Freedom's Landing (6 page)

“I'd planned to,” she replied, tucking the hatchet in the belt at her back. She'd hack off a piece of 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 toward 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 it is, 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, 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 past twenty-four hours, you know.” Mitford gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “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 she'd belted him with the tool. A scar was there but it was well healed.

“Ohho,” she said.

“Ohho, 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 flitter,” 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' 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 surprised 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 considering 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.

“Okay, 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 favor of water for him. She mustn't be seen to favor, 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 toward Bass, accepted the water Mitford doled out. He took a small sip, rinsing his mouth, and then a longer one.

“I remember some details. This planet surveyed. I did not read all.”

“What did you read then?” Mitford demanded.

“Longer day, mild climate, some…” 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, still!” Mahomet said as he dropped flat to the ground. The urgency in 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 Deskis who had been issued their knives moaned and cowered against the crates.

A shadow out of the west preceded the shape that overflew 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 outflung 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, Ilginish, Turski, Rugash,” Mahomet said. “Angleesh not many verds,” he added in English. “Unnershtan better talk ssslow.”