Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  Wynny saw people flinch at the thought.

  “Even before the battle starts, we’ll have to watch for Censies being vicious,” Garth continued. “They were hunting people out of anger when they lost a battle far away. How will they act when they’re beaten right here?”

  He paused to let his clan think on that for a moment.

  “Vychan shared the rumors he heard with the elders, as is proper. We discussed what might happen and what we should do. Some of it we’ve already started doing. If you’ve wondered why there’s cans and bottles and sacks under beds, that’s why.”

  Clanfolk nodded. Wynny hadn’t noticed that part herself, though she’d seen extra storable food bought. Her status as a guest exempted her from her room being used for storage.

  “From now on we will stay home but for necessary trips. Work and groceries. Anything else, you must ask your parents’ permission.”

  Vychan whispered, “Bah. Now I have to justify every bargaining session.”

  “If you see Censies, turn around and go back. We have food and cots in the warehouse if you can’t get home. If you can’t get to the grocery or fishmart, we have enough food for weeks. Don’t go any nearer to a Censy than you can help. If you’re surrounded, call us and we’ll bring a floater.”

  The last caused a minor stir. The clan tried to avoid paying the fees for flying inside the city.

  “No one is to leave the clanhome alone. If that means you have to wait to go to work, so be it.” More of a stir.

  Garth turned toward Wynny’s table. “Lastly, our guest and patron, Wynny Landry, will remain in the clanhome.”

  He sat. The hall filled with a buzz of excited conversations.

  “They can’t do that,” snapped Wynny.

  Emlyn said, “We’re worried about you, dear.”

  In a low voice her father said, “The elders discussed it with us and we agreed. You’re subject to a greater danger.”

  “I can’t sit in here. I have to monitor my investments.”

  Wynny became a death creditor to investigate a murder a year ago. The murder had been driven by Fieran-induced culture shock. When the murderer and his friends tried to kill her to hide his guilt, she’d received attempted murder bloodprices from several clans. The fee for solving it on top of the bloodprices made the Fieran clan—right now, her and Niko—wealthy.

  It was more than she could invest in Clan Goch’s business. The rest was spread out in a dozen ventures with different clans.

  “You can phone them,” said Vychan. “Or send me or one of your cousins to check.”

  “That’s not the same. And that’s not the point. You have no right to keep me confined.”

  They did have the power. There were now two young men on duty at the door. They’d dutifully block her way. Wouldn’t even need to lay hands on her to do it.

  Emlyn laid a hand on her husband’s arm to cut off his next remark. “Dear, it’s our duty to protect you.”

  “From what? I’m in no more danger than anyone else.”

  The open anger in her voice was drawing looks from other tables. Worse, she’d woken Niko. He uttered a tentative wail as he looked for her.

  Wynny scooped her boy up and held him to her shoulder, stroking his back to soothe him. She tried to get control of her voice. If she went into a rage, she’d terrify the infant.

  Her father said, “You are the wife of a Fieran. You’re the only person worth holding as a hostage on this planet.”

  “If the Censorate wanted to take me hostage they would have done it when their fleet returned in ruins.”

  “They weren’t desperate then,” he countered. “If they’re besieged, they will be.”

  “Clanhomes can’t keep out Security. What difference does it make where I am?”

  Niko started to fuss. Wynny took deep breaths to calm herself.

  Vychan began to answer, then his head jerked.

  “Wynny, dear,” said Emlyn. “Right now, the Censorate is too busy to think of you. But if you’re in their hands they won’t let you go. You need to stay out of sight to not remind them.”

  That infuriating ‘we know what’s best for you’ smugness was why Wynny’s brother had outmarried. It was the best benefit of outmarrying: your parents couldn’t boss you around anymore.

  That didn’t work when your husband and his clan were on the wrong planet.

  ***

  Governor Yeager glared at his tablet. It was flashing the commodore’s code. More bad news. He put down his fork and answered it.

  “Sir, the last of my scouts have returned. The barbarians will be entering normal space in hours. It’s time to evacuate.”

  “Very well, Commodore Meckler. Will you be able to delay them?”

  “I’m not even going to try.” His voice was grim. “We’re just too outnumbered. Once your transport is away, I’ll order Scorched Water.”

  “I’ll lift as soon as I can,” said Yeager.

  Meckler cut the connection.

  “Dulcinea, did you hear that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied his wife. “Everything that needs to come is packed. I’ll have the servants start loading.”

  “Thank you.” He hastily swallowed two meatballs. There was no time to finish his lunch. “Wait for me on the transport. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Dulcinea grabbed his hand. “Why? What are you doing? I’ll be smashed if you’ll stay behind like some videodrama captain going down with his ship.”

  He wrapped his other hand around hers. “Nothing like that. I’m not leaving you. I just need to take care of the vault. Then we’ll go.”

  A half-smile flickered across his face. “I’m responsible for six other inhabited systems, after all.”

  Her face relaxed. Then her hands.

  Yeager leaned over to kiss her. “I’ll be quick as I can.”

  She nodded, then turned away. “Maung, it’s time!” she called to the butler.

  The last time Yeager visited his vault he’d only been accompanied by a few of his personal guard. Now he rode in a liftvan with two squads of them. Two liftvans of Dragoons flew ahead of them. Two more followed. Scouts on hoverbikes checked the path ahead and cross passages.

  It had been bad enough dealing with the natives’ ill-concealed gloating after the fleet returned in defeat. With word out that the barbarians were coming in force they were on the verge of revolt. Censorials out alone had been beaten to death by men with no known connection to any secret society. Mere opportunity moved them to action.

  The governor coming to the sub-levels of Arnvon was an opportunity many conspirators would want to act on.

  The escort merged with the Dragoons guarding the vault and spread out to establish a perimeter. Yeager went through the multiple checks to open the heavy door. A glance inside verified that things were as he had left them last time.

  “Sir, the disintegrator tray is ready,” said the Guard Chief.

  “Thank you. That one first.” Yeager pointed at the stand alone computer on the table. The star maps alone in its memory would be invaluable to an invader. The rest of the information would let them choose targets.

  Guards stomped the computer into shards and small boxes. All the pieces were scattered across the tray. Dust puffed out as the machine removed the bottom layer of atoms from each piece, repeating until they were gone. More equipment was smashed and tossed on to it.

  Yeager eyed the square tray. It was big enough for a body to lie on the diagonal. It had probably been used to dispose of some, though there were easier ways to do that on Corwynt. The fish were always hungry.

  “Put this on, sir. That thing is messier than the manual says it should be it.” The Dragoon sergeant pressed a breathing mask into Yeager’s hands.

  He looked around. There were dozens of men wearing them. Yeager felt a tickle in his throat. That dust probably was bad for him. He slipped the mask over his face.

  A guard stepped behind him and adjusted the straps. Another one st
epped around them, his arms full.

  “Wait,” said Yeager. “Those don’t need the disintegrator. They can be burned.”

  Not that the barbarians would be interested in contingency plans for various levels of civil disorder, but the Censor’s rules were strict.

  “Yes, your excellency,” said the guard. “Anybody have a lighter?”

  “Give ‘em to the Dragoons,” snapped the Guard Chief. “Burning shit is what they’re best at.”

  A squad pulled back from the perimeter experimented with how to destroy the books. Yeager demanded complete destruction, which led to privates grabbing partially burnt pages out of the air with their bare hands.

  Once they worked out an efficient and complete method the air filled with smoke. Yeager felt his eyes water. The remaining breath masks were seized by the book burners.

  A sergeant smacked someone on the head. “Don’t read it, burn it.”

  Yeager thought the poor Dragoon had to be innocent of reading the plans. He hadn’t fallen asleep.

  “That’s all, your excellency,” said the Guard Chief.

  Yeager went into the vault and checked. Nothing on the table. Nothing on the shelves. Nothing on the floor except the table. He stepped out and heaved the door shut. He reset the locks. Let the barbarians force it open. It would take them weeks to find the prize was empty.

  Puffs of dust showed the disintegrator tray was making progress with the last of the electronic gear. A private tossed in the spines of the books, the only part which hadn’t burnt.

  “Don’t rub your eyes, sir,” said a guard. “The dust is abrasive.”

  “Ah. Thank you.” Yeager lowered his hands. He wasn’t the only man there with watering eyes. The corridor was still hazy half an hour after the last book burnt out.

  A tiny hum stopped. Neck muscles Yeager hadn’t realized were tense relaxed.

  “The tray’s finished,” reported the Guard Chief. “We’re all done here.”

  “Almost,” said Yeager. “Please set your tablet to record. You, too, Captain.”

  The Dragoon officer joined them.

  Yeager spoke first. “I, Bridge Yeager, Governor of Corwynt Province, personally witnessed the destruction of all contents of the vault.”

  “I, Jose Ibanez, Chief of the Governor’s Guards, personally witnessed the destruction of all contents of the vault.”

  “I, Tran Nguyen, Commander Iota Company, Third Battalion, personally witnessed the destruction of all contents of the vault.”

  The governor let out a sigh. “Now we’re done. Thank you, gentlemen. Please send your recordings to the District Security Ministry.”

  “Yes, your excellency. Let’s get you to your transport. Or do you want to wash and change first?” Chief Ibanez surveyed Yeager’s fine suit. It was stained with dust and soot. His face outside the breath mask was worse, except where sweat and tears had cut tracks through it.

  “Thank you, but I’ll wash on the ship.”

  ***

  The drop ship’s fans howled to life. The deceleration pressed Marcus into his seat. The landing legs screeched as they compressed against the spaceport concrete. When the ship stopped the seat pushed him back up against his harness.

  The hatch popped open with a clang. Lieutenant Burley yelled, “Follow me!” as he rushed out. The Marines followed. Sergeants shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”

  Marcus tried to keep up with the last Marine. He had to stop and untangle his rifle sling from one of the struts dividing the seats. He ran to catch up.

  Salt air hit him as he went out the hatch. The smell of Corwynt. It made memories of Wynny spring to mind.

  Burley’s platoon was spreading out. Their objective was one of the hurricane-proof spaceship hangars around the edge of the spaceport. A freighter blocked the direct route. They split, half to each side.

  Marcus followed the left-hand group. A pathfinder parachute was caught on the freighter’s landing gear. The sea breeze pulled it out to the right, threatening to trip anyone coming too close.

  He didn’t hear any shots. The pathfinders reported only light resistance. There must be none left.

  The hangar’s door was open to the sunny day. Marines went into the shaded interior. Teams took turns, one advancing while the other watched for danger.

  Marcus caught up with some Marines taking cover behind a line of crates.

  The corporal whipped his head around then relaxed when he recognized Marcus. “Sir.”

  Marcus nodded in reply, not wanting to talk until he caught his breath.

  The Marines rushed off at a signal he didn’t see. He stayed put, leaning on a crate.

  There was no ship in the hangar. Work had been done on one recently. Portable scaffolds, generators, and tool chests were scattered around. The mechanics were bunched up, hands on their heads. They were all Corwynti natives, not Censorial personnel. The Marines guarding them weren’t pointing weapons at them.

  The crate next to Marcus shivered. Its lid popped off.

  Marcus stared. He recognized the man emerging from the crate. It was Ensign Koing, the Censorial inspector who’d met his ship on his first trip here. He was in his full gold-braided uniform except for the hat. The pistol in his hand waved left and right.

  “Inspector Koing, drop the gun,” Marcus said in the local dialect. “Drop the gun now!” He leveled his rifle at Koing’s belly.

  That was a bluff. The Marines had tested Marcus’ firearms skills. They’d given him two loaded magazines “for emergencies.” The one in his rifle was empty.

  Koing’s eyes were wild with panic. His pistol went off. The bullet went past Marcus’ head. The report was deafening at the close range. Koing’s body spasmed as bullets from three rifles ripped into him. The remains fell into the crate.

  “Sir! Are you okay?” shouted Gunny Janulis.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” said Marcus. True except for ringing in the ears.

  “Good.” The NCO pivoted. “Donnelly! You’re with Lieutenant Landry. Keep him in one piece.”

  “Aye-aye, Gunny.” One Marine stayed behind as the other three rushed off. He leaned on Koing’s crate, looking over the damage. “What the hell was he thinking?”

  Marcus answered, “Beats me. He always was an idiot.”

  Donnelly straightened up. “You knew him, sir?”

  “This is my third time on this planet, Private. I know a lot of people here.” He was married to one, but that was none of Donnelly’s business.

  “Oh.” The Marine shifted his rifle to the ready and began looking around in a bodyguard-like manner.

  The rest of the platoon had reached all the walls of the hangar. Some were prying open crates. Lieutenant Burley shouted, “Anyone see the tram entrance?”

  Marcus called, “Press the blue button.” He pointed at a spot on the left wall.

  A corporal pressed it. A square of concrete floor slid aside, revealing stairs. Four Marines plunged into the hole. Four more surrounded it, weapons ready for anything that might come up.

  ***

  With their piece of the spaceport secure, the platoon relaxed until the next order came down.

  “Saddle up!” shouted Lieutenant Burley. “We’re moving into the city.”

  This time of day all they could see of Bundoran was light reflecting off the glassy outer wall of the pyramid. The base was lined with buildings servicing the spaceport. Half a dozen tunnels between them let vehicles pass directly into the city.

  Pathfinders had blasted open the tunnel hatches. Marcus hoped that could be repaired before the next hurricane arrived. If the city flooded any goodwill the Fierans had earned would be lost.

  The regiment was lining up to go through the tunnels. There was plenty of room on the spaceport now that the landing craft had gone back to orbit to get the next regiment. Burley’s platoon, Charlie-Two, waited at the second tunnel from the right, behind Charlie-One.

  Marcus had never heard the spaceport so quiet. Before there’d always been spacers shouting, tru
cks loading cargo, and flyers zipping overhead. Now even the Marines were quiet. The joking after the first sweep faded away as they tensed for the next assault.

  Burley waited three minutes after Charlie-One disappeared into the tunnel before leading his own men forward.

  As they neared the end of the tunnel, they could hear shots. A single one. A flurry. Then about a minute of silence before they repeated. A corporal at the blown-open hatch yelled, “Watch high for snipers,” and pointed them to the right.

  Marcus looked up. He saw a truncated pyramid hanging in the air, what the natives called an “ardal.” It held the homes and businesses of about three thousand people. Pipes went out diagonally from its four base corners to the ground-level ardals supporting it. More pipes sprung from the top of the ardal to support others on the third level. The grid continued up to the fifth and top level.

  Each ardal was surrounded by a sidewalk at the base giving access to the doors to each individual clan’s home. The sides had windows, balconies, and aircar entrances, all with hurricane-proof hatches. The sides were painted with murals of nature scenes. Normally the pictures were interrupted by open doors and windows—but now they were all shuttered.

  The sidewalks were empty. No floaters or liftvans were in the air. The hurricane hatches were closed. But every one could pop open to let a sniper fire.

  That’s what the shooting was. Censorial marksmen letting off a shot then hiding as return fire smacked against the hatch.

  Looking left and right Marcus could see the whole regiment pinned against the outer wall. Off to the right were some of the warehouses his in-laws ran their cargo brokerage out of. There was hardly any cover. Just scattered trees and park benches.

  Pathfinders were returning from scouting past the first row of ground level ardals. They made elaborate hand signals then dropped into whatever cover they could find. Orders were to save the radios for emergencies. Nobody knew how good the Censorate would be at breaking the Marine encryption.

  Colonel Palmer stood up, stuck his hand straight up, and swept it down to point directly ahead. All the Marines leapt up and trotted forward. Marcus shook his head as he followed his platoon. He’d given orders. They were usually obeyed. But to have a thousand men move on the wave of one’s hand? That was command presence.