“One of the diplomats told me a joke,” said Marcus. “Long ago, a king, um, a Censor sentenced a thief to death. The thief begged for his life. He promised if he had a year he’d teach the Censor’s horse to sing.”
“Horse?” asked Wynny.
Right. Corwynt lacked the wide pastures horses needed.
“A really big dog,” Marcus amended. “The Censor laughed and gave the thief a year. The thief moved into the kennel with the dog. He sang to it as he brushed it. The Censor’s other servants laughed at him. ‘You fool, dogs can’t sing,’ they said. The thief answered, ‘A year is a long time. I might die. The Censor might die. And maybe the dog will learn to sing.’”
Wynny chuckled dutifully. As they walked she looked over the edge of the sidewalk into the depths of the city. A third level park held trees blocking her view of first level.
“If the negotiations fail,” said Wynny, “will you take me with you when you leave?”
“If there’s a war the Censorate could do to Fiera what they did to Earth. I don’t want you killed in an asteroid bombardment.”
“I don’t want to go on not knowing if you’re alive or dead. I did enough of that the past five months. Take me with you.”
Marcus worked a few steps before answering. “I’ll try. My father, the Ambassador, and the Censorate may object. Well, I can make my father agree. The other two, I don’t know.”
“That’s enough for me.” She pulled him into a kiss.
After a moment Wynny let go. “Serious face now. We want to make that agent do business with us.”
***
Clan Parry had replaced the simple desk in Wynny’s room with one built for a real office. Its displays showed the data they’d acquired from location agents. Three ardals were willing to host the embassy, one at either end, creating four options to choose from.
“Every clan has a ‘bump price,’” Wynny explained. “That’s how much money they’ll take to be moved out of the clanhome. But it’s more about the hassle of moving and finding new accommodations than the actual worth of the property. If we line up an acceptable clanhome for them we’d have to pay half the bump price, maybe less.”
“Oh, good.” Marcus was developing a rough grasp of the relative values of Censorial credits and Fieran ducats. The numbers from the agents made him flinch.
“Naturally the acceptable one would be occupied. We’ll find a new clanhome for them. Which would also be occupied. So it goes on until some poor struggling clan is willing to move to an empty place on first level. Or to another city.”
Marcus refilled her juice. “This sounds like the chain of barter swaps your father set up for Azure Tarn’s cargo on our first trip.”
“Exactly,” Wynny agreed with a grin. “Aren’t you lucky you married a Goch?”
“Luckiest I’ve ever been.”
That led to an extended kiss.
When they came up for air Wynny said, “Hey. I’ve done professional financial analysis for your people.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Which means we are now legally married.”
That called for another kiss.
Afterwards Marcus said, “I was expecting a ceremony with your family and a party.”
“We’ll still do that. But it’s the work that legally defines who joined which clan. Is the ceremony what decides it on Fiera?”
“Some places. In others, um, it’s official when they have sex.”
She laughed. “What, at the after party?”
“No, privately. But if they can’t—if he can’t function—then legally the marriage didn’t happen.”
“If it’s that important they should’ve checked beforehand. Suitors looked through my accounting work. Well, their relatives did.”
“I trust your work.”
That led to another kiss. And given that the room contained a bed, a check.
***
Even though Commercial Liaison Bokser was now fluent in the Censorial dialect, he still wanted Marcus to join him in his meetings with locals to handle any difficult words that came up.
Marcus found himself needed more often than not. Comparing Censorial and Fieran technology brought out jargon from both sides. The merchant officer’s technical training let him translate engineer-speak into terms the diplomat could understand.
This meeting wasn’t with an engineer. The Gwilt clan ran Arnvon’s hospital. Dilys Gwilt was the doctor in charge of the intensive care unit. She veered between awe and disbelief at Bokser’s claims for Fieran medical technology.
“Here, let me show you our average life expectancy.” The diplomat called up a graph on his tablet. “Ignore the dips there and there. That’s from the wars. You can see the improving trend. How does that compare to Corwynt?”
The doctor stared. “I don’t know. How are you measuring that?”
Bokser glanced at Marcus. The younger man took the tablet and opened the footnotes from the graph. “It’s the median age of everyone who died on Fiera that year, from all causes,” he read out.
“You have that for two hundred years.” Now Dr. Gwilt was on the balance between awe and disbelief.
Marcus glanced at the other footnotes. “We have more data than that. But back then the population was still expanding into newly terraformed areas. The lifespans were dominated by poverty and famines, not medical care.”
“Dominated by poverty, you say.” The doctor paused for thought. “The Jaaphisii are poor. We don’t even know how many of them there are. Not many live past forty. Their infant mortality is terrible. So they’re not helping our average. Shoalers would rather die than give a doctor a centi. Islanders have to travel to a city to see a doctor. They don’t always make it. City folk have all the advantages. And they still don’t live as long as you Fierans. Well, the ones I’ve seen die.”
Once he realized she wasn’t going to continue, Marcus asked, “You don’t have planetary statistics? I thought that was allowed as long as you don’t go into the past.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Our Censorial benefactors don’t specify where the line is between allowable and forbidden data. They just punish us when we cross it. Let me tell you a story.”
Her voice took on the sing-song tones of a mother telling a bedtime story. “Once upon a time there was a professor named Moyell. He taught statistics. One day he was teaching class when some Censorials came in. They said he had expired data in his new book. They held a tribunal. They shot Professor Moyell in front of the whiteboard he was writing equations on, right in front of his students. They walked out. They never said what data was expired.”
Dr. Gwilt went back to her normal speaking voice. “There’s no documentation. All the witnesses are long dead of old age. The book was deleted when they executed him, if he existed. But when I was a student at the University of Bunrat, that’s what we were told when we asked why the whiteboard with the brown crud on it was never cleaned.”
Bokser shivered. “I’d think the Censorate would make you clean it up.”
“The Censorials erase words, not deeds. People are afraid of deeds. It’s our local version of Mourning Day.”
The diplomat glanced at Marcus, then asked her, “Do they really make you wear all black for that?”
Gwilt shot Marcus a look he easily decoded as, Is he really that naïve?
He answered with a wide shrug. Hey, I tried.
“Yes, we wear all black. Yes, the Censorials show us a dead world scarred with asteroid impacts. Yes, some boy tells the story of how sad they were over killing the birthplace of humanity because of a failed rebellion. Yes, every year.”
That cowed Bokser into silence.
The doctor pulled up the life expectancy graph again. She switched it to the by-cause view. Her finger traced the thinning wedges for heart disease and cancer.
“I’d wager it’s your statistics that let you do this,” Dr Gwilt mused. “You can see what works and what doesn’t and build on it. Yes, I’ll buy your organ regene
rators and blood synthesizers, even if I have to mortgage the hospital to afford them. If you’re back to sell them.”
Bokser pushed for his real goal. “When you treat a Censorial, will you tell them you could do better with Fieran tools?”
Dr. Gwilt stared in disbelief. “Am I standing in front of a whiteboard?”
***
Marcus stopped halfway to the breakfast buffet table. The embassy lounge held people in the normal mixture of pajamas, casual, and formal dress. Seeing Ambassador Trygg in a bathrobe and slippers was not normal.
He caught Father Murphy’s eye and gave an interrogative head tilt toward the ambassador.
“Negotiations cancelled today,” said the priest.
That was a surprise. In the month they’d been there there’d been a session every day. There’d been no regard for Corwynt’s traditional five days working two days playing cycle. Governor Yeager had skipped some sessions, but as Trygg pointed out the man did have a full time job.
The buffet was still fully stocked even with everyone present at once. Marcus loaded up his plate. Wynny was spending the day celebrating the birth of a new Alevan cousin. He could stay in today and catch up on his reading. With luck he’d have no interruptions but one of the native cleaning ladies.
There were no empty tables. Murphy’s table was full. Marcus found an empty seat with two men discussing the Fieran planetary lacrosse championship they were missing right now. When pressed he declared the Saburo Ronin were his favorites but declined to put any money on them.
Conversation dropped in volume when a Censorial officer entered the lounge. He was in the civil service uniform, not military. Six paces into the room he stopped.
The ambassador’s aide was one of the few men wearing a full suit. He approached the Censorial. “May I help you?”
The officer handed over a piece of folded cream paper, said a few words too low for Marcus to hear, and turned on his heel to leave.
The aide presented the message to Ambassador Trygg. She unfolded it, read, and dropped it into a pocket of her bathrobe. She rose to her feet and glanced around the lounge.
Even the forks were silent now.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your plans for the day are canceled. His Excellency the Governor has invited us to attend upon him in two hours. Finish your breakfast, wear your best, and be ready to go in an hour. This means everybody.” The Ambassador swept out.
Marcus looked at the diplomats sharing his table. “Is this good news or bad news?”
“If it was good news we would have had off the record side meetings, showing us the agreement and making sure we thought it was good,” said one sourly.
The other said, “Cheer up. Maybe Mourning Day is early this year and we’re getting a private showing.”
Marcus donned his dress uniform. He stood around with the rest for forty-five minutes until the Censorial officer returned to lead them all to a floatbus.
The bus took them to the same seventh level ardal Marcus had been to for the negotiation sessions. They were led to a different room. This one was laid out like a college lecture hall. Semicircular tables sloped up, all focused on the modest stage below. Comfortable chairs were spaced along the tables with plenty of elbow room.
Marcus took the chair he was pointed to by a Censorial escort. Like every other seat it had a glass of water and a napkin as before. This time there was a pad of paper and a pen. Both were marked with the governor’s seal.
He rubbed his thumb over the paper. It was the standard Censorial kind. High acid content ensured it would brittle in twenty years and dust in fifty.
When Governor Yeager entered at the stage door the Censorials standing in the aisles made ‘stand up’ gestures.
The embassy looked to Ambassador Trygg. She sat still. They did as well.
Yeager didn’t react. “Good morning. I’ve asked you all here so I can share how Fiera and the Censorate will coexist.”
That sent a chill down Marcus’ spine. A unilateral announcement wasn’t good. His mind seized on ‘coexist’ as a sign of hope.
“First point. The Censorate claims no ownership of or sovereignty over the Fieran Bubble or any planets or people within. The existing governments will retain all authority for making and enforcing laws.
“The Censorate will send an Advisor to Fiera. The Advisor will suggest new laws as needed. Governments will answer to the Advisor for their implementation and enforcement of these laws.”
That’s it, thought Marcus. They’ll give us the illusion of independence while demanding complete control.
“Second point. The export of any Fieran technology, information, or object to the Censorate requires the permission of the Censorial Advisor.
“Third point. All duplication, reproduction, or distribution of books or data whose author is deceased must stop. All living Fierans may pass all books they own to their heirs. The next generation may pass on books from after the discovery of spaceflight. The third generation may pass on those created during the occupation of the Bubble. After that all art will die with the artist.”
In four generations Christianity would be an oral tradition again.
“Fourth point. Fieran ships may only travel to the Censorate, and Censorial ships to the Bubble, by permission of the Censorial Advisor.”
Marcus didn’t pay attention to points five through nine. He focused on his poker face. The lecture hall was no help. The baby blue walls were free of distraction.
Then he realized what he needed to focus on. He began creating the shortest possible pitch for bringing Wynny on board Azure Tarn as a benefit to the embassy.
The pad of paper tempted him, but it would create notes the Censorials could analyze. Best to keep it in his head. He stuffed the pad and pen into a jacket pocket. They’d make a nice souvenir.
Governor Yeager followed point nine with, “Thank you for your attention. I look forward to many long years of peaceful cooperation and profitable trade.”
He dropped the mini-tablet with his notes into a pocket. An aide came forward to lay some printouts before Ambassador Trygg. Yeager looked across the faces of his audience. If he noticed any reactions he didn’t show it.
Marcus hoped he wasn’t showing any reaction.
Ambassador Trygg stood. Marcus could hear the rustle of her skirts.
“Your Excellency. Thank you for your explanation of how we can live peacefully together. I am glad to hear your words and will convey them to our government.” She hefted the stack of printouts. “I appreciate your provision of the exact terms for our examination. We shall study them carefully on the return voyage to ensure the government is given a full understanding. When can we expect the Censorial Advisor to arrive?”
Yeager answered, “A request has been sent to His Censorial Wisdom to appoint an appropriate person. I would expect one within months.”
“Then we’d best leave at once to make preparations. The population’s mindset will have to be corrected to a more receptive one.”
“You have my permission to go.”
Trygg nodded. She strode to the door. Her aide followed with the pile of paper. The rest of the embassy streamed out of the room in a neat file, avoiding any rude jostling.
The floatbus waited where it had unloaded them. The embassy members sat. The handful of Censorials on board stood by doors or windows, seeming to ignore the Fierans. Marcus saw the ambassador straighten up from bending over the bus driver then take a seat. He started working forward.
An ardal painted with a lake scene went by the windows as the floatbus descended. They were below sixth level now.
“Aren’t we packing our luggage?” asked a diplomat.
Ambassador Trygg replied, “No. We’re going straight to the ship. The stuff will be here when we return to establish the permanent embassy.”
Her glare silenced the grumbles.
Marcus worked up his courage. He walked forward past Consul Ortega. “Ma’am?”
“No.”
&nbs
p; “Ma’am, I—”
“No. I know what you’re asking. I understand your reasons. I sympathize with you. But the answer is still no.”
His mind cast about for something to say that could make her reconsider the rejection. He found nothing.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Landry. Please sit down.”
Marcus nodded, turned away, and went back up the aisle of the bus to an empty seat. He sat in silence, absorbing the shock.
The sun vanished as the floatbus went through the tunnel separating the city from its spaceport. Marcus realized in only minutes he’d be on Azure Tarn and leaving the planet. He pulled the souvenir pen and paper from his pockets.
What to say to Wynny paralyzed him as much as appealing to Ambassador Trygg had. This had the additional problem that the Censorate was sure to read whatever he sent her.
Soft clunks announced the floatbus’ landing on the pavement. Marcus glanced up. Azure Tarn filled half the windows on the left side. That was inspiration enough. He scribbled on the paper, folded it into a tight square, and wrote on the outside.
Consul Ortega slapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Time to go.”
Marcus joined the people filing out of the floatbus. It had landed clear of the landing circle around the ship. Diplomats trotted across the open pavement, staying in the line they’d exited the bus in.
A chandler’s delivery van stood in the lane where it had halted to avoid ramming the floatbus. The driver gawked out his window, bemused by the sight of well-dressed passengers walking to their ship instead of being dropped off at the airlock.
Marcus broke from the line and sprinted to the van. He thrust the folded note at the open window. “Could you take this to her, please?”
Back at the bus Ortega bellowed, “Landry! What are you doing?”
The driver took the note and looked it over. “I’ll deliver it, sure.”
“Thank you!” He turned and ran for Azure Tarn.
He caught up before the end of the line made it through the airlock. Ortega glared but didn’t say anything.
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 6
