There was no manifest either, beyond a handful of vague notes. The weapons crates were marked - they were all listed as carrying seeds - but there was no way to know what was in the others, save by opening them up. Joel summoned some of his men and barked orders, telling them to transfer the weapons crates to the Steward Hall - a warehouse at the edge of the estate - and open the others. Their contents would have to be sorted out, then either put back in storage or distributed around the estate.
He didn't relax until the last of the weapons crates was transferred to their final destination. The Elders weren't the only ones he didn't want to know about them. If one of his rivals had seen them, or someone sympathetic to the local government ... he didn't want to think about what might have happened. But no one had seen them. He opened a couple of crates, checking that the weapons and ammunition were still in place, then sealed them up again. They’d need to find a place to test-fire the weapons, he knew. There hadn't been a shooting range on the starship.
He strode back outside, taking a long breath and tasting the cool autumn air. The air smelt faintly of dust, unsurprisingly. A number of women were still dusting the apartment blocks, making sure they were fit for human habitation. Others were cooking for the first time in months, the smell reaching his nose and making his mouth water. He’d spent too long eating ration bars that tasted of cardboard and did unpleasant things to his digestion. Surely, it wouldn't be too hard to make them taste better.
Steward Jeff fell into step beside him as they walked towards the cottage. “We’ve piled up most of the cleared plants for compost,” he said, bluntly. “We can use them next year.”
Joel shrugged. It would probably be better to sell the dead plants to local farmers, just to build up some funds. He’d practically bankrupted himself over the last few weeks, first on the starship and then buying some much-needed supplies in Lothian. But it was a subject that would have to be approached carefully. The traditionalists in the commune, staunch believers in the circle of life, would want to use the compost to fertilise their crops.
But we can't turn the estate into a farm, he thought, sourly. Half the ground is covered in concrete and the remainder ... the remainder is too small to support us.
“We’ll see,” he said. “It all depends on getting some farms.”
He sighed as he bid farewell to Jeff and headed into the small cottage. The local government wouldn't give them land, not unless they demanded it. Tarsus certainly hadn't, even though feeding the Forsakers had to be a burden on their economy. God knew they’d certainly bitched about it enough. The farmers on Arthur’s Seat might not welcome the competition, even though they had a whole second continent just waiting to be settled. There weren't many settlements on Minoa and none of them were particularly large.
His stepmother and Hannah were bent over the stove as he entered, his stepmother teaching her how to cook. Joel had no idea what they were cooking, but it smelt nice. He studied Hannah’s back for a long moment, feeling an odd surge of affection. Hannah might be rebellious, she might have a poor reputation ... and yet, there was something about her he liked. She would make a good wife, once he’d taught her the importance of obeying her husband. And their children would be wonderful.
And no one will ever dare question her reputation again, Joel thought, as he closed the door loudly. And if they do, they’ll answer to me.
Hannah half-turned to look at him, then turned back hastily. Neither John nor her stepfather were around. Ideally, the women would be completely separate from the men, but the cottage was simply too small. Joel smiled at her back before hurrying into the next room. Konrad was sitting on a mattress, his fingers moving over a string of worry beads. He mouthed words as he prayed silently.
“Joel,” Konrad said, as Joel closed the door. “I trust the prisoners were handed over?”
Joel nodded, shortly. Adam had believed what Joel had told him - that it was his duty to infiltrate the prisons - but Jack had gone absolutely mad with rage when he realised he’d been betrayed. He'd offered his back for a whipping, after all. He had thought - as he should have done - that the whipping was his sole punishment, that the matter had been closed. The Stewards had had to knock him down before handing him over to the local authorities.
“It was done,” he said. He’d been careful to make it clear that the Elders were the ones who’d issued the orders. Let them take the blame. “The local authorities will punish them as they see fit.”
And get rid of Jack into the bargain, he added, silently. It was unfortunate, but he couldn't lose. And we managed to preserve some of our autonomy.
“We must isolate ourselves,” Konrad added, firmly. “I will be consulting with local allies to find the best way to isolate ourselves.”
“Of course, father,” Joel said. He didn't hold out much hope - the Forsakers on Arthur’s Seat were Fallen - but it would keep his father busy. “Until then, I trust all is well?”
“Well enough,” Konrad said.
He cleared his throat as he rose. “Soon, you will be married,” he added. “You do recall the duties of a husband?”
Joel nodded. “Yes, father.”
It was hard to keep the delight off his face. He would soon be married! His father would be his patriarch until he died, but a married man had freedoms denied to an unmarried man. It was true, he supposed, that he had more freedoms than most young men anyway, yet ... he was going to be married! And to a true Forsaker!
“We shall discuss them anyway,” his father said, sternly. “I will not have my son go into an unhappy marriage.”
“Yes, father,” Joel said.
“And then we shall make the preparations,” his father added. “And then you will be married.”
***
Judith couldn't get the smell out of her nostrils, even though she’d showered repeatedly in the four days since leaving the spaceport. She knew she had washed thoroughly, she knew she’d changed her clothes, she knew she was clean ... and yet, the smell kept tormenting her. Cold logic told her she was imagining it, but cold logic was powerless against raw emotion, against the sense she would be smelly for the rest of her life. She just knew people were turning their heads to stare at her in disgust as she walked past.
At least the director didn't make us stay there for long, she thought. The boys who’d gone through the tents reported they were, if anything, worse. But she’d probably have wound up with a mutiny if she had.
She pushed the thought down as she skimmed through her blog. The torrent of emails hadn't abated, even though she’d made it clear she wouldn't be answering questions. She didn't know who'd sent her the original post, after all. And yet, online investigators had discovered more than enough proof - including a pair of witness testimonials - that the whole affair had happened, precisely as the original post said. It hadn’t stopped her receiving a whole series of assorted death threats from all over the world.
Gritting her teeth, she deleted a whole string of badly-spelled emails and refreshed her inbox, hoping for a message from Hannah. She'd heard nothing from Hannah, not since the riot ... Judith had hoped to see her at the spaceport, but there had been no sign of her. Judith hoped - prayed - she was alive and well, yet there was no way to be sure. Someone - she suspected Director Melbourne - had sealed all of the refugee files.
She glanced up as she heard a key turning in the lock. Gayle? It couldn't be anyone else, could it? The landlord had a key, but he couldn't enter without a very good reason or advance notice. She rose, walking into the hallway as the door opened. Gayle stepped into the apartment, looking tired. A large placard - welcoming refugees - dangled under her arm.
“Gayle,” Judith said, carefully. What were they now? Girlfriends ... or just roommates? Her skin tingled as she remembered the last time they’d made love, her body reminding her suddenly of just how long it had been. She wasn't sure where Gayle had slept over the last few days. “How have you been?”
“Welcoming people,” Gayle said, flatly. �
�Where have you been?”
“Cleaning up the mess,” Judith said. Gayle hadn't said anything about the stink, but Judith was sure it was just a matter of time. “The spaceport was filthy. I’ve been in male locker rooms that were cleaner.”
Gayle’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “What do you expect?”
Judith stared at her. “What do you mean?”
“You pen umpteen thousand people into a place that isn't designed for anything like that many,” Gayle said. “What do you expect from people penned up like animals?”
“I’ve been in cleaner pigpens,” Judith snapped. She turned and walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on. A cup of tea might calm them both down. “There’s no excuse for shitting in the shower.”
“There is if there are no toilets,” Gayle pointed out.
Judith bit down the remark that came to mind. Instead, she picked up a couple of mugs and dropped teabags into them. It was enough to calm her down, although simmering anger - mixed with the grim awareness that it was over between them - hovered at the back of her mind. She’d loved Gayle. They’d talked about spending the rest of their lives together, about going to farm or set up home in the countryside. But now ... she cursed the refugees under her breath. Whoever could have predicted that their mere presence would destroy her love life?
She splashed water into the mugs, then carried them into the living room. Gayle was seated on one of the armchairs, her body held so stiffly that Judith knew there was no point in trying to cuddle her. The days when they’d cuddled together on the sofa were over. Instead, she passed Gayle her tea and sat down facing her, cradling her mug in her fingers. The warmth had soothed her, once upon a time. It didn't now.
“I read your post,” Gayle said. “Did it occur to you that it might have been made up?”
Judith looked back at her. “Did it occur to you that it might not have been made up?”
“True Forsakers would not have tried to rape a woman,” Gayle said.
“True Forsakers tried to drag me into the spaceport,” Judith snapped. She’d never felt threatened by any of Gayle’s kin, but Gayle and her cousins in the spaceport - and the estate - had very little in common. “God alone knows what they would have done to me, if I hadn't been rescued.”
She leaned forward. “And what might they do to you?”
Gayle coloured. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m trying to help them!”
Judith wondered, absently, just what that meant. There had been plenty of calls for people to open their homes to refugees or donate supplies, everything from clothes and bedding to food and drink. Gayle and her fellows were probably doing everything they could to help. A nasty thought crossed her mind, but she pushed it aside. She didn’t need to make things worse.
“I hope you do,” she said, instead. “But they’re not like you.”
“And you are attacking them rather than trying to understand them,” Gayle snapped back, sharply.
“They attacked me,” Judith said. “One of them brutalised his daughter merely for daring to talk to me!”
It crossed her mind, a second too late, that it might be dangerous to tell Gayle anything about Hannah. Gayle might think she was being replaced, if she hadn't already given up on their relationship. Or that Hannah was betraying her own people by trying to move between communities, rather than choosing one and sticking to it.
“I never thought you’d turn into this,” Gayle said. “These people are my kin!”
“They’re not,” Judith said. “They’re nothing like you.”
She took a breath. “Johan never treated me badly,” she said. Johan - like Gayle - had come from a Forsaker family. They’d been rivals for class valedictorian, but he’d never tried to molest her, let alone do anything worse. He’d certainly never suggested she should go back to the kitchen and leave the real work to the men. “Nor did Hans. Or Klaus. Or Gil.”
“Of course not,” Gayle said. She’d had a crush on Hans, once upon a time. “They were decent boys.”
“But the men in the spaceport did treat me badly,” Judith continued. “And I wasn't the only one. Female workers were stared at, disrespected, whistled at ... this isn't one bad apple, Gayle. This is a whole community that thinks women, people like us” - she pulled up her shirt to reveal her breasts - “are second-class citizens at best, servants at worst. You have never lived in one of their communities ...”
Gayle stared back at her, icily, as she covered her breasts again. “And if I choose to do so?”
“Then do so,” Judith snapped back. It wasn't as if there weren't a dozen other alternate lifestyles on Arthur’s Seat. Her people were very good at minding their own business, as long as it was done between consenting adults in private. “But don’t drag the rest of us down with you.”
“I’m going to bring a family here,” Gayle said. She waved a hand around the apartment. “I think we have enough room ...”
“You are not,” Judith said.
“You don't own this place,” Gayle protested.
“Neither do you,” Judith said. “The landlord might have a few things to say about permanent guests. You’re not talking about a boyfriend or girlfriend! And even if he didn't, the lease gives us both a say in who stays with us. I say no.”
“They need somewhere to live,” Gayle said.
Judith wondered, suddenly, if Hannah would like to move in. Gayle might learn a few things from her. But Hannah seemed reluctant to take that final step.
“Not here,” Judith said.
Gayle met her eyes. “You are condemning an entire group because of a few bad apples.”
“And you are dismissing the existence of the bad apples,” Judith countered.
“I can go to the landlord,” Gayle snapped.
“I doubt it,” Judith said. “You’d have to buy out my share of the lease.”
Gayle stared at her. “You’d refuse me this ...?”
“I can't stop you making stupid choices that hurt only you,” Judith said. “But I can refuse to put myself in danger too.”
“This is important,” Gayle said. “Judith ...”
“No,” Judith said.
Gayle rose. “Then we are no longer together,” she said, sharply. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you,” Judith said. But she wasn't sure if that was actually true. Part of her wanted to reach for Gayle, to pull her back, to say whatever she had to say to keep her. But she knew it would be disastrous. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” Gayle said, stiffly. “I’ll email you about the lease.”
She stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her. Judith stared after her, then fell back into the chair. It was over. Their relationship was over ...
And all because of the refugees, she thought, bitterly. What next?
Chapter Thirty-One
It isn't a coincidence that this suited the more controlling aspects of the Grand Senate right down to the ground. A nice little conflict on a planetary surface could serve as an excuse to walk in, take over, install a planetary governor and then spend the next few decades milking the planet dry.
- Professor Leo Caesius. Ethnic Streaming and the End of Empire.
Courtroom One - Lothian District Court - was a strikingly fancy room, designed by someone who wanted to make it very clear that it was a court of justice. The judge sat behind a heavy wooden desk, flanked by the clerk of the court and the witness box; the jury box sat to the left, while both the prosecutor and defender sat to the right. The prisoners stood in a wooden box, flanked by four policemen; behind them, there were seats for a small audience. Mike couldn't help noticing, as he strode into the courtroom, that the audience seats were packed to bursting. Hundreds of others had been turned away when they reached the court, too late to get a seat.
“Constable Mike Whitehead,” the usher said, as Mike took his place in the witness box. “Do you understand the oath?”
“I do,” Mike said.
“Then swear,” the usher
said.
Mike cleared his throat. “I swear that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” he said. “So help me God.”
He kept his expression under tight control as the prosecutor rose to his feet. Cecil Vinewood had a reputation for being a stern, utterly uncompromising prosecutor, a man who had served on several government investigations as well as civilian court cases. The short wig and black garb he wore didn't disguise his intelligent eyes, let alone his icy determination to win. Mike hoped - prayed - that the defence counsel wasn't up to the task. He wanted the men in the box to burn.
“Constable Mike Whitehead,” Vinewood said. “Would you please tell the court, in your own words, what happened when you were attacked by the accused.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike said. He took a moment to organise his thoughts. Vinewood would know, as well as any policeman, that personal testimony was often the least reliable of all. Any mistakes would be used against him. “A small squad of policemen, including myself, were charged with marching the prisoners back to the police station. The crowds were growing angry and the Incident Coordinator believed it would be better to get them into the cells before they were lynched. We searched the prisoners to make sure they weren’t carrying any weapons, then marched them down the street.”
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