Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The militia used the roof of one top-level ardal in every city to base its fighters. Marcus had used his rank to make his ardal the home for them in Bundoran. He was walking among the fighters as the crews arrived by floater. Sometimes an entire flight arrived crammed into a single truck.

  Once he was sure everyone was mobilizing to plan, Marcus went to the base comm shack to look at Admiral Song’s files.

  They were intelligence reports on the enemy. The fleet was in hyperspace, approaching the shoals around Corwynt’s sun. This set of shoals was several concentric spheres, with random holes allowing ships to pass through to the planet inside. A battle squeezed into the gaps between the spheres would be a scattered, chaotic mess. Exactly the situation Fieran individual initiative would be best for.

  The scouts had a rough estimate of the Censorial fleet’s size. It was well below what Intelligence had predicted for available enemy units. Marcus thought intel weenies always made worst-case estimates to cover their asses.

  There was nothing on Fieran plans. Marcus must not have ‘need to know.’

  When he came out of the shack inspections were in progress. Marcus picked a fighter at random and stuck his head in every access panel. He gave a second one a cursory look over. The rest he left alone.

  He’d picked that as the best balance between convincing the troops he cared about details and not micromanaging.

  When every fighter was fully charged, every inspection complete, and his subordinates reported the same at every militia post across Corwynt, it was time to wait.

  Marcus stretched a blanket on the grass beside his fighter. He paused for another look at the art on the side of the craft. Gold letters wrote Winning Wynny around a cartoon picture of his wife. She’d insisted the artist redo the neckline higher. It was still inspirational. He lay back and looked at the aircraft warning lights on the transparent roof of the city until he fell asleep.

  ***

  For the final debate, Ceri Harri only invited Vychan Goch and Twn Denligh. They were, according to the bookies, the only ones with a real shot at winning the election.

  Vychan thought it was a waste of time. Everyone in the city had heard speeches, watched debates, and read everyone else’s opinion on the net. Whose mind would be changed by one more?

  In his opinion Ceri was putting on the show to overcharge her advertisers. But Welly convinced him that not attending would cost him the votes of those who liked watching debates. Here he was.

  The early rounds rehashed the old arguments. Vychan repeated his stands on loans versus grants for poor clans, allowing Fierans in the city, and how police should handle people outside the clans. Twn didn’t have any new opinions either.

  Ceri gave Twn the first cross-question.

  The tall man snarled, “Isn’t it true you’re just a puppet for the Fierans, putting a Corwynti face on their conquest of our world?”

  When Welly first made that accusation in a practice debate he’d been outraged. After practicing his answer he could treat it as a joke.

  “The Fierans don’t care about pump repairs. If they did, they could have put one of their own in as mayor. We would have accepted it quietly. They don’t need a puppet. Interstellar strangers ruling our world was normal for us.

  “The Fierans didn’t come here to conquer. They came to keep the Censorate from using Corwynt as a base for bombing their cities. When that’s done, they’ll go home. Except for a few who inmarry.”

  The quip drew some chuckles from the audience. Enough to sound like an endorsement to the rest.

  Vychan kept his voice light-hearted for his riposte. “I won’t be so rude as to accuse Twn of being a Censorate agent. We all know Twn is too loyal to Corwynt to dally with the Censor’s spies.”

  More chuckles.

  “But I’m curious. Twn, if you were in the Censor’s pay, what would be different about your campaign?”

  Welly was sure Twn would be braced for a straight accusation. This question hadn’t been rehearsed. Twn Denligh stood at his lectern, face stiff, saying nothing.

  With every second of silence, Vychan felt dozens of votes shift.

  After half a minute, Twn smiled and said, “If I was in the Censor’s pay, I wouldn’t have used the Denligh clanhome as security for the loan I needed to pay for all this electioneering.”

  Vychan could sympathize with that. He’d accumulated his support as volunteer labor and in-kind donations, all with vague understandings that he’d return the favors as mayor. Twn relied on videos, posters, and opinion essays, produced by professionals who wanted cash up front.

  Twn continued with his ‘The Censor will crush the Fierans and bomb us’ rant.

  Ceri cut him off and moved the debate to the less divisive topic of controlling trade with the Jaaphisii fishing fleets.

  After a couple more questions she asked them to make their closing statements. Twn rattled off his standard pitch—the inevitability of defeat, the need for cooperation, etc.

  Vychan had his speech memorized. He just couldn’t stomach reciting it one more time.

  “You’ve all heard me say why I think you should vote for me. You believe it, or you don’t. Let me say something else.”

  He pointed straight up. “Right now, the Fieran fleet is out facing the Censies. Our militia is preparing to join them. They’re probably dancing around. Maybe the fighting’s started. I pray they’ll win. If not, Twn may get his wish.”

  Vychan raised his voice. “But today, tomorrow, we’re a free people. I want every one of you to go vote. For me, or Twn, or anyone else. Vote so you can tell your children and grandchildren that just once, you chose who was in charge, not some interstellar strangers.”

  ***

  “One spade,” said Marcus. They were playing with the ‘Know Your Enemy’ playing card decks Concord Intelligence had passed out to everyone. His hand was full of spades, illustrated with pictures of Censorate battleships and carriers.

  “Two hearts,” responded Cai Iwan. He was looking at pictures of fighters.

  Some card games were the same on Corwynt and Fiera despite their nine-hundred-year separation. Marcus wondered how far back they went. He didn’t care much. He was only playing because after sitting here for two days he had to do something.

  Playing cards with Cai Iwan kept the chief engineer from nervously prying into the thruster compartments to see if something had gone wrong since the last time he’d checked it.

  A staff NCO trotted up the card table. “Senior Wing Leader, secure message for you in the shack.”

  “Thank you.” He dropped the cards and started briskly toward the comm shack. Not running. ‘Officers shouldn’t run, it alarms the men.’ Which of his academy instructors said that?

  The message was a recording from Admiral Song. The destroyer which had delivered it had gone back into hyperspace without waiting for a reply.

  “Landry, the enemy fleet is staying clear of the Corwynt shoals. They keep retreating, likely trying to set us up for some kind of hammer and anvil trap. When we don’t follow, they leave a ship or two out as bait. I’m going to keep eating the bait until we reach good terrain for a trap.

  “My main worry is that they’re sneaking some ships around us for a raid on Corwynt. Your orders are to deploy your force to hold the gaps in the inner shoal. Song out.”

  There were six gaps. Marcus had seven wings of fighters. That counted Seventh Wing, which was so new this was the first time they’d had live missiles mounted on their racks.

  And there was only one fighter carrier to take them to hyperspace. He called the captain of the carrier and explained the mission.

  “Simple enough for me, son,” said Captain Lindberg. “You want me to drop them at their posts or just jump them into hyper and let them make their own way?”

  Lindberg had been put under contract to the Concord Navy when his ship was confiscated. He had no love for military protocol.

  “Take them to their po
sts, please. A long run through aether would drain their batteries.”

  Fighters used the same energy for propulsion, firing their blasters, and life support. Not that the latter took much. A single blaster shot used enough energy to run air and water recycling for two weeks.

  Lindberg’s face was replaced by a normal-space astrogation chart. “If you’ll let me suggest a rendezvous point, the Delt Gap is closest to this point in Corwynt’s orbit. We can meet at the crossover radius. I’ll load up and jump there, then come back for the next load.”

  “Agreed.”

  The ratio between distances in normal and hyperspace varied. In deep space between stars a klick in hyperspace equaled a billion in normal. As a ship approached the ‘Goldilocks zone,’ where habitable planets were found, the ratio became one to one—the ‘crossover radius.’ Ships which insisted on staying in hyperspace as they closed on a star found distances were greater there than in normal space. No matter how long they traveled, they’d never reach the star.

  Marcus passed the word for all wings to meet at the rendezvous, after loading two weeks of food.

  He found a couple of boxes of Concord military rations in the shack and brought them to his personal fighter. His crew gave them dubious looks.

  “If you want to replace them, go ahead. We lift in an hour.”

  A brisk walk around the base showed everyone ready. Floaters were bringing in food. Dried fish, mostly.

  Marcus encountered Cai Iwan, making his own last-minute check for technical problems.

  The chief engineer gave him a salute. “Good luck, sir.”

  Marcus returned it, then shook hands. “Thank you, Cai. And thank you for all you’ve done. You made this happen.”

  Returning to Winning Wynny, he found the rations had been tossed out to make room for dried fish. Corwyntis.

  He pulled on his pressure suit, then inspected his crew’s suits. All correct.

  On the flight to the rendezvous point, he fretted over how to deploy his forces. One wing to each gap and the extra back at Corwynt was the obvious arrangement. The question was should the Corwynt wing be the Seventh, to have the safest duty for the least trained, or his own First, to put the best force in the way of any enemy who made it through the others.

  And how much was wanting to be close to his family influencing his decision? He didn’t need to decide until the last deployment.

  At the rendezvous Second Wing began loading onto the carrier. With her hatches closed PKS Honeybee looked like an oval balloon except for the fog-cutter on her bow. With hatches open, she looked like four beetles taking off at once.

  The flight and group leaders reported in as each fighter hooked in. The ship would keep their batteries topped off to the last moment.

  “Ready to jump,” transmitted Captain Lindberg. “Confirm clear.”

  Marcus looked at Bethan. The sensor operator sent out a pulse, then gave Marcus a thumbs-up. No fighters were close enough to the carrier to be caught in its transition to hyperspace.

  “Confirm clear to jump.”

  The ship vanished, leaving only stars.

  Marcus settled in for another long, boring wait.

  ***

  CNS Immensity passed through the gap in the inner shoals. Corwynt’s sun could now be seen on the flag bridge’s screen. It was a bright glow in the aether. This part of hyperspace had poor visibility. The aether blurred the edges of the ships leading the formation, leaving them as pink shapes.

  Admiral Pinoy joined Governor Yeager before the screen. “In a moment we’ll know if Force Cape cleared hyperspace for us.”

  “Didn’t reaching here unopposed prove that?” asked Yeager.

  “I was most concerned about barbarians among the shoals, where we couldn’t bring our whole force to bear. But if there are no barbarians here, we have a clear path to Corwynt.”

  “Ah.”

  An officer approached them. “Sir, scouts report no warships detected. There’s one large freighter on a reciprocal course. We’re outside its detection range.”

  Pinoy nodded. “No sense letting it see us. Destroy it.”

  The aether hid the missiles from Yeager’s sight, but he could see their wakes. Two cones rippled through the pink fog. They faded into non-existence by the time the officer reported the freighter obliterated.

  Once the two men were alone, Yeager asked, “Should I be worried that the ship was headed straight toward us? It seems unlikely given how much volume is here.” He waved a hand at the display.

  Pinoy shook his head. “No, your excellency. We’re on the direct course from this gap to the planet. Any freighter would use the same route. We’ll follow it to the crossover point, then drop into normal space. Even if there are ships at Corwynt, they won’t be able to intercept us until we’re close enough to hold the planet hostage.”

  “Good.”

  Yeager kept staring at the screen, not focused on the beauty of hyperspace, but brooding over something.

  “Anything on your mind, your excellency?” prompted the admiral.

  “It’s that poor freighter,” he answered.

  “I’m sorry, should I have not fired on it?”

  “No, no, I understand the necessity. It’s the waste. That ship should have been hauling goods to generate revenue for the Censor. Instead, it was helping the barbarian war effort. After the war we’ll have to build a new one. More waste.”

  Admiral Pinoy came to attention. “We’ll make the rebels and barbarians pay for what they’ve done, your excellency.”

  “No, Admiral. You’re going to make them suffer. They don’t have enough cash to pay for it.”

  ***

  Marcus checked the time. Three hours and twenty minutes until the carrier was due back. He’d managed to go a whole twelve minutes without checking this time.

  He’d given up on trying to spot the constellations Wynny had taught him. Under Corwynt’s humid atmosphere only the brightest stars were visible. Out in interplanetary space, with only the glow of his console competing, even dim stars stood out against the black of space. The Milky Way shone clearly, marking the heart of the galaxy, places humans had never reached.

  Or had expeditions gone there, only to have their discoveries erased by the Censor?

  The constellations he could make out were his fighter wings. Seventh stood out. They’d learned to put a flight of fighters in a straight line. Each flight made a different angle to the wing axis. Compared to the crisp tree-branch patterns of the other wings, Seventh looked like children’s pick-up sticks.

  No, that wasn’t fair. They had enough separation to avoid collisions. The formation was holding steady. It was just ugly. Their wing leader, who’d been one of Marcus’ group leaders for three months, had apologized. Marcus approved leaving them as they were. Tidying up the formation wasn’t worth the risk of green pilots colliding.

  Hopefully the time those green pilots spent looking at the perfect formations their betters achieved would motivate them to do better in their future training.

  Marcus’ eyes drifted back to the stars. They were lovely. He picked out the Milky Way and traced its glow across the sky.

  Beautiful bubbles blocked out the stars. They glowed pink and yellow and green. One sphere was split between yellow and pink, a lovely contrast.

  The spheres of aether sublimated away, leaving sleek Censorial warships. Marcus recognized an Obedience-class heavy cruiser from the cards he’d been playing with.

  Gun and missile turrets were deploying as the Censies abandoned their low drag configuration for vacuum running. They were almost close enough for his fighters’ blasters to land a weak hit.

  There was no contingency plan for this situation. They’d never trained for it. There were so many enemy ships there was no point in training for it, anyway. They were hopelessly outgunned.

  Marcus slapped the emergency command broadcast button on the edge of his console. “All hands. Break formation. Attack. Fire at will. Spread out your targets. To He
ll with Bridge Yeager!”

  There wasn’t anything better to do.

  He swung the nose of the fighter toward the enemy and put the thrusters to half power.

  Some fighters were accelerating at full power. They were already drawing enemy fire. Marcus wanted to stay toward the middle of the pack.

  “Target, boss?” asked Jac.

  “Pick a big one,” Marcus told his gunner.

  All four missiles leapt off their rails and sped ahead of the fighter. In seconds all Marcus could see of them was the flicker of light from their thrusters.

  Looking around he could see hundreds of those thrusters. They weren’t nearly as spread out as he’d hoped. Dozens slammed into the Censorial destroyer which had emerged closest to the militia. It blew into a ball of plasma. Marcus cursed as he saw more missiles plunge into the cloud.

  “Blasters ready to fire,” reported Jac.

  “Wait. We don’t want to waste energy until it’s going to be a good hit.”

  “There’s others firing,” said Jeuan from the back seat.

  A look to the side proved the mechanic was right. Worse, Marcus saw fighters flying in straight lines. One blew apart before his eyes.

  He pressed the ECB button again. “All hands, fly evasively. Conserve power. Only fire if you have a certain hit. Aim missiles at the big ships.”

  Marcus increased acceleration as the rest of the militia caught up. More were evading, obeying his orders or imitating the fighters not being shot at.

  “Jac, I’m going to flip to slow down to tactical speed, then do a barrel roll around that cruiser. Try to find some soft spots on it.”

  The gunner grunted. The militia wasn’t much for acknowledging orders with ‘aye, aye, sir.’

  Marcus wouldn’t have minded the assurance he’d been understood.

  Some fighters did the flip to slow to attack speed. Others fired on the Censy ships while zipping through the formation at top speed. The latter made their flip on the far side. The enemy were surrounded.

  Marcus threw Winning Wynny into a skew turn as he passed the bow of the enemy cruiser. He forced her into a spiral around the ship, facing the fighter’s chin-mounted blasters toward the enemy.