Freehold Read Free

Free Zone was about twenty-five square miles in size. Because its boundaries were entirely artificial, it formed a perfect circle, a shape that the Elders’ military advisors assured them would be vulnerable to attack, should those living within the Zone ever get out of hand. A shaped force field surrounded it, preventing entry or exit except through the one, closely guarded gate. Of course, that was rarely used, since citizens were not allowed into the Zone and Zonies were not allowed out. Most commerce arrived and departed via the spaceport located at the Zone's center. There was a second, smaller spaceport located on the other side of the planet, but it was dedicated to church-approved traffic and Arno's small navy.
    Radiating out from the Free Zone's spaceport were concentric rings of activity. First came the dives and nightclubs catering to every imaginable taste in drugs and sex. Their clientele were mostly drawn from the ships touching down to load or unload cargo, but rumor had it that church Elders paid secret visits to places like the “Super Nova” and “Bloody Mary's"—two of the Zone's more celebrated dives. Beyond those were the illegal factories, illicit research laboratories, and warehouses. And, finally, the outermost ring was a warren of dilapidated domes, tenements, and shanties. Here the majority of the Zone's population returned each night. Most eked out a marginal life working in some factory, selling themselves for illegal research, or being used by those who frequented the bars and nightclubs. Others were not so lucky. They had no jobs and existed by victimizing those who did, until they themselves fell prey to the endless cycle of poverty and misery. For within the Zone there was no law, except that imposed on the weak by the strong.
    This, then, was the area into which the brigade had been forced to go. Oh, they could have stayed in space for a while, or sought out another planet, but Arno was close and therefore less expensive to reach; plus, Stell knew that in the end they'd be forced to accept something similar, or worse. No one rolled out the red carpet for a mercenary army between engagements.
    So the brigade paid the Elders an exorbitant tithe, entered the Zone, and rented space in what had recently been a Yirl drug refinery, and an illegal weapons factory before that. The complex of buildings, plus the parking lot outside, now comprised brigade HQ. It wasn't as secure as he'd like, but so far the brigade's obvious firepower, aggressive patrols, and violent reputation had prevented raids by the criminal element—although Stell wasn't sure the word “criminal” served any useful function in the Zone. But such attacks weren't unheard of. When it seemed worthwhile, someone would recruit a temporary army and use it to attack a drug factory or some other profitable target. And, because of its weapons and equipment, the brigade would certainly qualify as “profitable.”
    So Stell slipped into the A-suit and sealed it. He checked the load on the short, ugly assault rifle he favored for street fighting, and opened the door. As he left his office, the two sentries outside snapped to attention. He nodded and they fell in behind as he marched down the hall toward the lift tube. Moments later he was outside, and almost gagging on the heavy odor of rotting garbage and backed up sewers. He swallowed and made a note to get the area cleaned up. Without any form of central control, utilities in the Zone were a haphazard affair.
    As he walked to the street he noticed that the light had grown dim as Arno's sun neared the horizon, retaining barely enough strength to throw long shadows across the duracrete beneath his boots. Sergeant Major Como's convoy sat idling at the curb. It consisted of four vehicles: three open hover trucks of various makes and lineage, plus an ancient limo. There was something vaguely familiar about the rounded shape sitting in the rear of the open vehicle. For a moment Stell