Proscribed

The widow of an official executed at the supreme ruler's orders might think herself lucky to have a nice retirement. This widow wants revenge. A polite, genteel revenge.

Photo by Evelina Ionascu on Unsplash

Planet Capitol, Capital of the Censorate

The butler ushered two guests into the receiving room. “Mrs. Governor Yeager, I present Mrs. Lavvy Sandeep and Mrs. Alice Schmidt.”

Dulcinea Yeager rose from the embroidered easy chair and advanced to greet her guests. “Welcome. It’s delightful to see you both again. Thank you for visiting.”

After the embraces and formalities, Dulcinea invited them to sit on the brocade sofa next to her seat.

Lavvy took a few steps then froze. Alice followed her gaze, then stiffened likewise.

Ah. They’d seen the solid gold pistol. Easy enough to do. It was on a stone pillar, held up by a stand which kept it at the angle it had been fired in. Reflections from a pair of spotlights glittered off the jewels in the grip.

“I thought it was melted down,” murmured Alice.

“I considered it,” said Dulcinea. “It would have been the easiest way to turn the Censor’s gift into money to support my widowhood. But I have so few mementos of my husband.”

Neither woman had anything to say to that. Understandable. Widows of men executed at the direct order of the supreme ruler of all humanity were supposed to politely pretend their husband died of a heart attack or something. Not put the instrument of execution on display.

Dulcinea’s manners were exquisitely trained. She was only rude on purpose.

The butler rescued them. He returned with a tea tray.

The interruption broke Livvy and Alice’s trance on the pistol. They took their seats and accepted cups of tea. Alice even took a cookie when the platter was held out, though it lay on her palm unmolested.

Once the butler left, they managed a cheerful conversation about social activities in the neighborhood. As a new arrival to Capitol, Dulcinea had every right to be both curious and ignorant. She’d spent her life on provincial worlds, with only a few visits to the hub of the Censorate.

The younger women were happy to fill her in on all the details. Dances, promenades, concerts, and more were available to fill the evenings.

When Dulcinea’s attention was focused on one guest, the other would sneak peeks at the pistol. From this angle, they could see the carbon deposits on the muzzle from the sole time it had been fired.

They displayed polite curiosity about the worlds she’d lived on before. Their discreet hints fishing for information on the barbarian invasion she ignored. Those stories would have to be earned. Dulcinea turned the conversation back to the local dance parties.

Alice described her favorite ballroom. It sounded like a lovely bit of architecture.

“Does your husband dance?” asked Dulcinea.

Alice looked away. “Sometimes. But he’s been assigned to another world. It’s a bit rough. The subjects are uppity. So we thought it best I stay on Capitol until he was transferred again.” She bit into the cookie.

“I understand. Bridge and I were often separated for months at a time by his duties. But I was lucky that they were always safe enough I could go with him to new posts.”

She’d even been with him at his last post, where the subjects had gone past ‘uppity’ to ‘successful rebellion.’

“And your husband, Lavvy?” she continued.

“A similar situation, I’m afraid,” she answered. “That’s how Alice and I fell in together.”

Dulcinea nodded. “Understandable. You’re always welcome here, should you feel lonely, or have some gossip you’d like to share.”

She would have rather kept them longer. Etiquette said morning visits should be brief. She wrapped up the conversation and turned them loose.

Both took a path to the door which took them by the pistol. They didn’t break stride as they passed, but their looks were intense.

The farewells were warm. They promised to visit again.

Dulcinea believed them. They’d be bringing friends to see the weapon which killed her husband. The one he’d held to his head at the Censor’s order. The one he’d pulled the trigger of.

These safe, pampered wives of high ranking Censorate officials would thrill at the aura of death it carried. A reminder that their husbands could be executed at any time for any reason or none.

In her husband’s case, he was killed for trying to do a task he hadn’t been given the resources to do.

Dulcinea was still angry over that.

After seeing them off, she went back to the receiving room for some more tea.

The butler had already cleared everything onto the tray. He poured her a fresh cup.

“Thank you, Laurent,” she said.

“Of course, madam.”

Once she finished the cup she retired to her study to commit a capital offense.

One of the perks of her late husband’s office was access to all the intelligence material collected on the rebels and the barbarians who were assisting them. The most interesting was a collection of books and art going all the way back to the now lifeless planet Earth, birthplace of the human race.

Their existence was proscribed in the Censorate. All pictures, books, letters, and other creations were to be destroyed after their author’s death. An admiral had risked his life to bring her the note Bridge had written her before his death. Rather than endanger the admiral, she’d burned it after reading it.

She’d saved the ashes of the note, adding them to the urn with Bridge’s remains.

The barbarian library she’d kept in a tablet which was disconnected from the network. Its silence kept Security from noticing it. There were thousands of books in it. She’d read hundreds of them so far. There were about as many she’d sampled and left unfinished. With so many to choose from, there was no need to read ones she wasn’t enjoying.

Unlike the Censorate, where books were few and sloppily written. Most new books were imitations of another the author had liked but were now erased with the death of the original author. After those pale, mushy books the ones from the barbarian library burned through her mind like fire.

Dulcinea had promised Bridge she’d erase the library after he defeated the barbarians. He hadn’t.

She chose a new story, looking for something that could be a gift for Laurent. He was an excellent butler. He’d said he was a reader during the interview.

Giggles burst out despite her attempt to stifle them. Yes, this book would do nicely.

Laurent served dinner to formal standards. Dulcinea didn’t like dining alone, but she’d need to strengthen her connections with her new neighbors before hosting a dinner party.

At least, she’d need to know everyone well enough she didn’t seat enemies next to each other.

The food was excellent. The cook hadn’t wanted to live in, but her house was in the village, a short walk from Dulcinea’s chalet. Her daughter had come on as the chalet’s maid of all work. Laurent was the only servant living on the premises.

She supposed she might have to hire a couple more if she began entertaining large groups. But she’d have to work up to that.

After some post-dinner reading, she started her bedtime routine. Laurent came in to turn down the covers.

“I’d like some tea for a nightcap,” she told him. “And pour yourself one. Let’s have a brief chat.”

“Herbal tea, madam?”

“That would be lovely. Whatever you think best.”

His choice was both delicious and soothing. She complimented him on his choice, and led the conversation through some idle chatter before asking her question. “You’re an excellent butler. I’m surprised you were available when I was hiring. Would you be willing to describe your previous assignment?”

“Thank you, madam. I’d been in the service of a naval officer, working in the procurement bureau. He was transferred to ship duty. As a civilian, I could not accompany him.”

“I see. That must have been satisfying. I hope my household will not bore you.”

“If you’ll forgive my presumption, madam, I look forward to a regular routine without the, how shall I say it, fusses, my former employer would fall into.”

Dulcinea smiled. “A hard partying young man?”

“Not quite so young. But certainly a partier.”

“I am relieved to know you’ll be able to handle any party guests who go beyond the line.”

“Of course.”

That tidbit about Laurent’s past helped her make the decision she’d been thinking on. “Since you’ll have some time on your hands, I wanted to offer you a book.”

The butler accepted the data chip she held out and took his tablet from his pocket. He frowned at the title which came up on the screen. “Carry On, Jeeves? I haven’t heard of that one before.”

“No, it’s from Corwynt. The author is quite young,” she assured him mendaciously.

“Thank you, madam. I look forward to reading it.”

In the morning she found breakfast prepared for her before she could reach the kitchen. It was delicious. She resolved to lay claim to some meals—perhaps a few lunches—so her cooking skills wouldn’t deteriorate.

Morning visitors arrived again, two groups of three this time. Clearly word of the pistol had spread around. No one was gauche enough to talk about it, but they stared.

Alice Schmidt came over in the afternoon. Dulcinea sat on the couch with her to invite a more intimate conversation. After the second cup of tea she started asking about how Bridge had been as a husband.

“Distracted, unfortunately. A governor’s duties will absorb every moment of the day if he allows it. But he carved out time for me. He truly paid attention to me when he did have the time. And of course we’d been much more intimate when we were younger and didn’t have those pressures.”

That put a grimace on the face of the younger woman. “Distraction. That’s a good word for it. Even when we’re on the same planet, Emerson is distracted from me. Thinking about his job, or how to get his next promotion, or something.”

“Better his job then other women.”

Alice barked a laugh. “I wouldn’t mind him paying attention to other women, as long as he paid me some.”

“Or danced with you?”

“He dances. When there’s a superior at the ball who might be impressed by his adroitness.”

That called for a sympathetic hug—if she’d known Alice longer. “Let’s hope he’s missing you in his new post, and he’ll want to be closer when you’re reunited. Until then . . .”

She left the room, returning with a data chip. “Here’s a story which might cheer you up. It’s from a young author on Corwynt.”

“Oh. Will we have to message the planet to make sure he’s still alive?”

Dulcinea chuckled. “We can’t. It’s in rebellion. Wouldn’t answer our messages. So best to be discreet about it, all right?”

Alice tucked the chip into a pocket. After some lighter conversation she left, promising to visit again soon.

The widow was certain the young woman would be back when she finished the romance novel. That particular book had resulted in a very enthusiastic welcome home for Bridge when he’d taken a break from fighting the rebels and barbarians. With no such outlet, Alice would be asking for another book.

There were plenty in the barbarian library. There were plenty of every kind of book. The trick would be to find the right ones.

She’d pegged Laurent’s tastes correctly. She’d heard a guffaw while reading in her study, though the butler was as straight-faced as ever when he next came in. He wanted more books.

Once she knew more of the local ladies, Dulcinea began attending the public events and making morning calls of her own. She was fitting in well. She should. She’d been trained to do these social rituals her whole life. The isolation on the Rim world of Corwynt had been a break from them, but she hadn’t forgotten anything.

As she learned more about her neighbors, she pressed books on them. Lavvy Sandeep loved tales of wilderness adventures. The wife of a Navy officer wanted war stories. Many adored the romances Alice went through like candy.

The claim they were all by young Corwynti authors wore thin. Laurent spotted it first. He listened to her stories about the island cities scattered among the world ocean of Corwynt and remarked that it wasn’t much like the countryside in the stories he’d been reading. He didn’t make a fuss. Just asked for more books.

Now that she knew enough people to be comfortable there, Dulcinea attended the balls and assemblies. She’d been afraid of not having a dancing partner, but there were officers and bureaucrats new to the Capitol at the balls, happy to take a widow around the floor.

As her reputation grew, some asked her to dance to share a whiff of her notoriety. She cultivated them. If she learned their tastes, she could give them books they’d become addicted to.

A Commander Ruslov seemed like another ordinary officer when he took her onto the dance floor. As they reached the middle, surrounded only by other dancers too busy to eavesdrop, he surprised her. “Madam Yeager, I was previously stationed on your husband’s flagship. I found him an excellent leader. I’m proud to have served under him.”

Dulcinea managed a calm, “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

She kept her composure until after the dance. Then she hid in the powder room until the tears stopped flowing.

Ruslov would not get a book. He’d come close enough to death on her husband’s behalf already.

A particular romance novel had eight readers who’d enjoyed it enough to ask for more. Dulcinea invited them for a dinner party. Laurent borrowed two footmen from a neighboring household. The cook had two cousins pitch in to help her.

It was a splendid time. The ladies traded comments on other books they’d read. All agreed that no stories they’d seen were the equal of ‘Corwynti’ fiction. Dulcinea received many requests for more books. She quelled them by saying, “Yes, but not all at once. We don’t want to draw Security’s eye.”

Security’s eye was already on Dulcinea, in a limited way. An officer walked a circuit of her chalet every Wednesday at two in the afternoon. It was to be expected. A governor’s wife had enough connections to be useful to conspirators.

The demand for books grew. A stranger named Mrs. Moyo paid a morning call on her. She only gave the pistol a glance. After some ten minutes of inconsequential chatter, Moyo mentioned a book title she was hoping to read. “Could you lend me a copy?”

“Yes, I could,” said Dulcinea. “But there’s the trouble of the author. She’s young, but she’s on Corwynt. Which would make it difficult to provide proof she’s alive, if we drew Security’s attention and they demanded evidence it wasn’t a proscribed book.”

“I certainly wouldn’t mention my reading to Security.”

Of course. No sensible person talked to Security at all if they could avoid it. “I’m sure. But the more copies of the book are out there, the more likely they are to draw attention.”

Mrs. Moyo looked anxious. “I promise I’ll be discreet.”

“I’d expect so.”

“Is there . . . is there something I could offer to persuade you?”

Dulcinea took a long sip of her tea. “A hundred credits would make up for the risk I’m taking.”

A new book only cost a few credits. That was outrageous for simply making a copy of a file. Would she pay for the risk?

Moyo’s knuckles flashed white for an instant. “I . . . very well.”

“If anyone asks, say you’re supporting my plan for a charitable ball.”

The payment only took a moment. Dulcinea excused herself and returned with a chip holding the book. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Governor Yeager.”

They went through the minimum of formalities for Mrs. Moyo’s departure.

A hundred credits wasn’t much by itself. But if everyone wanting books accepted that as a reasonable payment, she’d have a steady income.

Laurent sniffed at the lady of the house working in the kitchen herself, but made no greater objection. Baking cookies in the afternoon was a perfectly genteel way for Dulcinea to pass the time.

She kept an eye out the kitchen window as the cookies cooled. When she saw a flash of a blue uniform, she went to the back door. “Excuse me, sir. Would you care to inspect the inside of the house? You shouldn’t be out in this heat all day.”

The Security lieutenant flushed. “That’s all right, ma’am, I’m not required to inspect the inside.”

“At least come have a glass of water.”

The Security man—almost a boy—wiped his forehead and gave in. Dulcinea brought him into the kitchen and poured cold water for him.

The room was filled with the smell of the cookies. She saw his eyes go to the tray. “Oh, them. Some friends were going to come over for cards, but one of their children fell ill so we had to cancel it. I don’t know what I’ll do with these.”

She picked a cookie up and took half of it in a bite. “I shouldn’t eat them all, and they’d probably go stale before I could finish them.”

The lieutenant drank more water, tried to say something, but couldn’t come up with words. She took pity on him. “Have some, if you like. They’re best when warm.”

He did, popping a whole cookie into his mouth, then another. She drew him into conversation. “I suppose this must be a boring assignment for you. I haven’t heard of many violations in this area.”

He nodded. “It’s easy duty, yes. Too easy for me.”

Dulcinea gave him a sympathetic smile. “You didn’t join Security to peek in old women’s windows? I don’t imagine anyone does.”

“No, ma’am. I saw myself—” He broke off, flushing again.

“You saw yourself doing something more heroic?”

“Not heroic. But tracking down assassins and saboteurs in the port district or the slums, yes, ma’am. That seemed worth doing.”

“You poor boy. It almost makes me want to assassinate someone for you.”

He laughed with her. “That would liven up my shifts.”

“Do they leave you a lot of time to read?”

He had to swallow another cookie before answering. “Oh, yes. Too much. I’ve read every detective story on the planet.”

“Hmmm. Pardon me a moment.” She returned with a chip. “Here’s a novel written on Corwynt, where we were last posted. The author is young.”

The Security man added the book to his tablet. “The Big Sleep?”

“I haven’t read it myself, but some of my husband’s protection detail spoke well of it. I hope you like it, Lieutenant—?”

“Oh, I’m Lieutenant Espat.”

Dulcinea introduced herself to be polite, though the Security man must know plenty about her if he was patrolling the area. She sent him off with a bag of cookies “to share,” though he looked to have a healthy enough appetite none of them would make it back to the Security offices.

She was fine with that. It was the book she wanted to inject into them.

Alice Schmidt heard about the fee for book copies and confessed she’d given some to friends.

“That’s fine, dear,” said Dulcinea. “Once they’ve read a few for free they’ll be hungry enough to pay for more.”

“Should I send them to you to make payment?”

“No, just take the credits from them and give me half when you have time.”

The thought of having an income of her own made the young woman’s face light up.

Dulcinea discovered the scheme had been shared when Lavvy came by to pass along something over a thousand credits. She decided she would have to host a charity ball, or Security would wonder what the payments were for.

Lieutenant Espat was given more books for no charge. He only read a few pages of a cozy mystery she’d offered as an experiment, but he gobbled down all the noir she could find for him.

Organizing the ball took hardly any effort at all. Her new friends were happy to join the committee. Several experienced organizers did the work. All Dulcinea needed to do was make the payments, which relieved that troubling excess in her accounts.

Her suggestion of a costume ball was seized upon with glee. More friends were drawn in to make costumes, or recommend village women who could do the sewing needed.

On the night of the ball, Dulcinea made some brief remarks welcoming everyone, then opened the dancing with a retired judge. He was the most respectable man in the neighborhood.

It was a visual delight. The theme of ‘your favorite book’ brought many new appearances to the dance floor. Conversations broke out between the costumed and those who hadn’t read the book it was based on. As far as she could tell, every costume was from a proscribed book. She’d subverted almost all her neighbors, and the infection was spreading elsewhere.

It couldn’t last much longer. Some prig was certain to suspect the truth. Once Security was officially informed, the hammer would come down.

She felt almost relieved when Laurent announced Lieutenant Espat called one evening. “It’s very late, madam. Shall I ask him to return tomorrow?”

“No, please see him into the receiving room.” It was early for the traditional middle of the night arrest.

When he came in, she asked if he wanted tea. At his headshake, she said, “Thank you, Laurent, that will be all. Please, Lieutenant, have a seat.”

The butler closed the door behind him. The Security man stayed standing. His posture was tense. Almost if he expected to be arrested rather than being the one putting on the cuffs.

“How may I help you?” she prodded.

“I . . .” He swallowed and started again. “I gave one of those books to my supervisor. I repeated what you said about Corwynt and the author. But it’s not true, is it? The places they describe, the wars they mention, so many different authors . . . it couldn’t all be from one Rim world.”

Dulcinea sat quietly. He hadn’t asked a question.

“Books like that . . . they must be proscribed. Are they proscribed?”

“Yes, they are.” She smiled, glad to be speaking the truth. “The barbarian invaders kept books going all the way back to Earth. My husband captured their library in the fighting and gave me a copy. Originally it was to analyze the enemy’s thinking, but here it’s just recreation.”

Espat dropped into a chair, head in his hands. “It’s just like the books you gave me. An easy favor, then more. You lured me into committing crimes I didn’t even know were crimes. And now I’m a dead man if you say a word. You’re my femme fatale.”

She suppressed a laugh. Really. She was twice his age. Hardly the ideal of a femme fatale.

The Security man looked up at her. “What do you want from me? Money? I only have my pay. Information? I’m not cleared for anything important. I won’t murder anyone for you.”

That did make Dulcinea laugh. “Don’t be silly. I don’t want anyone murdered.”

Well. No one but the Censor. Espat did not have the skills to attempt that well protected a target.

“What do you want?” he wailed.

“Nothing. Only for you to keep reading. And keep giving books to your friends.”

“You want me to spread proscribed books?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“The books deserve to be read.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all,” she lied. “And to keep the secret, of course. If I’m executed for possessing proscribed books, you won’t get any more.”

She soothed his nerves with books from two new noir authors, and suggested he look up a friend’s daughter who enjoyed cozies.

After the Security man left, she asked Laurent for a glass of wine. She sipped it slowly, contemplating her revenge.

Defying the Censor’s primary law was an act of revenge in itself. If her actions were discovered now, the executions would include a few Security men, more Naval officers, and a great many wives of officers and bureaucrats. That would damage the Censor’s power enough to satisfy her.

If her network of book pushers spread more widely . . . more would realize they were reading proscribed books. They’d be forced to be rebels if they didn’t want to commit suicide by denouncing themselves. What could a network of rebels on Capitol achieve?

Not much by themselves. But if the barbarians approached the gates? That might give secret rebels a chance to strike hard.

That would be a revenge worthy of her husband’s memory.

“Proscribed” is part of the Fall of the Censor series, which begins with Storm Between the Stars, discounted this week only to $0.99. Dulcinea and her husband have a minor role in that novel.