Freedom's Landing

Chapter Two

The indescribable stench of many frightened bodies in close confinement and the unmistakable ssssslash of a force-whip followed by a scream roused Kris to her recurrent nightmare. She was lodged between two warm and sweating bodies, her cheek against a cold hard surface, her knees up under her chin, in an awkward and uncomfortable position. She wondered that she'd remained unconscious for so long.

Maybe she just didn't want to recognize that she was in a Catteni holding cell.

Which was holding far too many right now. It was dark, though not as dark as the hold of the transport vessel had been. She didn't know if that was a blessing or not.

She moved carefully, because she seemed to ache all over, and she could feel bruises and scrapes on her uncovered legs, arms and face.

The cold of the wall felt good against a sore cheek.

But there was movement now her eyes were open and adjusted to the semi-gloom. It was a low-ceilinged chamber of crowd containment size: she could barely make out the perimeter. The place seethed with bodies, but then she saw that there were two openings and bodies were being pushed out into a brighter space beyond.

Catteni whips sssslashed out again, and those around her got quickly to their feet, following the example of those in the outer ranks. Rank was right, she thought, breathing shallowly so as not to taste the disgusting air she had to inhale.

She got to her feet by supporting herself against the wall. The person on her right groaned in pain. Kris found herself trying to help the woman, for it was a female, one of the Deski, so slight and spindly limbed that she was afraid even her helping hand would break a bone.

They must be a lot tougher than they look, she thought, or they'd never survive the usual callous treatment accorded all species by the Catteni.

The whip lash sang dangerously close to her and she ducked. One of the disadvantages of being tall, but she'd got the Deski to her feet and supported her swaying body. Having the reflexes of a good Samaritan was also a disadvantage, she thought. You can't help everyone. So help the ones you can. She put both hands on the Deski's stick-thin shoulders to keep the creature upright as they moved away from the wall in the general direction the Catteni wanted them to move - the doors.

So she - and Mahomet - had been caught up in the Catteni crowd control. Well, he was probably out of it, since they could scarcely think he was one of the mob that they had quelled with their gas sprays. Her timing was, as usual, faultless: she was right back where she'd started. Well, not quite, but near enough to make no never mind.

Still, if she'd escaped once, she could do it again. She had to cheer herself up.

They had moved close enough to the door now to see that the next room was full of spraying water. One of those mass showers the Catteni used to cleanse captives.

There were occasional short pauses, as the Catteni guard at the door stripped clothing off. She gritted her teeth.

The procedure had overtones she didn't like, but she'd been through this sort of line in the slave pens and had come out the other side alive - and breathing fresh air.

Anything was better than the stench behind her.

Disrobing her was simple. The Catteni simply ran the cutter down the front of her tunic, pulled at the back and shoved her forward, naked, into the hot spray. It felt good, battering her from below, above and all sides It smelt slightly better than the room she'd just left but the disinfectant was undoubtedly a wise and sensible addition.

She walked as quickly as she could, her eyes front and unfocused so she wouldn't see anything. The water was hot enough to cause a misting, so there wasn't that much to see but bodies, green, grey, and other shades of pale, moving through it. Then they were in the drying room and assailed by jets of air almost too hot on skin roughened by the disinfectant, but she was dry by the time she had traversed that chamber. A slight pause at the exit and she was handed a bundle and peremptorily gestured to move quickly forward. She found enough space in this dressing room and clambered into the coverall. How her size had been estimated, she didn't know, but the garment fitted.

The lumps that constituted Catteni-style footwear folded around her feet and took the shape of them in the first few moments. Handy enough if masses of different sized and shaped feet had to be covered.

There was one of the thin thermal blankets, which she roiled up and tied over her left shoulder by the strings attached to the ends.

When she was clad she joined the line going through the next entrance, where she was given a cup and a package about a handspan square and about eight centimetres thick. As others did, she tucked the package behind the blanket. She was pushed along to where hairy brindle Rugarians were ladling a steaming liquid into cups and then she was allowed out, thank God, into fresher air and a huge force-field netted assembly area.

Catteni marched along a catwalk above it, sending their whips in random directions to remind the prisoners that they were there and watched. Having noticed that the perimeter walls were occupied by the early-corners, she worked her way deeper into the centre - the other area generally safe from force-whip lengths - and started to sip the soup. It was hot and it was liquid, both which her belly appreciated, but it was the tasteless sort of fflling food that was definitely mass-produced prisoner issue. She noticed that some people had opened their packages, which contained the sort of ration bars that had been handed out in the slave quarters. The way the rations were being wolfed down, it was fairly obvious some folks hadn't eaten regularly.

And if the Catteni gave them rations in advance, she rather suspected she'd better hang on to hers. They did nothing out of charity: always expediency.

Metallic clangings echoed over the silent throng as the doors through which people had filed were shut. She wondered what was going to happen next, but getting clean and being fed was somehow encouraging. Talking was never encouraged in such gatherings and, while Kris had noted that there were representatives of all the common species she'd seen in Barevi City and that she was currently in a group of Terrans, no-one had spoken to her. And everyone was avoiding eye contact.

A second series of metallic clangings and once again the force-whips slashed out over the assembled. This time they were driven towards eight apertures which, she saw 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 force-whips, but both could be lethal.

As she was pushed towards 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 odours 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 the others 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 centre.

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 towards the sounds of dispute. A group of males was evidently contesting the possession of a line of crates.

Several were standing atop of 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 Morphins.

Well, knives certainly hadn't been issued before this voyage. Why were they available at the destination? The early bird gets armed and can then defend against the late risers. 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 word. "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 famous 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 colour, 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. Not 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 at the open mouth and staring eyes, dead: another casualty to Catteni 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, then 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 almost in 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 further down the stream had yet showed 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 residue from 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 IColorado. 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 cupfuls 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, was 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 towards the crates.

When she could see both sides of the line of 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 be a great many.

"Knives, hatchets," the man said. He was a heavy-set 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, and one in each boot judging by the way his trousers 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 and a second Terran jumped down, a knife on his open palm, the handle towards 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 ffickirg it into the nearest crate, which it penetrated enough to be held 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 offence, sister."

"No offence 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 as if he was about to erupt. "OK, OK, some of the poor dumb heads 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 throaty 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 isn't more ration bars so make the ones you got do until we can figure out what's edible on this effing plant."

"I'd planned to," she replied, tucking the hatchet in the belt at her back. She'd hack a piece off the thermal blanket to make sheaths for knives and hatchet. Mitford handed her a compact kit, already supplied with a broad shoulder strap.

"Hasn't got much medicine. Cats don't use it, seems like. Tough mothers!"

"Hey, Sarge," yelled a man, running full tilt towards them and pointing back over his shoulder. "There's a Catteni! He's waking up. Let's kill the bastard before he does." Roaring out an order for others to join him, Mitford jumped down, a knife already in his hand.

"Wait a minute," Kris said, holding up her hands. "If a Catteni's here with us, he's as much a prisoner as we are.

"Who cares? He's a Cat and Cats should die," Arnie said, moving around her Kris started after them, running to catch up with Mitford who was the leader.

"Sarge, I saw one Catteni in the same hold as I was.

And he's a good guy."

"There're no good Cats!" Mitford said in a snarl, chopping at the air with one flat, finger-braced hand.

"There are," she said just as fiercely. "And if it's the one I think, don't kill him."

"You're asking too much, girl.

"Not right away, at least. Use the sense God gave you, Mitford," she said. "If it's the Catteni I think it is, he'll know a lot we have to find out about this place. Unless there were some guide books in those crates." Mitford halted so abruptly that the three men right behind him bounced off his back. Narrowing his eyes, he glared at her.

"And how would you know that about him, girl?"

"Because I watched him being hunted by other Catteni.

They blasted him out of the sky and then blew up the crashed plane and searched all around until they were damned sure he'd been blown up in it."

"Then how come he's alive and here?" Arnie wanted to know.

"Because I thought he was an escaped slave like me and hid him under the falls until the hunters left. Only then we got captured together," Kris said, which was true enough. "When I came to in the prison, I assumed he'd been released. Cattenis can't hold grudges more than twenty-four hours, you know." Mitford gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. "They must have hated him real bad to dump him in with us. Besides which, you'd only be doing the Cats' dirty work for them." Mitford scowled at her and she realized that she'd been clever to bring that up. "Hell's bells, man, they'd expect us to waste him, wouldn't they? So let's find out - first - what he knows. Then you can kill him." She said that cheerfully, hoping to God and little green apples that Mahomet would be able to show himself useful enough so that they wouldn't kill him. She found it odd in herself to think that way about the Catteni but he wasn't like the others "We sure could use some gen about this place,' Mitford agreed reluctantly, glancing around. He gave a convulsive twitch. "Place is too neat for an unsettled world and I'd rather know what we got to contend with now before we stumble into big kimchee with only knives and hatchets." He strode on then to the man who'd discovered the Catteni. He pointed in the proper direction and then followed them. It was Mahomet all right, and she bent down beside him, turning the heavy head to expose where t she'd belted him with the tool. A scar was there but it was well healed.

"Oho!" she said.

"Oho, what?" Mitford asked as the other men ranged themselves around Mahomet. Their expressions were unfriendly and most of them had knives in their hands.

She pointed to the scar. "I clobbered him there. And it's healed. We were a long time getting here."

"Kill him now before he wakes," Arnie said in a snarl, leaning over, knife-hand raised.

"NO!" Mitford's word snapped Arnie erect. "The girl's got something in keeping him alive and able to talk. Don't tell me he speaks English?" There was a little more respect for her in Mitford's eyes now and Kris realized that he'd been thinking she'd been Mahomet's toy.

"Enough lingua Barevi for us to understand him." She splashed the little water that was left in her cup over the Catteni's face and he reacted by lifting a hand to his face and moving stiffly from side to side. When his foot connected with someone's leg, she could see him tense. He drew his leg back and in one quick lithe movement was on his feet, arms held slightly out from his sides, alert and ready to defend himself despite the knife-carrying odds against him.

"Easy there," Kris said, stepping in front of him.

"Remember me?" He shot a quick glance at her but his eyes went right back to Mitford. Though the sergeant wasn't holding a knife, Mahomet had immediately taken him as the leader.

Kris gave him full marks for quick appraisals.

"Yes. You stole the commander's ffitter," he said in lingua Barevi.

"You did?" Arnie exclaimed. "You bitch!" And he shoved his face right up at her. His breath was vile but she held her ground and glared down at him, once again glad of the extra inches that had made her adolescence a trial. "I got force-whipped because of you!" He jerked his coverall off his shoulder so she could see the weals, still purple, on his skin. "So did fifty others at the discipline assembly they called because of you!

She's as bad as he is. No wonder she wasn't for killing him." Arnie glanced at the other hard faces, willing them to join him.

"Stuff it, Arnie," Mitford said, holding his right arm up in a karate chop position. "We can deal with her later, too, but let's first find out what this mother knows." Kris's mouth was dry all over again and she was scared cold. But she couldn't have let them just kill Mahomet out of hand. She owed him, if only because she'd put him in jeopardy before the twenty-four hour moratorium had passed. She was sure that was why he was stuck here with the rest of them. She'd inadvertently told the truth.

Cattenis had hated him enough to make sure he came to a dead end.

"Hey, Sarge," someone yelled across the field, and they looked over their shoulders. In the interval quite a few people had roused and were now homing in on the crates.

Reinforcements were needed.

"C'mon, you," Mitford said to Mahomet and jerked his head to indicate the Catteni should move with them. "And you," he added coldly to Kris.

Kris briefly considered a belated apology to Arnie and decided not to make the effort. Arnie didn't seem the forgiving type and she might even make matters worse.

Mahomet had not moved, and when two of the men swiped at him with their knives, he ignored them and gestured for Kris to precede him.

Quickly she fell in behind Mitford, hearing the surprise exclamations from the men.

"See how well he knows her," one of them said in a salacious tone of voice.

"She conked him, didn't she?"

"Yeah, but before or after, Murph?" "Before, Murph," she answered for herself, making her voice as strident as she could. That wasn't too difficult Iconsidering how scared she was. The situation had turned very ugly. "And that goes for anyone with the same dirty ideas." Looking straight ahead, she strode as confidently as she could back to the crates.

Once there, Mitford signed two of the men to take her and Mahomet behind the crates until he was finished with the new arrivals. He jumped up to his vantage point and, arms cocked on his belt, began his spiel. "I'm here to see that these supplies get doled out properly.

So one at a time." He repeated the advice in lingua Barevi, speaking with a fluency that Kris hadn't expected.

Arnie was helping Mitford on the crates, but some of those who had been lounging on the ground behind the barricade got curious and wandered up to Kris and Mahomet.

"What's with the Cat?"

"Mitford's going to question him," said the lankier of the two, a good head taller than Kris and nearly as tall as Mahomet.

"OK, Murph, give Arnie a hand with the supplies now," Mitford said, jumping down. "Now, Cat, tell me why we should keep you alive."

"What is needed to know?" Mahomet asked in Barevi, his voice even, his manner diplomatic.

Kris let relief flood through her. Thank God he had sense enough - for a Catteni - to know how dangerous his situation was.

"Where we are. Who lives here. Any bad animals.

What can we eat that won't kill us." Mitford tapped the blanket where his ration bars were stashed. "These won't last long." Mahomet let out a dry rasp, tried to clear his throat to form words. Kris knew he'd be as dry as anyone else but she didn't dare ask for the favour of water for him.

She mustn't be seen to favour, much less help, him.

"Here, give me that cup, Bass," Mitford said, snapping his fingers at one of the onlookers who had a cup in his hand.

"Huh? Give a Cat a drink?"

"If that helps him tell us what we need to know. Give it. You've been guzzling water for the past hour."

"I like that!" But Bass handed over the cup. "I want it back." Mahomet held up his own cup and with a nod of his head towards Bass accepted the water Mitford doled out. He took a small sip, rinsing his mouth, and then a longer one.

"1 remember some details. This planet surveyed. I did not read all.

"What did you read then?" Mitford demanded.

"Longer day, mild climate,.. - He frowned, trying to find the words, "species not other found. Three types deathly." He paused for another sip and then circled the cup to indicate the field. "Better go from here soon.

Open field dangerous."

"Then why was we put down here?" Arnie demanded from his vantage on the crates. "So we could all get killed?"

"No,' Mahomet shook his head, a rueful grin on his lips. "To live, to fight what is here. This how Catteni settle planets - the not easy ones." He finished the water then, knocking it back in his throat, tapping the cup on his teeth to be sure he had received the last drops.

Then he stood there, his eyes going slowly from one face to another and coming back to Mitford's.

"How'd you get sent off with all of us?" the sergeant asked.

Mahomet gave him a long look, a slight frown on his face. "Say again?" He surprised them by asking in accented English.

"You are here, too, Kris said, rephrasing the question.

"Why?" He didn't look in her direction and shrugged. "I kill. I escape. I am - - - took. Day not over." He shrugged again.

"You killed another Catteni?" Mitford asked and when Mahomet nodded, "And they deported you for that?"

"Day not over."

"That rule you were talking about?" Mitford asked Kris and she nodded. "Why'd you kill a Catteni?" Mahomet gave a little snort, and the expression on his face suggested that they were not going to believe him.

"He insulted Emassi and he kill four strong slaves no reason."

"Slaves? Like we were?" Mitford turned his thumb against his chest.

Mahomet nodded.

"Guy's too clever," Arnie said in a growling tone. "Clever enough to lie his way out of being killed."

"I don't happen to think he's lying,' Mitford said slowly. "I heard something the day of that riot.

Some Cats'd been hunting another Cat captain who'd killed their patrol leader."

"Patrol leader," Mahomet repeated, recognizing the words and nodding his head. "I kill. Not wise "His lips twitched and then he added, "Cat." Suddenly everyone was aware of a weird noise.

"Down. All down, sffll!" Mahomet said as he dropped flat to the ground. The urgency m his voice and his tone of command was compelling.

"You heard him," Mitford said and gestured furiously at those on the crate. "Get down, you fools. Lie still." The noise got louder and louder, piercing eardrums.

Some of those in the process of getting up lay back down, covering their ears. The two Deski who had been issued their knives moaned and cowered against the crates.

A shadow out of the west preceded the shape that overfiew the field while the weird sound became an ungodly whistling shriek.

Whatever it was was big and it swooped suddenly. Some unfortunate let out a terrified scream which trailed off as the flying monster departed with its prey. Kris saw brief struggles of ouffiung arms and legs and then all movement ceased. The weird noise cut off as abruptly.

"What the…was that?" Arnie cried.

"Deathly," Mahomet said. Then he pointed to the tree shapes at the upper edge of the field. "Watcher?" he both asked and suggested to Mitford. "Alert by call?"

"Many of them things around?" Mitford asked.

"Don't know. One is not enough?" Mahomet asked in a droll tone.

"Yeah, one's enough. Murph, you got a loud voice, you and Taglione, get up there and play sentry. Anyone see who it got?" he called up to those at the far end of the crates who would have had a better view.

"Didn't see. Looked like one of us."

"Would be. We got more meat on our bones than the Deskis," and Mitford looked over to the spindly creatures who were still cowering and moaning against the crates.

"Do you Deskis know what those are?" He asked one of them in lingua Barevi. They both shook their heads but lowered their hands from their ears.

"Sound hurt Deski ears," Mahomet said, rising to his feet and dusting himself off. "They hear faster. Send them watch."

"Good idea, Cat,' and Mitford issued the orders. The Deskis both tried to slink away until Mitford called Murph and Taglione to escort them.

Mahomet said one brief spate of sounds at them and they instantly obeyed.

"You speak Deski?" Mitford asked the Catteni.

"Deski, Morphinis, Turski, Rugash," Mahomet said.

"Ang-leesh not many verds," he added in English.

"Unnershtan better talk ssslow."

"Well, now we're cooking," Mitford said. He looked around at his allies, nodding especially at the recalcitrant and dissatisfied Arnie. "I don't think I got the message across to some of the aliens here." Mahomet nodded. "Easy to say not unnershtan - - doan like order." Mitford barked out a laugh.

"Damned well told, Cat.

I think we keep you alive a while longer."

"Thank you." And Mahomet briefly inclined his upper body towards Mitford.

"Name? Rank?" the sergeant asked the Catteni, ignoring the mutters of disapproval at that decision. When the mutter grew louder, he turned fiercely around. "Look, you sorry lot asked me to take command. Don't buck me when I make a command decision. Someone's got to. I say this mother is worth more to us alive - until he proves otherwise. Already saved somebody's neck from the flying thing. You don't like it, go it on your own.

Get me?" The human protest subsided and Kris felt her knees wobbling with relief. She was also dry-mouthed again from stress.

"So," Mitford turned back expectantly to Mahomet.

"Name. Rank."

"Zainal, Emassi," he said, but Kris knew that wasn't the Catteni word for captain.

"Mitford, Sergeant. I outrank you, he added in such a bland-faced lie that Kris coughed to hide her guffaw.

"I'm going for some more water," she told Mitford and walked off without waiting for any permission.

"Water good," Mahomet Zainal remarked in an even tone.

"All right, but I've some more questions for you, Emassi Zainal." "Zainal, now." Kris grinned as she heard the correction, but Zainal kept right on walking to the stream.

"You shouldn't've let him go off like that," Arnie said in a whine of protest.

"Like what? He's only going for a drink. Where else can he go?

Now, let's get back on the job. Be glad I didn't ask you to go get water for him." He ignored Arnie's curses and continued. "Here come some more customers. Let's get this done before those flying things strafe us again."

"I dunno why you'd believe anything that Cat says -" Arnie said to Mitford. "And you let that bitch away with "Stow it, Arnie." Kris took two slow cupfuls of water before she started back to the crates. Zainal - an interesting name, she thought - was ahead of her, but at a tangent, aiming for Mitford, who was looking out over the field of bodies still lying motionless. He'd handled a very difficult situation deftly and got her off the hook at the same time. She saw him look out over the body-strewn field. He paused briefly to examine those nearest. Shamelessly she cocked her ears to hear what he said to Mitford, his rumbling bass carrying easily.

"There are dead.

"Do Catteni expect casualties?"

"Kaz-u-all-tees?"

"Dead ones."

"Long trip here," and Zainal's hand went to the scar on his head.

"Some too weak. They feel nothing."

"I guess they didn't."

"Unwise to stay here near dead," Zainal added. "Not only flying danger."

"Just how much do you know about this place?" Mitford asked, slightly suspicious.

Zainal gave a long sigh. Kris could see the regret in his expression: at least he permitted his expressions to show - not many of the Catteni she'd encountered did.

Of course, that was one way to communicate when language failed.

"Not enough," he said with visible regret, "now I am here, too." Mitford gave a short bark of laughter. "Shoe's on the other foot, huh?"

"Say again?" Mitford waved his hand. "So we should leave the dead here I'd better get a head count, just in case. Most of the goblins have gone and I can't say I'm sorry about that. Those mothers were dangerous all on their own-i-o!

If the Deskis got good hearing, I'm for including them.

What else are they good for?" Kris noticed that Zainal had listened very intently to Mitford's words. He nodded once as if he had caught the gist.

"Deski good for much. You name Turs goblins? Ah!

Good for hardest works. Hate all but Turs."

"That's the truth," Mitford agreed sourly. "The Rugs at least try to get along," and he gestured to the Rugarians who had clustered together, drinking water and chewing away at their rations bars. "Don't mind the Morphis but they sure stink.

"Stink?" Mitford held his nose. "We got a mixed bag left. And kids." He pointed to the half-dozen youngsters huddled together behind the crates. Too intent on what was happening to Zainal, Kris only noticed them now. "A rough detail to get organized and moving. And where do we go? D'you know that?"

"Safer in hills," and Zainal pointed to what could be considered the north. The sun of this system had not yet reached its zenith.

"Is it? That flying thing came from there.

"Places in rock to stay best. Creatures in -.." He reached down and tapped the ground. "Come in dark.

Very bad." He shook his head from side to side to emphasize that caution. "Don't see."

"Stuff comes out of the earth at night?"

"True." He made the motions of a sinuous track upward with one hand and then pinched his fingers closed to indicate biting. "Day long enough to go.

Find rock place."

"D'you know if there are caves - safe rock places on this planet?"

"Rock right kind," Zainal said, kicking at one that looked like limestone to Kris. "Will make me remember more." He shook his head as if to free up more information.

"I'd rather move into some sort of a defensible position anyhow,' Mitford said and jumped to the top of the crate.

"Listen up, you hairy lot," Mitford bellowed in a parade ground voice that made the Deskis clamp hands to their ears and cower to the ground. "This place won't be safe at night. We've got to move to the hills, find caves to shelter in."

"You're taking his word for this?" Arnie demanded, running up to Mitford and tugging at his trouser leg.

"You gonna listen to a Cat?"

"I'll listen to anyone who talks sense and as the Cat's the only one knows anything about this planet, I'm not about to ignore any local info I can get, Arnie. No-one'll force you to do anything now you don't wanna. Hear me?" He raised his voice again. "First, you lot," and he pointed a thick finger at Bass and some of the others who'd been lounging behind the crates, "take a body count. Team up and cart any that are breathing and I mean any back here and we'll try to rouse em. I wouldn't even leave my mother-in-law to what walks at night. Now move it. You, too, Kris and take the Cat with you."

"If we had a canteen or something to carry water in," Kris started.

Zainal tapped one of the empty crates. They were fashioned out of some sort of plastic and were capacious enough. He tipped it over and shook out some packing debris.

"I carry," he said and nodding at Kris to follow started down to the stream.

"Good idea," Mitford said and got the two nearest Deskis to start emptying another half-full crate. "Useful."

"Sarge, what do we do with cups and blankets? Leave "em on the stiffs?" Bass called.

"Strip "em," Mitford yelled back. "They won't need "em. We might." Remarkably, almost everyone, Deskis as well, fell to and by the time Zainal had brought back the filled crate - without so much as puffing from the trek uphill - the count was complete and only the dead remained behind in the field.

By the time the sun had reached its zenith, everyone living had been revived and informed of the current situation. There was one more flying attack, but Deski ears had heard the three creatures approaching long before they were seen, and everyone was able to play dead. The creatures, still whistfing their unbearable noise, caught nothing on that run.

By tearing strips from spare blankets, crude carrying straps were contrived to make crates easier to transport, for Mitford intended to leave nothing behind that might later come in handy. He even ordered the dead to be stripped of footwear and coveralls. He got some resistance to that decision, but in the end the unpleasant task was done and garments stored.

When the columns were ready to move off, Kris had acquired considerable respect for Mitford. She was equally glad she'd made the effort to spare Zainal, for he had more than talk to use to placate dissenters. The added benefit of his show of strength was that few would try to take him on even if, like Arnie, they hated his guts for being a Catteni. Some of the more-recently revived were weak, so Mitford assigned each a buddy and announced that he intended to take skin off anyone who might happen to "lose' his or her buddy as they moved out.

"How many bought it?" Mitford asked Bass who had kept a tally.

"Eighty-nine didn't make it," the lanky man said.

"Mostly Deski and some older humans and two kids.

That'd make about a ten percent loss if you figure a hundred bodies in each of the eight rows. Live head count's five hundred eighty-two: haven't sorted "em out by race yet.

"Forget race," Mitford said with a snort. "We're all in this together.

"Yeah, all the Turs fecked off and a lot of the Morphis but that's all right by me," Bass said with a sideways glance at Zainal.

Mitford walked to the top of the field and, fists on his hips, roared for attention.

"Listen up. We're moving out. You lot," and he pointed to a bunch of humans, "form up in a column, four abreast.

We got nine water carriers: distribute yourselves along the line of march. You with buddies, sing out if you got trouble but try to keep up. Don't be shy asking for help if you need it. Bass, you be rear guard. Take Cumber, Dowdall, Esker, Movi, Tesco and you three." He held up three fingers at the nearest group of Rugarians and gestured them over to Bass. "We're all in this together, remember! OK, now move it out." He motioned for Zainal to join him and trotted out to where people had begun to form up the column.

"Move it!"