Freehold (7 page)

In the compound below, figures scurried around preparing for lift-off. Shortly after Stell's return, the Elders had sent word that the brigade was no longer welcome on Arno ... and had forty-eight hours to get off. Of course, they would have lifted anyway. The Zone was no place for rest and relaxation. Plus, they had a new client—the planet called Freehold. The agreement had been hammered out on the fly.

Stell had arranged for Kasten and his party to be evacuated to brigade HQ in a heavily armed convoy, since they obviously weren't safe in the hotel. As they wound their way through the flames and chaos touched off by Corporal Flynn, Stell and Kasten began the delicate process of feeling each other out. Kasten began by requesting the brigade's standard rates. Stell replied there was no such thing as a standard war, and therefore no such things as standard rates. The brigade charged according to services actually rendered, with a standard minimum, and escalation clauses covering the unexpected. Nonetheless, he agreed to supply some examples of past engagements and approximate cost. As he did, the politician turned white.

“Roop was right, you certainly aren't cheap,” Kasten said, forcing a crooked smile.

“True,” Stell answered with a shrug, “but like the ancient saying goes; you get what you pay for, and we're the best.”

Kasten nodded. “I don't doubt it, Colonel, but I honestly can't say if we have enough, credits left to pay you. I guess I was somewhat optimistic, about your fees. Maybe Austin's right after all ... it's a choice between giving the planet to you or the pirates!”

Stell laughed, saying, “If so, I assure you we are the more pleasant choice.” However, Kasten's joke stimulated a line of reasoning that both surprised and intrigued him, and he made a mental note to pursue it later. Meanwhile, the two men worked out a compromise. Kasten couldn't hire the brigade without the consent of Roop's opposition party. Even if the necessary amount of money was available, he lacked sufficient authority to spend it. But, since Roop Was still unconscious, Kasten had the leeway to hire the brigade on a provisional basis, pending a final decision by Freehold's Senate. If the Senate vetoed the idea, the brigade would be paid for time spent; if Kasten's proposal was approved, the mercenaries would already be in transit. Since they had to leave Arno anyway, the agreement wouldn't impose a hardship on the brigade. Stell smiled, remembering the twinkle in Kasten's eyes as he said, “Frankly, Colonel Stell, Austin would do our planet a great service if he'd just stay unconscious a little longer. Without him mucking around I wouldn't have any trouble getting the Senate's approval!”

Stell's thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his com-set. Without turning, he said, “Yes?”

“There's a man here to see you, sir,” Sergeant Wilkens, the headquarters clerk, said disapprovingly. “Says his name is Sam. Won't give any other name, sir.”

Stell grinned. “Send him up, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilkens replied reluctantly.

A few minutes later the door to Stell's office flew open, and a disheveled young man strode in and flopped onto the couch that Wilkens had dredged up from somewhere. “You call this an office?” he said, looking around critically at the dingy walls and shabby furniture. “I've seen Finthian bordellos with more class than this.”

“Hello to you too, Sam,” Stell said, dropping into a chair and swinging his boots up onto the scarred metal surface of the old campaign desk. “It disturbs me to learn that one of my officers is so familiar with Finthian bordellos ... and a lady officer at that.”

Captain Samantha Anne Mosley stuck out her tongue at her commanding officer, peeled off the wig she wore, and shook out her medium-length blonde hair. She wasn't especially pretty, but that was an asset in her line of business. The last thing an intelligence officer needs is a memorable face. On the other hand, she wasn't ugly either, kind of cute in fact, something which hadn't escaped Stell's notice. Intelligent brown eyes twinkled under bushy unplucked brows. A nose a shade too large was softened by full, sensuous lips. And Stell knew from personal experience that the male clothing hid a very nice female body.

“Hello, Mark,” she said. “It's good to see you. Excuse the charade, but this dump isn't a nice place for a defenseless girl to wander around in.” She looked him up and down with the proprietary air of an older sister.

Stell snorted in disbelief. “Defenseless my ass. You're about as defenseless as a Linthian Rath snake ... but I'm glad you're back, you had me worried.”

“Why?” she asked with a smile. “You know I'm indestructible.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know you think you are, anyway.” For a moment they sat, sharing the comfortable silence of two people who know each other very well. For nearly two years they'd enjoyed a close relationship. Although the love affair had eventually run its course, it ended in an amicable parting of the ways, and they had remained good friends. The relationship made Stell feel guilty sometimes, but he couldn't bear the thought of ending it. He wondered what he'd do if faced with the necessity of sending her on a mission with little chance of survival. He wasn't sure, but he knew she'd hate him for the slightest hint of favoritism, which made him admire her even more, and in turn made the problem worse.

She pulled out a dopestick and puffed it alight. Stell frowned in disapproval as always and, as always, she ignored him. “You've been busy,” she said waving vaguely toward the outside. “Any connection with my mission?”

Stell nodded. “Lots. I'm hoping you'll be able to shed some light on the whole thing. But first, I'd better bring you up to date.” Quickly, he reviewed the Zonie attacks, his meeting with Kasten and Roop, and the subsequent attack on brigade HQ. When he finished, Sam stubbed out her dopestick and lit another. As she spoke, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

“There's a connection all right, although for a while it looked like a standard client recon, and a boring one at that. I landed on Freehold using a deep cover as a sales rep for a small shipping line called Tri-Star. Supposedly, I was looking to set up regular runs to Freehold. First I talked to the government types at the planet's capital, a place called First Hole. I told ’em I represented a small shipping line interested in serving Freehold, but was concerned about the unusual number of pirate raids, and asked if they could shed any light on the situation. All I got was the runaround. They didn't have the foggiest idea why the pirates had increased their raids, but the government was working on it, and I shouldn't worry my pretty little head. So I headed for the boonies. At first, I couldn't find a damn thing there, either. Those who knew weren't talking, and those who didn't wouldn't shut up. From all indications, the economy centered around limited mining operations, light industry, and the production of some sophisticated ceramic products. It seems a long period of bad weather had hit the first two pretty hard, so I figured their surplus must be coming from the last, and it made sense. Given all that sand, and the almost limitless hydroelectric power available from those huge underground rivers, specialty ceramic products were a natural. Then, too, I learned the finished products were often small, light, easily transportable items, just the sort of things pirates love.”

“With that in mind, I traveled around telling anyone who'd listen that my company was offering top prices for exotic ceramic products.” Sam laughed. “You wouldn't believe the bribes I was offered—including a variety of sexual services that would make you blush. Anyway, it seems that the settlements operate as cooperatives, each in competition with all the others. So everyone I talked to did their best to promote their products and knock the competition's. And in their eagerness to win my business, they also dropped odd bits of information.”

“With lots of help from you, I'm sure,” Stell added dryly. “Were you dressed as a man or a woman?”

“Whichever it took,” she teased. “Now pay attention, because I'm getting to the interesting part. After a particularly alcoholic dinner with the chairman of the local co-op, I received a drunken tour of the settlement's power plant—a big, sealed building right down at the river's edge. I had tried to get inside similar buildings and had failed. Once inside, there was all the stuff you'd expect in a hydroelectric plant: giant turbines, power grids, all the rest. But there was also a section that my host seemed determined to avoid. So when he left for a moment to relieve himself, I took a peek.”

Stell wasn't fooled by her light conversational tone. He knew the risks she had taken.

“After getting past a variety of locks, sensors and other stuff, I knew I didn't have much time in there. So I didn't try to figure anything out, I just taped as much as I could.” With that she pulled a micro-viewer out of a hidden pocket in her rumpled clothing and handed it to Stell. Holding it up, Stell gave the viewer a gentle squeeze, and it dutifully played back. Although the two-dimensional picture lacked the depth of a holo, it still produced good detail and color. The shots were fast and jerky, reflecting Sam's haste as she had raced against the clock and her host's full bladder. Occasionally he touched the screen to freeze a shot for a longer look. First he saw a complicated maze of pipes and tubing that seemed to snake in and out of large, sealed metal boxes. Then the camera ran along a laboratory bench covered with printouts, specimen bottles, tools, and other less-identifiable junk.

Handing the viewer back, Stell said, “Very impressive. What is it?”

Sam smiled. “That's what I asked the big brains on Techno before I came here.”

Stell knew Techno was an artificial satellite that had started hundreds of years before as a small research station. Over time it had grown, one module at a time, until it matched the size of Earth's moon. It was a small, independent and self-sufficient universe, inhabited by a variety of top-flight scientists and technicians, all working for the highest bidder. It was rumored that they had developed secret weapons of incredible power with which to defend their artificial world. So far, no one had tried them on for size.

“And what did our high-priced friends have to say?” Stell asked.

“They say the folks on Freehold have come up with an interesting source of revenue. One which will make them very rich, if they can produce it in quantity ... if they can get it to market, that is. The eggheads told me they'd been puzzling over the stuff coming out of Freehold for some time. So, using their existing research, plus the information I provided, they were able to do a pretty good analysis. Evidently, that maze of pipes and stuff is all part of a sophisticated water-filtration system. So sophisticated that the brains estimate it's capable of filtering out a piece of matter only a couple of microns across. The stuff on the work bench confirms that, and also suggests that the system is set up to recover a single mineral, one that is evidently present in large quantities in those underground rivers.”

“Any idea what mineral that might be?” Stell asked.

Sam grinned and lit a new dopestick from the butt of the last. “I thought you'd never ask! The brains call it
thermium.
They say it's the secret ingredient that makes Freehold's ceramics so special. Nobody's been able to duplicate them, and I guess plenty have tried. Evidently, they are unbelievably heat resistant. There's nothing on the market like them, and there's thousands of possible applications, in everything from weapons to mom's toaster. Techno made me a generous standing offer for any thermium I could bring them.”

Stell frowned thoughtfully. “That explains a lot. If this mineral is something new, and extremely diluted in those underground rivers, that would account for how Intersystems missed it during their original survey. And, if it's as valuable as you say, it explains why they want the planet back—so much so that they're willing to strike some sort of deal with the pirates.”

“Exactly,” Sam agreed. “And it also suggests how Freehold has managed to make those payments up till now. They're not living in the lap of luxury or anything ... but those specialty ceramics have kept them from going under. But why make the ceramics themselves? Why not market the thermium and let others manufacture the products?”

“I don't know,” Stell admitted. “But maybe they think it's important to build their own industrial base. They seem like an independent bunch.”

“An independent bunch who're lying like hell,” Samantha said, jabbing a dopestick in his direction. “Why haven't Kasten and, what's his name, Roop, told you about thermium, instead of pretending it doesn't exist?”

“Because,” Stell said soberly, “they're convinced that potentially we're just as bad as the pirates, and in a way you can't blame them. Once dirtside, we could easily take everything they've got. I think Kasten wants to tell us ... but Roop's stopping him.”

Both were silent for a moment as Sam blew out a long stream of scented lavender smoke. “No,” she said finally, “I guess you can't blame ’em. If I had a home, maybe I'd do the same.”

Just then, Stell's com-set buzzed. “Yes, Sergeant?”

“The Sergeant Major's on his way up, sir.”

“Thanks, Wilkens,” Stell replied, as a tremendous commotion began out in the hall.

Seconds later a small, ragged figure was shoved into the room, kicking and screaming abuse, with Sergeant Major Como close behind. “Sit down,” Como ordered sternly, pointing at a straight-backed chair.

The skinny little girl jerked her arm away and spat defiantly at Como's feet. “Screw you, mister,” she said. “Who died and made you an Elder, anyway?”

The Sergeant Major looked down at the spittle on his highly polished boots and then back up with an expression that had terrified full-grown men. The girl promptly sat down. “And what have we here, Sergeant Major?” Stell asked with an amused expression.

“Face the other way, child,” Como ordered, his voice gruff but kind.

The girl made a face, but stood obediently, turned, and sat down straddling the chair. Stell saw the back of her pathetic little dress had been ripped. Working carefully, Como gently pulled the edges of the garment apart to reveal her bare back. Stell winced at the sight. Someone had made a deep slash in her back and then stitched it up with sloppy sutures. Bloody drainage oozed down between protruding shoulder blades to disappear under her filthy dress. Turning to Como, Stell said, “Malik?”