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

by Karl K Gallagher

  “We haven’t done much live fire training,” said the rear admiral. “The ships have most of their standard issue left. We could deploy as we are.”

  “As Governor Yeager only feels two light cruisers are required to maintain order here, nineteen ships of the Corwynt squadron are joining us.” Meckler nodded to the expedition’s official commander. “I’d like at least a couple of weeks to integrate them into their formations.”

  “Delay may be bad for morale,” said another officer. “The spacers have been looking forward to real action instead of exercises.”

  “Excess ammo allows tactics that save lives.” That was Rear Admiral Qubaty, commanding the battleship squadron. “I’d rather send a missile salvo than ships.”

  Governor Yeager followed a policy of not intervening in the military discussions. Listening to them for the past four months had made clear how complex naval operations were and how little he understood of them. But he did understand calendars.

  Yeager cleared his throat. “I have a concern. There are only two months remaining on the Monitor’s warrant for this expedition. Losing one half of that time to logistics delay does not leave time for a long campaign.”

  The officers at the table shifted uneasily. They knew Admiral Pinoy and Governor Yeager had conflicts, but the two men had spared their juniors from witnessing open arguments. None of them spoke.

  Admiral Pinoy let a few moments pass before answering. “I am well aware of the time constraints placed on us. But the scouts report Fiera is only a week’s travel away. If we can’t defeat this single world in one month we won’t be able to do it in two months.

  “There are also advantages to remaining here. In addition to training the Corwynt squadron ships, much of the fleet needs more training. Remaining in place allows us to include normal space training.”

  Pinoy was speaking directly to the governor. “The time limit does not force us to leave immediately. It shifts command authority. I don’t think any officer here would retreat from a battle we’re winning just because we had the option.”

  The two junior admirals, next in line for command after Pinoy, nodded agreement with this.

  “I expect if we’re still out there at the time limit, we’d be orbiting Fiera, dropping bombs at regular intervals in hopes that they’ll surrender before we ruin their value as an addition to the Censorate.”

  That generated more chuckles from the professionals.

  “I understand your meaning,” said Yeager.

  “Then do I have your excellency’s permission to remain at Corwynt until the replacement ordnance arrives?”

  Pause.

  “You do.”

  ***

  Wynny tried to turn her head away to find some air. The water kept flowing over her face. Her lungs burned with the need for another breath.

  Fear of drowning was a primal terror for Corwyntis, always afraid the ocean would seize the cities they’d built on stubs of rock. All the nursery stories of children sucked underwater to their doom were coming back to her.

  Then the flow stopped, the clear plastic lifted off her face, and Wynny could blow the poison out of her lungs and take in some clean air. Even smelling of disinfectant and sea water it was sweet.

  As the panic subsided she forced her panting to slow to regular breaths. She made them deep, wanting to oxygenate her system as much as she could. That was two immersions in a row. She might get questioned now. Or there might be more water. They’d gone to five in a row once, which made her damn grateful to be asked questions.

  When neither happened Wynny wondered if they were making her wait to let the dread build up. If so, it was working. Censorial Security was good at their jobs.

  Wynny heard a question, but it wasn’t aimed at her.

  “This is your suspect?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A known associate of subversive elements.” That was her interrogator.

  “What subversives? The Fierans? They’re no secret. What have you found out?”

  “A number of details about secret societies in Arnvon.”

  “In-fighting among subversives is irrelevant to our top priority investigation.”

  “She also revealed an active subversive here in Bundoran. Here’s his name and dates of suspected meetings.”

  There was a brief pause then a ‘WHACK’ and an “Ow” from the interrogator.

  The older woman said, “You idiot. Vychan Goch is a known subversive engaged in harmless activity. Our file on him goes back longer than your suspect has been alive.”

  Her voice grew louder and angrier. “You are wasting time interrogating easy targets instead of doing the hard work to find someone who might have information on the supply depot sabotage. Go through the spaceport records and find anyone who might be connected to the depot workers.”

  “They don’t even know if that was sabotage,” said the interrogator.

  “The Navy can say maybe it was an accident. We always assume sabotage. Now go find some evidence. Or I’ll transfer your ass to an asteroid outpost where you can worry about subversives cutting the air line on your spacesuit.”

  There were hasty footsteps.

  “You two, get her out of here.”

  That was met with a pair of “Yes, ma’ams.”

  Firm hands began undoing the straps holding Wynny to the table. Taking the blindfold off was painful until one of the security troopers turned the bright light away from her.

  When her arms were loose Wynny wrapped them around her belly.

  “Your baby’s fine,” said one of the troopers. They were both middle aged women with bland faces. Wynny could only tell them apart by color.

  After taking the last restraint off they helped her to sit up. One did a quick check of her vital signs. “You’re fine,” she said. “Your baby’s fine too. I was monitoring your oxygen levels. Never got low enough to hurt it.”

  “Thanks,” muttered Wynny.

  “On your feet now.”

  Wynny staggered but stayed upright with the trooper holding her steady.

  “She’s not up to walking,” said the other one. “Should we find her a place to rest?”

  “No. The inspector said out, so she goes out. Take an arm.”

  With an arm over each trooper’s shoulder Wynny managed to walk or at least stumble to the exit. That put her on a wide sidewalk outside one of the top level ardals. The troops left her sitting against a railing.

  “I’ve notified your next of kin. They’ll be along to get you.”

  Then she was alone. Other people were moving on the sidewalk but Censorial Security headquarters wasn’t a place people talked to strangers.

  She’d talked too much under interrogation. She hoped it wasn’t harmful. The facts about Mr. Anonymous and his henchmen weren’t useful unless Security had names to match them to. If there was an existing file that could be added to . . . she shivered. The interrogator shut her down when she talked about the Sacrificed God followers. Security didn’t seem to care about them, even if they were proscribed.

  Her father . . . she’d talked too much about her father. She couldn’t help noticing when he was gone for no good reason. Her mother discouraged curiosity about it. Now she’d endangered him and the members of his society.

  One of whom might be an informer. She’d have to find a way to tell him about his Security file. Sometime when they couldn’t be overheard.

  She was thankful the interrogator never asked the right questions to lead toward her meeting with the faceless figures. Just the time it happened could point them at suspects.

  One of the Clan Goch flatbed trucks rose to hover by the sidewalk. A piece of railing folded down to make an opening by the door.

  Wynny grasped the railing and tried to pull herself to her feet. When she was halfway up a firm grip pulled her the rest of the way to her feet.

  Then she was enveloped in a hug. “Oh, my darling,” said Emlyn Goch, her mother.

  When she let go Wynny found her legs could support
her weight, but she needed help with balance.

  “Lean on me. Let’s go,” said her mother.

  The truck’s cab had plenty of room for the two of them. Once they were descending her mother asked, “How bad was it?”

  “Eh. Another day under the Censorate.”

  Emlyn laughed. “You sound just like your father.”

  “The baby’s all right.”

  “That’s good. You don’t need to talk now.”

  Which meant Security might be eavesdropping on the truck.

  ***

  One month later:

  The flagship’s observation dome was rarely used. A chief petty officer explained to Governor Yeager that it was normally kept dismantled to avoid the maintenance burden. But it would be set up for special occasions.

  Admiral Pinoy had declared entering the Rift to be a special occasion.

  Yeager went up the ladder onto what was normally the battleship’s outer hull. Today the role of ‘outer’ went to the clear dome holding air for them against the aether.

  The view was magnificent. Yeager had spent plenty of time in hyperspace. He was used to seeing shoals wrapped around stars or stretching between them. Clouds of glowing aether could block sight while still being thin enough to fly through. Rarely could you see more than a few stars at once.

  The Rift was . . . empty. A vast volume of transparent aether. Shoals and stars were visible in the distance, blurred by the aether between. It felt like they were looking at the entire galaxy.

  They would cross the narrow part of the Rift in a week. Looking to left and right he saw it fade in a misty blur. It made Yeager wonder how big the Censorate was. Was the Rift long enough to hold Singh’s District? Or was the portion of the District they’d traversed just a tiny part of it?

  Not a safe topic to think about. Yeager shifted his thoughts toward aesthetic appreciation.

  All the viewers watched in silence for a time.

  Admiral Pinoy strolled over to Yeager. “Worth seeing?” he asked quietly.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  “I saw the pictures from the scouts. I wanted to really see it for myself. Did you notice the storm?” He pointed to starboard.

  “No.” Yeager had shied away from the cluster of naval officers on that side.

  Pinoy led Yeager to the edge of the dome. Juniors stepped out of his way. “There it is.”

  Once seen it held the eye: a twisting ball of every color in the rainbow, flickering with lightning flashes. The colors moved past each other, never repeating patterns.

  “Oh, my. It’s the first time I’ve seen something like that.” Yeager stared.

  “First for me as well,” said Pinoy. “I’ve seen lesser storms, even been caught in them, but not one like that. This rift is a first too. I’ve been in three rifts, none this big.” He paused. “Lots of firsts on this expedition.”

  He fell into a study, seeming to look not at the storm but past it.

  After watching the storm for a time Yeager turned his attention back to the admiral. “What’s the biggest first?”

  Pinoy’s lips formed a shape too wry to be called a smile. “First action against multiple ships.”

  Yeager started. “But—but you’re a combat veteran.” He pointed at the red badge over Pinoy’s ribbons. He’d spent a week of the voyage decoding the decorations on the admiral’s uniform in an attempt to understand the man.

  “Oh, yes. I was weapons officer on Determination when she took out a ship which had mutinied and gone pirate. Made my career. But that was a one on one engagement. No one living in the Censorial Navy has seen a bigger battle. We have training, but it’s all theoretical.”

  That explained various comments Yeager had been confused by in the past few months. “But we outnumber them, surely.”

  “If they have more ships than this they would have sent something better than a freighter to haul their embassy. We outnumber them. We’ll win. I just worry about the price we’ll pay.”

  “As do I.”

  “Don’t be so gloomy. Look on the bright side. We’re about to midwife the next two generations of admirals. No one who wasn’t on this trip will be able to compete with our bright young boys.”

  He waved at the officers sharing the dome with them, granted the privilege as a reward for superior performance in the exercises.

  ***

  “Trajectory laid in, Bird One ready to fire!” announced Gunner Hines.

  Marcus clenched his teeth as he typed. He could do this, he’d done more complicated trajectories than Hines ever had. He just wasn’t as fast on the simple ones. The target beacon had popped up less than a minute ago.

  ‘Fast and simple’ was what was needed in a battle.

  He pressed ‘COMPLETE.’ No error messages. “Bird Two ready.”

  “Synchronized launch,” said Hines.

  Marcus ducked behind his launcher. The surge of aether as the missiles were catapulted away rocked him as he grabbed a handhold. Then the missiles activated their thrusters. That wave slapped him hard. He hoped all the spacers were under cover. He’d been too busy to check on them. If someone caught the full blast of that there could be a cracked helmet.

  When the pressure faded he looked up. Everyone was all right. The spacers were taking a couple of missiles out of a crate to load into the launchers’ feeds. Hines was bent over the targeting display.

  “Both running true, sir. Closing in . . . and double hit. Nicely done, sir. Give you five more years’ practice and you’ll be faster than me too.”

  “Thanks, Gunner.”

  Marcus pulled up his own display. The hits were close enough together that the difference was probably due to random variations in the aether currents. Hines had done his calculations in two thirds the time Marcus had. It made him glad he hadn’t requested a replacement for Hines, despite the man being an insubordinate prima donna with a stick up his ass.

  Besides, any replacement NCO would be whoever a cruiser captain wanted to boot off his ship. A prima donna beat hell out of an incompetent or alcoholic.

  “Sir? Any word on when we’ll get the rest of our weapons?”

  Marcus looked to his right. Painted rectangles on the deck marked where the third and fourth missile launchers should be. More marks around the hatch showed where additional defensive gear would supplement two interceptors at the corners.

  “We’re still waiting on the factory. They’re behind on supplying all the new-built ships. We’re in line behind the warships.”

  The pink cloud hiding the firing range beacons slid away as Azure Tarn made room for the next ship in the squadron. The spacer operating the crane started the hatch closing.

  “Hell of a way to run a war,” muttered Hines.

  Marcus thought the petty officer would leave a cruiser unarmed so he could have two more launchers. He decided to be diplomatic. “We’re stuck with all these civilian shops ramping up to make naval gear. We had to do that mine-laying run because the mine factory cranked them out twenty-five hours a day until the Concord Admiralty said, ‘Stop!’ Meanwhile the missile launcher outfit has half their output rejected for failing quality control.”

  “I’d do their quality some good if I was there.”

  “I’m sure you would, Gunner.”

  ***

  The Censorial fleet was attacking the mousehole leading to the enemy. Light units tried to clear the mines in the tunnel. The main body hung back, wary of a trap.

  On the flag bridge, Governor Yeager sat in his personal control station. Not that he controlled anything. The buttons he could press selected among video and data feeds in the command network. He could watch everything. Or he could look over the screens and watch Admiral Pinoy walking among his staffers, controlling the fleet.

  Controlling seemed to be mostly doing nothing. An officer would come up to Pinoy and make a statement. Pinoy nodded in acknowledgement. The officer said what he planned to do. Pinoy nodded in approval. The officer went off. />
  It was nothing like making decisions in the Civil Service. Every single one was a talkfest as all the applicable departments and others just wanting to meddle tried to take a slice of whatever pie was being distributed.

  Yeager had seen Pinoy operate like this during the training exercises. He’d assumed the admiral was standing back to be a referee. Instead he was still nodding silently as men died and missiles flew.

  Then there was an order.

  The Damage Assessment Officer said, “Otter reports her missile tubes and laser cannon will require shipyard repairs.”

  “Propulsion?” asked Admiral Pinoy.

  “Intact. She will be slowed by the hull damage.”

  “Put copies of all our records on board and send her back to Corwynt.”

  “Aye-aye,” said the DAO.

  Yeager wondered why. Back up all this information in case the entire fleet was wiped out? Seizing an excuse to let one small shipload of men escape from the battle?

  Two more destroyers reported heavy damage.

  “Pull them back!” snapped Admiral Pinoy. “All of them!”

  Officers relayed the command to the light squadrons probing into the tunnel. Yeager saw their icons turn and retreat on his position display.

  Not in the neat arcs they’d advanced in. Now they were ragged, barely formations at all.

  An officer stood at his console and called across the room, “Sir, Kestrel is down to half speed. Hammerhead requests permission to stay with her to provide anti-missile support.”

  “Granted,” said Admiral Pinoy. “Send a couple of cruisers to escort them.”

  Yeager looked for them on his display. Two larger icons darted out from the reserve ranks, passed through the retreating line, and joined the two stragglers. Another display kept a running count on incoming missiles and the damage they did.

  The staffers on the flag bridge were too professional to be caught up in the drama as the crippled Kestrel and her companions worked clear of the minefield. But there was a feeling of relief in the room when it was announced enemy fire had ceased.