Roger replied, “We’re both on the crew, sir.”
“I need to confirm some information. What is the ship’s home system?”
“Fiera.”
The officer scribbled on his tablet. “Planet?”
“Fiera. It’s the first planet settled in the system.”
“Spelled the same way?”
“Yes, sir. F – I – E – R – A.”
More scribbling. “And city?”
Roger didn’t have an answer to that. Soon jumped in. “We’re registered out of Argos Station, the high port.”
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
The Censorial walked back to his floater. His native driver sped off as soon as he was seated.
“What was that about?” wondered Roger.
Soon said, “I don’t know, but we’d better tell the captain.”
***
“A really great deal on used floaters” were words to make Captain Landry wary. Marcus was busy at the Goch warehouse again so he took both Gander and Tets along to inspect them. Fieran engineers could reverse engineer used equipment as well as new . . . but only if it worked in the first place.
As the trio ascended the escalator toward the dealer’s shop Landry noticed a cleaning bot hovering by the underside of the structure. It was erasing some graffiti.
“Crap.” The escalator didn’t stop, but Landry’s body stiffened as he unconsciously tried to resist going closer.
Gander looked around for a threat. “Trouble, sir?”
“Not—immediately.”
The graffiti was the number 3756—the current year in the Gregorian calendar. It must have been written by one of the members of Vychan’s secret society, or someone they’d told, or . . . how far had that little fact spread?
“Something wrong with that number?” asked Gander.
Landry realized he’d been staring. He turned to face the other side. “It’s . . . well, call it a political statement against the Censorate.”
“Good,” snapped Tets. “It sucks.”
“It does,” agreed Gander. “But I don’t want to be in the crossfire when they start shooting rebels.”
“Rebels should shoot them. Maybe we sell them some guns next trip.” Tets mimed holding a rifle.
“Shut up, for God’s sake,” said Landry. “There could be a microphone in the railing.”
The silence continued until they reached Ilar’s Reliable Vehicles.
***
A card game was running in Azure Tarn’s galley when Welly came home. The players glanced at the chronometer. Almost an hour past midnight. She drew a tall glass of water from the sink, gulped it down, and refilled it.
“Thirsty work?” asked Soon.
“Uh-huh. Dance class. Dilwyn was spinning me around the ballroom all evening.” Welly sipped more water.
Betty stage-whispered, “Not a mattress?”
Soon kicked her in the ankle.
“I liked the dance they invited us all to.” Roger tossed the king of hearts into the middle then collected all four cards.
“Those were all easy,” said Welly. “There were some really fun ones tonight.”
He gave her a look. “I think I’ll stick to the easy ones.”
Soon led with the deuce of trumps. “Is Dilwyn a good teacher?”
“Hell, no. He’d never done some of them before. I think I was learning faster than him.” Welly smirked. “Or it’s easier when I’m not leading.”
Roger sacrificed a club and shoved the trick toward Betty. “So where is this leading? He sounds serious.”
The glass tilted up as Welly finished it. “Yeah. Too serious maybe. He’d be good for a fling. But he wants something steady.”
“Looking to breed you?” asked Betty.
“Maybe. More that he needs to be married if he wants a promotion. They won’t give real responsibility to somebody who might marry out.”
Soon looked up from her cards. “It’s for a raise? That’d kill a relationship for me.”
“No, it’s not like that. More that you’re not really an adult until you’re married and have kids of your own.”
“Run away, girl.” Betty played the ten of spades.
“I don’t know. He’s tempting me.”
That stopped the card game. Even Alys, who’d been ignoring the conversation, put down her cards.
“Seriously? You’d jump ship?” demanded Soon.
“The Articles allow us to resign at any port.”
Roger said, “It’s not the ship. It’s your family, Fiera, everything you’re leaving behind.”
That made Welly twist her mouth in a bitter smirk. “My family’s no loss. There’s a reason I became a spacer.”
“You want to live under the fucking Censorate?” said Betty.
Welly shrugged. “I don’t like the Censorate. But a lot of places suck back home. People are happy here.”
Alys said, “Lots are happy back home.”
“Lots aren’t. Nobody dies alone here. You’re part of a big family.”
“Strange attitude for somebody who wanted to get away from her family,” countered Betty.
“It’s—it’s different.” Welly waved her hands as she tried to verbalize her idea.
The rest waited quietly.
“Okay. If you have a little family, mom, dad, two kids, and one goes bad, there’s nobody in the family to fight back. Back home there’s spouses beaten, kids beaten, and nobody knows until they wind up in the hospital.”
Tears shone in Welly’s eyes. She took a couple of deep breaths.
“Here’s it’s a big family. At least a hundred people. If anyone gets nasty there’s cousins, uncles, grandmothers around. They keep assholes in check. You can find someone you like in the family. You’re safe.”
Soon said, “That makes sense . . . but I’d think it could still go bad. A small clique of assholes on top can make everyone else miserable. I was in a company like that. Got out as fast as I could.”
“That’s what happens here. Dilwyn told me a story of a clan that went bad like that.” She topped off her glass and sat at the end of the table.
“The oldest generation all died or went senile. Four couples took charge of the clan. They had the key positions in the clan business and intimidated the others in their generation. Started throwing their weight around. Spending clan money on luxuries for themselves, not doing their share of scut work, pushing people just to make them submit.”
The deck of cards had been reshuffled for the next deal. Welly picked it up.
“The young people didn’t invite anyone to marry in. They took any chance to marry out.” Welly took a dozen cards off the deck and dropped them on the table.
“That meant fewer people to do the scut work and more pressure from the clique on top. The middle-aged folk who’d married in divorced and went back to their birth clans.” Another dozen cards landed on the table.
“Then those divorcees married out to rejoin their exes.” A dozen more.
“By now there’s a lot less people to boss around and still the same amount of work for the clan business. But the clan has such a bad reputation no one wants to marry them. So the ones who wanted to marry out join the Censorial Service. Or run away to the Jaaphisii. Even suicide.” With each phrase a few more cards were discarded.
“Nothing left but the clique on top.” Welly fanned out the cards left in her hand. “Couldn’t run the factory. Defaulted on their contracts. Used up their credit.”
“Did they starve?” asked Roger.
“Maybe they would have,” said Welly. “But a clan with more people than work bought the factory and the clanhold to split off a daughter clan. All the price the clique could ask was room and board until they died. They lived their last days on mediocre food served by people who mocked them. And clan Thwylla is still a word to stop someone abusing his authority.”
Betty gathered up the cards and began to shuffle.
Alys said, “If it happened onc
e, it can happen again. We won’t be here for you to go home to if the Goch clan goes bad.”
“I know,” said Welly. “But there’s people marrying into Clan Goch. So they think it’s going to stay healthy.”
Cards skimmed across the table as Betty dealt out the deck. “How about we play and Welly screws up her life on her own?”
***
Vychan was already seated when Landry entered the spaceport tavern. The broker waved, almost bouncing in his seat.
“The deals are set,” he said as Landry joined him at the table. “Everyone’s agreed. We can start the transfers.”
“Good. How long is this going to take?”
“About four or five days for all the swaps.” Vychan unrolled a display on the table, shoving a bowl of chips aside to make room. “Here’s the sequence.”
The diagram was a flowchart, a dozen nodes each marked with the logo of a clan business. The arrows wore illustrations of the goods being traded and notes with quantities and other information. The flow split and rejoined in the middle for a few nodes for extra complexity.
The Fieran shook his head. “I don’t think I could handle doing business here.”
“Oh, it’s usually not this bad. For a while I was afraid we’d have to use cash to patch over some of the links, and bring the Censorial tax collectors in on it all. But this way it’s all exchanging goods of roughly equal value, which the Censorials ignore.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I as well. Now we celebrate.”
The barmaid arrived with plates of what seemed to be spaghetti noodles in green sauce. “Special today,” she declared.
The ‘noodles’ turned out to be shellfish tentacles. Tasty ones, to Landry's relief. Corwynti cuisine didn’t always agree with him but this was delicious.
“Nautili are scarce,” said Vychan, “but the cook here has shoaler cousins who gave him first option on a catch. Pricey, but today is a day to indulge.”
After a few more bites the broker said, “We should have a more thorough celebration after your cargo is loaded. May we have a dance in your honor at Goch Home?”
“Of course. We’d enjoy that very much.” Landry thought a few of his crew would be downright thrilled.
“Splendid. I'll have the trucks at your ship this afternoon. We’ll have the rest of your cargo offloaded and start the trades tomorrow. You’ll be on your way home in less than a week.”
“Good.” Landry traced the exchanges on the display, now obscured in a few spots by dots of sauce. “What is your profit in this venture?”
“Oh, we take a percentage here and there. I’ll have a crate of your toys, some machine tools, and furniture. The last we’ll take home instead of keeping in the warehouse for future deals. There’s beds grown too creaky for comfort. Time we replaced them.”
***
Governor Yaeger wasn’t pleased by confirmation the ship came from “Fiera.” The vault computer held a database of every planet in the Censorate. But on his appointment as governor, the District Monitor made it clear that was for emergencies only. Mere curiosity was no excuse for accessing restricted information.
No matter how curious he became about that damn ship. He wished it’d landed here at Arnvon. A casual tour would let him ‘accidentally’ run into it. But Bundoran was a third of the way around the planet. No visit there would be casual.
He tried to put it out of his mind. If his subordinates noticed he was distracted, they’d maneuver to cut into their rivals’ budgets, or try to trick him into letting restricted information slip.
Then the idea hit him. If the Fieran ship traversed three or more provinces to reach Corwynt, it was unparalleled among merchant vessels. It was almost more probable that a shift in hyperspace changed the travel distance between two points in normal space.
Such shifts were to be reported at once. The penalties for failing to do so were harsh. The ship would be confiscated. The captain and navigator would be rigorously interrogated to discover the new path. If they’d used it for political ends, executions would follow.
The carrot side of dealing with hyperspace shifts was a substantial reward, intended to exceed the profit in evading Censorial tariffs for several voyages.
If this ship found such a route and landed here, on one of the least loyal planets on this side of the Censorial capital . . . why?
The paranoid answer was, ‘Because they came from another disloyal planet and were trying to synchronize a revolt.’
A certain measure of paranoia was required in Yeager’s position. Too much became a self-fulfilling prophecy. His predecessors were more likely to be relieved by Censorial decree than assassinated by the locals . . . but Corwynt was fonder of assassination than any nearby world.
That aspect meant he couldn’t frighten Dulcinea by talking to her about it. So he brooded.
If there was a chance of a multi-planet conspiracy, Yeager needed to take action. But not any action that would make him look foolish to the Censorial Court. There were always new favorites ready to replace a governor who no longer held the Censor’s confidence.
So he waited a week before visiting the vault again.
If Fiera was a loyal planet only a couple provinces away, there was no need to worry. If it was a nest of rebels on the far side of the galaxy, he’d have justification for a treason trial. Yeager wasn’t sure which result he preferred, just that he wanted either over some mushy answer that left him undecided.
Turning on the computer didn’t improve his mood. The battery slot was blocked by a mechanical lock. Yeager hadn’t used it during his term in office, and by the feel as he wrestled with it, his predecessor may have never opened the lock. Finally, the tumblers gave way. He jammed the battery in.
A few moments left him wondering if he’d face the lesser embarrassment of asking the Dragoon guards outside for a fresh battery.
Then the screen lit up. The routine announcements that the computer woke up scrolled by. Then: ‘NOTIFICATION SENT: CENSORIAL SECURITY MINISTRY. NOTIFICATION SENT: DISTRICT MONITOR. NOTIFICATION SENT: CENSORIAL NAVY SQUADRON CORWYNT.’
“Nice to have that over with,” muttered Yeager. Then he sat down and began typing.
Censorial Security preferred the crudest interface for restricted data. Graphics, decision support, and context sensing were all ways an enemy could infiltrate. A screen of monochrome text lit the governor’s face.
The astrographic database was easy to access. It even included some data from the Censorial Census. Searches could be made by star, planet, city, or geographic feature.
It promptly informed Yeager there was no planet ‘Fiera’ in the Censorate. Nor was there a ‘Feira’, ‘Fierah’, ‘Feera’, or ‘Phiera’. Some persuasion disgorged a list of planets beginning with ‘F’. None approximated the one he was looking for.
Yeager formulated a new, very simple hypothesis. He shot to his feet, knocking the chair into a stack of encryption gear. “They lied to me. Those miserable greedy merchants lied to me!”
He controlled his anger. After a few deep breaths he shut down the computer. With a sigh he pulled out the battery and twisted the lock closed again.
Thinking about the amount of time he’d wasted on this lie infuriated him. It wasn’t a lie to him. It was a lie to the Censor.
At least he’d be able to execute them all for wasting his time.
The Dragoons and Guards came to attention as he opened the vault door. It sounded like he’d interrupted another story of how much harder Dragoon training was in the good old days before the Governor’s Guards retired from the Censorial Dragoons for easier duty.
Yeager snapped, “Lieutenant. Secure line.”
“Yessir,” said the officer. He produced a thick box from a labeled cabinet.
It was answered by the secure relay operator, who only nodded when told “Director of Order.”
A minute went by before the screen lit up. “Governor Yeager. How may I serve you?” In the background was a dinner table
with half full plates, and the director’s wife ushering children out of the room.
“The ship Azure Tarn is at Bundoran Spaceport. It is the Will of the Censor that the ship be impounded and the crew independently interrogated.”
Director Yokat swallowed. A Governor had the right to speak with Censorial authority . . . but Yeager had never wielded it before. “Yes sir. Interrogated for what?”
“For their biographies, Director.”
“At once, sir.”
***
Police Liaison Glain frowned warily at her opponent’s queen, sitting in the middle of the chessboard. Subcommandant Jamal didn’t make such mistakes. It had to be a trap.
Behind her one of the enlisted men answered the comm. “Censorial Investigative Service Planetary Operations Center, Investigator Second Class Li speaking, how may I help you?”
Glain thought the boy sounded quite alert for the night shift. He must have been indulging in the imported coffee. She didn’t dare. Once she went back to regular police work she’d never be able to afford it. No sense picking up an addiction she’d have to break.
Everyone jumped as Li’s cup sprang into the air, splashing coffee over a holoprojector. Li stood at attention. “Yes, sir. At once, sir.”
The Chief Investigator stepped toward the comm console. Li ignored him, waving frantically at Jamal.
“What?” demanded the officer.
“It’s Director Yokat,” hissed Li.
Another cup fell. The table shook as Jamal shoved it aside to reach the comm. Not, alas, hard enough to knock the chess pieces over.
“Sir, I am Subcommandant Jamal, the watch officer.”
Glain followed Jamal to listen in on the conversation. It was, after all, her duty to know what the CIS was doing so she could arrange the support of local law enforcement.
Then she heard the phrase “Will of the Censor.” No, locals would not be welcome on this assignment. Glain stayed silent as Jamal finished the call with more “sirs.”
Jamal pulled up Bundoran on the map board. “Falling rocks, that’s in Regional Commandant Feliz’s jurisdiction.” He hesitated.
Storm Between the Stars: Book 1 in the Fall of the Censor Page 13
