Wynny snapped, “Only if you want them killed.”
Marcus agreed, “We’d need to keep our own people separate. Just give the Jaaphisii a target and channel them. There’d—there’d probably be a lot of collateral damage.”
“They’ll smash everything,” said Wynny. “Shoot everything. Steal what they can carry. Smash you again.” The last was aimed specifically at Marcus.
“Again?” asked the adjutant.
“My first visit, a Jaaphisii attacked a fellow crew member and me. We won.” Marcus repressed the urge to rub his jaw where he’d been punched flat. The mechanic had done most of the fighting. But Marcus had put in enough blows to impress Wynny.
“That sounds like the aggression we need. I don’t mind collateral damage. Make a plan.”
The plan needed several revisions to win Wynny and Vychan’s concurrence. They were still done before the Jaaphisii fleet arrived in Bundoran.
***
Marcus stood on the center pier of East Docks. None of the city residents were in sight. The only people with him were Gunny Janulis, Private Donnelly, and a couple of dozen Marines to teach firearms—or rescue him if this went badly.
The ships were an impressive sight. The biggest three-master was over two hundred feet long. It coasted toward the pier. The crew were furling up the sails. They were marked with the veins of the sea monsters they’d been flayed from. The masts were of bone. The hull was a shell.
The crewmen glanced at Marcus. Their usual welcome was merchants wanting the first cut of the catch and police ordering them to keep their damage within the usual limits.
Marcus was strange. Their expressions said they didn’t like that. They’d never seen a uniform like his with the grey/brown camouflage splotches. His skin was several shades lighter than the usual Corwynti coffee with milk color.
Flung ropes caught on the bollards and pulled tight. The hull squealed as it rubbed against the bumpers on the pier. Sailors lined the rail, preparing to jump onto the pier.
Marcus leapt onto a table. Took a deep breath. Shouted, “I hate the Censor!”
He could see the shock on their faces. They all thought it. They’d probably all said it to each other. But saying it above a whisper? In a city? To strangers?
“I’ve killed the Censor’s men! My friends and I freed this city from the Censor’s rule!”
Now they were truly shocked. Jaaphisii were asking each other to confirm what they’d heard. There were loud claims Marcus must be mad.
“We’ve left a few for anyone who wants to fight them. The top level of the city is still full of Censies. Is anyone here brave enough to fight them?”
Wynny thought saying that might get him killed. It was the kind of accusation that would turn a one-on-one barfight into a melee with all of the target’s friends and relatives.
Some of the men landing on the pier looked ready for just that kind of brawl. They took a step back at a barked command.
The man pushing through them was tall and lean. Marcus had to keep himself from flinching as he looked at the man. Fieran medicine could restore anyone who lived to his original condition. He’d never seen anyone with as many scars as this man.
His skin was burnt like leather from decades of sun. A white scar ran from his forehead to out of sight behind his head. One ear was half gone. The ring and little fingers were gone from his right hand. More scars peeked out from his open vest and frayed shorts.
The man lifted up a jagged tooth pendant. “I am Kurok, fleet chief. Who are you?”
“I am Marcus Landry, from the world Fiera. I came here to fight the Censorate.”
More chatter among the ship crews. Kurok said nothing.
“I have rifles taken from dead Security troops. Those men will teach you to use them. Will you take them to fight the Censor?”
That ended the chatter. All eyes turned to Kurok. Marcus noticed Jaaphisii women, heads hooded, peeking over the railing.
Kurok turned to his ship. “We will fight.”
A roar went up from the Jaaphisii.
“Not star watchers or fish smellers. No fems, no babes. The rest may fight.”
Men from every ship jumped onto the piers. The kraken, tentacles swaying in the waves, was left floating on its tow ropes.
Marcus walked briskly toward the wharf. The Marines were already in their positions before the city wall. Each one had an ‘X’ taped on the wall as a target.
“Those men are rifle teachers,” called Marcus. “Form lines at each one. Each one of you will have a turn learning the rifle. We’ll have rifles for all of you at the fourth level.”
Forming lines wasn’t a new concept for them. Anyone out of position was cuffed into compliance by his fellows. The lines quickly bent to extend onto the piers.
Instructions didn’t take long. Aiming, loading, clearing a jam. A demonstration shot every six students. Three practice rounds for each. The number was chosen to ensure they’d run out before the end of the line.
It helped that Censorial Security chose a simple design for their rifle. Riot suppression didn’t require as accurate a weapon as infantry combat. After test-firing one Gunny Janulis had snarled, “These fuckers don’t care who they shoot.”
All doors but one leading out of the docks were locked. As the training drew to a close, Marcus took position by the open one.
As each rifle ran out of ammo the Marine turned it over to the senior Jaaphisii waiting to receive it. The fisherfolk had sorted their precedence with no visible squabbling.
Chief Kurok claimed Gunny Janulis’ rifle. Marcus never thought of the Gunny as ‘sleek’ or ‘polished’ but next to the Jaaphisii . . .
A shot fired. There was a pause. Gunny Janulis announced, “The range is cold.”
Marcus shouted. “Brave men! Are you ready to fight?”
“Yes!” came as one.
“Are you ready to kill?”
“Yes!”
“To make the Censorate bleed?”
“Yes!”
“Then follow me!” He waved them after him as he went through the door. The thunder of feet propelled him into a faster trot than he’d planned.
Turns weren’t a problem. When he reached the end of the corridor painted arrows marked the only direction not blocked off by piles of tables.
The stairs bent back and forth, giving Marcus a glimpse of his followers. Chief Kurok led, a rifle in one hand and a tooth-edged sword in the other. The stairs were packed with men. Marcus pushed himself faster.
Four floors up took them to the top of the ardal. Tape arrows on the floor sent them down a hall to the stairs inside a conduit.
That was a straight ascent. Marcus could feel Kurok’s breath on his back. He regretted wearing his pistol, boots, and every other bit of Marine gear strapped to him.
The conduit let them into a second level ardal. Blocked halls and arrows pointed them to interior stairs. Marcus led the stampede up it.
From the stairs they needed to cross the top of the ardal to the next conduit.
Kurok pushed Marcus’ shoulder, sending him into a stack of furniture blocking a cross-corridor. “Too slow, lubber.”
Marcus leaned against the barrier, panting, as the Jaaphisii streamed by. His thighs were screaming in pain from going up twelve stories. Maybe fifteen, back home.
The single file parade was going faster now. How could they keep up this pace? And if they kept it up to fifth level, could they still fight?
They had a variety of weapons. Most were carved from shell or bone. A few were metal, bought from cityfolk in place of a bottle of whiskey. Some of the more broad-shouldered men carried stone headed hammers. The few women in the stream bore long spears.
When a gap appeared, Marcus leapt into it. He’d rested enough to keep up with them. Not that his legs wanted to go up stairs again.
Going through the third level ardal the Jaaphisii slowed a bit. Still a brisk trot. But they weren’t machines.
“You like the run, lubber?
” asked the man behind him as they went up the conduit to fourth level.
Marcus held out his hand with a thumb up.
Whatever that meant to Jaaphisii, the man laughed.
The line slowed to brisk walk in the fourth level ardal. A bottleneck must have propagated back.
At the top floor Marines handed loaded rifles to each Jaaphisii going by.
Marcus slipped past them to where the regimental sergeant major was overseeing the operation.
“Private, water for the Lieutenant,” snapped the RSM.
Marcus held his breath as he drained the bottle in one blissful gulp.
The RSM looked him over. “You ain’t ever getting the sweat stains out of those fatigues, sir.”
“Worth it.” Marcus took the second bottle from the private. Then he stepped forward to watch the attack.
The conduit stairs here were guarded by a rifleman. One bullet could go through six bodies. The attack had to go over the conduit.
This escalator was ten-foot square steps. Frozen in place by the defenders, the edge of the next step was ten feet above the one below it.
The Jaaphisii didn’t slow down for them. Pairs of men stood below the edge, tossing up each fighter who came to them. The ones tossed pulled themselves onto the next step as smoothly as if climbing into bed.
Every dozen tosses the pair would be replaced. Marcus didn’t see any signal. One stepped into the spot, the other went up.
“Landry, we have a better view here,” said Lt. Col. Hambley, the adjutant.
Marcus followed him into the next room. It was a company command post. The first lieutenant in command was in full armor, ready to lead his heavies out.
A camera somewhere above them let Marcus see the whole fight. Marines were firing on positions left and right of the conduit to suppress enemy fire.
The bodies on the escalator said they’d only partially succeeded.
Marcus noted the Jaaphisii didn’t break their stride going over the bodies. They just stepped smoothly over as if they’d always expected them to be there.
Openings torn in the Censorial ardal by Marine rocket fire let the Jaaphisii in. No one came out. Marines on the roof of the fourth level reported hearing rifle shots.
“I could reinforce them,” said the armored company CO.
The adjutant shook his head. “That’s asking for friendly fire.”
A catwalk connected the ardal under attack to its neighbors. The enemy sent reinforcements across it. Marine heavy weapons cut them down halfway there.
The roof outpost reported they didn’t hear any more shots.
The adjutant rejected another request from the armored company CO.
A corporal watching the video feed said, “Is that . . . blood?”
Everyone in the command post turned to the screen. A dark red stream flowed out of a hole ripped in the base of the ardal. It crossed the sidewalk girdling the building. The flow dropped off the edge, falling to the grass four hundred feet below.
“What the hell did they do?” wondered the adjutant.
Marcus said, “Sir, the city militia only took prisoners when we were there to make them.”
“God damn.”
There wasn’t an answer to that.
“Colonel, we could go in and establish control,” said the armored CO.
“No,” answered the adjutant. “We need to wait until they’re done, or we’ll be at war with both sides. Whatever they’re doing in there, we’ll wait for them to come out.:
Marcus felt his stomach twist as he watched the blood drain from the structure. He’d known they were barbarians, but hadn’t imagined what must be happening now.
A sergeant sat up. “Sir! Headquarters says the mayor is on the line. They say he wants to surrender, sir.”
***
“All of the furniture is custom made for Your Excellency,” gushed Proconsul Vulkoro. “I ordered it as soon as we had word that you were relocating. The carpeting is all new as well.”
Bridge Yeager nodded politely as Vulkoro let him around the Governor’s Suite, which a week ago had been the Proconsul’s Suite. Yeager would have been fine with using the guest quarters he’d had on his last tour of the province. But Vulkoro had to make a show of his hospitality.
Lompoc wouldn’t have been his first choice for a new capital. Shian was closer to Corwynt. But the Navy wanted him at least two planets away from the barbarians in case they continued their attacks. So . . . Lompoc.
It was a nice world, except for its proconsul.
Yeager briefly considered ordering a switch of lodging assignments. He didn’t have enough family or servants to fill the grandiloquent lodgings. But making Mrs. Vulkoro move again when she’d just finished unpacking would be wrong. He’d just have to fill the extra rooms with some of the Navy staff.
Yeager’s wife broke into the proconsul’s monologue. “Thank you so much for your help, Proconsul Vulkoro. I must see to my servants setting up our personal arrangements. If you gentlemen will excuse me.”
Yeager kissed Dulcinea before letting her escape. He wished he had an excuse to duck out on the tour. But he would be working with Vulkoro for years, unless he found a decent excuse to execute the pompous fool. Best to keep the relationship friendly.
The proconsul led him through two banquet halls, one with wood flooring for dancing, and onto a balcony on the western side of the Proconsular Palace. Yeager joined him at the railing, manfully resisting the temptation to shove him. A three story drop probably wouldn’t kill him anyway.
“We’ve held banquets out here when the weather permits. Lompoc has lovely sunsets in spring and fall.”
Yeager murmured a reflexive pleasantry. “The city is beautiful.”
“If Your Excellency would look past the river, you’ll see some brand new construction. The building going up between those two hills is a factory for ship-to-ship missiles. Our industrial base has everything needed for the standard Navy design. The two factories to the right are for fighter control systems and warship auxiliary power generators. The naval veterans on my staff say those are components needing frequent replacement.”
Yeager was too startled to say anything.
“Past the factories, where the notches are cut in the forest, will be the training camp for new recruits. We have enough retirees to run them through the early stages of basic training. Then they can go to Dragoon or Navy camps as needed.”
All of that was needed, of course. Yeager hadn’t had time to think about arranging such things.
The governor said, “This is superb initiative, Proconsul Vulkoro. You’re advancing the effort to defeat the barbarians. I will mention your name and your accomplishments in my next dispatch to the Monitor and Consul.”
Vulkoro beamed.
If he was helping win the war, Yeager decided, Vulkoro could be as sycophantic as he liked.
***
This fifth level ardal had been reserved for senior Censorate officials, their personal staff, and their favorite native collaborators. Now the inhabitants were living in a spaceport hangar until a real prison camp could be built.
The Provisional Government would be using it for their home and offices. They were en route, waiting for fighting to end on the planet. A few cities still awaited the arrival of Fieran troops. They’d seen the fate of Censorials who’d surrendered to Corwyntis.
Marcus had been attached to the Provisional Governor’s staff. The Marines had all the interpreters and militia leaders they needed now.
He’d taken advantage of being the first one on site to pick out a good apartment for Wynny and Niko and himself. Not an excellent one—he knew reaching too high would get him bumped out by some politician or bureaucrat—but still roomy for the three of them and close to all the facilities.
The second-level clan which cleaned and maintained the ardal thoroughly looted it of all the personal property the Censorials left behind. The furnishings and bedding were at hotel-level cleanliness. They wanted to make a g
ood impression on the new management, starting with Marcus and Wynny.
Once the cleaners went home the ardal was empty.
That gave the two of them plenty of privacy for their first marital fight.
“I thought I knew what I was marrying into,” said Wynny. “Be crew on a freighter. I know shipping. I’d learn hyperspace. That was good.”
“That’s what I expected, too.” Marcus glanced at the door of Niko’s bedroom. Their baby was down for the night, unlikely to interrupt them.
Unfortunately for him.
“You came back as part of this embassy. Entirely different work. I was glad I had skills they needed. I was happy to work for them.”
“You did good work,” said Marcus. “The Ambassador appreciated it.”
“I missed you fighting battles in the Navy completely.” The anger was leaking into her voice now. “Good thing. I can’t think of what I would have done for them.”
He offered a placating smile. It didn’t help.
“Then you show up with these men with rifles, these Marines. I hear shots before I even know you’re back.”
Wynny stopped. Closed her eyes. Took deep breaths.
He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to interfere.
She spoke again. “So, you’re in this clan I never imagined. Fine, this is my husband’s clan. I work hard. I contribute my skills. I learn the names and faces of as many as I can in this new clan.”
“Your work saved many lives,” said Marcus. “The award Colonel Palmer is recommending you for recognizes your good work.”
That didn’t soothe her at all.
“Now. Now. Now you go from Marines to this new clan. I’ve never met them, I know nothing of them. I don’t know what work I can do!”
The anger was boiling now. Marcus glanced at Niko’s door again.
“Five clans! Five! What kind of vagabond, drifter, hopper are you, Marcus Landry? Five clans would be many for a lifetime! But for a year? How can you do this?”
Anger released, she sagged now. Tears glistened in her eyes.
“Where does it end?” she asked. “Will there be a new clan every six months? Will I have work I can do well? Will Niko grow up with cousins and friends or be torn from every place he settles?”
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