“Some of us. But every ship we have couldn’t hold a percent of Fiera’s population . . . and where would we go?”
A middle aged man stood up. “Did they really destroy Earth?”
Marcus took a deep breath. He hated the reminder of what could happen if they lost. “We can’t know. I checked the archives. The most recent route we have for Earth is twelve hundred years old. Hyperspace shifts enough that we’d have to survey a new route to get there. We have the normal space coordinates so we’ll know when we’re there. Maybe Earth is fine. The Censorate could have made the story up. But . . . that story tells every officer and spacer in the Censorial Navy that they’re expected to destroy worlds rather than let them be free. That matters more right now than if Earth is alive.”
A cranky older man threw the next question at him. “Do you have any idea what kind of taxes are being taken from us to pay for your war?”
Marcus laughed. “I know exactly. After the first trip we auctioned off samples of Censorial technology. It was a very profitable run. So the new windfall profits tax applies to us. I paid eighty percent tax on my share. Don’t worry, I won’t starve. I’m in the forty-five percent bracket for my crew salary.”
The questioner sat. Marcus guessed he was paying less than eighty percent.
A grandmotherly type asked, “How big is this Censorate? Can we win?”
The second part made many of the audience flinch. The Concord tried to avoid it in their propaganda.
“Nobody knows how big the Censorate is,” said Marcus. “Except maybe the Censor and a few of his top officials. They pretend to rule the whole galaxy, but there are stars past the Bubble they have no contact with. From the clues we’ve picked up there’s hundreds of worlds in it. Maybe thousands. Not tens of thousands.”
He walked to the edge of the stage, standing as close to the questioner as he could. “Now. Can we win? That’s an important question. Maybe the second most important. Let’s think about it.
“Can we win in a head to head fight? No. We’re far too outnumbered. But we’re not trying to win on their turf. We don’t want to conquer the Censorate. We just want to survive on our own.
“We’re in a good position for it. The Censorate has to cross a void with frequent storms to reach us. The tunnel into the Bubble is narrow, they won’t be able to fit their whole fleet in there.”
He mimed the situation, a fist-fleet unable to enter the other hand’s finger-tunnel. Chuckles said some of the audience was visualizing something else. Well, good. They could use some humor.
“If they make it through the tunnel they’ll be stuck in chokepoints in the shoals around our sun. If they drop to normal space we’ll hit them with every non-hypercapable ship we have.”
And after that, of course, Fiera would be bombed flat.
Marcus tried another tack. “We have to remember the Censorate can’t throw all its resources against us. It’s repressing the worlds it owns. Corwynt had a Censorial security force in every city. Their Navy is deployed to fight revolts. If they throw all their ships at us they’d go home to a Censorate in flames. We don’t have to destroy their whole fleet. Just hurt them enough that they can’t afford to take Fiera and keep what they have.”
That did reassure them. Marcus saw shoulders easing down and people leaning back in their seats. “Yes, we can win. Because winning just takes giving a bloody nose to whoever they send here.”
“What’s the most important question?” someone called.
“Is it better to die fighting or live as a slave?” said Marcus grimly.
There was a pause before someone else stood up with a question. “Is it true you have a sweetheart on Corwynt?”
When the Q&A was over the tribune came out again to take Marcus backstage. “That was good,” said Moreno. “These are influential people. Organizers, local officials, the connected. They’ll be sharing what you said.”
“Thanks.” Marcus took a glass of water from a steward.
The steward watched him drain it, took back the glass, and scurried off for a refill.
The snack table was fully stocked. Marcus stepped toward it. Then he noticed one of his security guardsmen arguing with a naval officer. Not Concord Navy. Sulu Republic. As the nation Azure Tarn was registered to, the Republic was officially Marcus’ home, though he’d actually been born on a space station.
The guardsman handed some papers back to the SRN officer and stood aside. The officer—an ensign—came toward him. “Marcus Landry?”
“Yes?”
“Sir, I am ordered to present you with these documents.”
Marcus unfolded them. The Republic and SRN seals stood out in bright color. The pages were filled with legal verbiage but the key phrases were enlarged to stand out. ‘Merchant ship Azure Tarn seized under eminent domain to serve as an auxiliary frigate for the duration of the war.’ ‘Crew of the Azure Tarn are impressed into the Sulu Republic Navy under the Conscription Act.’ ‘Marcus Landry commissioned as sub-lieutenant in SRN.’ ‘Marcus Landry to report for training at Nagumo Base by—”
He wrapped the ensign in a hug. The man froze, then awkwardly returned it.
The ensign said, “That’s, uh, that’s not the usual reaction to a conscription notice.”
“I’m tired of giving speeches. I want to go back into space.”
***
Detective Glain arrived in ten minutes. She must have taken a floater straight from police headquarters to Clan Parry’s ardal.
“Let me see,” said the police officer.
Wynny handed over the note.
Glain read it aloud. “‘Leave this city. Go home to Bundoran. Clan Meurig will not pursue its claim if you leave. If you stay you will be killed.’ Huh. No signature. Normally they put ‘A Friend’ or ‘An Advisor’ at the end.”
“This keeps getting worse,” moaned Wynny.
“No, this is good news.”
“How is a threat to kill me good news?”
Glain dropped into a chair without an invitation. “It means they’re feeling pressure. You’ve gotten close enough they don’t feel safe hiding. You’ve made them come out and do something. Your investigation is succeeding.”
“I don’t see how. I just have a list of people who didn’t do it.”
Wynny waved at the diagrams covering two walls. She’d identified seven Christian groups in the city, four ‘Bookers’ and three ‘Haroldites.’ Each group had a list of names under it, written in different colors to indicate the source of the assessment. Pink was for data from her secret society contact, Mr. Anonymous.
She still wasn’t sure how much to trust him. The escalator encounter didn’t offer any evidence. Much of the information she’d received from him had proven true. But he could be one of the murderers trying to throw her off the trail.
Glain studied the diagram. “There are at least six people involved in that murder. Each one has a clan. That’s a hundred people who know them. They are presumably in one of the Haroldite groups. That’s another fifty to a hundred people who know them. That is in total maybe a thousand people with the information you need. And you just need one of them. Once we pull one murderer in he’ll crack and give up the others.”
“I’m not a cop,” said Wynny. “I can’t put him in a cell and threaten to turn him over to the Censorials.”
“No. But you can threaten to sue his clan for the full bloodprice. I can’t beat a suspect bloody. Clan elders can do whatever they want. The law doesn’t affect adjustments internal to the clan.”
Which was true. But no one would marry into a clan where the elders used even a fraction of that license.
“That’s . . . yeah. But I need to find a clan whose elders I can threaten.”
Glain studied the lists some more. “Ah! Clan Rees.”
“They don’t have any of the preachers or organizers.”
“No, but they have a member of a Booker and a Haroldite group. Putting them against each other might draw out something useful.�
��
Wynny checked. Those names were in blue, ones she’d verified herself. “You’re right. I should go visit tomorrow. I’ll talk to them one at a time, then together.”
“Just be careful. When members of a clan join rival secret societies, it’s a sign there might be some conflict within the clan. Don’t be in between them if the elders draw knives.”
***
“What amazes me is how many worlds are awaiting a chance to revolt as soon as their local Navy contingent is out of sight,” said Admiral Pinoy.
The captains and commodores sitting around the conference table laughed at the half joke. At the head Governor Yeager smiled thinly. He sympathized with his fellow governors not wanting to give up their entire squadrons. Saying so would drive a wedge between Yeager and the naval officers.
He was on the Navy’s side anyway. Every governor was wasting their time. It would take days off the straight route to reach each provincial capital. Then the governor would spend a day or two quibbling over how much of his squadron would be enough to comply with the Monitor’s order. Once the ships were gathered and pilots who knew the next stage of the route were found they would head for the next capital . . . and waste even more time there.
“I believe receiving additional forces as individual ships rather than organized units may be an advantage for us,” continued the admiral. “Provincial squadrons are light and medium ships organized around one or two capital hulls. That’s not how we want to arrange them for a fleet on fleet action.”
Yeager was impressed. Pinoy had just pulled them from the pre-meeting chit-chat into the real business of the meeting. He’d deferentially taken the seat to Yeager’s right but was exercising control.
“Battleships and carriers will be added to the squadrons from the Monitor’s flotilla.” The two junior admirals nodded. “Everything else will have to be organized into brand new squadrons. I’m most worried about the heavy cruisers. They’ll be our primary strike force in moving engagements, the hammer against the anvil of the capital squadrons.”
Pinoy paused, then fixed his gaze on the man across the table. “Commodore Meckler. I’ve reviewed the large-scale maneuver records you provided. With the Governor’s permission—” a deferential nod “—I intend to appoint you as commander of the Strike squadron.”
“I grant it, of course,” said Yeager.
Meckler straightened in his chair. “Thank you, sir.”
“It’s going to be an ugly job. You’ll need to make crews who’ve been operating independently learn how to keep their place in a formation.”
“They’ll be dancing expertly by the time we get to Corwynt, sir.”
“Very good.” Pinoy went on to discuss the light cruisers.
Governor Yeager ignored the content in favor of studying Pinoy. The admiral had just finished transforming Meckler from a rival who’d expected to command Yeager’s force to a loyal subordinate. At the same time he’d demonstrated to the leadership of the fleet that while Yeager reigned it was Admiral Pinoy who ruled.
That made the governor uncomfortable. He was accustomed to holding absolute power in his domain and reflexively suppressed threats to it. But this wasn’t truly his domain. He was enabling the creation of this fleet without the experience to control it. A competent naval officer was needed to make the real decisions.
Yeager admitted he didn’t know how to judge officers. But if Admiral Pinoy could fight a battle as well as he ran a meeting they were in good hands.
When the meeting wrapped up Yeager gave Admiral Pinoy a slight wave to indicate he wanted a private talk. The admiral ushered his subordinates out and took a seat next to the governor. “How may I help Your Excellency?”
“I’m worried about time. Six months seemed like much more than we need until I discovered how far we needed to divert to reach each provincial capital and how long my peers would argue about how many ships to give up. Do we need to gather all these ships? Can we just take the Monitor’s donation and the Corwynt squadron?”
Pinoy put on a thoughtful face as he considered this. “If we have a force advantage over the barbarians we won’t need much time to beat them. From the embassy’s revelations we’ll have less than two weeks travel time from Corwynt to their world. Then we’ll break their ships in a day and you can accept the barbarians’ surrender.”
Yeager snorted. “It can’t be that easy, or you wouldn’t want all the extra ships.”
“No.” The Navy man smiled. “But I’d rather have ships than time.”
He drew up a partial map of the Monitor’s district on the table’s holoprojector. It wasn’t detailed enough for navigation—neither man had the security clearance for that—but showed the relative positions of the provincial capitals well enough to let them plan a rough route back to Corwynt.
“There,” said Admiral Pinoy. “Four months gathering forces, one for defeating the enemy, and a few weeks for anything that goes wrong. Is that acceptable, Your Excellency?”
“It is. Thank you, Admiral.”
***
The note said, ‘Distillation Plant 7. 5:30 pm.’
After three weeks of running around the sublevels Wynny knew where that was without checking a map. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a Sacrificed God service. Distillation on the industrial scale was too noisy for singing. Probably someone wanted a conversation that couldn’t be overheard. Confession, accusation, threats?
Or a murder attempt? No one would hear screams there.
Wynny called Detective Glain.
“No, I think it’s safe to go,” said the police officer. “Just to be safe, go early and run away if anything looks suspicious.”
“Sure.” Wynny was all for running away. She’d done a few self-defense lessons with a friend of Glain’s. But the instructor put a stop to it when she found out Wynny was pregnant, even if she wasn’t showing yet.
She sent a notice of the meeting to the secret society contact. That assumed Mr. Anonymous wasn’t behind this as well. She’d been trying to figure out who he was without success.
Distillation plants were on the middle sublevel. Number seven was halfway across the city from Clan Parry’s ardal. This death creditor business was certainly good for the legs.
What she hated most about the sublevels was the lighting. The city installed the minimum number of lamps for safe working conditions. Which meant if one burnt out or someone broke it there was a deep pool of shadow.
Wynny carried a flashlight for such spots. She hated using it. The glow spread so far she felt she was announcing her presence to every ghost and monster in the sublevels. Usually she just shone it at the floor to check for anything she might trip over. If she heard a suspicious sound she’d wave it in every direction to check for a menace.
A few cross-corridors short of Distillation Plan 7 she’d done just that. Once she was back in the glow of the next working light she felt silly, turned off the flashlight, and dropped it in her pocket.
Another pool of shadow was beyond that light. Two men emerged from the darkness. Young men, dressed for manual labor. They weren’t hurrying to get somewhere. They were waiting.
Wynny turned around and walked faster. She saw two men at the edge of the shadows she’d just come out of.
“You should have left while you could, bitch.” The voice was male, young, angry. An ‘it’s your fault for making me do this’ anger.
She broke into a sprint, trying to run between the two who’d been behind her. They closed up. Caught her with all four hands. Threw her back into the light.
Rolling saved her from a real injury. Her knees and elbows complained about the concrete floor. She pulled herself to her feet and staggered away from the ones who’d manhandled her.
“You kept causing trouble. If you just left things alone you could have been fine,” said the angry voice.
“A boy was murdered!” yelled Wynny.
More men were coming out of the darkness. Now there were six. Eight. More?
�
�You could have left the city,” said Angry. “You could have paid them off. But no, you wanted to wear your fancy hat and cause trouble.”
They were closing on her slowly. Wynny realized these weren’t casual killers. They’d need to be worked up to it. Angry was working them up.
She tried to get her back against the wall. One grabbed her arm and yanked, sending her into the middle of the corridor.
Wynny tried to think of some way to calm or divide them. She was too scared to form any words.
A blonde man, barely more than a boy, knocked the fedora off her head. The one it landed in front of kicked it across the circle. Then they started stomping it. In a moment the fedora was flat cloth.
Wynny stared at it. In minutes that would be her unless she thought of something. And she couldn’t think of anything.
One of the hat-stompers was worked up enough to kick Wynny in the shin. She recoiled, bumping into the man behind her. He shoved her away.
For a few mad moments she was the ball in a game of catch, bouncing across the circle with each toss. Then her feet couldn’t keep up and she fell.
Wynny twisted to land on her side. She curled up, knees to her chest. Kicks hit her legs, her buttocks, her back. One hit the top of her head making her see stars.
Her head was unprotected because she’d crossed her arms over her belly. “Stop! You can’t do this! I’m pregnant!”
Angry said, “If you cared about your baby you’d have left town, whore.” A boot hit her shoulder blade, sending pain down her arm to the fingers.
Then there were more kicks and more pain and she couldn’t tell them apart.
The kickers’ grunting suddenly became shouting. An electric crackle sounded. Wynny felt a tingle on her leg, as if she were too close to a live wire.
“After them! Don’t let them get away!” shouted a raspy voice.
“This one’s done.”
“Tape them up. You, go see if the others need help.”
“We got both. Anyone want to help me drag them?”
“Stay down, dammit.” That was a woman’s voice. Followed by that electric sound again.
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 11
