Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold

Freehold

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

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Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Epilogue

Military Glossary

Freehold

Michael Z. Williamson

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any

resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-7179-2

Cover art by David Mattingly

First printing, January 2004

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To my parents:

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We disagree on so many things,

but I am who I am because of you.

Chapter 1

"Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents, which in prosperous circumstances would have lain

dormant."

—Quintus Horatius Flaccus

Sergeant Second Class Kendra Pacelli, UNPF, was looking forward to finally finishing the admin from

her deployment to Mtali. The entire experience had been unpleasant, from the tedious, cramped trip there

in a military transport, to the tedious, cramped tripback in a military transport. In between, the stay had

been mostly boring, very aggravating, and exhausting when it wasn't boring.

She'd been eager at first. The chance to visit another planet, even one torn by war, she found exciting.

Upon arriving, they'd all been restricted to base, so she saw nothing of the local culture. They were

shipped through the UN starport, and there were not even vendors of local food to sample. Most of the

other UN troops, predominantly from Earth, had insisted on not listening to "that raghead crap" music.

She'd heard nothing but Earth pop for the entire six months.

Then the long-term troops had resented her for her trip's duration. They had eighteen-month rotations. It

wasn't her fault, and she was there to help the Logistic Support Function, thus freeing someone else to go

home early, but that didn't seem to matter. Apparently, they'd rather have stood the extra time than have

her take a short tour.

There'd been a couple of missile attacks on the base while she was there. She'd been in an orbital station

doing admin during one, and the shuttle simply waited until it was over to land. The other one was over

before she realized it wasn't a drill, and the damage was negligible. She understood some areas had been

pasted daily and had regular body counts, but she was nowhere near those places. She wasn't

complaining, but the end result was that she had no war stories of any kind.

It had been typical logistics work; issuing, returning and accounting for gear and filing docs, except that

the days were longer, the facilities nonexistent and the entertainment lacking. She wasn't a big fan of vid

and the rec center's supply of books and games was slim. She also found few people who could play

table games well. All in all, she might just as well have stayed home and not left her dorm.

She had received additional pay and got a tax in-centive, which would mean more records-keeping in

exchange to justify the tax return. The rest of the pay came at the cost of, naturally, more admin. Sitting at

her carrel, she coded off on her travel itinerary, her waivers for tests and boards missed while deployed

and the return of her issued combat equipment. She had been ordered not to open that unless attacked,

which she'd found bothersome. The fact that to inspect her gear for safety was deemed wrong because it

generated more admin seemed illogical. But then, itwas the military.

The thing which she wished she'd put off but had waded through first, was the documentation and her

personal statement on missing property. Her personal gear was all accounted for, but literal transport

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loads of gear had gone "missing" on Mtali. She was a stickler for procedure, so she had accounted for

the fact that everythingsheissued had gotten where it was supposed to. The first sergeant had relayed to

her secondhand that some clown was claiming that her attention to detail proved she was involved. "He's

just digging. Relax," she'd been told.

She still felt nervous. Trucks, generators, weapons and tools didn't just walk off by themselves. Most

required lift gear to move. A rapidly maturing and increasingly cynical part of her surmised that they were

being sold by someone in system. Well, if they checked her bank accounts, they were all as she reported.

She just wished they'd hurry up and do so and get done with it.

Her musing was interrupted when her phone rang. Not a military line at her carrel, but her personal

phone. She dug it out of her purse, wondering who was calling.

"Pacelli," she answered.

"Hi, dear. Don't mention my name," the caller said. It was Tom Anderson, an old lover who was an MP.

"We are getting all kinds of activity. Arrests are expected for Robinson, Bruder, Jacobs, Pacelli and

several others. If those people are lucky, they areoff base right now. They'll be in for a nasty surprise

when they return."

"Why? What's up?" she asked, shocked beyond reason.

"Apparently, the government has found the parties responsible for the equipment that went missing

during the Mtali mission. All those people are part of the conspiracy."

"I'm not part of any conspiracy," she protested in a whisper. "All I did was document what went walkies.

That was at the general's request."

He continued as if he hadn't heard her protest. "What's important is that they are looking for those

people. The way things look, they'd be lucky if they were missing, permanently. You know how the

Department of Special Investigations can overreact. I just hope they don't come through the gate; I don't

need any excitement right now. Anyway, the reason I called: you left some things at my place last night,"

he said, although she hadn't been there in weeks. "I put themin the car . Gotta run, we are about to start

a gate exercise. Love you."Click.

Kendra hung up the phone, hesitated a half-second, then stood, grabbing a folder. She tried to be casual

as she walked down the hall. A quick nervous glance didn't show any suited goons coming for her, but

she had no doubt Tom was correct. There were horror stories of people being dragged in for even being

"associated" with criminals. But where could she go?

Just before she reached the door, Janie came out of the back office. "Kendra, can you—"

"Sorry," Kendra replied, waving the folder, "I've gotta take care of this for the lieutenant right now." The

old trick of looking busy had always seemed rather shallow before. It now had a whole new meaning.

She stepped outside, whipped her hat on and tried to walk slowly to her car, as if she were running an

errand. Unlocking it, she climbed in and discovered an overnight bag on the passenger seat. As she

started the engine, she glanced in. Street clothes, socks, shoes, underwear and some cash cards. Tom

must have used a security code to override her dorm room lock. She hoped that wasn't traceable, but he

was good at such things. That had made her nervous, when she discovered he could crack codes and

bypass records. Now she thanked Tom silently while backing out carefully. A wreck now would really

be hell. Could this really be happening? She had to believe him, but it seemed so unreal.

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The UN Bureau of Security was not known for its polite inquiries into alleged crimes. If they believed a

person was involved with "improper activity" or "activity prejudicial to the public good," they proceeded

to investigate thoroughly. The accused was held incommunicado, all assets seized and in-depth interviews

conducted with the accused and any family or friends who might be involved. If they suspected any

dissemblance, they could always revert to the clauses that gave them authority to hold the accused until

they were satisfied. There were also numerous rarely enforced laws they could invoke to continue their

efforts. The story was that they only used those tactics against someone they couldn't prosecute any other

way, but Kendra had recently come to believe, in part due to vids Tom had shown her, that those tactics

were unfair and designed to make the prosecutors look good, not do justice to the accused. She'd been

creeped enough by his near-sedition to stop seeing him. There were enough antigovernment activists in

America now without having to deal with out-and-out traitors.

It had a whole new feel now, she reflected briefly as she drove out of the logistics zone of the sprawling

base. They thoughtshe was guilty. Several tens of millions of marks worth of property had gone missing

during the Mtali mission. She'd done the file search, at the request of the chain of command, to determine

how much. That was the total extent of her involvement. She knew she was innocent and they couldn't

prove otherwise . . . or could they? "The wicked flee when no man pursueth" didn't apply when

circumstances dictated that both guilty and innocent alike should wisely flee for their lives. She shivered

slightly. Did she really want to leave? Wouldn't it be better to trust in her innocence? Where could she

go?

She aged ten years in the six blocks to the gate, then relaxed very slightly when she saw Tom in the

booth.What is he getting himself into? she asked herself. The traffic control outside the gate signaled a

stop and she aged ten more years. Behind her, she could see the barricades rising and swallowed hard.

That made it rather permanent, she thought. She picked a route north into Maryland and kept the car on

manual. She didn't know how long it would be before an override signal got her. She'd have to lose the

car. She had no idea how, or where to go after that. Off planet, maybe? The Orbitals were not as strict

on ID, but fleeing criminals were captured regularly. Outsystem? But where? Ramadan was not friendly

to unescorted women, Novaja Rossia demanded strict qualifications and background checks, Caledonia

was a UN nation . . .

Counting the cash in her bag, she found a thousand marks in three money cards and cash and a note

scrawled, "All I can spare. Hate to see you get driven like this. I disabled your override circuit, so don't

use auto. If you can, lie low for a few months, they may sort this out. Still care about you." It was

unsigned. She cried while driving and tried to think of a solution.

Her mind was whirling too hard for thought, but she knew she'd need cash before they locked her work

and insurance number. Stopping at a rest area, she picked a remote parking slot and changed, hunched in

the front seat. Wearing her uniform off base would not only be distinctive, it was also an invitation to be

mugged and raped, especially for women. Once done, she pulled back onto the highway and found a

suburban exit. She pulled into a plaza and used a bank terminal, then found another one a few blocks

away. Six different transactions yielded every penny she had in the world, in small enough chunks that no

single one would show up at UNRS immediately. As she made the last withdrawal, an idea occurred to

her. It was insane, but there was no logical reason why it was impossible. The odds were such that no

bookie would take the bet, but better than nothing, which was what she had now.

The Grainne colony had been independent for ten years now and had not only refused to join the UN,

but had refused to go along with most of the common standards of ship registry, public health, public

standards or even reciprocity of laws.That was the crucial bit. If she could make it there, they wouldn't

extradite her. It was quite the rogue as nations went. It also reportedly had an excellent standard of living.

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As with many frontier worlds, there were not enough people for all jobs. A frontier colony was not the

nicest environment for an urbanite like herself, but it would be safe until this resolved.

She gave one last searching thought to whether or not she should do it. The millions of marks at stake

made her believe that scapegoats, bribes and various irregularities would be the end result of this. She

was sophisticated enough to realize that being innocent would not protect her and being poor and of low

rank would make her a doormat. This was a chance to wait things out. She reached for her phone,

hesitated, then sought a public phone and looked up the address.

* * *

In a suburb south of where Kendra had made her decision was the embassy of the Freehold of Grainne.

It was an old twenty-third-century windowless block, surrounded by a wall and other, less blatant,

security measures. In a spacious office on the top floor, an old discussion was being rehashed yet again.

Assistant for Policy Gunter Marx entered the office and informed Citizen Ambassador Janine Maartens

of the Freehold of Grainne, "The UN is protesting our declaration of withdrawal again."

"Any new language?" was the bored return. Maartens' desk defied the advantages of electronic data. It

was strewn with notes, official copies of documents, flash ram, memory cubes and assorted other items in

archeological layers by age in a display that clashed with the spare blond paneling and carpet.

Marx said, "No. All the same as last year. John Abraham requests a meeting with you to discuss the

perceived inequalities. He is sure we can find an agreeable solution."

"One that involves taxes, government interference, restrictions of our personal rights 'for the public

good,' and a seven-year plan for the future, of course. Tell him I'm dead."

"Ma'am?"

She sat back and ran a hand through her graying waves of hair. "You know what I mean, Gun. My

regards to Secretary Abraham and I'll call him at my earliest inconvenience. Right now I am dealing with

major industrialists and billions of credits are at stake. I don't want to deal with an issue that should be

seven years dead."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed. He didn't envy her position and wondered again why he'd elected to throw

himself into the bureaucratic rat maze. "Also: Warrant Leader McLaren says there is a car across the

street, occupied by a young blonde woman, that has been there for most of a div. She is watching the

gate."

"Great. An obvious decoy. Any sign of the real threat?" the ambassador asked. The UN and several of

its member nations loved to play spy games. Observers here, line taps there, always some kind of

low-level harassment.

"Not yet. He says his people are ready, though," Marx confirmed. He'd made sure of that himself.

"They always are," she nodded. At least the espionage kept her security people alert. "Keep me

informed. I have to smooth out some details between GM North America and GM Freehold. The UN

Secretary of External Trade is the problem. Everyone else sees the advantages of the deal."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

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Kendra became attentive as a truck pulled up to the gates. She started the motor and waited. Her plan

was to pull through after the delivery of whatever cleared the entrance. Cautiously, she gave the motor a

bit of rev to ensure it was working. It was, of course. She gasped her breath out in furious realization of

how panicky she was. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it and didn't realize she was holding the next

one. Watching the truck, she tried to judge distances and space while keeping an eye on traffic. There'd

be an opening in the flow right after that red car in her mirror.

The gates were already sliding shut on their powered rails. She stomped the accelerator while swearing,

yanked the wheel hard and pulled right behind the red vehicle while almost crashing into a pillar as she

bounced inside the embassy grounds. She immediately had to brake to avoid the truck, which was

stopped for inspection.

An armored guard leaped in front of her, pointing one of the brutal-looking weapons that the Grainne

military used. He took a step sideways as she locked her car in park and barked orders that were clearly

audible inside her little Mazda Jog as several other guards materialized from somewhere.

"Shut the motor off! Place your hands on top of the steering wheel! Reach over with your right hand and

open the door!"

She moved her left hand to comply and he bellowed, "Righthand! Place it back on the wheel! Eyes

front!" She did as he ordered, eyes nervously leaving the gun, guts knotted in fear, and saw movement

out of the corner of her left eye. One of the other guards was crawling under the area swept by the door,

in case of a boobytrap. He rose next to her, placing the gaping maw of his weapon against her kidney

and fastened magnetic shackles firmly around her wrists. Grasping them, he pulled her around and out of

her car, his rifle now under her breastbone. About ten meters from the vehicle they stopped. Her escort

stepped back and slung his weapon as a woman with an explosion of red hair around her helmet stood in

front of her. The woman's face was mostly hidden by a darkened visor, but her mouth was visible and

totally emotionless. Her weapon was unwavering.

Kendra heard more orders from the first guard, who was behind her now. "Spread your legs wide.

Wider. Place your hands on top of your head." She did so, feeling the shackles bite into her wrists. Her

shoulders stretched back awkwardly.

She had expected to be searched by the woman, was surprised that the second male guard was

approaching. He started at her head, mussing her hair, crushing the fabric of her collar while looking for

small items, slid his hands down her back, over her hips, down each trouser leg and into the tops of her

boots. He stood and walked around in front as the other two guards moved to keep him out of line of

fire. He resumed his search. He pulled at her lips with gloved hands. He then felt along her sleeves and

under her arms in a fashion that might have tickled had she not been so scared. He reached inside her

shirt and felt the neckline again, then ran fingers along the contour of her bra and grabbed both her

breasts. By the time she realized it was neither an intimate gesture nor an assault, but still part of a very

thorough search, he had felt around her waistband and clutched at her crotch. He slid down her legs

again and checked the fasteners of her boots. Finished at last, he stepped back.

Kendra said, "I need asylum. My name is—"

"Silence. You may see the ambassador later."

He unslung his weapon and all three guards moved back. She was directed inside, the three standing

well clear and keeping their weapons on her. Not a word was spoken to her and Kendra didn't feel like

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offering anything. She was taken down a service elevator, marched in front of a door and stopped.

The woman approached this time and quickly unfastened every button, snap, zip and rip on Kendra's

clothing. She stepped around behind Kendra, grabbed a leg and pulled off a boot and sock. She

repeated the procedure from the other leg, then yanked her pants and underwear down together and

pulled them off one foot at a time. Reaching up, she uncharged the shackles, whisked them away and

pulled Kendra's arms down behind her. Shirt and bra were pulled off, leaving her naked. A wand ran

over her, seeking anything dense, metallic or electronic, and while she expected it to be silent, she having

nothing concealed, she was reassured that it didn't betray anything. Illogical, but her current situation had

her scared beyond reason. "Bend over," she heard, and complied. There was the expected snap of a

medical exam glove and cold but surprisingly gentle prodding, which she knew included a camera and

another sensor. These people were thorough. She shivered despite herself. A door opened, and she was

pushed gently but firmly into what was obviously a cell. The door closed with an ominous heavy click.

Kendra looked around, breathing again, and took stock of her environment. It was adequately warm,

well lighted, and contained a stall shower, a toilet, a sink and a futon with a quilt. The whole room

measured three meters square.

There was a security camera mounted in one corner. It was not even discreetly hidden. Kendra stared at

it as it glared unblinkingly at her. Finally, she made an obscene gesture and ignored it. She needed to use

the toilet, and the camera obviously wasn't going to be a gentleman. Or lady. Or polite machine.

Brooding and pacing would be totally unproductive, so she brooded and paced. She had no idea of the

passage of time, and was wondering if this attempt at asylum was the right idea. So far, she had been

asked no questions, given no opportunity to speak and had no clue what was going on.

Right idea or not, she had to play it out to the end. There was no possible way she could return now and

be believed innocent.

After what seemed like hours, the door was opened. The redheaded woman was there alone, without

armor. She still carried her rifle/grenade launcher. Her combat uniform, designed to be loose, was close

in spots over firm muscles. She motioned slightly with the muzzle and said, "This way. You can see the

ambassador now." Her voice was amazingly well modulated and pleasant.

Kendra walked out, still naked, preceding her guard. She was directed when to turn and quickly realized

how large the building was. She passed a man in one of the corridors, who nodded disenterestedly. She

flushed crimson. The second man they passed swapped greetings with the guard and Kendra wished for

a swift end to her ordeal. After several minutes, she was shown into a well-lighted office with large

windows. The woman behind the desk stood, nodded briefly at Kendra and said, "Romar, please get a

robe for our guest. There's one in my suite." The guard snapped to and left.

Turning back, the ambassador continued, "Please accept my apologies. Well-disciplined guards, but not

overly familiar with Earth customs. Our climate encourages casual nudity, but I'm sure you're not used to

it. She'll be back momentarily. Coffee?"

"Yes, please," Kendra nodded, shifting her hands around to keep herself covered. While the

ambassador poured, the guard knocked, stepped in, handed Kendra a robe and moved unobtrusively

into the corner. Donning the garment, Kendra felt much more comfortable.

The ambassador spoke again. "I am Citizen Ambassador Janine Maartens of the Freehold of Grainne.

You are Sergeant Second Class Kendra Anne Pacelli of the UN Peace Force, wanted for embezzlement

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and pictured on all the news loads. I am recording. Please tell me briefly why in the name of God and

Goddess you are in our embassy?"

"I need asylum," Kendra began. "I was—"

Maartens interrupted with, "We do not grant asylum to crimin—"

"I DIDN'T DO IT!" Kendra shouted her down. "I knew nothing about it until this morning when the

MPs tried to grab me. I have little idea what is going on, but I know they need me as a scapegoat.

General Robinson probably has me rigged to take the fall as part of his cutout. My only way out is to get

off Earth."

Sitting down, Maartens chewed on a pen. "Tell me the rest of it," she demanded while gesturing at

another chair.

Sitting also, Kendra breathed deep and said, "I was assigned to the Forty-Third Logistics Support

Function's detachment during the Mtali Mission. The general and Colonel Bruder were very concerned

with our operation. Stuff was missing by the truckload on a daily basis and they made us keep track of it.

No one knows where the stuff was going, so there had to be inside help. They were probably selling it to

the rebels is my guess. This is all deduction in the last four hours. Then, I assumed the problem was being

investigated. Eight a.m. today, the MPs were going to drag me off for questioning. I saw where things

were going, thanks to a friend of mine. I left the base and drove around until I figured out that of all

colony worlds, you could probably help me."

"We are not a colony anymore, Sergeant," Maartens said coldly, then thought hard. Colonel Richard, the

Freehold unit commander from the Mtali mission, had made similar deductions regarding the UN forces

logistics system. Pacelli's story was probably true. Perhaps the military would be interested in her

information. Citizen Maartens would have to decide that on her own. Unlike a national ambassador on

Earth, she could not call for advice; advice was thirty-four light years away and any question would take

at least two days for a response, to allow a message to be relayed through the jump point on the next

ship. If it had to be sent physically to reduce the risk of interception, it would take at least twenty days

each way.

The best approach was a firm one, see how the situation developed, Maartens decided. "I'll have to

check all angles of your story. You may stay in the meantime." Her voice was grudging but not hostile.

Heaving a huge sigh and slumping from released tension, Kendra replied, "Thank you, ma'am."

"You're welcome. There are conditions. Number one, if you are a spy, you'll disappear. Two, whether

or not you are guilty, if the evidence points that way, you'll be handed over to UNPF. I can't risk an

incident without solid substance to back it up. Relationships are critical and delicate right now; they

always are. If you check out as legitimate, I'll help you arrange travel to the Freehold. It won't be cheap

and you'll have to pay for it. We don't have budgets for such things."

"I have some cash. Not a lot."

"We can acquire any assets that haven't been seized, and make it untraceable. Our technicians will

expect a share, however."

"Ma'am?" Kendra asked.

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Sighing, Maartens explained, "The Freehold is a completely neutral nation with a tiny government. We

don't budget for refugees, publicity, tourism or any of a hundred other things you take for granted. We

can't do anything officially, so this will have to be done clandestinely. If our staff are to convert your

assets to cash or pull funds from your accounts, they'll be doing it on their own time and with their

personal gear at some small but real risk. For that, they expect to be paid."

"I have what I came here with," Kendra said, scared again.

"Then with your permission, we can move your car as parts. This will make it harder to trace you, and

gain you some more funds."

Kendra though for a moment only and agreed.

"Fine. I'm afraid we must keep you under guard for the time being." Maartens waved and the guard

approached. "Corporal Romar," she said, "you are to accompany Sergeant Pacelli. She has free access

to unrestricted areas, but only under escort. Find her secure quarters in the guest wing tonight. Keep me

informed of anything relevant. She is not to leave."

"Yes, ma'am," the young woman replied. Turning to Kendra she said, "Please come with me, Sergeant."

Kendra stepped into the hall. After the door was closed, Romar asked, "Where do you wish to go,

Sergeant?"

"I . . . don't know," Kendra replied. "I'd like to get some clothes and some lunch, if possible."

"Certainly. Would you like a shower, too?"

Kendra realized how stressed and exhausted she was. It had been less than six hours since her ordeal

started, but seemed like a week. She needed a shower, both to wash away cold, clammy sweat and to

relax. "Please," she said. "And call me Kendra."

"Okay. Follow me, Kendra. And you can call me Jelsie, since it doesn't appear I'll have to shoot you

anytime soon." There was a disturbing dryness to the joke.

They wound up at what apparently were Romar's quarters. The room was small but well appointed and

had a fantastic comm system. "Shower's in there," Kendra was told, as the woman pointed through a

door. "I'll be next, so don't take too long."

Kendra gratefully made use of very luxurious facilities, borrowed soap and shampoo and was surprised

to find her bag waiting when she got out. All ID had been removed, but her clothes and personal items

were intact. She picked casual clothes, dressed and entered the room.

Jelsie was sprawled in a chair, watching a news load. "You're on vid again," she said. "What evidence

are they basing all this on?"

"I belong to the same unit as those responsible. And I deal with logistics," Kendra quipped.

"I can see that. You have a felon's eyes. I'm about to shower. My orders are to keep you secure. You

can sit in here and we'll talk through the door while I do, but I have to cuff you to the doorknob.

Otherwise, I lock you in a guest room and come back for you. Sorry, but that's as much leeway as I

have."

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Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold

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