Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

  Marcus recognized the term from his history reading. The rest of the bridge crew traded looks of incomprehension.

  “Bombs,” explained the captain. “Set to explode if an enemy ship comes near. Some of them launch missiles. I haven’t figured them all out yet.”

  There was a pause to digest that.

  “What if one of them mistakes us for an enemy ship?” asked Betty.

  “That’d be a bad day.”

  Marcus hid a smile at his father’s dry tone. Then he increased speed. If the mines were programmed to attack ships moving over a certain speed, the Leyte wouldn’t have said ‘best speed.’ He hoped.

  They reached the end of the tunnel without explosions. The entirety of the Fieran Bubble lay before them.

  Marcus drank in the sight. He used to consider it vast, before venturing into the open voids of the galaxy. Now it was just home.

  Multicolored shoals bounded the Bubble in a shape some compared to a partly crushed packing box. He could see all three suns. Fiera’s was closest. It was surrounded by glowing shoals, angled to make an overlapping maze that kept four survey ships constantly busy with updates. Past there were the suns of Svalbard and Iolite. They were hazy with distance, blurred by the aether in between. Their shoals glowed redder than Fiera’s yellow.

  Then he looked at the emptiness of the void between the tunnel and Fiera’s shoals. All he could think was that the defending fleet would have nothing to keep it from being surrounded and wiped out by the Censorials once they broke through the tunnel.

  ***

  The Planetary Liaison’s orders had been broad, or her staff was being overenthusiastic. Everyone on board Azure Tarn, not just the embassy but the crew down to the cook’s assistant, had been bundled aboard a troop transport and flown to the House of Concord.

  The treaty ending the Fourth Global War established the Liaison to talk to all the member nations and resolve tensions before they led to new wars. But as the only non-committee element of the new Concord organization, the Liaison accumulated executive roles. Head of peacekeeping forces. Manager of the budget. Nominator of committee members.

  Over ninety years the office became the most powerful one among all three planets. When each Liaison’s decade-long term ended the replacement was appointed by a treaty ratified by two thirds of the member nations. This had evolved from consensus to bargaining to bribery and threats. There was open speculation that the next Liaison negotiation could lead to open war.

  They could be doing a lot worse than Maria Onoshi. She’d been nicknamed ‘The Switchblade’ in New Luzon politics for cutting off speakers she thought had gone on too long—usually her opponents. Now she balanced maintaining the power of her office against placating anti-Concord factions on a knife edge.

  The Censorate would end that, one way or another.

  The Liaison’s office actually had room for the thirty-some from Azure Tarn, a dozen security guards, and the usual array of aides and flunkies. There wasn’t much room left over. Marcus noticed flunkies behind the Liaison’s desk were pressing against the windows as if they were afraid to stand too close to their boss’s chair.

  Onoshi looked over the crowd without giving any hint if she’d wanted them all there or not. She was in a plain swivel chair, the same as the Concord’s clerks used, except hers was scaled down to match her five foot frame. Her oak desk was likewise scaled down. She leaned back in the chair to look up at the people standing before her.

  “Ambassador?” said the Liaison.

  Ambassador Trygg and Consul Ortega stood in the first row in front of the desk. Captain Landry stood beside her. Marcus had stuck with his father. There weren’t many people wanting to be in the front row.

  Trygg stood straight, almost at attention. The pose would work for a firing squad. “Ma’am, I must report complete failure. The Censorate demands enforcement of their laws on our people. That would produce revolts. We must prepare to fight.”

  “Which laws?”

  Ambassador Trygg summarized the trade and travel restrictions, data destruction, and a few more of the points of Governor Yeager’s ultimatum.

  The Planetary Liaison contemplated the list. “What do they have against books?”

  Trygg took a deep breath as she considered how to answer this.

  “It’s not just books,” muttered Marcus.

  Onoshi’s eyes locked onto Marcus’. His memory helpfully supplied the sound of a switchblade snapping open. “What was that, young man?”

  Marcus froze.

  Her fingers waved, demanding an answer.

  “Ma’am, it’s not just books.”

  Her eyes remained intent, wanting more.

  Where to start? “Ma’am, do you have pictures of your grandparents?”

  A nod.

  “The Censorate would force you to burn those pictures. They’d bulldoze historical monuments. They’d shoot all the history teachers. They don’t want there to be a past. Only a now. A now where the Censorate rules and always has ruled. They don’t want our grandchildren to know they were ever free from the Censorate.”

  He stopped, needing to breathe, afraid he’d compounded his original offense by making a speech.

  The deadly eyes slid off him. “Do you agree, Ambassador?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The Censorate erases history as a control mechanism.”

  “We can’t have that,” said Onoshi. “Tomorrow morning you’ll give a full briefing for myself, the national representatives, and the department heads. See if you can find some work for that young man while you’re at it.”

  ***

  Two weeks later:

  “Good morning, Aunt Wynny!”

  Wynny eyed the group of Clan Alevan teenagers suspiciously. None of them were closer than a second cousin. Addressing her as ‘Aunt’ rather than ‘Cousin’ implied they wanted a favor. As did the smiles and nods. “Good morning, children,” she replied.

  Not one balked at the ‘children.’ They did want something.

  “Do you like going to the movies?” Anna was spokesgirl for the pack of them.

  “Yes . . .” If they expected her to buy them tickets she’d give them a rude refusal. Wynny was already calculating how many more days she could look for the missing books before she had to move back to her parents’ clanhome.

  “We do, too, and we have enough to buy afternoon tickets. But we need an adult to go with us. Everyone in the clan is busy this afternoon. Now your schedule is flexible so we thought maybe . . .” Anna trailed off invitingly.

  ‘Flexible’ was much politer than ‘unemployed lay about.’ Points for the kids. And she did like movies. But she couldn’t afford luxuries. “I’d like to help you, but I can’t waste money on entertainment right now.”

  “Oh, we can buy your ticket,” said a teen. “And we’ll treat you to The Grill after,” said another.

  For a free meal of fresh caught fish she’d sit through three hours of The Singing Dolphins. “Then sure. I have some business with Gwynna but then I can go.”

  “Great!” said Anna. “We’re meeting at the clanhome door at one.”

  Wynny found Gwynna in the kitchen washing up from breakfast. She grabbed a sponge and pitched in. Over the course of several hundred plates, bowls, and cups she established that Gwynna was a practicing Christian.

  “But I just go to services and pray and sing hymns.”

  “I stay out of the arguments.”

  “No, I’ve never seen a book at a service.”

  “I promise to tell you if I do.”

  Wynny thanked her and went up front. She wished she could hire someone like Rag Duffy to find the stolen Bibles. But all the money she had left wouldn’t cover the bloodprice for Rag Duffy to break someone’s nose.

  They had good seats for the movie, thanks to Anna getting them there early. The teens’ cash stretched to buying three buckets of salted nori to share among the seven of them and Wynny.

  The movie was, alas, another episode of The Singing D
olphins. Wynny didn’t hate them, but she wasn’t a teenager anymore, and this series was even worse about recycling stories than Rag Duffy.

  Six teenagers from two clans took a fishing boat out to trawl deep water. This part alternated between pratfalls to entertain the younger teens and awkward flirting to entertain (or instruct?) the older ones.

  A rogue wave smashed the boat, leaving all six clinging to flotsam. As they were about to give up and let themselves sink, singing began in the distance. Six dolphins swam up, sang about the beauty of the ocean, and lifted the kids onto their backs.

  Three songs later the dolphins dropped the kids off at a shoaler farm. The grouchy farmers offered to give them a ride home if the teens would help with the harvest for three days, work hard, and “not snoop around.”

  More pratfalls, this time underwater, and more flirting. The teens spent the night in the ‘tax collector house,’ a flimsy structure held out of the water on poles, where the farmer would meet with Censies to hide any sign of his wealth.

  An unexpected hurricane smashed the house, leaving the kids floating in storm waves. The dolphins arrived with a new song and carried the teens away. Two more songs later they delivered the teens to their home city. The couple Wynny had predicted asked to marry each other in front of their grateful clans.

  As the credits rolled the Alevan teens burst into chatter. The boys disputed which pratfall was worst. Anna said, “Storms, I can’t believe Arawn proposed to Nesta. Teleri would have been so much better for him.”

  The screen brightened as the credits ended. “News announcement. There has been a death in the sub-levels. The body has not yet been identified. This report is from forty minutes ago.”

  The theater’s narrator went silent. The logo was replaced by a video of a pretty blonde woman. Bleached, according to the gossip Wynny had heard. “Good afternoon. I’m Bregus with the news of Arnvon. At half past three a maintenance worker found the body of a dead man.”

  The camera drew back, revealing a concrete corridor lined with pipes. A body lay on the ground. It wore drab sturdy clothes. A puddle of blood spread out from the head. On the wall ‘Harold is His name’ was written in blood.

  The Censorial Security officer who’d crashed the embassy clean up was standing just clear of the puddle. Bregus approached her. The camera followed, closing in enough to hide the body from sight.

  “Ma’am, should people worry about this killing?” asked the reporter.

  “Oh, no. This has improved public safety.” The Censorial’s smile was smug. “This is clearly the result of two criminal or subversive groups clashing over territory. Weakening them is only a benefit to all loyal subjects.”

  “So no crime occurred?”

  “That’s right. Killing a subversive is a perfectly legal act.” Chuckle. “Even when it’s done by another subversive.”

  Then the camera turned to a close up of the dead body’s face while Bregus urged anyone who could identify it to notify the Arnvon police.

  When it ended the theater lights came on. Wynny followed the teens out in a fog.

  The murder was exactly what she wanted to prevent by recovering the books. Instead the oral tradition Christians were fighting the book readers. The Censorial’s statement was blatant permission for more killings.

  Worse, once the victim was identified his clan would want a bloodprice—or maybe just revenge.

  Wynny cursed aloud, drawing strange looks from her cousins.

  The Censorate wanted the clans seeking revenge. They’d investigate the secret societies and drag them into the open. All without the Censorials doing any work or arousing public anger against them.

  She decided to go to the police tomorrow. If they had some leads on the victim’s connections she might be able to get a book back while they were scared from the murder.

  Then a whiff of cooking fish drove planning from her mind. The Grill had more variety than their name would indicate, but the house specialty was searing filets that had been swimming in the ocean less than an hour before.

  Another diner started as Wynny walked by her table. “Excuse me. Are you the Fieran’s bride?”

  “I am.” Wynny braced for a complaint, or another ridiculous rumor to deny.

  “Then congratulations. I hope your husband is back soon.”

  “Thank you.” She rushed to catch up with the teens as they were seated.

  Clan Alevan was a favored customer here, so Anna had no need to haggle. The service was excellent. A berry compote dessert was served for free.

  When they all went out to the corridor Wynny was as well fed as she’d been since Marcus left. She’d postponed all her worries to tomorrow.

  The usual pedestrian traffic was flowing around a knot of men in dark suits. As they approached the men spread in a line to block the corridor.

  “Wynny Landry of Clan Fiera?” said the one in the middle.

  The Embassy wasn’t a clan, but calling it ‘Clan Fiera’ was a reasonable way for a Corwynti to describe them. Spacers were held responsible for others from their home planet that way. Controlling an impulse to run the other way, she answered, “Yes, that’s me.”

  “You are invited to attend a Speaking.”

  “When and where?”

  “Trilith Park. Everyone else is there. It will begin on your arrival.”

  Why would a clan be suing her? Or suing Fiera? The damages from Chaplain Murphy’s riot had been paid by the Censorate as a diplomatic gesture. She’d been careful not to make any real estate commitments that could lead to breach of contract. Wynny was baffled.

  Whatever the reason she’d have to go. She was the only member of ‘Clan Fiera’ on the planet. There was no clan elder to take her place.

  “I will follow you there,” said Wynny.

  Anna sent a couple members of her pack racing off. The rest joined the parade to Trilith Park. The men in suits tried to walk next to Wynny, but Anna elbowed her way in between and the rest of the teens followed her lead.

  Wynny didn’t know why everyone was making such a fuss. It’s not like running away would let her avoid the suit.

  The walk included two escalator rides to reach the park on level four. People in formal clothes outnumbered the park’s normal occupants in casual or athletic ones. The Speaking would be in front of the eponymous rock sculpture.

  The teens had passed the word fast enough for Heilyn Alevan to arrive before them. He’d brought two of the clan elders. She recognized them as Gramp Atawan and Granny Rhedyn.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Wynny. “Do you know what this is about?”

  The Alevans shook their heads. Rhedyn said, “Clan Meurig is Speaking. I haven’t heard what their complaint is. They hired Terwyn as judge so it’s something serious.”

  “That’s good news for you,” added Atawan. “Terwyn’s famous for choosing justice over who’s paying his fee.”

  A clack-clack-clack sounded through the park. The judge stood on a stone slab tapping his staff of office on it. “Speaker for Clan Meurig, come forth!”

  A white-haired woman took up a place on another slab.

  “Speaker for Clan Fiera, come forth!”

  Heilyn patted Wynny on the shoulder. She walked out into the clearing. Halfway across she spotted the third slab and pivoted to it.

  Judge Terwyn was framed in the opening of the trilith. He waited until Wynny reached her spot before speaking again.

  “Clan Meurig will Speak their complaint, in full and without interruption. Then Clan Fiera will make their answer, without interruption. If Clan Fiera’s answer is acceptable to Clan Meurig the Speaking is complete. If not the clans may persuade each other as long as they are persuadable. If no compromise can be reached each clan will propose a judgement and the judge will choose which one to enforce. Do the Speakers understand?”

  Wynny nodded. This was standard for Clan Law, which handled everything Censorial Law didn’t. She’d watched her father win a Speaking over a contract dispute.
/>   Terwyn said, “Clan Meurig, you may begin.”

  The Speaker snapped her fingers. Someone ran up and placed a display screen next to her. The waist-high screen lit up with a picture of a cheerful young man.

  Wynny stared at the picture. He seemed familiar somehow.

  “I am Myfi of Clan Meurig. My grandson Caenam was a good boy. Like most he was intrigued by . . . unapproved activities. Religion fascinated him. He would pray and listen to preachers and sing hymns. He made friends. We thought he might find a wife.”

  Suddenly Wynny had a horrible suspicion where she’d seen Caenam Meurig before.

  “We had no objections to Caenam doing so, no fears for his safety. The meetings were safe. Now they are not.”

  The cheerful face was replaced by the battered head of the corpse in that afternoon’s news report. As Wynny feared, it was Caenam.

  The Speaker continued. “Now there is violence among those who’d peacefully prayed. That violence was caused by outsiders. Clan Fiera created disputes. Clan Fiera instigated violence. Clan Fiera is responsible for the murder of Caenam.”

  Wynny clamped her jaw shut. Interrupting would piss off Judge Terwyn. She couldn’t afford that.

  Clan Meurig’s representative continued with a more or less accurate account of Chaplain Murphy’s riot and then shared rumors of forbidden books.

  Once she’d firmly established Clan Fiera’s role in the murder she began a detailed itemization of Caenam’s education and skills. Wynny knew that would be exaggerated to inflate the bloodprice they claimed for him. But there was no point in trying to dispute the exact bloodprice when she couldn’t pay the lower value.

  She stopped listening. She needed a plan.

  Accepting their claim wasn’t an option. She couldn’t pay the bloodprice for a beggar’s murder, let alone that of a hard worker with a long career ahead of him. If she couldn’t pay the bloodprice they’d be entitled to kill a sacrificial victim of the offending clan—and Wynny had no one else to offer.

  Rejecting the claim would throw the decision on the judge. Who’d abide by the precedents of Clan Law. Which was very clear on shared responsibility: anyone even a hundredth responsible could be dunned for the whole bloodprice. It was the payer’s duty to collect the other ninety-nine parts from those more responsible.