Storm Between the Stars: Book 1 in the Fall of the Censor

by Karl K Gallagher

  When the party broke up, the crew shuffled back to the train station. Alys sulked but it wasn’t mentioned with Soon, Roger, Welly, and Tets all competing over who’d enjoyed the party the most. The closest to a negative comment from them was when Tets said, “Dilwyn could recite his Goch ancestors back for six generations. Made a song of it. But he can’t write it down. Says that’s illegal. This place is strange.”

  “It is different,” agreed Captain Landry.

  At the station, Landry pulled his son aside. “We’ll take the next one,” he told the rest.

  When the tram pulled away, the station was just an empty concrete box. The open top let them hear the hurricane beating at the clear walls of the city.

  Marcus fidgeted as he waited.

  “Do you remember why I left Betty and Gander on the ship?” asked the captain.

  “You didn’t want them pissing off the natives.”

  “My exact words?”

  Marcus had to think. He hadn’t been paying close attention. “You didn’t want someone starting a war by being rude to a VIP.”

  “That’s right.” His father leaned in. “I also don’t want someone starting a war by convincing an anti-Censorial secret society to launch a rebellion because we’d have their backs.”

  The young man wilted under the glare. “I’m sorry. It just burst out.”

  The captain kept glaring.

  “Don’t we want to help these people?” asked Marcus.

  Captain Landry rubbed his face with both hands. “How many inhabited worlds are in the Fieran Bubble?”

  “Three. If you count Svalbard.”

  The joke fell flat.

  “How many in the Censorate?”

  “Um . . . I don’t know.”

  “Nobody does. Starmaps are forbidden, there are no books about other worlds, they don’t even teach how many planets are in this system in the schools.”

  Marcus said, “It could be hiding that there’s very few.”

  “No. Vychan’s met ships from fourteen other worlds. There’re no barriers for incoming traffic. The Censorate is big enough that nobody has reached here from outside.”

  “Except us.”

  “Except us. And we’re getting away with it because nobody’s checking whether we’re from outside.”

  “So there could be dozens of worlds in the Censorate.”

  “Or hundreds. Or thousands. With who knows how powerful a fleet and the industrial capacity to outbuild us by orders of magnitude. If we get into a war with the Censorate, they could stomp us flat.”

  “Oh.”

  The hurricane roared in the distance.

  Landry said, “I like these people, I do. I think their situation sucks. But let’s not get them killed.”

  Two drunken spacers stumbled down the stairs. They tried to sing a song together, getting stuck in the middle of each verse and restarting the refrain.

  An empty tram pulled into the station. The Landrys and the drunks climbed aboard.

  Marcus eyed the spacers and stayed quiet. His father took advantage of the silence to plan his lecture to the rest of the crew on the need to never mention any history to the locals.

  ***

  As usual, Vychan wanted to meet in the spaceport tavern. Landry understood the logic of it. Strangers visiting Goch Home caused gossip among the neighbors. Too many visits by Vychan to Azure Tarn would cause suspicion among the Censorial authorities. The tavern was a safe rendezvous.

  But not a comfortable one. Landry sat alone at a table in the corner. A dozen other spacers stood by the bar, trading stories and jokes. The Fieran wasn’t welcome. He made sure he was far enough away he couldn’t be suspected of eavesdropping.

  With written or electronic star maps forbidden to civilians, the only way to find a new route was learn it from someone who’d been there. Following another ship was dangerous. Losing sight of the other in a cloud bank could lead to being lost forever in hyperspace.

  Having a navigator who’d been there was safest. But there was a shortage of spacers willing to abandon their current ship for a one-way trip with a stranger.

  Which left having someone else describe the route in enough detail for the listener to follow it on their own. Three spacers at a table were doing that now, judging by the hand gestures. Every spacer in the tavern would eventually be describing how to reach some planet. All other banter among them was subordinate to trading hyperspace routes.

  The initial warm welcome they’d offered Landry went cold when he refused to tell them the way to Fiera. If he wouldn’t trade, they didn’t want to talk to him. If he was close enough to overhear, he’d get dirty looks.

  Hence, corner table.

  Vychan came through the door and scurried to the corner, flagging down a barmaid on the way.

  “My apologies,” said the broker. “I saw Maxen on the slideway and buttonholed him. His family handles used equipment sales. I can get some cheap floaters from him. Doesn’t want any of your cargo, but he’s open to a triangle trade.”

  “That’s good news. Thank you.”

  The barmaid arrived with a pitcher of beer and two plates. Today’s special was fish fried in batter with fried kelp chips. Conversation paused while they ate. The tavern food was delicious, as long as you didn’t let it get cold.

  Vychan swallowed his last bite. “How much used gear are you willing to take? I don’t want to fill your hold with cast-offs.”

  “If they’re functional cast-offs I’ll take them. Cosmetic damage doesn’t bother me. We can fix that on Fiera. Same for structure and controls.”

  “So you just want the antigrav units. What about spare parts?”

  “I’ll take some. Still want mostly working vehicles so we know how to assemble the parts.” Landry chased the last of his chips with some beer.

  “That gives me more flexibility. Which I need. This isn’t going to be a simple triangular trade. I’m going to have more than one swap separating the receivers of your cargo from the ones providing what you want.”

  Landry topped off their mugs from the pitcher. “I’m sure you have reasons for doing it that way. But . . . wouldn’t it be simpler to just auction off my cargo and pay cash for the floaters?”

  “Ah. I haven’t explained the excess profits tax.” Saying the words put a sour expression on Vychan’s face.

  “No. But it does sound important.”

  “Normal tax rates apply on profits after expenses up to ten percent over what the Censorate thinks the goods are worth. Anything over that is taxed on a sliding scale. An open ended auction would cost you your ship if the bidding got high enough.”

  “What they think it’s worth.”

  “Uh-huh. And if it’s not in the book of valuation, they launch an investigation to see what the fair price is. Including a visit to the factory that made it to check production costs.”

  Now Landry wore a sour expression. “Yes, we want to avoid that.”

  “Barter isn’t taxed. I may have to put cash in to grease some of the swaps, we’ll pay taxes on that. But if it’s small we won’t face a Censorial audit.”

  Before Landry could reply, they were interrupted.

  “Vychan! It’s good to see a friendly face here,” said a stranger. A second one echoed the sentiment.

  The broker stood to embrace the new arrivals. “Jarnton! Mephora! Wonderful! When did you land?”

  Landry didn’t say anything. He focused on holding his jaw still so it wouldn’t rudely drop open. These strangers were astonishing.

  The various refugees settling the Fieran Bubble included representatives of every ethnic group, some unknown on Earth. There’d been some blending over the centuries, but most had at least a few almost pure descendants. Landry had met people who could pose as history book illustrations for “Scandinavian” and “West African.”

  The individual in front of him (‘Jarnton’ was what Vychan had called him), bore both skin colors. The eyes were a rich dark brown, almost black, set in skin th
e same color. The forehead above them was white, so pale that blood vessels made hints of red and blue against the skin. The colors alternated in horizontal stripes down the body, peeking out between the sides of an open vest. Many-pocketed shorts hid some of the skin, but the stripes were visible below where the shorts ended at the knees.

  Landry looked back up at Jarnton’s hair. The scalp stripes ran vertically back from the hairline. Tight brown curls stood next to yellow hairs standing in a spiky array.

  “My friends, let me introduce you to my friend Captain Niko Landry,” said Vychan. “It’s his first visit here.”

  Jarnton shook Landry’s hands with both of his, accompanying it with a warm smile. Mephora, standing too far back to reach, waved to acknowledge her introduction.

  Vychan stole chairs from another table and summoned a pitcher of beer. Landry tried to keep from staring by switching his focus to whoever was talking. That neglected Mephora, who sat quietly on the other side of the table.

  A pale stripe went across her icy blue eyes. The stripes were roughly the same as Jarnton’s, offset by a few inches. At least on the head. Mephora wore a grey jumpsuit only revealing her hands and head. The hands were striped too.

  “Fiera? I never heard of that one before,” said Jarnton. “So how do you get there, and what are they buying?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t say,” said Landry.

  “Really, he can’t,” echoed Vychan. “It’s complicated. If we can ever tell the story I’ll explain it to you then.”

  Mephora snorted in disbelief.

  A wry grin spread over Jarnton’s face. “I’m sure that’s a fascinating tale.” He turned the conversation to market conditions on Corwynt. His ship had a mixed cargo, most of which would be traded on other worlds.

  When they began trading rumors of other planet’ needs, Landry couldn’t control his curiosity any more.

  “Please forgive me if this is a rude question,” he said. “And there’s no obligation to answer it. But . . . how did you get those stripes?”

  Jarnton chuckled. Mephora snarled, “Burnt if I want to hear any politics,” and carried her beer over to a table of spacers.

  “I’m sorry,” started Landry.

  Jarnton shook his head. “I’m not offended. She’s just tired of hearing me go on.”

  He stretched out his arm, rotating it to show the stripes circling around. The brown stripes faded to tan in the palm of the hand. “Why are we zebras? Nobody knows. It’s history.” He said the word as if it meant mystery.

  Jarnton continued. “It’s genetics. We breed true with each other. If a zebra marries a monochrome, they’ll have monochrome kids.”

  “All different shades,” interjected Vychan.

  “Yes, monochromes get so worked up about that. We also lack many hereditary diseases. So we’re certain it was done on purpose. Why?” He shrugged.

  “There’s two theories, and two parties to go with them. One says this is a punishment, to warn everyone who sees us what horrible people we are. The other is that we were such good people this was a reward.”

  “Parties?” asked Landry.

  Vychan explained, “Instead of appointing them all, the Censorate lets the zebras pick some local officials. People choose candidates, and whichever candidate has the most supporters gets the job.”

  “That way the Censies can blame one of us when a riot breaks out,” quipped Jarnton. “Anyway, the theories drive our politics. The Peace party passes detailed laws, enforces them rigidly, and inflicts harsh punishments. Then the Joy party wins an election. They repeal some laws, ignore others, and turn loose the prisoners.”

  “There’s some people begging the Censorate to let us do that here,” said Vychan. “I’m not sure about it. Can you imagine the Jaaphisii picking the city administrators?”

  “We don’t let everyone vote. And you’ll have to excuse me. My captain wants me to talk shifting hyperspace routes with someone. Well met, Captain Landry. I hope to hear about your world someday.” Jarnton gave Vychan a hug and headed for the bar.

  “Interesting friends you have,” said Landry.

  “I get to meet most off-worlders who come here. The zebras are more entertaining than most.”

  ***

  Marcus gently reeled out the crane’s cable. The crate held on the end landed in the back of the flatbed floater Wynny Goch had backed into Azure Tarn’s cargo hold. He let out a little more slack as the floater dipped under the weight. Then it came back up. He stopped the reel. “Ready to unhook,” he called.

  The floater swayed again as Alys climbed into the bed to disconnect the harness from the crate. That was the fourth and last. When she waved Marcus retracted the crane to its rest position and left the booth.

  Wynny popped open the doors to the flatbed's cab. “Coming?”

  “Just a moment,” he answered. “Close the hatch behind us and you can have the rest of the day off,” he said to Alys.

  She nodded.

  He belted himself into the floater.

  “Relax,” said Wynny. “I’m not going to throw you around. Some of the cargo might be fragile.”

  “If anything’s fragile we probably broke it already,” said Marcus. “There were some rough moments on the trip.” That led to him describing the hyperspace storm they’d run into on their way to Corwynt.

  “So that’s why the hurricanes don’t scare you,” said Wynny.

  “Oh, there’s hurricanes on Fiera. We just get a few a year instead of having them all the time.”

  “Quiet planet.”

  The weather was calm over Bundoran. The hatch to the warehouse district tunnel stood open. She drove in and went to the smallest of the Goch clan’s warehouses. The door answered her remote. She parked the flatbed in the far corner, behind a stack of barrels.

  “Let’s get this off. Can you handle that?” She waved at a forklift by the wall.

  “Sure.” At least, he didn’t think it would be that different from the ones back home. The driving controls were the same. He stopped short of the floater to lift the forks, which let him try all the levers to find the right one without scraping the paint. Wynny had the back gate of the flatbed lowered. He scooped up a crate on the first try.

  Marcus suppressed a smile. He figured he should look like he’d done that before.

  The first two crates went next to the barrels. The other two were too far for the forklift to reach. He climbed onto the floater and started shoving them to the rear.

  Wynny shook her head and climbed back into the cab. “You like doing things the hard way.”

  As he pushed on a crate the floater tilted up. Now he was pushing downhill, and had to stop before he sent it off the gate. “Yeah, that helps.”

  By the time he placed the fourth crate in a row with the others Wynny had brought up some empty bins about the same size as the crates. “Do you really not know what’s in these?”

  The crates were all labeled ‘MISC CHILDRENS TOYS’ in black letters. “We bought them cheap to top off the load,” said Marcus. “I figure it’s basic teddy bears and such.”

  “Let’s find out.” She handed him a prybar.

  The first was used toys. Bears and other stuffed animals with a bit of wear. Balls with scrapes. Skateboards, ditto. Leather gloves (which led to the discovery that baseball didn’t exist on Corwynt). Dolls of various types.

  Wynny held up a plastic goblin. “What the heck is this?”

  “It’s the villain from a children’s show.”

  “Hmmm. Won’t sell unless we have the show.”

  “I’ll add it to our list for the next trip.”

  That produced a grin. Wynny tossed the goblin into a bin and reached into the crate again. This time she pulled out a book with thick toddler-proof pages. “The Story of Chanukah,” she read. She opened it to the title page. A second later she flung it away. The book bounced off the stacked barrels and skittered across the floor.

  “What are you doing?” she snarled. “That’s
grounds for execution.”

  “Huh?” Marcus was too startled to respond intelligently.

  “That’s—that’s a copy of a book from Earth!”

  He retrieved the book and looked at the copyright notice. “Reprinted in 7474 from the 5792 edition. Um, I don’t know what the current year is on that calendar, but that many years ago, it’s from Earth, yes.”

  Wynny crossed her arms. “You are from outside the Censorate. I thought so.”

  “I’m—well—yeah.”

  “If a Censorial agent found that book we’d be executed.”

  “Oh. We’d better give it to your father to hide then.”

  That made her grin. “Ah, he’s in a history society.”

  “Oh, crap. That was a secret, wasn’t it?”

  Wynny shrugged. “I knew he was in some secret society. He keeps disappearing without good reasons. I’m glad it’s history.”

  “There’s other kinds of secret societies?”

  “Oodles. History, storytellers, people praying to the Sacrificed God.” Her expression tightened. “And, rumor has it, circles of men who discuss the latest Censorial crime and draw lots to see who assassinates a Censy to pay for it.”

  “Ah.”

  “But Da’s too sensible to be one of the last kind. Still, we need to get this book out of here. Along with any others that might be hiding.” Wynny glanced in the open crate to check for more books then pried open the next. “What the heck is this?”

  “It’s for drawing on.” Marcus demonstrated a few lines, then shook the gadget to erase it.

  “Fine. Might be worth a credit. Not worth executing us for.”

  As more toys went into the bins without books turning up Wynny relaxed. She hid The Story of Chanukah behind a ventilation duct.

  “So why did you come here?” she asked.

  “Money,” answered Marcus.

  She snorted in disbelief. “You’re risking execution for that?”

  “We didn’t know the Censorate existed. Our system has been isolated for nine hundred years. Long enough for the language to drift apart. For all we knew everyone was dead out here.”

  “Not much money in dead people.”