by neetha Napew
Boy, that item would be worth its weight in platinum!
Of course, there were spare blades back at the main caves. Wasn’t there someone at the camp who thought he could manipulate blades into other useful tools? Her stomach began to rumble. Damn this planet!
Even meal times were skewed. She slowly ate half a ration bar.
Nowhere near as tasty as that stew.
Despite such a positive bout of thinking, she was glad enough to rouse Zainal to take over sentinel duty The next morning Zainal had already heated up the remainder of last night’s stew for breakfast and a hearty one it was - to fill night-empty stomachs. They cleaned up the leftovers, sopping up the last of the juices with another ration bar. Kris was stuffed but she’d work it off soon enough.
She asked Zainal how far they had travelled the day before and he showed her the tally string. She whistled appreciatively: they’d made forty klicks, no mean feat when you considered the ups and downs they’d had to negotiate. Her feet, which she had bathed again in cold water, certainly knew they’d walked that far. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked.
It made her feel tired to think she’d trekked that far.
Zainal kicked out the fire and used the stew pot rocks to make a cairn before he signalled them all to move out.
“Where are we heading for today?”
“Circle,” he said, gesturing a wide arc, and ending with his finger pointing to the cairn. “Find what is find.”
“What we can discover, find, see, know.” Kris had never thought of herself as a pedagogue but she had this intense itch to correct Zainal and improve his language skills.
Thank goodness he was amenable to learn-as-you-go.
They jumped down off the outcroppmg and made their way across the field. Zainal moderated his pace from yesterday’s stride but not by much. Maybe his feet hurt, too? How much walking did a space trooper get to do?
Coo found some green globes in one of the hedges, which he gobbled juicily, humming happily to himself but Slav curled his upper lip in distaste - a process which fascinated Kris, as Slav really did curl his lip up and into a fold above his uneven set of teeth. She wondered again how Rugarians kept from seriously biting the insides of their lips with such dental equipment.
Everyone kept their eyes open, surveying behind them and above them, especially when they were out in the open. A rear-view mirror would have been right handy, Kris thought. Dead things got sucked into the ground at night but clearly the avian critters patrolled by day for their sustenance on things that moved.
“3’ The fields were endless on this gently rolling terrain.
Streams were laid on at such intervals that Kris’s earlier wish for a canteen was redundant. There were no roads, no bridgs, no fly-overs, nothing more serious than rather abrupt little hillocks of stone that seemed to rise straight up out of the ground. She’d seen something similar somewhere on Earth but it took her some time to dredge up Ethiopia from her memory. Most of the hillocks were bare but a few seemed to have caught enough soil to support bushes, and one or two were crowned with the almost-trees that baby bushes became if they had a chance to live long enough.
Then they came to a whole series of fields that had recently been harvested. No track to tell them what direction the harvesters had come from or gone to.
Although the direction would take them out of the circular loop Zainal had proposed they make, they followed the harvesting signs.
They heard it before they saw it and only had time to take cover before the mechanical gadget floated over the intervening hedge in the very next field.
“Do we stand or run?” Kris whispered hoarsely to Zainal. He shrugged but he was stuck as far into the hedge as he could get, and stock still. She imitated him, wincing as branches dug into the softer parts of her.
They could smell hot metal, combined with odder smells that must have been fuel - only that begged the question in Kris’s mind, Who manufactured the fuel, not to mention the machiny? They waited in this position until she got a knotting cramp in one side and grimaced, trying without moving much, to relieve the spasm.
When was that mechanical going to move on? Or, and the thought pierced her with a good deal of fright, was it waiting for reinforcements? Did the machiney on this planet learn? Very carefully craning her neck up, she could see through the funny-shaped foliage of the hedge material that the Dalek hadn’t moved a smidgeon: it lust hovered there, on the other side of the hedge.
She poked Zainal who was also watching for movement, and when he carefully turned his head to her, she raised her eyebrows in query.
Just then Coo came alert - not that the Deski hadn’t been tense with the waiting. He turned his glance down the field and very carefully pointed out a direction. Something was coming for them? The fliers always seemed to come out of the sun at them. What would be coming up the hill? And should they leave? If they could, with the mechanical monster an arm’s length away. And if they did make a run for it, where would they go? There wasn’t even a hillock close enough that they could scramble up.
Kris didn’t like this at all.
She liked it even less when Coo let out a whimper and pointed with more agitation down the hill.
The things moved so fast that Kris barely saw the glint of them in the sun when they were upon them - and -shooting their little darts.
She felt the prick and she lost consciousness from one moment to the next.
She just avoided tripping over a sleeping beastie of some
Chapter Six
A hand rocking her shoulder roused her from the stupor caused by the drugged dart.
“Kris, wake up.” Zainal’s voice.
“Lemme sleep.” She ached and she was so-o-o-o tired.
“No, we go now or not.
That brought recent events back and she shot up so fast she nearly cracked her head on Zainal’s as he knelt beside her.
It was dark all around, but she could make out both Slav and Coo, and then the odd stamping and heavy breathing, as well as animal smells, gave her another clue. They’d been dumped in a barn?
Classified as animals by the mechanical? She didn’t know whether she was amused or indignant.
“Water?” And Zainal handed her a full cup which she sipped to revive her parched mouth and throat.
“Thanks.” She got up as she finished and, when she would have handed him back the cup, he pointed to the empty loop on her belt.
“Oh! Yes. Thanks again.” Then she felt for the important parcel of ration bars and her blankets. All in place and accounted for. She breathed a sigh of relief. “So how do we get out of here?” she asked, sensorially aware of the size, as well as the darkness, of the building.
“This way,” and Zainal cupped one big hand under her right elbow and turned her in the right direction.
“Care kind: one of the creatures that made a liquid looing sound.
She blinked furiously to accustom her eyes to the gloom and took a couple of quick and careful steps to catch up with Zainal, Coo and Slav.
“The main door, of course,” she murmured when she realized that that was their destination. A very large set of doors. And how they were to open them, when there was no apparent handle or lock or knob - She heard a little snick, a click and a pleased mutter from Zainal and heard the rumble of a door moving on a track as he replaced his boot knife.
“Come,” Zainal said, and she and the others wasted no time in slipping out. Zainal carefully closed the door behind him and it snicked once more when shut.
They were by no means clear yet, for their temporary prison seemed to be only one of many such buildings set in a long line, visible as a greater darkness against the lesser one of the sky. For she could see stars above but none of the moons.
“Hold,” and Zainal took her hand in his and then she felt Coo’s dry fingers closing around her left hand.
Slav, with better night vision, was their leader.
They must have completed a full circuit of the imme
nse yard before they halted again.
“Place to hide?” Zainal asked Slav. The Rugarian shook his head.
Coo said softly. “Up?” and pointed in the direction of the stack of crates that had been halfway round their exploratory circuit.
“Maybe we can see more when a moon comes up,” Kris suggested.
Zainal nodded and they made their way back to the tall crates.
Once again, Zainal’s height and heft made the difference as he boosted each of his team up onto the first level of the container stack. It took the three of them to haul him to their level. The process was repeated until Zainal decided they were high enough up not to be immediately visible from the ground.
Visible to what? was Kris’s question but she didn’t voice it.
They had at least reached enough space for all of them to lie down, which seemed the best idea although Zainal just sat, propped against the crate, obviously intending to stand the watch.
“Wake me to spell y,) Kris told Zainal and made to lie down on the hard surface. How odd, she thought, that a simple convenience like a mattress was a distant memo,y.
Then she felt hands pulling at her and, quelling her immediate resistance because the only hands that were that strong were Zainal’s, she allowed herself to be pulled around, her head resting on his thigh.
Not quite as hard as the crate, and warm, so she made herself comfortable.
He shifted her briefly and gave her a sort of a pat before he crossed his arms. She was obscurely glad that there were only Slav and Coo to witness this cosiness. Well, hell, she didn’t care. She rubbed her head into his leg, wishing the muscles were not quite so firmly packed.
There was rather a lot of Zainal that was commendable.
Slow down, girl, she warned herself. Why, then, do I frel more comfortable with him than with anyone else, even Jay Greene?
The sun suddenly blazing right in her eyes woke her more speedily than any alarm. She was facing into it unlike Coo and Slav who had carefully put their feet in that direction.
Zainal’s head had dropped to his crossed arms and he was breathing heavily enough for it to be called snoring.
She was about to wake him when sudden activity below startled her.
Machines were whirring, grinding, revving and there were all kinds of noises, except those of intelligible speech of any kind. She eased away from Zainal - had he moved at all since he had volunteered himself as her pillow? - and crept to the edge and looked down: shuddered and then took a grip on herself. They had climbed considerably higher than she’d realized last night: there was only one more tier of crates above them.
And the crates looked fairly well used, scraped along the sides and dented in places: the usual result of careless packing and unpacking. Only what packed and unpacked them? Where did they get emptied? With what were they now filled?
One building now gushed forth smoke, and another a stench that was unmistakable. Kris had only encountered it once before when she passed a meat-packing company on a detour through a grotty area of Denver.
The abattoir?
And it was opposite buildings that resembled the barn they’d been in that night. To confirm her hideous surmise, the double doors of one of the barns now opened and its inhabitants, comprised of the six-legged grazers and some other smaller and different types, were being herded to the abattoir by a curious mechanical which had long extendable “arms’ and which spat electrical sparks at laggard beasts.
All unconscious of their imminent demise, the beasts jogged into the building. Kris steeled herself but heard nothing and saw only the animals entering the building. The doors slid closed and noises she didn’t want to describe issued forth, making her clamp her hands to her ears.
“They gather meat, too,” Zainal said right beside her.
Instinctively and desperately wanting some comfort for the harrowing sound so near by, she burrowed against him. He was warm, alive and nearly human. To her surprise, he embraced her, soothing her with his hands and thus restoring her courage. It struck her as very odd that a Catteni could be comforting.
It was when the doors of the next barn opened and its occupants were driven out that matters changed abruptly.
For there were recognizable humans staggering out into the light, shielding their eyes from the bright sun that poured, almost obscenely, down the passage between the buildings. They, too, were being herded by a long-armed, spark spitting machine. They were not, as the beasts had been, amenable to such herding.
Even as Zainal reacted, rousing Slav and Coo, some humans were trying to evade the machine’s extensions, which was obviously unaccustomed to any sort of protest.
In fact, all the humans seemed to be trying to escape, as if they had figured out the fate which awaited them.
“THIS WAY! HERE!” Zainal yelled, waving furiously and glancing towards Kris to shout directions.
One human spotted them, pointing upwards and calling to the others. Although Kris couldn’t imagine how they could manage to help others escape when they didn’t even know how to themselves, that was not as important as getting humans out of the clutches of the mechanicals.
The four scrambled down the big crates they had so laboriously climbed the night before. At least, down was easier than up. But it was up they’d need to do again.
The humans pelted down the alleyway to be met by Zainal who had halted his three companions on top of the ground tier with an imperious hand. He gave Kris the unmistakable order to stay where she was. But, as she saw him link his hands, she realized what he was going to do: throw the people up on to the first crate. Kris, Coo and Slav then pushed them to the next level, urging them to get higher up, out of any possible range of the mechanical’s extendibles. So they formed a human “lift’ system for the escapees: humans, Deskis and Rugarians, three green Morphins and two Turs, the goblins who were so short that Zainal was slinging them up.
In the panic of the effort to get everybody off the ground and started up the crates, Kris got bruised, cut, and had her right wrist wrenched so badly that she had to rely on her left hand. Then there was Zainal to get up to safety because the mechanos were now aware that something was distinctly out of order. Kris wondered if they had counted bodies coming out of the barn and had now discovered the appropriate number were not being processed. A shame to put their production figures out.
But they’d rescued more than twenty from slaughter.
Zainal had to jump to reach the helping hands that would take him off the ground. A funny little clicking machine was now quartering the passageway.
“Climb!” Zainal said to those on his level. “Seek heat.
We go to cold.” They climbed and climbed until they reached the top with the others and then they all stopped in awe. As far as they could see there were crates stacked to the same height. Acres of them to the horizon.
“Now this is one mother of a stockpile,” a human muttered with an understandably hysterical edge to his voice.
“And we damned near joined it, someone else said.
“More down there?” Zainal asked and Kris noted him breathing heavily for the first time since they’d started this reconnaissance.
“Hell, all we saw was that one stinking barn after those flying turrets darted us. Are we going to hang about to see?” Clearly that was not his preference.
“Hey, you’re a Cat!” the first speaker said accusingly.
“Cat or not, he just saved our lives. Thanks, pal,” the second man said to Zainal, holding out his hand.
He was filthy and the slight breeze on the top of this incredible’-stockpile wafted a stench off him that nearly gagged Kris.
Most of the escapees now sank to their butts to rest after their scrambling retreat.
“Zainal is my name. These three and I explore. You are?”
“Speaks good English for a Cat,” the first man said “Kris Bjornsen, Slav and Coo are us,” Zainal continued the introductions. Then he paused for the others to identify themsel
ves.
Their stories were similar to the experiences of Kris’s group except that they hadn’t had the benefit of a Sergeant Chuck Mitford to marshal them out of danger. The field they had been dumped on had been attacked by the fliers in spite of Deskis’ attempts to warn of incoming danger.
Everyone had scattered in twos and threes and small groups, only to be rounded up when they were spotted the second morning by a harvester unit. They’d been in the barn for several days but had survived on their food parcels which were now almost gone. Several of their number had been trampled to death in the barn when the animals had, for some reason, panicked the second night of their incarceration.
“That’s why we all smell like this,” said Lenny Doyle, a medium-built, dark-haired man with a pleasant, open face and a nice smile. Dick Aarens had been the first speaker and still regarded Zainal with frowning suspicion. He was taller than Kris, but he had a dreadful slouch and a mean slant to his mouth as well as deep scowl lines.
“Zainal got dumped down here along with the rest of us,” Kris said with an indifferent shrug to relieve the sudden tension among the newcomers, “and I don’t know why he’s here, but he is and he was ready to risk his neck to get you out, so cool it, Mac.” Dick Aarens reluctantly subsided but Kris caught him more than once glaring at either her or Zainal.
“So, do we go back and see if anyone else’s stuck in those barns?” Lenny asked Zainal.
“Why should he risk his neck for more humans?” a stocky man of apparent Italian origin demanded in a surly voice.