Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  “I’ll have to meet the courier in person,” he said to Dulcinea.

  “Of course. I’ll come with you.”

  “You—” His voice broke. He started again. “You might not want to be there when I . . . see the reply.”

  “I am going to stay with you.”

  Her voice was very flat and final. Yeager didn’t bother arguing. He took a bite of his eggs and chewed slowly.

  ***

  The courier landed on the Arnvon spaceport before sunset. It was a gleaming dagger of a ship, made to pierce aether faster than any other ship could traverse hyperspace.

  The shape reminded Yeager of tales shared among the Censorate’s top administrators. Angry Censors had sent subordinates knives for them to cut their throats with. Back when he’d been a newly-promoted Director Yeager had thought it more merciful than the stories of those dragged back to the Capitol to be tortured before the Censor.

  That didn’t comfort him now.

  Yeager stood at the edge of the landing circle as the dagger floated down. The pilot was a master. The landing gear struck concrete so gently the sea breeze drowned out any noise they made.

  The two youngest guards unrolled a carpet from the governor to the ship’s airlock. The Censor’s words—or gift—deserved the ceremony due to the ruler himself.

  A man emerged, wearing the gold and bronze braid of Court. He walked with a measured stride. His hands held a wooden box before him. Its polished grain gleamed in the setting sun.

  The box was too big for a knife. It would hold a pistol. Pistols with a single bullet also featured in the oral tradition. Yeager decided that if he’d been sent a gun he’d have the guards carry Dulcinea away. She’d give the poor boys some bruises but he wouldn’t let her watch that.

  Her hands tightened on Yeager’s arm as the courier officer approached.

  “I bear a message for Governor Bridge Yeager,” he said.

  “I am he.”

  The officer stepped forward, knelt, and held up the box.

  Yeager lifted the lid. No pistol. Just a folded piece of paper. Orders to fling himself into the ocean? That would be fitting for Corwynt.

  He unfolded it. The handwriting was a sloppy scrawl. Do better. -L.

  Yeager let out his breath. He pulled in a new one of sweet sea air. Dulcinea took hold of his arm to keep him steady.

  Another breath let him talk again. “Please tell His Wisdom I will.”

  The courier bowed and took his box back to the ship.

  “Let’s get back to work,” said Yeager.

  ***

  The Sulu Republic Navy used the same template for prison cells the Concord Marines did. Marcus was reasonably sure he was in the same size cell Censorial junior officers had been in.

  The big difference was that the POWs were given classic fiction to entertain them. The hope was seeing what they’d been missing would weaken their loyalty to the Censorate.

  The SRN seemed to have sentenced Marcus to death by boredom.

  He’d memorized the number of rivets in the wall, factored them, and spotted where the contractor had left out a crosspiece. Now he was combing history for names for his and Wynny’s future children.

  The cell door rattled. It was too early for lunch. Marcus sat up on the bunk.

  The guard pulled open the door, looked over the cell, then stepped back to reveal a man in a Concord Marine uniform.

  It took Marcus a moment to recognize him. He’d only seen that face framed in the helmet of an armored spacesuit. He shot to attention. “Sir!”

  Colonel Palmer waved him back to the bunk. “Relax, Marcus, I’m just here to chat. It’s good to see you again, though I’d hoped for better circumstances.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Well, things happen.” Palmer eyed the sink then lowered himself onto the lidless toilet seat.

  Marcus hoped no other inmates would flush while the colonel was here. If two flushed at once, water would surge out of the others on the block.

  “The POW interrogators say you were talking up recruiting the Corwynti locals to our side.”

  “Yes, sir. They hate the Censorate.”

  “What’s your evidence for that?”

  He had evidence. He’d written an official memo. Now he needed to shake off the prison stupor to make the case. Marcus said, “The first local we met on Corwynt was a member of a treasonous secret society preserving prohibited information. His day job was facilitating tax evasion.

  “The secret societies are so widespread and interconnected that when the Censorate ordered our arrest they got word to us in time to escape. There are assassinations of Censorial officials. There’s a whole ethnic group that’s living a stone age existence to evade the government.”

  “Assassins? Are they armed?”

  “Weapons are illegal. Even the native police carry non-lethal ones. But it’s a literate, industrial society. They can be trained to use them.”

  Palmer locked his gaze onto Marcus’ eyes. “How much are your personal connections influencing that analysis?”

  Marcus didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir, I am married to a Corwynti. I want to see her again as soon as I can. I like the Corwynti people. I want them freed from the Censorate. But I report facts.”

  “You reported rumors from the POWs.”

  “Yes, sir. I labeled them as such.”

  “Why include such unreliable data?”

  Marcus leaned forward. “We don’t have much data on the Censorate. The rumors they pass among themselves give us their view of the relationship with the Corwyntis. Whether there’s actual sabotage going on, or it’s just a pretext for more repression, they view the natives as hostile. When a government believes that they’re going to treat people harshly enough to make them hostile.”

  The colonel considered this for a few moments. “How much of a force could you raise?”

  Marcus had gone through scenarios for that. Or maybe that was a polite way to describe hopeful daydreams.

  “Land me on Bundoran, give me enough security to contact my father-in-law, and I’ll have a thousand volunteers willing to fight in less than a day.” Marcus followed that with a silent, Lord, hear my prayer.

  “And the second day?”

  “If most of the first thousand are still alive, we’ll get plenty more.”

  Palmer gave this a nod. “That would be a big help for the spearhead force.”

  That wasn’t a question. Marcus bit back the urge to babble more about the Corwynti secret societies. He didn’t want to ruin his case when Palmer seemed about to accept it.

  “The SRN says if I order you to massacre a bunch of children you’d tell me to stuff it and incite a mutiny in my regiment.”

  “I’d try, sir.”

  It’s not like he was pretending to be innocent of the charges against him.

  Colonel Palmer grinned. “I can live with that. I’d like you to be the Native Liaison Officer to my regiment. If you’re interested, we can go meet with a JAG who’ll figure out how to transfer you to the Concord Navy. How about it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  ***

  Wynny wasn’t happy to be living with her parents after outmarrying. But East Docks had one good point: the food.

  There weren’t any rowdy Jaaphisii fishermen in port today, so the Clan Goch kitchen crew didn’t need to bring any men along. There were four market boats tied up at the wharf, a good selection. Their crops were fresh out of the shallows.

  Wynny and Baby Niko joined her Goch cousins. Paying for the occasional groceries was a polite way to cover her keep. It also let her have some say over the menu.

  The Gochs split up, most going to the two bigger boats. Wynny guided her cousin Lowri to the smallest. She didn’t care about buying bushels of kelpgrain. She wanted to pick out tasty fruits and veggies.

  Some women from other clans were already at the boat, looking over the selections and gossiping with each other.

  The owner of the boat watched them. She
was a shoaler, living in an underwater house amid her family’s crops. How big or how nice a house shoalers had no one knew. Speculation ranged from treasure filled caves as big as an ardal to just an air tank supplying the shoalers as they slept in their scuba gear. Shoalers didn’t let anyone visit.

  Even the Censorial tax collectors settled for measuring the kelp forests and other crops. Rumors told of ambitious Censies who went exploring for shoaler homes . . . and were never seen again.

  The shoaler wasn’t talking. They usually didn’t. A Bundoran merchant wanted to know every flirtation in your clan and if it would be an in or out match. Jaaphisii would rather throw insults than bargain. A shoaler seemed happiest to take coins for a basket with no words at all.

  This shoaler family diversified its crops. Wynny saw seagrapes of every color in the rainbow, saltbroccoli, piles of leafy seaweed lying limp without water to support it. Tables packed with baskets and trays of produce lined the length of the boat. It was tilted toward wharf-side from the weight. The shoaler stood behind the tables, not minding the list.

  Wynny cupped a hand to hold Baby Niko’s head as she leaned forward to take a look at some seagrapes. The boy was sound asleep in the cloth sling holding him to her chest. She wanted to keep him that way.

  “Bah. Censies,” said Lowri.

  Wynny turned to follow her gaze, then back to the boat. “Don’t stare at them. You don’t want to draw their attention.”

  There were a dozen of them. Drunk, by the staggering walks. Censorial Navy uniforms. Wynny could hear the anger in their voices. They were too far to make out the words.

  “Those boys don’t like losing,” muttered Lowri. A couple of the other shoppers laughed. A third let out a “Shhhh.”

  Lowri looked to Wynny for support. She shook her head. Drunk spacers were worse than Jaaphisii. The cops could stop Jaaphisii. For spacers they’d have to call Censorial Security and hope someone cared.

  The Censies were heading for the crowd at the big boats. They were shouting. Wynny picked out “traitors” and “bitches.”

  A couple of spacers grabbed a woman at the edge of the crowd. They heaved her off the edge of the wharf. The splash was loud.

  “Did they throw her in the water?” asked one of the shoppers at the small boat.

  Wynny thought she must trust other’s words over her own senses.

  More women went in the water. Slaps and punches subdued the ones who resisted. Screams were cut off as heads went underwater.

  The shoaler spoke. “You three, stand shoulder to shoulder. Block their view.”

  Wynny reflexively took the hand held out to her. “New mother, put your feet there. It’ll hold your weight. Bend low so they don’t see you.”

  With the shoaler’s pull and a push from Lowri on her rump she made it across the table without knocking over a basket.

  “Under the table, now,” said the shoaler. She pointed at a woman with a toddler clutching her leg. “Pass the babe over first.”

  Wynny crawled under the table. Niko was snuffling and open-eyed. All the gymnastics were ruining his nap. If the Censies heard him cry—if they tried to punch her and hit him—she rolled onto her back.

  A structural member poked painfully into her back. Niko’s head flopped onto her breasts. His eyes closed. She sighed in relief.

  Glancing down showed the other mother under a table, hand clamped over the toddler’s mouth, only letting her breathe through her nose.

  The screams had died out. Now she heard the spacers.

  “Fucking traitors.”

  “Bet you know who sabotaged the depot, bitch.”

  “You’re all rebels.”

  “Wanna know how many of my friends died?”

  Frantic pleading turned to screams, then slaps and splashes.

  “What are you smirking at, bitch?” demanded a spacer.

  The shoaler answered, “I’m here to sell my crops. Want some seagrapes?”

  Baskets of fruit cascaded into the belly of the boat. The table over Wynny cracked as boots stomped on it. The shoaler’s bare feet rose straight up out of Wynny’s sight.

  Two male voices grunted, “Three—two—one!”

  A splash.

  The shoaler hadn’t made any sound from when she was picked up to when she hit the water.

  The spacers talked more quietly now. Calmer. Pleased with themselves. The voices faded as they walked away.

  Now Wynny could hear women’s voices. Low complaints. Splashing. Someone giving orders. Another asking for help. The sound of a rope landing in the water. Cursing and joking, but quietly.

  That noise faded too.

  The shoaler came back on board so smoothly Wynny didn’t realize she was there until she spoke.

  “Almost everyone’s gone now. Time for you to go.”

  Wynny crawled through the broken baskets. As she stood Niko looked around at the strange sights. Most of the produce was ruined. There were no customers for the rest.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I can help—”

  The shoaler waved the thanks away like a biting fly. “Just don’t tell anyone I let you on my boat.”

  ***

  “Did the Censorate really exterminate all life on Earth?” The interviewer’s delicate features conveyed her horror at having to ask the question.

  Marcus answered, “I don’t know, Yukio. I was forced to participate in a ceremony where a Censorial officer told the story of a rebellion on Earth. They couldn’t defeat the rebels on the ground, so they bombarded the planet with asteroids.”

  Yukio shuddered.

  “There was a hologram showing the shattered world. I remembered the continents from high school history. They were distorted by craters and the oceans were gone.”

  “No air or water left at all?” Yukio wore a primrose dress which complemented Marcus’ dark blue Concord Navy uniform. The studio posed them against a grey backdrop in the form of an abstract cityscape.

  “The hologram looked to be just rock.”

  Yukio’s expression shifted to pleading. “But the Censorate just takes such actions in the face of open rebellion, right? Ordinary individuals are safe?”

  Marcus’ lips tightened. “A professor once published a book about the demographics of Corwynt. The Censorate executed him in front of his students. No trial.”

  Yukio gasped.

  “The person who told me this didn’t see the shooting herself. She did see the blood on the wall of the classroom.”

  “But, what was in that book to make the Censorate kill the author?”

  Marcus spread his arms in a wide shrug. Studio lights glittered on the double gold stripes on his cuffs. “They never said. The law required all copies of the book to be destroyed at the author’s death so no one could check to see what part went over the line.”

  Now she wore her shocked face. “Every copy of the book?”

  “There are secret societies of Corwyntis who preserve forbidden history and literature. One of them may have smuggled a copy into their secret cache in time. But every member faces the death penalty if they’re caught.”

  “Are there many such secret societies?”

  “A friend told me he thought more than half of Corwynti adults belonged to some secret society or another.”

  There, he’d gotten through that without saying ‘father-in-law’ or anything else that would call his reliability into question.

  Yukio asked, “Are they all preserving history?”

  “I met one that did. I gave them one of my history texts. They were ecstatic. They hadn’t even known what year it was.”

  She flinched a little at that.

  “Other secret societies have their own focus. Fiction, religion, genealogy. There are rumors—I have no way to evaluate them—rumors of societies that will assassinate Censorial officials who are too abusive.”

  “Rebels?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Just trying to push back, make life better for people. I think they’d rebel if they
could, but the Censorate keeps them disarmed and cracks down harshly on any resistance.”

  “How horrible for those people,” said Yukio. She shifted to face the camera. “Our guest tonight has been Lieutenant Marcus Landry of the Concord Navy. He served in the first and second expeditions to the Censorate. In the Invasion he was awarded the Silver Comet for Valor and the Scarlet Ribbon. Thank you for joining us, Lieutenant, and thank you to every one of you for giving us your attention.”

  She held the smile until the director yelled, “Cut!”

  He continued, “Perfect take! Break down the set.”

  Marcus let his head and shoulders slump. He’d lost count of how many takes they’d done. He was amazed Yukio wasn’t passing out on the floor.

  A stagehand politely forced Marcus to stand so he could take the chair away. He wandered toward the back of the studio. Maybe the drink table had something stronger than orange juice now.

  The man in the grey suit intercepted him halfway there. “Good work, Landry. That’s exactly what we needed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Okamura. I, um,” he trailed off.

  Okamura cocked his head. “Question, Lieutenant Landry?”

  “I thought serving officers weren’t supposed to be involved in politics.”

  “Very true. Especially not a Concord officer. The Sulu Republic would be gravely offended by the Concord interfering with the internal affairs of a member nation. Tampering with an election would shatter the treaty.”

  Marcus clamped his jaw shut until his temper subsided enough for him to speak quietly.

  “Tampering with an election? What do you call that?” he waved at the remnants of the stage set.

  Okamura didn’t even quiver. “I call it a sharing of facts with an educational documentary service. You shared no opinions. You didn’t advocate voting for or against any party. You didn’t speak to any policy. The finished interview will be available for any interested party to use in whole or part.”

  Scrubbing out his opinions had driven many of the re-takes.

  “So, if the Allegiance and Justice parties quote me in their election ads that’s just fine?”