Freehold

by Michael Z. Williamson

  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.

  Chapter 37

  "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.

  The landing was easy if a bit dusty and the air at ground level was thick and humid. How different from the warm, dry coast, he thought. Those mountains were a significant factor in the local climate. He stopped musing and assisted as the vehicles were released, fumbling in the dim red light that was used to minimize detection. Kirk and four of the squad, along with the Aviation Security Patrol team from the vertol, were outside making a perimeter. That patrol had a dangerous job, asset protection during deployment, but would then go back aboard and be relatively safe, at least until they dropped the next squad on its L&C.

  Shortly they were aground and mounted the two vehicles. Boli pulled him gently by the shoulder and pointed to the lead truck. Walking Sky could barely see his gesture, despite long minutes to develop his night vision. It was the darkest he'd ever seen, and his pulse thrummed in his temples. It finally hit him in his guts that he was in a war zone, and people would try to kill him for leading them to civilization.

  "I'll ride with you, Jacques," Kirk said to Boli as he climbed in the passenger side in front of Walking Sky. Boli sat behind the driver, one Sergeant Second Class Anita Chong, and above them on the foam dispenser was Senior Private Ellen Rish. Four others took the following vehicle.

  "One other thing, Mr. Boli," Kirk advised. "If anyone loads or even handles a lethal weapon without authorization, I will have them court-martialed. Do you understand?"

  Boli's hands stopped their silent fumbling with the weapon next to him and grabbed a tangler gun instead. "Understood, FO." He cursed silently, but Walking Sky could see the look on his face. This was going to be a scary mission.

  As they rolled north, Walking Sky understood why everyone wanted so desperately to be armed. It was terrifyingly black, even more so than he'd thought. The amplifier visor helped a little, but there was nowhere on Earth that dark. Not a source of light anywhere ahead, no city glow, nothing. He also understood, he thought, Kirk's demand for obedience to the book. It would be too easy to shoot first.

  He had no idea that with the field officer along, the mission was actually going to go as planned. Ordinarily, the squad would have stopped a bare kilometer or so away and hidden for several hours, cooking tea and coffee and improving camaraderie while keeping a firm watch with lethal weapons. This time, they drove along the unpaved road.

  Walking Sky examined it as he could through his visor. It was hard-packed earth, fused somehow, whether physically or chemically, and surprisingly smooth. It wasn't that impressive visually, but was from a practical view. There was a lot of that here. He'd hoped to actually see, hear and taste some of the local society, understanding that civilians were policed but not oppressed. He'd had trouble finding anything out, but there was no local music on any net or frequency. There was no local-style food available in the base area. He saw no civilian activity near the gates of the bases as one would expect from vid and common sense, and little activity in town at all as they drove through. It wasn't as the vid had showed it and it was beginning to bother him.

  There was no sign of activity anywhere along their route. Several times animals spooked but there was no sign of human presence at all. He stared for footprints, trash, anything that might betray a hint of people. Nothing. The air was incredibly fresh and sweet, despite being relatively close to the city. The contrast was profound. He couldn't know that the city air had been almost as fresh until the invaders and defenders had started blasting anything perceived as a threat. His eyes kept scanning as his thoughts idled.

  Wait. There. "Mr. Kirk, I see something," he announced. Boli cursed next to him.

  "Driver, stop. What is it, Mr. Walking Sky?" Kir
k asked, turning.

  "The grass here has beaten areas through it. And the vegetation over there looks disturbed."

  "Yes, it does, doesn't it?" Kirk agreed, acting as if he saw it himself. Boli could tell he didn't. Damn kid! This was all they needed. Kirk cut into his thoughts. "You could learn something from this young man, Mr. Boli," he said. "He's attentive and follows the book."

  Boli muttered something unheard, but Kirk was speaking again. "Mr. Walking Sky, why don't you show us your training further? You can lead Mr. Boli over to investigate. Ms Rish, cover them."

  "You got it, FO," she rasped quietly.

  Boli came around the back of the vehicle and pushed up alongside Walking Sky. "Nice job, asshole," he muttered. "Well, you heard the man. Go trip landmines." But the kid did do a good job; he squatted and began crawling carefully. Boli couldn't know that his people still stalked deer for spiritual practice and that the skills carried over.

  The grass was indeed disturbed, and footprints of at least two types and sizes were visible. Boli was impressed with the kid's tracking. He might be all right after all, if they lived through another twelve hours of Kirk's by-the-book idiocy. He could hear the local insects abuzz and the occasional sound of bullfrogs and the amphibian-analog the locals called a lawyer. He liked that. Calling a noisy, inflated, annoying but useless animal a lawyer. He could get along with these people, he thought, if they weren't all having to kill one another.

  They approached the woodline and the outline of a construction became clear. "It might be a hunting lodge," he whispered to the kid.

  "Hunting?" He sounded confused.

  "Yeah. The locals still kill animals to eat, and it's a sport," he explained.

  "Wow." The kid didn't sound disgusted, but awed. Yeah, he might be all right once he adapted. Hopefully he'd live that long.

  "But let's assume it's a trap. They may be in there or they may be a bit behind it, waiting for us. We aren't going in. It might be mined. We can go around slowly, kill a few minutes and tell His Highness that we looked inside."

  "Do they actually mine some things?" the kid asked.

  "No, son, they mine everything," he corrected. He keyed his mike and said, "Scan. Any IR or other indications?"

  "None, Sarge," Chong replied. Her form of address was a compromise between real military discipline and the familiar terms the FOs encouraged for "morale."

  Just then, there was a slight snapping sound. The forest chorus went silent. Boli said, "Shit!" and dropped flat.

  His squad was good. Behind him, he heard incoming rifle fire punctuated by a pistol crak! He didn't know who had fired that, but it was definitely Kirk who was the target. Shame about that, but the man couldn't accept the way real war was and no one was willing to die in order for him to learn. Boli grabbed the kid's ankle and began shimmying backward. Then all hell broke loose.

  Suppressed and full-volume weapons fire confirmed rebels, but they were on the far side of the road. The two gunners tried to swing around and their colleagues below scrambled for real weapons to reply with. In seconds, they were shooting back with a decent amount of firepower. Boli clicked his transmitter through to the fire support channel and called, "Rover Three, suppression, infantry in woods on my cursor, friendlies to immediate north on road." Air support and artillery would do no good this late in the game, but he had to go through the formality to prove he'd done all he could. Besides, they might hit one anyway.

  Air Control replied, "Roger Rover Three. Standby . . . on the way."

  Artillery followed with, "Roger Rover Three . . . shot."

  Rounds continued to pop outward and Walking Sky thought he heard incoming fire, but couldn't be sure. He kept slithering.

  It took them little time to make the short crawl to the vehicles and as they approached, the confirmation tone of aircraft sounded in their ears. The craft were high overhead, but their precision munitions rained down on the last known and estimated positions of the rebels. The two used that diversion to sprint back toward the vehicles and dove into the cold, sandy grit at the road's edge for cover.

  Nothing more happened for long seconds and Walking Sky held his breath. Fire continued sporadically, the squad now out of the vehicles and in the dirt, moving to avoid being easy targets, avoiding clumping together, calling out directions to each other and insults and epithets to the enemy. It didn't seem to Walking Sky that there was much, if any, fire still coming in. While he mused, Artillery spoke in his ears, "Impact."

  He hunkered lower, mouth open to equalize pressure as he'd been taught. There came the loud popping sound of bursting charges, followed by the popcorn crackling of antipersonnel munitions. White flashes in the trees ruined his night vision, as he'd forgotten to turn away or set his visor to polarize. Through the dazzle, he could see twigs and leaves showering off the branches.

  "Cease fire!" Boli shouted into his comm. The shooting tapered off.

  The rebels were gone. Just one more harassing attack to add casualties to the bill. Bastards. Green, driving the second vehicle, had been shot through the side of the head. The mess inside the cab was impressive. Nura, in back, was wounded through the shoulder, but the others and the medicomm were dealing with it. He'd be fine until they got back. There were a handful of creases on the vehicle surface from near misses.

  The lead vehicle had two casualties. Kirk was dead, of course. Chong was tucking a rebel-built pistol back under her body armor. She and Boli exchanged glances and looked measuredly at Walking Sky. He said nothing. They nodded and continued.

  Poor Senior Private Rish had never known what hit her. One high-power round had taken her right through the turret armor and breastbone, barely above the foamgun's receiver. The second one had gone through her throat, in the line between helmet and body armor. Her head was resting on but no longer connected to her shoulders. Walking Sky helped retrieve her body, then walked between the vehicles and threw up. He was beginning to understand the way things worked around here. He decided he didn't like it at all. He nervously kept his finger on the trigger of the rifle Boli had handed him as two of the squad examined the ambush site.

  "We're probably safe here," Boli declared. "That rebel fireteam is likely ten clicks away by now. And visibility isn't bad. We'll camp here until evac arrives. Keep your eyes and ears sharp," he directed.

  "Yes, Sergeant," was the reply all around. Walking Sky echoed it himself, just barely later than the others. He'd loaded his rifle and planned to keep it that way. Rish would've had a chance if she hadn't been trying to change from foam to projectiles when the attack came.

  "Call the meat wagon," Boli ordered.

  "On the way, Sarge," Chong confirmed.

  "Want to guess how many that was?" Boli asked Walking Sky.

  It took him several seconds to realize it was addressed to him, calm his nerves and reply, "Oh, a squad or two." Similar power seemed reasonable.

  "Now pay attention, son," Boli said and ran the vid back. It started streaming, and the attack happened all over again in slow motion. Gauges spiked on screen, indicating movement heard by the detectors, and heavy mass indicating weapons appearing through the trees.

  The rebels seemed simply to flow out of the trunks and rise from the ground. They swung around with no wasted motion at all, fired a volley, then two more before disappearing back into the landscape. Seconds later, the streaks of the squad's outgoing fire lit and tore at the trees. "Four," Walking Sky corrected himself, incredulously. Sarge was right; they weren't human. Less than twenty shots, three casualties with four rounds and the rest near misses. No stray fire at all.

  "We average several thousand rounds a casualty," Boli said. "They average about fifty, because they hold their fire until they are ready, then fire and leave. Ours shoot anything that moves or spooks them and call in support fire at the slightest excuse. Which is as it should be. We have more ammo than them. Any questions?"

  "No questions, Sarge." The kid replied. He'd shoot anything that moved and piss on the nonle
thal force crap. He wanted to get home alive. "Well, one," he added.

  "Go," Boli prompted.

  "Why do we patrol like this when we have vertols and aircraft? Can't we just bomb them from a distance?"

  "Bomb who?" Boli asked.

  "The rebels," Walking Sky replied again.

  "What does a rebel look like?" he asked rhetorically. "They have no fixed bases, no area we can pin them down to. They are farmers, shopkeepers, business people out of work. They don't want us here and they are willing to die to stop us, and we can't tell them from the locals who support them or from the neutral ones or from the few who support us. We patrol on the ground so we can draw fire and hopefully get a few here and there. And so they can see that we aren't going away. We can always send more."

  The evac vertol arrived a few moments later and lifted off again with Nura and the bodies. The eerie false quiet returned to the woods. Airborne help or artillery were only a few seconds away even out here, but that few seconds was all it took to die.

  "We need more personnel," Walking Sky assessed.

  "That we do, son," Boli agreed. "But we don't have it, they won't let us have it and they deny it's necessary for 'a few rebels.' Assholes."

  It had been an eventful first day on-planet.

  Boli made him watch as he filed his report and accounted for the casualties. As reported, they had received fire while investigating the anomaly, tried nonlethal weapons unsuccessfully and had to resort to lethal force in self-defense. FO Kirk had died in the firefight, so Senior Master Sergeant Boli had made the decision to use deadly weapons. They counted rounds fired, turned in the remainder and their weapons and returned to the bunker/barracks.

  Walking Sky was unable to sleep. He'd drift halfway out, see Rish's shredded body and Nura's pulped head and jolt awake.