Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Oh, pardon me. Admiral Pinoy, this is my wife, Dulcinea.”

  Pinoy bowed. “Your excellency, I am honored.”

  “My husband has told me so much about you I feel I know you already. Please call me Dulcinea.”

  Pinoy glanced at the governor.

  Yeager nodded.

  “I’m even more honored then, Dulcinea. I am Andre.”

  Dulcinea cocked her head at him. “When did you last eat, Andre?”

  “It was—I’m not sure.” Pinoy looked to the aide hanging back from the introductions.

  “Men and work,” said Dulcinea. She ordered the butler, “Set two places for the admiral and his . . . ?”

  “My chief of staff, Captain MacIver,” said Pinoy.

  “Thank you, but if you’ll forgive me, I need to verify the security of our headquarters,” said MacIver.

  Yeager answered him. “Of course. We understand. And congratulations on your promotion, Captain MacIver.”

  The younger man left in haste. Yeager was glad to see him go. A junior officer wouldn’t help with the kind of frank conversation he needed to have with the admiral. MacIver wouldn’t enjoy being in the middle of it. Dulcinea, on the other hand, would keep the two of them more civilized than they’d been on CNS Immensity.

  “Just one place, then,” ordered Dulcinea.

  The butler placed a full plate in front of Pinoy in two minutes. Yeager wondered if they always kept full plates ready. Probably. A footman might drop one.

  “Is there a Mrs. Admiral Pinoy I can look forward to meeting?” asked Dulcinea.

  “I’m afraid not. There was a Mrs. Captain Pinoy, but promotion to Commodore comes with a transfer to another Monitor’s District to prevent attachments. My wife wasn’t willing to be so far from her family, so.” He shrugged with his hands wide.

  Yeager considered the ‘attachments’ prevented by that policy. Admirals were shuffled about so they wouldn’t support a Monitor with ambitions to overthrow the Censor. But how many skilled officers did they lose?

  “That aspect of the Censor’s service can be hard,” said Dulcinea sympathetically. “I’ve been lucky. Bridge has given me a series of grand adventures.”

  Yeager grimaced. “This is more adventurous than I wanted for you.”

  “Oh, but think of me at our next Capitol cocktail party. All the ladies of the Censor’s Council will hang on my words as I tell of being chased from my world by barbarians.”

  He managed a smile at that.

  Pinoy concentrated on his food. “This is delightful. What kind of fish is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s a native food. We haven’t learned them yet. The butler would know, if you want to ask him.”

  Pinoy met Yeager’s eyes across the table. Then they looked at Dulcinea.

  She burst into laughter. “Oh, it’s so hard for you to not talk business at the table. You’re both about to explode. I give you my gracious permission to make this a working lunch.”

  Yeager didn’t even thank her. “Well?” he growled at Pinoy.

  “Monitor Singh is furious, of course. But not at us. He’s taking the casualty lists as proof we did our best.”

  Yeager had his own opinion on that, but this was no time to reopen that argument.

  “He’s sending more of his personal flotilla. New carriers to replace the ones being rebuilt.” Pinoy took an appreciative sip of the wine. “He’s sending orders in his own hand to provincial governors. A dozen destroyers are delivering them. We’ll have two or three times as many ships as we had last time.”

  “Good. When?”

  Pinoy sighed. “I don’t know. They’re all traveling independently. They’ll need to find pilots who know each zone of hyperspace they’ll pass through. Might even wind up just following the trade routes. Which means delays visiting planets instead of by-passing them.”

  “Hmph. Can’t be helped.” The Monitor could have released copies of the Censorial hyperspace survey records to the squadron commanders. But that severe a violation of doctrine would take more than one planet being lost to barbarians.

  “As they arrive I’ll swap them in for the current patrol ships. Meckler says they’re getting worn out. Is it true you’re letting commercial traffic through?”

  Yeager grinned. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Falling rocks, why? We’re going to have spies everywhere.”

  “Maybe. We’ve caught the spies the barbarians left on Shian and Lompoc. We’re receiving reports from our spies on Corwynt.”

  “You have a spy network in place?”

  “Three networks. Our original undercover agents, who’d been looking for signs of rebellion. They’re keeping their covers and sending reports out.”

  Yeager took a bite of fish, enjoying Pinoy’s eager expression as he waited for more. Monitoring the population was a game where Yeager was the expert and Pinoy the amateur. He was enjoying the role reversal.

  After chasing the fish with some wine, he continued, “The second network is volunteers from the overt security services. They’re new at covert operations. That gives the Fierans and Corwyntis someone to chase. We’ve lost a third of them but they’ve sent out useful data.

  “The third network is skilled undercover agents brought in from the rest of the province. They’ve been monitoring the reshuffling on Corwynt. There’s winners and losers among their clans. This network contacts the losers and sees if they’d like things to go back to normal. When we move to take the planet back those clans will sabotage barbarian ships.”

  Pinoy’s eyebrows leapt in astonishment. “Really? That would put them at great risk. How are you motivating them?”

  “Cash and promises.”

  The admiral nodded. “I see. What information are you getting from them?”

  “Ship counts. That’s down, by the way. Their armed freighters have gone back to hauling cargo. Political data. Their government is a patched together committee. Economic data. Their industrial production statistics are public information.”

  Wine splashed Pinoy’s uniform as he shook with laughter. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, your excellencies, how clumsy of me.”

  “Do not apologize,” said Dulcinea. She passed him her napkin and rang a bell for the butler. “That’s the best laugh I’ve heard since we left Corwynt.”

  The butler’s towel erased every sign of the wine from Pinoy’s uniform.

  Once the door closed behind the servant, Pinoy asked, “Your excellency, can we trust that data?”

  “At this table, I’m Bridge.”

  “Fine. Bridge, do you trust that data?”

  “I’m inclined to be wary, but I’ve put some very smart men on analyzing it. They’ve checked for inconsistencies. They found the amount real data should have. Completely consistent data indicates fiction written by a single source. The smart men are starting to trust it, and they’re convincing me.”

  After a moment he added, “They’ve made a model of future barbarian ship counts for your planning.”

  “Glowing craters. This is . . . it’s like playing poker and seeing everyone else’s hands.”

  “My analysis group will give a briefing for all personnel you clear for it. I warn you, don’t include anyone weak minded. There’s plenty of subversive and proscribed material in with the useful data.”

  “I will miss the proscribed fiction when the war is over,” said Dulcinea wistfully.

  Both men chuckled. “If you are reading a long book,” said Pinoy, “please tell me. I’ll make sure to not win the war before you’re done.”

  All three laughed.

  ***

  Cai burst through the open office door with his new idea face on. He unrolled his projector on a table. “Sir! You have to see this.”

  Marcus joined him, taking a moment to study the eye-in-a-gear painted on the back of Cai’s militia vest. “What’s up?”

  A Concord fighter carrier appeared over the table. Designed for operations in hyperspace and vacu
um, it was among the largest warships the Fierans had.

  “We made those test flights. They proved my fighters can operate in aether. But they’re too wide to ride on any of the existing carriers.”

  Marcus nodded to show he was following. Not that Cai was checking.

  “Now look at what goes into a carrier. Quarters for the fighter crews. Chargers for their energy banks. Replacement missiles. Repair facilities. Enough supplies to keep cruising for months.”

  Cai waved the carrier away. “We don’t need any of that. The war is coming to us. We just need to put our force in hyperspace.”

  A new hologram popped up. Marcus recognized it as a containership. A small one by the proportions, only ten-K or twenty-K TEU.

  A twitch of Cai’s fingers made the covers on the cargo volume pop open like beetles preparing for flight.

  “We can’t stack them like shipping containers. We’ll have to install frames. Once we have that, the carrier can take a wing to hyperspace, drop it off with the fleet, and go back for another.”

  The cargo ship now wore an open frame honeycomb instead of its usual rectangular boxes.

  His presentation done, Cai looked at Marcus to await his judgement.

  “This is an excellent idea. I’m sure the Navy will want to buy some ships to refit as carriers.”

  Marcus thought it more likely that the Concord Navy would confiscate the freighters, leaving compensation to be decided in the courts. The owners might not mind. With the economy shifting to total war, civilian traffic was falling.

  “Now . . . Cai, have you talked to any of the wing or group leaders about this?”

  “No, I just did the design and analysis. I thought you’d want to see it first thing.”

  “I do. Thank you.” Marcus leaned back. “We need to be careful how we present this to the militia. Right now everyone expects to fight in sight of Corwynt, defending directly against a Censorate attack. This would change the mission.”

  “I just want to kick the Censor’s ass. Or Bridge Yeager’s. Whoever comes here.”

  “Yes. We just need to make sure we don’t load anyone into a carrier who doesn’t want to go that far away.”

  “I’m sure everyone’s up for a fight.”

  “You’re probably right.” But Marcus was going to talk to some people with better people skills than Cai before making decisions about this.

  ***

  “Thank you all for coming,” said Vychan. He was hosting the debate. Welly had tried to find a neutral party to hold it, but it was too foreign a concept.

  The other five mayoral candidates muttered polite replies. They were spaced evenly across the stage, each behind his own lectern. None of them had figured out where they should be focusing—each other, the audience of five hundred, or on Ceri Harri, waiting with her tablet full of questions.

  Ceri stepped forward, as scripted, and addressed the audience. “Good evening. Tonight, we will meet all the candidates wanting to be mayor of Bundoran. I’ll ask them questions to help you decide who to vote for.”

  Cameras around the auditorium shared the show with the rest of the city.

  After explaining how the debate would work and introducing each candidate, Ceri turned toward Vychan. “Vychan Goch, what would your top priority be as mayor?”

  Vychan spoke to the camera with the red light. “I want to fix things. There’s storm damage the Censorate ignored or only half repaired. The Fierans dealt with the worst of the damage from the liberation fighting, but there’s still walls with bullet holes from them. The city taxes have been accumulating. There are clans who know how to do the work. We need to fix it all.”

  He looked over the audience, finishing with his head turned to the left, looking at the line of other candidates. “Repairs take coordination. Blocking routes, shutting down power and water, scheduling deliveries. I’ve done just that kind of work as a broker. As a leader of the militia, I brought clans together to free our city. As mayor I’ll bring them together to improve it.”

  Clan Goch members in the audience applauded.

  “Please, no clapping,” said Ceri Harri. “Only the candidates should make noise.”

  The next candidate fumbled his answers. Thinking out loud didn’t produce a to do list. He fell back on reciting his experience.

  The moderator moved on to the third one. “Twn Denligh, what would your top priority be?”

  Twn was one of Vychan’s rivals in the brokerage business. He’d used his legal training to convince Censorate officials that taxes should be waived, or deferred, or taken in kind, to let a deal go through profitably. He lived on fifth level.

  The lecterns were all sized for Vychan. Twn’s only came up to his waist. “Nothing is more important than ensuring the Censorate does not drop an asteroid on our city.”

  Shocked mutters came from the audience.

  Twn continued, “The Censorate will come back. They will punish those who resist them. As Mayor, I will urge the Fierans to move their offices to the capital, Arnvon, or better yet offworld. When the Censorate returns, I will assure them of our obedience. I will convince them that the taxes we pay are too valuable to let us be obliterated as an example.”

  He listed examples of his work with Fierans and Censies until Ceri cut him off.

  “Twn, your time is up. Fulke Renowden, what is your top priority?”

  Fulke was both the youngest and the happiest of the men on the stage. “Look. Things have changed. Some clans are prospering, some are broke. But everybody could use some more money.”

  He leaned forward, both elbows resting on the lectern. “I investigated the closed Censorate offices. The secure printing machines for credit bills and coins are still there. There’s a room full of raw stock. Enough to keep them running for days.”

  Fulke flashed a triumphant grin at the rivals to each side. “Elect me as mayor and I’ll give everyone in the city a thousand credits. Cash.”

  He expounded on the mix of denominations he’d issue. “And if people go broke again, we can print more!”

  The last two candidates planted their flags on “cut taxes” and “make right decisions.” The audience was unimpressed.

  In the next round Ceri Harri made them all recite their experience. All bore serious responsibilities in their clan businesses, even young Fulke. He supervised food deliveries from his clan’s third level kitchens to all parts of the city.

  “I’m sure there’s better questions than mine,” said Ceri. “In this round each candidate may ask a question of one other. Twn Denligh, the randomizer chose you to go first.”

  Twn pivoted to glare at Vychan. “Mr. Goch. Isn’t your repair plan just a way to funnel tax dollars to your first level friends?”

  That was similar to one of the hostile questions Welly had made him practice answering. Vychan kept his tone light. “No. Anyone with the skills for the work will be hired. If Clan Denligh wants to put down their law books and pick up concrete sprayers, I’ll gladly give you work.”

  Vychan grinned. “I’ll even let you have dibs on the fifth level ardal the Jaaphisii wrecked.”

  A burst of laughter came from the audience.

  Some of the other questions hinted there was a longstanding feud between some of the other candidates’ clans. Nobody asked Fulke anything.

  The last question went to Vychan. “Twn Denligh. Why do you love the feel of the Censor’s boot on your neck?”

  “I don’t love the Censorate,” Twn answered. “I hate it. Just like I hate gravity. Gravity keeps me from flying by flapping my arms. It crushes people under falling buildings. I hate gravity so I want my ardal held up by strong pillars, and my floater’s battery fully charged.

  “I hate the Censorate just like I hate gravity. And like gravity, the Censorate exists. They’re coming back. I love the Fierans I’ve met. They’re sweet people. But it took all their strength to beat a tiny piece of the Censorate. When the Censor moves his full power, he’ll win.”

  ***

&nbs
p; Marcus wore his full Concord Navy dress uniform for this hunt. It was the best camouflage he could wear on board Admiral Song’s flagship. He blended right in with the beribboned staff officers.

  His prey’s aides hadn’t been willing to make an appointment for Marcus or divulge their master’s schedule. Marcus had a better relationship with Song’s secretary. That let him wait in the right corridor as the prey emerged from a conference room.

  “Commodore Placage, may I have a moment of your time, please?”

  The dark-skinned man turned a wary eye on Marcus. “What is it?”

  “Sir, is it true PKS Bon Richard is being scrapped?”

  The destroyer had crawled home from a skirmish with the Censorate patrols with only half her crew and even less of her weapons.

  Placage rolled his eyes. “Lieutenant, it is normal for a junior officer to be sentimental about his first ship. But we need to make decisions for the good of the fleet. Repairing Bon Richard would cost more than building an entire new destroyer and leave us with a unit with a strained and weak hull.”

  Marcus broke in as the commodore drew breath. “Sir, I never served on Bon Richard.”

  “Then why do you care?”

  “I’m the naval militia commander, sir. I’d like to use the wreck for a live fire exercise.”

  The commodore eyed him thoughtfully. “Your boys ready for live weapons?”

  “There’s only one way to be sure, sir.”

  “Very well. You may have the wreck, on one condition.”

  “Sir?”

  “That you trash it so thoroughly no one ever suggests fixing her again. Wing Leader.”

  ***

  The Navy’s old fighter hands called the Corwynt-built fighters ‘pigs’ or worse. To Marcus they were a joy to fly. Compared to wrestling Azure Tarn through a turn this was dancing.

  Piloting his own fighter was one of the perks of being Wing Leader. He even owned a quarter of the craft, or rather, he and Wynny did, paid for by her death creditor earnings.

  Instead of leading his wing he was following it, watching their formations as they approached Bon Richard. The lines of fighters were straight. They’d been ragged leaving orbit around Corwynt, but the flight leaders straightened them out during the cruise to the exercise volume.