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Chapter 19

"Human nature is bad. Good is a human product . . . A warped piece of wood must be steamed and forced before it is made straight; a metal blade must be put to the whetstone before it becomes sharp. Since the nature of people is bad, to become corrected they must be taught by teachers and to be orderly they must acquire ritual and moral principles."

—Sun Tzu

Once signed on-base, Kendra took a glance at the list on her comm. It was a fairly familiar format of inprocessing. She memorized the base map and got cracking.

The commander's office was in a knock-down building. The structures on base were either solid permanent fixtures or permanent-use "temporary" structures. This was a recent polymer shell on a fused foundation. She entered what was clearly an orderly room, saw a sign of light tubes that read "Assault Commander Alan D. Naumann, Regimental Commander."

She approached a desk, introduced herself and was told to head right in. She turned to the door and knocked twice.

"Enter," he said and rose as she walked in.

She saluted and said, "Corporal Kendra Pacelli reports to the commander."

He snapped his arm back and she beat him to lowering the salute. He looked at her with interest. "We've met before," he stated.

"Yes, sir," she agreed. He was just shorter than she, tanned and lean, brown hair cropped close. He had arrived at Mtali just as the UN was departing, and he'd swapped words with General Bruder in front of her. He was completely unintimidated then and completely in control now. "On Mtali," she confirmed. They'd met for about ten seconds, but he remembered her.

He walked slowly around her. "At ease," he said and she snapped down. "We are much more professional than the UN."

"Yes, Commander," she agreed.

"Familiarity is not tolerated on duty. I drive people hard. I expect performance with no excuses," he itemized, coming around in front again. He turned to face her, "And there is no embezzlement."

Before she could protest, he continued, "I know you were not involved. I want you to understand that that does not happen here. If you see anything inappropriate, you will address it to the chain of command or to me or to the IG, but it will not be unsettled. Say, 'Yes, sir.' "

"Yes, sir," she said. He was intimidating and she hoped he'd get done so she could get to her duties.

"You aren't wearing the Expeditionary Medal," he noted.

"But that's a UN medal, sir—" she said and was cut off.

"It is a combat decoration, is it not?"

"Yes, Sir," she confirmed.

"You're in logistics, arrange to have a few made up for yourself. Foreign combat decorations may be cleared for wear, as you should have learned in basic. And that one is certainly listed."

"Yes, sir," she agreed. That wasn't all bad, she thought. It would make her look more experienced.

"Now, your rank," he said, still standing. "Sorry, my manners first. Please sit and relax," he said, indicating the chair. He moved behind his desk and sat casually but straight. "The recruiters promised you corporal, so a corporal you are. The problem is, you have neither the training nor the experience. As soon as we can, we will send you to NCO Leadership School. In the meantime, you will have to manage. You are in a corporal's slot, so you will just have to do it. They should have bumped your pay and left you a private, but I don't know what they were thinking. If you can't manage to do the job, however, you will either be transferred or reduced. We do not carry people in Third Mob, unless they are casualties."

"Yes, sir," she said and swallowed. Already on the spot and not even here a day.

"There may be hassle from people, considering our current strained relations with Earth, and you having that accent. Let the chain of command know. I do not tolerate it. You are a professional and will be treated as such."

She was quickly introduced to the Executive Officer, Regimental Sergeant and orderly room staff and walked over to her section. Introductions all over again. It was becoming a habit. She entered and was met with stares.

"Corporal Pacelli?" someone finally asked.

"Yes," she agreed, and added, "Warrant," when she saw the speaker was a Warrant Leader. He looked to have Indonesian roots, and was of average height and lanky.

"Glad to have you. Where you transferring from?" he asked as he came out from behind a workstation and shook hands.

"Uh, pipeline," she replied, referring to the initial training course. "I'm a corporal because I have prior service. Sort of. UNPF. Mtali," she stuttered out.

He stared for a second only before saying, "Good, we need more combat vets. I'm Aman Sirkot. This is Sergeant Ron Davis," he introduced. Davis was clean-cut American looking and about eighteen local years. "You'll have the second NCO slot," he explained as she shook hands with Davis, "and this is Specialist Beker and Private Greer." Beker looked Russian and was about fifteen local years. She had tangled black hair in a thick growth on top. Greer was an unremarkable brunette, average features and height and was about twelve, Kendra guessed.

She was taken back to the warehouse where four more enlisted people were using a lift pod and brute force to shove containers around. "Everything the Third Mob needs to fight with, anywhere in space," Sirkot said proudly. "The rest of the warehouse squad is scattered about either accounting for gear or running errands." They watched for a few seconds until the other troops came over to be introduced. They all noted her accent, but no one commented. As far as they were concerned, if she'd made it through training and was a combat vet, she was acceptable.

She had slight trouble fitting into the unit. She'd assumed it would run as her UN unit had. Show up, do the work, take an occasional class in a military subject, go home. There were many differences she'd never considered.

The Freehold forces had no civil service employees as support. They had occasional contractors, but only for specific tasks such as construction. All their regular operations were geared for war; there was no peacetime mission except training and support. The UN forces also assisted various government agencies, did charitable missions and other incidentals.

The Freehold forces started at a reasonable time, too, except during exercises. At 2:75 Rowanday they reported to the marshaling yard outside supply for a formation. They all signed in and received a briefing from Naumann. Some units did it by vid. Naumann insisted on a face-to-face. He said it reminded them they were soldiers.

From there, they all went to the range. The base firing range was huge, and they rotated from the precision short range, to precision long, pop-up target range, support weapon ranges—machineguns, automatic cannon, mortars, tactical rocket and missile—to foreign weapons, then a by-squad combat run through a course with surprise targets that changed every time.

After that, physical training, including unarmed combat practice. That was the end of a very busy day.

Mistday they took care of all administrative details and training vids, promotion tests, medical exams and any bookkeeping at the unit. The Logistics Company was kept busy handing out gear to new arrivals—including Kendra—inventorying tools, weapons, ammunition and other gear.

Ashday was parachute day, followed by PT and unarmed combat. Oakday they did rappelling and assault, then maintenance of their gear. Yewday was vehicle operations and loading practice, then PT again. Sageday was a short field exercise in squads and occasionally platoons, involving orienteering, simulated raids, finding objectives, rescue and first aid and infiltration/exfiltration. They finished the week with Berday, which was a day for PT and optional sports or a monthly party for arrivals and departures. That was where she first had problems.

She'd thought she was fitting in well and had no reason to be concerned when Naumann stopped by Logistics at the end of the first month and asked to talk to her. She followed him to the dock area.

"This is unofficial and friendly and I apologize for skipping the chain of command," he began. "You aren't doing well in PT."

"I'm qualified, sir," she protested.

" 'Qualified' is marginal. We don't do marginal in Third Mob. One purpose of unarmed combat training is to get one used to violence, to be comfortable with the idea of pain. I want you to spend more time building muscle and fighting, and less time with the soft sports. And that means weight training, not stimulators," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," she confirmed.

"Second," he continued, "Social functions are optional, but you need to attend more of them. The correct phrasing is 'you may pass if other duty makes attendance impossible, otherwise appearance is mandatory.' It is important that NCOs set the example and be available for the other troops, and it is good for esprit de corps and unit cohesiveness to participate. And don't be afraid to drink at least socially. It loosens inhibitions and encourages talk, including that about problems. And an occasional drunken idiot is a challenge to keep things interesting and test our responses." He grinned as he said it.

She agreed to attend more functions. It would cut into more of her time.

"Also," he continued, less sternly, "I understand you have knowledge of machine tools."

"Yes, sir," she said. "Fixed and mobile robotic coordinate machines, mechanical, laser, electron beam and force beam," she said.

"How would you feel about qualifying as a machinist as a secondary war skill?" he asked. His phrasing made it clear she'd need a good excuse not to.

"How long is the school, sir?" she asked, sighing inside.

"No school," he said, shaking his head. "We'll have Warrant Chilton give you the end of course test. If he's happy, we'll document it for headquarters."

"Uh, sure. sir," she agreed. "If it'll help."

"It's impossible to have too many trained personnel," he replied. "And if you develop other skills or can act as a unit instructor, let Sirkot know. We'll keep you busy."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged.

She took the test, impressing Warrant Leader Chilton and surprising herself. Then she found out that her pay would be bumped an additional five percent for each secondary skill she had. No wonder people competed for slots in the military, she thought. Free training in as many skills as one could manage and extra pay based on it. She'd already seen that employers preferred veterans. On Earth, she'd found out during her hitch that propaganda to the contrary, most employers regarded the military as a pool for losers.

The Freehold forces were paid far better than the UN. There were no taxes or other deductions, either, but there were additional expenses. One had to furnish housing, unless ordered to lodge on base, when duty required immediate availability. All meals had to be provided, except during exercises or combat. Kendra had planned on living with Rob and Marta and commuting, but the difference in their schedules made it awkward, as did traffic. From Marta's on the far south side of the metroplex to Heilbrun was about 150 kilometers, or 280 going around the bustle of downtown. It was just too far to commute twice a day with the heavy workload and no automated mass transit.

She paid the minimal amount of Cr5 a day to stay on base the first month and went home on weekends, then bought a small unicar. It was a ground-only; flight fees added up quickly. She still only made it home on weekends and a couple of days a week. She lived out of a duffel bag, kept her ready gear in the car and her battle gear at the unit.

Weekends were still fun and she appreciated the three-day format. She occasionally met one or both of her lovers at Rob's apartment for dinner or a tryst or both. Sometimes they'd travel up to see her. Still, she had less of a social life than she'd had on Earth. She wasn't unhappy; her work kept her busy and was productive. Rob invested her additional income in a variety of capital ventures and sent her regular reports on her assets. Her income was better than she'd had in the UNPF by a factor of three. Better than her father paid his technical employees, in fact.

She'd always been taught that pure capitalism was automatically evil. While not "pure," the Freehold system was as unregulated a system as had ever existed. Investors and shippers from all over space flocked to operate within its minimal restrictions and exported technology, labor requirements and sales. There was profit available for anyone willing to buy in. She took advantage of it with her pay and donated a monthly stipend toward an adoption center, deciding that was the local charity she wanted to sponsor.

Complicating social matters was the fact that about once a month the unit would deploy for anywhere from three days, in the case of a space assault exercise, to a week for ground exercises. She found out that they did longer ones twice a year. They were gearing up for an arctic exercise the next week. She shuddered at that thought. She hated working outside in the cold. Certainly, it got cold in Minneapolis, but people stayed inside; it was a modern, civilized town. People did not go out in subfreezing weather if they didn't have to.

The exercise that week was a surprise to her. She'd been in the military long enough to know how these things worked. They were woken early by comm and ordered to report in. She blinked awake, grabbed her gear and stumbled to the shop. She was second to report in and grabbed a cup of hot water and coffee powder from her bag. Freeholders might be chocoholics, but she preferred caffeine to theobromine as a stimulant. She slurped the warm, bitter brew.

What would happen next was they would wait around interminably while people staggered in, except for one or two incompetents who would claim to have slept late or that their comm wasn't working. She was surprised to find that everyone was present by the time she finished her first cup. Good shop, she thought. No, great shop. 

Next would be almost a div of screwing around while they checked everybody's gear, made up shortages, listened to people whine that they couldn't keep their bags ready and make trips back to the barracks to get missing items. It would be worse, she thought, since many of them lived off base. While she was pondering this, Sirkot directed her to detail a soldier to warm up her team's GUV. She sent Jackson to do it and wondered when they were planning on checking gear. She asked.

"What?" Sirkot replied, looking confused. "If they freeze, it's their own faults. Everyone knows the requirements for arctic deployment."

Which was exactly Kendra's thought. "No UN unit ever operates like that," she said. "A commander would be cashiered if a troop got injured in the field through any avoidable error."

"I've heard of that," he said. "It's called 'lack of discipline.' But thanks for double-checking; that's what NCOs are for."

They drove to the airfac, loaded into VC-6s, flew up to the tundra and began at once. It was an all-day trip, low and slow across the continent, endless kilometers of trees giving way to endless kilometers of prairie, then scrub, then frosted ground. Their first task as they deployed was to clear the area of a few boobytraps left by the aggressor forces, who were simulating the enemy. Then they pitched camp, including heating gear and set shifts and watches. The exercise proper commenced immediately. Aircraft flew, artillery launched and fired and infantry squads went out to raid and recon.

Kendra was given a data dump of tasks, including finding bodies for fighting positions, watch schedules, perimeter patrols, work details and normal logistics functions. She was partway through that when the "enemy" attacked on ACV skimmers. She dove outside to take cover and return fire, but couldn't find a fighting position. There was supposed to be one right outside the temp.

She burrowed into the snow in her mottled gray and white parka suit and prepared to engage any targets. None came near her position and all clear was called shortly. She rose, dusted off and went back inside. "Jackson!" she called.

"Yes, Corporal?" he responded, running in from the passage from the rear temp, which served as an ersatz loading bay.

"Where is my fighting position?"

"Um . . . I'm sorry, Corporal. I got distracted by some requisitions," he said, looking embarrassed.

"Well, please get undistracted and dig me one now. Unless you want me killed off in this exercise?" Red-faced, he grabbed a shovel and fuser from near the entrance and headed out.

That was about the only problem she encountered all week. She asked Sirkot about the problem and how to resolve it.

"You did, didn't you?" he asked.

"Well, yes, but doesn't it have to be written up?" she asked.

"What? For a basic mistake? Do they do that in the UN?" he asked.

"For every little detail," she confirmed.

"Bullshit," he said and sighed. "We must get you to leadership school. No, no, you're doing great. You are more than competent for a sergeant's slot, but you must learn the fine details. An error was made, an NCO corrected it, and that's as far as it goes. If it becomes a pattern, refer him to me, and if it doesn't stop then, then we'll write it up. How does the UN function with that much adminwork?"

"Uh, not as well as we do here," she admitted, and went back to work.

She still hated the vicious cold she encountered on her tasked infantry duty. The wind howled across the dunes of snow, which crunched under her snowshoes. Her visor polarized to cut the glare and cut the details, too, turning everything dull gray monochrome. She despised diving into the snow for cover and was only too glad to get back to the camp.

None of it was as bad as using a field latrine at -30 degrees. She apparently wasn't the only one with that opinion, because someone had taken a leak through the rear door of the shelter. She found the stained, melted snow, reported it, and thought Naumann was going to demand DNA analysis to identify the perpetrator. He ranted about sanitation and health and she was sure that the culprit was suitably scared. She was rather struck by his reaction herself.

Gealday morning, she again expected a disorganized mess, what was known in military parlance as a "clusterfuck." Again, it didn't happen.

The way it was supposed to work was that once marching orders were given, some few troops would proceed to try to get things done. Others would offer bad advice and get in the way. Still others would simply complain about how long it was taking and why couldn't everybody else hurry up? There'd be frayed tempers, all around incompetence and anger at "them" for not running a better operation.

Again, the Freehold forces declined to operate according to standard military procedures. The temp was being dismantled around Kendra as she stuffed her gear aboard the GUV. By the time she had all the equipment boxes she was signed for checked off and tagged for loading, she was standing on packed snow that had roughly the shape of the temp, outlined in banked snow where the walls had been. An engineer was dragging off their generator and heaters and the concealment netting was already crated with the admin squad's gear. The newest troops were filling in fighting positions and policing up trash. She began counting heads and realized most of them were already aboard the vertol. She was surprised and elated as she ran up the ramp. She dumped her data to Sirkot, who nodded and forwarded it, and within a seg, they lifted. The whole process had taken about sixty segs. Kendra fell asleep en route to catch up from the tiring schedule.

Once they were in the compound, before they had everything put away, Naumann's voice boomed through the air and the comms. "Listen up! After-action review tomorrow for all squad leaders and above. Overall, quite good, a few areas need some tweaking and tightening. No more peeing in the snow! Get the gear stowed and dismiss by squads. The unit will buy the first round at the club starting in one div. That is all."

There were a few cheers. Kendra decided she liked the way this military operated. She almost missed the morons and jerks who inevitably got in the way of real work. She was shortly educated to the fact that Freehold had them too.

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Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 19

"Human nature is bad. Good is a human product . . . A warped piece of wood must be steamed and forced before it is made straight; a metal blade must be put to the whetstone before it becomes sharp. Since the nature of people is bad, to become corrected they must be taught by teachers and to be orderly they must acquire ritual and moral principles."

—Sun Tzu

Once signed on-base, Kendra took a glance at the list on her comm. It was a fairly familiar format of inprocessing. She memorized the base map and got cracking.

The commander's office was in a knock-down building. The structures on base were either solid permanent fixtures or permanent-use "temporary" structures. This was a recent polymer shell on a fused foundation. She entered what was clearly an orderly room, saw a sign of light tubes that read "Assault Commander Alan D. Naumann, Regimental Commander."

She approached a desk, introduced herself and was told to head right in. She turned to the door and knocked twice.

"Enter," he said and rose as she walked in.

She saluted and said, "Corporal Kendra Pacelli reports to the commander."

He snapped his arm back and she beat him to lowering the salute. He looked at her with interest. "We've met before," he stated.

"Yes, sir," she agreed. He was just shorter than she, tanned and lean, brown hair cropped close. He had arrived at Mtali just as the UN was departing, and he'd swapped words with General Bruder in front of her. He was completely unintimidated then and completely in control now. "On Mtali," she confirmed. They'd met for about ten seconds, but he remembered her.

He walked slowly around her. "At ease," he said and she snapped down. "We are much more professional than the UN."

"Yes, Commander," she agreed.

"Familiarity is not tolerated on duty. I drive people hard. I expect performance with no excuses," he itemized, coming around in front again. He turned to face her, "And there is no embezzlement."

Before she could protest, he continued, "I know you were not involved. I want you to understand that that does not happen here. If you see anything inappropriate, you will address it to the chain of command or to me or to the IG, but it will not be unsettled. Say, 'Yes, sir.' "

"Yes, sir," she said. He was intimidating and she hoped he'd get done so she could get to her duties.

"You aren't wearing the Expeditionary Medal," he noted.

"But that's a UN medal, sir—" she said and was cut off.

"It is a combat decoration, is it not?"

"Yes, Sir," she confirmed.

"You're in logistics, arrange to have a few made up for yourself. Foreign combat decorations may be cleared for wear, as you should have learned in basic. And that one is certainly listed."

"Yes, sir," she agreed. That wasn't all bad, she thought. It would make her look more experienced.

"Now, your rank," he said, still standing. "Sorry, my manners first. Please sit and relax," he said, indicating the chair. He moved behind his desk and sat casually but straight. "The recruiters promised you corporal, so a corporal you are. The problem is, you have neither the training nor the experience. As soon as we can, we will send you to NCO Leadership School. In the meantime, you will have to manage. You are in a corporal's slot, so you will just have to do it. They should have bumped your pay and left you a private, but I don't know what they were thinking. If you can't manage to do the job, however, you will either be transferred or reduced. We do not carry people in Third Mob, unless they are casualties."

"Yes, sir," she said and swallowed. Already on the spot and not even here a day.

"There may be hassle from people, considering our current strained relations with Earth, and you having that accent. Let the chain of command know. I do not tolerate it. You are a professional and will be treated as such."

She was quickly introduced to the Executive Officer, Regimental Sergeant and orderly room staff and walked over to her section. Introductions all over again. It was becoming a habit. She entered and was met with stares.

"Corporal Pacelli?" someone finally asked.

"Yes," she agreed, and added, "Warrant," when she saw the speaker was a Warrant Leader. He looked to have Indonesian roots, and was of average height and lanky.

"Glad to have you. Where you transferring from?" he asked as he came out from behind a workstation and shook hands.

"Uh, pipeline," she replied, referring to the initial training course. "I'm a corporal because I have prior service. Sort of. UNPF. Mtali," she stuttered out.

He stared for a second only before saying, "Good, we need more combat vets. I'm Aman Sirkot. This is Sergeant Ron Davis," he introduced. Davis was clean-cut American looking and about eighteen local years. "You'll have the second NCO slot," he explained as she shook hands with Davis, "and this is Specialist Beker and Private Greer." Beker looked Russian and was about fifteen local years. She had tangled black hair in a thick growth on top. Greer was an unremarkable brunette, average features and height and was about twelve, Kendra guessed.

She was taken back to the warehouse where four more enlisted people were using a lift pod and brute force to shove containers around. "Everything the Third Mob needs to fight with, anywhere in space," Sirkot said proudly. "The rest of the warehouse squad is scattered about either accounting for gear or running errands." They watched for a few seconds until the other troops came over to be introduced. They all noted her accent, but no one commented. As far as they were concerned, if she'd made it through training and was a combat vet, she was acceptable.

She had slight trouble fitting into the unit. She'd assumed it would run as her UN unit had. Show up, do the work, take an occasional class in a military subject, go home. There were many differences she'd never considered.

The Freehold forces had no civil service employees as support. They had occasional contractors, but only for specific tasks such as construction. All their regular operations were geared for war; there was no peacetime mission except training and support. The UN forces also assisted various government agencies, did charitable missions and other incidentals.

The Freehold forces started at a reasonable time, too, except during exercises. At 2:75 Rowanday they reported to the marshaling yard outside supply for a formation. They all signed in and received a briefing from Naumann. Some units did it by vid. Naumann insisted on a face-to-face. He said it reminded them they were soldiers.

From there, they all went to the range. The base firing range was huge, and they rotated from the precision short range, to precision long, pop-up target range, support weapon ranges—machineguns, automatic cannon, mortars, tactical rocket and missile—to foreign weapons, then a by-squad combat run through a course with surprise targets that changed every time.

After that, physical training, including unarmed combat practice. That was the end of a very busy day.

Mistday they took care of all administrative details and training vids, promotion tests, medical exams and any bookkeeping at the unit. The Logistics Company was kept busy handing out gear to new arrivals—including Kendra—inventorying tools, weapons, ammunition and other gear.

Ashday was parachute day, followed by PT and unarmed combat. Oakday they did rappelling and assault, then maintenance of their gear. Yewday was vehicle operations and loading practice, then PT again. Sageday was a short field exercise in squads and occasionally platoons, involving orienteering, simulated raids, finding objectives, rescue and first aid and infiltration/exfiltration. They finished the week with Berday, which was a day for PT and optional sports or a monthly party for arrivals and departures. That was where she first had problems.

She'd thought she was fitting in well and had no reason to be concerned when Naumann stopped by Logistics at the end of the first month and asked to talk to her. She followed him to the dock area.

"This is unofficial and friendly and I apologize for skipping the chain of command," he began. "You aren't doing well in PT."

"I'm qualified, sir," she protested.

" 'Qualified' is marginal. We don't do marginal in Third Mob. One purpose of unarmed combat training is to get one used to violence, to be comfortable with the idea of pain. I want you to spend more time building muscle and fighting, and less time with the soft sports. And that means weight training, not stimulators," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," she confirmed.

"Second," he continued, "Social functions are optional, but you need to attend more of them. The correct phrasing is 'you may pass if other duty makes attendance impossible, otherwise appearance is mandatory.' It is important that NCOs set the example and be available for the other troops, and it is good for esprit de corps and unit cohesiveness to participate. And don't be afraid to drink at least socially. It loosens inhibitions and encourages talk, including that about problems. And an occasional drunken idiot is a challenge to keep things interesting and test our responses." He grinned as he said it.

She agreed to attend more functions. It would cut into more of her time.

"Also," he continued, less sternly, "I understand you have knowledge of machine tools."

"Yes, sir," she said. "Fixed and mobile robotic coordinate machines, mechanical, laser, electron beam and force beam," she said.

"How would you feel about qualifying as a machinist as a secondary war skill?" he asked. His phrasing made it clear she'd need a good excuse not to.

"How long is the school, sir?" she asked, sighing inside.

"No school," he said, shaking his head. "We'll have Warrant Chilton give you the end of course test. If he's happy, we'll document it for headquarters."

"Uh, sure. sir," she agreed. "If it'll help."

"It's impossible to have too many trained personnel," he replied. "And if you develop other skills or can act as a unit instructor, let Sirkot know. We'll keep you busy."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged.

She took the test, impressing Warrant Leader Chilton and surprising herself. Then she found out that her pay would be bumped an additional five percent for each secondary skill she had. No wonder people competed for slots in the military, she thought. Free training in as many skills as one could manage and extra pay based on it. She'd already seen that employers preferred veterans. On Earth, she'd found out during her hitch that propaganda to the contrary, most employers regarded the military as a pool for losers.

The Freehold forces were paid far better than the UN. There were no taxes or other deductions, either, but there were additional expenses. One had to furnish housing, unless ordered to lodge on base, when duty required immediate availability. All meals had to be provided, except during exercises or combat. Kendra had planned on living with Rob and Marta and commuting, but the difference in their schedules made it awkward, as did traffic. From Marta's on the far south side of the metroplex to Heilbrun was about 150 kilometers, or 280 going around the bustle of downtown. It was just too far to commute twice a day with the heavy workload and no automated mass transit.

She paid the minimal amount of Cr5 a day to stay on base the first month and went home on weekends, then bought a small unicar. It was a ground-only; flight fees added up quickly. She still only made it home on weekends and a couple of days a week. She lived out of a duffel bag, kept her ready gear in the car and her battle gear at the unit.

Weekends were still fun and she appreciated the three-day format. She occasionally met one or both of her lovers at Rob's apartment for dinner or a tryst or both. Sometimes they'd travel up to see her. Still, she had less of a social life than she'd had on Earth. She wasn't unhappy; her work kept her busy and was productive. Rob invested her additional income in a variety of capital ventures and sent her regular reports on her assets. Her income was better than she'd had in the UNPF by a factor of three. Better than her father paid his technical employees, in fact.

She'd always been taught that pure capitalism was automatically evil. While not "pure," the Freehold system was as unregulated a system as had ever existed. Investors and shippers from all over space flocked to operate within its minimal restrictions and exported technology, labor requirements and sales. There was profit available for anyone willing to buy in. She took advantage of it with her pay and donated a monthly stipend toward an adoption center, deciding that was the local charity she wanted to sponsor.

Complicating social matters was the fact that about once a month the unit would deploy for anywhere from three days, in the case of a space assault exercise, to a week for ground exercises. She found out that they did longer ones twice a year. They were gearing up for an arctic exercise the next week. She shuddered at that thought. She hated working outside in the cold. Certainly, it got cold in Minneapolis, but people stayed inside; it was a modern, civilized town. People did not go out in subfreezing weather if they didn't have to.

The exercise that week was a surprise to her. She'd been in the military long enough to know how these things worked. They were woken early by comm and ordered to report in. She blinked awake, grabbed her gear and stumbled to the shop. She was second to report in and grabbed a cup of hot water and coffee powder from her bag. Freeholders might be chocoholics, but she preferred caffeine to theobromine as a stimulant. She slurped the warm, bitter brew.

What would happen next was they would wait around interminably while people staggered in, except for one or two incompetents who would claim to have slept late or that their comm wasn't working. She was surprised to find that everyone was present by the time she finished her first cup. Good shop, she thought. No, great shop. 

Next would be almost a div of screwing around while they checked everybody's gear, made up shortages, listened to people whine that they couldn't keep their bags ready and make trips back to the barracks to get missing items. It would be worse, she thought, since many of them lived off base. While she was pondering this, Sirkot directed her to detail a soldier to warm up her team's GUV. She sent Jackson to do it and wondered when they were planning on checking gear. She asked.

"What?" Sirkot replied, looking confused. "If they freeze, it's their own faults. Everyone knows the requirements for arctic deployment."

Which was exactly Kendra's thought. "No UN unit ever operates like that," she said. "A commander would be cashiered if a troop got injured in the field through any avoidable error."

"I've heard of that," he said. "It's called 'lack of discipline.' But thanks for double-checking; that's what NCOs are for."

They drove to the airfac, loaded into VC-6s, flew up to the tundra and began at once. It was an all-day trip, low and slow across the continent, endless kilometers of trees giving way to endless kilometers of prairie, then scrub, then frosted ground. Their first task as they deployed was to clear the area of a few boobytraps left by the aggressor forces, who were simulating the enemy. Then they pitched camp, including heating gear and set shifts and watches. The exercise proper commenced immediately. Aircraft flew, artillery launched and fired and infantry squads went out to raid and recon.

Kendra was given a data dump of tasks, including finding bodies for fighting positions, watch schedules, perimeter patrols, work details and normal logistics functions. She was partway through that when the "enemy" attacked on ACV skimmers. She dove outside to take cover and return fire, but couldn't find a fighting position. There was supposed to be one right outside the temp.

She burrowed into the snow in her mottled gray and white parka suit and prepared to engage any targets. None came near her position and all clear was called shortly. She rose, dusted off and went back inside. "Jackson!" she called.

"Yes, Corporal?" he responded, running in from the passage from the rear temp, which served as an ersatz loading bay.

"Where is my fighting position?"

"Um . . . I'm sorry, Corporal. I got distracted by some requisitions," he said, looking embarrassed.

"Well, please get undistracted and dig me one now. Unless you want me killed off in this exercise?" Red-faced, he grabbed a shovel and fuser from near the entrance and headed out.

That was about the only problem she encountered all week. She asked Sirkot about the problem and how to resolve it.

"You did, didn't you?" he asked.

"Well, yes, but doesn't it have to be written up?" she asked.

"What? For a basic mistake? Do they do that in the UN?" he asked.

"For every little detail," she confirmed.

"Bullshit," he said and sighed. "We must get you to leadership school. No, no, you're doing great. You are more than competent for a sergeant's slot, but you must learn the fine details. An error was made, an NCO corrected it, and that's as far as it goes. If it becomes a pattern, refer him to me, and if it doesn't stop then, then we'll write it up. How does the UN function with that much adminwork?"

"Uh, not as well as we do here," she admitted, and went back to work.

She still hated the vicious cold she encountered on her tasked infantry duty. The wind howled across the dunes of snow, which crunched under her snowshoes. Her visor polarized to cut the glare and cut the details, too, turning everything dull gray monochrome. She despised diving into the snow for cover and was only too glad to get back to the camp.

None of it was as bad as using a field latrine at -30 degrees. She apparently wasn't the only one with that opinion, because someone had taken a leak through the rear door of the shelter. She found the stained, melted snow, reported it, and thought Naumann was going to demand DNA analysis to identify the perpetrator. He ranted about sanitation and health and she was sure that the culprit was suitably scared. She was rather struck by his reaction herself.

Gealday morning, she again expected a disorganized mess, what was known in military parlance as a "clusterfuck." Again, it didn't happen.

The way it was supposed to work was that once marching orders were given, some few troops would proceed to try to get things done. Others would offer bad advice and get in the way. Still others would simply complain about how long it was taking and why couldn't everybody else hurry up? There'd be frayed tempers, all around incompetence and anger at "them" for not running a better operation.

Again, the Freehold forces declined to operate according to standard military procedures. The temp was being dismantled around Kendra as she stuffed her gear aboard the GUV. By the time she had all the equipment boxes she was signed for checked off and tagged for loading, she was standing on packed snow that had roughly the shape of the temp, outlined in banked snow where the walls had been. An engineer was dragging off their generator and heaters and the concealment netting was already crated with the admin squad's gear. The newest troops were filling in fighting positions and policing up trash. She began counting heads and realized most of them were already aboard the vertol. She was surprised and elated as she ran up the ramp. She dumped her data to Sirkot, who nodded and forwarded it, and within a seg, they lifted. The whole process had taken about sixty segs. Kendra fell asleep en route to catch up from the tiring schedule.

Once they were in the compound, before they had everything put away, Naumann's voice boomed through the air and the comms. "Listen up! After-action review tomorrow for all squad leaders and above. Overall, quite good, a few areas need some tweaking and tightening. No more peeing in the snow! Get the gear stowed and dismiss by squads. The unit will buy the first round at the club starting in one div. That is all."

There were a few cheers. Kendra decided she liked the way this military operated. She almost missed the morons and jerks who inevitably got in the way of real work. She was shortly educated to the fact that Freehold had them too.

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