Freehold (50 page)

The convoy was four vehicles with UN markings. One was a Mk 17 Infantry Light Armored Wheeled Assault Vehicle, the others simple multipurpose vehicles with heavy weapons mounted. They stopped in front of the farm and several people dismounted. They approached the door and met Dak at the steps as he came out.

"Yes?" he asked, bluntly and without any friendship.

The one in civilian clothes spoke, "I am Lynet Krishnamurti with the United Nations Readjustment Task Force. I am here to give you an informational package on the recent improvements we are implementing."

"Thanks, but we don't need any improvements. I have the latest gear I can afford," Dak replied. He wanted them to leave quickly.

"Well, that's the point," Krishnamurti said. "One of the benefits the UN offers is investment capital to buy better equipment. We also guarantee reparations not covered by insurance, accident insurance . . . many benefits. This package is on hard copy and on datachip, compatible with most systems."

"And what does this cost me?" Dak asked, trying to sound like a suspicious bumpkin.

"It's free. The UN provides it as a service to all agribusiness operations."

"Well, if I need it, I'll call you. Thanks. Is that it?"

"I'm also here to assess your hectareage," Krishnamurti admitted.

"Not sure. Probably six or seven thousand." He knew to the millimeter what he planted, but he wasn't about to admit it. "Why?"

"We need an accurate measure to assess commercial property taxes. The package also contains information on tha—"

"Property tax?" Dak acted confused. "It's my property and a gift from the Lord. Why should I pay tax on it?"

Krishnamurti looked exasperated. Was every one of these peasants utterly ignorant of basic principles?

They wrangled for long segs, while the troops looked amused. They'd seen it all before.

"So let me get this straight," Dak was trying desperately but successfully to avoid hysterical laughter at his guest's discomfort. "In exchange for taxing the property the Lord gave me to clear and use and taking a whopping chunk of my income from said property, and dictating what I grow, how I grow it, what equipment to use, and how to wipe my nose most likely, you'll grant me a 'free' loan at interest to buy the equipment I wouldn't need without your regulations? And I'll have to spend an extra four divs a week, unpaid, doing bookkeeping to prove it to you?"

"Uh, put that way it sounds stupid," she said.

"Of course it's stupid!" Dak replied. "The only thing worth anything in any of that would be the accident insurance, if we didn't already have it and if my sister-in-law wasn't a nurse."

"Nurse?" Ms Krishnamurti asked, making notes. "Is she licensed from an accredited school and is her license current?"

Dak paused for just a moment. Vikki had worked her way up in a major hospital, using the texts recommended by the physicians and attending classes as needed to maintain her proficiency. She was also a qualified veterinary surgeon and close to being qualified as a human surgeon. As far as "license," there were none this clown would recognize. The university had granted her a degree based on proficiency exams and an instructor's assessment in leiu of classes. How to explain it to this character who probably used a manual to have sex?

He didn't bother. "I want you off my property now," he said. "The Good Lord doesn't allow taxation of His workers and you must respect that." He made a solid attempt to sound like one of the Mennonite or Traveler sects.

"Religious objections, huh?" she replied, smirking. "I've heard that one before. If you are actually a Primitive Christian practitioner, you would be exempt . . . but I don't suppose you can name the Gospels?" That usually stopped them. There were almost no Christians at all out here, much less PC sects.

Dak snorted. He was educated and Kendra had briefed him also. "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John."

"Hmmmph," was the reply. "If you fill out the proper documentation and can prove preexisting membership in an approved sect, the board will consider your exemption."

"Fine," Dak replied. "Then please get off my property, and may the Good Lord bless you, ma'am. You need it."

"I thank you for your blessing, sir," she replied and turned, sighing. Every one of these hicks was going to be trouble.

One of the soldiers cut in, "If you will give us just a moment, sir, we need to take a census count of everyone resident here. We need to be able to provide proper protection and emergency services. And we need to give everyone a quick analysis." He held out a scanner comp.

"Devices like that are the work of the Adversary," Dak continued loudly, looking at it with contempt. "I will allow no violation of my body."

"It's completely nonintrusive, sir," the soldier assured him. "We simply scan your skin." And compare to seized military records to nab any reservists or veterans who were still at large. They were becoming a serious threat.

Some of the troops were doing a slow perimeter of the cleared ground around the house as the argument continued. Vikki stepped to the door and said, "It's all right, Dak. We'll trust the man." Kendra would be hidden, then. Dak nodded.

Dak, Sandra holding a bouncing, wiggling Riga, Eric and Brian their two teenage boys, and Vikki lined up. Kyle was out on patrol, but the intruders had no way of knowing that. The soldiers skipped Riga at first, saying there was no need to check a child. When Dak asked, "Don't children qualify for your help?" they made a show of giving her a quick scan. The omission was definite evidence that their concern was adults only. And that meant their concern was with rebellion. He shook inside at that confirmation.

The soldiers politely insisted on checking the area. Their search was laughable. They checked vehicle hatches, but not inside the equipment compartments where the weapons were hidden. They made a quick mag-scan of the immediate grounds, but didn't bother going out to the far shed where other gear was hidden. They didn't find the secondary crawlspace where Kendra hid in blackness among cobwebs, rats and snakes, trying desperately not to scream in disgust.

Finally they left to hassle the next farmstead. Dak wished them all an early death silently, while wishing God's Blessing on them publicly.

They waited to pull Kendra out for another half div. As she rose, Dak handed her a bottle of liquor and let her take several gulps before downing some himself.

"I'm alive," she thanked him, then shook. "Ewww."

Nodding, he replied, "I felt utterly dirty professing your religion as a hoax. It's obscene to have to hide behind something I don't believe."

"I'm sure God will forgive you," she said. Her religion, a comforting background against the world, was becoming more important to her as she faced daily capture and death. She'd put in a word personally when she next got a chance to pray. Say, as soon as she was sober. She followed them upstairs to clean up and change.

"Mundus Vult Decipi."

—James Branch Cabell

Not all Freehold military personnel had been captured. There were always detachments and personnel in transit who slipped through any system. While not organized, these troops found bolt holes and tried to get messages through to someone, anyone with intelligence and command resources.

Commander Naumann had been one such, flying between installations when the attack hit. He sent such orders as he could to his exec, told her she was in charge and ordered his pilot down. He sheltered in a small town near the mountains and organized the forces at hand. There were quite a number of veterans, several reservists and a precious few active duty personnel. He began slipping them out clandestinely to bring in others.

One such catch arrived and Naumann, usually reticent, smiled broadly. His mind immediately began sorting through plans. "Sergeant Hernandez! Do I have ideas for you!"

"Professional, sir? Or military?" she joked. It was good to see familiar faces, especially since she had no idea if Rob or Kendra were alive. "Or personal?"

"All three," Naumann replied, laughing aloud. "Let me gather some other personnel and I'll tell you what I have in mind."

The local militia units were networking now, messengers relaying data. It was usually a few days old by the time it arrived, but it was intelligence. It wasn't as good as the no longer existent satellite feed, which had been destroyed after being located. Vid had been down for most of a month while that happened, as if to drive home the point, then brought back up to keep the propaganda flowing. Kendra mapped units, plotted and led and sent her farmers to harass them further. There was word that the UN headquarters in Jefferson was having a near mutiny. Apparently, guards were refusing to be stationed at the gates and were willing to be court-martialed and jailed over it.

A recent message indicated that a nearby militia squad wanted to meet with her, to discuss combining forces. She took Kyle, Dak and Sandra with her. She'd known them the longest and wasn't about to travel alone.

It was a long drive, almost two hours and one hundred kilometers, all along ragged country roads. They detoured several times to avoid UN roadblocks, warned by subtle signs tied to gates and fenceposts. She gritted her teeth, hoping none of the locals were turncoats. They might pass a roadblock . . . or be searched in depth or scanned. That would be the end of her operation and maybe her life. She could dress as a farmer's wife, but couldn't disguise her DNA. Nor were they about to travel unarmed. Stashed under junk and scrap in the back of their truck were rifles.

They should have just hopped in an airtruck, there being no really heavy cargo. But the UN was requiring notification of all air travel and unreported flights were all subject to forced landings and detailed examination. They lacked the personnel to check more than a few percent, but it still would draw unnecessary attention. They stuck to the ground.

It was dark, past curfew, when they finally arrived. The farm looked like any other and they swapped signals cautiously. Kendra hissed as they entered the house. Not him . . . 

"Hello, Kendra," Jim Wayland said, smiling his trademark grin.

"Jim," she replied levelly, feeling her temperature and pulse shoot into the stratosphere. Jesus Christ! How did he wind up in charge and what did he want?

"So, you've been hurting them?" he asked.

He seemed earnest enough, so she nodded and detailed her efforts.

"That's it?" he replied. "We've taken out thirteen trucks, six generators, a radar and have at least twice that many kills."

"It's not the number of kills, though," she objected. "It's the effect of them."

"What, a few cooks?" He had a half-sneer on his face. "And you think that will beat them?"

She said, "We aren't going to beat them here, Jim. That's going to be done—" but he cut her off.

"It sounds like you don't have faith in your people . . . or in us. We're Freeholders, Kendra. Maybe the UN can't handle the task, but—"

"I am a Freehold NCO, Jim, unlike you, who are a civilian. I'm serving my nation the best way I know how and you have no right to suggest otherwise. I'm not a traitor."

"Look lady," Wayland said, exasperation in his voice. "I'm not saying you can't live here. I'm not even saying you can't be trusted. But it ought to be obvious that you have a weak spot for Earth. You have to admit that."

"Why? Because you don't agree with my targets?" she snarled. It was taking desperate effort to keep calm.

He snickered derisively. "What, a bunch of cooks?"

"Enemy activity in our area is almost nonexistent," she said.

"Of course!" he replied. "They don't think you're a threat. They've been at us nonstop."

"And you haven't done a damned thing except piss them off!" she shouted. "You can blow up all the generators you want, they'll build more. It's not what you destroy, it's the level of activity. Can't you see that?"

"Yeah," he smirked, "And we're getting more activity.
That's
what proves they're pissed off and hurt. If you'd been to Leadership School, you'd know that."

"I went, right after you left and was third in my class," she said. "Logistics is what they hammered into us every day, and you should know
that
."

"Wait a mo," one of his henchmen cut in. "This is the woman who got you booted?"

Kendra felt the world twist again. What?

Wayland nodded. "Yeah, this is her."

"Wayland, you got yourself thrown out by insulting people—"

"Insulting dorks and trying to make them grow up."

"
Insulting people
and violating safety regs. You were the one without a spare oxy bottle, remember?" She breathed hard, trying to maintain her composure and losing.

"Oh, yes, Ms Regulation herself. Real handy to get yourself promoted," he said. "Typical UN backstabbing. Perfect for petty details. Then when you get here, you completely ignore the Target Priority Table," he said, tapping the page up on his comm screen.

"That's for
conventional
warfare, which this is
not
!" she said. "And where the fuck did you get a controlled item?" she asked, pointing at the comm. It was a military standard model that he shouldn't have been able to keep after his effective dismissal.

"Right back to regs again," he said, shaking his head. "Typical."

She held her breath, trying to avoid a panic attack.
How did he do this?
she wondered. The man was a snake!

His troops were looking at her with mixed amusement and condescension, tinged with disgust. Kyle looked thoughtful. Dak was blank. She couldn't see Sandra.

"I think we should leave on this note," she said very levelly. "You run your ops, I'll run mine. Commander Naumann can reach me if he has a problem with my methods," she said.

"Naumann. Yeah, that's a little upstart who likes to swap casualties for headlines—"

"Goodbye, Jim. Folks, we're leaving," she said.

They followed her out silently.

She kept her eyes closed and feigned sleep while she collected her thoughts. Nothing good would come of this, she knew in her guts. Her musings were interrupted by Kyle asking, "Do you think there's anything to his theory about targets?"