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

by Karl K Gallagher

  “What is your assessment of the Fieran threat?”

  The admiral relaxed, talking with his hands as he answered. “A single industrialized world cannot generate enough force to threaten more than one star system. Even assuming the carrier Implacable was lost to enemy action instead of hyperspace hazards, the Fieran economy is not devoted to naval production, as proved by the existence of the merchant vessel that visited us.”

  Yeager heard a grunt behind him. Commodore Meckler must be taking offense at his worst-case threat estimate being so casually discarded.

  “We may expect a force of one to six squadrons, increased by two if they maximize current production in anticipation of a Censorial attack. To defeat them with minimal casualties would require an attacking force at least three times that size.”

  The admiral added, “This does not consider any subversive activities by the Fierans, as that is outside naval expertise.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” said Monitor Singh. “Security has already expressed its opinion of the sedition hazards.” He focused his attention on Yeager.

  The governor tried to remain calm. The admiral’s support meant he was unlikely to be executed, but that stare made the back of his neck itch.

  “Governor Yeager, I grant your request. Admiral Pinoy will be your operational deputy. Two squadrons of the Monitor’s Flotilla will form the core of your force. The rest you may conscript from provincial forces on my authority. Your force may be up to thirty squadrons. This authorization expires in six months.”

  Yeager bowed. “I thank Your Sagacity.”

  “You are dismissed.”

  A protocol courtier appeared, waving Yeager and his entourage to the right to clear the carpet for the next petitioner. The governor felt a presence by his shoulder. He glanced over to see Admiral Pinoy walking with him. He gave the admiral a friendly nod. The Monitor could just as easily have put Pinoy in command and made Yeager a passenger on his own expedition.

  The time limit didn’t worry him. They’d only need a third of that time to reach Fiera. Crushing the barbarian navy wouldn’t take long. Then he could hand the ships over to Pinoy to take home and focus on a smooth introduction of the new order on Fiera.

  ***

  The shortest way to the down escalator was through the center of the bazaar. Normally Wynny would go around the outside to avoid picking and wiggling her way through the crowd. Now that she wore the detective hat she went right through.

  People didn’t flinch or leap aside. They just kept walking . . . but without getting in her way. She wondered if they knew she was a death creditor or just thought she was a police detective. Either way, it was nice to have the crowd part as if she were Rag Duffy.

  Of course, someone as tall and muscular as Rag Duffy wouldn’t need a hat to get through the crowd.

  Wynny was on her way to question someone rumor said was a follower of the Sacrificed God. She wasn’t sure if she preferred fifteen minutes of denials or just having the clanhome door slammed in her face. At least the latter was quick.

  As the crowd thinned near the escalator a raspy voice behind her said, “Please walk as if I wasn’t talking to you.”

  That was easy enough. Wynny kept walking. The steps of this escalator were large enough for six strangers or ten friends. The stranger stood right behind her as the step started down.

  “There are people who want to help you,” said the raspy stranger. “We don’t want violence down below. Or anything else that brings attention.”

  It was a member of another secret society, then. Maybe a follower of another religion, or one of the anti-Censorial groups.

  “That’s good,” she said. Hopefully he could hear her. The breeze of the escalator would sweep her words back toward him. “Who are you?”

  “It’s better for you if you don’t know. Call me Mr. Anonymous.”

  She laughed.

  “This is serious. We can help. We just can’t be seen helping. Do you want to know when the Sacrificed God followers have their meetings?”

  “Yes.”

  “We will leave you a note with times and places.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We ask that you tell us whenever you go into the sub-levels.”

  That seemed ominous. “Why?”

  “Safety. Ours and yours.”

  Not much of an answer. But for where to find the book thieves she’d put up with a lot. “All right. How?”

  The raspy voice recited a message box number. Wynny repeated it back. Then she felt the stranger take a step back. The rest of the escalator ride was quiet. Hopefully Mr. Anonymous would be an asset in the investigation. For now, she’d keep questioning people on her own.

  ***

  Wearing a kerchief over her hair was the opposite of putting on the detective fedora. Wynny felt unnoticed. She didn’t even get the normal number of glances men sent at young women.

  The Sacrificed God service was in a sewage treatment facility in the third sublevel. Horizontal pipes provided seats for the elderly parishioners. Most stood. Wynny didn’t try to find a seat.

  The pastor stood on a pump housing. He was high enough to make eye contact with everyone in the congregation. Wynny kept her head down, letting the edge of the kerchief fall over her face.

  She’d been to two Sacrificed God services as a teenager in Bundoran, brought along by cousins. The thrill of doing something forbidden by the Censorate hadn’t outweighed the hassle of going to the underlevels.

  Chaplain Murphy had presented a different version of Christianity. But she didn’t know if that was just him or how it always was on Fiera.

  Wynny realized the matrons were eying her. She’d come alone. There were whispers, asking who knew her, who’d invited her. No one had. Mr. Anonymous, whoever he was, had included this one in a list of meetings.

  Fortunately the service started before the old women finished comparing notes. It opened with a hymn while white robed boys brought up a cross and candles. It was in a call and response style Wynny could follow.

  The next hymn needed to be memorized but she managed to join in the choruses after the first two verses. By the volume level she wasn’t alone.

  With the prayers Wynny just needed to say ‘amen’ or ‘hallelujah’ at the right time. Even as an intruder she was enjoying the service. The words were comforting. She wanted to know more, since her husband was a believer.

  After two more hymns the preacher bent down and pulled a book from the bag at his feet. “We shall now have readings from the Holy Bible.”

  Wynny set her teeth. That’s what she’d come here for.

  The preacher read a story of Jesus performing a healing. Then he turned to near the beginning and told of a prophet and a miracle. When that one was done the preacher said, “We’ve all heard many stories from the Bible. Some were true to the book. Some were blurred by time. Is there a passage anyone would like to hear now?”

  Wynny said, “The Ten Commandments.”

  The older woman next to her called out, “The Ten Commandments!” She turned to Wynny and said, “You have to say it so he can hear, dearie.”

  Some other suggestions were shouted out but Wynny’s won more supporters. The preacher flipped to the end, checked something, and then turned pages in search of the right one.

  Wynny remembered how proud Chaplain Murphy had been of the index to popular passages in the Bibles he brought to give out.

  The crowd of parishioners was divided by an aisle they’d left empty for the white robes to carry the cross through. It was still empty. Wynny worked her way to the edge of it as the preacher began reading from Exodus.

  She listened for the words she needed, not sure where they were in the list. “You shall not steal,” said the preacher.

  Wynny stepped into the aisle, yanking off her kerchief. “Say that again!” she yelled.

  The preacher was too startled to resist. “You shall not steal,” he repeated.

  She strode up the aisle toward him. “Yo
u’re reading that from a stolen book.”

  “The word of our Lord belongs to all believers.”

  Wynny had to raise her voice to be heard over the noise of the crowd. “That book belongs to Chaplain Murphy of Clan Fiera.”

  The preacher clutched the Bible to his chest. “It was given to me as a gift.”

  “A gift from a thief.” Wynny reached the pump housing. She stepped onto one of the pipes feeding into it.

  “I need to share the word with my flock,” said the preacher.

  Wynny reached for a diplomatic response. “Does Jesus want his shepherds to be honest men . . . or thieves?”

  That silenced the preacher, and the front ranks of the congregation. He turned the Bible over in his hands. Then sighed and held it out to her.

  Wynny fought down the adrenaline surging in her blood. She needed to be gracious. She took the book gently, returning a nod.

  The shape of the bag laying on the pump housing caught her eye. She upended it. Three books fell out. She turned them over to check the titles. Another Bible, Meditations On the Words of Our Savior, and Collected Cadfael. All from Murphy’s collection.

  She made a neat stack of them and held them to her chest as she walked back down the aisle.

  Three young men stepped out of the crowd to block her way. She didn’t slow down.

  “Thank you, brothers,” said the preacher. “But please let her go.”

  They moved aside. Wynny was glad it hadn’t become physical. Not many of the congregation were in a cheek-turning mood.

  She ran through her memories of Chaplain Murphy for something that would calm them. None fit. Then she realized a line to exit on.

  At the door to the chamber she looked back. “Go, and sin no more.”

  She closed the door behind her before anyone responded. The cool, dank air of the sublevel was a relief. It kept her from overheating as she kept up a brisk walk toward the nearest escalator.

  Her original plan was to confront the preacher after the service. This had been spur of the moment. It worked. But she realized she’d probably been closer to dying in there than when Clan Meurig made its murder accusation.

  ***

  The thump of the lifter touching down on the landing pad woke Marcus up. He opened his eyes to see Luigi holding out a cup of tea. He sat up and drank it. The tea was, as always, exactly the right temperature. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the valet/bodyguard/keeper. “Now into the bathroom with you. Pilot says we had a headwind and we’re tight on time.”

  Marcus staggered across the cabin of the lifter. “Two speeches in one day is too much. I shouldn’t have to do that.”

  “You’ve done three in one day, sir.”

  “But they were all in the same city.”

  “In you go, sir. You have seven minutes.” Luigi closed the bathroom door behind him.

  Marcus began taking care of the biological necessities. He’d reached peace with having a valet. At first he’d resisted the servant assigned to him, fixed on being independent and self-reliant. That hadn’t survived the schedule the Concord put him on. He was so busy giving motivational speeches he couldn’t take care of his own clothes.

  Dawdling on the toilet wasn’t an option. On one hideous occasion Marcus had checked if Luigi was bluffing about the time limit. He finished up and brushed his teeth.

  His shave was a bit iffy, but that was another thing he’d learned to leave to Luigi.

  He opened the door to find a warm damp towel pressed into his hands. Marcus pressed it to his face, sighing. A bit of scrubbing left him feeling almost clean. “No time for a shower?”

  “Sorry, sir. Suck in your lips.” A scrape on each side of the chin and then the razor vanished. “Strip off, please.”

  This part they avoided when possible. They must be very short on time until the speech. Marcus shucked off the pajamas he’d worn for the flight. He accepted the briefs Luigi held out and slid them on. Some things a man had to do for himself.

  In only two minutes Luigi assembled a Merchant Service dress uniform around him. Marcus now owned five of them. Or maybe four were Concord property on loan. He was too tired to care.

  “If you’ll follow me, sir.” Luigi opened the hatch, pausing for the stairs to unfold, and went out. It was night out, with a pleasantly cool breeze.

  Marcus waited in the hatchway for the go ahead. This was where Luigi wore his bodyguard hat in place of valet. The reception committee was one political flunky and four Concord Guardsmen.

  That was twice the normal security contingent. This place must have a lot of people blaming Azure Tarn’s crew for bringing the Censorate down on them.

  Luigi gave the flunky a few polite words and the head Guardsman two code phrases. The answers were satisfactory. He waved Marcus forward.

  The flunky’s expression said Marcus was so late the man would be doing the ‘need a bathroom’ dance if he wasn’t too dignified for such shows. The handshake was firm but brief. “Thank you for coming, Officer Landry.”

  “Happy to be here. Anything you want me to focus on?”

  “No. Just avoid local politics, please.”

  Marcus laughed. “That’s easy. I don’t know where I am.”

  The flunky glared at Luigi. “You didn’t brief him?”

  Luigi lifted his nose. “My job is to deliver him fully dressed and bladder emptied. Knowing where we are is the pilot’s job.”

  “Hmpf.” The flunky turned on his heel, heading for a pair of wheeled limos. The wheels meant they couldn’t afford floaters—or the limos wore more armor than Fieran contragravity could hold up.

  Marcus followed the guy into the second limo. The Guardsmen split, two to each one. The doors shut with the clunk of heavy armor. That went with the double security detail.

  The flunky didn’t speak during the three block drive. Much more restful than the ones who wanted to butter him up. The only signs Marcus saw out the window were multilingual. It was an ethnic restaurant district catering to tourists. Just like the ones in every major city.

  The guardsmen whisked Marcus from the limo into the back door of the building while the flunky was taking his seat belt off. A utility corridor ended up in the backstage area of some auditorium or theater. Pieces of a speech were audible through the stage doors.

  No one was rushing around to get in position to go on. This speech must be scheduled to go on for a while. Marcus relaxed.

  A tall swarthy man in a flawless suit broke away from a knot of conversation and advanced on Marcus with his hand extended. “Officer Landry! Thank you for being willing to come. I’m Tribune Moreno.”

  A tribune—that meant he was in Lombardia. Which had a quorum of the Praetorial Council on trial for corruption. Marcus put the news out of his head. That wasn’t what he was here for.

  “Happy to help, sir,” he said as he shook the tribune’s hand.

  “Good. Let’s get you a drink. When you’re ready we’ll flash old Liono the five minute sign and he’ll wrap up for your turn.”

  He’d learned to only have a little before a speech. Last thing he needed was his body making wants felt during the Q&A session. Sometimes those went on forever. People repeated questions just to approach the celebrity, or because they hoped for a different answer.

  Tribune Morena introduced Marcus himself. “I know you’ve been wondering about this Censorate. If it’s such a threat, why have you never heard about it before? And how dangerous is it? Here to answer your questions is a man who’s been there twice. Please welcome Merchant Officer Marcus Landry, supercargo of the Azure Tarn.”

  Moreno clapped as he backed away from the lectern.

  Marcus stepped up to it. The crowd was actually applauding. Polite, not enthusiastic, but that was better than other places. No boos.

  “Thank you for being willing to listen to me,” he began. “We’re all worried about the impending war.”

  The opening was a routine he’d polished over many speeches. L
isting their concerns. A bit of personal background, with two humorous anecdotes to get some empathy. Then describing the survey the crew had been doing when they found the hole in the Bubble.

  “Why didn’t you just stay home?” yelled a heckler.

  “We could have,” answered Marcus. “What would have changed? Somebody else would have grabbed the chance. Or an official Concord expedition would have gone exploring. Whichever one it was, we’d be in the same situation now.

  “Or maybe we all would have stayed in the Bubble. The Censorate does surveys too. When they found us we’d have a fleet of warships over our heads before we knew the Censorate existed. Would that be better?”

  One of the lighting crew put a spotlight on the heckler standing in the audience.

  Marcus asked again, “Would that be better?” The heckler shook his head and sat.

  The rest of the speech wasn’t interrupted. None of it was new, the stories of everyone on both expeditions were all over the net. This crowd seemed less interested than usual. Marcus trimmed some bits to leave extra time for the Q&A.

  The first question was a common one. A young woman asked, “Couldn’t we just not fight? If we give them what they want they won’t attack us.”

  The Concord had been publishing answers to that for months. Marcus tried a different approach. “Think about your favorite thing in the whole world. If I walked into your home and took it from you, would you be angry?”

  “Yes, but not enough to kill!”

  “Okay. Think about your neighbors. If their favorite thing is a Bible, a picture, a rifle, or a book, the Censorate will try to take it. Will every single one of your neighbors give up without a fight? Will they?”

  He held her eye until she shook her head.

  “The Censorate believes in collective responsibility. If people in a town resist, they will punish the town. If people across Lombardia fight back, they will punish Lombardia. And if people across the world fight . . . you’ve all heard what they did to Earth.”

  She sat down. The next question was, “Can we run away?”