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

  When Yokat fell silent Consul Ortega began to speak on the successful history of neighboring sovereignties living in peace together. He cited examples from before spaceflight. None of the Censorials seemed surprised by the history lesson. Ortega pointed out Fiera and the Censorate had been at peace before the Bubble opened. They could go back to that by ignoring each other.

  Baku’s advice made more sense now. Nobody at the table had touched a water glass. Marcus had already dug his fingernails into his wrist to give himself an adrenaline boost.

  The next speech was Yokat again. This time he focused on the danger of old books and the benefits of giving every generation a clean slate. “In the histories you are so fond of, how many times has a killing been done over a great-grandfather’s crime? Let the great-grandfathers and their crimes be forgotten.” He followed that with a paean to the social harmony of every world of the Censorate, not providing numbers.

  Marcus decided someone would have to take the first drink, and it might as well be him. He tried to make putting the pill in his mouth look like scratching an itch. Then he took a sip, a small sip, of his water to wash it down.

  Ortega’s second speech began with straightforward praise of classic literature. Then he moved to the uses. History letting politicians avoid mistakes of the past. Fiction helping ordinary people understand each other better.

  There was no sign the Censorials were understanding that at all. Marcus thought they looked like they were listening to a dog barking.

  Yokat took a sip of water. Maybe he wasn’t a robot after all. He launched into the benefits of trade within a single polity, listing a score of products Corwynt received from neighboring systems.

  The counter from Ortega was a brief pitch for free trade followed by an explanation of how trade agreements could handle tariffs and restricted goods.

  There was no visible timepiece in the room. His tablet was sitting in the embassy lounge. How was Marcus to tell when he’d reached the three hours allowing him to take the other stay awake pill? Were all the speeches thirty minutes? They seemed about that long.

  After Ortega’s speech, thanks be to God, there was a break. Marcus followed the Fieran men into a bathroom with no visible sign of Censorials. While he was at the sink Ortega came up next to him.

  “Hang in there, Landry. You’re doing fine.”

  Marcus gave him a firm nod.

  Ortega grinned.

  ***

  “Thank you for letting me know, Father Murphy,” said Wynny. There went her plan for the day. There wasn’t an obvious new plan. The remaining tourist spots in Arnvon would be more fun to see with Marcus. Sitting in her room all day would bring a reminder that Clan Parry’s guests were expected to contribute labor as well as cash in exchange for their hospitality. The Fierans couldn’t come visit her.

  She sat up in realization. She could visit Fierans, at least the ones on the ship. She called Marcus’ mother.

  “Lunch would be delightful,” said Lane Landry. “I’ve been hoping for a chance to chat with you. Come by in two hours.”

  Wynny agreed. Then she headed for Clan Parry’s laundry room. She could work for an hour then escape to her appointment.

  ***

  Wynny pointed at Azure Tarn. “That one,” she said to the truck driver who’d offered her a lift as she walked across the spaceport.

  “You sure?” grunted the driver. “Security’s been watching it.”

  “Yes, I’ve been there before.”

  “Wish I’d known that. Don’t need Security noticing me.”

  He set her down well outside the circle marking Azure Tarn’s landing pad.

  She thanked him warmly. He’d made up for the time she’d lost at the spaceport gates convincing the city police she had legitimate business.

  The spaceship had a sizable shadow despite the sun being near noon. Lane sat at a picnic table in the widest spot. Wynny returned her wave as she trotted toward the ship.

  Lunch was bird meat and vegetable, already set out on plates protected by clear covers. Wynny glanced up. On the spaceport, grit thrown up by take-offs and landings was a bigger danger than birds or bugs.

  Lane welcomed Wynny with a hug. Wynny set down her contribution—two slices of berry pie. She handed over a data chip. “This is for Welly. It’s a movie. From Dilwyn.”

  “That’ll make her popular.” Lane dropped it into one of the many pockets of her flight suit.

  Wynny eyed the massive thruster units on the rear of the ship warily. That much gravitic force would tear both women to shreds if they were activated. Lane didn’t seem worried, so Wynny took her seat at the picnic table.

  They chatted about families at first, comparing cousins and grandparents. Wynny’s knowledge of many relatives ended at “and then they outmarried,” but she knew which clan they went to, and which clan new relatives had come from.

  Lane mentioned her grandmother was from Mardam.

  “I don’t understand you Fierans,” said Wynny. “The embassy is all one group, but there’s Concord and nations and other planets. Some of the diplomats are friends but say it’s their job to dislike each other. I can’t figure it out.”

  “Hmmm.” Lane chewed a carrot as she thought. “Do you feel closer to people from your city than ones from here?”

  “No. We’re closer to Clan Alevan than some of the clans in our own ardal.”

  “How about a Corwynti compared to someone from, oh, Lompoc?” That was the closest populated world in their province.

  “Closer to the Corwynti. We have culture and food and clans in common.”

  “But Corwyntis in your ardal or city?”

  Wynny shrugged. “Depends on whether there’s been marriages or adoptions between my clan and theirs. Cousins matter more than neighbors.”

  “Okay. Fierans are different. A nation is—um. Fiera has much more land than Corwynt. About a third of the whole planet’s surface is land.”

  “Wow.” Wynny needed a moment to visualize that. Corwyntis were never out of sight of the ocean.

  “A nation is a big chunk of land, thousands of square miles, and the people living on it, millions of them. The population mostly descends from one of the original refugee ships which reached the Bubble before it closed. The people of a nation value each other over people in other nations.” Lane paused a moment until the noise from a passing truck faded.

  “Our home is the Sulu Republic, which is the biggest nation on Fiera. It was founded by three ships from worlds with Asian cultures. There’s been a lot of immigration—people moving there from other nations—so you can find all sorts of people there now.”

  “And they get angry at other nations?”

  Lane grimaced. “Too damn often. That’s how wars happen. The Concord was created to control that.”

  “They prevent wars?”

  “They try. More often they join the war to make one side win.”

  “The right side?”

  “Depends on who you ask, doesn’t it?”

  Wynny focused on eating for a few minutes. She’d hoped for the Fierans to be an ideal, but instead they were just people, as she’d feared. “What about the planets, Svalbard, and, um, the other one?”

  “Iolite. They’re both still being terraformed, only have a few million people each. They’re part of the Concord, treated as nations, but their economies are barely above survival.”

  They slapped the covers over their plates as a tanker ship rose from the spaceport. Wynny closed her eyes as she felt the wind from its thrusters hit. Grit stung her skin.

  After the roar of the ship faded away, Lane muttered, “Lousy timing. That was bigger than usual.”

  Wynny wiped her face with her napkin. Lane uncovered her plate again. Wynny didn’t. “I see all the diplomats in the embassy bicker with each other . . . and there’s been wars among the nations . . . can Fiera really cooperate against the Censorate?”

  Surprisingly, that sparked a grin from Lane. “Cooperate for our own benefit?
Barely. Cooperate against a slow and subtle menace? Hell, no. But against Mr. I-nuke-planets the Censor? Yes. We’ll fight like brothers.”

  She spent the rest of the meal telling stories about Marcus he’d probably rather Wynny didn’t hear.

  ***

  The diplomats broke for a ‘working lunch.’ Poached fish filets sat on a bed of shredded seaweed at each place. A wineglass stood next to each water glass. The contents had just enough hint of yellow to proclaim they weren’t water. Marcus took one sip of the wine.

  Envoy Baku handled their side of the lunchtime conversation. She compared the recent hurricane to Fieran tornados and blizzards. A couple of Censorial officials described the extreme weather of their homeworlds.

  It seemed as ritualized as the speeches.

  The speeches after that blurred together. Every one was a slight variation on ‘Our law/custom/structure is better’ because it was centralized or decentralized, depending on the speaker.

  Marcus gave up on following the speeches. He studied the landscape paintings on the far wall. Most were of other worlds. In one, brown antelope from Earth grazed on red native grasses while a leopard slept on a branch of a purple tree. Two could be of Corwynt. One showed twisted trees on a rocky island, which matched what he’d heard of Corwynt’s polar archipelagos. The other was a kelp forest with birds diving for the fish hiding in the fronds.

  He wondered if the last was painted from a photograph or the artist’s memory. Or are Corwyntis nuts enough to invent oil paints that work under water?

  Then an Ortega speech was followed by a few words from Governor Yeager thanking the Fierans for participating in the exchange of views. Ambassador Trygg appreciated the opportunity in as few words. Then they all went home the way they’d come.

  On the floater Trygg and Ortega chatted about how well the session went. It seemed to be another ritual, intended for Censorial ears.

  In the embassy quarters Ambassador Trygg led them to a conference room by her office. Instead of a long table it was filled with couches and padded armchairs. Trygg flopped down on a couch, stretching her legs along it and kicking off her elegant shoes. Ortega draped his suit jacket over the back of a chair and fell into its embrace. The rest made themselves comfortable. Marcus found himself sharing a couch with Envoy Baku. He noticed a low table holding some gadgets, one producing white noise and the others presumably making enough of the electronic equivalent to block any listening devices.

  Trygg’s assistant brought drinks to everyone. “Officer Landry, I have a Stormbird beer, or I can get something else if you prefer.”

  “No, this is fine, thank you.” Marcus took an appreciative swallow.

  Dilwin Goch had introduced Marcus to the dark stout on his previous visit. Once you were used to the tastes introduced by the kelp-based grains it was delicious.

  “Thanks for helping us today, Marcus,” said Ambassador Trygg.

  “Happy to serve, ma’am,” he said.

  “How do you like diplomacy?” asked Ortega.

  “Um. Is it always that boring?”

  Chuckles went around the room.

  “It is when we do it right,” answered Ortega. “Exciting diplomacy is the last stage before war breaks out.”

  “Did anyone else notice the concession in the governance statement?” broke in Envoy Baku.

  The negotiators responded with nods and murmurs of agreement. Marcus had to shake his head.

  Baku turned to him. “Right, you didn’t hear the previous version. They proposed a Censorial representative ruling Fiera through the existing government instead of bringing in their own administration. We’d just pass the laws they requested. That’s conceding the lawmaking power to our control.”

  “Or retaining the power while making a symbolic concession,” disagreed Ortega. “If the legislatures have to pass the laws they’re told to it’s just a fig leaf for a Censorial conquest.”

  More diplomats joined in the debate, parsing the exact words of Yokat’s statement. Marcus was amazed they could remember a single sentence from the whole day of speeches.

  When the debate reached a lull Marcus turned toward the ambassador. “Ma’am, are we really going to be able to reach an agreement with these people? We seem so far apart.”

  Baku winced. Asking such a blunt question must be an etiquette violation among the diplomats.

  Trygg didn’t hesitate. “I don’t know. The real question is can we give them some symbolic concession that will satisfy their internal political needs? Or is their drive for control just going to take anything we give and demand more? Only the Censorials can answer that. And they don’t know. They’re running on inertia, they wipe their institutional memory, and there’s no introspection. So we have a provincial governor guessing what the district monitor thinks the Censor really wants. Maybe he wants total control. Maybe he wants peace, quiet, and no border wars. The son of a bitch has never thought about it. And he’s not going to until some sycophant tells him he’s getting what he didn’t want.”

  The room was silent. The diplomats glanced at each other, sharing their discomfort with the exposed truth.

  Marcus put down his empty beer mug. “Thank you, ma’am. I should leave you to your work.”

  “Good night, Officer Landry. Thank you for your help. My greetings to your lady. We’ll keep talking to the Censorials. Maybe the horse will learn to sing.”

  ***

  Marcus spotted Wynny sitting at a small round table at the edge of the balcony. On sixth level there was nothing blocking the rising sun’s light. It shone off her glossy black hair and through the gauzy fabric of her dress, silhouetting her figure.

  He stopped and stared. Even though he’d seen her in much less, he was still dazzled by her curves.

  “You can sit anywhere, sir,” said a waitress.

  “Oh, thank you.” Jolted from his trance he joined Wynny at the table.

  “Good morning!” She leaned over to kiss him. At length. When they came up for air she slid a plate over. “Have some pastries. I thought Alevans were only talking them up because one of their kids outmarried to this outfit, but they’re good.”

  They were. He reached for a second one, picking one with sweet cheese, when he finished the first. After he swallowed he asked, “What’s this made of? It tastes like wheat bread.”

  Which was a notable improvement on the seaweed base of most Corwynti baked goods.

  She thought a moment. “Something like that. Tritikelp. Grows in shallow water. Harvesting it is a pain. Has to be rinsed in fresh water before taking the grains out of the pods. Can’t plant it, only spreads by cuttings. Expensive. That’s why it’s served on sixth level.”

  Wynny took another bite of her pastry.

  Then she asked the question he wanted to avoid. “What were you doing yesterday?”

  Baku had lectured him on the importance of not divulging negotiating positions or “private opinions of key personnel.”

  “I sat in on the official negotiations with the Censorate.”

  “Wow.” She sat up in astonishment. “Were they talking trade routes?”

  Why else would they include a Merchant Service officer, right. “Only the usual amount. It was just my turn.”

  “Oh. Did it go well?”

  “I think so.” We didn’t start a war. “It’s going to take a long time.”

  “Hmph. I wouldn’t mind that if I could start working for the embassy now.” The smile that went with it made it clear she included new living quarters as part of working for the embassy.

  “Me, too. But the Censorate is restricting who’s allowed in our quarters.” And the Ambassador didn’t want to test that with a marriage.

  Wynny sighed.

  “But we do have some work to do.” Marcus pulled his tablet out and pulled it open to the widest display.

  She brightened up and leaned over the display. Marcus had interrogated the diplomats on the physical needs of a permanent embassy. Now the two of them needed to transla
te those numbers and restrictions into something that would fit into one of Arnvon’s ardals.

  “This works out as two adjacent clanhomes,” said Wynny. “One for the offices and public rooms, the other for living quarters and secure spaces. Sometimes a big clan will occupy a double space like that. Not for long though. They usually split.”

  Marcus looked at the floor plan of an ardal, comparing pairings of its inner divisions. “I wonder if it might work to have an upper clanhome and a lower clanhome together. We could put in some elevators and stairs to connect together.”

  “But that means holes in a watertight floor.” Wynny was alarmed.

  Marcus was confused. “This is a sixth level ardal. How could it flood?”

  “Bad hurricane. Tsunami. Structure failing and dropping it into the water. You don’t violate the integrity of your clanhome or ardal.”

  They went around on this for several minutes. Marcus discovered that every few years a horror movie would come out, showing a clan desperately patching leaks as the other clans sharing the ardal drowned one at a time. The disaster varied but the fear was the same.

  “What if . . .” he tried to organize his thought into something he could verbalize. “What if we added a watertight bulkhead sealing the embassy off from the rest of the ardal?”

  Wynny contemplated this. “There’d be utility connections. The clans would want to inspect the work. Often. But given that . . . it could work.”

  “Okay. An ardal with two clanhomes available next to each other. On sixth level. Filter down to ones that are empty or have reasonable buy-out prices listed. That gives us eighteen possible sites.”

  She sketched a modification to the floor plan on the tablet. “Two outside doors added. Internal connections. And the bulkhead. Let’s find some building agents to talk to.”

  They settled the check and started walking. Corwynt’s business culture preferred face-to-face meetings over vidcalls.