Freehold (51 page)

"No." Her voice was automatic and curt.

"Good enough for me," he said.

"Guy's a manipulative asshole," Dak said through his beard. "He was hoping for a confrontation and is doing exactly what he accused you of: quoting regs for his own good."

"I just thought he was a scared geek, puffing himself up with brave words," Sandra said.

"Why can't they see that?" Kendra asked. "It was obvious to you guys."

"We're on the outside. People like that are persuasive," Dak said. "Life of the party, class clown, great to be around. Bet he disappears when there's dirty work to do."

She laughed. "Oh, you've met him before."

"His father, most likely."

Kyle added, "I take it we won't be working with him?"

"Not a chance in hell," Kendra said.

"Good."

"All propaganda has to be popular and has to adapt its spiritual level to the perception of the least intelligent of those towards whom it intends to direct itself."

—Adolf Hitler

Kendra squirmed again in near agony. The latest nasty bioweapon had been sprayed as spores around one of their recent targets and they'd picked it up during an operation. It caused ulceration of the mucous membranes, and her eyelids were a weeping, gummy mass that left her near blind. Her nose felt as if it had been sanded with power tools and her tongue was swollen with jagged red wounds she could see despite her ruined vision. Her gums were so afflicted that her teeth were loose and she didn't relish her next trip to the bathroom. It was hard to drink enough fluid, but she forced another burning mouthful or lukewarm water down. Her nose was running, but she dared not touch it. In addition, the flaking, weeping wounds of severe dandruff were causing her scalp to bleed and shed hair in places. Whether it was a related effect or simply malnutrition and environmental in nature was unknown, but it itched and hurt as the skin came off in huge, fluffy flakes. Her hormone-balancing implant had expired and she found out what it was like to suffer menstruation. How did people survive in the Dark Ages?

Her squad was hiding in their farms, all gear well hidden against any routine scans, and they were simply waiting for a cure or for the infection to run its course. This attack was probably less lethal than the pneumonic one that had taken weeks to defeat and killed Dak's beautiful little girl in the process. Kendra could still see Riga smiling and trying to play as her breath bubbled through the liquid filling her lungs. Despite an around the clock watch, several local infants and toddlers had gone to sleep and strangled to death in their nightmares.

Perhaps in that regard, this was a more humane weapon. The people it left blind or toothless had an eventual hope of recovery. The children shrieked every time they tried to urinate. The psychological effect of that on a two-year-old was something she didn't want to consider. Some of them were looking a bit jaundiced. The official word was that all they had to do to get cured was to come and get an implant that would allow their positions to be monitored, for "the safety of society." DNA would be checked on all such persons and kept on file. It was completely voluntary. Only a terrorist would refuse, of course.

It was disgusting to see the Earth press still insisting that no violations of the Laws of War were taking place by the "liberators" of the UNPF and that the treatment they received as prisoners of the Freeholders was brutal. She recalled one such cast a few days before. They'd been gathered in the dark around a locally transmitted vid . . . 

"This is Iakova Popovic with EBC News," the woman announced as the camera followed her along a fence. "As you can see, we are here in a rebel prison compound containing UNPF captives. They agreed to let us in here, far behind their line of resistance, to show us the conditions they maintain.

"You'll notice that the prisoners only have thin pads and a single light blanket for sleeping, many of which have been furnished by local civilians sympathetic to the cause. They are fed, but all of it is food from wild sources; none is professionally produced for human consumption. Meals are sporadic at best and no religious or philosophical dietary needs are being observed. There are rodents and other pests crawling through the site. Some of the captives are in need of medical care and all of them have been denied contact with their friends and families. The camp commander, a reserve captain in the former Grainne army, had this to say:"

The vid cut to an older man who looked very tired and worn. "—There can be no exchange of prisoners without UN cooperation, and the treatment they are getting is all they can expect—" he was cut off.

"EBC News has managed to acquire a list of prisoners from inside and we'll share that info on our access site with anyone who can identify a potential prisoner and their relationship with them. Contact the Red Cross or your nearest Bureau of Defense facility to make arrangements. The UNPF staff note that any attempt to attack the camp would lead to casualties, so they reluctantly must leave them in their current squalor for now."

The Freehold version, not available outsystem and not to most even on Grainne, was that the prisoners were being fed the same food as the guards and staff. The UN had been requested to arrange a swap and refused, probably fearing that actual testimony and reports from the field would ruin its various PR tracks. Nor would they take the badly injured. Every one that died or suffered in the competent but overworked and underequipped hands of the Freeholders was further publicity. Some of the guards didn't have even the minimal clothing and shelter the prisoners had. And all the prisoners had been allowed to send mail home. It had been delivered to the UN headquarters by a SpecWarfare team who had dropped it off at the front gate. The bag had been taken inside and never seen again. Their communications had been "denied," yes, but by the UN, not the Freehold. There were even rumors that some UN prisoners had been returned and either disappeared or been badly abused by their own people to generate publicity before being sent home. Kendra hoped it wasn't true, but was ready to believe almost anything about the enemy now. She shuddered again, sickened at what her home had turned into.

The camp commander's actual quote had been, "We've tried to exchange prisoners and been refused. There can be no exchange of prisoners without UN cooperation, and the treatment they are getting is all they can expect given our current state of affairs. My guards and perimeter patrols are no better fed or clothed. If you can at least get the list of detainees home to their families, you'll be doing us a great favor."

Kendra had flushed a crimson so bright it should have glowed as the propaganda from her home went on. She'd been glad for the darkness.

The "news" continued. "Further investigations by our team show the true threat the rebels pose to society. Out in the country, recruits as young as ten are arming themselves, brainwashed or scared into fighting by their extremist parents. In the cities, we spoke to several prostitutes who were under twelve years old . . ."

Of course, those were local years, not Earth years. The Freeholders didn't see the threat in that type of reporting, nor were they bothered by the "decadence" of prostitution. They were most annoyed by the people who were forced into it, rather than choosing it as a career. Kendra shuddered. The press was potentially a worse threat than the armed enemy and there was nothing she could do about them.

The good news was that patrols outside the cities had all but ceased. Certainly they were being reported to UN Command as normal, but most patrols were not actually being conducted. The few that were didn't stray very far, staying within artillery range usually and close-air support range definitely. They'd learned that to venture further brought quick death from the natives.

The bad part of that was that it was necessary to brave the support fire to damage the UN forces. That meant longer operations, reduced engagement time and higher casualties. No free lunch. It was getting harder to hurt the invaders and their position daily consolidated. The cities were de facto UN territory, the outlands de facto Freehold, but sparsely populated and ill-equipped. Those forces would never surrender, but would surely weaken with time. Short term: stalemate. Long term: loss by attrition.

The political news wasn't good, either. It appeared there was no General Assembly or colonial support for Freehold. There were occasional protests to the UN about its treatment of the "rebels," but no actual hard opposition. As hopeful and determined as the resistance was, Kendra had done a database search through her comm. There were no historical precedents for an oppressed people freeing themselves from an outside invader with such numerical advantage. The few cases there were all involved assistance from a third party. There was no such party. She wasn't going to share that bit of info.

It was three painful days later, almost a week after the affliction hit them, that the "wandering Minstrel" happened by. "I've got something you want," he said as he was let in. "Twelve doses of counternano to the runnies."

"Only twelve?" Dak asked. "There's forty people around here."

"All I can spare, friend, sorry. I have other people to supply. But if you draw blood in three days, anyone compatible can use it as a starter culture. These doses will take effect immediately, symptoms will heal naturally in a week, overnight with a reconstructor nano, and I have eighty doses of that you can have. The cultured version takes about two days to work fully, then another week for natural healing."

It was decided almost immediately that the children, Dak, Kendra, Sandra and Kyle would receive the first dose. That would be more humane for the children and allow best defensive capabilities. Everyone took reconstructors to at least alleviate the symptoms, and Vikki prepared supplies to treat the rest in three days. The other seven doses went to the neighbors.

Most of them were elated, but Kendra and Dak exchanged glances. What would the next bug be like?

Minstrel wandered over. "Dak," he said simply, "I'm sorry about Riga. If I could have done anything about it . . ."

Dak shook his hand back silently, gritted his teeth and squinted. The rage in him would only be appeased by death. Lots of death.

"There is nothing more frightening than ignorance in action."

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"Fresh meat, Sarge," Corporal 1st Class Korkowsky said. He waved the fresh-faced young kid into the bunker. Sergeant Boli nodded while staring at him.
My God, they get younger every rotation.
Or maybe he was getting older. "Jacques Boli," he said.

"David Walking Sky," the kid replied. Give him this, he was large. Tall, broad, muscular and very confident looking. He stared levelly back at Boli and adjusted the talisman around his neck. Well, that was good and bad.

Boli said, "You're new? No combat?"

"Uh, yes, Jacques," he replied.

" 'Sergeant,' " Boli corrected him. "Forget that morale lecture you got in training. Forget that Laws of War crap. Forget the Doctrine of Reasonable Force. Forget all that shit. These fuckers exist to kill us, so we exist to kill them. Discipline is necessary to match them, so discipline we have. I'm not your friend, I'm the sergeant who's gonna keep you alive long enough to get out of this shithole. Got it?"

"Uh, yes . . . Sergeant," the kid replied. He didn't hesitate too long and looked a bit scared. Good start. The cocky ones died first.

Walking Sky was initiated to combat that evening. It was more profound than losing his virginity had been, that was certain. There was a patrol planned, of a type called L&C—locate and clear. In a less sensitive time, it had been called "search and destroy." He helped load the vehicles with both lethal and nonlethal hardware and took a seat as directed. The squad gathered around where he sat, and Boli briefed them. "Okay, folks, here's the plan. We're being flown out fifty clicks along the road, checking for activity at this point," a dot glowed inside each soldier's visor, indicating, "and cutting across to here by eighteen hundred, which is about oh-two hundred local, and then returning. If we see any rebel activity, we will engage, circumstances permitting, and bring back prisoners. Any questions?" There were none. "Okay, we just have to wait for Field Officer Uberti."

A few minutes later, an officer approached. Boli nodded, grimacing, and said, "Good evening, FO Kirk."

"Good evening, Jacques. FO Uberti is otherwise occupied tonight. I will escort you," he said. Leaning closer, he added, "And this patrol will run by the book. Do we understand?"

Sighing, Boli replied, "We do, FO."

Walking Sky could feel the tension as they boarded the vertol. Kirk was not well liked, he could tell, but he wasn't sure why and knew it was not the time to ask. He busied himself with helping dog the vehicles down to the deck, then tried to lounge as casually as the others did on the rough benches and cargo netting that were the normal amenities aboard the craft.

It was a standard cargo version of the Lockheed 97 and easily carried the squad, both vehicles, the assorted weapons and its own crew. There were two gunners on each side, with stickywebs and machineguns. Aviation units had no problem being authorized for lethal force, with the need to keep their equipment secure. No one seemed to worry about either ground-based vehicles or the infantry who crewed them.

Walking Sky was glad for the ride, which hid his shakes in craft motion and turbulence. He craved a real gun in his hands, knew it was pure fear and tried to control it. Anyone he needed to stop would be stopped as well with a tangler or stunbag as they would with a bullet. Only critical encounters justified lethal force. That had been drilled into him from day one, but it seemed hollow and inadequate now.

FO Kirk's voice sounded in his helmet's headset. "Recon reports our LZ is clear. We are landing." It was shortly followed by a change in impeller pitch, presaging descent to the ground.