Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Give them a wave,” whispered Marcus.

  Vychan did, with the hand not holding a sandwich.

  “We now have more militia volunteers than Marines. We’re also receiving logistic and intel support from the locals. Let me introduce Missus Wynny Landry, our acting S-2.”

  That produced a stir among the Marines. Marcus was stirred himself. He wanted to know how the hell that had happened more than he wanted a kiss.

  The hologram went from an outline of the city to multiple colors. “Locals have eyes on the enemy everywhere except the top level. They’re marked in blue. We hold ground level. The militia has cleared out all the enemy in the sublevels.”

  Not that a few dozen hapless sentries really deserved an ‘all’ in Marcus’ opinion. They’d captured more weapons than they’d had militiamen injured.

  “Missus Landry has found gaps in the enemy deployment. We can by-pass their defensive positions on the second and third levels then take them from behind and above.”

  Even the grimmest of the Marines perked up at that. The regiment had taken one second-level ardal by frontal assault. From the snippets Marcus had heard, that had been bloodier than the worst door to door fighting on first level.

  “To pin them all before they can react effectively, we need to move by the most efficient routes. S-3?” Colonel Palmer sat down.

  Captain Pokharel stood and walked between the tables to the hologram. He’d been the deputy S-3 at Marcus’ last staff meeting.

  Pokharel pointed at the structural member holding an ardal diagonally above the ones below. “There are three ways to go from one ardal to another. Take the ramps and escalators on top of the conduits. Rough even for armored troops. Go single file through the maintenance passage in the conduit. One rifle could stop that. Or wait for one of the armored flyers the Thirty-Ninth will bring in the third wave.”

  The last brought grim chuckles from the Marines.

  “Thanks to our local allies we know which passages are safe. They’re smashing Censorate cameras and surveillance devices. We can move through the city unseen until we choose to attack. That will leave our flanks vulnerable.”

  Pokharel nodded to Vychan. “The militia will hold those flanks. As the lead squads in each column clear the intersections a militia team will hold there. We don’t expect them to stand up to a full enemy assault, but they’ll slow them down long enough for us to bring an armored squad up.”

  “Yes, we can do that,” said Vychan.

  The S-3 gave him another nod. “I’m going to play an animation of the whole attack. Then we’ll break it down for the platoon and squad assignments.”

  Colored lines moved through the hologram. There were over a hundred conduits connecting the first and second levels. Nearly half were unguarded, with some brave Corwyntis standing at the end to call in any Censorial movements.

  Marcus studied the final positions. To his surprise the armored squads were stationed at the smaller enemy contingents. The largest was almost entirely surrounded by militia. The light infantry squads all went to fourth level, cutting off the Censorial troops from their homes and reinforcements on the fifth level.

  “We don’t expect the enemy will cooperate with this,” said Captain Pokharel. “If they want to consolidate their forces, we’ll let them. Reducing the contact surface benefits us more than them. If they move aggressively, we will retreat to a favorable position. If they want to attack across a defended conduit, great. It’s their turn.”

  The more battered Marines burst into laughter.

  “Now for the individual dispositions. Anger-One will . . .”

  ***

  Marcus counted his men as they emerged from the conduit. They’d been running all over the city as they helped the Marines squeeze out the last of the Censorial outposts in the middle levels. Some of the militiamen weren’t fit enough to keep up the pace. They’d collapsed, or just stepped aside, abashed, to catch their breath.

  New faces filled in the gaps. More volunteers joined militia columns as they went by. Most carried tools as improvised weapons. A few had spears and swords from who knew what hiding spot.

  All of them faced execution if the Fierans lost the battle.

  Private Donnelly watched them file by, watching for a potential assassin. None of them showed any sign of threatening Marcus, though there’d been a couple earlier incidents where accused informers were flung to their deaths. He’d stayed out of that. He didn’t have any way to judge if the locals were right or not.

  His radio crackled. “Landry. Meet for briefing at fallen tree.”

  Marcus turned to survey the scene. This was one of the city parks. On the middle levels that meant a flat floor connecting two ardals where normally there’d be empty air. They were at the outer edge of the third level, giving plenty of sunlight to the trees and shrubs scattered among the grass.

  The ardal at his back had been taken by armored Marines. They were positioning to assault the one at the other end of the park.

  The earlier fighting had knocked a tree over. White smoke drifted from a charred spot on the trunk. A circle of Marines knelt behind the crown. Marcus trotted over to join them.

  It was Colonel Palmer and four senior NCOs. The sergeants nodded as the colonel pointed at the map his tablet projected on the grass.

  “Ah, here’s Lieutenant Landry, just in time,” said Palmer. “Landry, your men will follow the assault platoons. Take position at the south corners, top and bottom. You’re to keep any enemy from coming in to reinforce and prevent any that break past the assault platoons from escaping.”

  “Aye-aye, sir. I have six squads here,” said Marcus.

  “If the corners don’t need help the extra squads can back up the assault platoons. Evacuate wounded to the rally point.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Palmer marked three rally points on the map for different stages of the assault.

  Two of the NCOs were in armor. One held his right arm stiffly. There was a round patch welded on over his triceps. Dried blood stained the lower half of the arm. He must have been wounded in the first assault then gone back into action once the quickheal took hold. No one had bothered cleaning the armor.

  Worrisome, but not as ominous as the regimental commander doing a company CO’s job.

  “Ping me when you’re ready to go. We’ll attack when everyone’s set,” finished Palmer. The sergeants nodded and dispersed.

  Marcus trotted back to the gaggle of militia. He briefed the leaders in both dialects. Each squad had a Marine, a Clan Goch interpreter, and often a local who’d taken on a leadership role. The latter were either senior members of a clan or the head of some secret society.

  If his father-in-law was to be believed, every native Corwynti was a member of some secret society or other.

  The militia squads spread out so they wouldn’t all die if the Censorials still had explosive shells left.

  Marcus realized he’d missed the part of the briefing with the communications frequency to report on. He headed back to the fallen tree.

  Colonel Palmer lay on his back on the near side of the trunk, resting or studying the cloudscape painted on the floor of the ardal above them.

  “Militia ready, sir,” he said.

  “Good. Still waiting on Heavy Weapons to get into position. Get down, Landry. You’ll attract snipers.” Palmer sounded almost bored.

  Marcus obediently knelt behind the tree trunk. He could still see the upper level of the enemy-held ardal. Most of the hurricane shutters were open just enough to let a rifle out.

  “Beep chirp,” said Palmer’s tablet.

  The colonel said, “Showtime,” as he rolled onto his belly. He stood, one leg almost straight as the bullet struck his chest.

  Palmer landed on his back.

  “Corpsman!” called a Marine. Two of them dragged Palmer behind the crown. “I’ve got quickheal.”

  “Not until we have the bullet out, dumbass.”

  The volleys of anti-sniper f
ire tapered off after a few rounds.

  Marcus looked at Palmer and cursed himself. As the only officer left, he was in command. But he didn’t know the plan! He’d missed the briefing. He should have let his militia sort themselves out and reported in earlier.

  Wait. The NCOs knew the plan. All they needed was the signal to start.

  Marcus popped to his feet, right arm high, and swept it forward and down. For good measure he shouted, “Attack!”

  Machine guns hammered the air. Rockets screamed. Smoke billowed up at the far end of the park. Dazzling lasers skipped among the open windows.

  He stepped over the tree trunk and started forward.

  Private Donnelly grabbed his arm and took Marcus down to the grass almost gently. “No sense making it easy for them, sir.”

  “Let go, dammit. I’m in command. I have to go with them.”

  Donnelly did let go. “You go behind them, sir, not in front. That’s for butterbars, not commanders.”

  That earned the private a curse. He only grinned at it.

  Two armored infantry platoons advancing together shook the deck enough to feel through the grass.

  “They’re ahead of me now.”

  Marcus stood and looked around. The militia were creeping forward. This was a more intense assault than they’d seen before.

  He gave them a wave. “Come on! There’s work to do.”

  They followed him at a trot.

  All the doors were open on the south side of the ardal. Two large holes had been ripped in the wall. Marcus went in a door.

  Shots echoed in the halls. Louder grenades sounded less often. No one was firing rockets indoors, fortunately for the ardal’s structural integrity and everyone’s hearing.

  The master sergeant leading the heavy weapons platoon dashed up to Marcus. “Sir, they have a rotary cannon in the central corridor. Request permission to—” Then he spat a string of Marine jargon that Marcus could barely parse as words.

  “Permission granted,” Marcus said firmly.

  It wasn’t like he had any better ideas.

  The master sergeant nodded and dashed off without a word.

  There was a slight cough.

  Marcus glanced at Donnelly.

  “Nothing, sir. Must have breathed in some smoke.”

  A quick tour found four militia squads holding their positions. Some militiamen complained that the Marines hadn’t left any Security goons for them to fight. Marcus promised there’d be more upstairs.

  Following behind the assault force he found dead Censorials, grateful civilians, and a few Marines lightly wounded enough they could walk to the rally point to meet the corpsmen.

  He told off some militiamen to escort them.

  When the firing died, he pressed forward.

  A Marine corporal met him. “Sir! Upper north conduits both secure. We made contact with the militia holding the other ends.”

  “Very good. Work your way down to the ground floor.”

  The corporal trotted off.

  “Where’s the nearest stairs?” Marcus asked a militiaman.

  By the time they reached the first floor of the ardal, the fighting there was over. The Marines handed captured weapons over the militia but kept their prisoners.

  As Marcus was preparing to radio headquarters a militiaman ran in.

  “Sir! Those goons in the upstairs ardal want to surrender. Do we have to let them?”

  “Yes, you have to let them surrender.”

  “Yes, sir.” The militiaman walked off muttering.

  Marcus caught the phrase, “Soft-hearted Fierans.”

  He turned to Private Donnelly. “Go with him. Make sure they keep the prisoners alive.”

  ***

  Marcus didn’t need to be in Regimental Headquarters. But he didn’t need to be anywhere else right now. The Fierans had control of everything except the top level of the city. Those nine ardals were occupied by Censorials and those Corwyntis completely loyal to the government.

  One assault had proven the Censorials had enough weapons left to bloody any attackers. The regiment was already weak enough it couldn’t afford to make many attempts. Colonel Palmer was still in the liberated Bundoran hospital. The adjutant was recovered enough to take command, though he’d be limping for days.

  Participating in the debate over how to break the stalemate gave Marcus an excuse to remain in HQ. Pointing out to optimists that the militia weren’t trained to attack prepared positions made him glad he did.

  His real motive for being in HQ was to talk to Wynny when she had a break from her duties. Unfortunately for him she’d become the focal point for communication between the regiment and the native Corwyntis for all issues—caring for the wounded, repairing battle damage, feeding the troops. Actual sightings of Censorial troops in the occupied levels she’d delegated to a cousin. Militiamen chased down the rumors.

  “Sir! Air defense requests permission to fire. Liftvan launching from top level.” The signals corporal pointed at a video display. An ordinary, if largish, flyer was taking off from the roof of the city.

  “Fire,” said the adjutant.

  The display wasn’t wide enough to show the missile launchers set up on top of the spaceport hangars outside the city. As the flyer cleared the edge of the roof a missile struck it. Debris bounced off the clear outer wall of the city.

  “Tell AD ‘Good shot,’” said the adjutant.

  The corporal passed it on.

  The adjutant smiled. “Maybe we’re lucky and that was the mayor making a break for it. Get me an interpreter. No. Landry, you speak their lingo. Let’s see if you can talk to them without a shouting match.”

  That sounded like an occasion for his dress uniform, but Marcus found himself seated before a local videophone in his stained fatigues. He was glad he’d taken a chance to wash his face earlier.

  The woman answering the call had Asiatic features. The Censorate moved all its personnel to other worlds to keep them from sympathizing with the natives they ruled over. “Mayor’s office. Is this the invaders again?”

  “I am Lieutenant Landry of the Fieran Concord Navy. I wish to speak with the Mayor, if he’s alive.”

  The view shook as the screen was grabbed from the receptionist. “No, you didn’t kill me. Just a terrified family trying to escape you murderers.”

  The mayor was of African descent. His curly hair was pure white. His face was contorted with rage, hiding any age lines he might have.

  Marcus kept his voice level. “That vehicle could have held soldiers or bombs. If civilians come down the ramp to our positions, they’ll be safe.”

  “Safe until the Corwyntis take them,” sneered the mayor.

  Not an unreasonable fear. Marcus had heard of a variety of favors offered to the Marines guarding prisoners. Two were under arrest for accepting them.

  “Surrender and we’ll keep you all safe,” said Marcus.

  “Oh? You think you can save me from the Censor executing me for treason?”

  “Saving your soldiers from dying in a hopeless fight is mercy, not treason.”

  The mayor stared into the screen for a long moment before answering. “The Censor does not define my duty that way.”

  The screen blanked.

  “That was quieter than usual,” said the adjutant.

  Marcus summarized the conversation for him.

  “I’m fine with him wanting to fight to the death. I’m afraid they’re cooking up bombs or poison gas or something.” The adjutant glanced at the hologram of the city. The nine ardals in the top level could hold any secret imaginable.

  Marcus nervously touched his face mask in its tiny pocket. It would filter the air touching his eyes, nose, and mouth. But they hadn’t brought extras for the Corwyntis.

  The signals corporal interrupted. “Sir, the Navy sent us a message. There’s some sailing ships coming here. With, um, with a squid, sir.”

  He put a Navy surveillance image on a screen. There were a dozen ships, ranging from
three masters to a dinghy. The two largest towed a tentacled creature.

  Marcus’ mouth watered. “Ooh, a kraken. They’re tasty.”

  The adjutant turned from the screen. “You . . . recognize that thing, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a native species. Good eating. The fleet are Jaaphisii. They’re low-tech fishermen. Nomads.”

  The regimental sergeant major broke his silence. “Low tech? That squid is longer than their ships.”

  “Sergeant major, they caught that by sticking it with spears carved from bone.” Marcus stood a bit straighter as the RSM’s eyes bored into his own.

  “Damn tough fishermen,” said the RSM.

  The adjutant asked, “Are they friend or foe?”

  “Jaaphisii aren’t anyone’s friends,” answered Marcus, “but they hate the Censorate. Their whole lifestyle is to keep them out of Censorial control. They have no money or land to tax. They trade their catch for what they need, drink the rest, and go back to sea.”

  “No harm in letting them in the city, then.”

  “The local cops keep their brawling under control. Though . . .”

  “What?” demanded the adjutant.

  “We could recruit them as militia. They’d be aggressive. Love fighting. I think they’d be up to assaulting up a conduit.”

  The sergeant major raised an eyebrow. “I saw the militia try an assault. Didn’t impress me.”

  “Our militia are city boys. Merchants. They’re willing but they’ve had a soft life. The Jaaphisii live hard. They’re used to pain and danger. I expect if they volunteer for an attack, they’ll press it through.”

  Wynny was in two conversations at once but had enough attention to hear that. “Wait. You want to give guns to Jaaphisii?”

  “They hate the Censorate,” said Marcus.

  Marines moved out from between the husband and wife.

  “They hate everyone,” she said. “Including each other. How will you control them?”

  “I wouldn’t. I’d aim them.” He turned his attention to the adjutant. “Sir, if we do this, we’d need to handle them differently than the city militia.”

  “How so?” asked the adjutant. “More Marines to supervise them?”