He sighed.
“We’re supposed to protect our knowledge. Keeping it from being lost. Each member has their own cache. And sometimes societies will exchange secrets. There’s a competition there. When members of two historical societies meet, they want to brag. ‘My secrets are more precious than your secrets.’ Or they run down a third group. ‘That’s not real history, it’s an old novel.’”
“Which could have some good data in it,” said Landry with a chuckle.
“Oh, yes. That’s the whole problem with our situation. How can we know? Nyrath is reluctant to exchange. The Censorate has created false data in the past to subvert us. We haven’t caught them doing it recently. They’re getting lazy.”
Landry tossed back some more brandy. “Good thing for us.”
“Yes.” Vychan tilted the bottle to refill his glass, realized he hadn’t drunk any, and put it back down. He took a swig before talking again.
“Nyrath declared the existence of the history text secret. But. He’s allowing us to share what year it is. And every member with connections to any other secret society promptly told them. To gloat.”
That called for another sip. Landry asked, “Will the Censorate hear about it?”
“Probably already has. That is, some collaborator has told his handler. It will take a while to move up through the bureaucracy to someone with the courage to take action.”
“What will they do?”
Vychan grimaced. He gulped some brandy with less respect than the vintage deserved. “Something. Most of the records we’ve tagged as Censorial forgeries are calendars or other time records. They make a big deal of their permanence. Million-year Censorate. If we can disprove that it cuts deep. So they’ll act. I don’t know what it’ll be. Usual slow investigation, unless someone panics.”
Landry stood and walked a few paces, as far as he could in the office. “I’m wondering if I should panic. Lift off and head for home.” The storm damage was repaired and tanks topped off. They could fly out today.
“Not yet. Nyrath’s kept them all from saying Fiera. They’ll have to interrogate someone from my society to get your ship. And this is a very suspicious time for you to leave. We’re in the middle of the trades. If you’ve offloaded some cargo and take off without receiving your payment, the Censorials will notice. You don’t want to be noticed like that.”
“No.” Landry sat. “We’ll sit tight then.”
***
Welly made an impression on Dilwyn Goch at the dance. Or, he was helping out his sister Argel. Either way, going on a double date with Roger seemed a pleasant way to spend an evening.
Dilwyn’s suggestion of a show followed by dinner brought them to a movie theater on the middle level. It felt like home. The holographic projector wasn’t superior to Fieran technology. The seats were comfortable. The big difference was snacking on fried seaweed instead of popcorn.
“Four Sisters” was a romantic comedy, Corwynt style. A money-losing factory needed experts who could put it on the right track. The eligible daughters of the clan needed to find them, woo them, and marry them, while resisting the temptation to marry out of the clan.
A series of implausible meet-cutes found a salesman, engineer, and efficiency expert. Personality clashes were solved by pairing them with a different sister from the one who’d met them. The fourth sister was freed to marry out to her true love, not to be seen again in the movie.
The climax was seeing the factory’s new products roll off the production line as the sisters packed them into boxes. Welly looked left and right to check Dilwyn and Argel’s faces. They thought it was a happy ending. A single tear ran down Argel’s cheek.
Leaving single-file with the crowd kept them from chatting. The first chance to talk was on the escalator up to the next level. Welly drank in the sights of the city’s interior. This was her first time here at night. No stars were visible through the clear walls. Instead, they reflected the lights of the interior. Most were fixed and a boring white, but there were enough colored, blinking, and moving to make it more beautiful than any night sky she’d seen on Fiera.
“Careful.” Dilwyn grabbed her arm as Welly reached the end of the escalator.
She stumbled, leaned on him to recover, and thanked him. “Sorry. I should watch my feet.”
“There’s no shame in that. It is an impressive sight, isn’t it? I’m too used to it to really appreciate it.”
Dilwyn led them around the corner of the ardal. On the structure’s wall the words “The Grey Feather” were scrawled across a thirty foot painting of a bird’s feather.
His sister stopped. “Dilwyn! What account are you charging this to?”
“Half our personal allowances, half to Marketing.”
“Marketing! You can’t—”
“Argel, they’re clients.”
“Still, you—”
“And I talked to Uncle Vychan and received permission.”
“Oh.” Argel took Roger’s arm and started walking again.
Welly understood the objections once they entered the restaurant. There were no spacers among the people waiting for a table. Just well-dressed locals and Censorials with lots of braid on their uniforms.
The walls were top to bottom photographs of sea birds in flight, or diving through the shadows of a kelp jungle. One showed a nest woven of kelp leaves floating on the water, full of eggs.
The hostess’ doubt faded away as Dilwyn proved they were on time for his reservation. The foursome was seated in a high-backed booth. Leather-upholstered walls gave them privacy from the next table.
“Whoa, this place doesn’t serve any fish?” asked Welly as she scrolled through the dishes displayed on the tabletop.
“They have a few. Hidden at the end of the list. For people who don’t like trying new things.” Dilwyn flipped back and forth among a few options.
Welly could tell the whole roasted kelpgull was tempting him. She checked the price. No wonder he was undecided. That had to be steep even for the clan marketing budget.
“Ooh, pot pie.” Roger stabbed his choice.
Argel leaned over to look. “A what?”
“That’s what we call meat in pastry back home,” he explained.
Welly settled for a breast with some local spices she’d liked on fish.
Once everyone made their choices the table blanked. A waiter delivered drinks.
“How did you like the movie?” asked Dilwyn.
“It was fascinating,” said Welly. “Everything’s so different from back home. My parents wouldn’t care what my future husband did for a living as long as he could support me and our children. My brothers and I moved out as soon as we were old enough to be on our own.”
“Like other worlds,” sighed Argel. “Everyone free.”
Dilwyn countered, “Sounds lonely. And you, Roger? What did you think of the show?”
The other spacer took a sip of his wine. “I agree, it gave me a lot of insight into your culture. I was surprised by how rough a production it was. My high school drama club insisted on better acting.”
Welly frowned at him. She didn’t want to criticize their hosts.
Argel looked puzzled. “Acting?”
“Um.” Roger thought of examples. “Okay. When her husband told the oldest sister, he’d landed a contract for a thousand of the new widgets, she was happy. The actress looked really happy.
“Compare that to the scene where the youngest married the guy she’d been mooning after the whole movie. She was happy to finally be with him. She was also sad to be leaving her family. But she didn’t look happy and sad. The actress just calmly said these words about how happy and sad she was.”
“It’s fiction,” said Argel. “You have to fill in stuff like that.”
“But I didn’t have to fill it in for the oldest sister. She could act.”
“That’s why Fflur Danna had the lead part. She’s talented,” said Dilwyn.
“But out of a whole planet why is there only
one talented actress?”
Argel shook her head. “The whole planet isn’t making the movie. Just the Danna clan. Less than two hundred people. I think they’re ‘acting’ better than our clan would.”
That brought a laugh from Welly. “Oh, God. That clan must have lots of wanna-be actors trying to marry in.”
“They do,” answered Argel. “If you look at the gossip sites they’re all about what some Danna guy did to a girl who wanted to be in a movie. But they need writers, camera operators, editors, lots of people. Not just actors.”
Dilwyn said, “I think that explains my problem with the writing.”
Then the food arrived and there was no time for movies.
Welly liked the poultry. It didn’t taste like chicken. Maybe like a chicken whose diet was entirely fish.
Desert was an amazing egg and sugar thing Dilwyn urged on them all. Afterwards a stroll to let dinner settle seemed like a good idea. The Goch family warehouses weren’t what Welly would pick for sightseeing, but it seemed normal to the locals.
The couples split up to tour the facilities. Dilwyn pointed out the cargo handling gear, with an amusing anecdote of how he’d nearly caused a forklift accident as a teen. “Of course the real heart of the business is knowing all the manufacturers in the city, and in as many other cities as we can. We get to know spacers, too. Then we introduce those that have and those that need, and there’s a deal.”
Welly realized what was happening. Crap. He’s not boasting to impress me so he can get into my pants. This is courting here. He’s showing how profitable the business is so I’ll marry in.
“Are you going to be a broker, then? Or running the warehouse?”
“Broker, if I can prove I’m good at it. I’ve been doing the legwork for some of Uncle Vychan’s deals.”
Welly made an impressed sound.
“So . . . you don’t talk much about what you do on the ship.”
She perched on a crate, bringing her eye level up to his. “Not much to say. I’ll allocate power or handle communications. I’ve even sat as pilot if there’s nothing around to run into.”
“You don’t like the life?”
“I like the ship. The crew are good people. Mostly. But I’m not going to make a life of it. I just wanted some adventure before settling down.” Welly laughed. “I sure found that on this trip.”
Dilwyn leaned in. “Would staying here be settling down, or an adventure?”
She didn’t know how to answer that. His kiss said she didn’t need to.
***
They parted from their dates at the tram station. Once they were out of sight of the platform, Welly said, “I think Dilwyn is serious about me.”
“They’re serious people,” answered Roger.
She looked at him. “Does Argel want you to stay?”
He tugged his collar closed. “No. She wants out of this town.”
***
The Governor escorted his wife into the Censorial Residence’s grand dining hall. Instead of the normal banquet table it held only a small circular one set for two.
She clutched his arm. “Bridge! Where is everyone?”
He kissed her cheek. “I don’t know. I told them to go away and didn’t ask. Happy anniversary, Dulcinea.”
“Darling! You remembered!”
“Of course I didn’t. Petra told me. She had a list of presents picked out for me to choose from. Fancy ways to show I have more money than time.”
Dulcinea laughed. “I was expecting a ruby necklace.”
“That was on the list. But then I’d spend tonight seeing you wear it while I talked to people I didn’t want to talk to.”
Yeager pulled out her chair and slid it in under her. As he took his own seat the servants moved in. Singh, the Residence’s head butler, poured the wine himself. The soup, salad, and fish courses were all set out together.
Then Singh followed the rest of the servants out, closing the grand doors of the hall behind him.
“Good heavens,” said Dulcinea. “I can’t remember when we were last this alone.”
Yeager smiled. “Singh will be back to check on us.”
She sampled the soup, then scooped up a full spoonful and savored it. Rather than take another she put the spoon down. “Bridge, can you afford to do this? You’re offending some powerful people.”
“Not the most powerful. Tonight’s dinner was all second tier. Or worse. It would have been arguing procurement and appointments. Those can all wait.”
“Then tell me about your trip. What was the worst part?”
He chuckled. “Vulkoro, the planetary proconsul for Lompoc. Spent the entire time trying to convince me to hire him on as a provincial director.”
“Which department?” she asked.
“He didn’t care as long as it was a stepping stone back to the Censorial capital.”
“Ah.”
“I’m tempted to leave him on Lompoc until he dies, but that’s not a nice thing to do to the other seventy-some million people on the planet.”
Dulcinea diverted him to other parts of the trip, extracting humorous anecdotes and trading tales from old trips of hers. They laughed and talked, only interrupting to say ‘thank you’ as new courses were placed.
“—and by then we were so desperate for some fresh air, we were glad to stop at Sierra—”
“Fiera?” he blurted.
“No, Sierra Padre. Only half terraformed, air so thin you can’t run, and hardly a single flat spot on the whole planet. They advertise a ski resort, but I didn’t try it. Why? What’s Fiera?”
“A ship came in from there, and I can’t remember where it is.” Yaeger thanked Singh as delicate cups of sorbet were placed in front of them.
“It’s a big Censorate.”
“I know. But I need to know what’s going on in my corner of it. If a ship came here from another province I want to know why. Did they take a wrong turn in hyper? Are the currents shifting to bring it closer? Or is it a stalking horse for some governor who wants to strengthen his province at the expense of mine?”
“Most likely simple traders, I’d expect.”
“Most likely. But in a big Censorate the unlikely will always be happening somewhere.”
“Look it up then. You can.”
Yeager smiled. “I’m tempted. But I’m too busy to take time out to go to the vault for curiosity.”
“And for my curiosity? I’ve never seen your sanctum.”
He scraped the last of the melted sorbet from the cup. “I’d thought of taking you dancing, or to a show. Not to the basement of the city.”
“I won’t get a good night’s sleep if you’re fretting about this.”
An hour later four grim members of the governor’s guards rode with them in a hovercar to the bottom infrastructure levels of Arnvon City. The entrance to the vault was manned by ten Censorial Dragoons. Not that an attack in force was considered a danger. The number was to prevent bribe attempts.
Once past the Dragoons, Yeager supplied the vault door with some blood for DNA checking, and a look at his retina and fingerprints. That earned him the right to supply the code word for entry. He was careful not to use the alternate word which indicated he was under duress.
Then it was just Bridge and Dulcinea Yeager sealed into a six meter square room. The vault slammed shut, forcing in enough air to make her ears pop.
“Now we’re alone,” he said.
Dulcinea surveyed it. Overflowing bookshelves. Stellar maps of normal and hyperspace. Military-looking electronic boxes of every shape and size piled on the floor. A small table with a folding chair held a computer, seemingly no different from the one in Bridge’s office. A standard battery pack lay next to it.
Bridge was already examining the star maps in search of his mystery planet. She drifted along the bookshelves, reading titles but not picking up any books. No sense testing her husband’s tolerance by pushing on the ‘need to know’ rule.
Besides, ‘CONTINGENCY PLAN
FOR GENERAL WORK STOPPAGE’ and ‘NAVAL COUNTER-INFILTRATION TEST PROCEDURES’ didn’t seem like page turners.
He pulled a book off a shelf, muttering, “I don’t see it on the maps. Maybe it’s an outpost.” After skimming the table of contents, he exchanged the book for another.
The labels on the military gear meant nothing to Dulcinea. She suspected Bridge didn’t understand them either. It was the kind of stuff kept secure by training people in a whole new language for using it.
“Damnit,” said the governor. “It’s not in any of the neighboring provinces. Or the ones neighboring them. Which is all I have.”
“Time to turn that on?” she asked, pointing at the computer.
“No. Every time it’s turned on it sends a notification to the local Navy squadron commander and the Censorial capital. I don’t want to attract attention.”
“You could simply go to the ship and ask them.”
“Let a thousand bureaucrats know that’s a worry point for me? They’d love to have something like that to leverage me with.”
She watched him wrestle with it.
At last he let out a sigh. “I bet I’m worried over nothing. Some damn clerk wrote down the name of their home city as the planet. I’ll make them recheck it.”
“Let’s turn in then.”
***
The hangar door stayed open in good weather. Corwynt apparently only had good weather and hurricanes. Roger and Soon sat at the picnic table, leisurely lunching on sandwiches.
One of the two-seater floatcars pulled up before the hangar. The smartly uniformed young Censorial officer who’d welcomed them to Corwynt emerged.
“Crap,” muttered Roger. He realized he should have brought a comm unit so he could warn the ship of an inspection. He raised his voice. “Good afternoon, sir!”
The Censorial walked over to them. The Fierans stood.
“I am Ensign Koing. I’m looking for the crew of the Azure Tarn.”
Storm Between the Stars: Book 1 in the Fall of the Censor Page 12
