Freehold

by Michael Z. Williamson

  She squatted and stepped over with her left, then her right. She stared straight down the tower to the packed ground below and paused. It was disorienting, and her hindbrain waited to plummet to her death. Gingerly, she stood out from the side, holding the rope taut in front of her. She stepped, then again, jerkily, shifting against the tower and hissing. Her adrenaline level was up again. If this continued, she'd be addicted to the stuff.

  She continued jerking down the side. It was easier this way, once she was used to it. She could see where she was going and it was easier to control the rope. By evening, she was proficient and comfortable with the basics. They did one in darkness, then bedded down and rose early again.

  They spent the day rappelling from vertols, finally leaping out the side and dropping fifty meters in five seconds using a friction lock to slow the descent at an increasing rate. They started in free fall down the rope, gravity building as they dropped and hitting the ground just hard enough to sting the feet a little. The friction heat could be felt right through the gloves.

  By the end of it, she could drop, maneuver during descent, fire a weapon to clear a window and land inside it or hit a roof on the fly. She could reconnect to a trailing rope and lift, spreading to stay steady in the wind. She could drop from a moving craft, timing her descent to match the pendulum swing of the rope and land stationary at a selected position. They spent more effort on rappelling and roping than on any other task. Current doctrine held that this was the most useful technique for assault. It was a lot of fun to bounce across the landscape, once trained. Better than any amusement park ride she'd ever tried.

  They spent what seemed now to be a very brief span on beach assault and additional land techniques. It was unlikely they'd ever be assaulting from water, but it was possible for a drop pod to land off-beacon. They practiced wading, swimming and using small boats. The two days were dawn to dusk affairs, but flew by quickly, although cold, wet and itchy. The last day of the block was spent frontally assaulting prepared positions. Kendra was reflective afterward. It finally hit her at gut level that she was learning to kill or be killed. A frontal assault would be suicide for most involved.

  The final exercise was quick, brutally hard and messy. The students lined up at the beginning of the course, psyched and ready to graduate. From here, technical training for most, direct assignment to their new unit for others . . . and for some poor unfortunates, follow-up with Blazer training and perhaps Black Operations after that. Kendra shuddered to think about what could be worse than this.

  She waited anxiously, a bit concerned about the test. She understood exactly what was involved, but the waiting was still unnerving. She approached the front of the line and killed time watching those ahead of her.

  Her turn. "Pacelli, Kendra A." she recited to the evaluator.

  "You ready, Private?" he asked her.

  "Yes, Sergeant!" she replied. Hell, no!

  "Go!"

  She ran three steps and jumped into the trench, landing chest deep in frigid mud. Floating in it was assorted trash, refuse and rotten garbage. She held her breath and bent forward, slime rising over her face and into her ears and hair as she grasped the two sunken ammo cans left for her and grabbed the handles. As she stood, filth oozed down over her and into her clothes. She longed to wipe her face, but that would mean dropping one of the boxes, which would mean another dunking.

  She waded forward, as close to a run as she could manage under the circumstances, feeling her boots squelching underneath as the mud forced its way in. The two cases, full of ammo and mud, were already heavy and dragged her arms behind her as she slogged onward.

  She reached the end of the two-hundred-meter ditch exhausted, cold and aching. The handles had cut into her hands and she'd banged both shins, her knees and thighs with the sharp corners several times, front and back. She was only too happy to drop them. She wasn't happy with the high-pressure fire hose used to clean her off with even colder water, the spray blasting up her nose, into her mouth when she yelped and pouring liters of water into her clothes and down. The dousing added the burden of additional weight and she sprinted away as soon as she was clean. The hose chased her for a few seconds. Once out of range she coughed water out of her burning lungs and resumed at a slow pace.

  There wasn't much point to the soaking, she thought, since she immediately had to dive face-first for cover in wet, limy sand that burned to the touch. The small arms fire blazing overhead was live, and while it was being held high enough to avoid injury, so she'd been told, it still made cracking sounds as it ripped by. She dragged herself along, cringing at the occasional low round. It actually was possible to flatten to half one's thickness, she decided, but the sand grains were a bit small for real concealment. She stretched her arms out again, scrabbled with her fingers, dug in her toes and crept under the first strands of razor wire.

  She got snagged eventually and had to carefully snip the wire with her shears. The springy metal twanged along its length and bounced over, catching another trainee. He snapped, "Watch it, dickwad!" as an instructor poured a burst right over her head. Kendra flinched, and wasn't sure if the warm wetness she felt was lime and water or if she'd peed her pants. That had been close. Another bounding wire cut by someone else sliced across her hand. The sand rubbed in to create a fiery pain. She decided she could deal with it until she was clear, and crawled faster.

  Once clear, it took her a few seconds to rinse the wound and spray sealer on it, then she ran for the target range. She found an open lane, punched her ID into the touchpad and unshouldered her weapon. She banged the grit from it, raised it and commenced fire at the pop-up targets. Once done, she slung it again and hit the track.

  Unarmed combat test, and for evaluation, they meant unarmed. Someone could get killed from a clubbed rifle or shovel. The student was required to attack, and she took short steps toward her opponent. The man was smaller than she and her hunched posture caused him to misjudge her size. She straightened, raised her foot a full meter farther away than he expected, pivoted and kicked his ankle. He hopped back, changed stance and threw a fist toward her face. She rolled it aside with her right, circled her left hand down the other way to slow the parallel punch into her guts and tangled her left foot past his leading leg to kick the ankle she'd already abused. She grunted from the thump to her belly that he snuck in and breathed deeply and openmouthed as her diaphragm protested. Shoving his weight back onto the injured leg, she twisted her torso and he fell to his knees. She dropped her knee into the small of his back, stuck her extended left fingers into his throat and said, "Dead."

  "Fine, get going," he said, clearly embarrassed by being taken down.

  She stood and ran. Next was the cargo net, all thirty vertical meters of it. It no longer scared her, but her weapon tangled in the webbing and she was upside down by the time she unhooked it. She scrambled aright and finished the climb and descent.

  There were twenty-two more obstacles, all sandy or muddy or wet or filthy or some combination of all of them. Her eyes were red and weeping from incapacitance gas before she was through, her lungs a frothy, syrupy burning mess. Once done with the ground test, she ran across a field-expedient airfac and boarded a vertol. As soon as it was full, the pilot lifted. They were taken to altitude and dropped, the target illuminated by laser and showing on their visors. Silently, they formed into squads and attacked a nearby position. From there, the orienteering course required precision navigation over short distances. Once graded on that, they boarded a shuttle.

  Straight into orbit, they deployed in suits they donned en route and attacked a destroyer, cutting and blasting their way through the hull and seizing control. From there, they dropped in pods back into the combat sim for four more days of fun. It was raining again, and Kendra wondered if it was going to rain every time she went into the field. She was beyond exhausted from the level of activity and hadn't thought it possible to eat so much and not gain weight.

  As Mobile Assault troops, she'd t
hought they'd see a higher complexity of battle. The local commanders, with absolute disregard for training, tossed them in anywhere they had shortages. It was a bit discouraging.

  They cleaned up, slept and marched through another graduation, Rob and Marta in the stands, their own qualification badges proudly worn. She was dismissed, and went to spend the day with them. Ash had left, but said goodbye and kissed her and Mar as he departed. Then Rob had to make a contract appointment, leaving the two women alone. They went shopping, looking for exotic minerals and wood crafts, a love they shared. Kendra bought a green marble kitchen knife rack for Marta and had it shipped clandestinely. She had a bit of money now, which felt reassuring. She wasn't obsessed with the stuff, but it was impossible to live without, and a cushion let her sleep more easily.

  Her hair had grown out to collar length, which made her less self-conscious in public. She also gradually became aware that she was totally unworried by any threat of crime. She knew she could instantly become a human chainsaw if attacked. She also no longer felt odd carrying a weapon. They were just tools to be used. It was a change in temperament she reflected on as they walked the cool, bright streets.

  "One more stop," Marta insisted, and flew them a few kilometers to the outskirts of town. They stopped in front of a blocky building, thirty or so meters removed from its neighbors. A simple painted sign outside proclaimed Cardiff Cutlery. They went inside.

  Rustic was perhaps the word. The back of the building, visible through an opening, was equipped with bay doors for loading equipment and material. Inside, it resembled an archaic smithy crossed with a machine shop. The front contained racks and displays of exotic cutlery. She'd never imagined so many varieties of edged weapons.

  Mike Cardiff was about Marta's height, stripped to the waist and showing knotty biceps He had a short, graying beard and mustache and a shaven head. "Well! Marta!" he said brightly in a resonant voice that belonged to a man twice his size. He grinned evilly and reached out his grimy hands.

  She was still in uniform and squealed, "Don't even think it! Or I'll never kiss you again."

  He wiped his hands off and held them at his sides while she leaned to kiss him chastely. "Who's your friend?" he asked as he leaned back. "Is she taken?" He leered comically at Kendra.

  "Yes, by me and Rob. Mike, Kendra Pacelli. Kendra, Mike Cardiff," she introduced. Kendra took his hands and shook. He gave her a glance from head to toe that boosted her ego. His thoughts were obvious.

  "You ladies look at the hardware, I have to check on one in the oven," he said and walked into the back again.

  Kendra stared at the work. It was amazing. Some of the blades had grains and patterns like burled wood. She'd heard of pattern-welded and Damascus steel, but had only seen one small piece of Rob's. This was incredible.

  Looking to Marta for assent, she lifted one from the rack. It was a standard kataghan pattern, chisel pointed, slightly S-curved, with a grip of nuggetwood set with silver pins. One nearby she didn't recognize by shape had a handle of malachite. She whistled in respect.

  Cardiff returned with clean hands, wiping them on a rag and asked, "Any questions?"

  "Not yet, but I am impressed," Kendra said. Marta was scrutinizing a small knife.

  "Your accent is familiar. You're from Earth?" he asked.

  "Yes," she agreed. "Minneapolis."

  "Oho! Do I have a piece for you!" he said, guiding her by her elbow to another rack. He drew the blade from its slot and handed it over. She took it from him, curious, and stopped suddenly. The balance was amazing. It floated in her hand, seemingly ready to swing in any direction she willed without physical effort. She raised it and marveled at the artistry of it.

  It was a wakizashi, she recognized. The blade was about fifty centimeters, patterned with interlocking curls of the constituent metal writhing like a snake along the length of it, treated with some chemical to reveal it in shades of gold and tan. It seemed to have a depth, hypnotizing the eye into staring into it. The sides curved slightly into an edge so fine there was no glint of reflected light. Just back from the edge, there was what she knew was a temper line. It was wavy, crisp near the edge and clouding into nothingness toward the back. The guard was a circle of carved black iron with gold hammered into it in the shape of a rosebud. The hilt behind it was a golden-hued wood that was tiger-stripe grained and had a depth of its own that shifted with the angle of the light. The scabbard Cardiff held was carved of the same wood.

  "What is that wood? I've never seen it before," she asked, stunned by its beauty.

  "That's actually quilted maple from Earth, salvaged from an old piece of furniture. I forged the blade from two damaged pieces. One was an old family blade that was too trashed to reuse as was. The other was an absolutely archaic Damascus shotgun barrel, also worthless in the condition it was in. You'll see the weld pattern change from Persian twist to waterfall along the shinogi, which is this line here, where the bevel starts." He indicated the break and she could see a faint line where the two patterns met. "So all the materials are from Earth. The surface is treated with titanium nitride for the gold tones," he finished.

  Kendra wanted it. No, she lusted after it. She didn't dare look at the price tag. This was an entirely handcrafted work of art. She nodded and thanked Cardiff, putting it back on the rack. She turned to see Marta buying a small dagger, the grain of the blade twisted back on itself, hilted in Grainne amber and silver.

  "Not getting it?" Marta asked.

  "I want to, but I don't dare spend the money," she admitted.

  "You need a sword for formal wear," Mar chided.

  "But—"

  "And it should be distinctive," she added.

  "But—"

  "And you'll never see that one again. Mike's stuff is magic that way. You come in and wait for one to call to you," she insisted.

  "Marta, sto—"

  "And you just finished your training, which calls for a special gift to yourself," she reasonably pointed out.

  "Dammit, I—"

  "And you want it," she finished.

  Cardiff brought the sword over again and held out the tag. Sighing, she took it and read it. It listed the materials, the date finished and gave the name of the piece as "The Warbride." Below that was the price. Cr3500. It was more than reasonable for the work involved, but she flinched anyway. Even with the bonuses she received for hazardous duty, that was almost two months' pay. But she did want it. And another one like it would never exist.

  She hesitated a moment longer until Cardiff said, "If you're a friend of Marta's and just graduated, then let's say three even. And I owe Rob."

  "Let me guess, he saved your life on Mtali," she said. It was becoming a running joke.

  "Nooo! I'm a civilian, thank you very much," he protested. "I just make the hardware for them. But he's referred a lot of people and does research for me."

  She sighed and handed over her card. He scanned it and let the machine transact while he wiped the blade with a cloth and gave her a hardsheet of instructions. "Thank you!" she said, thrilled.

  They left and Marta begged to handle it once. Kendra relented. She loved watching the light coruscate from the surfaces. She said so.

  "That's all?" Marta replied. "It makes me wet to look at it."

  "Everything makes you wet, dear," Kendra replied, laughing.

  "Sure does. You want to?" Mar asked, running fingers down her shoulder.

  "Umm . . . after lunch, you could probably talk me into it," Kendra agreed.

  They parked at a downtown ramp and walked to a café. The sword thrust through Kendra's sash drew as many stares as the two women themselves did. It was a good afternoon.

  Chapter 18

  "My logisticians are a humorless lot . . . they know if my campaign fails, they are the first ones I will slay."

  —Alexander of Macedonia

  Logistics training was a forty-two-day course, but Kendra only had to attend the first week, since she'd tested proficient in all the sof
tware, accounting and technical matters. She was glad. These people never stopped training. So one more week would do it, then she'd finally be serving in the military again.

  The first week was the combat logistics course. She wasn't sure what to expect. The barracks she was assigned to had small rooms of four trainees rather than bays, so she hoped it would be less intense than the previous courses. The hope didn't last, and she found the first day very confusing.

  She and seven other "pipeline" trainees met outside, she wearing corporal's hashes and holding a sign with their class number. Two older students who were crosstraining came over, one a sergeant, who nodded but let her keep authority for now. They cautiously introduced themselves, wondering also at the new environment. Kendra had learned that that was a fact of military life and quickly identified with the crosstrainees. The other recruits weren't familiar to her or each other at all, and formed their own clique. Well, it meant she was fitting in, she hoped.

  A woman almost as tall as Kendra, with a heavier, lanky build as opposed to her angular one approached. She wore senior sergeant stripes and was as immaculately made up as all instructors. Without preamble, she read their names off her comm and made notes. "I'm Senior Sergeant Logistics Instructor Joly. Senior Joly is sufficient. We'll get introduced as we go. We will leave for the firing range in ten segs, so grab everything you need and let's go. I'll wait here," she told them.

  Kendra grabbed her weapon from her room; she'd been carrying only a Merrill pistol. She added helmet, field harness and a cloak. It was fair so far, but might rain later, and a cloak was handy to lie on for prone fire. She was back downstairs and outside in less than five segs to wait as the others trickled in.

  Once everyone returned, Joly lead them on a run toward the firing range. The pace was unhurried, just fast enough to get the circulation going. The day was hot, but a light, steady breeze kept them comfortable and wafted the scent of mountain blossoms to them. On the whole, Kendra enjoyed it, and running a few kilometers was no longer a strain.