"Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold 3 - Better to Beg Forgiveness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

immune from prosecution for all but deliberate murder. If the local government didn't complain, BuState
wouldn't follow up. Then there was the EPD pay, which started at that of a field grade officer and went
up.

Of course, in exchange for that money, the EPs were expected to throw themselves on grenades or take
bullets for people they might rather see dead. The job wasn't about supporting their buddies or getting the
benefits, it was about killing or dying for a buck. Aramis wasn't the only one who saw it as a way to
make money and nothing else. Though most who'd done it for a while also had professional pride and the
love of the challenge. They were still soldiers, just hired for specific operations.

He'd seen similar friction between active and reserve units, combat and support and various branches
and nations. That was settling down a bit now that all militaries belonged to the UN's central alliance.
Standards were leveling out and your backup could be almost anyone, which led to greater trust after a
few missions. Contractors were always on the outside, though. That distrust worked both ways, but
these soldiers appeared to be decent so far.

Shortly they were in town. That was a lesson itself.

Rough shacks lined the streets, interspersed with small stores. Some had electricity, generally wired
straight down from a pole and looking improvised and unsafe. Several blackened rubble heaps might


have sworn testimony to that, though they might also have been from arson, fighting, or other domestic
causes.

Some of the buildings had windows of unbroken glass. The broken ones showed it to in fact be glass,
not a modern poly. The construction was anything from native cut stone to hewn lumber to scavenged
lumber and fiberglass or fiber panels. The roads were in poor repair, some fused, some paved with
asphalt or concrete, and all broken and crumbling from age, wear, and the occasional explosion.

Then there were the people. They sat on porches or in yards staring aimlessly or wasting time with
simple games. Many had the glazed expressions of alcohol or drug consumption.

"Nice place," Aramis murmured. He alone of the six had not actually seen combat or fire, though he'd
deployed in some pretty nasty places.

"How . . . familiar," Shaman said.

They were all alert. They'd had photo briefs and text, but actually seeing it with the Mark 1 Eyeball
made a difference. The streets were largely straight but with some shifts that made clear fire awkward
and offered defensive positions. They were also fairly narrow—two or three lanes generally.

"This is a bad place to convoy," Bart said. "Too many ways to get blocked in."

"I think some of the central streets are wider," Jason said. "Though the layout sucks."

"Odd to have broad streets further in but not out," Bart said. "I wonder why that is?"

"Not a lot of traffic. Nothing resembling suburbs. Most people on foot," Elke said.