“I’m still getting letters. Most are polite, but a few.” Marcus gulped down the shot Gordon slid over to him.
“Don’t hold it against them. You’re a lightning rod.”
“I’m fucking incompetent.” He angrily wiped his eyes, feeling them start to fill. He couldn’t cry. Crying was unprofessional.
“Yeah? Wha’did you do wrong?”
“Got more than half of them killed.”
Gordon let out a long, slow breath. “A horrible thing about war is you can do everything right and still get your unit wiped out. Sometimes it’s the right thing to do, strategically.”
“I didn’t get Seventh Wing killed out of strategy. I wanted to put them on guarding a rift so I could be orbiting Corwynt, close to my family.”
The captain’s expression remained calm. “Then why did you take your wing out to the crossover rendezvous?”
“Hadn’t made up my mind.”
“If you’d decided to send Seventh back to Corwynt, taken a rift yourself, and the Censies attacked a day later, what would have happened?”
It took another shot to pry the confession out of Marcus. “Second and Seventh would have been wiped out, and the rest of us taken prisoner or suffocated when our batteries ran out.”
“Yep.”
“We were lucky, weren’t we?”
“Luck is part of war too.”
“Even with the luck, we should have lost. Another half hour and every fighter would have been out of power. They just lost their nerve.”
“Lots of battles go that way,” said Gordon. “The troops crack and start running. Or a general can’t stand the pressure. You hurt them. It hurt enough they couldn’t take more. Your crews held on, knowing they were running out of juice, and kept fighting. That’s a win.”
Marcus grimaced. “Luck and a weak opponent don’t mean I’m competent at my job.”
“No. Making decent decisions does. Inspiring your men to keep fighting does.”
One shot of whiskey at a time, they went through every decision Marcus made before and during the battle. In each one, there was no overlooked information which would have justified a different choice.
Gordon leaned on the table with both elbows. “Shee, it’s not a wrong decision. It’s a BAD decision. Best. Available. Data. You always make BAD decisions.”
“Cai didn’t. He wanted all the data before deciding. That’s why I grounded him.”
“There you go. Now. Can you keep making decisions? Knowing what can happen?”
“It’s hard. I lost half my crew in the Defense of Fiera. Two men killed, another crippled. I could handle that. Losing hundreds. It’s. It’s hard.”
Marcus lifted the shot glass to his lips. They barely felt it. He sipped. Thinking of another battle made him visualize a Censy fleet coming for Wynny and Niko. That gave him the answer.
He set the glass down with a clink. He made the effort to make every word clear. “Yes. I’m going to go fight them. God help me, no matter the cost, I’ll fight.”
“Good man!” Gordon reached across the table to slap Marcus on the shoulder, then lost his balance and had to catch himself.
“Whoo. I’m feeling it. You pour,” said Gordon.
Marcus lifted the bottle with both hands. He managed to pour some into each shot glass without spilling. Holding it upside down over his own glass captured the last few drops.
“Last toast.” Marcus thought a moment. “To Hell with Brij Yeagah.”
Gordon echoed, “To Hell with Bridge Yeagah.”
Then he stood, leaning on the padded wall, and pulled the door open. “Chief! I need a steward to show the Wing Leader to VOQ. And I’ll want my batman.”
***
Two commodores bumped shoulders going through the conference room door. “Did the Censor’s courier bring new orders?” whispered one. The other shrugged.
Admiral Pinoy waved them to the back row of the formation. All the senior officers on or near the flagship had been called in. They formed a neat grid where the big table had been.
Governor Bridge Yeager sat with his back to them at a small desk against the far wall. He scribbled tiny words on an almost full sheet of paper. Just past his elbow sat a box. The reddish wood was polished to bring out the grain.
He signed his name at the bottom, stood, and handed it to the waiting admiral. “Please deliver this to Dulcinea.”
“Of course, your excellency,” said Pinoy. He studied the box. He whispered, “I’m surprised the Censor reacted so quickly.”
Yeager let out a quiet snort. “He didn’t. He sent two boxes to Monitor Singh, to be forwarded at his discretion.”
“Oh. I see.” Pinoy took up his post in front of the formation. He braced to rigid attention. His officers matched him.
The butler approached the desk. “Would you like more tea, Your Excellency?”
“No, thank you, Maung. I have all I need. Thank you so much for all you’ve done for us.”
“I just wish it could be—” the butler choked on the words.
Yeager patted him on the arm. He turned back to the desk and drew a pistol from the box.
He stood and turned to face the officers. “The Censor forgives. He does not forgive twice.”
The pistol was plated with gold. Jewels glittered in the grips. A widow could sell it for enough to support a comfortable retirement.
It had no sights.
“This failure was mine alone.” Yeager’s voice was as firm as any speech he’d given. “You have all given your utmost. I could not have asked for any more. I have so informed the Monitor.”
The governor looked to his left. Two servants stood in the corner, unobtrusively ready to spring out if needed. He waved them toward the right-hand corner. They obeyed, flushed with embarrassment as they moved across the eyelines of the watching officers.
Bridge Yeager lifted the pistol. He pressed the muzzle to the scalp over his ear.
Admiral Pinoy snapped a salute. The ranked officers matched him.
Pinoy’s eyes were locked on the far wall. Less disciplined men stared at the finger as it drew in the slack in the trigger. Relaxed. Tightened again. Relaxed.
Yeager glanced down, an embarrassed grimace on his face. He took a deep breath. Stood as straight as he could.
Squeezed.
All the servants flinched at the bang. Maung sobbed, drowning out the thump of the falling body.
Admiral Pinoy shifted his eyes. The body was twitching. He held his salute until the corpse was still.
When Pinoy dropped his salute the rest followed instantly. He about faced. “I am now in command of the fleet. Vice Admiral Zahm will be acting commander while I escort the governor’s remains to Madame Governor. Your orders are to withdraw to Shian and patrol to block barbarian surveys. Dismissed.”
They streamed out in silence.
Pinoy put his hand on Maung’s shoulder. “Are you up to making the arrangements?”
Maung wiped his eyes. “Oh, yes, sir. The ship’s engineer has done cremations before.”
“Let me know if you encounter any obstacles.” Admiral Pinoy touched his tunic where he’d hidden Yeager’s letter in an inner pocket.
By Censorate law the letter should have been destroyed the instant Yeager pulled the trigger. If any bureaucrat tried to enforce that before Dulcinea Yeager read it, Pinoy would see to it his priorities were . . . redirected.
***
A flinch ran through the audience as Father Dafydd took the battered book out of its wooden box. Vychan smiled inwardly. He had the opposite response from the crowd. Instead of fearing being associated with the old book, part of him wanted to run forward, close the box, and cry, “Don’t let them see it! There might be an informer!”
The Censorate was gone from Corwynt, but their legacy was still felt.
Dafydd held up the book. “It is traditional for an official swearing his oath of office to place a hand on an object of his faith to show his intent to be bound by the oath. This
book was kept hidden in Abertillery during the entire Censorate occupation. We don’t know who hid it originally. It was discovered by a follower of the Sacrificed God three hundred years ago and kept safe. Each priest, on his elevation, would read it once then hide it, not to be seen until it was time to pass it to his successor. Until the Censorate was driven out.”
That brought a roar of approval from the crowd.
“Gwyndaf of Abertillery lent this Bible to us to honor this election, and the rightful taking of authority into Corwynti hands.” Father Dafydd turned to Vychan. “Mayor-elect Vychan Goch, will you take your oath on this Bible?”
“I will,” he said firmly. He politely practiced the rites of the Sacrificed God when invited to, but he couldn’t say he believed in them. Preserving a book from before the Censorate came—that he believed in.
Vychan looked about as he stepped forward to join Dafydd. The swearing-in was being held in a grassy park on first level, officially to let more people watch, unofficially to let the uppers know they don’t get everything.
Thousands were watching. Tens of thousands, counting those lining the sidewalks and crosswalks in the upper levels. The closest spots were for his supporters and kin. Wynny, Marcus, and Niko were in the front row. It was good to see Marcus smiling again.
Father Dafydd held out the book. Its cover bore the title ‘Holy Bible’ in chipped gold letters. Smaller letters below read, ‘Interstellar Revised.’
Vychan placed his left hand to cover the words and raised his right hand to his shoulder. He repeated the words of the oath after Dafydd.
“I, Vychan Goch, do solemnly swear,
“To carry out the office of Mayor of Bundoran,
“To enforce the law, preserve the peace, create justice,
“And care for the good of all,
“So help me God.”
Coming Winter 2022:
Captain, Trader, Helmsman, Spy: Join the crew of the Azure Tarn as they explore deep into the Censorate.
Other Works by Karl K. Gallagher
Science fiction fans, check out Torchship, a working-class hard SF adventure.
A captain who’ll take any job if there’s enough money in it. A pilot with an agenda of her own. And a mechanic with an eye on the pilot.
The crew of the Fives Full are just trying to make enough money to keep themselves in the black while avoiding the attention of a government so paranoid it’s repealed Moore’s Law. They’re not looking for adventure in the stars . . . but they’re not going to back down just because something got in their way.
The Torchship Trilogy was a finalist for the 2018 Prometheus Award for best libertarian science fiction novel.
The sequels Torchship Pilot and Torchship Captain are included in the Torchship Trilogy omnibus.
Adventure story fans will enjoy The Lost War:
It was supposed to be a weekend of costumed fun. Instead these medieval historical reenactors are flung into a wilderness by magic they don't understand. They must struggle to survive and deal with monsters who consider them prey . . . or worse.
About the Author
Karl Gallagher has earned engineering degrees from MIT and USC, controlled weather satellites for the Air Force, designed weather satellites for TRW, designed a rocketship for a start-up, and done systems engineering for a fighter plane. He is husband to Laura and father to Maggie, James, and dearly missed Alanna.
About Kelt Haven Press
Kelt Haven Press is releasing print, ebook, and audiobooks by Karl K. Gallagher. For updates see:
www.kelthavenpress.com
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