Freehold

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Marta opened her door and came down to see the tableau. "Hey, what's up? I just heard that someone sliced Calan to pieces. I guess you weren't the only one with a grudge, huh?" she said to Kendra.

  Kendra sat still for a few measured seconds, then replied, "I guess so." She looked at Rob as Marta eased by him. Then she looked away.

  Marta swung past Rob as she headed for the kitchen. Unseen by Kendra, she winked at him, a grin flashing for just a second and then gone. She hummed softly in the kitchen. "So, who wants eggs?"

  Chapter 53

  "The exquisite gut-wrenching beautiful painful joyful sorrow I feel when I look at the ways of my people makes me want to soar like an eagle, or kill myself, depending upon what day it is."

  —Michael James

  "Senior Sergeant Pacelli reports," Kendra said, with a sharp salute and a brisk snap to attention.

  "Kendra," Naumann acknowledged with a nod. "Relax. Why so formal?"

  "Well, Comman—uh, Colonel," she stammered slightly, "this is important, so I want to make sure it's done right."

  "Very well. What can I help you with?"

  "I want to resign," she said quickly, gulping.

  "I see," he replied. "Well, ordinarily, I'd say 'no' out of hand; we are desperately short of good personnel and you've been one of the best. But what are the circumstances?"

  "I've killed more than my share of people. Been wounded and hurt. Hated by people on both sides. I don't even know which side is mine anymore. My family is dead," she started crying, "partly because of my actions. I've done my duty and plenty more. I've taken more than anyone has a right to expect."

  Nodding, Naumann said, "I can't begin to empathize. But can I ask the favor of you taking leave for a month or two and then reconsidering? I really need good people and I hate to lose you. At least stay until we demob at the end of the year."

  Shaking her head and blinking tears, she snapped, "No. It won't change my mind. There's another thing. I've been offered a chance to return home."

  "You can't," Naumann said. At her confused look, he explained, "Oh, you can return to Earth. But do you think anyone will accept you after you've served here?"

  "I wasn't planning on telling anyone."

  "I see," he said. His face was a mask. "So one of the bravest, most honorable careers in the Forces is going to be buried like a mistake . . ."

  "Stop it!" she snapped, loudly. "I've earned my way home. You can keep me here . . . but I want to go. Please."

  "Sorry," he said. "I have my own feelings and shouldn't have dug at you." He shuffled and keyed as he spoke. "I'll grant a release, on conflict of interest. Effective today. And an account for expenses until we get the snarl of the finance system cleared up." He scrawled a signature and handed the documents over.

  "Thank you, sir," she saluted again. She accepted the package and his return of her salute, then turned and left quickly.

  * * *

  Sitting once again in Liberty Park, which was gradually being restored to something that might eventually approach its previous splendor, she took stock. First, she'd need lodging. Then, she'd need to say her goodbyes. The last scheduled UN returnee flight was in six days, after that, the traffic schedule got hazy. It would be best to lift then. She'd need to pack her still meager possessions and arrange to transfer her funds. Her sword she'd leave to Marta, her other hardware to Rob. Her uniforms she'd burned. Not out of disgust, merely as a symbolic breaking of ties. Realizing the Druidic symbology of such an act, she clenched her eyes and sat motionless for a few minutes. Calm again, she shuffled through her documents.

  An honorable discharge. A chit for Cr5000. A Citation for Courage, a service medal, six battle stars and three Purple Hearts. She mused as she walked. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the old Earth oaks, now graffiti-scarred and with broken limbs. Somehow, that bothered her more than the shattered buildings across the street.

  "Wine cooler, Kendra?"

  She looked up, startled, and realized her feet had taken her to Stanley's. Some of it was boarded up and the sidewalk was a mess, but he was doing his best to get his business restored. "Thanks, please," she agreed.

  "And is there a promotion in the works for you? It seems everyone else is getting bumped a number or two." He slid a drink to her.

  "Not likely, Rupe," she grinned sadly. "I just resigned. I can't take any more of not knowing whose side I'm on."

  "Oh!" he said, shocked. "I always figured you were on the side you morally supported. Even if that side was only you."

  "I'm sorry, Rupe, I don't want to be rude, but I don't want to talk about it and I don't want people feeling sorry for me. This is what I need."

  "No offense," he agreed. He drifted into the background, but maintained his usual courteous customer contact.

  * * *

  This is it, Kendra thought, as the alarm woke her. Lift in two divs. Or should it be five and a half hours?

  Marta had been polite, understanding and turned cool. She clearly felt Kendra was running out on them, but did not voice her feelings. Rob had finally given in and argued, pleaded, been logical, all to no avail. She still didn't fit in here. She loved the planet and wanted to, but it was not her society.

  As she gathered her few personal belongings and packed them, her phone rang. She reached for it, then decided to let it record. She'd be dumping it at the port, anyway. Earth used different frequencies and a different system. Then she reached for it anyway.

  "Pacelli."

  It was a recorded message from Naumann. She let it play.

  "Wanted to catch you before you left," he said. "This is from two years ago at the commanding officers' dining-in. The campaigns have changed and the pace certainly quickened in two and a half millennia, or even the six centuries since this was written, but I think it is still appropriate. Keep it in mind when you get home."

  The scene cut to a podium. Naumann stood there, dressed in mess dress, only wearing commander's rank. He stepped in front of the podium, stood firmly to attention and began to recite:

  Legate, I had the news last night—my cohort ordered home

  By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.

  I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:

  Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!

  I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall.

  I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.

  Last night, I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near

  That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.

  Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done;

  Here where my dearest dead are laid—my wife—my wife and son;

  Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,

  Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?

  For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields suffice.

  What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful northern skies,

  Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze—

  The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days?

  You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine and olive lean

  Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean

  To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on,

  Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!

  You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines

  Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.

  You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but—will you e'er forget

  The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?

  Let me work here for Britain's sake—at any task you will—

  A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.

  Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,

  Mid seas of heather
derelict, where our old messmates sleep.

  Legate, I come to you in tears—My cohort ordered home!

  I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?

  Here is my heart, my soul, my mind—the only life I know.

  I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!"

  * * *

  The image faded. Kendra looked off into the brilliant sky. "You bastard," she muttered. She didn't recognize Kipling's "The Roman Centurion's Song," but it reached inside her. Blinking at tears, she saw a sudden kaleidoscope of images. The gate closing behind her at Langley. Jelsie's weapon pointed at her. Rob and Marta The mountains, ocean, riverside and hectic cities they'd shown her. The life-changing challenge of recruit training. The assorted residents and militia who'd looked suspicious upon hearing her accent. Rupe, Ms Gatons and Dak and the others who'd accepted her as she was.

  So where is my home? she asked herself. She fretted for several segs, then shook her head. Resuming her pace, she headed to the tran station.

  Arriving at Jefferson Starport, she walked calmly up to the InterTrans desk. "I need to postpone my departure," she said, sliding her credchit across.

  "Certainly Ms Pacelli. There is a cancellation fee at this late time, I'm afraid."

  "I understand."

  * * *

  She'd left her bag in storage at the 'port. She'd walked here, to Laguna Park. Five divs, she'd sat in silence. Io had set, the sunset brilliant behind her. She stared at the darkening violet of the east as the kittiwakes circled and dove for fish. The breeze increased slightly and gusted, and she played the message again. Clouds tumbled and swirled and she stared at Gealach as it rose, a lopsided, angry orange ovoid, taking shape and brightening, riding above the clouds in three-quarter phase, bluish and bright, though smaller than the Moon seen from Earth. The waves crashed on the rocks to the north and hissed on the sand below. The beach was still unblemished by "improvements," and she marveled at the vital smell of salt air.

  She was still sitting there as the flashes of false dawn gave way to gray-blue and eventually dull orange as dew dripped coldly off her clothes. Io finally appeared, a sliver of gold fire that widened and grew. She stood but stared still, mesmerized by the slow, majestic sunrise, unlike anything visible on Earth. She played Naumann's message once more and mumbled along with it.

  Finally, she made her way back to the base. Only seven kilometers. She smiled at the concept of anyone on Earth walking more than a hundred meters or so. Her new decision was right, she was sure. Life would be a bit less complex; it would certainly not be easier.

  At the gate to Heilbrun, she had to get clearance to enter. Then she had her bag searched. She tolerated it knowingly, wondering how many Freehold civilians would see it as an invasive act. She walked to headquarters, entered and found Naumann in his outer office, dealing with subordinates.

  "Get that done, and quickly, please," he said to one, dismissing him. "Well, Ms Pacelli, how can I help you?" he asked, formal and correct as usual. He ushered her into his office.

  "I thought your message was a slimy trick, Naumann," she said.

  "You're here. It had an effect of some kind apparently," he observed.

  "So what message where you trying to send?"

  "Just that we all wish to return to the past, but it never happens. I wanted you to think about where your accomplishments have been, there or here, and then make an informed decision."

  "I'm staying," she said.

  He nodded. "I think that's the right choice. But you had to decide," he agreed.

  "But you aren't above some prodding in the direction you think best."

  "No."

  She expected more, but he left it there. "I'd like to resume my duties," she said.

  "Can't. Sorry," he said with a shake of his head. "I filled your slot immediately. I can't have holes in a vital area like logistics."

  "Then I'll take whatever you have open. 'A marsh to drain, A road to make,' I believe the quote is? I never was a civilian, I see that now. I'll go wherever you need me," she said, feeling a ripple of adrenaline again. Would he actually refuse? She had made a big issue of leaving when he clearly needed her.

  "I can use you. You can't be a senior," he said with a slight grin.

  "That's fine," she agreed, relieved. She belonged again and it didn't matter where she was from.

  He raised his hand and she hers. He recited the oath and she responded back. He coded in a document authorizing issue of basic gear. She explained about her uniforms and he grinned. "No prob. It comes out of your pay. Will Senior Hernandez be willing to part with your old sword?"

  "That I don't know. I hope so. I couldn't have taken it to Earth, with the laws there."

  "See, that would have stopped me right there," he commented. "Well, you'll be active until the end of the year, then you revert to reserve, unless something picks up. Let's both hope it doesn't."

  "Agreed," she said. She took the proffered sheet, "Logistics. Thanks. I can work back up to . . ." her voice trailed off. "Warrant leader?" she asked in a small voice.

  "The senior sergeant slot is filled by Beker. Sirkot was promoted and sent to Legion Logistics. They need all the experience they can get. I wasn't sure who would take his slot, now I am. You'll need to go to Advanced Leadership School, of course."

  "Uh, yes," she agreed. Then, trying to avoid crying until she left, she said a very sincere "Thank you."

  Chapter 54

  "Go Stranger,

  and to the Spartans tell,

  that here obedient

  to their laws

  we fell."

  —Simonides

  It was rather enjoyable to be in formation, Kendra thought. Usually she'd hated them, but the Freehold forces had no field officers to make boring speeches and the line officers seemed to understand the need to be brief. Of course, they were all former enlisted, weren't they? The geometric precision was pleasing to the eye, and now knowing the history of military formations, it was an interesting ritual. This one was a formal one for the news and only a handful of medals were being presented. Literally thousands of awards were being made to the surviving soldiers. Almost without exception, they'd fought like demons and without regard for personal safety.

  Most of the medals and other awards had simply been handed out. There were too many to count, like her three Purple Hearts, for example. Naumann half jokingly referred to them as "medals of stupidity." He should talk. He now had six.

  Unlike the UN, the FMF presented awards in ascending order. She thought that was better. It stopped the lower awardees from feeling like afterthoughts, since they were awarded first. On the other hand, they were overshadowed by the higher awards. It still seemed the better approach. They were currently dealing with four Valorous Service Medals, including Marta's. Hers was diplomatically phrased as "For exceptional service while serving alone in a deep covert operation, succeeding in her objective of neutralizing the enemy commander, and surviving capture and torture administered as a direct result of her mission." Probably most of those present had heard a few details of her treatment and Mar winced slightly at the wording. They also awarded her a Purple Heart and a Prisoner's Service Medal.

  "You okay, dear?" Kendra asked as Marta resumed her slot next to her. The formation was theoretically by unit, but her friends had managed to squeeze together in Headquarters Company, 3rd MAR with her.

  "I will be. I don't think I'll hang this on the wall for a while, though," Mar said, shivering slightly. It took a moment for the words to register. Kendra's hearing implant was still a new toy and rather flat sounding. They said her hearing would improve with regen therapy, but this would have to do for now. There were other awards being given, but the two women weren't listening. Kendra did take another glance at Marshal Dyson. He still looked rather ragged after his "trial" by the International Criminal Court and the two Earth years of his "life" sentence for "war crimes" he'd served before Naumann had forced his release.

&nbs
p; Kendra was about to say something about it to Marta when her ears caught, "Logistics Warrant Leader Kendra Anne Pacelli," and she started. A guilty part of her thought she was about to be berated for rudeness to others. Then she heard "Front and center!"

  She automatically stepped back out of rank and marched the long walk toward the stand. What could they want with her? A VSM?

  She climbed the stairs, reported and saluted the marshal and he whispered, "Right face." She pivoted to face the formation.

  Behind her, the adjutant's soprano intoned the familiar, "Attention to orders! To all whom these presents come, greeting."

  She paused, then read, "Citation to accompany the award of the Citizen's Medal—"

  Kendra felt the blood drain from her face. Her lips silently mouthed, What?

  No. Not possible. Her knees felt weak. Her ears started working again and she heard, "Then Senior Sergeant Pacelli distinguished herself on thirty-four April, two hundred and eleven, at the Battle of Braided Bluff. Sergeant Pacelli was leading a platoon of reservists and militia and also acting as squad leader for the platoon's first squad, tasked with holding the ridge against the final UNPF occupation forces.

  "Air support was unavailable, leaving the infantry to hold against seventeen-to-one odds. Sergeant Pacelli carefully and expertly employed all her position's automated, emplaced and support weapons, then ordered her own squad to engage with small arms.

  "Massively outnumbered, Sergeant Pacelli retreated only as far as necessary to allow her platoon to continue engaging with superior position. Her unit held without support or fighting positions for more than two divs while taking small arms, mortar, rocket and direct-fire artillery fire, guided by enemy intelligence drones.