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

  Marcus gave himself thirty feet, ran at the window, and turned to slam his shoulder into it. He could feel it give a little. Then it flung him back to land at Wynny’s feet.

  “I got it,” said Murphy.

  A chair leg poked through a gap between window panes. Marcus grabbed hold of the chair. The two men used it as a lever, straining until the window pane popped out of its frame.

  Marcus stepped into the passageway. He reached back to help Wynny over the wall. Murphy followed.

  “Look! It’s the preacher,” cried a brawler.

  Marcus grabbed them and towed them into the store next door. He flinched at the glare. It was a lamp store. The ceiling was filled with chandeliers, the rest with floor lamps and table lamps, all glowing.

  They hurried past a bemused customer to the cashier. “Where’s your back door?” demanded Marcus.

  Rioters came through the front door. The front two yelled, “Punish the liar!” and “Share the holy book!” They looked at each other, grabbed lamps, and began swinging at each other in a shower of sparks.

  “Utility corridor door. Now,” ordered Marcus. He dragged the cashier out from behind the counter and forced him into the back of the shop. The door was in the same relative position as the one in their lecture hall. And unlocked. He opened it wide and sent them through.

  “Ah, hell.” Marcus saw the customer was just standing there as more rioters poured into the store. He ran back and grabbed her.

  “Hey!” she protested.

  “Come on. You’re in danger,” he said, dragging her to the back.

  “But I’m not allowed in here!”

  The utility corridor inspired more resistance. Out of patience, he flung her through the door and slammed it behind him. He turned to the cashier. “Lock the door.”

  “But-but-I’m—”

  Marcus raised a bruised and bloody fist. It was sufficient motivation.

  When the lock clicked home Marcus forgot about the locals. He led Wynny and Murphy along the grey corridor, checking the doors on the other side.

  The sixth was unlocked. They burst through, finding a rug store.

  A clerk turned in shock. “You can’t be back there.”

  “Call the police,” said Marcus. “And lock your damn door.”

  This store was on the outside of the ardal. They stumbled onto the sidewalk. It was as peaceful as any day in Arnvon. Shoppers looked at the store. Commuters walked briskly along, ignoring the spectacular view of the arcology’s interior.

  Marcus kept them moving to an escalator up to the fifth level. Then they all sat, shaking with reaction.

  “I’m sure I could have handled that better,” said Chaplain Murphy. “I don’t know what I should have done, but there had to be something better.”

  “Where were the police?” demanded Wynny. “A commercial ardal that size always has four uniformed police patrolling to keep thieves from getting ideas. I didn’t see any even when we were setting up.”

  As the escalator climbed they had a perfect view of the ardal they’d fled. This one had an open passage through the center to its peak to let in air and light. Now a plume of black smoke puffed out.

  Marcus cautiously moved his right arm. His shoulder was starting to hurt. “We need to get to the Ambassador before the Censorials do.”

  ***

  Chaplain Murphy brought over two cups of tea. A day after visiting Azure Tarn’s medical unit his face was still a mass of bruises. Both eyes were black and his lips were swollen. He’d stopped limping, so that was progress.

  He dropped two sugars and a dollop of milk into one cup, stirred, and slid it to Marcus’ side of the table.

  “Thank you,” said Marcus. He suppressed a spike of indignation. He didn’t need help with his tea. He could do it perfectly well left handed. It just took longer.

  He glanced down at his right hand peeking out of the sling. The middle two fingers were bandaged. The bruises were fading a bit. They itched. That was a sign the heal cream was working. The left side of his face itched for the same reason

  Marcus’ tea had cooled just enough to sip when Consul Ortega came by. “The Ambassador is back from her meeting with the Censorial Governor. She wants to see you immediately.”

  They were waved straight into the office by her assistant. Ambassador Trygg was in one of her very best gowns. She hadn’t changed since seeing the governor. Trygg waved at the cushioned chairs before her desk.

  Murphy sat. Reflex kept Marcus standing at attention, or as close as he could manage with an arm in a sling.

  “Mister Landry. This is not the military. You will receive your chastisement sitting down.”

  Marcus sat.

  “I was given a summary of the report on the riot,” began Trygg. “Four dead. Dozens arrested. Over a hundred treated at hospitals. Probably an equal number injured who didn’t report for treatment. A murder in the lower levels attributed to the event. And a property damage bill that sounded very impressive but I don’t know what it’s equivalent to in marks.”

  Both men stayed silent through her pause.

  “Father Murphy, is that a record for the body count from a single sermon?”

  The priest flinched. “Likely the highest since we left Earth, Madam Ambassador.”

  “I’d certainly hope so.”

  After another pause she continued. “Fierans have gone from ‘those people from the strange distant world’ to ‘those people who started a riot.’ I’m restricting who can leave our quarters.”

  “I’m sorry for angering the governor, ma’am,” said Murphy.

  “Angering the Governor?” said Trygg. “He’s not angry. He’s smug. He sat there like the avatar of every father whose kid broke an arm doing something he was forbidden to do. This shows why Corwynti need Censorial oversight to maintain order. This shows why old books are dangerous. This shows why contact between cultures should be minimized.”

  Ambassador Trygg stood up, came around her desk, and leaned on its edge facing Murphy. “Your riot is a rebuttal to everything we’re asking for in the negotiations. It’s going to take a lot of work to overcome that hurdle. You are confined to the embassy quarters until further notice. If you need to leave for an all hands event or Censorial invitation, you will not bring a Bible, book, or any other text with you. Is this clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You may go.”

  Marcus tensed as the chaplain left. He’d been much less nervous as the junior partner in the disaster than having the Ambassador’s undivided attention.

  Ambassador Trygg dropped into Murphy’s vacated chair. She pivoted it to face Marcus.

  He turned his chair to match her. It didn’t make him less nervous.

  “You didn’t know,” said Trygg. “How could you have known?”

  That was a serious question. He thought a long moment. “Wynny might have been able to bring me to a Sacrificed God service. I could have watched, noticed the differences, and warned the chaplain they were serious about it.”

  She nodded. “From now on take that approach. Unless you know something is safe, tell them no. We can’t poke into unknowns any more. You have to do the cultural reconnaissance to find out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re still confined to quarters until you’re fit for brawling again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  ***

  A meal on the Azure Tarn was an adventure for Wynny. The meat was all from land animals, frozen for storage. The vegetables were sturdy plants, packed with fiber to hold them up against gravity. And nothing had enough salt.

  The captain—she was supposed to call him “Niko” now, as if he weren’t a generation ahead of her—was interrogating Marcus like a Censorial Security officer, trying to get every detail of how the negotiations were going. Being confined to the ship was worse for him than the rest of the crew. He looked more stressed than he had on their first visit a week ago.

  Lane and Wynny exchanged a few
remarks during gaps in the interrogation. Wynny liked her. It was good to know she’d have a sensible mother when—if—she married into the crew.

  “Anything else?” demanded Niko.

  “Verterung annoyed some people poking around, so the Ambassador confined him to quarters. That’s it.”

  Lane broke in. “Good. Now you can eat before your dinner’s cold.”

  Niko obediently took a bite.

  “Wynny, how long are you staying in Arnvon?” Lane addressed the question to her but glanced aside to see Marcus’ reaction.

  “Until the negotiations end. I’m helping with the embassy planning.”

  Lane raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like you’re getting serious.”

  Marcus gave her a tilted head look, checking if Wynny was still good with announcing it. She nodded.

  He clutched her hand. “We’re going to be married.”

  “Congratulations!” said Niko and Lane.

  No surprise on either.

  “Are you planning to marry out?” Lane asked Wynny.

  She was uneasy with the uncertainty, but blurted out, “Yes, to the embassy or ship, depending on how things work out for Marcus.”

  That brought a captainly look down on Marcus.

  “The ambassador is considering me for embassy facility manager,” said Marcus. “I told you I was going to apply. You’ll have plenty of notice.”

  Lane cut in before Niko—or was he being the captain?—could reply. “Have you set a date yet?”

  Wynny shook her head. “We can’t make plans until things are settled between Fiera and the Censorate. We might be legally married before we can have a ceremony.”

  “Don’t feel bad about that,” said Lane. “Lots of spacers have had to do that.”

  The four of them had the galley table to themselves for a private family meal. But the crew were going through for snacks or returning dishes from meals eaten elsewhere. Someone overheard and then everyone came to offer congratulations to the happy couple.

  Welly was third in line.

  Wynny said, “Thank you. I was going to find you before I left. Dilwyn sends his apologies. He wanted to come visit you, but the Elders wouldn’t authorize the advance on his allowance.”

  “Oh. Please thank him for me,” said Welly, “and tell him I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”

  When there was a gap in the line, Marcus asked, “Can you afford staying here on your allowance?”

  “Oh, the clan’s paying for that.” Wynny looked left and right as if a Censorial spy might have popped up on Azure Tarn. “We still owe you for that book.”

  The last one was Betty, who fulfilled her social duty with a wave and grunted, “Grats.”

  Once the sensor tech was out of earshot, Wynny asked, “I’m surprised she came back. I thought she didn’t like it here.”

  Marcus lowered his voice. “She just wants to tell us, ‘I told you so,’ when the Censorate kills us all.”

  Wynny failed to stifle her laughter. “Who’s the new guy? With the beard?”

  “Chief Engineer MacGregor,” said Niko. “Sharp man. Fully certified in six specialties.”

  Lane added, “The Concord is paying enough for this trip we could afford someone better qualified than Gander.”

  There was another member of the crew she hadn’t seen. “And Alys?”

  “Oh, she quit,” said Lane. “Didn’t have any trouble. The Concord only required about half of us to sign on. The rest are just here for the adventure.” She jerked a thumb at Tets, washing dishes at the counter.

  Wynny wasn’t worried about Marcus paying attention to Alys. He’d had plenty of opportunity if he’d wanted to. But a week’s hyperspace flight seemed a good distance for her.

  ***

  Marcus expected the Clan Parry doorman to not let him in when he walked Wynny home. Instead there was a few minutes of chat, then he was going up the stairs with her. On his last visit they’d hid in this staircase to find privacy for some smooching while her father went to bed.

  This time she led him to the right instead of the left on the second floor. “They moved me to a different room since I’m on my own,” Wynny explained.

  A younger Parry pushing a cleaning cart smiled and waved as they passed.

  The door to Wynny’s room looked the same. The inside was smaller, except for the single bed. Which was large. At least twice the size of any bed Marcus had ever had in any of his quarters.

  Marcus said, “I am confused.”

  Wynny paused in unloading keys, cards, and sundries from her pockets onto the bureau. “What?”

  “I thought the whole point of Clan Parry watching over you was to prevent you and me being alone with a bed.”

  She laughed. “Do they do that on Fiera? I thought you said no one paid attention to what young people did there.”

  “In most cultures, yeah. The ones that do pay attention don’t want any sex until the wedding night. Hell, on Svalbard they’ll toss an unwed mother and her baby into the snow.” A memory reminded him that was from a movie. “Well, they used to. I don’t know if they still do that.”

  “We are engaged. Your parents know our intentions and haven’t objected. Neither have mine,” Wynny said firmly. She began unbuttoning his shirt. “The wedding is important. But the marriage starts when I stop doing accounting for Clan Goch and start doing it for the Fieran Embassy.”

  Some time later she resumed the conversation. “Do they really kill babies with cold on Fiera?” She shivered.

  “Not Fiera,” said Marcus. “Svalbard is another world. Barely habitable. They were still having famines a couple of centuries ago. Any child without a full support network would be cut loose as too expensive to feed. But they’d live if another house took them in.”

  “Gah. No child is clanless here. A few years ago a starship abandoned an infant when they flew off. She was adopted in days.”

  Marcus contemplated this. “And the Jaaphisii?”

  Corwynt’s ocean nomads hunted sea monsters with harpoons, sold them to the cities as food, and drank up all the money left from repairing ships and crew. With no cash the Censorate didn’t tax or regulate them. They were the freest people on the planet at the price of absolute poverty and constant danger.

  Wynny thought. “I don’t know. The stories of Jaaphisii all contradict each other. Sometimes they leave orphans at a city. We take them in. But if they weren’t left as babies they go back out to sea when they’re old enough.”

  ***

  “Crap,” muttered the Ambassador. She turned to survey the embassy lounge. “Landry! You’re up.”

  Marcus looked up from his breakfast, a mix of pastry and fruit chosen to have the minimum risk of dripping on his dress uniform. “Ma’am?”

  “You’re on the negotiation team today. Let’s go.”

  His “But” withered as she turned away to the door out of the quarters. He started walking after her, still confused. He glanced back at Chaplain Murphy. “Um, tell Wynny I’m working please?”

  “I will,” said the priest.

  Envoy Baku dropped back from the Ambassador’s group, seized his arm, and dragged him into a faster walk. “Come on. The Governor moved up the negotiation session by an hour.”

  Marcus hustled until they were caught up with the delegation. “What am I supposed to do?” he whispered to Baku.

  “Nothing. You’re going to fill a chair at the negotiating table.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re dressed. Chang was still in the shower when we heard about the schedule change.”

  That made sense. He’d been in uniform to impress landlords while scouting for a permanent embassy location with Wynny. Everyone else in the lounge had been in casual daywear or pajamas.

  “Okay. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never seen a diplomatic negotiation.”

  Baku was silent for a few steps. “Look attentive. Listen to all the speeches. Stay awake. Don’t say anything. Don’t drink more water than you
have to. Stay awake. It’s hard. Don’t say anything where a Censorial might hear you. That includes the men’s room. Stay awake. Here, I’ll give you these.”

  She took a small tin out of a pocket and shook out two pills. “Only take them if you need to. Take them at least three hours apart.”

  Marcus dropped the pills in a front pocket. He suspected he’d need them.

  “Any questions?”

  He shook his head. If just talking in the men’s room could screw up the negotiations he’d keep his lips zipped until they were back in the embassy quarters.

  “Good lad.”

  Then they were on the sidewalk around the ardal. A luxury floater hovered at an opening in the safety rails. Ambassador Trygg led them into it. A quiet five minute flight and a brief walk saw them in a conference room.

  It was much nicer than any room in the embassy quarters. Marcus’ boots sank into the carpet past the soles. The walls were covered with shimmery gold paper. A window let in sunlight, muted by the clouds trailing the recent hurricane. Landscape paintings lined the other walls.

  The table was made from a single piece of wood, too big to have grown on Corwynt. Padded armchairs floating on hoverdisks surrounded it, seven along each side with ones at the head and foot. A glass of water and a napkin rested at each place.

  Governor Yeager led his delegation in from another door at the same moment the Fierans arrived. Everyone stood behind a chair. Yeager took the one at the end of the table with his back to the window. Trygg took the one opposite. Marcus went to the one Baku waved at. Everyone sat at once.

  “It’s good to see you on this pleasant morning,” said Yeager. “I hope we can make progress on the questions before us today.”

  Ambassador Trygg made an equally polite reply.

  Director Yokat began a speech on the importance of all humanity answering to a common authority. Without that any dispute, no matter how small, could expand to bring separate authorities to war against each other. Only an ultimate decider could prevent war.

  Marcus wasn’t sure if he wanted to rebut that or just laugh at it. It fell in what an old teacher called “not even wrong.” The Censorate boasted of sterilizing Earth, humanity’s birthplace, to crush a rebellion. How many more rebellions and civil wars were hidden by the erasure of history?