Storm Between the Stars: Book 1 in the Fall of the Censor

by Karl K Gallagher

  Even Glain knew the commandant’s reputation for savaging subordinates who woke her. She was unsurprised when Jamal typed out the arrest order for Azure Tarn’s crew.

  “Should that be ‘Eyes only’?” she suggested.

  “Hmmm. Safer that way.” Jamal added the restriction to the message and sent it to the regional headquarters in Caernod.

  ‘Eyes only’ would keep any eager subordinate from bringing the message to Feliz’s quarters. The commandant wouldn’t see it until she arrived at her desk, an hour or three after waking.

  While Jamal logged the event in the POC diary, Glain returned to the chessboard. Now she saw the trap. If her bishop took Jamal’s queen, the open file would let his rook through for a checkmate.

  When he reseated himself she moved a knight to threaten the queen. The rest of the game was only interrupted by an hourly status check. When Jamal offered a rook as bait for her bishop Glain took it and acted surprised by the mate.

  “That was a tough match,” said Jamal. “May I make it up to you with lunch at Llion’s?”

  That would be social, not professional, if Jamal had his way. Glain had been mildly encouraging the flirtation to keep the Censorial happy. But tonight she had a higher priority.

  “I’d love to, but I promised Grandmother I’d take my lunch break with the clan if I could. But . . .” Glain pretended a thought had struck her. “I think she’d like to meet you. May I ask her permission to invite you to dinner at our home?”

  His face lit up. “Why, yes!”

  She locked the giggles inside until she was on the escalator down. Censorials were all assigned to planets far from their homeworld. Meeting parents was a major relationship milestone, often happening after the wedding. On Corwynt a young man often was forced to meet the parents, grandparents, and uncles before he could speak to the girl who’d intrigued him.

  Once done laughing she used her handcomm to call home. Cousin Aderyn answered the kitchen line. “Yes, dear?”

  “I’m on my break. Anything warm on the stove?” That was a code phrase in case there were any Censorial eavesdroppers.

  “A pot of chowder. The shellfish were on the shoals only ten hours ago.”

  “Sounds delicious. I’ll see you in five minutes.”

  Aderyn would be sure to tell anyone asking that Glain had come home for a meal. And likely send a few youngsters on errands to confuse anyone watching the door.

  Glain took a cross-belt to the other side of the arcology, visiting an ardal she’d never seen before. The Iwan clanhome didn’t have anyone on night watch. The sleepy youngster who finally answered the buzzer was impressed enough by her police uniform to bring her right in.

  Glain bullied him into taking her directly to Cadfan’s bedroom. The boy had enough spine to make her wait in the hall while he woke his elder.

  Cadfan Iwan emerged in a gray bathrobe. He stared at Glain for a moment before telling the boy, “Thank you, lad. Back to bed now.”

  As the youngster padded off Cadfan led her to a nook with three soft chairs. He fell into one, yawned, and said, “Didn’t I do the security lecture a month or two ago? Do I have to do it at every meeting? You should not be here. It’s a risk. You could get us all arrested.”

  “It’s important. A Will of the Censor arrest order is out for a ship from a planet I’ve never heard of. It’s on Bundoran. I’m thinking it might be who we heard 3756 from.” Glain shared the exact words of the order.

  That woke Cadfan up. He leaned back as he thought through the logic. The first new history they’d learned in decades. An arrest order for treason or something equally important. Nobody had stabbed a bureaucrat lately. The arrest was probably for the historians.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You heard the year from somebody. Pass the arrest news back so it gets to the source.”

  “Um.” Cadfan rubbed his stubbled chin. “How long do we have?”

  “Right now the order is in an inbox waiting for office hours to start in Caernod. Then relayed to Bundoran and a team deployed. Six hours. Maybe twelve.”

  “Drown it. I can’t go in person. Too out of pattern. I’ll call him.”

  “You sure? They could listen in.”

  Cadfan grinned. “That, my dear, is why we have code words. Now go. Can you find your way out?”

  Glain nodded and left.

  The head of their secret society went down the hall to his office. He ran the necessary code words through his mind. He needed to make sense to any eavesdropping Censorial analyst.

  His contact was the head of a rival history preservation group. Sometimes Cadfan wondered if the entire native population of Corwynt was involved in secret societies of one type or another.

  It took a minute for the comm screen to light up. Then Cadfan regretted not making the call audio only. Emyr Tolog bore a terrifying amount of chest hair.

  “You interrupted a lovely dream. Justify yourself,” growled Emyr.

  “I just woke from a dream too. You were having a dish of poached sea urchin at a café in Bundoran. They were serving three thousand seven hundred and fifty-six plates. With carbonated chocolate milk for dessert.”

  Cadfan paused to watch the other take it in. He seemed to be decoding it properly.

  “But first you made your reservations at an office in Caernod. You must call before office hours start and all the reservations are full.”

  Emyr nodded firmly. “That’s a fascinating dream, but couldn’t you tell it to me in the morning?”

  A wave of relief went through Cadfan as he heard the acknowledgement code word, but he didn’t let it reach his face. “I was afraid I’d forget the important parts.”

  “Go back to bed.”

  ***

  Azure Tarn moved out of the hanger to one of the open landing pads for loading cargo. They’d be gone before the next storm. Captain Landry didn’t want to pay for another month of hangar rent.

  The crates of spare parts were easy to load. They could stack on top of each other or be hooked to the tie-down points scattered on the deck and bulkheads of the cargo hold. It was the vehicles that were giving Marcus Landry fits. He’d sent members of the Goch clan back to pick up more tie-down straps twice and they were getting close to running out again.

  Captain Landry watched his son work with a calm expression. The point of making Marcus the supercargo was to train him in how to make decisions on his own. He was certainly learning that today. Besides, the captain didn’t have any better ideas on how to arrange things. A mix of floaters, air cars, and other antigrav transports would not stack in any convenient fashion.

  The captain’s mind drifted off to calculations of how much they could make selling this once they returned home to Fiera. At the very least he’d be able to pay off the note on his ship and invest in some upgrades. Or, not that he seriously considered it, sell the ship and enjoy a wealthy retirement. If he managed to get a bidding war among outfits wanting to reverse engineer the floaters to discover how the Censorate had such efficient antigrav . . . well, he could pay for some serious castles in the air with that kind of money.

  The fantasy math was interrupted by the approach of a one-man scooter, floating across the concrete of the spaceport. The driver would be collecting some fines if spaceport security saw how he was cutting corners on the painted lanes, as well as violating the speed limits. It skidded to a stop between a couple of flat-top cargo loaders waiting their turn to go onboard.

  The driver hopped off and trotted toward Vychan Goch as he oversaw the loading crew. Captain Landry walked over, wondering what the fuss was about.

  “What the leaking hell are you doing here?” snarled Vychan.

  “It’s an emergency,” said the stranger.

  “No emergency justifies approaching me in public.”

  Then the captain realized where he’d heard the stranger’s voice before. This was Nyrath, the leader of Vychan’s secret society, preserving history banned by the Censorate on pain of
death. No, they shouldn’t be meeting in public, and he didn’t want his ship and crew getting caught up in treasonable activity.

  “There’s an arrest order for your friends here.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Don’t know. Just that they’re to be taken in for interrogation.” Nyrath didn’t even try to keep his voice down. Well, everyone in earshot was in the crew or one of Vychan’s relatives, but still.

  “How do you know?” demanded Captain Landry.

  “We have friends everywhere. They passed us the word. The order is still coming through channels.”

  Vychan spat onto the concrete. “Even slow as the Censorials are, we don’t have much time. We need to get you out of here.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Most of the vehicles they’d traded their exotic Fieran goods for were still sitting on the concrete. What was on board . . . well, it would turn a profit, but not enough to justify the risks they’d taken on this voyage.

  But he couldn’t sell any of it from a Censorial jail cell.

  Landry pressed his hands to his temples trying to think.

  “Where’d you get the word from?” asked Vychan.

  “Dammit, I promised to keep it secret.”

  “Someone here or at regional headquarters?”

  The stranger grudgingly said, “A friend in Caernod.”

  “Right, then.” Vychan thought. “So Regional passes it to their Liaison, who calls the Order Sub-Director for Bundoran, who has to delegate to an actual arrest team . . . that’ll be hours.”

  Captain Landry lowered his hands. “Any chance it’ll be less than two hours?”

  “I’d be shocked.”

  Nyrath nodded in agreement.

  “Okay.” Landry turned to Nyrath. “Thank you. We’ll take it from here. Best be gone, and try not to be noticed as you go.”

  “I will. And—thank you for everything you did for us.” He hurried back to his scooter.

  The captain turned toward the open cargo hatch. “Supercargo!”

  Marcus looked up in surprise. He wasn’t used to being micromanaged. “Sir?”

  “Belay securing cargo. Toss it aboard as fast as you can. We lift in two hours. We’ll secure it in flight. Anything you can’t fit by lift time we’re abandoning.”

  Which was, of course, the sort of order his son’s academy classes said should be met with a resignation lest the ship be endangered. Marcus’s face clearly showed he was thinking of it. Then he looked at the retreating scooter and back to the captain. “Aye-aye.”

  Marcus stepped over to the PA. Through the hatch Landry could hear a muffled announcement directing all hands to join in cargo shifting.

  “What can I do?” asked Vychan. “More people? I can get the warehouse crew.”

  “No, we have about as many hands as can fit now. Buy the chandlery out of tie-downs, vacctape, and, hell, plain rope. We’ll just have to hope we can secure it all before we have to do any serious maneuvering. You can keep all the leftover floaters to pay for it.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” replied the native. He lowered his voice. “That book earned all the gear you need.”

  Captain Landry grunted. The history book they’d given away was probably the reason the Censorate wanted to strap his whole crew to an interrogation table.

  ***

  Marcus stood on the deactivated floater, his weight on his left foot. If he shifted to the right the floater would fall off the upside-down liftvan it rested on. One hand held the end of a tie-down strap while the other waved to the crane operator. “Closer, closer, port, port, forward, hold and lower!”

  The open-sided car landed on the floater, almost arm’s reach from him. A PSI instructor would decertify him for handling cargo so recklessly. Marcus looped the tie-down through the car’s uprights. He hooked it on to the stack adjacent and activated the tightening spool. In a minute car and floater were held snugly to the deck and other cargo. Not what his supercargo training would consider secure, but it would hold until they were off this world.

  “Release it!” he called. The crane unhooked and slid away to pick up the next used vehicle. Marcus picked his way down the stack. The solid deck felt comforting after swaying cargo under his feet.

  “Marcus, may I have a moment, please?” asked Wynny.

  “Yes, but we’re in a hurry. Trouble with the next set?” Marcus had set her to lining up the functional vehicles ready to be loaded in.

  “No, it’s . . . um. I wanted to talk to you at the dance tonight.”

  “Yes, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to the dance too.” But a Censorial prison would take the fun out of dancing.

  She looked down at her feet—thinking of dancing maybe—then up at him. “Marcus, have you thought of staying on Corwynt?”

  “Well, no. I like it here. I want to learn more about it, yes, but I can’t now with whatever that Censorial mess is. And I’m needed on board. We’re going to be cleaning this mess up all the way back to Fiera.” He waved at the haphazardly stacked cargo beside them.

  “Then—if there’s that much work—do you need another spacer? I’ve worked shifting cargo in the warehouse, and I’ve been up to orbit twice, I don’t get sick in free fall.”

  Marcus stammered, “We can’t—there isn’t an opening—Wynny, we could be arrested or blown up today. We can’t take someone on board under those conditions. What the heck are you thinking?”

  The native girl stepped forward, her shoe next to his, and lifted her head to press her lips against his. Not a quick peck, a firm kiss, long enough to be clear that it wasn’t an accident or a formality. Then she stepped back, her face the frightened mask of someone who’d broken a rule and feared punishment.

  Marcus was too surprised to breathe. The realization that thoughts and dreams he’d had were real, were shared, could become something greater froze him. He didn’t know what to do and was terrified of ruining this perfect moment.

  Then Wynny took another step back and started to turn. Marcus lunged forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a kiss of his own. Her lips parted under the pressure of his. She pressed her body against him and slid her hands up his back.

  They might have stayed that way forever if not for the noise of a floater crashing to the deck as it was deactivated for transport. They broke the kiss but Marcus kept hold of Wynny.

  “I can’t stay today,” he said. “And you can’t come with us today. But if I live I’ll come back here. And then we’ll figure out which one it’ll be. I promise.”

  “I’ll wait for you. I promise.”

  They gave each other a last squeeze then broke apart. She headed back out the main cargo hatch to resume her work.

  Marcus looked about to see where things stood.

  Alys sat in the crane operator booth, staring at him, her face expressionless.

  He stared back. “Pick up that floater, spacer! Time is money.”

  ***

  The captain intended to do full maintenance checks on Azure Tarn after the loading was complete, then lift off in the morning. That was out the airlock with the rest of the plan. Welly, having less muscle than other crew, was on the bridge running diagnostics on all the systems she was qualified on.

  “Um. Hello.”

  She pivoted to look at the hatch. Dilwyn stood there, looking uncertain what to do with his hands. He finally shoved one into a pocket and used the other prop himself on the coaming.

  “Hi yourself. Coming along for the trip?”

  “No. I asked permission to come aboard to, um, talk to you.”

  “All right.” She waved him toward the helmsman's seat.

  “Thank you, I won’t be staying long. It’s just—I’m sorry about all this trouble.”

  Ah. No last minute marriage proposal from Dilwyn. Well, a wanted criminal wouldn’t be his style.

  “It’s all right. We knew we were breaking some rules.”

  “I’m glad you did. I mean, I’m glad you came here. I’m glad I met you.�
��

  “Me, too.” Welly walked over to the hatch and wrapped her arms around him. He matched the hug, squeezing her tight, and leaned down for a kiss.

  A pleasant kiss, but it didn’t have the intent his kisses used to have.

  “Thank you for saying good-bye,” Welly said.

  “Yes. Good bye. And good luck. With your trip. And . . . everything.”

  Too upright to even say, ‘I hope you don't get arrested.’ How was this stiff related to a rebel like Vychan?

  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Dilwyn flashed a smile then turned away. His shoes rang down the corridor.

  Welly went back to her console. The power storage diagnostic routine still had another minute to run. No errors yet.

  ***

  Marcus took up the slack in the tie down strap then checked the time. He looked up. His father stood at the top of the forward stairs. “Captain,” he called, “how are we doing on time?”

  “Lift in eighteen minutes.”

  No change from the original timeline then. The front and aft ends of the hold were stuffed solid with vehicles stacked on top of each other. But there was no time for more of that.

  “Secure crane,” he ordered Alys. Then he turned to the Goch clansmen sitting in the driver’s seats of the remaining vehicles. “No more stacking. Drive them all in.”

  Marcus emphasized this with waves of his arms.

  A liftvan started forward. It headed for the fore corner of the bare deck in the hold. A flatbed headed aft. More vehicles followed.

  The supercargo scrambled up on the stack of ytterbium ingots welded together in the center of the hold. More waves directed the enthusiastic drivers into the best fit.

  More or less.

  “Are you all right?” Marcus asked the driver of a two seater crunched between two trucks.

  “I’m fine,” replied Dilwyn Goch, scrambling out, “but that one’s never lifting again.”

  “It’s good for parts,” said Marcus. He grabbed Dilwyn’s hand to pull him up onto the relative safety of the ingots. More drivers joined them. They watched the scrum on the deck in fascination.