Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  Marcus sighed and kept going.

  HQ was not the usual tight cluster of tents. They were scattered. Some Marines were working in the shopfronts in the base of the outer wall. Asking for the S-2 sent him toward a bullet-scarred coffee shop.

  “Hey. Where’s the S-2?” asked Marcus after surveying the Marines sitting at portable holos.

  “That’s me, sir,” said a master sergeant.

  “What happened to the Major?”

  “He’s commanding Anger Company, sir.”

  “Right. I need to introduce you to my wife.” Marcus produced the commlink his father-in-law had given him.

  A moment later Wynny was saying, “I’m delighted to meet you, Master Sergeant Ortiz.”

  “Likewise, ma’am. Your husband said you were finding info for us?”

  “Yes.” She crisply recited the facts. “If we number the northern-most row of ardals from one in the west to seven in the east, numbers one, three, and seven have no Censorial troops. Two and six have four observers each on the top level. Four and five have lots of them but there’s been lots of shooting, so we don’t know exactly where.”

  “We’ve shot a lot of enemy in those two buildings,” said Ortiz. He scribbled notes on a holographic map. “So, we can move into the no troops ones?”

  “Yes, they’ll be thrilled to have you there,” she said.

  “Thank God. We need to get the wounded under better cover. Can we get interpreters?”

  “I’ll bring you some,” said Marcus.

  As he left Wynny said, “We haven’t talked to every clan in the second row, but so far . . .”

  Marcus trotted toward the stairs to the sublevel. He needed to get the militia into action right away. They didn’t all need weapon training.

  “Not in a straight line, sir,” said Private Donnelly.

  “What?”

  “You’re moving in a straight line. Some damn sniper will get you.”

  “Oh. Right.” Marcus mixed sidesteps and diagonals into his steps. He’d done that moving with the platoon, but without anyone in front to remind him he’d slipped into a normal pace.

  They were doing firing practice in the sublevel. The targets were simple circles drawn on the bedrock wall. The Marines hadn’t bothered marking a bullseye.

  Each Corwynti native fired five shots before passing the rifle to the next trainee. Marines and interpreters stood at each firing station to offer advice.

  Marcus looked over the targets. There were more bullet scars inside the circles than outside.

  He tapped Gunny Janulis’ shoulder. “How many of them have shot?”

  “More’n half, sir.”

  “That’ll have to do. We need to clear some buildings.”

  “Without ever firing their weapons, sir?” Gunny’s tone was respectful. Barely.

  “There’s buildings with no enemy. We need interpreters to get the wounded into them.”

  “Right. Aye, sir.”

  “Finish with this group then I’ll brief the Marines and militia leaders.”

  The briefing was for all the Marines and all of Clan Goch’s volunteers. The other clans stood around listening, but Marcus didn’t want to take the time to explain in both dialects. The Goch interpreters could explain to the rest once they were moving.

  “Here’s the situation.” Marcus’ tablet projected a sketched map onto the floor. “The ardals with no enemy each get a squad to guide Marines in and ask for help from the inhabitants. The ones with observers get two squads each to hunt them down. The rest go into these two, find the enemy, and point them out to the regiment. Clear?”

  “We only have two squads, sir,” said Sergeant Andrevitch.

  “No. We’re reorganizing. Each squad will be one Marine, one Clan Goch interpreter, and four or five militiamen. The best shots go in the squads going after the observers.”

  Marcus paused for reactions. No one said anything. The Marine privates seemed more enthusiastic than the NCOs.

  In the back of the huddle interpreters were passing on the plan.

  “All right,” said Gunny Janulis. “Buddy system, Marines. Find a Goch buddy then spread out and find a squad to go with them.”

  Marcus pulled out his radio. He needed to check with the Regimental commander before he actually deployed his men.

  Colonel Palmer was still too busy to talk to him. The adjutant’s comment was, “Good initiative, Lieutenant. We’ll move the infirmary and HQ into number three when you signal it’s clear. We haven’t taken any fire from four and five lately, but I’ll send back a couple of squads if necessary.”

  ***

  “What’s that phrase they keep saying?” asked Corporal Woo.

  The native militiamen were streaming into yet another clanhome. They’d been let in after shouting their usual greeting.

  Marcus translated, “‘Where’s the Censy assholes?’ Makes it clear what they’re looking for.”

  Corporal and lieutenant cut in behind the riflemen. The dozens of volunteers with knives and clubs could wait. Most of the squad was now men who’d joined up as they were searching the ardal for remnants of the Censorial troops who’d ambushed the Marines.

  The civilians in this clanhome were chattering and pointing. There must be some live enemy here. There hadn’t been so much excitement over the dead ones they’d found.

  “Found you, you vermin!” shouted a militiaman up ahead. Shots sounded.

  Marcus trotted past the next few to catch up.

  He went into the clan’s workshop. They assembled electronic components there. Everything was scattered now. Holes in the normally hurricane-proof wall let sunlight in on four Censorial Security troopers lying against the inner wall. Their blue jackets were red stained.

  The militiamen were joking and laughing as they stared at their oppressors. One leveled his rifle and shot a blue-jacket through the head.

  “Hey!” Marcus put his whole weight behind the punch. The shooter fell back. The rifle bounced off a workbench and clattered out of sight.

  Corporal Woo slid his aim over the rest of the militia then lowered his rifle when none of the objected to the lieutenant’s assault. “Sir, we never taught them that.”

  Marcus nodded. He stood next to the fresh corpse and projected his voice. “You only shoot men fighting you. These weren’t fighting. They put down their weapons. They’re sitting. They’re wounded. You don’t shoot wounded men who stopped fighting.”

  No one objected. Marcus saw obedience, not understanding, on their faces. It would have to do. He pointed at the shooter. “What’s your name?”

  “Gwent Harries.”

  “Gwent, you never get to hold a rifle again. You, take his ammo.”

  Marcus picked an older knife wielder. “You, go find that rifle. The rest of you, take these guys down to the garage with the other prisoners.”

  He’d been leaving all the dead bodies in place. The new one would have to stay too. The residents didn’t seem bothered by it. The women and children peeking around the edge of the door were cheerful.

  “We can help fight, sir?” New volunteers were gathering around. They clutched hammers and knives.

  “Yes, welcome to the militia,” said Marcus. “Were any of your people hurt by . . . that?” He waved at the holes in the outer wall.

  “Oh, no, sir. Nothing worth mentioning.”

  “Good. Dilwyn will explain things.” He switched dialects. “Corporal Woo, keep the sweep going.”

  “Aye-aye.”

  Rifle-toting militiamen charged through the next hatch as Woo waved them on.

  The next clanhome had been passed over by Security. The militia kept going.

  Marcus’ radio chimed. “Militia actual here.”

  “Panther actual.” Colonel Palmer? What was he calling for? “How much longer until you’re done clearing that building?”

  “Ten minutes at this rate, sir. We’ve just found wounded prisoners. No resistance. More militia volunteers.”

  “Good
work. I’m told all the buildings have connections to the infra-structure, that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When you’re done there, I want you to take the militia and sweep the underlevels for enemy. We need to have that flank secure before we go upstairs. How long will you need?”

  Marcus gulped. The three sublevels were warrens of infrastructure machinery, industry, and storage. But every squad was getting more volunteers . . . “At least two hours. Maybe four.”

  “Good enough. Get to it.”

  Sweeping an ardal could be organized. Two squads on each level, pacing together along the outer walls until they met up again on the far side. That wouldn’t work in the sublevels.

  Marcus sent them out in a swarm. Those with improvised weapons were to poke into every corner. Riflemen would move about, ready to respond to the sound of fighting. Marines would bring more riflemen as an organized backup.

  As Marcus finished explaining this to the militia they nodded. Some were passing clarifications on to their friends. No one had questions.

  “Go get them!” he ordered.

  The men cheered. The pumping station they were gathered in had six exits. Equal numbers streamed out each.

  ***

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Landry,” said Master Sergeant Ortiz.

  “Not at all, Sergeant. With the first sublevel cleared we had no trouble getting here.”

  The regimental intelligence tent was now in the second level vehicle entry of the #3 ardal, as Wynny had first referred to it. She’d just arrived with a dozen of her Goch cousins, all carrying commlinks, tablets, and computers.

  “It can be hard to explain these things over the phone,” she continued. “I found a map which will help.”

  Wynny’s weeks working with the Fieran embassy last year taught her how to transfer files from a Censorate computer to a Fieran one. The method worked on Marine equipment once Ortiz turned multiple security barriers off.

  The hologram model of Bundoran the Marine intel staff had been annotating faded out. A more detailed one appeared in its place.

  “This is for real estate sales,” said Wynny. “Anything that’s city property instead of a clan’s is just a solid block. But the measurements are accurate inside and out to less than a handspan.”

  A buck sergeant laughed then slapped his hand over his mouth. Their model had errors measured in dozens of feet.

  Master Sergeant Ortiz said, “That’s much better, thank you, ma’am.”

  Three cousins picked up wands from the table and began coloring in the outlines. “Green has no enemy, blue is where someone’s seen an armed Censy, and grey means we don’t know.”

  Other cousins were making calls to get updates from the people trapped in clanhomes with the enemy.

  The Marines added red marks for where units reported taking fire from.

  “Why do you have circles on that ardal?” asked Wynny.

  Sergeant Chin said, “There’s a sniper there, but he never shoots from the same place twice.”

  “Hmmm.” She borrowed a link from one of her cousins and began calling contacts in the sniper’s ardal. There were six women on the call by the time they found one who had him in sight.

  Wynny switched back to Fieran speech to give Chin the news. “He’s moving . . . she’s trying to stay out of his sight. He stopped. Right here.”

  She touched her finger to a closed window in the hologram.

  Chin had radioed the platoon on that side of the ardal. “Have a target for you. Second floor from top. Fourth window from south end. Of course it’s closed, he’s setting up the next shot. Yes, we have eyes on target. Good.”

  There was a loud noise over Wynny’s link. She exchanged a few more words and ended the call. “You hit him. They’re arguing over who will cut his throat.”

  The Marines traded uneasy looks.

  In the corner a radio chirped. Lance Corporal Stahler answered. “Panther here.”

  “Skywatch calling.”

  The other Marines turned to listen. Stahler said, “Go ahead, Skywatch.”

  “We’re still hunting that enemy ship swimming near you. Afraid you’re getting some collateral. Brace for some waves in twelve minutes.”

  “How big?” demanded Wynny.

  Stahler glanced at Ortiz, who nodded. “Skywatch, how big a wave?”

  “Not sure. Six or ten feet above normal. Skywatch out.”

  Master Sergeant Ortiz said, “The city is built for that, right? You can handle that size wave?”

  Wynny glared at him. “We can. When the hatches haven’t been knocked down by—” She struggled to choose a word and settled on “—someone.”

  “Ah,” said Ortiz.

  She turned to her cousins. “Call all the first level ardals. Small tsunami coming. Close all the doors and windows.”

  They interrupted the calls they were on. They kept calm enough, passing the warning on. This was a familiar nightmare to Corwyntis. They’d all seen disaster movies which began with a villain sabotaging a hatch to let the water in.

  Wynny called the link her father had given Marcus.

  “Lieutenant Landry. Oh, hey, it’s you. Hello, my love.”

  “Listen.” Wynny repeated the warning from the Navy.

  “Crap. Okay, thanks. I love you.”

  He broke the call before she could answer.

  The window was shut. A small porthole gave a view out. It was reinforced to hold up to tsunamis which overflowed the ardal.

  Wynny looked out. The ardal overlooked one of the tunnels to the spaceport. A trickle of water came through, then became a torrent filling the exit as the wave slapped against the outside of the city.

  The flood wasn’t enough to endanger the city. It spread out, sweeping away battle debris left on the grass.

  The sidewalks and other reference points vanished under white foam. Wynny could see where the stairs to the sublevels were. A whirlpool showed water draining into it.

  ***

  Marcus said, “I love you,” as he pushed the disconnect button.

  The men around him—Vychan, Gunny Janulis, Donnelly, and other senior men of the militia—stared in curiosity.

  “We’re getting a Navy-made water wave into the city. Ten feet high. Pass the word.”

  Some of the local militiamen pulled out commlinks. Others ran off shouting.

  Vychan said, “This way.”

  The next intersection gave into a conduit lined with pipes on both sides.

  “Up you go.” Vychan helped boost men up onto the higher pipes. Marcus pushed his father-in-law onto one before taking a hold on one himself.

  As they waited a Marine sergeant asked, “Sir, how the hell did the Navy cause a tsunami?”

  “Not a real tsunami,” answered Marcus. “Probably the splash from a nuke going off. I bet they’re still hunting that Censorial ship that shot up the Seventeenth.”

  “Going to be hell on the fishing,” muttered Vychan.

  They were in the east side of the second sublevel. The water was only inches deep when it reached their conduit.

  The wave dropped a man at the intersection as it spread out. He rose to hands and knees, coughing and sputtering.

  One of Marcus’ escort dropped off his pipe and splashed over to the new arrival. “Rhys, what did you do to yourself?”

  Rhys accepted a hand to stand up. “I was standing in the corner, minding my own business, when all this salt water came down the stairs and carried me off. I’d like to know whose fault that was.”

  “Our Fieran friends,” said the helper.

  “Then they’re forgiven.”

  Marcus broke in. “Round up everyone on third level, see if they need help. If the water didn’t flush out any more Censorials we’re done looking. Time to get everyone up to ground level and reorganized.”

  ***

  Marcus brought Vychan and Gunny Janulis to the regimental staff meeting.

  A clan had donated their main hall for it. A rin
g of tables was set around an eight foot high hologram of the city. Cheerful Corwyntis served tea and cookies. None of them could speak the Fieran dialect, but if a Marine wrote down a request they tried to oblige.

  Sergeant Zimmers intercepted Marcus. “Sir, I have more men to support your militia. Twenty-two Marines. Most of them treated and returned to duty.”

  “Thank you. Which platoon are they from?”

  “Oh, they’re from all through the Regiment, sir. Any squad too broken up to reform, the survivors are going to you.” Zimmers excused himself and buttonholed another officer.

  Colonel Palmer came by for a quick introduction to Vychan then returned to a knot of arguing officers.

  Most of the tables had helmets, tablets, or other gear claiming seats. Marcus spotted one with three unclaimed seats and led his men to it. On the way a teenager offered them a tray of sandwiches. They each took two.

  The lieutenant in the seat to the left had his elbows on the table as he rested his face in his palms. He lifted his head to give them a polite nod, then lowered it again.

  Marcus couldn’t blame him. He was tired enough for a nap after hiking all through the sublevels. Hadn’t seen nearly as much shooting as that guy, by the smoke and rips on his uniform.

  There was a stir as Wynny came in with one of her cousins and a Marine buck sergeant. Colonel Palmer escorted her to a seat. She smiled at Marcus. He returned it.

  No chance to sneak a kiss now—but maybe after the meeting they could snatch a few seconds.

  “Let’s get started, everyone,” said the colonel. Officers still standing took their seats.

  Marcus was surprised to see Palmer calling the meeting to order. Normally the adjutant ran meetings. He looked around. The adjutant wasn’t here. Neither were any of the company commanders.

  Palmer started talking while chairs were still scraping. “The Navy apologized. They destroyed the warship that attacked the Seventeenth’s drop. But three more have moved into the region. They got one. Still hunting the other two. So we’re cut off.

  “That’s the bad news.

  “The good news is our local support. Let me introduce the new faces. Vychan Goch is recruiting militia.” He pointed at Vychan.