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

  Between Home and Ruin

  Book 2 of The Fall of the Censor

  Karl K. Gallagher

  © 2021 Karl K. Gallagher.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Kelt Haven Press, Saginaw, TX.

  Cover art and design by Stephanie G. Folse of Augusta Scarlet, LLC: www.scarlettebooks.com.

  Editing by Laura Gallagher.

  3D spaceship model and interior art by Winchell Chung

  To my parents, Frank Dishaw and Maggie Allen,

  and all the books they saved for me.

  Merchant Ship Azure Tarn

  Between Home and Ruin

  “Oh, Hell, no,” said Welly.

  Marcus Landry couldn’t blame her. The cargo hold hatch had opened to reveal hundreds of soldiers backed by tanks waiting for them.

  Welly broke from her place in the lines of diplomats waiting to walk out of the ship. “I can’t do this.”

  “Miss,” said Ambassador Trygg. “Please take your place. The Governor is waiting for us.”

  She looked pissed. Marcus couldn’t blame her either. If the Censorate was going to kill them all, it would have done it in space when they were negotiating over whether to let the Fieran embassy in.

  Welly went around Marcus to hide behind the Captain. The ship’s officers, also the owning family, were lined up to see their passengers off. Marcus was in his best Merchant Service dress uniform for the occasion.

  He stepped forward. “Ma’am, I can translate. I’m almost as fluent in the local dialect as she is.”

  Welly possessed a gift for languages, but Marcus had spent more time with the locals—one local in particular—than her on their first visit to the planet.

  “Fine. Let’s go,” snapped Ambassador Trygg.

  Marcus hurried to catch up as the diplomats walked down the ramp. He glanced back at his parents. The captain wore a wry smile, the first mate a worried one.

  The Fieran embassy was dressed in their finest. Marcus Landry wore his Merchant Service officer’s uniform, adorned with gleaming pins to display his certifications and a single stripe on each shoulder to show he was the lowest-ranking officer on board.

  Ambassador Trygg led. Her gown was a deep sea green, setting off her blonde hair and fair skin. On her left Consul Ortega followed a half pace behind, as dark as she was pale. His black suit was relieved by a wide blue sash tied loosely around his waist. The rest of the embassy followed, each wearing the dress of their home nation in the Fieran Concord.

  Marcus thought, We’re making a statement. The Censorial officials were all dressed alike, varying shades of blue jackets, the military uniforms only distinguished by insignia. Even the civilians wore medals and ribbons. The Fierans were already introducing chaos to this world.

  He walked in the middle of the embassy. The marching order had been sorted by proficiency in the local dialect. After nearly a millennium of separation it was hardly recognizable as spoken English, though the written form was unchanged. Marcus would translate for the slow learners walking behind him.

  A Censorial battlecruiser hovered over the spaceport. Two turrets were trained on the ship which brought the embassy. This was Azure Tarn’s second visit to the Censorate. The first had been by the luck of finding an opening in the hyperspace shoals closing off Fiera from the rest of the human race. It had ended with the ship shaking off Censorial Navy pursuit in a hyperspace storm. The Navy appeared to be unhappy about that.

  Marcus lowered his eyes to the sweating soldiers. Their uniforms and formation were more precise than anything he’d seen as an academy midshipman. He hated to think how long they’d been standing in formation waiting for Azure Tarn to land.

  Behind the lines of infantrymen stood a crawler. It wasn’t like the tanks Marcus saw in histories of the war which formed the Concord a half century ago. It was a smooth metal dome. Treads peeked out through notches in the bottom edge of the dome. Two barrels pointed straight at the embassy, one capped with the violet crystal of a high energy laser, the other hollow for some kind of projectile. Small guns in round turrets dotted the edge of the dome, turning to follow the embassy as it passed.

  They’re just trying to make us nervous, he told himself.

  It was working.

  Some of the Fieran diplomats were having to work to match the ambassador’s pace. The red carpet stretched nearly half a mile from the ship to the canopy. As far as Marcus could tell it was all one piece.

  As they drew closer he could pick out details of those under the canopy. There was one chair, high backed with wide arm rests. The man in it must be Bridge Yeager, Governor of Corwynt and several neighboring star systems. Unless, Marcus cautioned himself, the Censorate had replaced him in the four months since Azure Tarn fled from Corwynt.

  A dozen men in gold-piped jackets flanked the chair. The mix of skin colors and builds showed they were all off-worlders imported to enforce Censorial rule. None had the coffee complexion and sharp features of the native Corwynti. Native servants drifted among them with trays of iced drinks.

  Three naval officers stood at one side of the officials. Unlike the civilians they weren’t chatting with each other. They stared at the embassy, spines straight, knees flexed, arms at their sides.

  The other uniformed people under the canopy were more infantry. Unlike the ones flanking the carpet they weren’t at attention. They were standing in the corners, looking in all directions, changing places with each other in a casual dance that provided full security against attackers from anywhere. They weren’t visibly armed, but their clothes bore the marks of concealed weapons.

  They were probably intended for uppity locals, not the embassy, Marcus decided.

  The red carpet ended twenty feet from the governor’s chair. Ambassador Trygg stopped at the edge, made a graceful curtsey, and began the greeting speech.

  Marcus didn’t bother translating it. They’d all helped draft it. Marcus and Welly had even been pulled in to check for phrases that wouldn’t work with Censorial culture. He’d taken out all the literary and historical allusions. The Censorate’s proscription of all works whose authors had died wiped clear its cultural heritage.

  An attaché tugged at Marcus’ sleeve. “Is she doing the speech?” he whispered.

  “Yes, just as rehearsed,” said Marcus equally quietly. He turned to face the slow learners. “Thanks for seeing us, hopes for being peaceful neighbors, and apologies for the clumsy merchants who made first contact.”

  He thought the last was unfair. His father, Captain Niko Landry, and the rest of the crew had snuck in, learned much, traded at a profit, and escaped without revealing Fiera’s direction. It would have been nice to do that without pissing off the Censorate, but the Censorate came pissed off.

  Still, apologizing was probably the diplomatic thing to do.

  Ambassador Trygg ended the speech with another curtsey.

  The edges of the canopy flapped in the slight sea breeze. Behind Marcus could hear the whoosh of another ship landing at the far end of the spaceport. Glasses clinked as a servant collected empties.

  There was no protocol for what should happen next. Fiera’s chaotic history had produced formal protocols for opening diplomatic relations and recognizing new governments. The Censorate had no neighbors, no visitors, and dealt with secessionists by extermination. It would be totally in accordance with Censorial policy for th
e governor to order them all gunned down right now.

  But if he’d intended to do that it would have been easier to destroy Azure Tarn when she was first sighted approaching Corwynt’s system. The Ambassador was confident there’d be negotiations.

  Marcus thought capture, torture, and interrogation were still an option. But he wasn’t going to let any of these effete diplomats see him worry.

  The governor stood, walked, forward, and took both of Trygg’s hands in his. They exchanged a few words, too low for Marcus to make out. Then the governor took a few steps back and spoke for all to hear.

  Marcus began translating. “He’s Governor Bridge Yeager. He’s glad we came. All humanity should be connected. He’s thanking us for making the trip. Every person is diminished if someone is separated from them.”

  He’d practiced translating short speeches. This long one left him getting farther behind as it went on. “He’s looking forward to Fiera being incorporated into the Censorate. Benefits of the Censorate—trade, stability, protection, disaster assistance. People in the Censorate are happy. He encourages us to wander and meet people to see how happy they are. The question of the crimes of the merchant ship may wait until other questions are settled.”

  Which left the fate of Marcus’ mother and father—and the rest of the crew—as a bargaining chip.

  Governor Yeager finished with a cheerful imperative. “We’re all invited to mingle and meet his ministers.”

  A wave of servants came out from behind the dignitaries bearing trays of iced drinks. Marcus realized he was thirsty. Between the cannon and the governor he’d been too stressed to notice the heat. Now he felt the sweat dribbling down his neck and ribs. He took the first drink on the tray offered to him and swallowed half.

  “Just sip the rest,” said the attaché. Marcus reminded himself of the man’s name—Bokser, the commercial interests liaison.

  “It’s non-alcoholic.”

  Bokser smiled. “Have you spotted a restroom yet?”

  “Oh.” That seemed like a petty game for the Censorials to play, but the diplomats always went on about the importance of factors such as table shapes and lighting colors. This might be in that category.

  The attaché disappeared into the whirlpool of people, looking for a fellow embassy member willing to translate for him, or maybe a local willing to let Bokser practice his limited command of the dialect on them.

  Marcus considered who he should talk to. The governor and ministers were all engaged with senior members of the embassy. Aides who’d come forward were also surrounded. The servants wouldn’t make eye contact. The bodyguards would, briefly, but he doubted they’d chat on duty.

  That left the naval officers. One of whom was studying Marcus’ uniform. When Marcus turned to face them the man gave him a cool nod.

  That’s as good an invitation as I’m going to get. He strolled over. “Good morning, sir. I’m Second Officer Landry.”

  Marcus extended his right hand, then added his left as the Censorial clasped him with both of his.

  “Greetings. I am Commander Nebbit, Corwynt Squadron staff.”

  Nebbit wore the least braid of the three. If the Censorial Navy followed the same tradition as Fieran navies the other two were a captain and commodore.

  “Are you the military attaché, Officer Landry?” asked Nebbit.

  Marcus shook his head. “I’m here as an interpreter. I’m the supercargo on the Azure Tarn.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder in case Nebbit didn’t recognize the ship’s name.

  The commodore had been pointedly ignoring the new arrival. Now he pivoted to glare at Marcus.

  Nebbit said, “Interpreter? I thought we all spoke English.”

  “The written language is the same. We pronounce everything differently. Back home what you just said would be—”

  The commodore broke in on Marcus. “I’m surprised you dare appear here after murdering a thousand spacers!”

  Marcus took a step back in shock. “We never harmed anyone.”

  “History. I pulled bodies out of the wreckage myself.” The commodore leaned close enough for Marcus to feel his breath on his face.

  “We never fired a shot.” Marcus forced himself to stand his ground. Violating personal space was one of the tactics the diplomats talked about. “We ran into a hyperspace storm. The warship followed us in. They couldn’t handle the currents and broke up.”

  The captain muttered, “Wing always was too aggressive.”

  “You have the blood of a thousand men on your hands,” snarled the commodore.

  The hate made Marcus want to flinch. He stood tall. “I’m sorry for the men who died doing their duty. I’m not sorry for the one who committed suicide and dragged the rest along.”

  Marcus about-faced, caught his balance (it’d been years since the Academy), and marched to the far side of the canopy. He scared a servant, snatching a glass of juice off her tray, draining it, and handing it back.

  Staring out that direction let him watch a light freighter gracefully swoop over the spaceport apron, not touching down until it was inside one of the bunker-like hangars. Figures moved atop the hangar. More security, he presumed.

  “That looked unpleasant.”

  Marcus looked up into Ambassador Trygg’s blue eyes. She wore a small, calm smile and held two drinks.

  “It was,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t diplomatic.”

  “Someone was going to step on that land mine. You were probably the best one to do it. I think you handled it well. Here.”

  She held out an amber drink. Marcus assumed juice, but vapors stinging his nose made him sip it with respect. It was smoother than any spirit he’d had before, but it bit harder.

  “Thanks,” he gasped.

  “Relax for now. Tomorrow we can start wandering the city. I’ll need you to keep them from starting a war by accident.”

  ***

  The embassy was quartered on the sixth level of Arnvon. It was inhabited by the very richest Corwynti clans and Censorials not important enough to be on the seventh level.

  The tour guide was a Corwynti native working in the employ of the Censorial administration. Marcus wondered if this made her clanless or if she was just ‘on loan’ to the Censorials. He hadn’t figured out a tactful way to ask.

  The first stop was a park along the outer wall. It was open and grassy. Children competed to kick a ball at a target as parents cheered them on. A tall net around the edge kept balls from falling on the plebs below. A dog pivoted to chase a ball as it bounced off the net.

  Marcus looked over the edge of the park. He could see almost down to the bottom level. The city was a glass pyramid, looking solid from the outside but mostly empty space inside. Within the transparent outer wall it was an array of trapezoidal bricks, held apart from each other by thick pipes. The connections were diagonally corner to corner, so each brick could have empty space above, below, and beside it. The bricks—‘ardals’ in the native dialect—were painted with bright nature scenes. Each ardal held the residences and businesses of more than a dozen clans. Some were open-sided to provide open-air bazaars. On the lower levels space was given to light industry.

  From here Marcus could see through the maze of ardals to just a few peeks of the floor under level one. That concealed the below sea level pumping stations and other infrastructure.

  Glancing up revealed the nine ardals of the seventh and top level. They proclaimed their Censorial occupants with rows of large windows. The Corwyntis below only allowed a few portholes to endanger the water-tight integrity of their ardals.

  They had reason.

  The tour guide was calling the embassy group over to the outside edge of the park. Marcus gathered the rest up and joined them. Some of the locals drifted along curiously.

  “If you look this way,” the guide pointed, “you can see the hurricane expected to pass over tonight. This is only a category five so we don’t expect any damage to the city.”

  Marcus translated in
to the Fieran dialect for the monolingual staffers. They pressed forward to stare through the wall at the storm. It was an impressive sight even blurred by distance.

  A local stood close enough to hear the translation, not that it would mean anything to him. Marcus gave him a puzzled look. The guy had been cheering the game loudly for someone who’d wander off a few minutes later. The local sidled away.

  “Corwynt’s near-total water coverage and high temperature for an inhabited world provides the ideal conditions for hurricane formation. They occur year-round. This forces all our habitations to build for these storms.”

  “Do the storms ever break the outer wall?” asked one of the more fluent diplomats, a nervous edge in his voice.

  The guide smiled. “It’s happened in other cities, but no one remembers it happening in Arnvon. In the past ten years all that’s happened is a few cracked panes, quickly repaired.”

  And if Arnvon was shattered by a hurricane, the records would be destroyed when the author died, thought Marcus sourly. The Censorial insistence on destroying history was his chief reason for wanting the regime overthrown.

  The guide continued, “On the industrial islands people live in blockhouses, like very sturdy ardals. And then there’s the shoalers who live on their shallow-water farms. Their homes are underwater, deep enough to be safe from storm turbulence.”

  Marcus finished translating. He noticed an omission. “How do the Jaaphisii handle hurricanes?” he asked.

  “The nomads go around them.” She didn’t like the topic but offered a full answer anyway. “They’re familiar with the wind patterns and can detect a hurricane from over the horizon. Plus those who don’t spend all their cash on booze will carry a receiver for the satellite weather broadcasts.”

  That surprised Marcus. He hadn’t thought people who built their ships from the hides and shells of their sea monster prey would be sophisticated enough to use satellite technology. Well, primitive doesn’t mean stupid.