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

  The tour went to lower levels. A bazaar would have lured some of the staffers into a spree if they’d had access to local currency. Unfortunately for Arnvon’s economy the Ambassador kept a tight grip on their allowance from the Governor.

  Marcus translated sales pitches for the staffers still unable to master the local dialect. He noticed someone was always listening. A clerk straightening shelves, a shopper circling among choices, or a passer-by going slowly. There was always at least one local close enough to hear.

  He bumped into one of the eavesdroppers when he went for a closer look at a sculpture he thought Wynny might like.

  The local said, “Excuse me,” and turned away.

  As he apologized Marcus saw a patch of dark skin behind the woman’s ear. He realized this wasn’t a local. She was a Censorial wearing makeup to blend in with the natives.

  The next stop was a dairy. Unlike Fiera’s old-fashioned cows, Corwynt had converted to in vitro production.

  An enthusiastic tech lectured on the difficulties in extracting the right nutrients from sea life. “We could get it all from kelp, but we’d leave over ninety percent of the biomass going down the disposer.”

  The ideal was a precise ratio of specific fish varieties, but as the fishing boats never caught the exact mix wanted Clan Terfel was kept busy adapting to what they could get and selling the by-products.

  After drinking a glass of the end result, Marcus admitted it tasted just like what a cow made.

  The tech led them into the buttery to see the next stage. Marcus followed, translating as needed. The crowd passed another tech checking a series of gauges against his tablet.

  Marcus stopped and glared. The man had changed his shirt and pants and added a lab coat over them. But it was the man who’d been cheering the ballplayers in the park when eavesdropping on him before.

  The Censorial spy’s face darkened as he blushed under the makeup.

  Marcus shrugged. There was no escaping the Censorials. And he shouldn’t complain if they were incompetent at their jobs.

  ***

  Marcus re-read the printout of Vychan’s reply to his message. ‘Taking scheduled transport. We will arrive Arnvon in time for lunch tomorrow.’

  That would be a long trip for them. Bundoran was a third of the planet away. He hoped ‘we’ meant Vychan was bringing his daughter Wynny. There wasn’t any reason to bring anyone else. Unless there was some specific business he needed a specialist for, and there was no point in that until he knew Azure Tarn’s cargo. Not that they’d brought much on this trip.

  Or . . . it could be Vychan and his wife Emlyn, wanting to interrogate Marcus on his intentions and ability to support a wife. That was fine. It was how they did things here. But, oh, he missed Wynny . . .

  He wrote the appointment on the big board in the lounge. The ambassador wanted all excursions recorded so she’d know if one of her team had been kidnapped by Censorials or was just taking in the sights. His name was already included as interpreter for a couple of tourist walks.

  One table held a buffet for those not invited to the formal meals with ministers and directors. Marcus was assembling a sandwich when someone interrupted him.

  “Officer Landry?” It was Bokser, the commercial liaison.

  “Yes?”

  “I saw you’re meeting with a local broker. I’d like to join you. We need to develop contacts with the business community here.”

  The first reply that came to Marcus’ mind was a phrase he had picked up while dealing with longshoremen loading cargo. Marcus swallowed it. Bokser was enough of a rich toff he might not know what all the words meant.

  “I’ll ask Mr. Goch when would be a good time for him to meet with you. I’m sure he wants to establish connections as well.” There, that was diplomatic.

  Bokser leaned across the sandwich plate. “If you’re sure he wants the meeting why wait? Bringing the business community’s influence to bear could make a difference in the outcome of negotiations.”

  “The Censorate is an occupation force ruling over a conquered people. They won’t care what the workers think.”

  “They’re still dependent on the health of the economy for their tax revenues. That’s an opportunity for leverage. With connections we can find who has the most leverage.”

  It was going to take a Corwynti explaining reality to penetrate Bokser’s preconceptions. “Be that as it may, you are not joining my lunch tomorrow.”

  Bokser opened his mount for another argument. Marcus cut him off with, “And that’s not up for discussion.”

  He took his sandwich to a table on the far side of the lounge and sat with his back to Bokser. No cheese, but it was worth it to not deal with him a minute more.

  The next attempt to crash his lunch wasn’t until bedtime. The quarters for the embassy were divided into four bedroom suites sharing a bathroom. When Marcus returned from brushing his teeth he found Hans Verterung standing before his bedroom.

  Verterung was the ‘Arts and Culture’ attaché. Marcus might have believed that if the man put any effort at all into maintaining his cover identity. All his questions for Marcus had been on Censorial naval strength, tactics, and other topics a spy would care about. Marcus hoped Verterung was just a decoy. Surely the embassy contained a competent intelligence agent.

  “I’d like to meet Mr. Goch with you tomorrow,” said Verterung.

  “It’s a private meeting. I’m sure he’d be willing to meet you another time.”

  “It’s urgent I meet with him. He’s our only connection to the—”

  Marcus put his hand over Verterung’s mouth to cut off the rest. It wasn’t hard enough to be a slap.

  The spy stepped back. From the anger on his face it might as well have been a full punch.

  “Look, Hans.” Marcus addressed all the diplomats by last name in deference to their age and professional qualification. Hopefully the disrespect would drive home the message. “The Censorate wouldn’t have given us these rooms unless they were totally wired for sound. Now. I’m meeting the Gochs alone tomorrow. You will have a meeting in the future. If. You can keep your mouth shut.”

  Verterung glared, turned on his heel, and stalked off.

  I hope he received the message I was trying to send, thought Marcus. I shouldn’t have told them Vychan was in a secret society.

  ***

  Vychan sent a message on arrival saying to meet at a restaurant named Balcony. Marcus discovered Arnvon’s architects were more adventurous than Bundoran’s. The restaurant was on a retractable balcony thirty meters wide, projecting from halfway up the side of the arcology. A transparent wall acted as a windbreak but he could still feel the breeze from the hurricane expected to hit tomorrow.

  As he waited for the Gochs Marcus looked through the clear floor to the waves striking the city’s foundation below. Any one was strong enough to crush Azure Tarn like a drink can. Sometimes he wondered how the Corwyntis had lasted long enough to build cities.

  “Marcus!”

  He pivoted toward the entrance. He’d been staring at the ocean so he wouldn’t twitch every time someone came through the door. But there was Wynny running toward him. Now they were hugging, bodies pressed together, mouths seeking each other, and they were kissing, as good as he remembered, no better, it was right, it was as it should be.

  The hostess cleared her throat. Marcus and Wynny jerked apart, embarrassed to be making a public spectacle. Vychan didn’t look angry. Was he hiding a smile?

  Marcus said, “Hi,” and gave Wynny a peck on the lips. Then he took a hand off her and offered it to Vychan. “Good to see you again, sir.”

  “Damn glad to see you myself. You never know if spacers are going to come back alive.” Vychan turned to the hostess. “Shall we?”

  The young couple just held hands while walking after the hostess. Navigating between tables was tricky but they kept their grip.

  Vychan shook his head at the offered table. “Could we have one by the edge?”

&
nbsp; “Of course, sir,” said the hostess. “But that will be very noisy.”

  “That’s fine. I miss feeling the breeze.”

  There was a stiff breeze there. The three of them sat on the same side of the round table so they could shout in each other’s ears. Wynny was in the middle. Marcus didn’t mind the excuse to lean into her.

  As typical for Corwynt the menu was a display on the tabletop. Marcus decided on herring, which he’d enjoyed on his previous visit to the planet. “Why can’t I order a salad?”

  Vychan unrolled his napkin. It flapped and shook in the wind. “Can you eat it faster than it flies away?”

  “Ah.” That explained why some of the side dishes were faded out as well. He picked mashed seataters, potatoes altered to grow in shallow sea beds.

  When all their orders were in the menu was replaced by a seascape. A clock in the center promised when the dishes would be served. A waitress brought drinks in glasses with heavy bases.

  While waiting for the drinks Vychan had smiled benignly as the younger two explained how much they missed each other. After taking a sip he broke in. “We heard the Navy was angry at you. But they didn’t know if you got away. What happened?”

  That was a hell of a thing to talk about in public. Then Marcus realized why Vychan wanted this table. Any Security microphones would only record wind noise unless it was on someone’s collar.

  “Yeah, we made them mad. We lifted without clearance. They sent a customs cutter. We rammed it. Might’ve killed their whole crew.”

  Vychan shook his head. “Customs crew all lived.”

  Which said interesting things about how much the secret societies had infiltrated the Censorial occupiers. “Did the Censorate punish you for helping us?”

  “Not official punishment,” said Vychan. “We were interrogated at length. Sometimes . . . uncomfortably. But we said we were just doing business with a visiting trader. Security never said they believed us. After a while they just stopped bothering us. I assume we’re still being watched.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Marcus.

  “Don’t be. A small price for what you’ve done for us.” He meant the history book, of course. Even with this secure spot he wasn’t willing to say it out loud. “Were you safe once you reached hyperspace?”

  “No. They sent a carrier after us. We faked an engine failure so we could jump to hyper without them shooting at us. Then it was a race in hyper. When we got past Fwynwr Ystaen we found a storm in the void. The carrier followed us in and broke up. Hundreds, maybe a thousand dead. The Navy is mad.”

  Vychan let out a low whistle which harmonized with the wind. “Yes, they are. And not talking about why.”

  “I think some of the Navy guys would kill us if they were allowed.”

  Wynny squeezed him with the arm wrapped around his back at that.

  “Likely,” said Vychan. “I’m surprised you came back. Wouldn’t it have been safer to just hide?”

  “It was discussed. But the Censorate knows we exist. A survey would find us.”

  “True.” Vychan took a bit of his tentacles. “And you came back in the same ship?”

  That triggered a snort of bitter laughter. “We didn’t have much choice. The Planetary Liaison dug out a bunch of old laws about conducting diplomacy and starting wars without government permission. The whole crew could have wound up in jail for the rest of our lives. So we carried the embassy here.”

  “Those bastards,” said Wynny. “Don’t they realize how bad it would be if a Censorial scout found you first?”

  He shrugged. “I think they just wanted to use our experience. And have a scapegoat lined up. Some people were panicking when the news came out.”

  “I can’t blame them,” she said. “You’d be safer if your bubble was still closed.” Wynny’s hand squeezed his. She was glad the bubble opened. He squeezed back.

  “Are they panicked enough to surrender?” asked Vychan.

  “Some. But I think even they would rebel once the Censorate tried to enforce the rules on books and videos.”

  “Can you win?” Yes, this man was a member of a treasonous secret society, preserving bits of history despite the Censorate’s proscription of any recorded material surviving its creator’s death.

  “I don’t know,” said Marcus. “We’ve had nasty internal wars. We know how to fight. But we’re just one populous world and a couple of marginally habitable ones. That’s against a completely unknown number of Censorial worlds. They can’t use all their force on us, they have to hold some back to prevent rebellions, but that could still leave them more than enough to destroy us.”

  “So you’ll surrender.” Vychan didn’t even sound disappointed. He just grimly accepted that his pipe dream couldn’t be real.

  Marcus laughed. “We can’t. I was present for some Concord meetings about the Censorate. If our governments try to take everyone’s books and movies away they’d be overthrown in a flash. Probably by the police and soldiers ordered to do it.”

  Vychan’s face was still grim. Now there was a small smile. “You’ll fight.”

  “If we surrendered it would just mean a revolt when the Censorate landed and enforced its laws. Best to fight when we have the best position.”

  Wynny shivered and clutched him tighter. “So there’s going to be a war?”

  Marcus tried to look reassuring. “We want to negotiate a treaty with the Censorate to be neighbors. Peaceful coexistence. A cultural embargo to respect their customs.

  He took a deep breath. “We’d build an embassy here. A permanent outpost of Fiera. The ambassador has promised me the post of facility manager. I’ll have a permanent home and job here in Arnvon.”

  Marcus leaned over to kiss Wynny.

  She giggled and kissed him back. “And here I thought I’d be outmarrying onto a ship.”

  After lunch Vychan wanted to talk business. Marcus brought him back to the embassy.

  Commercial Interests Liaison Bokser got along famously with Vychan. They discussed potential deals at length. Vychan had been practicing the Fieran dialect with Wynny. Between that, Bokser’s halting version of Corwynti speech, and written notes when neither could make themselves clear, the two older men needed hardly any help with the conversation.

  Marcus still had to be there as Vychan’s escort for security purposes. There was a bench in the conference room where he could sit with Wynny. The two of them sat as close together as they could, his arm around her and their legs firmly together.

  After Bokser was done, Mr. Verterung demanded some time. That was less enjoyable.

  ***

  “Would you like a nightcap?” asked Vychan. “I have some nice brandy back in our room.”

  “Sure.” Marcus thought Vychan wanted the drink himself. After an hour of dancing around with Verterung he certainly deserved one. Despite the spy’s best efforts Vychan kept the conversation going without revealing any treasonous activity by himself or others.

  Vychan and Wynny led him to their ‘hotel,’ which was the home of Clan Parry. Marcus’ vision of a hotel was rocked when the greeter at the front door welcomed the Gochs by name and asked if they wanted dinner.

  “Thank you, Afan, we’ve eaten,” said Vychan. “Let me introduce you to Wynny’s young man, Marcus Landry.”

  The introduction wasn’t a handshake and a few pleasantries. Afan called over his sister and some aunts and uncles. Marcus’ resume, appearance, and bearing were discussed, compared to Wynny’s, and judged acceptable. The concept of Wynny outmarrying to an off-worlder was so shocking, relatives of both older and younger generations were brought in to discuss it. In the end Clan Parry decided it was acceptable and let them go to their room.

  “Whew,” said Marcus. “I thought it was Clan Alevan you had cousins in.”

  “We do.” Wynny pulled back the curtain between the beds to make more space.

  “Sit, sit,” interrupted Vychan. He poked through drawers. “Where the heck did I put that bottle?”

>   Wynny continued, “A cousin outmarried to them four months ago and we have connections every one of the last three generations.”

  Marcus sat on a bed, carefully not sitting next to Wynny. “If Clan Parry isn’t related why do they care about us?”

  That startled Wynny. “I’ll be here by myself once Papa goes home. They have to be parents and cousins for me. Of course they need to know all that.”

  “Ah.”

  She laughed. “This is your privacy thing again? Only close blood relatives pry?”

  “Usually. Fiera has people who meddle. But it’s not their job. I thought you’d be staying with Clan Alevan.”

  “If I did that they’d be dragging me around to every male member from fifteen to forty, trying to make me marry in.”

  Vychan found the bottle and glasses he’d hidden away. “Time to end the day.”

  The younger two sipped warily of the brandy. Vychan tossed his down and had another.

  “I’ll be on the early morning flight,” said Vychan. “So I’ll wish you farewell now. Good luck arguing with the Censorials. Don’t give them an inch.”

  “I won’t, sir. Thank you for everything.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” said Wynny.

  ***

  “Officer Landry, do you have a moment?” Chaplain Murphy had waited for the conversations to die off following the formal dinner.

  “Certainly, Father. How can I help you?”

  ‘Father’ was one of several forms of address acceptable to clergy of the Combined Christian Churches. The CCC formed from the merger of the Catholic Church, Lutherans, Baptists, and several other denominations when the Fieran Bubble was isolated from the rest of humanity. Murphy’s mission was to find out if there was a Pope in office or not— “and thus decide which impending schism we will split over.”

  “The Governor has granted permission for me to give a public lecture on religion. I hoped your local contact might be able to inform those interested. And I’d appreciate your help finding an accessible location for it.”