Freehold (54 page)

Well, that was obviously an overreaction, she told herself later, lying in bed. Certainly they'd had to die, but mutilation would not help. Although, she admitted, it might scare a few of the UN newbies into the arms of a therapist and off our planet.

Sleep wouldn't come and she knew why: tension. Her body was taut, alert and wired with chemicals. She'd enjoyed it, because of the damned attitude the punks had thrown. Idly she realized that abusing the enemy would not win friends and might scare them into extreme measures. It was still a deep, buried thought and barely reached the surface.

Meanwhile, she needed some way to relax, and her hands were brushing her nipples and thighs. It didn't take long to forget everything else, her brain embracing pleasure over pain. She fell into an exhausted stupor, her body racked by cold, pain, adrenaline and endorphins.

"The enemy of my friend, he is my enemy. The friend of my enemy, he is my enemy. But the enemy of my enemy, he is my friend."

—Arab proverb

General Huff was near the entry point being used by recruited locals to enter the new administration center. It had once been a bank building and was quite new, if a bit worse for wear. An imposing structure, even. The locals made up for any social lack with their technological development. There was potential for them, he thought, if he could get them to see that there was no need to fight.

It wasn't too chilly in the Sun, but quite cold in shadow.
Very much like a desert climate on Earth,
he thought. Winter had been long and spring would be longer. He was curious to see how the local life developed as it thawed, and how the war would progress. He liked to get out and look around whenever possible. Other ranking officers preferred to stay detached and he understood their rationale. He thought it was better to associate with the locals and get feedback from them. The more one knew, the better the dealings.

The locals who had been hired were in three categories. First were those who didn't care and took any job offered by anyone. They were mostly unskilled or only marginally so. Second were the schemers who were trying to bilk the UN system. They were expected, even useful, but he did not trust them. Some were a security risk, others simply whores who could be bought. The last group clearly hated the UN, but had families to feed. Those he trusted for their honesty and tried to get along with. He'd prefer not to use any local workers for the risks of espionage and terrorism they posed, but the General Assembly didn't want to send more overpaid government employees. They were overpaid because of laws passed by the General Assembly under pressure from their unions. Those same unions had it written into their contracts that the employees couldn't actually be sent anywhere useful, as it presented a risk to those overpaid employees. Instead, they produced yoctobyte after yoctobyte of adminwork. Hell of a way to run a war, Huff thought.

A voice behind him spoke, "sir? You're an officer?" He turned and froze.

She was totally out of place, in a conservative business suit and scarf. She was poised, slightly sad looking and incredibly beautiful. "Yes, why?" he asked.

"I need work, sir. I'm very capable, but no one will talk to me."

He nodded to his guards, who let her through. They kept her briefcase, after she opened it to prove it was not a bomb. At least the rebels didn't run to suicide missions. Not very often, anyway.

"What type of work?" he asked.

"I'm trained as a social worker. I can be very useful here," she said. "But I missed the deadline for ID and no one will make any exceptions."

Typical bureaucrats
, he thought. Not one of them could do any original thinking. Lang was the worst of the bunch. He was so bent on ramming adminwork down these people's throats that he didn't see the real potential.

"Come with me and we'll see what can be done, Ms—"

"Erte. Bonita Erte."

"Come then, Ms Erte."

She followed him toward the office block, looking a bit relieved. He wasn't sure, but he thought there was a deepness to her eyes that he found enticing. She stayed closer to him than his guards, obviously nervous about the hassle within, and brushed him in the elevator. He felt a ripple and reminded himself to be professional.

Lang saw reason quickly enough and promised to find her a slot she could serve in. He looked a bit put upon, but not badly. "We'll have to do a DNA comparison at once, of course," he said.

"I understand," she said, smiling softly. "Security and all that." She went with the clerk who handled her application personally and smiled at him as she did. They entered a small cubicle at the end of a row, and a medic reached for a sealed lancet.

"Um," she said, "do you mind if I do it myself? I'm really a wimp about pain."

"Well . . ." he said.

"Please," she said, dark eyes staring into his. He nodded and she beamed a smile that warmed him to his toes. She took the package, tore it and turned slightly, broad sleeves flopping. She hissed slightly and turned back, offering him the card smeared with blood. She clenched her finger in a napkin and dropped the lancet in a disposal receptacle.

Twenty minutes later by Earth time, she had a job counseling. She wasn't told who or why they'd need counseling, but it was a job. She breathed a sigh as she left the building, clutching her new ID. The borrowed blood specimen in the bag taped to her wrist had almost coagulated by the time she got in. That had been close. Now to avoid any issues that would bring her into question. Subtle surgery combined with makeup and hairdo changed her face quite a bit. She should be safe, especially with her assumed body language. It would have to be enough.

She approached the gate again. "I'd like to thank you again, General is it?" she looked at his shoulders queryingly.

"Huff. Jacob Huff," he replied, taking her hand. She winced slightly as he caught her "pierced" finger. Good. That should clinch it in everyone's mind.

"I'm grateful, sir," she said. "And I have some funds, still. Is there somewhere we could get a cup of chocolate?"

He took a deep breath. Well. "Let me show you to the officers' club."

"Thank you."

Guerrilla warfare in spring brought its own problems. There was the mud, the shifting weather and vicious wind, the mud again and other, unpredictable threats. Kendra was quickly learning a fatalistic approach to enemy fire. She'd been wounded once, a "mere nick" that had burned and stung for days. Sooner or later, one would get her. She was more worried, to the point of occasional nightmares, of the risk of capture. She could expect harsh, punitive treatment from the UNPF if caught. Besides the existing charges of alleged embezzlement, of murder of her friends, of fleeing pursuit and the provable charge of desertion, there were the potential charges of transferring classified information, aiding the enemy and fighting under a foreign flag.

She tried to ignore all that. She knew the truth and where her allegiance lay if no one else did. She was taking tremendous risks, but she was accomplishing much. That thought brought her back to the present.

It was an ambush again. They were tracking another pacification team as they went from farm to farm, registering people, seizing anything deemed a threat and anything the team took a fancy to. Her opinion of her former service was still sinking into the depths.

She also had a battle going on within herself. The incident in the winter with the prisoners was by far the worst atrocity she'd been involved in, but it was not the only one. On several occasions she'd shot prisoners and she'd beaten several brutally for intelligence. Justifying it as "necessary" didn't help either legally or ethically and it was getting harder to determine right from wrong in this war. International law called for humane treatment of prisoners and their release if facilities were not available. Practicality dictated that anyone who knew details of her insurgents had to die. As far as intelligence, she needed the information to keep herself and her people alive. She was willing to torture to do that. She shook her head fractionally and brought herself back to the present yet again.

It was a surprisingly gentle day and, being early spring, the insects were not yet out in force. The ground was still damp, cold and frosty in spots. She itched from twigs and rocks poking her and wished again she'd taken the time to clear the area. Visibility and hearing were good and she had both audio and optical sensor gear borrowed from Dak. It was lighter and less restrictive than her helmet's ensemble, if not as well armored. She decided the tradeoff was worth it.

The Peacekeepers were now taking heavy automated weapons on all convoys and more personnel and vehicles. It was getting far harder to surprise and disable them. Kendra expected that trend to continue and heavier vehicles to be included shortly. Without support weapons, the odds would keep stacking against her people until they were all dead or gave up the task as hopeless. She supposed at that point she'd have to decide between a suicidal lone war, as her military oath seemed to require, or a life as a farm woman on a UN colony, dreading discovery for her past. Neither appealed much.

This operation was being done slightly differently, because of the increased enemy capabilities. Instead of trying to overwhelm the force, deliberate hints of insurgent activity were being placed. That would hopefully get the soldiers out of their vehicles and into a good position. Of course, they were all using lethal weapons out here now. Whether or not they were authorized, Kendra hadn't been able to find out, but they'd abandoned the restraining weapons for rifles and grenades.

Kyle had set up a false ambush below them, complete to a shooting blind. It had been occupied long enough to leave evidence for the sensors. Now he, Kendra and their neighbors the Goranas were situated above and around that site. Dak and Sandra were across the road to take care of stragglers. Kendra supposed that soon the forces would become too large for her unit to face profitably. The first invaders had been units of five to ten personnel. Before winter, it had increased to ten to fifteen. This one numbered three squads—twenty-four.

She gratefully dropped the ration she'd been munching. Vikki had cooked them up and they were basically a large sugar cookie-bar with nuts and chocolate within, blended with extra protein and nutrients. They tasted great at first, were boring within days and were sickening now. She wondered if she'd ever eat chocolate again once—if—this was over.

There was movement below and she tensed slightly, prepared to dump four of her precious grenades and a couple of clips of ammo into the area. Minstrel had brought more, but had cautioned her that supplies were limited. All the regular armories had been seized early on and what they had came from private sources and theft. She steeled herself to fire every shot as if it were her last.

She heard an NCO below say, quite softly, "They're here. I can feel them." His voice traveled farther than he would have liked due to the still air and she could hear it clearly. A twig snapped below her and she tried to place the troop who had just blown cover. The leader said, "Further up there. Got to be. Probably four or five of them."

She stiffened. He was experienced and that was bad. She shifted imperceptibly, in order to take him out first, then heard another sound.

It was a low growl. It didn't register at first, then her mind sorted through memories. It
was
familiar, but what was it? She heard it again and it fell into place. Ripper. It had broken the twig, not them.

Oh, shit,
she thought. That was bad.

It slunk into view, clearly prowling and sniffing. She froze, willing it to trace the scent to the false ambush site and not her. Holding her breath to keep as still as she could, she waited. Which would it be? Get ripped? Or shoot and be discovered? She could still hear the Peacekeepers muttering below.

She saw the animal now. Long, low, sinuous and rippling with muscle. It had heavy jaws and huge retractable claws and looked more vicious than even the stories told about them, even more vicious than the ghost of a memory of years before. Without seven million years of coexistence, they had virtually no concerns about humans and had been known to kill military-trained hunting leopards. They were impressive, no doubt about it. Something about them inspired fear on an instinctive level and she whimpered inaudibly.

Now,
it
saw
her
. Their eyes locked. The predatory gleam in its gaze was more than intelligent and her body decided it would shoot if attacked, her brain not working properly at the moment. It took two careful, padding steps, dropped down into a catlike crouch.

It sprang. She raised her rifle, then hesitated. It was moving sideways. She adjusted her aim, then realized she was not the target. Not for now, anyway.

A gurgling scream snapped her awake. The UNPF NCO was the new target, and the wet sound was his throat being ripped out. The beast rolled through the brush below and there came the sound of small arms fire. Shouts of fear and confusion added to the din and someone acting quickly but incorrectly blew up the shooting blind.

Kendra clicked a code.
Wait. Close up.
They'd take their allies where they found them and clean up the damage afterward. Besides, she was shaking too badly to be of any use. Fusillades of fire and sporadic explosions from heavier weapons indicated the direction of the battle and she rose, carefully moving lower and closer. She kept her weapon up, safety off, in case the animal came back her way.

The noise was localized and she presumed it was now surrounded. That was dangerous for both it and its former prey and she kept alert. "What the fuck is that?" she heard.

"Beats the shit outta me, but it killed Boli," someone replied.

Behind them, another voice spoke into a radio. "Cancel that artillery and air support. Attacker appears to be a local animal." The voice sounded relieved and disgusted.

"Well, kill it before it comes after us," was the reply to the first speaker, followed by weapons fire. The ripper screamed a metallic reply.