Freehold (22 page)

She woke to voices and realized it was light outside. Marta and Rob were arguing quietly.

"She could have stopped at any time," Marta insisted.

"Sure. Everyone rubbing her financial position in her face, not to mention her ignorance of business principles."

"She doesn't need money that badly," Marta interjected.

"No," Rob agreed, "she doesn't. But she isn't used to wads of cash like that and is not familiar enough with our mores to be able to gracefully decline. She said it just followed a progression and she didn't even realize she'd gone past her limits."

I said that? I don't remember, she thought to herself.

"But money is not that big a deal," Marta protested, "She has all her bills covered and took in a nice piece last week on that consultancy."

"She comes from a planet that pays only lip service to free enterprise. Her family is relatively well-to-do, owning one of the few types of business that has minimal financial regs and a good return. She will never see them again, is wanted for serious crimes she didn't commit, is effectively a refugee and damned near a pauper by the standards she grew up with. She is now in the first truly free society in human history and has no one to tell her when to stop for her own good. Most of what she couldn't morally or legally consider yesterday is de rigueur today. Socially, you need to think of her as an immigrant child, not a seventeen-year-old who has grown up here.

Rob was still talking. "I think it was very unfair to do what you did to her and selfish as well. You didn't want to pass on one millionaire of many, so you urged her into it and let the client do the same, a bit at a time."

"I . . . don't understand her thought processes! You've been on Earth, I haven't. When something isn't right, you speak up. All she had to do was say she wasn't interested!"

"No,
we
speak up. She's from a society where you keep quiet and mind your own business. She can't handle the raw business world at this point. And she can't know whether or not she's interested if it's a new experience."

"I still don't see the problem," Marta said, shaking her head. "She said he wasn't unattractive and she's done much racier things with us."

"It wasn't just the sex that bothered her. It was the act of pretending to be someone she isn't. She said she felt like an appliance."

"Well, sure, it's an act. The clients know it and we know it. We create a fantasy and they pay for that creativity."

"Yeah," Rob nodded. "But that's
your
world, not hers. I don't know how she's going to feel when she wakes up, but—"

"Mar," Kendra said, interrupting. She turned over and sat up. She had a serious hangover, but not from booze.

"Yes, Kendra? I'm sorry for what happened."

"I'll be okay. It wasn't all bad, but some parts were disgusting. I made a lot of money, and it was very hard work, and I respect your talent even more, now, but please," she shook her head, "don't ever ask me to do that again."

"I'm sorry, love. I won't." Marta was teary-eyed.

"Look," Kendra said, shaking her head, "we should talk later, but right now I need a shower and some solitude. Thanks for your help, Rob." She meant it as a hint.

"Sure. I'll check on you in a couple of divs. If you need anything, just yell. I'll be at my comm." He departed, but wearing a frown instead of his usual grin.

Kendra stared at the closed door, conflicting emotions in her. She'd made 3400 credits gross in about three hours of preparation, five hours of feigned socializing and three hours of massage and explicit sex. Minus the cost of her dress and makeup, about 2500 total, for the equivalent of a tiring day's work. More than she'd made in three days of consulting for rich spies.

She'd stick to consulting, she decided. Marta probably wouldn't understand, but creating sexual fantasies was not something she could do on a first date with a random stranger who had no emotional interest in her whatsoever.

Rob's "child" comment had bothered her, but she understood what he was telling Marta. By local standards, she was a child and needed to grow up quickly. "The first truly free society in human history," he'd said. She was learning at breakneck speed that the price of freedom was responsibility. It was impossible to blame anyone else for one's actions.

She went into the shower and spent a long time scrubbing her face, breasts and groin. She felt filthy and knew it was psychological. She washed anyway.

She felt better afterward, and dug into her comm for more info on sex and sociality in this system. She found several fictional and pseudohistorical pieces and a couple of instructional texts that were clinical but graphic. After noon, or five local, she wandered over to Rob's and wrapped him in a hug. "Thanks for looking out for me," she said.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have done something sooner," he replied, patting her arm.

"That's fine. I guess I needed my nose rubbed in something to make me remember that I'm still a stranger here."

"You going okay?" he asked.

"I will be," she said.

Calan was in his office early the next morning. It was time to find out what was going on. He didn't like Hernandez. He'd thought Pacelli was a sniveling little good girl and here she was demanding better money than he'd offered and screwing him out of a commission. Good act. He wondered what she charged and just how far she'd go. And as for Hernandez' spoiled bitch of a daughter, he'd see about her, too.

Pacelli came here in an awful hurry
, he thought. She had to be running from something . . . and there it was! Hmmm. There might be a lot of money stashed somewhere, waiting for her. Or maybe her boss had cut her out of it. He'd "retired." An odd way to be punished for embezzling. Obviously he'd paid somebody off. The UN was like that. Always sneaking business around under the table. Either way, she was still wanted.

He couldn't just turn her in, though. She was a registered resident and could demand a trial here. Hernandez would certainly take her side. Actually, most Citizens would. A charge elsewhere was worth nothing in the Freehold. And if he tried to push the issue, he'd wind up with a suit for damages. Still, the information could prove useful at some point. He'd hang on to it.

"There are those who don't understand military rituals. Some even ridicule them. I feel pity for those people."

—Sergeant Mel Butler, US Army

"Military Override Call. Military Override Call . . ." Kendra heard the first alarm while asleep, was waking by the second and snapped totally alert when Rob answered.

"Answer call Warrant Leader Robert McKay," he said, sitting up.

"Hi, Rob," the caller began. He was in his thirties and looked very tired and disoriented. "Sorry to bother you, but you are on the list. Warrant Leader Bjorn Gatons died about a div ago."

"What?" Rob replied, shaking his head. "No, I heard you," he said to the caller's attempt to repeat. "Where? How?"

"Hunting trip in the Dragontooth Range. Massive heart attack."

"Didn't they have a stasis box or a medic? No, I guess they wouldn't on the side of a mountain. Goddess, that's terrible."

"I am to inform you that the funeral is at nightfall tomor—well, today, actually, at Placid Lagoon Memorial Park. His request was that you command the firing party."

"That . . . I'm honored," Rob said, shaking his head again. "I'm sorry, but I'm very short of sleep. May I call you later when I can track?"

"Absolutely. Apologies for disturbing, but, well, you understand. Before you go, do you know where Corporal Hernandez can be reached?"

"Right here," Marta acknowledged, sitting up and pulling the covers off Kendra. The camera swung to focus on her. "I heard," she said preemptively.

Nodding, the caller said, "You are requested to serve on the firing party, also."

"Did you need to ask?"

"Not really, except as a formality. Your father is in command of the Honor Guard."

"Got it. Is it a closed service?"

"Not at all. All family friends and any veterans are invited."

"Understood. Out."

Kendra sat back as Rob and Marta dressed. Except for brief glimpses in the park, she had never seen the Freehold Forces dress uniform and was impressed yet again.

Both wore straight black pants, tucked neatly into boots with gleaming gold-thread laces. Rob explained the laces were for parade only. Kendra didn't care; they looked sharp. The coats they wore were green, epauletted and high throated. Rob's emphasized his shoulders and tapered lightly in at the waist. Marta's was cut to flatter the female figure without looking cute or sexy. Hats were optional, they told her, but would be worn for this function. They donned brimmed hats, green and trimmed in black and pinned up at the side.

Insignia was sparse. Rob had four ribbons, Marta only two. Kendra had acquired nine in her three years of service and asked about those she saw. Rob spoke a few commands and a chart of decorations was displayed on the back wall. Kendra read, then turned back in shock. Ribbons were almost unobtainable except in combat, and the first of the four Rob wore was the Citation for Courage. It was the third-highest award possible.

"How did you manage that?" she asked.

"First engagement on Mtali. I used my vertol to draw fire away from the ground units and flew a very extended support mission. By some mathemagical juggling they credit me with saving better than fifty lives."

Thinking over comments she'd heard from others since arriving, she asked the next question. "Those people who I thought were joking with you about saving their lives weren't joking, were they?"

"No," Marta supplied. "We all owe this lunatic big time, especially after he took out a missile battery by crashing into it."

"What?"
Kendra demanded.

"Well, my racks were empty and my engines almost dead. Mass was the only weapon I had left. But it was a useable weapon," he said with a shrug.

Kendra pondered silently while the two adjusted their buttons and other accoutrements. She spoke again, saying, "Those are seriously bright. Gold plated?"

"Gold," Rob corrected.

"Real gold?"

"Yeah. Looks better, wears better, has a better psychological feel to it and in an emergency makes good trade goods." As he spoke he completed the look with a side-tied green satin sash and thrust a huge cross-guarded sword into it.

"What is that?" Kendra asked, awed.

"That's a Viking langseax. We may carry just about any blade that suits personal taste for dress. Standard issue for combat is a kataghan," he said, handing her a different one from his closet. It was slightly double curved, had a small round guard and a grip big enough for both hands despite its shorter length. She then looked at Marta's dress blade, which was a smaller, wickedly pointed piece with exotic wood and gold wire fittings.

"Just a poniard," Marta said, "But a
long
poniard."

Finished dressing, the two looked proud, professional and deadly. Kendra was starting to wish she could join the Freehold Forces. They commanded a respect that the UN couldn't, and from professionalism, not fear. But it was a silly thought. She was an outsider and they wouldn't trust her.

Kendra felt out of place as soon as they arrived at the funeral. Most of the hundreds of attendees were in uniform and those who weren't were all acquaintances, judging from their actions. She stood nervously close to Rob and Marta and felt slightly better when she recognized Medic Jaheed approaching.

He greeted his compatriots and turned to her. "Greetings, lady. Have things been well?"

"Excellent. Thanks very much for helping me. And please, call me Kendra. Kendra Pacelli," she insisted.

"And I'm Andrew, Drew to my friends."

"Incidentally," Rob interrupted, handing a package to Kendra.

"Oh! Yes," she nodded and handed it to Drew. "I was going to have Rob deliver this, but since we are here . . . Well, thanks for your help."

"Thank you," he replied, taking the box. He glanced quickly at the contents. "Silver Birch! Thank you indeed. If you feel the need to collapse again, please do, I owe you," he said, laughing.

She laughed with him, then cut short. This was a funeral, after all. But no one had seemed offended and there were other smiles around.

"We have to run," Marta reminded Rob. Turning, she spoke to Drew, "Would you mind keeping Kendra company and explaining the service to her?"

"Delighted," he agreed and offered her his arm.

Rob and Marta headed toward the center of the round field. Drew led her to the edge of a circle of people that was forming spontaneously and stood beside her. In short order, Iota was sinking behind the earth rampart that surrounded the clearing and the service began without preamble.

Three people took position in an equilateral triangle at the perimeter, all nude and bearing items. They began walking slowly in the direction of the planet's rotation, chanting as they moved. The first one, a young girl, passed by a few moments later, swinging a censer and repeating, "With Fire and Air we draw the Circle." Some of the people nearby repeated the invocation.

Many seconds later, the second figure approached. This one was an adult woman, sprinkling water from a bowl with a wand. "With Water and Earth we seal the Circle," she said. Again, some responded.

The last to pass was also a woman and mature if not old. Despite her age, she whipped a short sword around her body in a complicated form that denied any frailty. "With Spirit and Sword we guard the Circle," she called, louder than the others.

Finally all three returned to their starting points, just as the sky was coloring with dusk. The soft roar of waves on the lagoon muted some of what Kendra could hear. Stray beams of Iolight flashed off leaves in crimson, green, scarlet and violet. The air was becoming brisk and she was glad of her cloak. She strained to hear again, through shuffling waves and whispering boughs.

Seeing the expression on her face, Drew leaned closer and spoke quietly, "We can talk. The Circle is a ritual to enclose friends and to ward off evil. The service within is meant mostly for the next of kin and is kept quiet on purpose."