Freehold (3 page)

With the survivors aboard, the limo's driver wasted no time catching up with the rest of the convoy. Turning his glasses slightly, Stell saw the Auto Trooper, backlit by the burning truck, waiting with limitless mechanical patience for the order to kill. Zonies swarmed around it, screaming their frustration as their slugs and beams bounced harmlessly off its armor and defensive screens. Then, somewhere deep inside its metal body relays closed, current surged, weapons were activated, and the mini-computer controlling it began picking targets of opportunity. With deceptive slowness, it lumbered forward into the Zonie horde. Then, without warning the robot began to spew slugs, grenades, flechettes and coherent energy in every direction. It was a sight Stell would never forget. In a lifetime of battles, he'd never seen such slaughter. The robot never missed. Each projectile hit its mark. Every beam of lethal energy found a target. Row after row of Zonies were cut to bloody shreds. Those to the rear pushed their way forward, slipping and sliding in the slush of flesh and blood under their feet, eager to take their turns in the hail of lead, steel, and deadly energy. Men, women and children all hurried forward to die. The worst part was the mindless, empty expression they wore. Somehow, they seemed more machinelike than the metal monster that destroyed them. They were, or had been, people. Loving, hating, happy, sad ... people. Mercenaries in their own way, they were lured by promises of god knows what, betrayed, and chemically altered into cheap, disposable troops. There was no honor in killing them, only survival. Stell turned away. Sick at what someone had done to them, sick at what he was doing to them, yet allowing it to go on. To do otherwise would be a betrayal of those who trusted him. But he swore a silent oath to find those responsible and make them pay.

Glancing around, he saw most of the Zonies had turned away from the convoy to attack the robot. They were like moths drawn to a flame. Whether acting on their own or responding to some external direction, he couldn't tell. Whatever the reason, he was grateful. Calling for more speed, Stell held on tight as the convoy drew quickly away. Ahead he saw only darkness. Lowering the useless binoculars, he bit his lip in frustration. The Zonies had been used like a hammer to drive the convoy forward. Logically, therefore, an anvil waited somewhere up ahead. If they continued, they'd be smashed against it. His mind searched desperately for an answer, a way out, and finding none, he felt the first stirrings of panic.

Forcing himself to breathe slowly, to relax, he made his mind a receptive blank. He could almost hear Bull Strom saying, “When things get toughest son, that's the time to let go. Otherwise your emotions will get you all jammed up. The answer's there ... but you gotta be quiet to hear it. So let your mind go blank. That's when the answer will come.” And when it did, Stell couldn't help but laugh out loud, causing the troopers nearest him to look at each other in surprise, shrug their shoulders, and laugh too. Another story for the barracks.

Moments later Sergeant Major Como laughed as well, a deep basso belly laugh, as the small tactical computer by his side confirmed the feasibility of Stell's plan. He admired the pure simplicity of it, and knew that because it was so simple, so obvious, most officers would have missed it. Bull would've loved it, Como thought as he chinned his mic open and delivered the good news. Minutes later the convoy came to a full stop. The troops jumped out, placed demolition charges, and formed a column of twos with the wounded to the rear. Fortunately, only two of the wounded had to be carried on improvised stretchers. They departed in double-time, with Stell in the lead and Como bringing up the rear. Even if the unit was cut in two during an ambush, both halves would have leadership.

As they jogged along, Stell occasionally referred to the map that Como's computer had printed out. Far behind, a series of muffled explosions signalled the convoy's destruction as the demolition charges went off. “Never leave ’em anything useful,” that's what Bull had always said.

Numerous twistings and turnings brought them to a shabby duracrete building. It wore an equally grimy sign that read, “TRANSCAR TERM NAL.” It was part of a Zone-wide system originally installed by the Elders to attract industry. Since then, the Zone's business tenants had maintained the system to move raw materials and finished products to and from the spaceport. And, since the Elders prohibited air travel within the Zone, most people had to use it too. In front of the terminal, fifteen or twenty Zonies had gathered around two trash fires, warming their hands and talking in low tones. For the most part they were dressed in rags and castoffs, though a few more recent recruits wore slightly better attire. A trickle of equally grubby passengers entered and left the terminal, each dropping something into a large bucket as they passed between the two fires, but otherwise giving the two groups a wide berth. Sighting the mercenaries, both groups quickly drifted together, a variety of weapons materializing in grimy hands, avarice gleaming from deeply shadowed eyes.

For a moment, Stell thought the ambushers had found them. But he quickly dismissed that idea, certain they faced a band of common thugs. The ambushers would've been all over them by now. Motioning the troops to stay put, Stell carefully slung his assault rifle across his back, and stood with empty palms out. As he waited, his hard green eyes swept the mob, taking inventory one man at a time. Most eyes turned aside refusing to meet his, but here and there a few challenged him with open defiance. One of those, a big burly man standing toward the center of the crowd, drew Stell's attention. Here was their leader. Tiny, arrogant eyes peered out of a full, meaty face topped by a mass of greasy black hair. His voice whistled through a small, lipless mouth.

“Well, gentlemen, what have we here? Some customers what haven't paid their toll, that's what.” As the man stepped toward the front of the crowd, the others quickly moved out of his way. “Now you wouldn't want to ride without payin', would you soldier boy?”

“How much?” Stell asked evenly. If possible, he'd rather pay than fight over some petty extortion.

The other man eyed Stell and his troops with a calculating stare, ran a filthy rag over his forehead and grinned a slow, insulting grin. “Every fourth weapon should do it, soldier boy. Normally it'd be more, but I'll give you a group rate. Just stack ’em next to me as you go by.”

Stell nodded. Obviously the other man had no intention of being reasonable. Either that, or he'd severely underestimated the opposition. Stell sighed. Either way it didn't make much difference. He took two steps to the right. “Pay ’em, Corporal.”

Stepping up from behind him, Corporal Flynn flamed the first rank of men with one long-practiced motion. Five of the would-be extortionists, plus their leader, died instantly. Only a few blackened chunks of flesh and a dusting of ashes marked where they had stood. At Stell's signal, Corporal Flynn released the trigger and her flamer returned to standby.

Without a word, the surviving members of the mob backed carefully away into the shadows and disappeared. Stell posted a rear guard, and led the rest of the section down a frozen escalator and out onto a filthy loading platform.

He placed Corporal Flynn in charge of twenty troops, with orders to escort the wounded back to base. They would catch a transcar headed in the other direction and be there in a few minutes. As Flynn turned to leave, Stell stopped her. “That was good work back there, Corporal. Thanks.”

Flynn looked away self-consciously, her light skin flushing dark, accentuating the freckles sprinkled across her pug nose. “They were sure stupid sir, thinking’ we'd just cave in like that. I reckon they won't make that mistake again.”

Stell smiled. “At least not with you around, Corporal.” His smile turned to a frown as he said, “Keep an eye out for Zonies on the way back, Corporal. And when you reach base, report to Major Malik. Tell him about the Zonie ambush, and for god's sake, tell him to check the sewers under HQ. There might be more down there than a bad smell!”

Flynn laughed and replied formally, “I understand, sir, and will comply.”

Stell nodded, returning her salute, and watched as she led her troops onto the overpass leading to the other tracks. He noted with satisfaction that she sent scouts across first, and had the wounded to the rear. She'd do just fine. Hopefully, Malik would get his message in the next half hour and do something about it. Once again he felt the distrust and disapproval his executive officer always elicited from him and pushed it aside. Even Malik couldn't screw this up. But he wished he knew why someone was jamming all the brigade's frequencies up and down the bands. Was it connected with the brigade, or just coincidence? Either way, he didn't like it. Moments later a transcar arrived and they all piled on, weapons at the ready, rear guard jumping on at the very last second. Tense troopers scanned nervous passengers for any sign of hostility. There was none. Just the usual looks of fear and resentment familiar to any mercenary soldier. The transcar gently accelerated and the walls of the tunnel became a blur. Stell slumped down into a seat and stared out through a grimy, scratched window. He felt sure they'd escaped the anvil. But someone had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to set that trap. Who? Why? Those questions occupied him for the rest of the journey.

Their destination wasn't much to look at. A seedy hotel, once fashionable but long since outstripped by newer establishments located further from the noisy spaceport. “Shall I secure it, sir?” Sergeant Major Como's expression made it clear he thought he should.

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant Major,” Stell replied. “In spite of our obvious charms it seems we're not overly popular in some quarters; better to be safe than sorry.”

“Yes, sir,” Como replied with a grin as he turned to give orders to the troops. With the wounded, plus their escort gone, they could establish only the lightest perimeter, but anything was better than nothing. Ten minutes later Stell entered the hotel's run-down lobby with Como at his side and two hand-picked men close behind. A shriveled up old man sat at the reception counter, looking every bit as worn as the establishment he served. He wore ancient electroptic goggles replacing eyes lost years before after overdosing on Yirl drug. The goggles gave him a frog-like appearance, and the long, narrow tongue constantly flicking in and out of his wide mouth enhanced the similarity. His voice emerged as a servile whine. “Welcome to Arno's finest, noble sirs. How can this humble old man be of service?”

“We're here to see President Kasten,” Stell answered evenly. “Where could we find him?”

The old man's tongue snaked in and out thoughtfully. “Kasten ... Kasten, hmmm, the name does have a familiar ring, noble sir,” he said doubtfully, his left hand scratching a bald head, the right palm up, waiting for a tip.

“Maybe this will improve your memory, old man,” Como said impatiently and placed the barrel of his slug gun in the clerk's waiting palm.

The old man jerked his hand back as though burned. “Third floor, Suite
B,"
he snapped resentfully, turning back to the porno holo still playing below the counter. As soon as Stell and Como were out of sight, he picked up the com-set and punched in a series of numbers.

On the sixth ring, in a plush hotel room on the other side of the Zone, a beautiful woman with long black hair flicked on the com-set next to her bed and listened without answering. “They're here,” the old man said, and he hung up.

The woman smiled a cold smile, and turned to the naked man in bed beside her. “Your first attempt was a failure, Major. I hope you'll do better the second time around.” As her cool fingers slid toward his groin, Major Peter Malik wondered which she meant, the ambush of Stell's convoy, or their recent coupling. He hoped like hell it was the ambush.

The lift tube was out of service, so Stell and his men walked up three flights of stairs, and then down a drab hall to the door marked SUITE B. Standing on either side of the door were two hard-looking men dressed in stained leathers. One had a dark beard, quick bright eyes, and a large hooked nose. The other was too young to shave, had acne, and a thatch of yellow hair. Long exposure to sun and wind had tanned their skins a dark brown. Both wore sidearms and cradled assault rifles. They regarded the approaching soldiers with interest but without alarm. They think they can take all four of us if necessary, Stell noted with interest. Looking at them, he decided it was a distinct possibility. His respect for their prospective employers were up a notch. Freehold evidently produced some tough customers. They were still fifteen feet away when the man with a beard said, “That's far enough, gentlemen. Can I help you?”

Stopping as ordered, Stell was careful to keep both hands in sight. “We're here to see President Kasten,” he replied. “My name's Stell, and this is my aide, Sergeant Major Como.”

The bearded man nodded in acknowledgement, and whispered into a wrist mic, his eyes never leaving Stell. Receiving clearance via the implant in his right ear, the guard smiled. “They're expecting you, Colonel. Go right in.” In spite of the bearded man's friendly demeanor, the younger guard only grudgingly opened the door. A very serious young man, Stell decided. Stell smiled his thanks and entered with Como close behind. The two troopers remained outside.

After passing through an antechamber, they emerged into an open, airy room that had seen better days but still managed a feeling of used elegance. Comfortable furniture surrounded a worn rug, while indirect lighting cast a muted glow against once-red walls. Two men and a woman rose to greet them. “Welcome, Colonel Stell,” the larger of the two men said. He extended his hand, a smile of greeting on his round, tanned face. “I'm Oliver Kasten.” Kasten was a big man, once athletic, now starting to put on a little weight. Stell liked his firm grip and open gaze.

“This is my daughter, Olivia,” Kasten continued with a gesture, “and over here we have Senator Austin Roop.” Stell smiled at Olivia Kasten and shook her offered hand. It was cool and firm. Her touch sent a tingle of excitement through him and the subtle widening of her eyes told him she felt it too. They were brown eyes, deep and calm; the flecks of gold floating in them matched her sun-streaked auburn hair. She was beautiful, and well aware of it, smiling at his frank appraisal. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Stell.”