Charlie-One platoon was still in front. A burst of shooting said they’d found some enemy. They weren’t all upstairs waiting for the Marines to take the escalators from one level to the next.
Private Donnelly made discouraging mutters about “staying safe” or “Gunny wouldn’t like it” whenever Marcus tried to go forward of the rearmost squad. He didn’t object when the officer paused to look at dead enemies.
They all wore security uniforms. No actual military. Marcus picked up one of their rifles, keeping it pointed at the grass as he fiddled with it. Palmer’s logistics platoon had only brought three hundred extra rifles. If he recruited more militia than that they’d need to use captured weapons.
The lead platoon reached their objective, the inner corners of the two ardals they were passing between, and started digging in. Marcus had warned them the parks only had a couple of feet of dirt. The sergeants all said, “Every bit helps.”
Lieutenant Burley led his troops through Charlie-One, going right in the gap before the next row of ardals. There weren’t any Censorials there. He could see down the lane to where some enemy were having a firefight with Charlie-Three.
With an exultant whoop Burley charged into the flank of the Security force, firing his pistol to show his Marines where to aim their fire.
The surviving enemy broke and ran directly away from Burley. They went straight into an ambush by Dog-One as the armored platoon set up its position by the outer wall.
Burley gave the Marines from Dog Company a wave. “I love those tinheads but the only way they’ll catch anything is if we chase it into their lap.”
The squad around him laughed. The light and armored Marines played at a fierce rivalry.
“Landry, where are you?” called Burley.
Marcus trotted forward. Donnelly followed without interfering.
“This your building?” asked Burley, pointing at the one forward of the dug in Charlie-Three Marines.
“No. Next one, with the sailing ships painted on it.”
“Right.” The lieutenant went forward at a brisk walk.
Private Donnelly blocked Marcus long enough for a squad to move out ahead of him.
The squad advanced in a V shape, point just behind Burley. Their heads turned constantly, trying to watch their assigned vectors and a bit more. One of the tail end Marines shouted, “Here comes the Seventeenth!”
Marcus turned to see. The triangular panels of the city’s transparent outer shell framed landers making streaks through the atmosphere. They were returning with the next assault regiment.
White streaks zipped up from the right. If they’d been any faster Marcus might have mistaken them for lasers. Three lander contrails now ended in white cotton puffs.
The other contrails squiggled into knots. More streaks from below blew up two more. The rest headed back to orbit.
“Shit. Can’t the Navy do anything right?” complained a Marine.
Marcus guessed Censorial warships must be submerged in Corwynt’s ocean, only emerging to fire. They would be invisible to orbital sensors. Despite that he felt guilty on his service’s behalf. The Concord Navy’s failure to destroy that ship had cost a couple of hundred Marines their lives.
Gunny Janulis yelled, “We ain’t here to watch fireworks. Eyes front! Keep your spacing!”
The Marines trotted ahead. Marcus tried to keep up.
The ardal on the left had a more colorful mural than most. Instead of the usual green nature scene or blue seascape it wore an autumnal deciduous forest. The yellows, reds, and oranges made it the brightest structure Marcus had ever seen on Corwynt.
Hatches clanged open from the base of the tree trunks. Muzzles flashed. Bullets went wheet through the Marines.
Burley called, “Ambush left!” Everyone hit the deck and poured rifle fire on the doors. The lieutenant turned to say something then fell over. Fire was coming from upper floor windows too.
Marcus shoved a loaded magazine into his rifle. This seemed to be an emergency. He slithered up to the line of Marines. His fire didn’t seem to make any difference. The private next to him was lying with his helmet pressed to the grass. A rocket launcher was slung across his back.
A slap on the shoulder broke the private out of his trance. “Use that!” snapped Marcus.
“Uh, target, sir?”
“The fucking doors.” He pointed at the right hand one.
THWOOOOSH. Debris and smoke spilled from the doorway.
“Now the other one!”
THWOOOOSH. Suddenly there were few bullets coming their way. The windows were still open but none of them were shooting enough to earn a rocket.
“Donnelly, come on.” Marcus scrambled to his feet and ran to the head of the formation. Burley was bleeding but alive. So was the squad leader next to him.
“You get him.” A fireman’s carry was hard with a slung rifle, but Marcus slid the lieutenant over his back.
As Donnelly did the same with the sergeant, he interrupted his cursing long enough to say, “Where to?”
The whole platoon needed to know that.
“Take cover on the playground.” Marcus pointed at a group of gazebos, slides, and playforts they’d by-passed a minute ago.
The Marines leapfrogged back, some shooting while others moved.
Gunny and the medic took Burley off his back in a gazebo.
“Jesus, these people have tough kids,” said Gunny. The Marines were pleasantly surprised to find the playground built of stone and thick steel.
“Tsunami proof,” said Marcus. “Gimme his radio.”
Marcus called the company commander. “Charlie-two to Charlie lead.”
“Charlie here. Who’s this?” said Captain Wertz.
“Landry, sir. Burley’s down. We have wounded we need evacuated at Mike Three.”
“Charlie-Three will send a squad. Are you secure?”
“Yessir. Moved into stone cover.”
“Who ordered that?”
“I did, sir. We’ve shut down the ambush.” The fighting was down to a few shots per minute.
“Right. Carry on, then.”
He was leaving Marcus in command? “Sir—I’m not a Marine.”
“They’re taking your orders. I don’t have any lieutenants to spare. Continue the mission.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Click.
The company had a spare lieutenant, the captain’s XO. Marcus wondered for an instant if someone else had had bad luck, then put it aside.
“Gunny, Charlie-Three is coming to get our wounded. Detail a few men to guard them. Then we’re moving out.”
***
They didn’t meet another ambush as they advanced. A couple of upper floor windows opened but shut hastily after a rifle shot struck near them.
Marcus checked the orders of the rocketeers. They were only allowed to fire at armored vehicles without orders from a squad leader or above. He changed that to allow them to fire on heavy weapons or more than five enemy soldiers in one spot. Hopefully that would shut down the next ambush fast.
Reaching East Docks would require crossing another lane between rows of ground-level ardals. Gunny Janulis fretted about being seen while crossing it.
“We’re already seen,” said Marcus. He pointed at the upper levels of the city. “They’re watching from up there. They’re just too busy to bother us much.”
“Eh.” Gunny didn’t like that but couldn’t argue.
The center of the regiment was advancing, both on ground level and up the pipes to the second level. Marcus and his platoon couldn’t see much besides the occasional rocket and plumes of smoke. The noise of massed rifles and heavy weapons had been steadily growing.
Gunny did get his way on making Marcus take a private’s place in one of the squad lines instead of walking by himself. Snipers had more interest in people outside the lines.
Snipers weren’t taking much interest in Charlie-Two. Every couple of minutes a bullet would hit the ground near someone. It
encouraged Marines to keep including side steps and diagonal hops in their advance.
One shot glanced off Corporal Woo’s helmet. He went to one knee but didn’t stop moving. It was five minutes before he admitted needing a headache pill.
East Docks was painted with stylized Jaaphisii ships. Marcus looked for the one with megashark spines as its masts.
“Is that a Goddamn tentacle?” blurted Donnelly, pointing at another ship girdled by a green appendage.
Marcus answered, “Yeah. Kraken. Don’t ever go swimming here unless the natives say it’s okay. There’s our door!”
Gunny Janulis barked, “Hold on, sir! Buckley, take point.”
The private on the end of the line pulled the door open. A few seconds later he returned. “Don’t see anybody, Gunny.”
“They’re all in the clanhomes,” said Marcus. “Follow me.”
A few Marines went in ahead of him. They spread out in the empty foyer. The announcement screens bore Censorial orders to stay home and report treasonous activity.
“This way.” Marcus headed up the stairs. Donnelly body-checked another Marine to keep his place right behind the officer.
Two long flights brought them to a landing with two hatches flanking it. Marcus knocked on the left hand one.
A slot opened. A few words were spoken in the native dialect.
Marcus answered with his name.
“Marcus!” Metallic thunks announced the unlocking of the hatch.
He stepped back, waving a couple of Marines clear as the heavy hatch swung out and slammed against the stops.
Two young Goch clansmen—his cousins-in-law now—called greetings. He answered in their own dialect.
Someone shoved them apart and leapt on him. Marcus braced to catch her. Her arms and legs wrapped around him. He grabbed hold, one arm around her back, one holding her leg.
Marcus returned Wynny’s kiss fiercely. The part of him afraid he’d never see her again evaporated in the heat of the embrace. He was whole again.
Her taste and smell seized him, driving home the connection they were restoring. His eyes were closed to focus on the kiss.
His ears still worked.
Vychan Goch, his father-in-law, was introducing himself to all the Marines in accented but understandable Fieran English. Drinks were being poured for the Marines, with a promise to Gunny that there’d be only one each.
Private Donnelly said, “Gunny, shouldn’t we, like, interrupt that?”
“Lieutenant’s mission is to make friendly contact with the natives. Seems to be doing a damn fine job.” Gunny chuckled.
Marcus mustered all his willpower. Broke the kiss. Met her eyes.
“I love you. I missed you. I need you. But I—” Marcus paused.
“You have work to do. I know.” Wynny let go of him and hopped down.
“Marcus. Welcome back.” Vychan confined his greeting to an enthusiastic double-handed shake.
“Thank you. We need your help.”
“Oh, one thing before we talk business.”
The crowd of Goch clanfolk parted to let Emlyn, his mother-in-law, through. She handed a swaddled infant to Wynny.
Wynny pressed the baby into Marcus’ arms. “My love, meet your son, Niko Vychan Landry.”
The Goch clan beamed with joy. Even the Marines smiled. Marcus was too astonished to do more than clutch his child, staring into his tiny face.
“Ba.” Little Niko batted at his father’s chin.
Gunny Janulis called out, “Marines! To the youngest Landry.”
“The youngest Landry!” chorused the platoon.
Clanfolk collected the empty wine glasses.
“We should let you work,” said Wynny. She slipped her hands under Little Niko and lifted him away to her mother.
Marcus looked after his child as he was borne back into the clanhome.
A Marine quipped, “Fraternizing with the locals is legal, huh.”
“Only for the Navy. They get away with everything,” said another.
“Lock it up,” snarled Corporal Woo.
Vychan stepped forward. “We heard the Censorate invaded your system. Now you’re invading them.”
Shaking his head let Marcus start thinking again. “Yes. Invasion. We need help. We have weapons to arm a militia. Any information you have on enemy positions and headcount is important.”
Vychan laughed. “Who wants to fight the Censorate?” he called in the local dialect.
The children and the old had vanished through the hatch with the empty glasses. The ones left all shouted, “Me!” “Me!” “Me!” “Me!”
“Dilwyn, ask the neighbors if they want in,” ordered Vychan.
The younger man dashed across the landing and knocked on the hatch.
Wynny asked, “Where should we start? Which enemy locations?”
“North edge of ground level,” said Marcus. “We’ve found some already. We’re being shot at from the upper levels. But if there’s an ardal with no enemy that would give us a base.”
She nodded, gave him a promissory peck on the lips, and went into the clanhome. “Mother! Lowri! Argel! We have calls to make.”
Men from the other clan were spilling onto the landing. They carried kitchen knives, hammers, and other improvised weapons. The Goch clan carried clubs still splintery from the furniture they’d been torn from.
Marcus made sure he was speaking in the local dialect. “We’ll head back to headquarters to get rifles for you. It’ll be dangerous. Security is shooting at anyone who moves on the ground.”
“Would it be safer to go by sublevel?” asked Vychan.
Marines had been ordered to stay out of the sublevels because they were a maze of potential ambushes. But if they had native guides . . .
“Sure,” said Marcus. “We’re going to a spot by the tunnel just east of Spaceport Administration.”
Vychan thought a moment. “Culvert One-Whiskey-Seven-Tango. Spread the word.”
Young men headed off upstairs and downstairs.
The Marines insisted on leading the way. Then they milled about on the ground floor until Vychan arrived to direct them to a maintenance room with stairs to the first sublevel.
By the time they reached the culvert, contingents from five more clans had joined. Marcus felt he’d been able to keep his promise.
***
They’d gone more than halfway to the end of the culvert before seeing any enemy. Three Security men crouched behind pipes at an intersection, facing north.
The mixed Marine/militia force was also headed north. They could see the enemy clearly. In other parts of the sublevel they would’ve been heard, but some pumps here were loud enough to drown out footsteps and chatter.
Corporal Woo was on point. He was still cranky from his headache. At ten yards he yelled, “Hands up! Drop your guns!”
The security men turned around, astonished looks on their faces.
Dilwyn Goch repeated the commands in the local dialect.
Three rifles clattered to the ground.
“Hernandez, tie them,” snapped the corporal.
By the time Marcus reached them the prisoners’ hands were secured behind their backs.
Censorial Security wore their rank on their collars. The trio were in their everyday intimidate-the-civilians bright blue jackets and black pants. Two had blank collars. One had a thin silver bar.
Marcus grabbed the senior one and shoved him against the curved side of the culvert. “What are your orders?”
“I don’t—I can’t,” stammered the prisoner.
Marcus switched dialects. “Hernandez, act like I told you to blow his head off.”
The private shoved the muzzle of his rifle into the prisoner’s cheek. He had the grin of someone who really wanted to blow a head off. Likely sincere after the casualties the Marines had taken.
“I—I—We’re just to stay here and shoot any barbarians who come. That’s all the Sub-inspector said.”
A few more questions re
vealed they didn’t have a radio, the Sub-inspector checked on them once an hour, and they didn’t know where any other posts were.
“Give me that.” Marcus gestured to the captured rifle Dilwyn Goch held.
A couple of minutes was enough to establish Censorial rifles had no safety other than ejecting their ammunition magazines. Marcus showed the militiamen how to take the ammo out. “Don’t put this back in unless a Marine tells you to.”
“You take cast-offs, we’ll wait for the real guns,” teased another militiaman.
When they were under the Marine positions Marcus called in. “Sir, I’m coming in with about a hundred native militia.”
“Don’t tell me, tell the colonel. Channel one,” said Captain Wertz. Click.
Marcus repeated the message on the other frequency.
“Good,” answered Palmer’s adjutant. “We’ll get the crates to you.”
Only a few of Marcus’ command went up the stairs to ground level. The supply sergeants said a large group would draw sniper fire. Four crates were carried down to the sublevel.
It turned out most of Clan Goch was more or less fluent in Fieran dialect now. They handled translating as the Marines shifted from infantry to instructors.
Vychan led them to an open chamber with sloped bedrock on one side. Gunny muttered about bouncers but admitted they didn’t have a better place to train.
Gunny Janulis held up a rifle for the first lesson. “This is a rifle. The bullet comes out here. The bullets are in this box. This switch has three positions. Here the rifle doesn’t shoot. Here it does shoot. The third one is for when you’re all alone. It shoots the bullets all at once, which makes it hard to aim.”
Goch clansmen translated in the pauses between every sentence. More Marines held rifles, imitating Gunny’s gestures for those not close enough to see him.
Marcus decided the militia were in good hands. He headed up the stairs toward regimental headquarters. Private Donnelly followed him.
“Don’t you have work to do?” demanded Marcus.
Donnelly answered, “My job is keeping you alive, sir.”
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