Freehold (19 page)

Rob spoke again. "Bro—Katana, confirm on command vehicle and my target number three tank and tank retriever for Gladius. Avatars in seven seconds. Suck trees, folks." They flew through a pillar of smoke from another vehicle and Kendra glimpsed the carnage created by the number-two Hatchet. That craft then appeared directly ahead and Kendra gritted her teeth in a grimace as they passed each other at bare meters.

Then the ride became violent and she was thrown in all directions, seeing nothing but trees. Beeps sounded as a trailing interceptor tried to lock onto the rapidly viffing vertol. Rob suddenly yanked them hard left at the bottom of a valley, looped crazily back into an immelman and dropped down to the trees again, all without quite getting above the crest of the hill. "Goddess, I can hear him cuss from here," he joked. Apparently, the trick had lost the faster but less maneuverable interceptor. There were more violent aerobatics, level flight, then Rob announced, "Bro—Exercise terminate. Katana, that was a commendable run. I think you are ready to try a second slot on the next game. We'll check the results in the tank when we get back."

"Claymore, thanks, Warrant," the younger pilot acknowledged, his grin visible though the transmission was voice only.

"Bro—Okay folks, let's go watch the fireworks." As Kendra managed to get her shakes under control, forcing herself not to vomit, Rob sought altitude and headed over the mountains, then north.

A new road was being constructed to the west, an area currently serviced only by aircraft, and the contractors had bought military assistance. Orbital Defense was to utilize one of its older systems in a practice exercise and blast a cut through a hill that was on the route the road would take. Heavy blocks of metal would be decelerated from orbit and drop in a line along the surveyed area, cutting the path in question with kinetic energy. The military would get target practice and a large fraction of the old system's cost back and the builder got a cut through a mountain in segs rather than days.

Prior to that, however, evac and transport vertols would patrol the area to ensure that any persons in the area were well clear. It was unlikely that anyone was in such an area, as they would be over a hundred kilometers from any major settlement, in deep woods. The precaution was taken, however, and would scare most wildlife away, too. The Hatchet pilots were there for fun.

"Kendra, I'm going to slowly increase your control sensitivity. Feel where my positions are, there's a slight detent notch . . . now move slowly. You can fly us for a few segs."

"Is that wise?" she asked.

"You'll be fine. I can lock you out instantly if there is a problem and we have plenty of altitude. Here you go."

Kendra felt the controls stiffen and the craft wobbled a little, until she adjusted to the delicacy that was required. Rob said, "I've made them less sensitive than normal, so you can't maneuver too hard or too fast. Start gently and take it as far as you feel safe. Any questions?"

She discovered that the hands were for two-dimensional steering and vertical lift and tilt. Twisting the wrists was throttle, and it would trigger thrust to the sides when she pushed her elbows in the corresponding direction she wanted to go. Pushing with her feet provided thrust at the nose and pulling them did the same at the rear, apparently for combat maneuvers. The cockpit was almost worn rather than controlled, and the sticks in her hands were basically guides. She looked around and asked, "What are these things with tape over them?"

"What things?" he replied.

"These areas with oh-dee tape over some kind of readout," she said, more precisely.

"I don't know which ones you are referring to."

"This area on my left, in front of the stick," she insisted.

"Sorry."

She concluded that whatever it was was none of her business and dropped the subject. Flying was fun, although she was much more cautious than Rob. She could understand, however, why he enjoyed flying it and why these murderous little craft had so intimidated the warring factions on Mtali. They packed a demonic amount of firepower, could outmaneuver anything in the sky and were flown by pilots utterly fearless and thoroughly insane. The exercise she had witnessed was more impressive than the air combat she'd seen the UN pilots engage in. She turned a few circles, did some swoops and a high-speed run. Slowly lowering the craft, she watched the instruments read "200 meters" and "1900 kpd," which was no better when read as 700 kph.

At a warning from Rob, she felt the controls slip away. He headed in a different direction and joined several assorted other craft in a slow circle.

"Nineteen seconds, off to our left," he advised.

Exactly nineteen seconds later, according to the clock in her environment, tremendous flashes, like an overenthusiastic string of firecrackers, caused her visor to polarize. The black splotches of impact and diagonal incandescent streaks of the incoming projectiles were surrounded by blue sky that almost instantly darkened with dust.

Close to thirty seconds later, her view almost back to normal, the shock wave from the impact slapped them, sounding louder than any thunder, and rumbled off for what seemed like forever. Rob warned her again and seconds later, another volley tore across the same landscape. As its blast washed over them, there came a third. Kendra found it eerie to be so close to energy equivalent to a medium nuclear weapon.

The fourth cut across their field of view and they were immediately slammed upside down and sideways. Kendra was numb, listened to Rob curse, and realized that something had gone wrong.
Damocles
shook and sounds that could only be warnings were shrieking in her ears.

One by one, the warning sounds ceased. The craft was righted and Rob shouted a combination report and chewing out into his mike. "Kendra! Your vitals look good, are you conscious?" he finished.

"I'm fine. What the fuck happened?" she demanded, surprised at her own vehemence.

"One of the bright boys apparently rounded pi off to three and missed the x. Ground zero was less than five hundred meters from us."

"Trif. Are we okay?"

"Other than almost literally having the shit scared out of me, I'm fine. The craft is unscathed—these bastards are built to take near misses from stuff like that. Great Goddess, that was intense! Missile-lock warnings on my ass have never been that scary!"

He swung back in the direction of the strike zone and swapped relieved jokes with the other pilots. Two others had been affected by the blast and the three of them loudly discussed the intelligence and ancestry of the technician who had plotted the last fire mission. Kendra tried to slow her galloping heart and studied with interest the gash left by the four strings of impacts, now visible through a diminishing haze of dust.

The cut was a perfect line through the hill, surprisingly even at the bottom and close to one hundred meters wide, with trees blown down on either side for another four hundred meters. It was exactly aligned with the distant stretch of road that would connect to it. The entire area had taken on brown hues from the huge amount of ejecta thrown during the operation. Approximately 1,500,000 cubic meters of mountain had been vaporized in less than two segs. The UN EPA might have objected to the method, but it was a most impressively efficient engineering feat.

And, she thought to herself, a weapon that could do the same to a city for only a few thousand creds.
That
concept she quickly put out of her mind.

Rob took them over the single stray impact. The errant round had blown a crater seventy meters in diameter, with a bull's-eye of trees around it. She stared silently at it as they swung back toward home.

"Rob?" she asked, as their course straightened.

"Yes?"

"That near miss really has me freaked."

"Well, it was a miss, so that's good. Consider the top surface area of this beast relative to the four-hundred-meter radius we were from impact, and consider that as a fraction of the area contained in the ten-thousand-meter safe zone. Then the odds of an error like that happening—apparently it was a defective targeting mechanism. It was an unlucky event, but the odds of it coming close enough to kill are remote."

"I guess." What she didn't say, and wouldn't, was that she was bothered by the mention of "Avatar" interceptors for the exercise. The Avatar was a UN craft . . . 

"Government cannot make man richer, but it can make him poorer."

—Ludwig Von Mises

Pacelli Information Associates
Earth Culturalists
Consultants
Specialty North America
 
36651-96908 Jefferson

Kendra stared at the cards. She had an ad on her phone, another in the public nets and these cards to hand out to strangers. She squeezed it again to see the animation flash across the surface.

It was a new concept, again.
Her
business. She'd worried about the publicity of her name, with a search still on for her. "Just use your last name. They won't make the connection," Rob had insisted. "You're thinking a massive bureaucracy is efficient and can think. Won't happen."

Nervously, she'd agreed. Marta and Rob had helped her set up, with surprisingly little money. No fees, licenses, taxes or background checks. No certification or insurance. Print up advertising and
go
. They had advised her on the rate she should charge, which seemed outrageous, but they insisted she should demand it.

"You won't be taken seriously if you are too cheap," Marta had explained. "And the people who need your service will pay without a twitch. You can haggle slightly if someone is desperate or just needs a quick question."

"What about long-term deals? Should I offer a discount?" She couldn't imagine a long-term contract happening, but thought she'd better ask.

"Depends. If they want you to go to their site, demand more."

She'd agreed, even though she didn't entirely understand.

Only a few days later, she arrived home from work to find a message waiting. "Line Two. Line Two. Line Two . . ."

That was her business line, Kendra realized after a moment. She reached for a shirt.

"Answer phone Pacelli," she ordered.

"Returning call," the machine advised. "Dialing. Connecting."

"Yes, I'm Kenneth Chinran," the caller said as he came on screen. "I'd like some information on a consultancy." He was dressed very conservatively, very Commerce Boulevard.

"Okay," she agreed, smiling politely while her mind raced. She decided to stall. "Tell me what you're looking for."

"My company is preparing to send a group to North America and we'd like them to be familiar enough with customs that they can get immediately to the job at hand with few distractions. We'd like them to interact smoothly."

"I see. Where would we be meeting?"

"We would fly you here, to Marrou. We would like to have your services for three days, long divs."

"How long?" she asked.

"Three point five per day."

She nodded while quietly taking a deep breath and said, "My fee is two hundred creds per div. And I'll need transport and lodging."

Chinran nodded back, "Very well. How soon are you available?"

"I can come this weekend if your schedule is tight."
Two grand! For three days of lecturing!
 

"It is. We also will require an oath of confidentiality."

"All my clients have confidentiality," she replied smoothly.
Since you're all of them.
 

"Very well. We'll have a ticket waiting for you on Eastern Shuttle Service at six on Berday," Chinran advised.

"I need to know how many people and exactly what type of information you want."

"Nineteen people and myself. We'd like background on customs, slang, shopping, dress and accents. Mostly, we simply need to talk at length. We will ask some specific questions and you'll need to fill in whatever you think we may have missed. We'll trans a print for you."

"Sounds good. Berday then."

"Berday. Bye. Off."

"Off," she ordered.

She packed a bag for the weekend trip and commed to confirm her ticket. Rob had agreed to drive her to the 'port and waited almost too late: he was working on something for Freehold Rapid Courier and seemed distracted. He drove fast, and she gripped the seat in fear at some of his maneuvers. Other drivers didn't seem bothered so she tried to relax.

At the airport, the procedure was strange to her. There was no search of her or her luggage, she didn't need fingerprints or retina pics to prove who she was and they had a procedure for weapons safety. She'd forgotten she was wearing her sidearm, as she now wore it out of habit.

"Please clear your weapon, Ms Pacelli," an attendant asked. She blushed and complied, stuffing the magazine and spare round into her pouch. "We'd prefer that you store it in your pouch and in the underseat stowage. You'll still be able to reach it quickly in an emergency, but it eliminates the chance of an accident."

She nodded in response. It made sense. Given the obsession with personal freedom here coupled with the need to avoid accidents, it made sense. A historical scan she'd done the week before indicated there'd never been a successful act of piracy, questionable commandeering or hijacking aboard any Freehold aircraft, transport or registered vessel. Ever. She couldn't conceive of any UN nation ever considering allowing personal weapons, however. It was an alien concept.

She was still nervous as she boarded the ballistic shuttle. The concept of atmospheric flight with the local lack of central control bothered her. The trip was short, at moderate gees by her new standards, which was still fairly brisk. She was glad they had complimentary drinks for the long descent; it had been a rough week. She had three and was cheerfully mellow when they landed.

A cab ride took her to the hotel, which was midrange and quite decent. It had a good café and she grabbed a bite before retiring. She decided to go to review her notes and go to sleep early, since she had a long weekend ahead of her. She was nervous about the presentation.