Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  Welly looked around. Everyone was too busy to notice her sneaking out. “Sure.”

  ***

  “History books don’t have sex scenes!” bellowed Vychan Goch.

  The owner waved the book in the air. “This is the most accurate account of the planetary discovery period!”

  Marcus had skimmed the book and thought they were both right. It described how an exploration ship found Corwynt and left half its crew as an outpost to claim ownership. Over half the pages tracked the shifting patterns of adultery among the crew. Whether fiction or not, it was the only book anyone had brought to the history conference covering that period.

  Another exchange ended with the man charging Vychan, his fist cocked back to strike. A Bundoran policewoman caught him across the thigh with a shock stick. He collapsed. Two more cops helped haul him to a corner with four other stunned historians waiting to recover consciousness.

  Nyrath chaired the conference in an elevated seat, judge style. “If there is no further discussion, we will categorize The Discoverers as historical fiction with true content, partially reliable. All in favor?”

  Despite the grumbles from the secret society which safeguarded the book for centuries, the verdict passed.

  Gunny Janulis leaned forward to whisper to Marcus. “I see why you wanted us here, sir. These people are really worked up about those books.”

  Marcus nodded. The Marines hadn’t done anything all day. But the threat of their mixing in kept secret societies from jumping out of their seats when the Bundoran police smacked one of their members.

  He whispered back, “They’re not professors. They’ve been risking their lives to protect those books from the Censorate. Books they inherited from generations doing the same thing. Somebody saying it’s not true, well, you see how upset they’re getting.”

  The gunny replied, “Looks like they’re upset because who has the best book is how they’re setting up the pecking order among them.”

  Marcus shrugged.

  The next few books were rated without incident. People were in agreement. Or maybe all the hotheads were still unconscious.

  Nyrath announced the next book to review. “The History of Humanity. Marcus Landry, please defend your text.”

  He came forward to stand in the open. Three hundred people who’d risked their lives to preserve history looked down from the auditorium seats.

  The challengers rotated. Marcus had drawn a hard-eyed woman from Arnvon named Glain.

  “What is the source of this book?” she demanded.

  Marcus answered, “It’s part of the set of textbooks the Sulu Republic issues everyone when they’re ready for secondary school.”

  That rocked the crowd. Previous answers ranged from ‘We’ve been hiding this since the Censorial conquest’ to ‘My grandfather found it in an air duct.’ The concept of a government distributing books instead of burning them was shocking, despite the library the Provisional Government set up.

  “What is the content of The History of Humanity?”

  “It begins with humans as a separate species from our evolutionary ancestors. From hunter-gatherers to cities to spaceships. It covers the Expansion until the Great War. After that it’s just the story of the refugee fleets that found Fiera before the Bubble closed, and its descendants.”

  The audience nodded and traded low comments. Many of them had read it. It was the only overview of history they’d seen. The documents preserved by the secret societies were chosen by luck and the personal devotion of someone willing to risk his life to preserve it. School texts hadn’t made the cut.

  Glain asked, “How accurate and reliable are the contents of the book?”

  “The facts in it are solid—dates, places, names, things like that. It represents the professional consensus of what happened. Where it is less reliable . . . is in interpretations and describing patterns. If there’s something that people may object to, the book will be vague about it or just leave it out completely.”

  “Why? And who?” asked Glain.

  “Who is any organized group of Sulu Republic taxpayers. Ethnic groups, religions, political causes. If they think some historical event makes them look bad or weakens their arguments, they’ll demand it be taken out or rewritten.”

  Nyrath said, “I thought your government let people publish without interference.”

  “They do, sir,” answered Marcus. “I could publish a history of meeting Corwyntis. Maybe I will, someday.”

  He’d intended that as a joke. Some of the Marines chuckled. For the Corwyntis it was too grim a topic for humor.

  He continued, “If the government is paying for the book to be written, and giving a copy to every teenager, it must be acceptable to the government. In a dictatorship that’s up to the ruler. In a democracy a majority of the people’s representatives must approve.”

  “So it’s edited by a committee?” asked Glain.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’d thought it was poorly written,” she said. “Now I’m amazed it was as readable as it was.”

  That brought chuckles from the Corwyntis.

  “It’s better than most of the other texts. I asked my father for help with economics. He read one chapter, threw it away, and bought me a different book.”

  When the laughter died down, Nyrath said, “We shall rate The History of Humanity as reliable history, with the caveats Lieutenant Landry entered. Are there any objections?”

  ***

  Wynny had chosen Marcus’ Concord Navy dress uniform for the wedding. He finished buttoning up the slate grey jacket and presented himself to Colonel Palmer for inspection. The colonel, Private First Class Donnelly, and Roger and Tets from Azure Tarn’s crew were his groomsmen. They were all gathered in the groom’s tent for their final preparations.

  Palmer started the inspection at the feet. Shoes gleaming. Black trousers properly creased and just barely resting on the shoes. No stray threads on the two rank ribbons on each cuff. Silver buttons in place. Three medals in a straight row. Black shoulder boards, each with two silver stripes, in position.

  The star-spangled black ascot wasn’t folded well enough for the colonel’s standards. A bit of tugging and twisting made it good enough without having to remove and retie it. Marcus was relieved. It had taken him four attempts to get the ascot as good as he could.

  Marcus donned his hat as he led the others out of the tent. It was slate grey like his jacket, wheel-topped with a black bill. Over the bill was a silver badge of four hands holding each other’s wrists, the Concord’s symbol of unity and strength. His buttons bore the same design.

  The sunlight hit him like a hammer. They were in a park on the roof of a fifth level ardal. Nothing was above them but the roof of Bundoran’s pyramidal outer shell. The handful of antennas and hatches didn’t make nearly as much shade as the ardals below did.

  He’d had doubts about the site for just that reason, but the Gochs were positively gleeful over a first level clan having a wedding on fifth level.

  Wynny and her bridesmaids, all Goch cousins, were already waiting outside their tent across the park. He was late.

  He started walking toward her at a steady pace. They were to meet at the priest waiting in the middle with their parents. (Traditionally this allowed final negotiations over the wedprice, but the Gochs had accepted liberation from the Censorate as their compensation for losing Wynny.)

  The guests were staring at him, as he supposed he should expect. Clan Goch knew Wynny, he was the novel one here. They were all on her side. A pair of awnings over the seats gave the guests some shade. The participants were in the sun.

  His side of the guests were a mixed bunch. Colonel Palmer had brought a score of Marines. A slightly larger group was all the early-arriving Provisional Government personnel, who Marcus had been barely introduced to, but were officially the ‘clan’ he was taking Wynny to. Azure Tarn’s crew was there with spacers from two other merchant ships. Nyrath and his formerly secret society of hi
storians were scattered through the back rows, still not comfortable being seen together in public.

  Marcus grinned at Nyrath. Offering up his history book had caused all this mess.

  The ascot was usually one of the more comfortable parts of the uniform. Now sweat was making it stick to his neck. Marcus suddenly wished he’d talked Wynny into one of those fancy Corwynti tunics. That would be comfortable in the heat.

  The heat must be bothering Wynny too. A thin veil hung over her head, dangling from a wreath of flowers. Her cyan dress reached to wrists and ankles. It wasn’t restricting her stride, though.

  Marcus stutter stepped as he saw Wynny’s thighs flashing at him as they parted the fabric of the dress.

  Roger clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Steady pace, my man.”

  As they closed together, he realized the dress was made of strands of blue and green and silver, the Goch colors. They were held together at neck and hip and wrist. He lifted his eyes to her chest. The strands must be attached somehow, as there wasn’t nearly as much peeking out as he’d expect if they were as loose as around her legs.

  Wynny shimmied her shoulders, making bits of skin appear for instants. Was she grinning at him? Hard to tell behind the veil.

  They adjusted their pace to meet simultaneously before the priest. The ceremony was a mix of Corwynti and Fieran prayers and hymns. The vows were purely Fieran. Corwynti traditional vows included lifetime promises on behalf of the gaining clan. The Provisional Government, set to dissolve when Corwynt achieved self-government, could fulfill none of them.

  The priest was a Concord Marines chaplain, accustomed to ad hoc arrangements on short notice. He’d asked if Niko would be the ringbearer, but the grandmothers agreed he was too likely to eat the ring.

  As Chaplain Cortez addressed the guests, Marcus whispered, “That looks . . . fragile.”

  “It’s meant to be only worn once.”

  “Ah.”

  Cortez turned a grim look on them. The couple hushed and joined in the first prayer.

  ***

  The catering clan set up a wall of canvas to provide shade from the setting sun during dinner. When everyone looked up from their desserts a dance floor had been laid over the grass. Lights on poles made up for the inadequate moonlight.

  As best man, Roger helped open the dancing with his counterpart, Wynny’s cousin Argel. They’d had an intense flirtation during Azure Tarn’s first visit to Corwynt. Argel seemed as happy to pick up where they’d left off as he was.

  Dancing gave them time to catch up with each other. It had been an eventful time for both of them. Roger flew his ship in four space battles. Argel joined a secret society spreading forbidden literature.

  “Are you flying back to Fiera soon?” she asked.

  Roger shook his head, then regretted doing that during a spin. “No. We’re going to explore into the Censorate.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “There’s no blockade. Civilian ships have gone in and out since the fighting stopped. We’re putting on a Corwynti registration and taking on some local crew so we can pass in the Censorate. We’ll be safer than the Navy reconnaissance ships. Just go in, trade, and move along.”

  Argel slid closer, her thigh brushing his as they shifted in the dance. “How many new crew are you hiring? Did Betty quit?”

  He laughed. “Betty’s staying. I think she wants to be on board so she can say ‘I told you so’ when we blow up.”

  Argel giggled.

  “Don’t know how many new crew there’ll be. Did hear they want to have more crew than usual.”

  After four hours of dancing and drinking they needed a rest . . . or at least a break. One of the clanhomes left empty by the Censorate prisoners of war was reserved for wedding guests who lived too far away to walk home drunk. As one of Azure Tarn’s crew, Roger had a room to spare him the hike to the spaceport hangar.

  He poured wine for them. Argel accepted with a smile. He took a sip of his own. Tarter than he usually liked, but the strong flavor hid the saltiness of ocean-grown grapes.

  Argel put her glass down. She slid her hands over his chest. Lifting her face, her lips met his descending for a kiss. It was several minutes before they spoke again.

  “I’ve worked in the warehouses,” she said. “Using the crane to load trucks.” She peeled off his shirt.

  “Uh-huh,” said Roger, his voice muffled against her neck.

  “I could load cargo on the ship.”

  She tried for eye contact, which became kissing.

  When they came up for air, Argel said, “I think I’d be a good spacer.”

  “You sure would,” said Roger, trying to puzzle out a bra fastener not found on Fiera.

  Argel helped him, then attacked his belt buckle.

  They were down to the last of their clothing when Roger sat up in the bed. “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “You want to join the crew?”

  “Yes.” She wore an inviting grin.

  “Right. That’s good. But, I need to tell you, the crew’s not a clan thing. You have to ask the captain.”

  “Of course, we have to ask the captain.”

  “No, I mean, just ask the captain. You don’t have to screw any of the crew to join.”

  “Oh.” Argel thought a moment. “I just ask the captain and he makes me one of the crew unmarried?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I see.” She looked him up and down. “Can we screw anyway?”

  Roger tried to find the right words for that, failed, and kissed her.

  ***

  “Good morning, Colonel Palmer,” Marcus answered his comm. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to your wife. I have a company doing riot control in Caernod. They can’t leave until the trials are done, but all the local judges have connections with one side or the other. Can she help us out as a neutral judge?”

  “I expect so, sir.” Marcus tapped Wynny’s contact info into his office computer and sent it off to the Marine.

  “Thanks.” Palmer cut the comm.

  He’d been lobbying to get Wynny hired into the Provisional Government’s tax or accounting offices with no success. At least some Fierans were willing to recognize she could make a useful contribution.

  Wynny called to let him know she was taking the case. A Marine lander hovered in the background, ready to take her directly to Caernod.

  That left him an hour and half to read through the latest proposals before the governor’s weekly meeting.

  ***

  “Only if you want the census takers murdered,” said Marcus.

  The bureaucrats comparing their preferred plans for conducting a census ignored him.

  Marcus stood up at the conference table. “We can’t do a census on this world.”

  He didn’t shout, but was firm enough to override both of them.

  They looked at him with surprise and anger. Both were about twice his age, and much higher on the Concord’s rank scale. The etiquette violation was severe enough to make people near him flinch away.

  If being rude was the only way to make them understand, he’d be rude. “The Censorate counted people by barging into their homes and taking their thumbprints at gunpoint. The urban people reacted by refusing to admit how many people were in their clan to anyone they weren’t negotiating a marriage with. If we start demanding census data, we’re declaring ourselves to be just like the Censorate. That’s asking for our census takers to be shot.”

  Marcus glared at the bureaucrats, wishing he could remember their names. “Even the Censorate couldn’t track how many people were on this world. Shoalers make people sniffing around their homes disappear, even Censies. The Jaaphisii are illiterate nomads, they can’t fill out forms. Okay, the industrial island clans would cooperate, because they’re so beaten down they’ll obey anybody.”

  The pink-haired bureaucrat had only been on planet a week. “Then we should use alternate data sources su
ch as birth certificates.”

  “Ma’am, there are no birth certificates here.”

  The other bureaucrat quirked an eyebrow to show he’d guessed the answer he would get. “Driver’s licenses?”

  “They don’t have those either.”

  Governor Shaker stroked his bushy black moustache. He didn’t talk much during meetings. When he spoke, it was to certify a consensus or table a deadlocked topic in favor of the next agenda item.

  Marcus’ disruptive outburst broke that tradition, too.

  “I’ve seen lots of vehicles here,” said the governor. “Floaters, groundcars, single seaters. I don’t think I’ve seen a crash. Whatever the Corwyntis are using instead of licenses, it works.”

  Anyone else pausing at this table would lose the floor to eager rivals. They waited for the governor to finish his thought.

  “What are they doing instead of licenses?” The governor’s gaze was mild, but Marcus still felt the pressure of it.

  “The Censorate didn’t regulate drivers. Clans decided which members were allowed to drive their vehicles,” said Marcus.

  Shaker twitched his fingers in a ‘go on’ gesture.

  Marcus thought about the point of a driver’s license. His had proclaimed him an independent adult. “An incompetent driver can cause more damage than he can ever repay. On Fiera governments won’t let you drive until you prove you’re safe enough to be trusted. Here, the clan pays for the damage. Including bloodprice for anyone hurt. The clan elders decide if they’re willing to take the risk. If they trust a twelve-year-old, they can put him behind the wheel of a truck.”

  Marcus smiled. “If your grandfather thinks you’re a klutz you won’t be allowed to drive even if you’re thirty or forty.”

  Shaker nodded.

  Marcus sat, thinking he’d spoken enough for one meeting. Or three.

  The politician sitting on the governor’s right said, “Is there a set age for anything else? Age of consent?”

  “When the clan thinks someone is ready to consider marriage, they throw a party to announce it,” answered Marcus.