go see the Monitor, I didn’t complain about that trip, even though I worried the whole time. But this is just a military action. Do you really need to be there?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
Bridge came around the table and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, my darling. I’d stay if I could. But this mission might require destroying cities, or even depopulating Corwynt. I can’t delegate that. I have to be there to make that decision.”
She sighed against his chest. “You always make the hard decisions. That’s why I fell in love with you. You were brave enough to do the hard part of the job.”
“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so good at it,” Yeager said wistfully. “It would have been nice to stay a proconsul.”
“That was a lovely little world,” she said. “We had so much time together.”
Refusing promotion to stay in the job hadn’t been an option. Security would have assumed he was amassing a personal power base for corrupt reasons.
Dulcinea lifted her face to his. “Maybe you’ll do so well now you’ll be appointed to the Censor’s Council. You can take me to all the Capitol parties. I’ll terrify the old biddies with my war stories.”
He laughed. “It’s a date.”
They kissed, long and hard.
Yeager looked up at a cough. He saw his valet standing in the doorway, come to tell him the shuttle was ready. “I love you, Dulcinea. I’ll see you soon.”
She clutched his arm. “Promise me you’ll come back. Promise me!”
He stroked her hair. “I promise. I’ll come back. You’
re my home.”
***
Harsh drumbeats sounded from Marcus’ comm. He was out of bed and answering it before his eyes opened. “Yes, sir?” he said.
“Wing Leader,” said Admiral Song. He was saying it without sarcasm now. “A Censorial fleet is approaching Corwynt. I’m taking the fleet out to meet them. Mobilize your force and stand by for orders.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Song disconnected. A line of text informed Marcus that files were attached to the conversation, but this device wasn’t secure enough to open them.
He recorded a message to the other wing leaders and his own group leaders. After relaying Song’s orders, he added, “Do full inspections. We’re likely to see combat today. Once you have a bird checked off, let the crew sleep in their seats if they want. This is a classic hurry up and wait situation. We need to be ready to go the instant we have orders. Landry out.”
Marcus started digging in a drawer for his softest underwear. He might be wearing it for a long time.
Wynny said, “Real or exercise?” without lifting her head from her pillow.
“Real.” Marcus shoved his feet into a flightsuit with Azure Tarn markings on it.
“Floods.” Now Wynny was awake. She’d become used to once or twice a month mobilization exercises. This was the first real operation the fighters had been activated for.
Marcus accepted her hug with the flight suit half on. She squeezed hard.
“Hey. I’ll be all right. It’s just been patrol actions, dancing around. This’ll be a bigger version of the same. Nothing to worry about.”
Her eyebrows said, ‘Bullshit,’ but her lips said, “Okay.”
She helped him finish dressing. The militia vest, four stripes on each shoulder, went on last.
“Want me to fetch Niko to see you off?”
“Don’t wake him. I’ll blow him a kiss on my way out.”
“Okay.”
They kissed, frantically, hungrily, until she shoved him away. “Bring me Bridge Yeager’s head.”
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