Freehold (34 page)

"Fine, get going," he said, clearly embarrassed by being taken down.

She stood and ran. Next was the cargo net, all thirty vertical meters of it. It no longer scared her, but her weapon tangled in the webbing and she was upside down by the time she unhooked it. She scrambled aright and finished the climb and descent.

There were twenty-two more obstacles, all sandy or muddy or wet or filthy or some combination of all of them. Her eyes were red and weeping from incapacitance gas before she was through, her lungs a frothy, syrupy burning mess. Once done with the ground test, she ran across a field-expedient airfac and boarded a vertol. As soon as it was full, the pilot lifted. They were taken to altitude and dropped, the target illuminated by laser and showing on their visors. Silently, they formed into squads and attacked a nearby position. From there, the orienteering course required precision navigation over short distances. Once graded on that, they boarded a shuttle.

Straight into orbit, they deployed in suits they donned en route and attacked a destroyer, cutting and blasting their way through the hull and seizing control. From there, they dropped in pods back into the combat sim for four more days of fun. It was raining again, and Kendra wondered if it was going to rain every time she went into the field. She was beyond exhausted from the level of activity and hadn't thought it possible to eat so much and not gain weight.

As Mobile Assault troops, she'd thought they'd see a higher complexity of battle. The local commanders, with absolute disregard for training, tossed them in anywhere they had shortages. It was a bit discouraging.

They cleaned up, slept and marched through another graduation, Rob and Marta in the stands, their own qualification badges proudly worn. She was dismissed, and went to spend the day with them. Ash had left, but said goodbye and kissed her and Mar as he departed. Then Rob had to make a contract appointment, leaving the two women alone. They went shopping, looking for exotic minerals and wood crafts, a love they shared. Kendra bought a green marble kitchen knife rack for Marta and had it shipped clandestinely. She had a bit of money now, which felt reassuring. She wasn't obsessed with the stuff, but it was impossible to live without, and a cushion let her sleep more easily.

Her hair had grown out to collar length, which made her less self-conscious in public. She also gradually became aware that she was totally unworried by any threat of crime. She knew she could instantly become a human chainsaw if attacked. She also no longer felt odd carrying a weapon. They were just tools to be used. It was a change in temperament she reflected on as they walked the cool, bright streets.

"One more stop," Marta insisted, and flew them a few kilometers to the outskirts of town. They stopped in front of a blocky building, thirty or so meters removed from its neighbors. A simple painted sign outside proclaimed Cardiff Cutlery. They went inside.

Rustic was perhaps the word. The back of the building, visible through an opening, was equipped with bay doors for loading equipment and material. Inside, it resembled an archaic smithy crossed with a machine shop. The front contained racks and displays of exotic cutlery. She'd never imagined so many varieties of edged weapons.

Mike Cardiff was about Marta's height, stripped to the waist and showing knotty biceps He had a short, graying beard and mustache and a shaven head. "Well! Marta!" he said brightly in a resonant voice that belonged to a man twice his size. He grinned evilly and reached out his grimy hands.

She was still in uniform and squealed, "Don't even think it! Or I'll never kiss you again."

He wiped his hands off and held them at his sides while she leaned to kiss him chastely. "Who's your friend?" he asked as he leaned back. "Is she taken?" He leered comically at Kendra.

"Yes, by me and Rob. Mike, Kendra Pacelli. Kendra, Mike Cardiff," she introduced. Kendra took his hands and shook. He gave her a glance from head to toe that boosted her ego. His thoughts were obvious.

"You ladies look at the hardware, I have to check on one in the oven," he said and walked into the back again.

Kendra stared at the work. It was amazing. Some of the blades had grains and patterns like burled wood. She'd heard of pattern-welded and Damascus steel, but had only seen one small piece of Rob's. This was incredible.

Looking to Marta for assent, she lifted one from the rack. It was a standard kataghan pattern, chisel pointed, slightly S-curved, with a grip of nuggetwood set with silver pins. One nearby she didn't recognize by shape had a handle of malachite. She whistled in respect.

Cardiff returned with clean hands, wiping them on a rag and asked, "Any questions?"

"Not yet, but I am impressed," Kendra said. Marta was scrutinizing a small knife.

"Your accent is familiar. You're from Earth?" he asked.

"Yes," she agreed. "Minneapolis."

"Oho! Do I have a piece for you!" he said, guiding her by her elbow to another rack. He drew the blade from its slot and handed it over. She took it from him, curious, and stopped suddenly. The balance was amazing. It floated in her hand, seemingly ready to swing in any direction she willed without physical effort. She raised it and marveled at the artistry of it.

It was a wakizashi, she recognized. The blade was about fifty centimeters, patterned with interlocking curls of the constituent metal writhing like a snake along the length of it, treated with some chemical to reveal it in shades of gold and tan. It seemed to have a depth, hypnotizing the eye into staring into it. The sides curved slightly into an edge so fine there was no glint of reflected light. Just back from the edge, there was what she knew was a temper line. It was wavy, crisp near the edge and clouding into nothingness toward the back. The guard was a circle of carved black iron with gold hammered into it in the shape of a rosebud. The hilt behind it was a golden-hued wood that was tiger-stripe grained and had a depth of its own that shifted with the angle of the light. The scabbard Cardiff held was carved of the same wood.

"What
is
that wood? I've never seen it before," she asked, stunned by its beauty.

"That's actually quilted maple from Earth, salvaged from an old piece of furniture. I forged the blade from two damaged pieces. One was an old family blade that was too trashed to reuse as was. The other was an absolutely archaic Damascus shotgun barrel, also worthless in the condition it was in. You'll see the weld pattern change from Persian twist to waterfall along the shinogi, which is this line here, where the bevel starts." He indicated the break and she could see a faint line where the two patterns met. "So all the materials are from Earth. The surface is treated with titanium nitride for the gold tones," he finished.

Kendra wanted it. No, she lusted after it. She didn't dare look at the price tag. This was an entirely handcrafted work of art. She nodded and thanked Cardiff, putting it back on the rack. She turned to see Marta buying a small dagger, the grain of the blade twisted back on itself, hilted in Grainne amber and silver.

"Not getting it?" Marta asked.

"I want to, but I don't dare spend the money," she admitted.

"You need a sword for formal wear," Mar chided.

"But—"

"And it should be distinctive," she added.

"But—"

"And you'll never see that one again. Mike's stuff is magic that way. You come in and wait for one to call to you," she insisted.

"Marta, sto—"

"And you just finished your training, which calls for a special gift to yourself," she reasonably pointed out.

"Dammit, I—"

"And you want it," she finished.

Cardiff brought the sword over again and held out the tag. Sighing, she took it and read it. It listed the materials, the date finished and gave the name of the piece as "The Warbride." Below that was the price. Cr3500. It was more than reasonable for the work involved, but she flinched anyway. Even with the bonuses she received for hazardous duty, that was almost two months' pay. But she did want it. And another one like it would never exist.

She hesitated a moment longer until Cardiff said, "If you're a friend of Marta's and just graduated, then let's say three even. And I owe Rob."

"Let me guess, he saved your life on Mtali," she said. It was becoming a running joke.

"Nooo! I'm a civilian, thank you very much," he protested. "I just make the hardware for them. But he's referred a lot of people and does research for me."

She sighed and handed over her card. He scanned it and let the machine transact while he wiped the blade with a cloth and gave her a hardsheet of instructions. "Thank you!" she said, thrilled.

They left and Marta begged to handle it once. Kendra relented. She loved watching the light coruscate from the surfaces. She said so.

"That's all?" Marta replied. "It makes me wet to look at it."

"
Everything
makes you wet, dear," Kendra replied, laughing.

"Sure does. You want to?" Mar asked, running fingers down her shoulder.

"Umm . . . after lunch, you could probably talk me into it," Kendra agreed.

They parked at a downtown ramp and walked to a café. The sword thrust through Kendra's sash drew as many stares as the two women themselves did. It was a good afternoon.

"My logisticians are a humorless lot . . . they know if my campaign fails, they are the first ones I will slay."

—Alexander of Macedonia

Logistics training was a forty-two-day course, but Kendra only had to attend the first week, since she'd tested proficient in all the software, accounting and technical matters. She was glad. These people never stopped training. So one more week would do it, then she'd finally be serving in the military again.

The first week was the combat logistics course. She wasn't sure what to expect. The barracks she was assigned to had small rooms of four trainees rather than bays, so she hoped it would be less intense than the previous courses. The hope didn't last, and she found the first day very confusing.

She and seven other "pipeline" trainees met outside, she wearing corporal's hashes and holding a sign with their class number. Two older students who were crosstraining came over, one a sergeant, who nodded but let her keep authority for now. They cautiously introduced themselves, wondering also at the new environment. Kendra had learned that that was a fact of military life and quickly identified with the crosstrainees. The other recruits weren't familiar to her or each other at all, and formed their own clique. Well, it meant she was fitting in, she hoped.

A woman almost as tall as Kendra, with a heavier, lanky build as opposed to her angular one approached. She wore senior sergeant stripes and was as immaculately made up as all instructors. Without preamble, she read their names off her comm and made notes. "I'm Senior Sergeant Logistics Instructor Joly. Senior Joly is sufficient. We'll get introduced as we go. We will leave for the firing range in ten segs, so grab everything you need and let's go. I'll wait here," she told them.

Kendra grabbed her weapon from her room; she'd been carrying only a Merrill pistol. She added helmet, field harness and a cloak. It was fair so far, but might rain later, and a cloak was handy to lie on for prone fire. She was back downstairs and outside in less than five segs to wait as the others trickled in.

Once everyone returned, Joly lead them on a run toward the firing range. The pace was unhurried, just fast enough to get the circulation going. The day was hot, but a light, steady breeze kept them comfortable and wafted the scent of mountain blossoms to them. On the whole, Kendra enjoyed it, and running a few kilometers was no longer a strain.

They neared the range, the din of small arms fire increasing from subliminal pops to a steady crash as they approached. There was a recruit battalion burning off its daily crate of ammo, so they picked ten lanes as far from them as possible. "Okay," Joly said, "let's fire a basic course of fifty and get to class."

The students nodded and stood waiting. "Yes?" Joly prompted.

"We need ammo, Senior," Kendra reminded.

"Why? You all plan to be in logistics, don't you? You were given the mission parameters, it's your job to provide the materials. I guess you better break into your basic loads and make it up later," she suggested.

Kendra and two others, including one of the crosstrainees, had left their basic loads in their rooms. They'd expected naturally that ammo would be supplied, as always. She flushed crimson, and burned more as she took a written reprimand for not being armed in accordance with regs. The class shared ammo from the open packs—basic load was one thousand rounds, so there was more than enough. Then Joly berated them for opening seven packs when one would have supplied everyone. "Wasting resources already. This is
not
the way we do things in the FMF!" she snapped. Then she dropped them for pushups. Technically, that wasn't done beyond initial recruit training, but no one felt inclined to argue with her. Fifty pushups was not the chore it had once been for Kendra, merely a reminder. She vowed to pay better attention to details.

Once done firing, Joly said, "We'll be doing a field exercise for the rest of the day. Pacelli, maybe you can redeem yourself by taking charge of logistics."

"Yes, Senior," she replied. "Where do I get supplies?"

"Training Depot Logistics, of course. Sign it out to this class number," she advised.

"Yes, Senior," she acknowledged, and headed off to gather everything.

She found the Logistics building, gave her class number and requested ten basic loads of ammo; seven to replace the opened ones and three more for any firing they might do. She added marking pens, map chips of the area, ten field rations and some incidentals.

She lugged it all back in a crate, sweating, and distributed it to everybody. She'd gotten a pad of paper receipts and made everyone sign for everything she'd brought. Joly looked over and nodded. "Okay, we'll head out and see what you missed," she said, still with a faintly amused undertone to her serious countenance.