Freehold

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "You heard of Citizen Humberto Hernandez? Friend of mine. Last year on Heritage Day we unveiled a new four-stage pyrotechnic shell that got everyone's attention. My sword comes from Mike Cardiff, if you've heard of him." She was angry now, although she understood their caution. She knew she was still in shock and was trying hard not to crack.

  "Easy, lady. Corporal," Dak corrected himself. "I believe you." He offered a hand and helped her out of the small tent. She grimaced in pain and he gave her more support. "My sister-in-law is a nurse. We'll take you to where she is. Kyle, help with the gear," he ordered one of the three others. The young man nodded and shouldered her heavy ruck quite casually. The woman collapsed the shelter and gathered up the few other items. By the time they were done, the traces of fire were gone, as were those signs left by the shelter.

  Not much was said on the way to the house. Kendra tried to remember the route, got lost immediately. She surmised they were near the north edge of the woods, as the trees thinned out slightly. Shortly, they entered marked fields and approached a small farmstead. She was glad to see it; her ankle was throbbing in pain. Her ribs, thigh and hand were tight aches that simply contrasted the pain in her ankle to an extreme.

  As they neared the house, Kendra saw signs of others, also armed. Dak knocked for entrance and Kendra was quickly handed over to his sister-in-law Vikki for care. She was married to Kyle, Sandra was married to Dak and the younger man Brian was their son. The other two children were Eric, who looked about ten Earth years and Riga, a cheerfully bright-eyed two-year-old.

  "You'll be fine. But that ankle is going to need lots of support. Keep it bandaged." Vikki Simonsen told her after a brief exam.

  "Will do. So, Dak, what's the tactical situation here? And have you heard any news?"

  "Only secondhand," he said. "They hit Maygida, Heilbrun and Merrill. Kinetic kills. Serious damage to the surrounding towns. They're landing a large number of troops. The cities are being occupied. I can't give you more than that at this time."

  Nodding, she said, "Okay. What kind of force do we have here? I need a complete list."

  "Well, we've . . . twenty-three adults in the surrounding farms. At least one rifle each. Several hundred rounds per. Some shotguns and pistols for defense at home. A few grenades—we picked them up cheap for blasting rocks. We have about a thousand kilos of commercial blasting agents, castable and plastic, no flake type. Usual night vision gear and we've got radios of course, some with scramble. Ten or so trucks, six cars and plenty of horses. Standard navigation gear for land management. There's plenty of food—we are a commercial producer, so no worries there."

  Kendra frowned. "That's a very light squad. I hope we can find some support weapons." The UN organized its squads with eight soldiers: a leader, a squad weapon gunner and three buddy pairs with rifle/grenade launchers. The Freehold used twenty-troop squads, in three teams of six with a squad leader and assistant. The third team carried one each of an antitank launcher, heavy machinegun and a sniper rifle and was organized as pairs, one spotting and supporting, the other shooting. They put out a lot more fire than a UN squad, assuming one had the weapons.

  "I'll check. What do you have planned?"

  "Any veterans here?" she asked, stalling. She had no plans yet.

  "No. My older brother is aboard the Heinlein," he said, "but no one here has experience otherwise."

  "Okay," she said. "Then until I get more intelligence, we are going to limit activities to training only. I'll try to organize a program." She realized this was going to be a very difficult task.

  "You stay off that ankle, Corporal," Vikki ordered her.

  "Plan on it," she agreed.

  Dak and his wife Sandra—the woman who'd been with him to pick her up, cleared a room for her. The house was a sprawling ranch and had plenty of space. It took Kendra the rest of the day to recover from the drop and half the next to convince them of the need to begin training. "If we are going to fight them, we have to be in shape. That means drilling." They finally relented, on condition she sit while they practiced under her guidance.

  Kendra had cribbed as much information as she could from her comm the night before. The section on training insurgents was long, detailed and made a lot of sense. Most of it could not be used under her current circumstances. The book called for everyone, instructors and students, to exercise together, to lead by example and boost morale. She couldn't do that, currently. The risk of observation required that they practice at night, especially when cloudy, which was good training, since guerrilla warfare worked better when the enemy was handicapped by as many factors as possible. The daytime tasks of running a farm made that very tiring, annoying and stressful. This was good for practice also, but bad for morale among those who had never put the training to use and seen its benefits. There was insufficient ammunition for extended practice. "I can hit a human target five times out of six while running through heavy smoke," she explained, "but I shoot . . . shot . . . several hundred rounds weekly. We don't have that option."

  Still, they took her advice earnestly and seriously, despite their complaints. Her ankle began to heal and she forced herself into hated exercise to restore the strength. She found her capacity waning without the amino boosters she was used to taking. She hadn't had a lifetime's exposure to higher gravity, a cultural emphasis on physical activity, nor the sheer upper body strength of the male physique. Every time she turned around, another handicap slapped her.

  She gave regular pep talks to increase flagging morale, including her own, as the comm reported greater and greater "progress" of the UN's "development of the system." Two weeks went by and summer heat made their civil and military tasks more obnoxious.

  One morning, Kyle burst into her room. She was sleeping naked above the covers and wasn't fazed, although her brain still took a moment to readapt to the local mores. "Corporal! Quickly! Urgent message!" he said, then turned and ran.

  She rolled out, grabbed her rifle in one hand and clothes in the other and tracked Kyle's progress. She found him and the others gathered around the vidsat receptor. He was opening a toolkit.

  Pulling on pants, she asked, "What goes?"

  "Look at the reception meter," Dak said.

  She looked. It was fluctuating wildly. "You can't fix it? Or is the satellite being captured?" she asked.

  "No, no," he said, shaking his head. "This caused us to kick onto fault mode, but it is receiving. The control signal is acting oddly though, and is far too active."

  "I noticed it," Kyle said to her quizzical stare. "I think it's a signal," he explained, as he attached two induction probes to the meter's base. His analyzer was plugged into a portable comm and after a few seconds translated words began to appear on its screen.

  "—ural locations only. Further information will be sent daily at zero divs. Say again, this is Station Wye Wye Zed, transmitting to rural locations only. Further . . ."

  She raced back to her room for her comm, sprinted back and queried it about Wye Wye Zed. She had to identify herself in intense detail to get the unit to admit it had heard of that designation. It was authenticated as real, but would not give more information than that. Black Operations, she mused. It had to be. Those cunning bastards. She smiled in admiration. Using the entertainment system control channels as binary data transmitters, while still sending the regular signals. That was just about undetectable.

  "Plug mine in," she demanded and Kyle swapped leads. Immediately, her comm was able to pull out a second, encoded transmission. Everyone crowded around, heads in a gaggle, and stared intently at the screen.

  Vikki shouted in triumph, as did Dak. Kyle shushed them and kept reading as they informed the others. Kendra grinned wider and wider. Those unbelievably resourceful bastards! They still had intel of some kind and were downloading the UN order of battle and movements. A table of frequencies, directions and an updated ephemeris for transmissions followed, with orders to bounce all signals off Syscom Sat 3. How her weak signal would reach
that far, even through a dish antenna, or how they'd prevent the UN from retrieving those signals was beyond her. These people clearly had ways and every code checked out, including the hidden codes that were within existing documents. That and the details on UN forces that could be verified by at least some of the recipients. She wished for a means to double-check.

  Was it too good to be true? She would be very cautious about logging in, but the risk was worth it to get intelligence for the fight. "Drive me out about twenty klicks and I'll report in tonight," she told Dak. "I'll need a dish antenna, too."

  "We'll pull one of ours and keep it aside," he promised.

  The response to her transmission was a load of troop positions and deployment schedules. However Intel or Black Ops or whoever was doing it, they clearly had good access to UN files. She decided the info was legit. If the enemy knew about her and wanted to show up and capture or kill her, they could have.

  She sent a followup message the next night, transmitting back through the receiver following directions from the control station and hastily built by Kyle. She listed her force as "militia, small" without further details and was rewarded with a suggestion of targets and a promise of support weapons. She ceased wondering how it would be accomplished. These people redefined deviousness.

  The targets were all forward units moving into the rural settlements to "liberate" them. She studied the list at length, ran calculations and picked one that was close by, small, and was suggested as having little combat experience. She wanted their first raid to be successful, and their second, and every raid after that. Then she chose an unorthodox target and method of attack.

  "What?" was Dak's reply. "Why in the Goddess' name?"

  "Trust me, Dak. I was in the UNPF, I know how they think. This will hurt them badly."

  He shrugged and deferred. All they needed now was support weaponry. Kendra sent out a signal.

  Said weaponry arrived the next day. A battered air truck flew in low and landed well clear of the house, letting its intentions be known. The body was ugly, but the engine sounded healthy. The pilot was a burly young farmer with full beard, dressed in timeless coveralls and natural-fabric shirt. "I'm Minstrel," he introduced himself. "We'll try to get you better stuff later, but this will have to do for now. Good hunting," he concluded, handing over the bundle, then was gone again. He never asked their names, and Kendra realized it was for security.

  Chapter 30

  "Molon labe!" ("Come and get them!")

  —King Leonidas of Sparta,

  when asked to lay down his force's arms.

  Jefferson's residents were in shock as thousands of troops in powered armor and vehicles swarmed the streets. Shock turned to outrage, then to outright disgust and fighting commenced, disorganized at first, but still effective. Well-aimed shots from heavy rifles, grenade launchers and some rockets attacked the lighter vehicles and armor-clad troops. Rocks rained down on the grounded soldiers, along with rifle and shotgun fire. City Safety, most of them veterans, threw up roadblocks of cars to channel the attackers and dug out their old service weapons to make a brief stand before scattering.

  As the downtown buildings were shattered and immolated, a handful of reserve and veteran combat engineers initiated "area denial." The first technique involved crashing a heavy ground freighter under a road bridge, blocking traffic. Several smaller buildings were demolished to seal streets. Then street signs and transponders were disabled or stolen, slowing down progress. It was still possible to use map and satellite, but that was not as fast as reading a street sign. Access covers to utilities were stolen and improvised mines scattered across the streets, with hundreds of decoys to slow the invaders down. If even one mine in fifty were real, every sighting must be treated as such. This slowed progress and left them open to attack. The other option was to drive through and risk losing vehicles and troops to that one of fifty. Sniper fire and lobbed grenades became constant and harassing.

  The timetable for occupation and pacification was pushed back, but was still inevitable. Most of the residents tried to evacuate to the suburbs at least, the brush preferably. Even urbanites in the Freehold were well versed in rough living; the untamed wilderness was never more than a hundred or so kilometers away.

  The UN already had the highways barricaded and forced most of the air traffic down. They wanted the civilians to remain, in the theory that it would reduce insurgency. Instead, it made the covert war that much more intense.

  * * *

  The town of Falling Rock, situated at the far western edge of South Coast District, was quite unremarkable. It had pretty but not spectacular scenery in the mountains above it. Its twenty-thousand-odd residents were typical industrial people, small farmers and commercial workers. Its youth either sought the city as they came of age, groused about their quiet town or worked in their families' businesses. The attack and invasion was seen on the news, as was the change from local sources to UN-approved news sources. They shrugged and prepared for the eventual visit from the bureaucrats.

  It was a clear, quiet morning when many of the residents began to gather in the town square for the announced arrival of the UN delegation. It wasn't actually a square, but merely a wide spot on the main thoroughfare for cars to park. The courtroom, records office and meeting hall were each a single room of the town building, and the crowd gathered outside in the street. They huddled into their long coats and cloaks against the chill, nodded and shook hands in greeting and waited.

  Shortly, three vertols circled and landed. The delegation debarked and walked around the crowd to the raised concrete platform that was common to all public offices planetwide. The three bureaucrats were immaculately dressed in expensive suits and were escorted by a platoon of soldiers in riot gear. They looked impressive, at least in their own minds. Stares were exchanged between the two groups. Had the UN representatives been better educated as to local culture, they would have known that a quiet crowd was an unhappy one.

  "Greetings," the delegation leader spoke. "I'm Jacob McCormick. I'm sure there's been a lot of bad rumors as to our arrival, so let me assure you of our intentions. No one is in trouble, no one is to be detained. We are here to create some basic city services to improve conditions, provide administration for the town and we'll even employ some of you to help run the administration."

  There was a loud mumble from one of the residents. "You have a question, sir?" McCormick prompted.

  "I said," the resident said clearly, "that I wasn't aware our conditions needed improving."

  "Well, it's not obvious without careful thought, but we really do have your best interests in mind. With our programs, no one will go without food, medical care or education. There'll be a minimum wage of twenty-two marks per div and an agent to assist those who can't find jobs."

  "Son, I've lived in this town forty-eight of your years," his antagonist replied. "The lowest wage paid for farm work works out to thirty marks per div, and that's paid in credits, which are far more stable than marks, and untaxed. Everyone is fed and clothed who's willing to work and everyone is literate at least. After that they can teach themselves. Now, if your agents and bureaucrats need work so badly as to come here," there was scattered laughter, "I can find some sweeping for them to do. We don't need your meddling."

  Some applause and jeers broke out. The UN soldiers stood impassively, but the officer commanding them looked around nervously.

  McCormick waited for it to die and replied, "Okay, that may be true. If so, think how much better things will be when you have support to go with what you've accomplished—"

  "That's circular logic. You presuppose you can do better," was the reply.

  "Well, our studies show—"

  He was cut off again. "Of course they do. Your studies show whatever you want them to show. But empirical data—"

  This time, McCormick interrupted. "Yes, well that whole empirical thing is what we are here about. The days of empirical rule are over."

  There was silence. It
was becoming obvious to the crowd that McCormick had no idea what he was talking about and was reading from a script.

  "Mr. McCormick, I think perhaps you should stay here to go to school with our kids, so that they can teach you basic math and logic."

  "Who are you, sir?" McCormick asked frostily.

  "Joe Worthington," was the unhesitant reply.

  "And what do you do for a living, Mr. Worthington?"

  "I'm a mechanic. Ground or air."

  "Well, Mr. Worthington, why don't you stick to mechanics and let me stick to my field? I've been a political scientist for twenty-two years." He gave a smug look.

  "I've seen your books, Mr. McCormick," Worthington replied.

  "Then you recognize my expertise," McCormick nodded.

  "I recognize that I've been jerking off longer than you've studied poli-sci. Probably got more satisfaction and accomplished more from it than you did from your pursuit and certainly hurt fewer people," Worthington replied amid gales of laughter.

  The military officer spoke now. "Just shut your yap and let the man speak or I'll shut it for you."

  "Free speech, Captain," Worthington replied, showing his knowledge of UN ranks.

  McCormick replied, "Only as long as you aren't inciting riot, sir."

  "Only when it's convenient to you, you mean." There were more shouts and voices.

  Two soldiers moved through the crowd, shoving people aside and grabbing Worthington. He made no move to resist. "I thought you said no one was to be detained," he said as they took his arms and walked him back to their lines.

  "Not unless they cause trouble," McCormick replied. He wore a look of satisfaction and distaste that was not at all pleasant to see.

  "I believe Adolph Hitler said that, too—"

  "That's enough!" McCormick shouted. "You will treat me with the respect I deserve or be arrested right now!"

  "I have been treating you with the respect you deserve," was the reply. One guard thumped him in the gut with his rifle butt and he curled up.