Insurgents (Harmony Book 1)

by Margaret Ball

  In the moments between rushing through one project and wheedling the senior advisors on another project, Gabrel worried a bit about the “everything at once” part. Colonel Travis was setting the elections a year out “to give districts time to organize and select candidates.” He had written an interim Constitution “to guide the nation’s beginning steps.” Lacking a wealthy class to invest in industrial development, he had begun allowing the national bank to fund state-owned industries. And by his direction, those industries were created in a number of underdeveloped districts, with the object of spreading economic development around the country rather than having it all centered in Colony City.

  “I’ve heard people calling it Travis City, or just Travis,” Gabriel said one night.

  “And why not? Colony City was a remarkably uninspired name, not to mention being totally sucky and inaccurate now that we’re no longer a colony. And who deserves the recognition more than Colonel Travis?”

  “I’m just wondering if we aren’t concentrating too much power in one man. He may be spreading out economic development, but all the political power leads back to Colonel Travis. He wrote the Constitution, he decides when elections will be held, he directs the national bank.”

  “He’s a great man, and he’s availed himself of the Reference Library in deciding all these things. What do you have against his Constitution?”

  “Just that,” said Gabrel. “Even you say “his” Constitution. It should be our Constitution – created by the people – not the work of one man.”

  “After the elections,” Renzi said, “we’ll have legislators who can draft a new Constitution, set the timing for the next elections, create a committee to supervise the national bank. All this stuff you’re worrying about is just – just Duck Tape to hold things together until we can design a permanent solution.”

  “I expect you’re right…”

  ***

  But after that discussion, Gabrel abandoned all thought of going to Harmony before the first elections were held. There was talk of electing Travis as the first Prime Minister; there were suggestions that nobody else needed to bother standing for office. There was nothing Gabrel could do about it. He read history, about democracies declining into dictatorships. Esilia hadn’t even had a democracy yet; could the first steps of the new nation lead it into a sham freedom, with a Prime Minister for life and a one-party rule? His hololetters to Isovel became short; he knew they were read by the Bureau for Security, and he did not wish to broadcast his concerns to Harmony.

  Colonel Travis noticed Gabrel’s new wariness. “I believe you have redefined your role in my administration.”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  “You have taken on the burden of the slave who rides in the Emperor’s carriage, whispering, ‘Remember, thou art mortal.’”

  Gabrel flushed. “Sir. It’s not my place –”

  “You’re wrong, boy. It’s every citizen’s place to protect freedom. You really don’t need to worry about me, though. I have no intention of standing for Prime Minister.”

  “The mob may not give you a choice. Sir.”

  “Oh, I have my plans. There is always a choice, you know.”

  As the temporary administration settled into place, Gabrel and Renzi had fewer emergency duties. Gabrel spent his free time reading recent history and snarling at the distortions and whitewashes produced by both sides. Someone really should write a truly impartial history of Esilia.

  He wrote long letters to Isovel, which he deleted as soon as they were written, and short, carefully impersonal and apolitical messages some of which appeared to pass the censors.

  Isovel’s responses were also short, sometimes no more than a summary of her social calendar. To judge from the number of invitations she mentioned, General Dayvson was not exactly a political pariah in his home country. He wondered, but did not ask. Could not. Not when so many unfriendly eyes would see whatever he sent.

  The clues she dropped were disheartening, to say the least.

  “Wife of EduHead gave a garden party. Everybody was curious about my experiences in Esilia. A number of comments which I felt it tactful to ignore.”

  “Daddy very busy this week. Special meetings with friends of Andrus.” The Bureau for Security. “They are exploring his insights into Esilian culture and asking if, as a loyal citizen, he can help them make contact with friends of Harmony over there.” They want him to help create a spy ring to prove his loyalty. “Naturally his only desire is to serve Harmony in every possible way, but of course he knows no one in Esilia.”

  And finally, fatally: “The SecHead himself dined with us this week. There was a lively conversation about Daddy’s experiences in Esilia, and the SecHead verified once again that he could not put them in touch with any Esilians. He made a joke out of it, saying that Daddy had been so firm in refusing that it would look very bad for him if he or any of his household was in communication with an Esilian.”

  That was the last time he heard from her, and the last time she accepted any messages from him.

  Gabrel quit wasting time and plunged into administrative work. Three weeks later he presented Colonel Travis with a stack of detailed position papers on banking, the Esilian economy, the responsibilities of the legislature and the judiciary, and the framing of a permanent Constitution. With the papers, he submitted a formal request for leave.

  Colonel Travis refused the request.

  “Sir.” Gabrel was desperate. “I have to go to Harmony.”

  “Not yet.”

  “We’re not at war. You can’t draft me. You can’t force me to stay here.”

  “No, but Harmony can refuse to accept you, or imprison you for espionage. You have to wait until we establish diplomatic relations, boy.”

  “It’s not up to you. I’ll arrange passage on my own and make it clear that you had nothing to do with it. Your conscience will be clear.”

  “It will – because you’re not going yet.”

  The only transportation between Esilia and Harmony was the same as it had been when the first exiles were landed: a steamship that took one week to make the trip. The government of Harmony had never developed aircraft that could cross the ocean, because they had no desire to make it easy for deportees to come back. And Esilia, in its years as a colony, had been forbidden to build any aircraft at all.

  And the captain of the steamship informed Gabrel that Colonel Travis had already told him what to do about foolhardy young men who wanted to test the forbearance of the government on Harmony.

  “I worried that he might make himself a dictator,” Gabrel said to Renzi. “I should have been worrying that the people would make him a saint.”

  He went back to his study of history, and wasted some time writing a treatise for nobody in particular to read, comparing the Esilian war of secession with ancient separatist movements on Earth.

  ***

  Harmony City, Harmony

  Exactly one year after the signing of the peace treaty, and two months before the scheduled elections, the first Esilian ambassador to Harmony, accompanied by his staff and a truly impressive collection of luggage, disembarked at the port of Harmony City.

  The customs officials looked longingly at the boxes and cases that the ship’s men piled onto three waiting floats, but under the terms of the treaty they were not allowed to search the materials or even to inquire as to what the ambassador had considered necessary to bring with him.

  The immigration official asked for names and recorded them in his personal com. It was distressingly casual, but the Bureau for Security had not contemplated the need for an immigration department until they received word that the ambassador was actually on his way. Painful as it was to admit, Harmony now shared the planet with another country on another continent, and it would be up to the Bureau to track visitors and check their passports.

  Once Esilia designed passports, that is.

  “I have the feeling that diplomacy is going to be as much of a learning experienc
e as war was,” one of the ambassador’s aides commented, sotto voce, to another.

  “But less fatal,” the other one replied.

  “Ha. Tell me that after we find out how many formal meetings we’re going to suffer through.”

  The newly printed Esilian embassy looked as though it should still smell of wet paint, so shiny and colorful were its walls. The ambassador had issued instructions that Esilia was to emphasize its cultural differences with Harmony in every possible way. Harmony’s government buildings, housing blocks, shops and private houses had all been printed as rectangular blocks in “natural” colors, meaning whatever resulted from the input material; mostly gray or mud color. The ambassador had personally paid for a license to use the newly available paint nanites, an offshoot of nanotextile development. The façade of the embassy was a brilliant blue with white details; the interior rooms all glowed with the colors of sunshine and red rock in the Esilian desert.

  “Can I leave these here for now?” Gabrel jerked his head at two heavy crates which constituted most of his personal baggage.

  “You would do better to leave them here permanently. By the treaty this building is Esilian soil; no citizen of Harmony may so much as look at our possessions,” Colonel Travis said. “By the way – do you believe now that I’m not scheming to be the sole power in the Esilian government? Does my leaving the country two months before elections persuade you that I’m really not interested in becoming a dictator?”

  Gabrel flushed. “I never did believe that, sir. Only – there was a time when appearances were against you.”

  “Bear that in mind,” the colonel told him. “I think you may find that appearances are against you in the situation you’re running into.”

  “Oh – I can deal with appearances,” Gabrel said. “As for the books – you said they were to be a wedding present and I’m holding you to that. Get your own copy of the Reference Library for the embassy. Now, if I might – take my leave – sir?”

  The colonel and Renzi watched him swing off down the street.

  “He doesn’t even know if she’s still single, Renzi.”

  “She will be,” Renzi said.

  ***

  General Rauf Dayvson looked at the young man before him with bemusement. “It seems to be a recurring part of my life,” he said. “You show up without warning and persuade me that black is white and that I can best serve my country by doing what you want.”

  “It only happened once before, sir. And it did serve your country.”

  Dayvson snorted. “And possibly saved my neck. It was touch and go when I first returned, you know. The same people who filled the streets screaming about the war came out again to shout against a peace which lost them their penal colony. There was talk of treason. But the Committee couldn’t raise me up as the hero of Black Rocks and at the same time condemn me as a traitor. And very fortunately for me, the newsers convinced them that they needed a hero more than a traitor.”

  “You see, sir? My ideas really do work out well for everyone.”

  “I fail to see how your latest proposal would serve my country in any way whatsoever. But I suppose I do owe you something for the last one.”

  “No, well, this is – on a more personal level. If I have a position in Harmony, and a sponsor to vouch for me, I can stay here.”

  “I’m supposed to get you a job so you can marry my daughter? And you don’t even know if she’ll have you! You haven’t seen or communicated with her in six months.”

  “How did you –”

  “She told me so. Tried to make me think you two had quarreled. I didn’t believe it, of course. Knew she’d broken it off for my sake, because she thought my credit couldn’t survive a daughter who consorted with the enemy.” Dayvson cleared his throat. “Told her not to be so stupid. Didn’t get anywhere. She is a very difficult woman to manage, boy. Feel obliged to warn you.”

  “Ah – I don’t expect to manage her, sir. I just want to marry her, and I have every expectation that she will bully me unmercifully.”

  “Good to think that someone can do that. I might place a few bets on the outcome, though.”

  The position Dayvson ultimately offered was better than anything Gabrel had dared to imagine. He cut off Gabrel’s thanks with a word of advice. “You really should look at my rose garden before you go. Through the small sitting-room downstairs, there are French windows opening to the garden. I’m rather proud of it.”

  ***

  The roses were past their prime and badly needed cutting back to encourage new blossoms. Isovel suspected the gardener had neglected this chore because he felt it was an appropriate task for a young lady. They had only three servants – cook, gardener, and an indoor maid – which was downright spartan for the neighborhood. But three felt like a multitude when they were united on a project like Getting Miss Isovel To Do Something. She would probably have to take some appliance apart and put it back together – preferably leaving streaks of grime on the kitchen table – to convince them she wasn’t terminally depressed.

  Which, of course, she was not. One made the necessary decisions, and one moved on – chin up, and definitely not looking back. She could not split her life and her loyalties.

  Also, she was not going to make a fool of herself by clinging to a much younger man in another country, who had probably found himself a nice local girlfriend by now.

  So. Somehow the staff had herded her out here, with a basket and pruning shears, so they could reassure themselves by watching her do something appropriate. Isovel glowered at the blowsy, nodding pale pink blooms on Baronne Henriette and the hot pink petals of Beauté Inconstante that were beginning to drift down onto the grass. Their time was past; they had to go. Like a thirty-year-old spinster with an inappropriate fixation on an impossible young man, they had no place any more. She attacked Baronne first and then Beauté with a series of decisive snips that covered the bottom of her basket with flower heads and loose petals.

  If only one could prune thoughts… and feelings… and memories in the same way. But those intangible things were harder to dispose of. Some day, the philosophers promised, she would be old and mere memories would lose their power to hurt.

  She doubted that any of the philosophers had ever been a young woman who was… not in love. At most, remembering love – ridiculous that it should hurt so much.

  A sound behind her. Discord! Did they have to hint her out here with her little basket and her shears and then watch to make sure she was behaving as they wanted? Briefly fantasizing about pruning Daddy’s prized bi-colored Clotilde Soupert to the roots, Isovel whirled to give the gardener a piece of her mind… and stopped, pruning shears in one hand, looking at somebody who was definitely not the gardener.

  She must be losing her mind. This man couldn’t really look so much like Gabrel. It was a humiliating symptom of her infatuation, thinking she caught a glimpse of Gabrel in one man’s brisk stride, another’s restless hands.

  He walked towards her and became quite solid and three-dimensional and real – and very much himself.

  “You – can’t be here.” Her throat was dry.

  “I should like to convince you otherwise,” Gabrel said, “but would you mind putting those shears down first? Nothing terrifies me like an angry woman with a pair of secateurs.”

  Then she dropped the shears, and the basket, and all the bright dying petals of Beauté Inconstante floated around her and carpeted the grass, and the scent of the petals bruised under their feet blended with the sharp unmistakable scent of Gabrel himself and the safety of his arms around her.

  Her lips were bruised with kissing when they finally separated by a few inches, and her head was swimming with the scent of roses in the sunshine.

  “Convinced now?” Gabrel asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Isovel murmured happily. “I don’t know how you came here, and I don’t care…”

  He started to release her; she gave a cry of protest and put up her hands around his neck, and they
melted back together. Memories, Isovel thought faintly, were nothing like so strong as she’d thought; they’d fled before the reality of Gabrel. So, apparently, had all her will power, her values, her good sense.

  “Am I going to have to fight any impudent young men for you?” Gabrel murmured into the curve of her neck.

  “No!” She would have been indignant if she weren’t so happy.

  “Good, that’s simpler. I want you to come with me.”

  “All right.”

  His hands dropped to his sides and he stepped back. “Just like that? You’re not going to explain to me why it’s impossible for us to be together?”

  Isobel thought it over for fully two seconds. “No. I tried that and it nearly killed me. I’m not – I can’t do it again. Will Esilia allow me in, or are you going to smuggle me through the harbor?”

  “You’ll come to Esilia? No arguments?”

  Away from his touch, she gained just a little coherence. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I don’t want to abandon Daddy, and I do worry that my desertion will be used against him. But… yes. I’ll come wherever you want to go, whenever you like. I hope you can give me a little time to explain to Daddy, that’s all.” She grasped his shirt collar and pulled his face back to hers.

  Some inarticulate, murmuring time passed before Gabrel spoke again.

  “Actually, your father already knows.”

  “What!” That shocked her into retreating from him.

  “I have, more or less, something like his blessing.”

  “He – agreed – to let me go to Esilia? With you?”

  “The emphasis,” Gabrel remarked, “is hardly flattering. And actually, we are not going quite so far, so perhaps you can stop worrying about your effect on your father’s career.”

  “Well, you certainly can’t stay here!”

  “Oh, yes, I can. Your father is going to sponsor me for Harmony citizenship, or at least for a permanent residence permit. With a job at the university, and being married to a Citizen, he thinks it should be a mere formality.”