Freehold (2 page)

So they lifted off-planet, taking their pay and leaving their dead. And they came here, to Arno, to rest, regroup, and wait for the next war. Arno was an agricultural planet, settled by and organized around a single church. Kind of ironic in a way, considering they were on Arno to recover from a religious war on New Covenant. Anyway, the church Elders controlled all aspects of life on Arno, especially the economy. Early on, the Elders had realized it was the very same kinds of activity forbidden by their religion that earned the most foreign exchange. Which is to say that the sale of illicit drugs, sex, and weapons brought in more money from off-planet than did the sale of vegetables. So, eager to reap this much needed foreign exchange, yet afraid of a punitive god, they invented the Free Enterprise Zone, a wonderful device that would enable them to have their virtue and money too. And by confining all those from off-planet within the Zone, they could protect their flock from corrupting influences and still enjoy the benefits of interstellar commerce. And their invention served them very well indeed.

The Elders demanded and received what they called a ten-percent tithe on the value of all goods sold within the Zone. In return, those within the Zone were free to do as they pleased. Free of restrictive law and regulation, the Zone soon attracted all sorts of enterprise, most of which were quite illegal on other planets. This fact didn't trouble the Elders in the least. Following the ancient religious dictum that the end justifies the means, they reasoned that, since the revenues thus generated would be used to import agricultural equipment, which would eventually transform the planet into the Eden prophesied by the church's founder, Brother Esten Arno, then the Zone was, in the final analysis, moral. And from what Stell had seen coming down from orbit, they were well on the way toward their goal. Arno was a beautiful planet, much of it still wild, with large tracts of beautiful farm land that were broken here and there by the gentle flow of wide, slow-moving rivers. Arno was a nice place to live—if you weren't in the Zone.

The Free Zone was about twenty-five square miles in size. Because its boundaries were entirely artificial, it formed a perfect circle, a shape that the Elders’ military advisors assured them would be vulnerable to attack, should those living within the Zone ever get out of hand. A shaped force field surrounded it, preventing entry or exit except through the one, closely guarded gate. Of course, that was rarely used, since citizens were not allowed into the Zone and Zonies were not allowed out. Most commerce arrived and departed via the spaceport located at the Zone's center. There was a second, smaller spaceport located on the other side of the planet, but it was dedicated to church-approved traffic and Arno's small navy.

Radiating out from the Free Zone's spaceport were concentric rings of activity. First came the dives and nightclubs catering to every imaginable taste in drugs and sex. Their clientele were mostly drawn from the ships touching down to load or unload cargo, but rumor had it that church Elders paid secret visits to places like the “Super Nova” and “Bloody Mary's"—two of the Zone's more celebrated dives. Beyond those were the illegal factories, illicit research laboratories, and warehouses. And, finally, the outermost ring was a warren of dilapidated domes, tenements, and shanties. Here the majority of the Zone's population returned each night. Most eked out a marginal life working in some factory, selling themselves for illegal research, or being used by those who frequented the bars and nightclubs. Others were not so lucky. They had no jobs and existed by victimizing those who did, until they themselves fell prey to the endless cycle of poverty and misery. For within the Zone there was no law, except that imposed on the weak by the strong.

This, then, was the area into which the brigade had been forced to go. Oh, they could have stayed in space for a while, or sought out another planet, but Arno was close and therefore less expensive to reach; plus, Stell knew that in the end they'd be forced to accept something similar, or worse. No one rolled out the red carpet for a mercenary army between engagements.

So the brigade paid the Elders an exorbitant tithe, entered the Zone, and rented space in what had recently been a Yirl drug refinery, and an illegal weapons factory before that. The complex of buildings, plus the parking lot outside, now comprised brigade HQ. It wasn't as secure as he'd like, but so far the brigade's obvious firepower, aggressive patrols, and violent reputation had prevented raids by the criminal element—although Stell wasn't sure the word “criminal” served any useful function in the Zone. But such attacks weren't unheard of. When it seemed worthwhile, someone would recruit a temporary army and use it to attack a drug factory or some other profitable target. And, because of its weapons and equipment, the brigade would certainly qualify as “profitable.”

So Stell slipped into the A-suit and sealed it. He checked the load on the short, ugly assault rifle he favored for street fighting, and opened the door. As he left his office, the two sentries outside snapped to attention. He nodded and they fell in behind as he marched down the hall toward the lift tube. Moments later he was outside, and almost gagging on the heavy odor of rotting garbage and backed up sewers. He swallowed and made a note to get the area cleaned up. Without any form of central control, utilities in the Zone were a haphazard affair.

As he walked to the street he noticed that the light had grown dim as Arno's sun neared the horizon, retaining barely enough strength to throw long shadows across the duracrete beneath his boots. Sergeant Major Como's convoy sat idling at the curb. It consisted of four vehicles: three open hover trucks of various makes and lineage, plus an ancient limo. There was something vaguely familiar about the rounded shape sitting in the rear of the open vehicle. For a moment Stell couldn't place it, but when he realized what it was he laughed, and turned to find that Sergeant Major Como had materialized at his side. “Sorry about the vehicles, sir, but as you know, the bastards wouldn't let us bring any of our own stuff down.”

Stell knew Como was referring to the Elders’ refusal to allow them any armor. While they rode around in whatever they could dredge up, there were a couple of hundred perfectly good vehicles aboard the brigade's three transports, presently in orbit around Arno. If the thought of mercenaries made the Elders nervous, the thought of mercenaries riding around in tanks probably drove them crazy.

“But I see you found a way around that,” Stell said, indicating the rounded shape in the back of the limo.

Como's face registered elaborate innocence. “You mean trooper Smith, sir? I agree he's tough, but certainly no match for armor.”

Nodding in mock agreement, Stell said, “Now that I look again I see you're absolutely right, Sergeant Major. That is trooper Smith. Ugly bastard I must say. By the way, Sergeant Major, my compliments on our transportation,” Stell said, eyeing the aging vehicles that made up the convoy. “I see that in addition to your other accomplishments you're able to raise the dead.”

The joke got the predictable laugh from those near enough to hear it. Stell knew it would make the rounds of the barracks later, making him seem less remote and more human to the troops. As he climbed into the truck he felt guilty about how easily he could manipulate them. But leadership hadn't come as naturally to him as it did to some. Bull Strom had been a good example. He had that mysterious ability that allows some to walk into a room full of perfect strangers and effortlessly make each into a friend and admirer. Lacking that kind of charisma, Stell developed a more calculated style of leadership which, though quite effective, seemed somehow artificial and therefore less genuine.

Stell chinned his radio switch on. “Where's Major Malik?” he asked, looking around for his XO.

Fifty feet away, in his own vehicle, Como shrugged his shoulders. “He told Sergeant Wilkens he was planning a surprise inspection of the perimeter, sir.”

Stell was annoyed that Malik hadn't seen fit to show up for final orders, but the surprise inspection was a good idea. It would keep the greenies on their toes. As the convoy jerked into motion, Stell's eyes began a systematic search of their surroundings. He was looking for the little things, clues which had often made the difference between life and death: the hint of motion in an upstairs window, the glint of reflected light off a weapon, the stalled vehicle that shouldn't be there. But finding nothing, he turned his attention to the convoy. The natural tendency to bunch up could be suicidal. A tightly grouped convoy could be destroyed with a single shoulder-launched missile, or a well-placed bomb. But the vehicles stayed well separated under Como's watchful eye.

Cautiously, the convoy wound its way through darkening streets, twisting and turning like some nocturnal snake gradually moving further away from the safety of its lair. And, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Stell felt a prickling in his scalp and knew they were not alone. The wash of their headlights was quickly lost in the darkness that had descended around them. People weren't seen, only sensed, as their dark, uncertain forms scurried to avoid the light and were tracked out of sight by infrared scanners.

Stell shivered in his armor, doing his best to ignore the ancient instincts pumping adrenaline through his system, urging him to run, to hide from the unknown things that stalked the night. Then darkness turned to day, as powerful flares went off. The intense light drove the filters in Stell's visor to the edge of burnout. Swearing, he switched to infrared just in time to see the attackers come swarming up out of the sewers like maggots fleeing a disturbed corpse. There were hundreds of them, all dressed in disposable white camouflage suits, which were gradually turning black as the flares burned down. They moved quickly to surround and isolate each vehicle in the convoy. Then they opened up with slug throwers and energy weapons that cut the night into a thousand streamers of light and dark.

Stell chinned his mic switch. “Automatic weapons, left and right flank, fire. Grenade launchers, left and right, fire. Snipers, pick targets ahead and fire. Clear a path for your vehicle but watch out for those in front of you, there's enough people shooting at us already.” If the joke got a laugh, it was lost in the roar of sound as the troopers opened up. Thanks to Como, they were all hand-picked veterans. A quick glance told him casualties were light so far. Only one of the troopers in his truck was down. The others were cutting down Zonies in swaths like wheat at harvest. But as quickly as they died, more boiled up out of the sewers, dropped from rooftops, and surged out of dark passageways to join the fray. There was a burst of static, followed by Sergeant Como's calm voice. “Green four to green one.”

“Go ahead, green four,” Stell replied, squeezing the trigger on his assault rifle and stitching a line of white holes through one of the infrared blobs surging toward him.

“We have a prisoner, green one, and he's been egoed.”

“Understood, green four,” Stell replied, churning over the new information. Some, if not all, of the Zonies had been ego suppressed, probably through use of illegal drugs, and then memprinted with a hatred of the brigade, or all people wearing A-suits, or whatever. It really didn't matter. What mattered was that the Zonies wouldn't react the way they should. Instead of realizing they were being decimated and running or surrendering, they would just keep coming until they won, or until they were all dead. Ego-suppression techniques were illegal everywhere—except, of course, in the Zone.

Sweeping his gaze over the convoy, Stell saw the greatest danger lay in being swarmed under. His troopers were better armed and trained, but the Zonies outnumbered them at least ten to one. Given that advantage, plus their suicidal frenzy, they couldn't lose. Unless ... Suddenly a Zonie landed right in front of him. With a shock he realized she was just a teenager, her camouflage suit hanging in folds on her skinny frame, eyes enormously dilated, lips drawn back in a snarl. He watched, fascinated, as she brought up her cheap, disposable power gun, aware that some remote part of himself had reacted, wondering vaguely who would win. Then he felt himself pull the trigger and watched the side of her head disappear in a spray of blood and brains. Stell forced his eyes away from her crumpled form as he spoke. “Green one to green four.”

“Go ahead, green one,” Como replied.

“Stand by to drop trooper Smith on my command. Initiate program D with a ten-minute hold.”

“That's affirmative, green one; trooper Smith on your command.”

Peering over the truck's cab, Stell was cursing the darkness when a sudden flood of white light washed over him. Startled, he thought another flare had gone off. Then he realized the last truck in the convoy, the one just behind the limo, was on fire. The surviving troops bailed out and ran forward, trying desperately to catch up with the moving limo. As he watched, one stumbled and fell, then another, both quickly disappearing under a wave of advancing Zonies. Pounding the side of the truck in frustration, he issued new orders. “Green one to green four. Stop the limo, drop trooper Smith, and pick up survivors.”

“Affirmative, green one,” Como replied.

Raising his glasses, Stell saw the limo silhouetted against the burning truck. Trooper Smith stood, unfolding himself into vaguely human form, and stepped down onto the pavement. Meanwhile, the rearmost troops laid down covering fire as survivors from the burning truck caught up and piled into the limo.

As trooper Smith disappeared in the direction of the advancing Zonies, Stell wondered if their drugged minds would recognize what they faced. Probably not. But they would soon experience what it could do. Standing eight feet tall, and weighing more than half a ton, the Auto Trooper was a machine designed for only one thing: killing. It did its job very well. A military derivative of the famous Autoguard, the robots had the destructive capability of an entire section of Imperial Marines. But since Auto Troopers were incredibly expensive, they would never replace the cheaper flesh-and-blood humans who created them. At least we have job security, Stell thought wryly. Como had violated the spirit, if not the letter of their agreement with the Elders by bringing the robot down from orbit, but Stell didn't plan to point that out. They would probably lose the valuable machine, but they would save most of the section, a trade he'd happily make any day of the week.