Freehold

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "Marta! Hi!" she said, surprised. I thought you were dead, went unsaid.

  Marta was a wreck. Her normally perfect features were bandaged, sutured and glued. Underneath she looked disheveled, tired and lined. "I need to see you," she said. Her speech was slurred around orthodontal splints. With her damaged hearing Kendra barely understood her.

  "Sure," she agreed, masking her concern. "Where are you?"

  "My house. Can you come over now?"

  Kendra looked her over again, decided it was urgent and said, "On my way."

  "On my way" turned into a half div. The traffic was terrible. Pedestrians, repair vehicles, regular traffic, military traffic and others all battled for space. Kendra drove as aggressively as she dared in a borrowed military vehicle and was shaking when she pulled into the parking ramp, although not on the scale of whatever was bothering Marta. She jogged up the steps and held her hand over the sensor. Nothing happened, so she knocked.

  "Who's there?"

  "Kendra."

  Marta opened the door, standing well back. She held a military pistol in one hand. Kendra walked around her and watched as she closed and locked the door. Seconds later, she had to brace to hold herself upright as Marta grabbed her in a bone-breaking hug. Sobs began to emanate from the heavy fall of black hair. They held the pose for segs.

  Marta finally sat, wincing in pain. Her shoulder bore surgery marks and her posture indicated her ribs did too. There were scars around her left knee and both wrists and ankles. She said, "I'm glad you're alive. Any word from Rob?"

  "Not yet," Kendra shook her head and looked around. "Cleared this place, didn't they?" Many of the furnishings were damaged or missing.

  "They took the Reck," Marta agreed, "and what they did to the Lubov . . ." She indicated with her head. Kendra looked at the classic oil, the nude figure grafittied with crude sexual additions. "I almost wish they'd burned it. I'll have to," Marta added bitterly.

  Kendra waited, sensing the young woman was nerving herself to broach a painful subject. The pistol on the table and her hesitance at the door clearly indicated a problem, considering Marta's usual self-confidence. She decided to be patient. When Marta blurted, "Let me get us some wine," she nodded assent as her friend rushed to the kitchen. There were more sobs, and it was many seconds before she returned with glasses and an opened bottle. One glass had clearly been used already. The air carried a tang of liquor, not wine. Kendra bit back an inquiry and stayed quiet.

  "I assassinated General Huff," Marta said to her glass. "I was in place as his lover."

  Kendra was mildly shocked. She said nothing, not wanting to interrupt.

  "He wasn't evil. He genuinely wanted to help us, in his own way, and did stop a lot of atrocities. I liked him. Then I had to distract him with sex and kill him. Do you know how hard it is to make yourself passionately hate someone for a moment, long enough to get your hands on his throat, then stop all emotion and kill him coldly?"

  "No," Kendra softly said. She felt a sudden surge of emotion and her mind momentarily flooded with images from her own private hell.

  "That was just as everything hit for Two Bricks," Marta continued. "I didn't know the name of the mission, of course.

  "I killed him and tried to leave. I must have missed the tick by seconds. Every hatch slammed shut and locked when the alarm sounded. I didn't have any tools, so I had to wait to be released. It was . . . them," she said, murderous vehemence emphasizing the last word.

  "The UN?" Kendra asked.

  Face screwed tight, hugging herself tightly, Marta shook, tensed and shattered the wineglass in her hand. She jerked upright, staring confusedly for a moment. Then her training took over and she wrapped a towel around her lacerated hand. "That needs treatment," Kendra suggested.

  "It can wait!" Marta hissed through her teeth. She said nothing for several moments, then said, "There were seven of them. I counted. I'm not sure how many times I counted, but there were definitely seven of them. I was there for thirteen days, wondering when they'd stop hating me enough to kill me."

  "My God!" Kendra muttered. She reached for words, but found nothing.

  Whirling close and gripping Kendra's collar, Marta shrieked, "How can you call that a 'minor' crime?? What kind of sick fucks are you??" as blood trickled and seeped into the fabric of Kendra's uniform.

  Stunned motionless, afraid for her life, Kendra said, "Marta, you're scaring me." The grip lessened slightly. Breathing deeply, she continued, "I'm not Terran anymore. And I didn't do it." She reached up to detach Marta's hands, one slick with running blood.

  "There's a difference between simple rape and torture," she finished.

  "Not to me," Marta said, eyes still blank and lifeless. "I would kill every one of them slowly. But they have to be tried by a war crimes tribunal back on Earth. I'm told they'll be severely punished, perhaps even jailed." She burst into gales of laughter, then tucked her head in her hands and sobbed.

  "Let's see to your hand," Kendra suggested again and pulled it gingerly down to the table.

  "Surgical kit, closet by the door," Marta said, muffled through her fingers. Kendra ran to get it.

  It was a field kit, with no regeneration gear. Simple sutures and glue would have to do. It was not the worst laceration she'd seen, but it was one of the hardest she'd dealt with. The tension level in the room was palpable, and not knowing how her friend would react was unnerving. The conversation didn't help.

  "That happened to you twice?" Marta asked.

  "Uh . . . yes," she agreed, deciding not to mention recent happenings.

  "And it was no big deal to you?"

  "Not afterwards," she admitted truthfully.

  "You bitch!" Marta snarled.

  Kendra took it silently. Anger was probably healthy. There was still a huge gulf between their worldviews. She treated and dressed the injury, then sat back. "I'll do anything I can, love," she said, "but you need to see a professional therapist."

  Marta grimaced in anger. "There are very few . . . rape counselors in this system. It wasn't a problem we had much of until Earth decided to save us," she rasped bitterly. Unconsciously, her legs crossed tightly and she hugged herself again. Her head bowed and she cried loudly.

  "Stay here," Kendra said. "I'm going to make a call." She patted Marta's hand, tensed as it jerked away, and withdrew quietly to the spare bedroom. It, too, had been vandalized and looted.

  Three spoken call attempts failed to register. It might have been system problems. It might have been the anger in her voice. She punched in the number, stabbing with a finger. The call was answered immediately.

  "Naumann, oh hi, Kendra," he answered.

  "I'm at Marta's," she said without preamble. "What the hell is being done about this?"

  He replied immediately. "Doctor Wuu is en route from Green Door on a Class J courier. She should be there in three days. She's the best there is, and we'll figure out payment later. I wanted Hern . . . Marta in the clinic here, but she refused. I am pulling every string I can to get the assailants tried for war crimes here or in Caledonia, rather than Earth. She's on paid medical status until I decide otherwise. And I've already got the adminwork in progress for a VSM." The look on his face indicated that if he didn't get what he wanted that someone would be dead where he stood. It was chilling enough that Kendra was stunned into silence for several seconds.

  "Wh-what can I do here to help?" she finally replied.

  "Anything you think will help. You're on compassionate leave too," he added.

  It was impossible to feel ill toward the man.

  "You may talk to Doctor Wu if you wish, also," he said supplementally.

  "Why would I—?" she began. He interrupted her with a word:

  "Delph'."

  He knows. She paused for a moment. "I'll be fine, sir, but thank you."

  "If you are fine, where's my incident report? I plan to crucify every single one of them." His voice was very controlled, with steel underneath.

  She ga
rbled incoherently for only a second, then said firmly, "You'll have it tomorrow, sir."

  "Fine. Then see the doctor. It will also help you deal with Marta."

  She agreed and disconnected.

  Back in the common room, Marta was sobbing still and had gone through a good part of the bottle. Approaching gently, but loud enough to be heard, Kendra softly said, "Hey."

  Marta looked up and her face was again a shock. More surgery would be necessary before it reverted to physically pretty. As for that inner smoldering beauty, it might never resurface. "What?"

  "Naumann says there's an expert on the way. In the meantime, you'll have to make do with me. And I'm not leaving until she gets here," she insisted firmly. "I'll do what I can to help."

  "Thanks, love." Marta nodded aside. "Not that there's much you can do, unless you can arrange a quiet cabin where I can torture people to death."

  That statement triggered an old memory. Trying to direct the conversation slightly, Kendra said, "Then you can help me. I was raped last month in Delph' as we retook it."

  She expected Marta to be compassionate or shocked. Instead, a look of rage welled up again. "Makes you feel right at home, doesn't it? Not a problem at a-all."

  "It's . . . different," Kendra insisted. The dirty, sticky feeling. The feeling of being an object and not a person. The pain and embarrassment. The disgust. The nightmares. "We had classes on coping in school. And there are plenty of counselors. And it does hurt for a while."

  Without warning, Marta slapped her burningly across the face. Then her weight landed. Kendra was reminded again that Marta was not small and was lethally strong. Fortunately for Kendra, she was not in her best condition and was incoherent. Despite that, she was managing to cause serious pain and some injury.

  "Senior Sergeant Hernandez!" she snapped. Marta stiffened, then collapsed across her, moaning. "If you want me to stay and help, you will control yourself. I'm not willing to be a punching bag without some kind of rules and padding. And I won't accept excuses."

  Marta leaned back, then sat heavily on the worn rug. Her eyes were puffy and residual sobs broke through periodically. She nodded, then her lips moved silently. "I'm sorry," they mouthed.

  Climbing to her feet, Kendra began giving orders. "First, put the bottle away. It won't help. Then case, holster or unload the weapon until you are sober. Is the bathroom intact?"

  Marta nodded assent as she gathered up the shards of glass and the bottle.

  "Good," Kendra continued. "Then put that away and come upstairs." She turned and hurried ahead.

  She undressed and started the water in the shower. Marta was only moments behind. Her pistol was holstered.

  Kendra kept the firmness in her voice, still nervous about further outbursts. "Lock the door and code it. Put your pistol there, where you can reach it. Then get undressed and get in." She stepped in and waited.

  Marta joined her shortly. Her posture was no longer proud and defiant. She was still slumped and meek. "I showered earlier," she said, "and the swelling is down enough that the soreness is fading."

  "This is psychological cleansing," Kendra explained. "Wash off every contact you remember. If you need to turn away for privacy, that's fine. We'll stay here until you feel clean."

  "There isn't that much water," Marta said with a weak grin.

  Both women scrubbed thoroughly, periodically turning away in embarrassment at some particular indignity. It was nearly a div later when they got out to dry off. It took most of a bottle of moisturizer to unwrinkle their skin.

  The floor was flooded, as Marta had insisted on leaving the door open for visibility and the air curtain was broken. Hopefully enough of the house's systems remained to take care of it, but Kendra decided it was a minor irritation.

  Once dry, she ushered Marta into the bedroom and told her to sit. Marta complied, knees folded rather than crosslegged. "Now listen to me," she said. "You are a soldier. You were captured. You were tortured and abused as a prisoner. What you have are injuries and wounds. The physical nature of them is not important!" She waited while Marta locked eyes with her, then glanced away again.

  "They were trying to break you," she said. "You are still here, alive and have most of your home. You completed your mission. It was an almost impossible mission and required an exceptional soldier to accomplish it. Now, this is important," she said, pausing. Marta looked back up.

  "You won."

  She waited for that to sink in for long moments. "You won and we won. You survived. Even after being abused as a prisoner, you survived and won again. And nothing can ever take that victory away from you." Her own eyes were damp and Marta was crying openly. But her posture was straighter.

  "And they lost," she finished. "Now, shall we toast that?

  Kendra woke to feel Marta moving in her sleep, uttering nonsense words and flailing at remembered demons. "Marta," she whispered. "Wake up, dear." She kept a comforting hand on her lover, but was careful not to restrain her. There was a sudden intake of breath and Marta was awake.

  Kendra eased carefully into a hug, then tightened it as Mar clung to her tightly. She stayed rock still, suddenly phobic from her own memories. "Lights minimum," she whispered. The glow helped drive the fear a slight distance away.

  Being unable to sleep further, Kendra rose and put on a robe. She retrieved her own sidearm and carried it with her. Marta's fear was suddenly contagious and the house no longer felt friendly. It would need a thorough cleansing. The thought of a Druidic ritual as a philosophical necessity made her uncomfortable again. Dammit, I'm a Christian! she thought to herself.

  She sought a comm and was relieved to find one intact upstairs. It had been shoved into Marta's private shrine, which had apparently served as a local residence for a UN officer. All her religious items were destroyed or gone. Mindless ignorance seemed worse than deliberate hatred. She sat and composed her thoughts, wanting to finish this quickly. She took a breath and began:

  "Recording. Pacelli, Kendra A., Senior Sergeant, Logistics, Third Mobile Assault Regiment, service number three one seven eight eight two three zero two two, date twenty-seven May, two hundred and eleven.

  "To: Naumann, Alan D., Colonel Commanding, Provisional Ground Forces, Freehold Military Forces.

  "Subject: battlefield incident report, pursuant to claims of violation of Geneva, Hague and Triton Conventions relevant to treatment of prisoners of war by the UN Peace Force. Reference date thirty-six April, two hundred and eleven." She paused for breath. The stilted, formal language she used helped distance things slightly, but it still wasn't pleasant.

  "During Operation Counter, while commanding a squad of reservists and local militia in the town of Delphtonopolisburg, River District, my squad was disrupted by an unknown number of UN infantry at point S on the map." She highlighted the location and referenced it.

  "Upon being separated, I fought a close-order engagement with three enemy personnel at point E. I count three casualties by small arms fire and hand-to-hand combat. Immediately afterwards, I entered the building where the attacking force had deployed from, indicated by point 'R.'

  "Inside this building, my preliminary scan indicated no personnel, large animals or tactical threats. That assessment was in error. Available evidence indicates my tac was malfunctioning. Its visual system degraded at that time. A post-mission report was filed with Regimental Maintenance.

  "Tactically blind, I proceeded to remove my helmet and tac. I was attacked during this procedure by three UN personnel, all male. I cannot identify them, but post-battle analysis may be able to. Their intent seems to have been to capture a live prisoner, as they subdued me by brute force, stunning me and forcing me to the ground.

  "Upon awakening, one named 'Cody' was in the process of preparing to rape me. He had lowered my pants and the others, names unknown, were holding me down. I attempted to fight, but was too weak and restrained to do so. Upon undressing me, a second one made comments that indicated they had raped other female prisoners;
specifically, he noted that most Freehold women remove their pubic hair.

  "My legs were forced apart, he dropped his pants and proceeded to forcibly penetrate me. Neither of the other two made any physical or verbal attempt to stop him. They argued over who would rape me next, before they left to attempt to rejoin their own forces. I stopped struggling at this point and prepared to fight once released, since their weapons were put aside. I felt certain my strength and training would have been sufficient for an effective engagement.

  "At that time, five divs, sixty-seven segs, thirteen seconds by comm, militia Corporal Dak Simonsen entered the building and shot all three attackers. I redressed and we regrouped with the surviving members of my squad.

  "Sworn under my own oath—break—system, time and date this damn thing." Her voice cracked as she spoke.

  "Command not understood."

  "System, time, date, transmit," she repeated, turning away. Rape was handled on Earth with privacy. Here it had to be splashed across the system. She understood the rationale, but that didn't make it pleasant to describe intensely personal indignities.

  "Accepted. Done," the machine acknowledged.

  "Fine. Fuck you."

  "Command not understood."

  * * *

  Not everything had been looted from the house. When built, it had a small vault hidden in the foundation. Normally open, a friend of Marta's had put their swords, jewelry, civilian weapons and other valuables inside and locked it, then placed the panel back. It had not been found. It eased the anger that the two women felt, reinforced the loss of the unprotected property and made Rob's loss even worse.

  Naumann called later that morning with some helpful news. "They found Rob McKay," he said without introduction.

  Kendra said nothing for seconds. Finally, daring to hope, she asked, "Alive?"

  "Yes, but in bad shape. You are as close as next of kin as there is. Get over and see what you can do."

  "Yes, Colonel," she agreed. It wasn't an order she would need repeated.

  She identified herself at the clinic and the hushed tones in response scared her. Was he in pieces in a regen tank? Missing limbs or organs? Gruesomely disfigured?