Freehold

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Oh, yeah! Take it, bitch!" her attacker crowed. He drew back and shouted, "Little girl, Daddy's home!" and thrust painfully into her. She felt something tear and the pain of friction.

  Amazing, she thought. I'm not panicking. Relax until he's done, then . . . The unarmed combat techniques for shackled feet flashed through her brain. Never thought I'd need those, she realized, but pants around the ankles are effectively shackles. Strong kick as he pulls back, probably to his lower ribs unless his chin becomes available. Bend over backward in a . . . well, not a scorpion kick, but what would you call it? Doesn't matter. Then roll sideways and take a snake or leopard strike to number three's throat or groin. She figured that the radio in her helmet had failed before the vision circuit, since none of her people were present. Likely from that impact. Had it been a shot? Stupid to assume, stupid to run ahead, stupid, stupid, stupid!

  "Make it quick, Cody, I got seconds!" the man holding her mouth said.

  "My turn! You had seconds last time!" she heard from near the door.

  "You're the new kid. You do her last and we'll get out of here. If it bothers you, try her back door. And get back over there and keep an eye out."

  "We're fine, they all ran off," the shrill young voice insisted.

  "Good. After they pass, we'll head back to the south. Teach these hicks."

  She felt his thrusts intensifying and a sudden thought did scare her. Oh, shit, I'm fertile! I don't want to be pregnant! How would I deal with that? Her Catholic upbringing made her very uncomfortable with aborting a pregnancy, but she knew she wouldn't want to be forced into motherhood. Her muscles clamped down.

  "That's it! Ride me, baby!" the rapist said and laughed. She looked up in time to see his head shatter. A thin red mist settled over her as the muffled shot hit her ears and registered. Two more shots heralded the deaths of the others. Sudden relief was replaced by sudden nausea—the rapist's sphincters cut loose as nervous control was lost.

  The body was yanked off her, leaving a pool of blood soaking into her uniform. Dak looked down, then at her face, then everywhere but her face. It would almost have been amusing had it not been so embarrassing. "Lad . . . Ma'a . . . Corp . . . Sergeant, are you all right?" he asked, flushing red in embarrassment.

  "I need a dressing," she said immediately.

  He yanked one from his gear and said, "Where?"

  "Not for a wound, just to clean up," she replied. He handed it over and leapt back, averting his eyes. She used his dressing and two of her own to gingerly clean the assorted blood and filth from her skin, then jammed a clean one down as a bandage, fastened her half-torn briefer and got her pants back in place. She tore a shirt off one of the bodies and used it sop up the excess liquid covering her. Poor Dak looked terrible—ashamed, disgusted and ashamed at being disgusted. He unconsciously backed away as she stepped forward, and she saw a look of murder under the other emotions.

  "Thanks, Dak," she said. "I'll be with you in just a moment." She was amazed at the calm in her voice as she turned, dropped to her knees and spewed vomit. She coughed twice, stood up slowly and snagged a drink. The warm water made her throat feel slightly better, at least. "Let's go," she ordered and headed for the door, limping and stiff. He followed, but stopped at the door. She waited and stood back while he heaved his own guts. He nodded vaguely and followed.

  They regrouped with the others at the next building north, and determined that Kendra's helmet had been hit hard enough to damage the battery pack. "What kept you?" Kyle asked. He had equipped three of the newer recruits with UN weapons. He stared through the blood from her two head wounds, trying to discern any injuries. "You all right?"

  "Had to stop for a drink," Kendra said, gasping from exertion as she looked at her damaged helmet. Her head was hammering and throbbing. "And three nasties. Dak got them all."

  "Adding to your total, huh?"

  Dak shook his head. "These were bonuses," he replied, eyes finally meeting Kendra's. She nodded in response and took the lead.

  "My helmet's out," she said. "So we'll go at it carefully. Keep alert." If anyone noticed her awkward gait, they didn't mention it.

  * * *

  It took twelve days to clear Delph'. Kendra personally went into The Coracle and cleared it. It was a shambled ruin and she wondered if the owners were still alive. The arena was also demolished, hit by artillery. They cautiously advanced building by building, most of them rubble before they were done. The UN troops were trapped, terrified and cut off from any chain of command. About a third surrendered immediately, looking dead as they marched past. The rest were too afraid to give up or expected eventual succor from overwhelming force that would never come. They fought to the death and took the town with them. Mass bombing would have been more humane and quicker, but the politics of warfare made that impossible; they had to be given every opportunity to yield, if for no other reason than to minimize civilian deaths.

  The UN had superior numbers. The Freeholders had far better training, morale, logistics and knowledge of the area. It was still costly in casualties. It reminded Kendra of the continual wargames, as they shifted tactics and personnel around in mass confusion, losing troops, getting garbled orders and being badly supplied and supported. It was classic urban warfare and she hated it within segs, despised it within divs.

  Approach a building, scan it. If nothing showed clearly, blow the door and stand back, toss in a flashbang if available, a grenade if not. Charge in and shoot anything that moved, including rats and occasional curtains. Check to make sure it was clear and leave one person as guard until the line advanced or a counterattack hit. If it was occupied, demand surrender. When they refused, about half the time, call for air power. Level the building. Note it on the comm. Repeat.

  The formula never became routine. As she entered a house the first day, gunfire shattered the doorframe around her. She hosed the attacker as she dove for cover and shook for most of a seg before continuing. Dak had thought her shot.

  One panicked little kid hit her with a stun bag. She woke, nauseous and dizzy, to see his brains and guts splashed across the wall behind him. He'd had no lethal weaponry and had stupidly made a stand with the stunner.

  On the third day, a sniper's bullet from a second-floor office slammed into her chest from the left. She collapsed and tried in vain to breathe. Splotches marred her vision and she was sure she was dead.

  "Kendra! Listen to me!" She became aware that Dak had been shouting at her and that she'd been dragged to cover. "You're not hit bad, but we have to get your armor off!"

  She nodded, again close to vomiting; that was just the way she lived now. Dak tugged gently at her armor and she winced in pain, then bit her cheek against a shriek and tasted blood. Everything looked gray.

  No, everything was gray. Shattered stone, brick, polymer, dust and haze. That was normal. The ripping sound was her briefer being cut away. She realized she was in shock. Then Dak raised a bottle. Disinfectant splashed under her left breast and she fainted from the pain.

  Awake in seconds, she didn't throw up yet again. There was fire stabbing icy and electrically through her chest and it hurt to breathe, but at least she could breathe. Then the painkiller hit her and everything turned blissful and blurry. Then the augmentation nano snapped her back to alertness. She grabbed the offered canteen and gulped water. She heard him say, "It's mostly pressure trauma, with some superficial lacerations from the armor splinters. You'll be fine."

  The great thing about modern battlefield medicine, she thought, was that you didn't care that your chest felt as if it had been run over by a truck. It still felt that way, you just didn't care. She knew she'd be ravenous in a few segs as her drugged body demanded energy, and reached for an emergency ration to beat the rush. She told Dak to take over until he thought she was tracking properly and followed him back toward their op point to meet up with survivors from other squads to bring theirs back up to full strength. She couldn't name the half-trained but brave militia fighters who'd died in
the last three days. Nor could she remember sleeping. That's right, she hadn't.

  That night, still without a functional tac helmet, dependent on intermittent audio, she made the tactical decision to rest. They pulled back into a cleared area that was mostly rubble, set watches of four, each commanded by one of the old hands and crewed by one of the fresh new troops and two others, and designated a latrine area. They were visible, but not near any immediate threat. It was too dangerous to fight at night if they didn't have to, since most of them, including Kendra now, had no night vision gear. Sleep was necessary if they were to be effective, so she gave the orders. No one objected.

  She was awakened at three, groggy from too little sleep, but she felt marginally better. On with the show, she thought. Under orders from some Reserve lieutenant whom she didn't know, she went in to see the medics again. Her squad came along, acquired replacements for their evacuated casualties and got some rest. She passed out while awaiting treatment.

  The medics must know her file by heart now, Kendra thought. She'd declined to discuss the massive bruising and trauma to her groin. They knew what had happened anyway and offered counseling she didn't want. Just leave me the hell alone, all of you! she thought. They gave her a topical nano for STDs. The sudden demand for that aspect of medical technology revolted the local surgeons. They were professional but cold with the prisoners, staring at them as they would parasites. They treated her trauma, the numerous cuts and abrasions, her chest, checked her arm and leg, gave her a pregnancy inhibitor—they didn't ask; it was standard policy—and ran another scan on her hearing. They couldn't tell her much. Therapy later, and she might regain some of it.

  * * *

  "We have to act now," Naumann urged the remnants of the Council. "Earth will send another force as soon as they can put one together, and we cannot fight another campaign. We have one chance to nail them and we will never, ever get another."

  "But you are talking about the murder of six billion human beings!" Uddin said in outraged shock.

  "So what do you suggest?" Naumann shouted. "That we let them destroy us?"

  "Our total population is less than four percent of the death count you suggest!"

  "And who argued against the philosophy of might makes right?" Naumann asked.

  "Listen to—"

  "No! You listen!" Naumann shouted, rising to his feet. "We are beaten. We can't fight another planetary engagement. We have no fleet. If—when they send another force, they will annihilate our troops, enslave our residents and we will never rise above it."

  Chinratana protested, "But the Colonial Alliance— "

  "Is powerless!" Naumann trod over his comment. "They have no military, they have no economic force. They dance to the tune of the UN General Assembly. Without outside force, we will be as helpless as they. And. There. Is. No. Outside. Force," he finished. There was silence.

  "You want us to authorize the murder of six billion Terrans, who are not responsible for the actions of their government," the elderly man protested again.

  "There are thirty billion people on Earth," Naumann said. "They can stop their government any time they wish, simply through brute force or civil disobedience. No tyrant ever rules without the consent of the ruled. They are guilty by their inaction.

  "And if not them," he finished, "you condemn our people to rape, torture, murder and economic slavery. You've seen how they treat us, you must know it won't change. This will be the dumping ground for every incompetent, troublemaker or sociopath who can't hold office, and there will be no protection against it." Naumann was breathing hard, anger straining his voice.

  The Citizens looked guiltily around at each other. Most of them had been protected from the worst, but they had seen it take place. Their own future was decidedly short if the UN gained political control, but most of them were courageous enough to put that risk second to the safety of others. Now they had to consider if they had the right to place the entire Freehold in their own position.

  "I call for the question," Griffiths said tiredly.

  "Second," Hernandez said. How the two of them would vote was certain.

  There were thirty Citizens present, from both District and Freehold councils, with proxies for eighty-three more. Each name was called aloud, no computer system being available. The tally rose in jumps, some in favor, some opposed. Griffiths kept the list and recounted it when done.

  "The resolution is to authorize the Provisional Military Forces to engage the infrastructure and civilian population of Sol System as military targets. One hundred thirteen votes present, no abstentions," he paused to let that last be noted. No one had shied from the responsibility inherent in the vote. "In favor, eighty-two. Opposed, thirty-one. The motion carries." There was a collective gasp of relief and shock, even though everyone had known how it must end.

  Hernandez turned to Naumann and said, "Colonel, carry out your operation as described."

  "Yes, sir," Naumann agreed and stood. His firm exterior had returned.

  "Colonel Naumann," Uddin said.

  He turned to the speaker, "Yes, Citizen?"

  "Good luck, Colonel. And may your God forgive you."

  "Understood, sir," he acknowledged with a nod.

  * * *

  By the end of day five, Kendra was bandaged in other places from burns and nicks. Her ribs were stiff and her left arm wouldn't raise above halfway from the cumulative effect of its wound and the tautness of her ribs. Her legs ached with every step and cramped up when she held still. She trudged on.

  There were bodies in the street, mostly UN, some Freehold militia and occasional civilians. Then the odd ones, like the six-year-old boy still clutching a rifle and the body of a two-year-old girl that looked as if she were simply sleeping. She tried to stop Dak from seeing that one, but he saw and began shaking with rage. She noted he hadn't taken any captives or wounded anyone. He wasn't deliberately murdering would-be prisoners, but he was doing his best to not give them the opportunity. She found she no longer was bothered by it.Eventually, the few remaining UN troops surrendered or suicidally attacked. The morning of the twelfth day, they simply appeared in the streets, hands and weapons held high and let themselves be taken. Some few arrived firing mindlessly, until they ran out of ammo or were cut down. The battle was over for most of them and the Freehold was secure for the time being.

  * * *

  Marta swam awake through a nightmare, gasping through her mouth. I'm hyperventilating, she realized. She was lashed down and felt touches she couldn't be sure were real or dreams. Unbidden, an ugly scream erupted from her throat and she snapped a foot out, contacting something. An answering howl indicated she'd caused some damage.

  "Fucking cunt!" someone said, and a huge weight smashed into her wounded face. She felt teeth splinter, pain lanced through her jaw and she blacked out again. Her last thought was that it was real.

  She woke again, feeling tumbling vertigo. She was completely restrained and wet. Vague memories surfaced. She'd been doused with a bucket of water. She was still alive, despite contusions, lacerations, massive trauma and the damage to her face. As she took stock of things, there was more violence. Not again, she wished, Goddess, not again. I seek peace in the storm—this can't be happening—this—in the storm. Sun strengthen my spirit, oceans wash me clean, winds . . . oceans . . . winds . . . Her prayer evaporated in another scream of utter terror and hopelessness.

  Chapter 45

  "It is easier to do one's duty to others than to one's self. If you do your duty to others, you are considered reliable. If you do your duty to yourself, you are considered selfish."

  —Thomas Szasz

  Naumann stormed into the new command center, hurriedly being wired and set. He stopped against a bulkhead and oriented himself with everyone else. It still looked like a converted freighter, but it would place the battle staff closer to the operation. "We do it," he said simply. Everyone present turned silently to their systems and went to work.

  There was a tar
get that Naumann found controversial, but could not drop from the list. He sighed, realizing this was going to be a painful operation, and paged Kendra Pacelli.

  While he waited for her, he took up another issue. "Ops, what do you have on that rescue mission?" he asked.

  The operations officer replied, "Nothing yet, sir. We think she's in Jump Point Three, but it's a big facility. Despite the surrender order, we're still digging aardvarks out of there."

  "Get to it. I want her back," he snapped.

  "As soon as we can, sir," was the confident reply.

  "Sorry," Naumann apologized. "Strain. Hernandez is a first-class troop and I want her back alive. We owe her."

  * * *

  Kendra had no idea what Naumann wanted. She was busily scheduling loading and docking sequences, with far too few docks and far too much materiel. In between times, she was coding information for the targeting instruments the weapons would carry. That was not properly a logistics task, but then, much of what she'd done the last several months hadn't been logistics, either. She ended a plot of fuel schedules and saved to hard memory. Then she dragged herself through the crowded tube to the rear cargo bay, now command post.

  "You paged me, Colonel?" she asked. He looked drained and sad. He was flanked, as always now, by four Black Ops people with no sense of humor. She thought assassination was an extremely unlikely step for the UN to attempt, but Naumann was taking no chances with his safety. It wasn't cowardice; he was more than capable of protecting himself, but there were no other officers of his level available. He kept the bodyguards, even when they got in the way.

  He nodded to her. "Let's find a corner," he motioned and twisted around, swimming for a gap between instruments. She followed and somersaulted between them, yawing to the same orientation as Naumann. His wall of henchmen kept a discreet distance, but were close enough to swarm her or him if necessary. Considering that he'd recently sent most of them to their deaths, she was amazed at their dedication. Utter emotionless professionalism. Scary.