Seize What's Held Dear Read online

  “Of course. The Revenge Party and the minor parties are free to do the same.”

  Marcus remembered a professor’s voice. ‘Facts do not speak for themselves. They speak for and against opposing theories.’

  ***

  Lane Landry put the grocery bags on the counter of the rented suite. Marcus thought he was too old to be mothered, but if he was going to run around sixteen hours a day for two weeks “volunteering” at schools and giving “extemporaneous” talks, somebody had to take care of him.

  Snacks went on the coffee table facing the big screen. It was still off, good. There wouldn’t be any news for hours. Wine and beer went in the fridge.

  “Hi, Mom.” Marcus was unshaven. He wore a ratty t-shirt and camouflage fatigue pants. Looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Good. The damned politicians had left him short on sleep every night.

  “Hi. Eat up. I don’t want to carry this back to the ship with me.”

  He obediently took a doughnut.

  Lane was ready to call eating anything a win at this point. Eating healthy could wait until he was back to his regular duties.

  Marcus asked, “Have the polls closed yet?”

  “Not yet. Less than an hour.”

  He nodded and took another doughnut. Good.

  His flopping onto the couch was, unsurprisingly, followed by turning on a news channel. He muted it. The talking heads were underlined by a timer counting off the remaining forty-seven minutes and some seconds while Sulu Republic citizens could still cast their vote.

  Not that Marcus could. Switching to the Concord service included an oath to not participate in the politics of his home nation or any other.

  He’d been bending the hell out of that rule.

  When the timer ran out the news switched to filler. Interview with someone voting at the last minute. “I couldn’t make up my mind.” Youngest voter, birthday today. Oldest voter, one hundred and twenty-nine.

  Lane tossed a bag to Marcus. “Try this.”

  He opened the bag with a dubious look. None of the writing on it was in English. Opening it revealed fried chips. He tasted one.

  “Mmmm.” The next bite was three of them. “What is this?”

  “Noriten. Closest thing I could find to Corwynti cooking.”

  “It’s great. Thank you.”

  The fluff newsheads were replaced by the serious news pair. Marcus unmuted the screen.

  Left newshead said, “Ten percent of the vote count is in. Which doesn’t tell us the outcome of any seats, but there are some interesting patterns.”

  Right said, “One of the dramatic developments of this very unusual campaign was the Allegiance Party and Justice Party agreeing to cede fifty districts each, asking their voters to switch to their traditional rival to hold off the upstart Revenge Party. Many people were outraged at this blatant log-rolling.”

  “And they probably still are outraged,” said Left. “The voters don’t seem to mind. The initial returns indicate voters are complying with the wishes of the party leaderships.”

  The heads were replaced by a map shaded by the progress in vote counts. Marcus muted the screen.

  “That’s worth celebrating,” said Lane. She poured herself some wine and brought Marcus a mug of Jingyu ale.

  After thanking her, he asked, “Did you vote?”

  “Of course I did. And I made sure every citizen on the crew put in an absentee ballot before your father left on the last Tunnel run.”

  “Sorry. I just realized I hadn’t asked.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  Marcus drank more ale. “That I have. And I thought I was working hard when the Planetary Liaison had me doing propaganda.”

  A trace of bitterness leaked into her voice as she said, “I can’t believe they made you take vacation time for this.”

  “I had to. Ordering a Concord Navy officer here would be meddling in the election. Going home on vacation and seeing lots of schools . . . well, it didn’t fool anybody, but it’s legal.”

  “Your father and I would never sign a contract which required doing work on our own time.”

  “Mom, the Navy doesn’t have individual contracts. Just one set of rules for everybody.”

  “Hmph.”

  Lane warmed up a plate of meatballs and sauce as a ploy to force some protein into her son. It worked.

  Marcus unmuted the screen as a set of politicians appeared. The heads of the Allegiance Party, Justice Party, and three minor parties declared the victory of the Liberation Coalition. They repeated campaign speeches they’d made in favor of launching an offensive to push the Censorate away from the Bubble.

  After the speeches were over the serious talking heads appeared. “The Coalition has taken over sixty percent of the seats in Parliament. Several minor parties are negotiating to join, but there may not be enough Cabinet posts to go around.”

  The right head responded, “Yes, it’s a crushing victory for the Coalition. The Revenge Party drew thirty-eight percent of the vote but only twelve percent of the seats. The Sulu Republic will go to the next Concord Assembly with a clear mandate for liberation.”

  “You’re right, Bob. Many Concord member nations have been waiting to see where the Republic would stand,” said Left. “This will push the fence sitters toward liberation. The voters may have decided the path of the whole planet today.”

  “We did it,” said Marcus. He turned off the screen, then slumped back and closed his eyes.

  Lane waited a few minutes before tossing a blanket over him and turning out the lights.

  ***

  The mock city was made by stacking shipping containers, hundreds of them, no, a few thousand. It looked like a child’s castle built from wooden blocks.

  The training ground commander had decreed that only the first level of Bundoran must be seen for the brigade maneuver. Even then the buildings were only half their true height. Stacking containers more than three high was a violation of a safety regulation.

  Marching behind Colonel Palmer and the rest of 4th Regiment’s headquarters, Marcus admitted they’d done a good job of imitating the bottom twenty-five feet of Bundoran.

  He was trying to imitate a Marine with about the same level of success. The grey-brown camouflage uniform let him blend in. The combat boots weren’t that different from his shipboard work boots. The helmet was the worst of it. A spacesuit helmet didn’t touch the head. The armored one rested on his scalp. With the weight of the command sensor gear attached to it, his neck was getting exercise.

  He felt the gusts as the landers took off again on anti-gravity. Platoons spread out around the simulated spaceport to capture roofless hangars. The pathfinders were disappearing through the tunnels in the outer shell of the city.

  The tail end of the headquarters formation was Marcus and Captain McArden, the S-1. McArden said he had nothing to do in a battle until casualties happened. This exercise didn’t include anyone shooting back, so he expected to be bored, “Unless some private steps in front of self-propelled artillery or falls off a roof.”

  There weren’t any natives to talk to, either. That left Marcus with even less to do than McArden.

  Line troops started going through the tunnels. When two companies were through, Palmer waved the headquarters troops forward to follow them. The tunnel was close to being on Corwynt, but once they emerged the illusion vanished. Instead of four levels of ardals in a glass pyramid above them, there was only empty air.

  The space between the outer wall and the first row of residential structures was bare dirt. Recreating the actual mix of trees, playgrounds, shrubs, and kiosks must have been too much work for the training center.

  Rifle fire was echoing through the simulated city. Red and brown flags popped up from the sides of containers. Marines were to fire at the red ones until they went back down. Each blank fired triggered a coded laser pulse which would be read by the flag. Ten hits would cause it to retract and log which Marines hit the target.

  L
aser pulses hitting brown flags—simulated civilians—triggered a text message to the shooter and his squad leader for immediate feedback.

  Most of the line platoons advanced out of sight, taking up positions between buildings. The volume of fire rose and fell as the flags sprang up in waves.

  The whine of returning landers drowned out all but the loudest firing. They were delivering the 17th, another infantry regiment. Their troops streamed straight into the city, intending to leapfrog the 4th and take positions in the next row of buildings.

  The 17th’s colonel trotted up with only a handful of men. He and Palmer agreed that, amazingly, things had not fallen apart and the 17th could deploy per the original plan.

  The conversation was interrupted by the landers taking off again.

  Moving out of the way of the newcomers put Marcus in a position to be noticed.

  “Landry!” called Colonel Palmer.

  Marcus trotted over.

  Palmer pointed at a door painted on the nearest container. “Want to knock and ask for volunteers as practice?”

  He took a calming breath and released it. “Sir, Corwynt is a clan-based society. They don’t trust strangers. I have to start with people I know. Their door is—”

  Marcus turned to the right, pointed. “End of this row and over two to the left.”

  “Ah,” said Colonel Palmer.

  “With your permission, I’ll head over there, sir,” said Marcus.

  “Permission denied, Lieutenant. I don’t want you crossing the 17th’s movement. And you’re certainly not going anywhere without an escort.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Palmer turned to his number two. “Adjutant, take an action. We need to attach Lieutenant Landry to whichever platoon is covering his contact’s building.”

  “Aye-aye,” said Lieutenant Colonel Hambley.

  The 17th took their positions without any injuries, map misreads, or screaming arguments severe enough to be reported to regimental headquarters.

  Palmer turned his operations officer. “Our turn to leapfrog. Move ‘em out, S-3.”

  By the time that move was finished the landers were coming in again. They were carrying the 39th Regiment, equipped with heavy weapons and armored liftvans for assaulting elevated positions.

  In deference to the reality that Bundoran was shaped like a pyramid, the 39th flew the vans through the tunnels. One of the 17th’s armored platoons stood ready to load up.

  Following behind the vans were the heavy weapons. Cannons, missile launchers, multi-barreled machine guns, all balanced on two wheels as they scooted through the tunnels, their crews trotting alongside.

  Colonel Palmer smiled as they rolled by. “Now we have some dignity.”

  The staff officers laughed.

  Marcus leaned over to Captain McArden. “Dignity?”

  “Old joke. From Earth, I think. ‘Artillery adds dignity to what would otherwise be a vulgar brawl.’ In other words, it’s time for the serious attack.”

  He nodded thanks. Working with Marines gave him many more culture shock moments than the Navy. Being in the Navy wasn’t that different from being a merchant spacer. You just unloaded the cargo faster and then it exploded.

  With Marines everything was different. For example, the deafening volleys of rifle fire weren’t ‘serious.’ He hoped his ear plugs could handle the noise when things did get serious.

  Palmer waved McArden over. “What’s the count?”

  The captain answered, “One of our boys broke an ankle stepping in a gopher hole, and one of the 39th’s managed to get his toes run over by an artillery piece.”

  The second part sparked a raised eyebrow. Palmer turned to the regimental sergeant major. “I have no official interest, but I am curious how that happened.”

  “I’ll see what the horseplay was, sir.”

  “Fine. We’re still on schedule. Let’s move to point Charlie.”

  The new location for headquarters gave them a clear view of an artillery battery formed up behind two platoons of armored infantry.

  Palmer shouted, “Go!” into his radio.

  Marcus’ ears stopped working as the plugs shut off all sound. He still heard the cannon fire through the ringing of his skull and felt it in the shiver of his guts.

  The infantry charged forward, squads peeling off into the cross-paths between each row of buildings.

  The armored liftvans flew over their heads. Sixteen of them formed a square over the center of the fake city. Marcus evaluated their position. As best his eyeballs could tell, they were surrounding where a second level ardal would be.

  After ten blasts the artillery went silent. Marcus could hear the men around him again, slightly muffled.

  Colonel Palmer lifted his radio. “Exercise terminated. Exercise terminated. Exercise terminated.”

  After a pause for the rifle fire to trail off, a different voice came on the radio. “This is Brigadier Ranbir. Excellent work, all hands. Companies may hot wash in the field or in the barracks. Officers and senior NCOs meet in Conference Room November for Brigade hot wash. We’ll do it with the red team next time.”

  The Marines grinned at that. An exercise with opposition was more interesting than going through the motions.

  “The time after that will be real.”

  Cheers shook the fake city.

  ***

  Once the after-action reports were completed, reformatted, revised, and submitted, Colonel Palmer took his inner circle out to a gazebo and passed around a box of cigars. Marcus wasn’t sure why he’d been included. He wasn’t sure about the cigars either, but he took one and let McArden light it.

  A lot of Marine etiquette revolved around doing something risky to show you were committed to the unit.

  Stories too silly or embarrassing to go in the after-action report were shared. The regimental sergeant major explained how two privates from the 39th played artillery chicken by keeping their feet in front of the wheels of the self-propelled cannon until the last moment. “I made sure they explained to everyone that the guy whose foot was crushed was the loser.”

  More serious discussions concerned which platoons needed more training or if an officer should be reassigned. Occasionally Palmer would end a topic by saying, “Bring that up at Regimental Staff.”

  As the cigars grew shorter, talk quieted.

  Palmer drew on his, the red coal lighting up his face in the starlight. “Who else has a question? Landry, you look like you have something on your mind.”

  Marcus vowed to work on his poker face. “It’s over my pay grade, sir.”

  “I’ll decide that. Out with it.”

  “It’s—I don’t understand why we’re just attacking one city. Isn’t that vulnerable? I’d think we’d want a broader position. Sir.”

  The coal illuminated a grin on the colonel’s face. “That’s over my pay grade, too. The admirals and generals make that decision. But some of y’all may be generals—or an admiral—someday, so let’s talk about it.”

  Marcus took a puff on his cigar to hide his relief.

  Palmer expounded, “This plan goes back to the first strategist, Sun Tzu. He said, ‘Seize what the enemy holds dear and await attack.’ When we capture Bundoran, the Censies will, in the professional estimate of the intelligence services, freak the fuck out, and try to take it back.”

  Puff. “They’ll move their best units out of their prepared positions, move them across the ocean, subject to Navy interdiction, and attack us in the position we’ve prepared with the help of the militia. That make sense, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir, it does.”

  “It’s also our strategy for the war as a whole. Capture Corwynt, use the shoals around it as a defensive position, and lure the Censorate into launching a counter-attack before they’re ready.”

  ***

  Wynny Landry forked a bit of megashark filet and chewed it with delight. The Goch Clan was serving plenty of fresh food these days. She wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.
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br />   The teenager on door duty wound through the tables toward theirs. “Uncle Vychan? There’s someone here to see you,” he said.

  Vychan stood without complaint and followed him to the clanhome’s outer door.

  Wynny asked her mother. “Was Father expecting someone?”

  Emlyn replied, “Not tonight, but the way things are now . . .” She shrugged.

  The visitor was a man about Vychan’s age. The two of them stood against the wall and whispered to each other.

  Curiosity ruined the appeal of the shark meat. The visitor seemed to be sharing some news. Her father was interrogating him on its reliability.

  Once released the stranger almost ran out of the clanhome.

  Vychan walked over to Wynny’s great-uncle Garth. He was sitting with the other clan elders. At Garth’s direction he shared the news to the other elders. Their reaction wasn’t surprise. Grim acceptance?

  A few words were exchanged. Garth stood. “Lend your ears,” he commanded.

  The noise of over a hundred people talking and eating had already lowered as some noticed the anomaly. Now the rest stopped talking and put down their utensils.

  “I already heard this news from two sources,” began Vychan. “The friend who just visited had two different sources. Fieran ships have been seen in hyperspace approaching Corwynt. The Censorial Navy is retreating before them.”

  Cheers broke out from the younger Gochs. Wynny closed her eyes and said a brief prayer of thanks. Her husband’s people had survived. He was coming back for her. He had to be.

  She glanced at her baby, sleeping in a cradle beside her. Little Niko would get to see his father and grandparents.

  Garth waved Vychan back to his seat. The elder said, “Yes, anything bad for the Censorate is good for us. But the Censor has not been defeated yet.”

  The room quieted.

  “We will be the site of a battle. Censies and Fierans may be shooting at each other in our city. We’ve all heard of people shot by Security men being careless with their aim. How accurate will they be when someone is shooting back?”