Pink-hair muttered, “If I needed my grandparents’ permission to date, I’d still be a virgin.”
Governor Shaker joined in the chuckles. “I think we can discard all election plans with an age cut-off for voting. Which is all of our election plans. Go study, people. We need questions more than we need answers.”
***
Marcus decided he’d pissed off enough people he should stay clear of the Provisional Government outside office hours. Normally he ate dinner at home, taking turns cooking with Wynny. Eating alone would be too depressing. He called his father-in-law. Vychan invited him to dinner without needing a hint.
They put him at one of the small tables. He shared it with Vychan, his mother-in-law Emlyn, and Garth Goch. Marcus wasn’t sure where Garth stood in Wynny’s family tree. He was one of Clan Goch’s elders.
Not someone who usually spent time with twenty-something in-laws.
“Nothing fresh-caught tonight, I’m afraid,” said Emlyn. “We’re having vat meat. It’s from a land-dwelling bird.”
The meat did taste like chicken. Any differences from Fieran poultry was hidden by the tangy sauce. They’d splurged on some sea-taters, a potato engineered to grow in shallow seawater. They fried up as well as the potatoes Marcus had grown up with, if saltier.
Updating him on the health and relationship news for everyone in Clan Goch took up the first half of dinner.
Once Vychan and Emlyn were done with that, Garth spoke up. “I’ve heard Corwyntis and Fierans sometimes have different meanings for the same word. What does ‘provisional’ mean for you?”
Marcus swallowed the last of his synthetic chicken. “It’s something temporary. A placeholder until the permanent one arrives.”
“Ah. It means the same to us. Then Fiera will send a permanent government to replace the provisional one?”
“The Provisional Government’s—” he couldn’t say plan, all the plans were trash “—desire is to help create a government of Corwyntis. Then the Provisional Government would return home, to their old work.”
Garth frowned. “I’m not comfortable with the thought of one clan as the government. They’re going to play favorites with every clan they’ve intermarried with. A Fieran would be impartial.”
“I suppose you could elect a Fieran.”
The elder’s wine glass rang as he smacked it onto the table. “Me elect? Why would I be electing anyone outside my clan?”
“You’d all vote in the election,” said Marcus.
Emlyn interrupted before Garth could put his horror into words. “I think we’ve found a word that means different things. Uncle, please define what ‘elect’ means here.”
Garth nodded thanks to her. “It’s when an authority selects someone for a post. The Censor elected Bridge Yeager as governor. The governor elected mayors. The clan elders elected Vychan as broker.”
“Thank you, uncle.” Emlyn turned to Marcus. “What does ‘elect’ mean on Fiera?”
Marcus took a bite of his veggies to buy time to work out his answer. “We use the word that way sometimes, as a way to describe making a decision. More often we mean a big group of people voting to choose who’ll hold a government post.”
“Voting?” asked Emlyn.
“Making a decision by counting how many people want each option.”
Vychan said, “The Zebra folk from Kiwara run their world that way. Even converted some people here to the idea. It never made sense to me, though. How does it work in practice?”
Marcus offered, “Let me try an example. Twenty people can have fish or chicken for dinner. Twelve want fish. Eight want chicken. Twelve is more than eight, so they have fish. Do clans make decisions that way?”
Garth looked horrified again. “When a clan settles arguments by saying more want the one thing than the other, it’s a sign a hundred of them will go off to a new clanhome soon.”
“But you said the elders make decisions as a group. Don’t you ever just say the majority agrees, so the one or two disagreeing lose that argument?”
“Be drowned if we do. Every decision is one we all agree on. We work at it as long as we need to, making sure the whole clan is secured.”
Marcus reached for his wineglass, then drew his hand back. This conversation was making him dizzy enough.
Emlyn asked, “Can you describe voting to elect a person?”
The most recent election he’d seen would require explaining Parliament. Marcus cast back for something simpler. “Three years ago, Takei City elected a new mayor. The candidates were Wang and Kim. They told everyone what their experience was and what they planned to do in office. The adults in the city each cast their vote for one of them. Wang won fifty-five percent of the votes, so he became mayor.”
As he thought about it Marcus remembered that election had turned on Kim’s wife catching him with an intern. Not the best example of democracy in action.
His in-laws spent a few moments thinking about the example.
“Were the forty-five percent angry their man lost?” asked Garth.
“Not angry. Just disappointed,” said Marcus. “There’s an election for mayor every four years so they can try again soon.”
Now he’d horrified Garth again.
“Four years? That’s barely an apprenticeship. How can you have a new mayor every four years? They won’t know how to do the job.”
Marcus answered, “They can be re-elected. The mayor before them was in office for twelve years before he retired.”
“That’s a start.” Garth’s brow furrowed. “I’d hate to make a decision by just reading about someone. I’d want to talk to him for a few hours and see his work.”
“They give public speeches so you can see them in person. Reporters interview them and publish the conversations.”
“They don’t try to meet everyone?”
“There’s three and a half million people in Takei City. There isn’t enough time to meet them all.”
Vychan nodded. “Bundoran is about a tenth of that, and no one could meet all of them.”
Garth drained his wineglass. Emlyn topped everyone’s off.
The elder said, “I understand why you vote now. There’s no way to form a consensus with so many. But are they making good decisions? A governor bears full responsibility for the mayors he appoints. People voting have such a small share I’d think they’d shirk the labor of reading and hearing the candidates.”
“Some do,” Marcus admitted. “Sometimes I’ve voted on just which party they belong to. Um, not a dancing party. A political party is a coalition to support particular policies and people.”
“Yes, people are lazy,” said Garth. “They’ll let someone else do the work for them. How do ‘elections’ work better than a wise person picking a new mayor?”
Marcus found himself retelling half-remembered stories from his Earth History classes. Failures of dictatorships. The flourishing of democracies. Incentivizing leaders to serve the greater good. Rotating elites to prevent stasis and corruption.
“I see now,” said Vychan. “It’s a brawl.”
“What?” said Marcus.
“A brawl. You’re fighting over the office. You choose up sides, fight it out, and the winner gets the post. Except you skip the fighting part. The side with more people wins.”
Marcus swallowed a slug of much needed wine. Was his father-in-law right? He remembered a professor attributing the rise of democracy to gunpowder making commoner numbers outweigh aristocratic skill.
“Yes, that makes sense,” said Garth. “Now, how would that work here?”
“Okay, electing the mayor of Bundoran,” said Marcus. “Suppose Vychan was running for mayor.”
“But he has a job!” interjected Garth.
Vychan laughed. “The way things are going I may need new work.”
“Business always has ups and downs, my boy. All right. We’ll suppose.”
“He’d talk about what he’s done that would make him a good mayor. Brokering deals
. Leading the militia. Preserving history—”
“Hush!” snapped Vychan.
Garth chuckled. “Nyrath put your secret society’s books on the net more than a month ago. It’s very public now.”
Vychan blushed. “Sorry. Habit. Go on.”
Marcus continued, “He’d decide what changes he’d make. Laws, taxes, construction projects.”
“The Provisional Government already abolished the taxes I hate most,” said the supposed candidate.
“Then you’d ask people for their votes. Make speeches. Do interviews. Maybe advertisements. On election day everyone votes for one of the candidates and we count them up.”
“How do you vote?” asked Garth.
“That’s complicated. We’re trying—”
“Heavenly Harold!” The elder’s smile softened his words. “If all that was the simple part, I’m not ready for the rest. Marcus Landry, I thank you for your company, and your fascinating conversation.”
Garth lifted his wineglass. “To Hell with Bridge Yeager!”
Marcus echoed him with the rest.
***
‘Asking the captain’ meant answering a great many questions from the first mate while the captain sat beside her and watched. It wasn’t much different from what a clan Argel wanted to outmarry to would ask. What skills did she have. How hard does she work. Would she be pleasant to live with for the rest of their lives.
The big difference was in a marriage interrogation her intended would sit beside her. Instead she was alone on this side of the galley table, facing the captain and first mate by herself. Roger was in the galley kitchen, making a pot of tea and drinking it very slowly.
“Give me an example,” said the first mate.
“I’d go find one of the spots where children played,” said Argel. “One where the cameras were broken and there wasn’t a window looking over it. If there was a group the right age, ten or twelve, I’d ask if they wanted to hear a story. I’d tell them ‘The Army of Mice’ or another old tale. If they liked it, I’d tell them to bring an adult the next day. That was the dangerous part. Some people would turn you in to Security to cover a bad mark on their record, or to trade for a relative under arrest. I’d sound them out before letting them have a copy of the story. Never let them know my clan. It would have the address of a dead drop if they wanted more. If they did, and passed our checks, we had a new recruit.”
Captain Landry shook his head. “For fairy tales.”
Argel bristled. “Fairy tales are important. They’re the culture of our people. We need—”
He held up a hand. “I agree. They’re important. I’m angry at the Censorate for banning them.”
“Did Security ever catch you?” asked the first mate.
“No. If a blue jacket heard me telling a story I’d just say my grandmother told me the story. You could repeat anything as long as you didn’t write it down.”
The captain shook his head again. Argel didn’t have a chance to wonder what he meant before answering the next series of questions.
Then the tone shifted. The first mate talked about pay, work schedule, shore leave, and other petty matters.
“Lastly, we’re tight on berthing so you’d have to share a bunk bed in a compartment with another female spacer.”
“But I wanted to share Roger’s bunk,” blurted Argel.
The first mate looked over her shoulder. “Roger? Is that what you’re wanting?”
“Um, yes, ma’am.”
The captain growled, “Stop eavesdropping and take a seat.”
Roger dropped into the first open seat on the applicant side.
Argel pressed her thigh against Roger’s, comforted by his presence.
“You two married?” demanded the captain.
“No, sir.”
“Roger said I didn’t have to, to join the crew,” added Argel.
Roger said, “We’re good friends.”
“Yes, good friends.”
“Do you intend to marry?” asked the first mate.
“Do we have to?” asked Argel, willingly.
Roger stammered, “We-we should get to know each other better.”
“No, you don’t have to. I just wanted to know where things stood. Are you on long-term birth control?”
“What?” protested Argel. “Weren’t you pregnant on a ship?”
“I was pregnant on a boring Fiera-Svalbard shuttle run. This trip is exploration in hostile territory. We have every chance of having yet another hole knocked in the hull . . . and we don’t have a maternity spacesuit.”
“I’ll go see the doctor,” said Argel.
“Good. Roger, take Argel down to the cargo hold and check her out on the crane.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When the airtight hatch thudded closed behind the two youngsters, the captain and first mate dropped their grim visages. He lifted an arm. She snuggled into him under it.
“She’s skilled enough to be an apprentice cargo handler,” said Lane Landry. “The scuba experience says she has the attention to detail to learn spacesuits. And she can help us deal with the Censorate.”
Niko Landry said, “I’m not sure if it matters. If we don’t hire her, Marcus will be passing along an earful, we’ll have a hell of a time getting good cargo and might even screw things up for Welly. I’m concerned about putting her in with Roger.”
“We were sharing a bunk before we married.” The first mate had a nostalgic grin.
“Yeah. But you could go back to your own cabin any time you wanted.”
“If she has a bunk in the shared . . . oh. You want to use this to squeeze one more crew on board.”
“It’s better than hot bunking.”
Her lips quirked. “Shall I hint about finding partners to the other senior crew?”
“God, no. I don’t even want to think about what Betty would drag home.”
***
Wynny called after tucking Niko into bed. After some affectionate chatter he asked how the case was going.
“It’s a hideous mess. No wonder no other judge wanted it.” She paused to say goodnight to the nanny she’d brought along.
“There’d been a clan feud for generations. Never very violent because police and security would slap down anything that drew a crowd. Now there was a girl looking to outmarry. She was flirting with some boys, making them compete for her. All fine and normal. But two boys were from the feuding clans. She provoked a fight between them.”
The camera shifted as Wynny lay down on the bed. “Other members of their clans pitched in. Then they called in clans with marriage connections to one side or the other. The police showed up to shock stick everybody. Usually that’s the end of it.”
Her expression was grim. “People had the rifles they’d taken from Security when the Caernod Censies surrendered and were massacred. Seven dead cops later the brawl owned the city. When the Marines arrived there were over a hundred dead and an ardal on fire. They’re hoping to have all the bodies found by morning.”
“Damn. I guess you’re not coming home tomorrow.”
“Not a chance, drown it. But I’m not going to cut them any slack. I want to be back with you as soon as I can.”
***
The two bureaucrats he’d shut down in yesterday’s meeting were waiting outside Marcus’ office when he arrived. He braced himself for a lecture on meeting etiquette.
The pink-haired one opened the conversation. “Lieutenant Landry, I don’t think we were ever introduced. I’m Cecelia Betteridge. Call me Cece. This is my colleague, Gamini Peiris.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Marcus shook their hands. “Would you like to come in?”
He pulled his chair out from behind his desk to let them sit in a circle.
Cece began, “We’re trying to find cultural descriptions of Corwynt. When the Concord does a peacekeeping mission, they have some anthropologists write up an overview so we know what to expect. But even nuts like True Atlantis have been sharing the plan
et with us for nine hundred years. We have a lot of overlap. This place—I don’t even know where to start.”
“We have your reports and those from the embassy,” said Gamini. “We found some Censorate documents for new staffers. There’s still huge holes in our understanding.”
Marcus smiled. “I have holes too. Tripped over some talking with my in-laws last night.”
Finding a way to write that up impersonally was on his to do list for today.
“We need to learn the unspoken basics.” Cece grimaced in frustration. “The Corwynti universities are useless. They don’t study culture at all.”
“Documenting culture could have them executed if the Censorate decided it was history,” Marcus pointed out.
“We can’t find a place to start.” Gamini spread his hands. “Help?”
Marcus switched dialects. “How is your mastery of the local lingo?”
“We passed Welly’s online course,” said Cece in the Corwynti dialect.
Gamini added, “Plus we’ve been practicing with each other.”
“Good. I’m taking you to the movies.”
***
The cashier was more startled by the request for tickets to all five movies being shown that day than the Fieran accents. Marcus added a large bucket of fried seaweed. The bureaucrats eyed the snack dubiously, but once they’d tasted it the bucket emptied.
The theater filled with pre-teens and their teachers for the first show. It was a documentary showing the lives of Corwyntis outside the arcology cities.
“Aren’t these the guys who hunt sea monsters for a living?” asked Gamini.
“Yeah,” answered Marcus.
“How the hell did they make them boring?”
Cece quipped, “Could be on purpose, to keep the boys from running off to sea.”
When all the children were gone the theater filled with retirees and a sprinkling of the middle-aged. The feature’s title was “A Well-Balanced Wedprice.” Marcus expected it to be a romance.
It wasn’t. The engaged couple were pushed back and forth between inmarrying and outmarrying between two rich clans. The negotiations over the compensation to be paid to whichever clan lost a member received more stage time than the relationship.
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