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

by Karl K Gallagher

  His mother raised her hand up. “Who? Give me their names!”

  He lowered his eyes and rattled off five names.

  “I know them,” said one of the elders. “I will contact their clans.”

  “Thank you,” said Myfi. She turned to Wynny. “Death creditor, Mantock is a matter internal to the clan. I will notify Judge Terwyn that Clan Meurig has withdrawn our claim against Clan Fiera. You shall receive your tenth of the bloodprice.”

  Wynny nodded. “I have no further business here.”

  Some men lifted Mantock into the air. Wynny and Glain hauled the dolly out of the clanhome, ignoring the discussion breaking out behind them.

  On the escalator down they leaned on the handles to rest.

  “I wonder what they’ll do with him,” said Wynny.

  “It’s a hard decision.”

  “Stomping him to death would be appropriate.” She needed a new painkiller dose soon. The bruises from her stomping were aching.

  “That means spending the rest of your life looking at a cousin and remembering him stomping that kid.” Glain’s tone was grim.

  “That’s . . . yeah. Has a murder within a clan happened before? I thought that was only in the movies.”

  “Not often. Elders usually force an outmarriage or divorce before it gets to the point of killing. But, yes, it’s happened.”

  “What did they do?”

  Glain waited until they were hauling the dolly off the escalator path to answer. “Drop the murderer off a boat for the fish. Or give him to the Jaaphisii as labor.”

  Wynny shivered. “I’m glad I don’t have to decide. I’m done with this business. Want your hat back?”

  Glain looked at the battered fedora. “I think it’s yours now. I’ll get a new one.”

  ***

  “If you violate one of the etiquette rules of the Dining In, anyone who catches you may send you to the grog bowl,” said the instructor. “Grog is some bad tasting alcoholic punch mixed just for the occasion. If you see someone violating the rules of the mess you should declare a point of order to the Vice President who will—”

  “This is bullshit,” said Chief Warrant Officer O’Neil.

  “What?” demanded the instructor.

  Marcus agreed with O’Neil. But the instructor was a full lieutenant to Marcus’s sub-lieutenant rank. That was a powerful reason for him to not offer back talk in class.

  O’Neil was twice the age of either officer. That gave him the freedom to speak his mind or at least a willingness to accept the punishment for insubordination. “This is wasting our time. We have real shit we need to learn.”

  The instructor was indignant. “This is important. The tradition of the Dining In is millennia old. It’s an essential part of strengthening unit cohesion and building morale. Isn’t that important, Sublieutenant Landry?”

  Being called on to give the officially correct answer wasn’t a new role for Marcus. But this time he gave the honest one. “Unit cohesion is important. But we’re never going to do a Dining In. We’re going to space for combat then we’ll be cut loose when the war is over.” He waved at the twenty merchant spacers in the classroom, conscripted as junior officers and warrants. “We have homework for classes that we’ll use that needs to be done.”

  “Such as what?”

  “For me, gunnery and missile ballistics,” said Marcus.

  O’Neil said, “Damage control.” Others chimed in, “Electronic counter measures,” “Formation maneuvering,” “Ammo handling.”

  The instructor’s bluster was cracking. “Students are to do homework assignments on their own time.”

  “Then this hour should be part of our own time,” snapped O’Neil.

  “You’re not on a merchant ship now, you. If you defy a superior officer’s order it’s mutiny!”

  Marcus decided he needed to intervene. O’Neil was a sharp mechanic he’d like to have on his own ship. He certainly didn’t want the chief in the brig for insubordination. Or, by the look on O’Neil’s face, assault.

  “Lieutenant, the chain of command for our class is Lieutenant Commander Kubota. He makes the call on time management. So I’m asking how he wants to handle this.” Marcus typed the last few words into his tablet and pressed send.

  He’d sent, ‘Dining In protocol seems low priority. Request permission to use class period for technical homework. Regards, Landry.’ He prayed Kubota was actually awake and near his tablet.

  A ding announced the reply. ‘Sure, okay. -K.”

  The sound drew everyone’s attention. Marcus announced, “Commander Kubota has approved using this period for technical class homework.” He turned back to the instructor. “Sorry for disrupting your schedule, sir.”

  The lieutenant muttered something inaudible as he walked out of the classroom. O’Neil already had his tablet unfolded to display a hull schematic.

  Marcus pulled up his homework on his tablet. Gunnery was the opposite of everything he’d learned in pilot training. It was all about how to make collisions happen. He needed to learn it all before he went back to his ship.

  The Sulu Republic Navy’s plan for Azure Tarn was to install missile and interceptor batteries in her cargo hold, firing out the open main hatch. It was far from the ideal layout for a warship, but it would put a few more missiles into each salvo against the Censorate.

  ***

  Wynny put the Bible down. She’d enjoyed some of the stories listed in the index. Others were disturbing. When she skipped around in the book at random she’d been bored to tears. There was a reason the index of stories ignored most of the text.

  Glain sat on the hotel room bed with the “historical” mystery collection. She’d started on the first page and seemed determined to go straight through to the end. Wynny was happy to cede the book to her. She’d never seen the words “squire” or “monk” before and wasn’t interested in puzzling them out.

  Reading was her celebration of recovering the last missing book. When the bloodprice money came in she’d been able to add bribery to her tools for finding them. The preachers gave them up for a reasonable gratuity.

  Not wanting to start another feud, she made payments to the congregations who’d been intimidated into giving theirs up.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Wynny returned the Bible to the row of others on her desk. She laid a towel over them. Glain shoved her book under the sheets, her finger holding her place.

  Wynny opened the door to find one of the Clan Parry staff with the Censorial Security officer who’d bothered her before.

  “Ma’am, you have a visitor.”

  “Thank you. Please, come in.” Wynny closed the door behind the Censorial.

  She stood in the middle of the room as if she’d just acquired ownership. An offer of tea was declined. She didn’t speak after that. Just let a hint of a smile appear on her stern face as the other two traded nervous glances.

  As hostess it was Wynny’s role to enable conversation. “What brings you here today?”

  Far too blunt for a social call, but this was probably a business visit.

  “You have unlawful data in your possession.”

  Wynny was unsurprised. The Censorate had tolerated the books because they were causing trouble in the sublevels. They wouldn’t let them sit around being a precedent.

  “These books are the property of Chaplain Murphy of Fiera. The Censorate did not object to him bringing them on world. I’m storing them for his return. If Censorial policy has changed I will, of course, comply.”

  Censorials never admitted changing their minds. Whatever the rule was, it had always been that way.

  “I am here to collect the books.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Wynny pulled off the towel, sorted the books by size, and lifted them into a neat stack which she offered to the Censorial.

  “All of the books.” That was directed at Glain.

  The police officer pulled the book out from under the sheets. “Right, let me check someth
ing.” She flipped through the pages.

  “This is a Censorial order.”

  “Just one moment.”

  “Detective Glain, I will use force to gain your compliance!”

  “I’ll hand it over.” She ran her finger down a page. “The leper was her grandfather! Here you go.”

  Glain hopped off the bed and added the tome to the top of Wynny’s stack. Wynny handed the whole thing over. As the Censorial grabbed the bottom book Wynny steadied the middle.

  The security officer rested her chin on top of the stack to hold it in place. For the first time she looked uncertain. Clearly she would have brought a minion or a backpack if she’d realized how big a collection she’d been after.

  Wynny thought Clan Parry might be about to lose a pillowcase. But only if she was ordered to give it up. She was damned if she’d volunteer it.

  “Get the door,” said the Censorial.

  Wynny did, and shut it after her.

  “I suppose reading the whole collection was too much to hope for,” said Glain.

  “I’d been hoping,” answered Wynny.

  “Floods, those stories were amazing. Like nothing I’ve read before.” Glain flopped back on the bed.

  “You should write detective stories. Share those plots.”

  “I couldn’t. Everything was members of an invading aristocracy killing each other and the natives finding out who did it. I’d be drowned for subversion if I moved that to the here and now.”

  “Too bad.”

  “You could write those Bible stories as modern tales.”

  Wynny shivered. “No. If I had one detail wrong I’d have all the Sacrificed God followers yelling ‘blasphemy’ at me. Nearly being killed by them once was enough.”

  ***

  One month later:

  “Let us pray,” said Chaplain Murphy.

  The crew of the Azure Tarn bowed their heads and folded their hands before them. They stood in the shade of the ship’s bow. The day was warm enough they were better off out of the sun.

  “Lord, we ask your blessing on this ship and her crew. Preserve them and grant them victory against our foes.”

  The prayer continued with blessings on the Sulu Republic Navy, the Republic itself, the other nations of the Fieran Concord, and the abstract principles of liberty and independence. Murphy interpolated several Old Testament references and the Savior’s blessing of the Roman Centurion.

  The priest ended with the Lord’s Prayer.

  Marcus managed to recite it without flinching. His pulse sped up a bit at the memory of the last time he’d heard Murphy lead that prayer.

  After the final “amen” the captain and first mate stepped forward to thank the priest and invite him to lunch.

  The crew began to gaggle toward the open cargo hold hatch, that being the way to the galley. Marcus turned around when he realized the five regulars newly assigned to the crew were still standing at parade rest.

  He stood in front of them. “Good morning. You’re off duty now. You’re welcome to join the rest of the crew for lunch.”

  The petty officer came to attention. “Is this a mandatory function, sir?”

  “No. It’s just lunch.”

  “Very well, sir,” said the petty officer. “Detail, ten-hut. Right face. Forward, march”

  The four spacers followed their senior toward the spaceport admin complex.

  Marcus stared after them, wondering if he should have invited the younger ones to lunch separately. Probably not. The Regular Navy gave petty officers a lot of power over spacers. Sometimes it seemed like they had more authority than the commissioned officers.

  He reached the galley to find they’d saved him a seat next to Chaplain Murphy.

  “New guys weren’t hungry?” asked the first mate.

  “Apparently not,” said Marcus. He was. The chicken and broccoli placed in front of him kept him from talking for a few minutes.

  When he came back up for air the captain was saying, “I appreciate your taking time out for us. I know you’ve been busy since we returned.”

  Murphy laughed. “Oh, I was delighted by your invitation. It’s my first moment of being a priest since we landed.”

  Questions from all three Landrys drew out complaints about the CCC’s internal politics. “And too damn many of them are not taking a stand unless they can be head of the faction supporting it. I swear they’re all crypto-sedevacantists.”

  Marcus asked, “I thought not having a Pope was only an issue for Catholic-descended congregations?”

  Murphy snorted. “Everyone’s a Catholic when he has a chance to be Pope.”

  ***

  Three weeks later:

  As nominal commander of the expeditionary fleet, Governor Yeager received the best office on the flagship, CNS Immensity. He didn’t have much to do there. All the fleet reports he was copied on had so much jargon he could barely understand them. Messages from Corwynt were weeks old by the time they arrived and were too terse to take more than a few minutes of his time.

  The latest fleet report he understood every word of.

  His office did provide a private place to yell at someone.

  Admiral Pinoy entered, closing the door behind him. He marched to the desk. His salute was as precise as any ensign’s. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

  Yeager waved at his ear. The admiral dropped his arm. He stood stiffly.

  “You killed three hundred men!” snarled Yeager.

  “I will be signing about that many letters of condolence,” answered the admiral. “The exact count is uncertain as some missing spacers have been found in pressurized wreckage and others are dying of their injuries. I will not be sending letters for the commander, astrogator, or helmsman of each ship, who deserved to die for their incompetence.”

  “Incompetence! They were following your orders.” A fist slammed on the desk to emphasize ‘orders.’

  Pinoy said, “I ordered the fleet to take evasive action against a simulated missile barrage. The squadron commanders ordered new headings for their units. This placed the cruiser Infuriated and destroyer Sand Fox on a collision course. After remaining on these headings for over a minute, they each executed a thirty degree course change placing them on a new collision course. Twenty seconds later they struck, killing all of Sand Fox’s crew and more than half of Infuriated’s.”

  “None of which would have happened if you hadn’t thrown the whole fleet into confusion with your snap exercise. The report listed four other near collisions.”

  “Which are being investigated and will likely result in from four to eight commanders being relieved.”

  “You say that as if it’s a good thing.”

  “It is,” said Pinoy firmly. “We’re culling out the incompetents before we meet the enemy.”

  Yeager leaned back in his chair. “You sound like you don’t regret it at all.”

  The admiral broke the position of attention, tilting his head to make eye contact. “I regret the deaths of men doing their duty. I don’t regret forcing men to learn their jobs.”

  “By killing them?” Yeager’s anger had ebbed. He spoke in honest confusion.

  “Sir. You believe these Fierans pose a true threat to the Censorate. You’ve convinced me of it. This means we’re going to fight a battle against an enemy who fights back. Our Navy doesn’t train for that. Our experience is bombarding rebellious planets. When we do an exercise against another fleet it’s—”

  Pinoy’s mouth worked. His hands sprang up to trace patterns in the air. “It’s a dance. Not a fight. If we do a dance and the Fierans fight they will slaughter us.”

  Yeager waved at a chair. “Oh, sit down.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “We have more ships and bigger ships. You really think we could lose?”

  “Maybe I should ask our Dragoon detachment to give you a demonstration. Unarmed combat between their biggest private and the shortest sergeant.”

  “Skill against size at that level I understand.”


  The admiral clasped his hands together as if praying for the governor to understand. “Naval combat is not throwing ships at each other. We have to maneuver to bring the formation’s defenses to bear against incoming missiles. If they can send their missiles at one ship unsupported they’ll destroy it. If the Fierans can keep their formation while picking off our ships one at a time eventually we won’t outnumber them.”

  “You’ve practiced formations without any collisions.”

  The hands spread out to illustrate. “Static formations. Only able to defend themselves from one direction. Any competent enemy would send their missiles in from another vector. That’s why they have to learn to respond quickly.”

  “Can’t you teach them without killing them?”

  Pinoy shrugged, a gesture flowing out to elbows and wrists. “If I had two years and enough simulators, probably. We’d train them well enough to avoid these problems. We don’t have that much time. If I can be frank, the Monitor wouldn’t let either of us have an independent command for that long.”

  Yeager nodded. “It’s . . .”

  The admiral sat with his hands in his lap, waiting for his superior to finish the thought.

  Yeager turned his chair. He stared at the painting of a nebula adorning the bulkhead behind his desk. “I called for this expedition. That makes those deaths my fault.”

  The reply was gentle. “They are, sir. You’re not trained for that the way we are. But you can’t escape it. I promise you those deaths will save lives in the future.”

  His listener turned around.

  “Every helmsman will think of Sand Fox when an emergency maneuver is needed. Every captain will remember her when he sees something unexpected. That’s not just for changing formations. When the enemy springs a surprise or if they force their way into close combat, our ships will need to act, not wait for orders. That’s the lesson of the Sand Fox.”

  “Our society is not fond of those who act without orders,” said Yeager dryly.

  Another shrug. “I know, sir. But it’s how to win a war.”