Freedom's Landing Read online

  She sat down on the pilot’s chair and rethought her circumstances. It had been a tiring day. And nearly at its end. Well, what if she returned him whence he had come? With darkness falling, there’d be a fair amount of traffic back into the city, so this purloined flitter might not be recognized: not after five months. How long did Catteni keep up “wanted” notices? Twenty-four hours? Perhaps for Catteni Emassis but not for escaped slaves—that is, if anyone had even noticed her disappearance. She switched on the controls, reassured that he had said the tank was half full. She couldn’t remember how the gauge had stood when she absconded but the little aircraft was supposed to be economical, which was why there were so many in use.

  She knew the coordinates of the city, a good two-hour flight from here, but surely there’d be enough fuel for her to get back. No matter. She had to dump Mahomet. She’d get him to the outskirts where a limp body wouldn’t be that uncommon. Well, maybe not the outskirts where the slaves and hangers-on lived in semi-squalor. But there were all those assembly areas where Catteni held drills and public meetings. She’d been to one or two with the cook, who found such displays helpful in maintaining discipline. One view of a miscreant lashed to death with the forcewhips was enough for her. Enough to revive her desire to get as far away from such a discipline as possible.

  Powered up, she reversed the flitter out of its concealing thicket. She really had been lucky in that landing, which had by no means been as planned as she inferred to Mahomet. She hadn’t been watching the altimeter the night of her escape or realized that the plains surrounding the city had altered to a hilly terrain. She’d felt the scrape of something on the belly of the flitter, panicked, and the nose had dipped. She’d been in the middle of the thicket, and plastered with thorns from the angry bushes, before she could correct the error. It had worked out. Kris had a great and abiding belief that things would work out—if you lived long enough to let them.

  She headed the flitter southeast, but not before marking again the coordinates of her retreat. She’d have to come back in daylight or she’d miss the thicket. The branches sprang back up again as soon as the flitter released them.

  The lights of the city guided her more surely than the directional equipment. Only the altering position of the needle on one dial face informed her that it was a compass. She supposed there was an autopilot but she hadn’t figured which switch for that. She knew as much as she did about flying because she’d had to accompany the cook to the markets for fresh produce every day and had figured out the basics from watching him. Then, when she’d seen the commander’s flitter, she couldn’t resist the temptation it presented. So she hadn’t. Like Oscar Wilde, she could resist anything except temptation. Much good her English Literature was doing her now: it was all the extracurricular stuff, like orienteering, that course in survival skills which her mother had laughed about, and her karate course that were invaluable. Like downing heavy planet denizens. She glanced down at Mahomet but he hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle. The bleeding had apparently stopped.

  The city looked rather nice lit up, she thought, with floodlights on some of the more unusual architectural styles: not that the huge looming Catteni Headquarters building smack dab in the center of the hub layout of Barevi City would win any prizes. There seemed to be a lot of lights on in the city, or maybe it was because she was seeing it on an overview, rather than being in the middle of it. There wasn’t enough lighting in the outskirts as she approached them for her to find a good landing spot. Well, she’d go on until she found one of the assembly areas. They were ringed by the stumpy tree forms that had been planted to supply some shade for onlookers of Catteni ceremonies. Plenty of space for her to land the flitter. Strangely enough she didn’t see many flitters coming into the city from her direction. Well, she had come from open jungle lands. But there seemed to be a great number of the larger army type spreading out from the Catteni HQ.

  Something was going on, she realized when she opened the door to the flitter. There was a lot of noise, and it had a menacing sound to it. Of course such distant murmurs often sounded more threatening than they were. She’d just hurry and be out of here in next to no time and on her way back to her hideaway.

  She got the rope she’d seen in the locker and tied it around Mahomet’s feet. Then she looped that about a stumpy tree trunk. She’d winch his body out. She got his feet and most of his legs, but his butt stuck at the lip of the door frame. She was so busy tugging and pulling his posterior over the obstacle that she didn’t notice how much closer all that sound was. And lights. Even the dark assembly area was brighter. Peering down the access lanes that led to the area, she could see lights. Torches? And the rumble was definitely intimidating. What was going on in Barevi City?

  The sound made her redouble her efforts to haul Mahomet out of the flitter. The trunk of the man must have weighed half a ton, for she could not budge it. The noise was very definitely heading in this direction and so was the aerial traffic. She stepped over his inert body and tried to lift his torso and shove him out the door. He’d only drop a foot and with his hard head, he was unlikely to hurt himself. Grunting, straining, propping her feet against the column of the pilot’s chair, she tried every which way to move Mahomet.

  Noise and light were erupting into the far side of the assembly area. She’d better get him back in and leave! She skipped over his body, undid the rope from his feet, and was starting to angle his legs back in the flitter when she heard the heavy rumble of big aircraft and felt the compression of air over her. She was panting with her exertions and had no time to cover her nose and mouth as the first sweet, and all too familiar, reek filled the air about her. She collapsed over her victim’s feet, wondering why she had been foolish enough to risk her freedom for a Catteni overlord!

  Chapter Two

  THE INDESCRIBABLE STENCH OF MANY FRIGHTENED bodies in a close confinement and the unmistakable ssssslash of a forcewhip and 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 she’d remained unconscious 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 looked, she thought, or they’d never survive the usual callous treatment accorded all species by the Catteni.

  The whiplash 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. Automatic reflexes of the Good Samaritan were also a disadvantage, she thought. I 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 ca
ught 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: right back where she’d started. Well, not quite but near enough to make no nevermind. Still, if she’d escaped once, she could do it again. She had to cheer herself up.

  They 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 smelled 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, gray, 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 fit. 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 size and shape feet had to be covered. There was one of the thin thermal blankets which she rolled up and tied over her left shoulder with 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 centimeters 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 comers, she worked her way deeper in the center: the other area generally safe from forcewhip lengths. And started to sip the soup. It was hot and it was liquid, both of which her belly appreciated, but it was the tasteless sort of filling 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 she was currently in a group of Terrans, no one had spoken to her. And everyone was avoiding eye contact.

  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 t
hree 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.