Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  “I’m certain of it, sir. They’re experienced in it. We’re not.”

  Pinoy fiddled with the hologram. Arrows went from the standoff to four other gaps, then threaded through the other shells to reach the inside.

  “We could disperse, evade the barbarians, and reform inside the shoals. We’d lose some ships to the force here and the ambush force left at Corwynt, wouldn’t be able to form up well enough to win a fleet engagement, but with hit and run attacks we’d be able to land enough missiles to depopulate the planet.”

  Yeager moved away from the desk, taking a chair. He leaned back with his legs stretched out. “Admiral, Monitor Singh would not consider destroying the best tax-producing world in the province a victory.”

  Pinoy stood straight. “I know, sir. I only mentioned it because you wanted all alternatives.”

  “Very well. You recommend continuing this, this stand-off?”

  “I do, sir. Until we have the resources to break it. Which Vulkoro is working on.”

  “I’ll just have to hope for patience.”

  They traded jokes as they emerged from the governor’s office. Watching officers relaxed as they saw the two men smiling.

  Captain MacIver stood waiting.

  “Any barbarian activity?” asked Admiral Pinoy.

  “No attacks, sir. But they’ve started transmitting on multiple channels.”

  Yeager asked, “Are they trying to negotiate?”

  “No, your excellency,” answered MacIver. “It’s mostly music. We’ve recognized several Corwynti tunes. There’s more songs in the barbarian dialect.”

  Pinoy frowned in thought.

  “Why music?” said Yeager.

  MacIver shrugged. So did several other officers. Eyes turned to the intelligence chief.

  Trapped, he said, “They’re barbarians, your excellency. Most of their behavior makes no sense.”

  “Hmph.” The governor didn’t like the answer but had no counter to it.

  An ensign spoke up. “Sir, they’ve started communicating on one channel.”

  “Put it on the display,” ordered Admiral Pinoy.

  A barbarian’s face appeared. Yeager’s chest tightened. He’d been in space long enough to feel Dulcinea’s absence. The beautiful woman in the strange uniform made him feel a surge of lust. Her voice was sultry, as intimate as a cat’s purr. Her speech was clear despite the strange accent.

  “—of course not,” she said. “You’re not afraid of being blown to bits by a missile or choking on a lungful of aether. You’re brave men. The only worry you have is about your girl back home. But you don’t have to worry. Your girl is fine. There’s a tall, handsome civilian right there to take care of her. Don’t be angry at her. She’s just weak flesh, and she’s so lonely with you away in space.”

  “Turn it off!” snapped Pinoy.

  The display reverted to live imagery of the shoals around the barbarian position.

  “Captain MacIver. General order to all ships. No one will listen to the barbarian broadcasts. No one will record them. All communications personnel will double up on shifts. They must report anyone who violates this order.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” With crisp efficiency MacIver sent the orders propagating throughout the fleet’s chain of command.

  Once he was done, MacIver moved to stand next to Pinoy. He nodded to Yeager in apology for intruding on their space. He whispered, “Sir, are you sure? That’s going to be rock hard to enforce. There are receivers all over every ship. Spacers can build their own. They’re going to be bored stiff in this stand-off.”

  Pinoy matched his tone. “Dead certain, Mac. As soon as you catch someone, execute him and send the execution vid to every ship.”

  MacIver nodded and returned to his post.

  Governor Yeager’s lips quirked. “I suppose I should set a good example, no matter how curious I am.”

  “I would appreciate that, your excellency.”

  ***

  Most of the other senior officers were in the conference room when Marcus arrived. He’d flown his fighter from Bundoran, currently on the other side of the world from Defense Station One. The others came from the other space stations on orbit or the handful of destroyers left at Corwynt. They’d made it here without much atmosphere or distance to cover.

  A lieutenant commander looked over his shoulder to see who’d come in. He stiffened, turned and offered his hand. “Wing Leader Landry. Very pleased to meet you, sir. Well done.”

  Marcus shook his hand, then those of three other officers. He nodded stiff-faced at their compliments, managing a hoarse “thank you,” to the last.

  Two more entered.

  At the front, Captain Gordon, commanding DS1, said, “Seats, please, ladies and gentlemen. We’re all eager to hear what the Admiral has to say to us.”

  The screen lit up with the ‘MOST SECRET’ warning. The fine print at the bottom was unreadable from Marcus’ back row seat. He knew it was the usual threats of fines, jail, or execution.

  Admiral Song appeared. His uniform was rumpled. The tie looked to have been hastily retightened. “Greetings. The full report is reserved for Fleet Command, I’m afraid, but I had a moment to give y’all an overview of the situation.

  “We were pursuing the Censy fleet. They led us into the middle of Violet Sound between Corwynt and Shian. That’s where the second fleet showed up behind us. Had us worried about Corwynt.”

  Song paused for a sip of coffee.

  “The two fleets tried to pin us between them for a hammer and anvil, but we slipped out. The new fleet was well chewed on. Couldn’t maneuver well, missile defense was below par. Made us curious as hell what happened to it.

  “Finally, the Censies gave up on being fancy, joined up, and pushed us hard. We fell back on the shoals around Corwynt. That’s where we received the report on the militia’s battle. Wing Leader Landry, I hope you’re listening to this. That was superb work. Superb. I expect to hand out a lot of medals when I return.”

  A captain sitting next to Marcus thumped him on the shoulder. Others muttered, “Hear, hear.” He forced a sickly smile.

  Medals wouldn’t mean much to the dead. All of Second Wing, dead in their carrier without ever firing a shot. All of Seventh Wing, unprepared for the fight Marcus led them into. And all the others. Added up, just over half the militia crews who’d lifted off had died in space.

  “Despite their numerical advantage, the Censies haven’t been able to outdo us in missile exchanges. They’re not willing to close to cannon range. We’ve established a static position in the outer shoals. They can’t break through our missile defense here. They’ve tried with salvos big enough they lost most to fratricide.”

  Fratricide, thought Marcus. Killing a brother. That described what he’d done.

  Song tugged at his tie, loosening it a fraction.

  “We’re both getting a trickle of reinforcements and resupply. You’re sending enough to replace our losses. It’s a stalemate. I’m prepared to sit here until the new ships of the line Fiera is producing arrive. We’ll see how long the other side can hold out. I’ve given the Psychological Warfare boys and girls their head. They’re beating the Censies with all the propaganda the transmitters can throw at them.” Another sip of coffee.

  “Keep those ammo freighters coming. We’re trying to match the enemy fire rate. There’re whole days when no one fires a shot. But if they decide to hammer us the magazines could be empty in hours. I’ll warn you of any new developments. Song out.”

  The ‘MOST SECRET’ warning reappeared.

  The room filled with babble. Officers exulted over the good news. Those overseeing ammunition production vowed to redouble their efforts. Marcus sat, waiting for those blocking the way to the door to clear out.

  “Landry! May I have a moment?”

  Marcus looked up. Captain Gordon was beckoning to him. A request from the senior Concord officer in the system was effectively an order. Marcus wove his way through the crowd to report to G
ordon.

  The captain waved his salute down. “Relax, Landry. I just wanted to check something. Have you ever written an award recommendation before?”

  “No, sir.”

  Marcus’ eyes fell on Gordon’s decorations. The captain wore fighter pilot wings and all of the Concord’s award for heroism, from lowest to highest. Marcus straightened as he realized he’d heard of Captain Gordon on the news, fifteen years ago, when he’d ended the Siege of Jabot.

  “I figured that, since you came in as an auxiliary. I’ll give you some tips. I wanted to buy you a drink anyway. Let’s go down to the Club.”

  Emergency doors flanked the viewscreen. Gordon punched a code into one and led them through a maze of corridors.

  Marcus didn’t want to spend an afternoon drinking and making small talk with Navy men. He wanted to be home, in a dark room, curled up in bed with Niko against his chest. Niko didn’t care what he’d done or how badly he’d done it. Niko gave him honest smiles.

  ***

  Four terrified ensigns stood in a line before the court martial table. Admiral Pinoy glared at them. On a well-run ship, discipline would keep any offense from becoming severe enough to require formal punishment. An offense severe enough to require trial by the senior officer present instead of the flagship’s captain . . . proved the ship was in very bad shape indeed.

  The very worst part of the court martial was that Pinoy had nothing better to do. Until reinforcements arrived to break the stalemate there were no orders to give.

  The prosecutor concluded, “Intelligence analysis confirmed that the music being played in the compartment was proscribed material, taken from the broadcasts of the barbarian force.”

  That settled the provable facts. Now Pinoy had to decide which one would be executed for possessing proscribed data, and what penalty would be assessed on the others for not turning him in.

  “Which one of you downloaded the music?” he asked.

  All four had denied it when first charged, of course. But with a sentencing authority before them he expected a confession, or at least an accusation.

  There were twitches and little glances to each side, but none of them spoke.

  Pinoy said, “One of you may have said, ‘They can’t execute us all.’ I assure you, unless the culprit is identified, you will all be executed.”

  The left-most ensign burst out, “Sir, none of us downloaded it.”

  “We just found it,” said center-right.

  Another said, “Sir, I found a memory chip on our shared desk, when I was about to fold it up. I asked if it belonged to any of them.”

  The fourth said, “None of us recognized it so we plugged it in to see what was on it.”

  “It was just music, no words, nothing subversive, so we let it keep playing.”

  “We didn’t know it was proscribed.”

  Admiral Pinoy realized with horror that he believed them. Some spacer, resentful of how an ensign used his authority, or just bored out of his mind, had concocted a lethal practical joke. The chip could have been tossed onto the desk by someone walking by their open hatch. Only ensigns would be gullible enough to play an unknown chip.

  He thrust aside the memory of a prank he’d fallen for on his first ship.

  “Information devices of unknown origin should never be introduced to the ship’s systems,” the admiral intoned. “They should be turned over to Security for analysis. This is part of your standing orders.”

  Death was a penalty for violating a standing order, but rarely invoked for a first offense.

  “For violating a standing order, each of you is stripped of your officer’s commission, and punitively enlisted at the rank of spacer basic.”

  He worried about the light sentences weakening discipline, but he didn’t want to give the practical joker the satisfaction of executions.

  The ensigns looked relieved. So did most of the other people in the room. Not least Bridge Yeager. He was only a spectator to the court martial, but officers could appeal a death penalty to him. Now Yeager was spared the decision.

  Pinoy turned to the flagship’s senior enlisted man. “Chief, find some work for these men.”

  “Aye-aye, sir! Detail, attention! Left face! March! Follow me!”

  As the line cleared the hatch, Pinoy said, “Court adjourned.”

  An aide approached. “Sir, a ship is arriving from Shian.”

  “What class?” Let it be a battleship. One intact battleship with full magazines, that could break the stalemate.

  “A courier, sir, with messages for yourself and the Governor.”

  Yeager was close enough to hear this. “Who are my messages from?”

  The aide stiffened as he turned to face the governor. “The Monitor and the Censor, sir.”

  The room went silent.

  Yeager waited a few moments before replying. “I will meet the courier in the docking bay.”

  ***

  Gordon stopped at a door labeled ‘Officers’ Club.’ “The Corwyntis have some good bars on this station, but it’s nice to have a place for just us.”

  It being main shift, only a few officers were in the spartan room, two seated together at the bar, three at a table by the far wall. The bartender was in civvies but had the look of a retired petty officer. “What’ll you have, skipper?” he said.

  Gordon answered, “The private room, the best bottle, two glasses, and no interruptions.”

  He opened a door and waved Marcus in.

  The room was round, with padded walls. One table had four chairs. Any more than four would feel crowded.

  As the two men sat, the bartender came in with a tray.

  “On my tab, Chief,” said Gordon.

  The bartender nodded and closed the door behind him with a heavy thump.

  “It’s soundproof,” said Gordon. “Admirals need a place they can scream at each other without their staff hearing it. We find some other uses for it.”

  The bottle riveted Marcus’ attention. “Is that really Phoenix Breath?”

  “Sure. Ever had it before?” Gordon poured two shots.

  “No. We shipped some once. Every bottle in triple padded crates. My father still made us hand place them to prevent breakage.”

  “See if it’s worth the effort.” Gordon slid one glass across the table.

  As Marcus picked it up, the older man held his up for a toast. “To the victorious dead.”

  Marcus twitched, almost hard enough to spill the whiskey. “The vic—victorious dead.”

  They drank.

  The fumes tickled his nose, assuring him it was whiskey. It didn’t bite his tongue. There was no sweetness, but the smoothness made him think of caramel. “Well.”

  “Worth it?” asked Gordon with a grin.

  “Yes. Thank you, sir.”

  “No sirs. No rank in the mess. Here, I’m Gordie.”

  “Yes—okay, Gordie.”

  “What do you go by?”

  “Marcus.”

  “Right, then. I have a how-to doc which says how to write award recs that the staff weenies will accept, but it assumes you’ve had a couple rejected so you know the basics.”

  “Okay.”

  Gordon blathered about the basic concepts—witnesses, evidence, appropriate award for an event, danger versus effectiveness. “So, there’s all sorts of angles to work it from. Where do you want to start?”

  “The gun camera videos. If I have them. Seventh Wing was wiped out completely. I have nothing on them.”

  Gordon refilled the shot glasses. “To absent friends.”

  Marcus’ hand shook as he lifted the shot glass. “To absent,” he swallowed, “friends.” The whiskey went down more easily than the toast.

  “Who do you miss the most?” asked Gordon softly.

  “Cai. Cai Iwan. He wasn’t even supposed to be in space, dammit. He was staff.”

  “How’d he get in a bird?”

  “Pulled family rank on his nephew and took his seat. Stupid son of a bitch sh
ould have known better.”

  “Reminds me of a pilot at Jabot. You know that fight?”

  “Everybody does. It’s the last time the Concord declared a government illegitimate. The Marines—and you—forced the dictator into the capital.”

  Gordon nodded, poured two more shots. “The siege wasn’t bad. Not safe, but just beating back the dictator’s attempts to break out of Jabot until the national forces arrived to reinforce us. Then . . .”

  “That’s when he said he was going to wipe out the population?”

  “Yep.” The captain looked past the wall. “We were in a race to take him down before his fanatics could build a weapon that destroyed the city. My squadron broke open the defenses so the Marines could get in. Anyway, there was this kid, younger than you, call sign ‘Apples.’ Wanted to do his part but didn’t have the killer instinct, you know?”

  Marcus nodded, thinking of Cai.

  “Apples survived the first assault. Shook, but he made it back. He couldn’t fly in the second assault, his fighter was down. I’m eighty percent sure the crew chief sabotaged the plane to try to save him. Replacement birds arrived in time for the third assault. Apples took one and didn’t come back.”

  “Did you investigate the crew chief?”

  Headshake. “By the time it was over I was too burnt out to care. Part of me agreed with him. I lost thirty out of fifty pilots.”

  “Damn,” said Marcus. “That wasn’t in the news.”

  “No, the Concord focused on the good news. Smashing the poison gas factory. Praising heroes. The dead, it was up to us to remember.”

  The shot glasses were full again. “To Apples. And Cai.”

  “Apples and Cai.”

  “Some of them I couldn’t even write letters for. No home or kin on file. The Concord gets recruits like that, wanting to break all ties with home. It’s not like that here, I gather.”

  Marcus shook his head convulsively. “They all have big families. Cai’s mother took it hard. She was even yelling at her grandson for letting Cai take his place. Poor bastard.”

  “Now you’re making me feel lucky. I met a few relatives, but it was years later. They were past the worst of it.”