Freedom's Landing (5 page)

A second series of metal clangings and once again the forcewhips slashed out over the assembled. This time they were driven toward eight apertures which, when she reached the one nearest her, gave access to a ramp. She'd seen such a ramp once before and she started to tremble with apprehension. Where were they being driven this time?

A low terrified murmur arose from those already going up the ramp, and occasional cries of distress, but no one could have backed out: the rampway was narrow and barred. Catteni appeared with the short force sticks that ensured the prisoners would keep moving. The sticks hurt more than the forcewhips and both could be lethal.

As she was pushed toward the ramp by the press of bodies behind her, her height gave her the clearance to see over heads and into a dark place. Closer, she could also smell the combined acrid odors of metal and fuel and realized they were being packed into a transport of some kind that was adjacent to the processing area. She had to give the credit to the Catteni mind-set that they sure knew how to get the unwilling to do what they wanted them to do and go where they wanted them to go. No Disney World this!

She was halted by a Catteni force stick barring her way. She sucked in her guts so it wouldn't touch her. A hatch slid shut in front of her. The ramp which had been aimed at a lower level now purred softly and moved level with the
walkway she stood on. A second hatch slid open, the force stick was lifted, and she ducked into the ship. She, and those emerging from the seven other entrances, moved quickly across the low-ceilinged compartment to the far wall. As she sat down to claim her space, she had a chance to look at the others piling in. A gasp of astonishment escaped her as she saw the unmistakable figure of Mahomet ducking through the low door. She had very little time to be surprised, even less to get comfortable and tuck her food package inside her coverall for safer keeping. Suddenly she was having trouble keeping her eyes open and a strange lassitude spread to her arms and legs. Looking around her, she realized that others were obviously feeling the same way. So the soup had been dosed. Why did she not feel surprised? Some of them sort of folded as they entered and had to be pushed out of the way of the rest of this consignment. Some crawled a few feet to stretch out in a clear space.
Here we go again
was her last conscious thought.

*   *   *

KRIS WOKE, FEELING AS IF EVERY MUSCLE IN HER
body had been wrenched out of alignment and every bit of soft tissue bruised. She had a headache, a very dry mouth, and her stomach was so empty she was nauseous. Once again she felt the press of warm bodies against her. But the air around her was fresh, free of stench, and her lungs welcomed it. Her eyes felt glued together and she had to fight with her eyelashes to part her lids. What she saw made her close them quickly and speak sternly to herself to recover from the shock. She was lying in a field of bodies, bodies front, left, right and center. And she certainly wasn't anywhere on Barevi. Not with that lavenderish sky.

There was an argument going on somewhere to her right, at least, loud male voices and some odd snorts and grunts. There was also a lot of low moaning and groaning in the background. She wasn't the only one coming round after that damned soup.

Forcing herself to move, she managed to raise herself on one elbow, ignoring the twinges of abused flesh and stiff
muscles. Blinking to clear her eyes of grit, she carefully turned her head toward the sounds of dispute. A group of males were evidently contesting the possession of a line of crates. Several were standing atop them and sunlight flashed on knife blades. The ones on the ground were mainly aliens: the goblinesque, squatty Turs, never very pleasant to deal with and given more to grunts than words, some hairy Rugarians, and the green-skinned Ilginish.

Well, knives certainly hadn't been issued before this voyage. Why were they available at the destination? So the prisoners could dispatch enough souls to have more for the victors? That wasn't a likely supposition. Even for a Catteni procedure. Unless there weren't any Catteni around here.

She pushed herself to a sitting position, noting that others were conscious but evidently very unsure of how to proceed now. There were no Catteni anywhere in sight. Not even Mahomet, though he'd have to be here, too, she thought, since he'd also been aboard the transport.

“You only got two hands,” the shouted words drifted to her and were repeated in lingua Barevi. Unmistakable gestures emphasized the next words. “You've got three knives now. Go on. Get out of here. Take off. Beat it. Go away!” That last was said in English.

Americans! She grinned with a fatuous pride in her compatriot. She watched until the knot of aliens finally moved off, up the hill and out of sight. That led her to another discovery. Not only was the sky the wrong color, the trees lining this field were of unfamiliar shape. They didn't have leaves, not that she could see, but sort of bottle-brush tufts of a not-quite-green shade.

The desiccated condition of her mouth and throat could no longer be denied, especially when her survey of the area included half a dozen people kneeling down at what must be a stream, for they were dipping their cups in and then drinking. That was when she became conscious that the fingers of her left hand were sore from the death grip she had on her cup, still bearing traces of the drugged soup.

She'd rinse it real good before she did any drinking. And
she wouldn't drink too much at first go, she told herself, remembering her survival course again. No one of those drinking seemed to be suffering any ill effects as she watched. And watching them drink became unbearable. She had to moisten her mouth and throat and guts.

She struggled to her feet, still holding the cup and lurching against the person lying sideways to her. She saved herself from falling on her face by propping her free hand on a cocked, bony hip.

“Sorry,” she said automatically but the body didn't so much as twitch.

It also felt cold and rigid through the coverall material. Startled, she peered up at the gaunt, odd-cheeked face—a Deski, and from the open mouth and staring eyes, another casualty to Cattenti mass productions.

“You poor devil,” she murmured, shaking spasmodically. She got up in the next try, as much to get away from the corpse as to get to the water. That was her first priority.

She started in a direct line to the stream before she noticed what some people were doing in and around the water and veered uphill. As she neared the stream, she saw that it bordered this field, coming from beyond the oddly formed tall vegetation and cascading in almost steps down past the field and beyond the trees on the lower edge. The sound of the water rippling spurred her stumbling steps into a firmer stride. Only the severest self-control kept her from dropping to her belly and burying her face in the clear stream. The water was divinely clear, running over a rocky bottom. Such a stony bed would filter out most impurities. Besides, the Catteni had put them close to water so they'd probably tested it. No one farther down the stream had yet snowed ill effects, although the way in which they were contaminating the stream disgusted her. Still, the water before her was clear. She dropped to her haunches and rinsed the cup, doing a bit of polluting herself as a film of the residue in the cup was carried away. She only allowed herself to scoop out enough to cover the bottom of the cup. She sipped once to moisten dry lips. Sipped again and rinsed the cool, sweet water around in her
mouth, letting the parched tissues absorb the moisture. Her throat demanded its share. She swallowed slowly, attempting to trickle the water down drop by drop. They landed coldly in the pit of her stomach and her system insisted on more of the same. By then her taste buds had revived enough to appreciate the taste of the water, better by far than any designer water she had ever drunk either at home in Philadelphia or in Colorado. Good, simon-pure, mountain spring water.

A loud altercation started among the people downstream of her. Well, maybe not an unpleasant argument for there seemed to be cupsful of water thrown about. A few people moved away, out of the range, content to watch as they drank from their cups. She watched and sipped. She was not about to get embroiled in any group, not until she had figured out a few details: like where were they? What were they doing here? Were there any Catteni in discreet guard over them? What besides knives were in those crates and who had taken control of them? She intended to get at least one knife. Preferably two—one to hide in her boot. That once-derided survival course had included instructions on how to sharpen, use, and throw a knife. And the guys on the top of the crates
were
humans.

Thirst eased somewhat, her stomach started growling. She reached in her coverall and took out the package, carefully opening it. That was why they'd been given food ahead of time, then. To eat at this destination. Water laid on. As she'd also no idea how long she'd been without eating, or drinking, she broke off a third of the bar and carefully nibbled at that, interspersing it with more judicious sips of water. By the time she'd finished her portion, she felt considerably better.

She rose and looked around her with a keener interest. More bodies were moving among those laid out like disaster victims, row after row. The field must be a couple of acres at least and it was covered. Here and there were empty places where people had roused. There were more empty spaces—she counted—than the number of upright people she could see. How many had been chased off by the guys on the crates?

She dipped her cup for one more draught of cold, pure Adam's Ale and sipped as she hiked slowly around the bodies, toward the crates. When she could see both sides of the crates, she realized that there were quite a few people lounging on the far side: mostly Terrans and some of them female. That was reassuring.

“Whatcha guardin' there, fellas?” she asked when she got close enough, giving a friendly wave with her free hand.

Kris was accustomed to reactions to her tall lanky self. It never hurt to be blonde and moderately attractive. Until the men got past the usual trite remarks and innuendoes, she kept her smile intact and kept sipping her water a few safety lengths from the nearest one.

“Anybody sussed out where we are or what they've done with us?” She directed that query to the men on top of the crates. She could see now that most of the containers had been broken open to discover the contents. She saw other items besides knife blades of which there seemed to a great many.

“Knives, hatchets,” the man said. He was a heavyset man in his mid-to-late thirties and had the unmistakable air of the military in his stance. He had two knives tucked in his belt, one in each boot to judge by the way his pants bulged out at his ankles. His thermal blanket was stuffed with other items for it bulged across his chest. “Some medical kits with basic bandages and that orange stuff the Cats poured on anything that bleeds.”

“You in charge then?”

He made a gesture with one hand ana a second Terran jumped down, a knife on his open palm, the handle toward her. He was as well equipped with extras as the first speaker.

“Can I show you how to use it, beautiful?” the guy asked, leering at her.

“You mean—like this,” she said, taking the knife from his hand, hefting it a moment to get its balance before she flicked it into the nearest crate, which it penetrated enough to hold it firm.

“Whoa!” The man jumped back, hands up in front to fend her off. Above her she caught sight of a blade in the military man's hand. “Didn't mean no offense, sister.”

“No offense taken,” she said airily and retrieved the blade, checking the point to be sure it hadn't been nicked. “Good steel.”

“It's not steel,” the military man said, hunkering down so he was on a level with her. He held out a weaponless hand. “Nice to see a woman who knows the value of a knife. Chuck Mitford.”

“Army?” she asked.

“Marine,” he replied firmly and correctingly as marines generally did after such a question.

“Kris Bjornsen. Where'd you get taken?”

“Recently?” He spoke with considerable bitterness. “Or do you mean on good ol' Terra?”

“Both,” she said and went back to sipping what water hadn't spilled out of her cup when she'd shown off her knife skill.

“Some damned fools started a riot at one of the discipline assemblies,” he said in a growl and in the southernish drawl that had become military standard among American forces. The other man looked about to erupt. “Okay, okay, some of the poor dumbheads they were whipping to death were Terrans, too, but damned stupid to attack Catteni even if there were a helluva lot more of us than them.” He made a throat noise of disgust.

“We've taken enough from them, sarge,” the other man said, his resentment boiling over.

Mitford acted like a sergeant, too, Kris thought and decided he'd be a good ally.

“And look where it got us,” he barked back. “Arnie here's never been against a superior force. Thinks being brave is all there is to overcoming dictators.” He ignored Arnie then. “I was on leave from my unit in Lubbock, Texas, when we got pearl-harbored. Haven't found a trace of my family.” He shut his mouth tight then.

“Denver,” Kris said. She turned to Arnie. “You?”

“DC.”

She hadn't encountered anyone from the Philadelphia area so maybe the rest of her family was still safely at home. If that was a safe place to be with Catteni overlords.

“Could I have some of those medical supplies, if they're going begging?”

“Sure,” and Mitford walked along the top of the crates while she followed on the ground. Arnie stayed a discreet step behind her. “I figured someone had better take charge of supplies like these,” and he pointed down to yet another crate of knives. At the next one he stooped and came up with a hatchet, which he handed to her. “Here. Might as well have one of these, too. There aren't more ration bars so make the ones you got do until we can figure out what's edible on this effing planet.”