Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Make room! The man’s thirsty!” A barmaid elbowed a man out of her way and slid her tray through the new gap.

  She held out a tall glass to Marcus. “Like a Stormbird, Wing Leader?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He took the glass in his left hand. Someone grabbed his right hand in both of his.

  The barmaid smacked her empty tray on the stranger’s wrist. “Let the man drink.”

  The crowd backed off. Marcus no longer felt crushed, but he could feel the expectation in their stares. They wanted him to do something for them.

  He lifted the glass high. “A toast!”

  Glasses rose all around.

  Marcus said, “To absent friends,” which was lost in a roar of, “To Hell with Bridge Yeager!”

  He managed to shake some more hands while drinking his beer. When he finished it, some young women rushed up. “Dance with us, Wing Leader! It’s time to celebrate!”

  “I can’t. I’m on my way to a funeral for some of the militia.”

  “Oh.” Their faces fell. Good, somebody besides the families of those lost should remember this victory had a price.

  The barmaid reappeared. “Another, sir?”

  “Can’t. I have to go to the next funeral.”

  “Ah.” She pivoted and started clearing a path for him. As they walked out together, she looked up and studied his face. “Going to a lot of them?”

  “As many as I can. Tomorrow I’m flying to Arnvon, they had a lot of militia.”

  The barmaid maneuvered him through the last of the crowd. “Well, you do your duty. But do remember to eat and sleep.”

  “Thank you.” Marcus trotted down the sidewalk, trying to make up for the lost time.

  ***

  Governor Yeager stood with Admiral Pinoy to watch the combat. CNS Immensity hadn’t suffered engine damage in the Corwynt ambush, so it was supporting the fast squadrons. They were assaulting the barbarians, trying to force them to take defensive formations and remain in place while the damaged ships caught up. Force Cape had its own share of battered ships, on top of being below strength from the sacrifices it had made for its mission.

  To his amateur eye, the flights of missiles between the fleets seemed evenly matched. That should be to the advantage of the larger Censorate force, with more ships lumbering toward them to join the action.

  “How do you feel about it?” he asked the admiral.

  “Envy,” replied Admiral Pinoy.

  “Envy? I was looking for optimistic or pessimistic.”

  “Oh, optimistic. We’re pressing them hard. Our losses are acceptable. We’re on track to victory.”

  “Thank you,” said Yeager. He watched the next salvo of missiles. “Envy how?”

  Admiral Pinoy sighed. “Look at how the barbarians maneuver. The moment they’ve dealt with a salvo, they pivot to accelerate away. They wait until the last moment as the next salvo comes in. Then it’s wham, they’re locked into a defensive formation with interlocking fire. No collisions, no gaps, no squadrons misunderstanding their orders in a way that leaves them safely behind the formation.”

  He glared at the barbarian fleet. “I envy their commander for the time he’s had to train them. Every one of those ships is there for the duration of this war. They have to perform and know it.”

  He waved both arms to take in their force. “I only have weeks to train my whole force before taking them into action. They trickle in a few at a time. None have the same level of training. If I asked to keep a fleet together for a year, I’d be executed.”

  Yeager stiffened.

  “As would be proper for demanding such excessive power,” Pinoy hastily added.

  The governor relaxed.

  The admiral didn’t.

  ***

  Admiral Song studied the enemy fleet’s disposition in the holotank. The leading elements were a crisp formation, if not as tight as the Fieran fleet. A reserve of heavy ships followed close behind them. After that ships . . . straggled, was the only word that fit. They chased after the main body as best they could.

  He highlighted them by which enemy force they’d been part of. Many of the stragglers were part of the force he’d been fighting with for days. Intelligence was tracking them. Highlighting a ship would bring up the details on the engagement where it had been crippled.

  Why were there cripples in the new force? They’d never fought Song’s ships.

  Song waved over his intelligence chief. “These ships from the new force . . . why are they slow? Battle damage?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re certain of it.” The chief highlighted new force ships in the leading elements. “There’s other battle damage we’ve identified. The green ones don’t have full sensor emissions. Yellow have reduced firepower.”

  “I see. So those ships have been to Corwynt?”

  The chief hesitated. “We haven’t come up with any other reasonable hypotheses, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Song let the intelligence chief return to his duties.

  The admiral brooded. If there’d been a battle at Corwynt, that force would have steamrollered the small detachment he’d left there. Maybe if he’d left the fighters in place at the planet instead of ordering them dispersed . . . no, he had to focus on the battle he was in. There were too many unknowns to speculate about what had really happened at Corwynt.

  Other than that the enemy had outmaneuvered him. The world he’d promised to protect was captured or ruined.

  Song considered dispatching a destroyer to investigate. But there was already one making courier runs. It wasn’t late yet. He shouldn’t give in to his fears.

  It wasn’t like he could spare a destroyer. His fleet was barely able to stand up to the enemy as it was. Once they were in a safe defensive position among the shoals, then he’d send one.

  And if there had been an attack on Corwynt . . . it was too late for Song to do anything about it.

  The routine murmur of PKS Yi Sunsin’s flag bridge was broken by the ops chief. “Salvo, time on target, focus Aqua Gamma, eighty-five seconds.”

  His command was relayed to every squadron in a position to contribute to the attack. A wave of missiles leapt out.

  Admiral Song watched the Censorate formation in the holotank. He didn’t see why the chief chose this moment for a strike.

  The lead elements of the enemy fleet were shifting to the side again. They kept trying to force the Fierans into a choice between leaving their formation edge exposed to a flank attack or shifting their course to be backed up against an impassable shoal.

  It would work if the Censies didn’t take twice as long to shift formation as the Fierans did.

  “See the target, sir?” asked the ops chief.

  “No,” admitted Song.

  “Neither did I. One of the analysts, an SRN boy, spotted it. As they pivot, their destroyers turn at full, but the cruisers can’t match that. So, there’s a gap until the cruisers catch up.”

  As the missiles closed on the enemy, Song saw the gap appear. It was barely a crack. But it spread the missile defenses thin enough to let a few penetrate.

  An Intelligence warrant gave the battle damage assessment. “Seven hits. No ships destroyed. One cruiser dropping out of formation.”

  Song nodded approvingly. “That was efficient use of ammo. Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the chief. “We’ll see if that buys us enough time to reach the pass.”

  ***

  To soothe the paranoid, each ballot box was counted multiple times, by different teams. If counts disagreed, that box went off for more counts. It didn’t help that the counters took time off to join the celebrations of the crossover battle and funerals of the militia crews. Some returned barely able to count at all. It was nearly a week before they were ready to announce the totals.

  Vychan gathered his supporters in the park on top of their ardal where he’d announced his candidacy. Clan Plassey donated a dozen kegs of Stormbird.

  A big screen was set up for the a
nnouncement. Ceri Harri was describing the election’s procedures. Abusing her position to bask in the attention or stalling to let the officials get their act together, according to prejudices of different listeners.

  “And now I give you Hefin of Clan Erwood to give you the election results.

  Hefin was an elder of the accounting clan. They’d been overseeing the counting and recounting, feeling it a professional obligation. He read out the names of the candidates and their vote totals in the order they were listed on the ballot.

  Ceri was still visible in the background. Her frustration with the undramatic presentation was clear on her face.

  Every candidate had hundreds or thousands of votes. Their clans and ones with close blood ties stuck by them even after they officially gave up on the race. Vychan would be the first major candidate announced, eighth on the list.

  Hefin said, “Vychan Goch received one hundred thirty-two thousand, seven hundred seventy-four votes.”

  The crowd in the park cheered.

  Welly scratched at her tablet. “That’s a third of the city population. Maybe forty-five percent of the eligible voters. They’ve been keeping the total count under wraps. We’d need at least—”

  “Relax, dear,” broke in Vychan. “We’ll know soon.”

  He was too tired to worry any more.

  Hefin listed more minor candidates. Fulke Renowden earned more than a hundred votes despite being laughed out of the race. His clan hadn’t given up on him.

  “Twn Denligh,” said Hefin. The party fell silent. “Received one hundred eleven thousand, four hundred eighty-nine votes.”

  Cheers filled the air. Welly sank cross-legged onto the grass and pressed her hands to her eyes. Dilwyn knelt beside her, an arm squeezing her shoulders. Vychan hastily shook the congratulatory hands pressed at him from all directions. Floods. I have to pay back all those favors now.

  He worked through the crowd to the crate serving as a podium. His speech was as brief as he could make it. He thanked all the volunteers and supporters and promised to do his best for everyone in the city.

  Then it was back to shaking hands. More people were arriving for the party now that it was a victory celebration. A Clan Plassey liftvan hovered by the edge of the roof, unloading more kegs.

  The crowd around him was dense. People elbowed their way in, wanting to connect with the man of the moment. Then the pressure eased. A low voice could be heard under the raucous celebration. “Excuse us, please, Pardon me. Excuse us. May we come through? Pardon us.”

  Vychan turned to see the crowd part before Father Dafydd. There was another priest with him, a Fieran.

  Dafydd stepped forward, hands extended. “Congratulations, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Just Mayor-elect. Which I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “Gladly.” Dafydd raised his voice. “I hope you’ll forgive me for monopolizing the mayor-elect for a few minutes. He’ll rejoin the party shortly.”

  The crowd grumbled but accepted the dismissal. In a minute the three men were in a private bubble.

  “My fingers thank you,” whispered Vychan.

  “Mr. Goch, I’d like you to meet Vitricius Murphy, the leader of Fiera’s Christians.”

  They shook hands. Murphy kept his grip gentle. They exchanged pleasantries.

  “You have something on your mind?” asked Dafydd.

  “There’s a ceremony which takes me from mayor-elect to mayor. The Fierans recommend having a neutral local party to prescribe and administer an oath. Would you be willing to take on that office?”

  The priest smiled. His only expressed opinion on the election had been that he preferred Corwynti mayors to Censorate ones. “I’d be happy to.”

  “We have a similar request for you,” said Murphy.

  “Oh?”

  “Father Dafydd will be elevated to the post of bishop, the leader of the Christians in this area. We would appreciate the city’s help with logistics and crowd control, and you are invited to attend.”

  “Gladly, of course.” A flicker of doubt crossed Vychan’s face. “You’re assuming authority over all the Sacrificed God followers?”

  “Oh, no,” said Dafydd, cutting in before Murphy could respond. “I’m joining Fiera’s Combined Christian Churches. Congregations which also wish to join the triple-C will become part of my responsibility, called a diocese. Those who don’t, I’ll leave alone.”

  “Good. Yes, we can help with the ceremony.”

  They agreed to meet next week to work out the schedule.

  As Dafydd and Murphy walked away the circle of people waiting out of earshot closed in. This was a different crowd. The ones wanting to shake Vychan’s hand as congratulations or to be part of history had wandered off to drink or dance or chat. The ones left meant business.

  It took most of an hour to convince the plumbers, builders, electricians, and other craft clans that no contracts would be handed out tonight. That was almost as disappointing for them as the revelation that other clans would be allowed to bid if they had appropriate skills.

  He’d been diplomatic enough they only grumbled quietly as the conversation broke up. Vychan looked around to see who was asking for something next.

  Wynny walked up to him holding two stouts. “Here, Da. You look like you could use this.”

  He took one, said “To hell with Bridge Yeager,” and drained it in two swallows. “Yes, thanks.”

  She handed him the second. He sipped it.

  “How are you liking the job so far?” she asked.

  “I’m having the horrible realization that I’m never going to have time off again.”

  His tablet chirped, sounding the code for someone on the priority list. “Excuse me, dear.” He answered the call.

  Twn Denligh’s face appeared. “Mr. Goch. I’ve heard there’s a Fieran tradition for losers to congratulate winners of elections.”

  “I’d heard that too.”

  “Congratulations on your victory. Please try to not get us all killed.” Twn cut the call without giving Vychan a chance to reply.

  “I suppose that was about as polite as I could hope for,” he muttered.

  Wynny didn’t respond. He followed her eyes to find Marcus standing away from the party, watching the night sky with Niko asleep on his shoulder.

  “How is he?” asked Vychan in a low tone.

  She shivered. “I’m worried about him. If I talk to him, he’s fine, cheerful as always. But if he’s left alone—it’s like he’s at the bottom of a pit.”

  Vychan studied Marcus. “A lot of the fighter crews didn’t come back. Sometimes a fishing boat is caught in a storm and loses half her crew. The survivors can take it hard. Many need a long time to recover.”

  “He didn’t lose ten men. He lost nearly two thousand.”

  “I know. Let’s give him time.”

  ***

  Governor Yeager hadn’t quarreled much with Admiral Pinoy during the campaign to retake Corwynt. On their first expedition the Monitor’s time limit had pushed them into constant conflict. Now their goals were in alignment.

  It was the first time in months Yeager had taken Pinoy into his private office for a discussion. Not because he was angry. He was confused. They’d just finished the strategy council meeting. It had been filled with suggestions, all put forth in Navy jargon as fast as officers could talk. Pinoy had rejected them all.

  Yeager wanted to know why.

  He activated his desk’s holoprojector. The tactical situation appeared: The barbarians packed into a hole in the spherical shoal around Corwynt. The Censorate force formed a dome at the limit of missile range.

  “When we were in this situation in the barbarians’ bubble,” said Yeager, “you told me the dome was a superior tactical position. If we’re so well positioned, why are we not winning?”

  Pinoy offered a wry smile. “We would win, decisively, if they attacked.” He clenched his fingers to a point and slid his hand through the image of the barbarian ships, moving toward th
eir own. “If they came out, we’d attack from all sides and penetrate their defenses.”

  He made a fist in the short tunnel between the barbarians and the outer edge of the shoals. “The problem is the size of the gap. If we throw a full salvo, our missiles will have to crowd so close together the barbarians could destroy three or six with a single counter-missile.”

  “You attacked them earlier, didn’t you do some damage?” demanded Yeager.

  “Possibly. We certainly forced them to expend ammunition, which they have a limited supply of.”

  “Can we keep attacking until they run out?”

  “Yes. Unless we run out of missiles first. I’ve sent to Lompoc, demanding they send all the resupply Vulkoro has.”

  Yeager nodded. “His new factories are productive. But . . .” The fleet fired many missiles.

  “So, we’ll have to wait until we receive enough ammunition to conduct a full-scale assault. If we exhaust their counter-missiles, they’ll be helpless. One more salvo will crush them. Attacking without that much would be wasteful, and could leave us vulnerable if the barbarians are resupplied before we are.”

  Pinoy added, “We’ll launch the occasional salvo to keep them off-balance, of course.”

  “What about the other strategies your officers suggested?”

  The admiral sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  He replaced the hologram with a larger scale one showing multiple spherical shoals around Corwynt’s sun and the gaps allowing passage to the empty spaces between them.

  “We could split our force, sending one part through another gap to attack the barbarian force.”

  Yeager nodded. “Yes, that would let us bring our numbers to bear.”

  “The gaps are widely separated. The barbarians maneuver faster than we do. They would catch our detached force between the shells. It would be a cramped battle. Not a fleet action. Individual ships against individual ships. Squadrons against squadrons. Everything depends on the initiative of the commander on the spot.”

  “Ah. You think the barbarians would have the advantage in that kind of fight?”