Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  The Corwyntis in the audience found it hysterically funny.

  After one burst of laughter, Cece asked her companions, “Do you have any idea what was humorous in that?”

  Marcus shrugged. One of the elders had proposed paying the wedprice in furniture instead of cash. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable bargaining tactic to him.

  “I suspect . . .” said Gamini, “this is a comedy of manners. They’re violating expectations in rude and stupid ways, while still acting politely and thinking they’re complying with the etiquette code.”

  Cece nodded. “Upper class satire. That would fit with each clan having their own clan of servants. Very upstairs downstairs.”

  Marcus broke into laughter at the next scene.

  “Oh, please, explain,” said Cece.

  “Um, sorry. I didn’t get the jokes. I just recognized the actor playing the butler from another movie.”

  There was no trouble understanding the next movie. Also no laughter. The audience for “The Tools or Their Value” was middle aged. Not retirees. They looked to be taking a break from work.

  It was a drama. A clan had grown to over three hundred in a clanhome built for two hundred. The machine tools business they ran didn’t earn enough to support the larger population comfortably.

  The clan must split. But who would go, and how much of the clan’s portable resources would go with them?

  There were five, or possibly seven factions maneuvering in shifting coalitions. Some seemed more interested in sending rivals off penniless than gathering resources for themselves.

  Tensions peaked when a pair of merging clans put a vehicle repair business and second level clanhome up for sale. The sellers wanted not just cash but proof the spun-off clan would be coherent enough to take care of the old owners’ regular customers.

  Elders tried to dampen the arguments . . . only to be faulted for allowing all the inmarriages that brought the clan to this position.

  Marcus noticed the Corwyntis in the audience were sighing at the raw emotions on the screen. They might be enjoying it, but he wasn’t.

  Also, the movie schedule hadn’t left the Fierans time for lunch. He headed for the snack bar.

  The teenager on duty didn’t have much warm food ready but was willing to fry up some protein-rich snacks while Marcus watched. A bucket of seaweed and more drinks made it a reasonable working lunch.

  He returned to his seat as the credits rolled.

  “That was educational,” said Cece.

  Gamini commented, “I’m surprised there wasn’t a murder. I thought the kitchen knife sharpening scene was foreshadowing it.”

  “Too strong for this audience, I bet. I’d like to see this story in the hands of some people who could all act. Script needed a polish, too.”

  Marcus offered the tray. “Try this. Don’t bite into it, crack open the shell and have the soft bit.”

  After swallowing, Cece said, “Rich and meaty. What is it?”

  “Fried spiny urchins.”

  Gamini stopped in mid-bite. “Aren’t those poisonous?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Corwyntis grow grapes on kelp plants. I’m sure they fiddled with these things’ genes until they were domesticated.”

  The audience filtering in for the next movie was younger. Many were young women in groups.

  “I’ve seen the next two before,” said Marcus. “First is a romantic comedy, ‘Four Sisters.’ Then there’s the latest Rag Duffy adventure. You won’t have any trouble understanding them. Oh, don’t be so hard on the quality. Remember, it’s a single clan making all of these. They can’t hold auditions for the whole planet like we do.”

  Gamini chuckled. “The poor bastards. When our studios learn to make shows for the Corwynti they’re going to blow the locals off the screens.”

  The romantic troubles of the eponymous four sisters didn’t interest the bureaucrats as much as the business arrangements. Only being able to hire an outside expert by arranging a marriage floored them.

  “There must be so much inefficiency here,” said Gamini.

  Marcus countered, “They’re optimizing for stability, not growth.”

  “Some of that is because Censorate taxes would rip away any sudden profit,” said Cece. “We’re eliminating the worst of those taxes. Then we’ll see what the Corwyntis want.”

  “Rag Duffy, Death Creditor, Chapter Seventeen,” provoked laughter with the first scene.

  “Oh, God, it’s the butler, isn’t it,” gasped Cece.

  “Yep,” said Marcus, as the death creditor beat down a thug.

  “So dignified,” said Gamini between chuckles. “He can act.”

  The bucket of fried seaweed emptied as they watched the brawls.

  “Is this really how their system works?” asked Cece.

  “More or less. It’s as accurate as Fieran cop movies. Wynny never punched anybody in her case.”

  Gamini asked, “If death creditors solve cases, what do their police do?”

  Marcus needed a moment to translate what he’d seen into Fieran terms. “Death creditors seek justice, defined as an appropriate bloodprice for whatever harm happened. Police keep order. Their main priority was to keep anything from happening that would offend the Censorate. Now they’re . . . coasting.”

  The bureaucrats treated Marcus to dinner after the movies. All three were too tired for serious analysis of the movies or culture. They amused each other with recasting all five movies with Fieran actors.

  At the end of the meal Marcus offered the toast: “To Hell with Bridge Yeager!” Dozens of diners at the tables around them joined in the chorus.

  Marcus didn’t receive a call from Wynny that evening. She sent a text: ‘Exhausted. Bed now. Love you!’

  ***

  “What do you mean, no?” Dilwyn burst out. “You can’t be serious.”

  Welly didn’t say anything. She’d found of plenty of advice on the Bundoran net for someone inmarrying to a clan. It all boiled down to ‘shut up and let them argue among themselves.’ She looked around the clan hall. The marriage negotiations were at a relatively private table. Dilwyn’s outburst had drawn attention, on top of the looks Welly was getting as a visiting outsider slash potential clan member.

  “Argel just outmarried, more or less,” continued Dilwyn. “There’s plenty of room for Welly to inmarry.”

  Vychan Goch put a hand on his nephew’s arm. Dilwyn’s father died seven years ago in a forklift accident. The uncle was acting as the sponsor for the marriage to the clan elders. “I know my piece of the business is bad. But it can’t be all that bad?”

  Garth Goch was the first elder they’d approached. “Our revenue is decreasing. We should not bring in new spouses unless we can be sure we can support them properly.”

  “It’s right for the numbers to be closely held,” said Vychan. “But if Dilwyn is to be deprived of the woman he loves, shouldn’t he see exactly why?”

  Did Dilwyn love her? wondered Welly. They were comfortable together. He didn’t seem to have been pining during their year-long separation. Then again, he hadn’t found another wife in all that time, and he’d arrived at Azure Tarn within minutes of their landing.

  The stare down ended with Garth pulling up a graph on his tablet.

  Accounting wasn’t one of Welly’s skills. Noticing that a graph went slowly up then plunged down didn’t take skill. If she’d had any doubt of her interpretation, the expression on Vychan and Dilwyn’s faces would confirm it.

  “I’m sure she can do the work,” said Garth. “She’s a smart girl and she works hard. But we may not have any cargo for her to move next year.”

  A grim silence gripped the table.

  Welly decided she’d stayed quiet long enough. “I have other skills. Since we first landed here, I’ve made more from teaching Fierans the Corwynti dialect than my spacer pay. I could teach Corwyntis how to talk to Fierans.”

  “We already have four or five clanmembers teaching Fieran,” said Dilwyn.


  Garth grunted. “I know, and I hate it.”

  “She could teach Fieran culture, how they think,” added Vychan. “People would pay for that.”

  “That makes it worse,” snapped Garth. “You should know better.”

  He looked at the young couple. “You deserve an explanation.”

  Garth drained his beer. He handed the mug to a passing teen, who scurried to refill it. “The clan business connects together. Vychan arranges a deal. The goods are brought to our warehouse. Dilwyn unloads a starship. He makes contacts for Vychan to make offers to. It pulls the clan together.”

  The new mug arrived. He sipped before setting it down. “If you make teaching a business, each morning half the clan workers will go north to the warehouses and half south to their classrooms. They’ll come home at different times. They’ll sit at different tables. One will be more profitable than the other.”

  Another sip. “There’ll be the warehouse side of the hall and the teacher side of the hall. Then a split, people forced to choose, the clan torn apart.”

  Garth stared at the table. “I don’t want that.”

  Welly wondered if she shouldn’t marry into the clan. If it was so fragile, she wouldn’t want the family’s destruction on her conscience.

  “A grave fear, Elder,” said Vychan. “How does it compare to not having the cash to feed and clothe the whole clan?”

  “Not as urgent. But we can hold together and share the poverty equally.”

  Welly offered, “If the warehouse business picks up, I could stop teaching.”

  Dilwyn gripped her hand. “Or we can all become teachers if it doesn’t.”

  Garth snorted. “I’ve heard of clans making odder transitions.”

  Vychan gave the couple a wave to hush them. Some long moments passed.

  The elder sighed. “Oh, Harold. We need to try something different. I guess you’re it, girl. I’ll speak to the rest of the elders for you.”

  Vychan lifted his mug. “To the happy couple!” Garth joined him in the toast.

  Dilwyn followed with, “To Hell with Bridge Yeager!” All four drank.

  ***

  Writing up ‘Corwynti Opinions on Democratic Concepts’ took Marcus three times as long as the original conversation. He tried to hedge his comments well enough to keep all the bureaucrats and politicians from misinterpreting it.

  He failed.

  The most common reaction was declaring Garth an outlier and demanding a formal opinion survey. Marcus wished them luck. Corwyntis liked Fierans. They would shower their liberators with food and drink. But they’d been an occupied people for longer than they could remember. Keeping their thoughts close was a habit.

  His afternoon went to catching up on random requests he’d received and forwarding them to the appropriate branch of the Provisional Government. Corwyntis kept leaving him verbal messages. He didn’t know if it was because his marriage made him seem approachable or if it was just that he was known to speak the local dialect.

  Creating a plan for a solo dinner became irrelevant when he received a text from Wynny: ‘Boarding lander for home.’ He went home and started cooking.

  Marcus looked up from the simmering pan as the door opened. His heart leapt as he saw Wynny come through, Niko strapped to her chest. He wrapped his arms around them and kissed them both before noticing who else had come in.

  The Marine came to attention and saluted.

  Marcus reflexively returned it. “Corporal Donnelly. Congratulations on the new stripe. It looks good on you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He set down a suitcase. “Gunny wanted to be sure Judge Wynny made it home safe. I’d best go report in, sir.” He ducked out the door.

  Wynny was paying off the nanny. “This includes tomorrow, which you’ll spend resting. You’ve been run ragged.”

  “But, ma’am—”

  “Resting, Llian.”

  “Yes’m.”

  They kissed again as the door closed behind the others.

  Marcus broke off to stir the pan again.

  “What is that?” Wynny asked.

  “Curry rice with vatbeef.”

  “Curry?”

  “That’s the spice. Here, try it.” He scooped up a few grains on the tip of the spoon, gave it a moment to cool, and offered it to her.

  “Oh. That’s good. Strange, but good.”

  “Mom sent me a housewarming present with a spice rack.”

  A new odor conflicted with the curry. Marcus scooped Niko out of the sling and carried him over to the changing table. “I’m surprised to see you so soon. I thought that case would take longer.”

  Wynny laughed. “They’ll be arguing over it for years. I settled what needed to be settled. I don’t dare go back to Caernod without a Marine escort, though.”

  “How many people did you piss off?” Marcus laid the clean baby in his playpen. Niko batted at a hanging ball.

  “All the feuding clans. They were giving all this testimony about how they had to jump in the fight because of the terrible things another clan did. With these tiny breaks for the police and the innocent bystanders to give their testimony.”

  Marcus washed his hands. “I thought you’d need more than two days just for the bloodprices.”

  “The feuders thought stipulating the claimed bloodprices for the police and bystanders would make them look generous. I postponed their bloodprice claims to tomorrow. Then I issued a judgement making them irrelevant.” She’d taken over stirring the curry pan.

  “I can see that making them angry.” He laid plates on the table.

  Wynny laughed. “Oh, that was the least of it. Eight clans testified to voluntarily participating in the brawl. I declared them in the wrong, and jointly and severally liable for all harms and damages.”

  This occasion called for wine. He chose a red Vychan and Emlyn had given them. “That I’m not following.”

  “Clans in the wrong don’t receive bloodprice for any of their dead or injured. That solved the problem of everybody the Marines shot.”

  “Did the Marines shoot a lot?”

  “Not compared to how Censorial Security would have handled it. There’re stories of them machine-gunning whole crowds for just complaining. The Marines killed everyone with rifles or not running away.”

  “Not how we like to do crowd control.”

  Wynny shrugged. “If they’re shooting the police with rifles, it’s war, not crime. The joint and several part was declaring them all liable for equal shares of the damage done. Five bloodprices each, plus a share of the fire repairs. Confiscated all their rifles, too.”

  “Can they afford that?”

  Another shrug. “If they can’t, they sell their clanhome and move to an industrial island. Those always need workers.”

  A timer went off. Marcus pulled a tray of baked ‘waluch’ from the oven. They were seaweed grown in tight spirals, reminding him of Brussel sprouts.

  “Oh, there were two bloodprices left over. I mulcted the clan of the girl who instigated the fight for them. Their girls will be demure now.”

  “How did they handle the equal shares?” Marcus took the pan off the heat and scooped some curry onto their plates.

  “Screamed like I’d gelded them,” said Wynny. “I told them they could have a follow-on trial to balance the shares, if they could find a judge for it.”

  That made Marcus laugh. “I guess they wouldn’t bring you back for it.”

  “No. I’m going to stick to trials in Bundoran.”

  Marcus theatrically shook his head. “I’m not comfortable with this. Here I thought I was marrying a nice accountant. Now you’re doing investigations and judgements. I don’t know how to hold up my end of that.”

  He tried to be poker faced, but the end of his mouth curled up.

  “Oh, you.”

  ***

  Marcus said, “I’m going to worry about you, you know.”

  “Good. It’s your turn,” said his father. “Your mother and I chewed our finge
rnails down to the knuckles while you were out playing with the Marines. Now you can sit in a comfortable office and think about us wheeling and dealing in new markets.”

  “Still think it’s a crazy risk.”

  “If we pull it off, we’ll all have enough to retire.” Niko Landry kept being evasive about the new venture. It didn’t help with Marcus’ worries.

  “You do have enough to retire.”

  “A modest retirement.”

  “Hmph.”

  “You’re just jealous you’re not coming. Quit your job, I’ll make the new kids set up bunks in the hold, you can have a cabin.”

  Marcus looked across the spaceport pavement at Azure Tarn. “I’d like that. But it’s not a trip for Niko.”

  Captain Landry’s face turned serious. “You’re right. It’s not. Take good care of him. I’m going to have lots of pretty hyperspace pictures for him to ooh over when we come back.”

  He clapped his son on the shoulder. They embraced. Then they resumed their walk toward the ship.

  A small crowd was gathered to see off the ship and crew. Some were unfamiliar to Marcus, probably relatives of the new crew members. One was familiar but unexpected: Captain Kim of Concord Naval Intelligence.

  Kim held out a hand to Marcus’ father. “Good luck, Landry. Make it worth our while.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll come back with plenty for you.”

  Marcus eyed the spook warily, realizing why his father was so confident in making a profit on this trip.

  He drifted over to join his wife and son. His mother was getting some last-minute dandling in before boarding the ship.

  Captain Landry called the crew together. They formed a line beside him as he turned to address the crowd.

  “Thank you all for coming to see us off.” He paused for a burst of nervous applause. “The true sin of the Censorate is ignorance. They keep their subjects ignorant of the past, of their neighbors, of the physical structure of the galaxy itself. We’re going to go out, not as invaders, just as simple traders, and learn. We’ll remember what we learned. Then we’ll come back here and write it down. To end ignorance.”