Freehold (31 page)

Checking Gealach once more and using a peak in lieu of the now vanished Io, she narrowed it down to two. One seemed marginally closer, so she wrote it down.

The evaluator was almost two hundred meters away. She trudged over, handed him her log and he said, "Are you sure of this? You can't pick another one."

"Yes," she replied firmly, while inside, her brain said "no."

He signed off. "You made it."

"That was the test here, right?" she asked, gratefully exhaling a held breath.

"Mostly," he agreed. "You turn in your comm here and do the last leg on paper."

She opened her mouth then closed it. "I want a receipt," she said automatically, old habit from the UNPF, as she handed it over.

He raised his eyebrows. "Well. You're the first recruit to ask for one, this cycle." He turned, scrawled the serial number on a slip and handed it over. He had a pad of them ready to write. "Your mark will have directions to the rendezvous. Good luck."

Sighing, she looked at the directions and walked off.

Two divs later, she was groggy from lack of sleep, cold and hunger. The dark was slowing her down and spooking her again. Every time a critter made a sound or
stopped
making one, her pulse hammered and adrenaline flooded her body. It was damn tiring.

The mark should be about here. Gealach gave her enough light to measure from one snow-capped peak and she figured her direction and distance as close. Now to find the mark.

There it was! And all alone, not surrounded by fifty others. Relief washed over her and she bent over to find directions. There were none.

There was a board where they would have been clipped, but nothing there. She growled and shouted in exasperation. Great. Should she wait for some bozo to figure it out and run back? Call for help and hope they wouldn't recycle her? Wait for others to arrive and figure it out?

While she pondered, the sounds of a vehicle became audible. There was the bare buzz of a silenced engine, the bumps of suspension and occasional squeaks. A GUV rolled up nearby, and an evaluator hopped out. "Looking for this?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you," she said, relaxing several orders of magnitude.

"No prob. One very tired recruit thought it was his personally and dragged it with him. I'll stay nearby so it doesn't happen again," she explained.

Kendra read the directions, grinned and took off. The rendezvous was due north three thousand meters. The training site happened to be at five mils magnetic, so this would be easy.

She stopped in less than a seg, realized that it was five mils the
other
way and tried to backtrack.

The evaluator had moved. Then she realized she had run back without measuring. Fatigue. But excuses wouldn't do it. She'd run less than two hundred meters, so figure the five degrees and that would be close. The rendezvous couldn't be that small. It was just one last lesson she'd remember.

There were seven shelters pitched in the hollow that was the rendezvous. She made it eight, pitched her bag and crawled in, after reporting to the evaluator huddled next to a small fire. She was asleep almost before she could fasten the door.

She woke to voices and reluctantly crawled out, still short of sleep. There were over forty shelters now, and more people arriving on foot every few segs. Someone threw her a sealed ration pack that she dug into gratefully. She stowed her gear, and tried to work the kinks out of her legs. She had a huge blister, too, but it would have to wait. There was cheerful chat all around, realizing that the personal test aspect was over. The next four days of combat simulation would be sheer hell, but hard for an individual recruit to fail. It was experience for them, a test for the student NCOs and officers who would be running it.

Only segs before deadline, Welker limped over the edge, grinning hugely. Her ankle was bound for support, but she stumped forward and leaped up in triumph.

"I shot a perfect score!" she crowed.

"I knew you could do it!" Kendra lied as she drew near. A medic shoved them aside and pulled out a kit. "Now we can do a proper job on that," he told her. They would have to immobilize, inject fast-working nanos and do some therapy on the swelling and other tissue damage, but she'd be ready for the combat sim.

Two more recruits arrived in the last few moments and one dragged up the rear, past the deadline by less than ten seconds. He looked ready to kill when told he'd have to repeat from survival training forward. Kendra was transported out before the last stragglers arrived.

"Both sides think they are about to lose. They are both correct."

—Old military proverb

The combat sim was more confusing than anything else. They had no time to recover, but went straight back to the field. They huddled on the flightline for most of a div, broiling between Io and fused surface until they were finally picked up by trucks. The trucks drove them along rutted tracks deep into the brush of a training range, where one truck was "killed" by a boobytrap. All aboard were pulled off, put onto an evaluator's truck and driven back to be re-inserted into the battle elsewhere.

Kendra was assigned to assist a mortar and dug a position while the gunner laid the weapon. At least she had a real shovel, rather than an entrenching tool. She was mostly done when a student from the NCO Leadership course came over and ordered her to get aboard another vehicle. This one dragged her to an artificial clearing, cut in the trees with explosives, where a lifter waited. The lifter took them over a cluster of buildings, dropped quickly at one edge and banged to the ground.

She bailed out with the others, took cover and advanced leapfrog. Fire lashed out from the compound and her helmet flashed and beeped. She was "dead."

After an interminable wait, during which it began to rain, she was herded into an open truck with other "casualties," and driven back to an entry point. Another squad leader took her and had her support an ambush on a convoy of supplies, still in the rain.

She crewed a vertol door gun, drove a truck, guarded combat engineers laying a bridge, shot, was shot at, acted as a training aid for the medics by screaming as if suffering pain and stress while trying to beat them senseless. That was fun until one of them slugged her to make her hold still, then trussed her to the stretcher. She was briefly pulled out and dressed in ill-fitting civilian clothes to storm the gate with a "protest group," then pulled back in and sent to support an ordnance disposal team. Then she guarded prisoners.

It came to her, halfway through a cold, miserable second day, with only one meal and her water running out, that she had no idea which side she was on, if she had been on the same side all along, how many sides there were or what the war was supposed to be about. Live artillery roared overhead on its way to an impact area that simulated a village somewhere in this madhouse. Aircraft buzzed, howled, roared or screamed, depending on type and conditions. They would drop flares at night, to illuminate various targets with assorted frequencies, and to blind others. While she mused she was grabbed again and sent to run a target designator, painting incoming attack vertols with a laser.

The third one reacted by dodging and firing. Her helmet flashed again. Sighing, she dropped the designator and lay still, waiting for the medics to come for her body. She fell asleep.

Four days passed fairly quickly. Kendra was lucky, in that her time had been eventful if confusing. Some had been assigned to guard facilities or entry control points, had as little idea what was going on as she did and were bored stiff. She was hoarse, cold, aching, bruised, blistered, hungry and tired to the point of hallucinations, but felt good. They were
done!
 

The "war" continued as they left. It ran all day, all night, all year, with new troops taking over as their classes rotated through. The "front" would gradually shift across the training range, allowing construction, maintenance and time for the poor abused plant life to recover.

"Soldiers!
Listen up for assignments!" Carpender shouted. He read from his comm. "Aawil, Second Legion. Abel, Gate Control Command. Ago, FMS
Bolivar,
Cruiser. Ahern, Orbital Defense Command. Aires, Third Battalion, Seventh Brigade . . ." Kendra tuned it out as she pondered events. She felt far more military now than she ever had in the UNPF. She wondered what the future held. "Pacelli, Third Mobile Assault Regiment," she heard, snapping alert and grabbing the thrown datachip. That was Rob's unit! Had he arranged it? And Marta's. And Drew's. Well, that didn't sound too bad. She read the departure orders . . . 

Which ordered her to stay here for forty-five more training days! She sighed in exasperation. Freeholders never relaxed.

The next morning everyone was cheerful. Graduation! At long last. They checked each other's uniforms for lint even more carefully than for inspection, waited nervously for a div and a half then formed up to march. Their cadences were elevating in the warm morning air. It was promising to be a gentle day.

The sense of accomplishment was very real. All that sweating, bleeding and training was an ordeal that most people could not handle, she realized. As they marched past the reviewing stand and turned eyes right, accepting salutes from the military people in the crowd, she felt a stir that made her graduation from UNPF service school pale. That had been a summer camp by comparison. There were cheers for her friends and photos taken. Welker and Denson insisted on having her in their photographs and contact codes were swapped all around. Carpender came by and was polite and gentle while he displayed a remarkable sense of humor. It was an eventful morning. The afternoon would be spent in packing.

Most of the platoon was boisterously stuffing gear into bags and departing, with occasional teary eyes or jokes, hugs and shoves. She shoved her kilos of property into two heavy duffels and prepared to lug it across the base to Mobile Assault Training Depot. The bright spot was that Denson had orders for 1st Mobile, so she'd at least have some company. A quick call to Rob and Marta had gotten her congrats and assurance that they'd fly out to meet her when she got a day free, which they told her wasn't likely to be until the Equinox holiday, twenty-three days away.

She waited a few segs for Denson to get packed then they shouldered their gear and started hiking. At least they didn't have to do any formal marching and they both were in civvies. But it was still a hot day and not a short walk with eighty kilos of gear on backs, shoulders and towed behind.

"You have friends in Third, Pacelli?" he asked. They'd been bunked near each other the entire time and frequently assigned as buddies.

"Uh . . . call me Kendra. Please. I'd like to have a real first name other than 'Icebitch,' 'Dumbshit,' or 'Recruit.' Yes. A sort-of manfriend, a sort-of ladyfriend and a friend."

"Oh," he replied. "Call me Asher. Two relationships?" he asked. "Or a tri?"

"Sort-of tri," she said, grinning. "My life is very sort-of right now." She shifted her second duffel, which was carried across the top of the one she wore.

He grinned back. "My brother got out of First about a year ago. I hope I don't have to meet some expectation."

"You will," she promised.

"Thanks. You're all friend," he replied in mock disgust. They walked in silence.

Kendra asked, "Do you have any idea what all we have to do for assault training?"

He whistled. "Um, amphibious planetside assault, ship and habitat, space, parachute and air and some miscellaneous stuff. We'll be busy."

"So much for unwinding," she complained. "I have to go to logistics intro course, then report in two days after I graduate, back where I fucking left from." It was getting easier to swear after practice. She shifted the damned bag again. It wouldn't stay in a comfortable spot.

"Well, we do have tonight free," he said cautiously. "I could spot you dinner . . ."

She turned her head. "Are you offering to spot me dinner?" she asked, "Or buy me dinner?" She glinted at him. He was embarrassed! This was sort-of fun.

"Uh, buy, I guess. If you don't mind," he sputtered. "Steak? And beer?"

Steak? From a cow? Yeah, what the hell. And an actual date, under local customs? Yeah, what the hell. They'd be busy enough and far enough apart it couldn't get too complex. And she did like the idea of some attention.

"Sure," she agreed. "Am I that hard to ask? Because of my age?" He was barely eighteen earth years, compared to her twenty-seven. It probably was a bit intimidating. "Or because I'm from Earth?"

"Um . . . some of each," he admitted. "I don't have much experience with women. And none in picking people up. And, well . . ."

"People from Earth are supposed to be prudes?" she supplied.

"Well, a lot of people say so," he defended.

"We do have sex on Earth," she smiled across at him. "And my ladyfriend is one of the highest paid escorts in the system. I know a few tricks."

That caused him to flush scarlet under his tan and she laughed silently. This was going to be fun.

The steak had been good, Kendra thought, and it hadn't bothered her too much that it was animal. And she'd been glad to get it. The depot had decided that they were prime candidates for cleaning and other chores. She'd finally had a few polite words with the duty corporal and explained that it didn't seem fair to get stuck with the duty when everyone transporting in or with family visiting was arriving in the morning. They'd both made plans to stay off-base, so why should the corporal be stuck camping there if he didn't have to be? He'd agreed that his own apartment or billeting would be more comfortable, and grinned a knowing grin as they left and he locked the door.

The beer was good, too and she'd had a bit more than she planned. Asher was definitely in for a shock if he was expecting her to be prudish. She smiled again. "Shall we walk dinner off?" she suggested.

Rockcliff was a beautiful town, with an utterly breathtaking view of the Dragontooth range and Mirror Lake. They walked along the second ring road, unconsciously fast from their daily training. The hotel was several blocks away; they'd found the restaurant by simply walking until they found one. She'd thought that very romantic and old-fashioned, even though she knew it wasn't uncommon here. The building was of rough stone, looking like a seventeenth century European factory and had real wooden beams inside. It did feel odd carrying a rifle each. But regulations insisted that military personnel be armed at all times and neither of them had a sidearm.