Cat Star 04 - Outcast

by Cheryl Brooks

  "I don't care what he is or where he's from as long as he's honest and able-bodied!" Bonnie declared. Cat and Leo seemed to be both, but whether all Zetithians were, Bonnie had no idea. According to Jack, there were very few of their kind remaining; their home planet had been destroyed, and their species was nearly extinct.

  "Looks able enough, but he's not what you'd call talkative," Drummond reported. "'Course honesty isn't something you can spot just by looking at a man."

  "I know," Bonnie sighed. Sylor had been a nice look­ing man and had seemed sincere, but he'd run out on her eventually, just as all the others had done. No, you couldn't tell by looking. "Handsome is as handsome does—isn't that how that saying goes?"

  "Don't know about handsome," Drummond chuck­led. "I only know pretty."

  "Yeah, well, pretty doesn't always mean anything, ei­ther," Bonnie said dryly. "It's what's inside that counts."

  "And you've got both."

  "Thanks, Drummond," she said wearily, "but I'm re­ally not in the mood to hear that right now." Men had been admiring Bonnie all her life, but as far as she could tell, it hadn't done her a bit of good.

  "It's the truth, though," he protested. "Can't say it's not."

  "Maybe," Bonnie conceded without much conviction, because if the type of man she tended to attract was any indication, then being pretty was more of a curse than a blessing. Men had always seemed to think that, along with being easy on the eyes, she was also stupid and gullible—and perhaps she had'been easily taken in—but she had put that past firmly behind her. She would never let another man—of any species—take advantage of her again; her heart, as well as her purse, had been tromped on enough.

  "Well, his immigration chip's got everything it should," Drummond went on. "And I was right; he's originally from Zetith. I'm sure Leo and Cat'11 be happy to meet up with him. Hmmm... got something else here... looks like an emancipation decree—hold on while I run it through the translator." Bonnie could see him tapping the screen, grumbling to himself, "Damn backwoods planets... don't even put their legal stuff in

  Stantongue! How the hell do they expect anyone to read it?" He peered at it intently for a moment. "Yep, that's what it is, all right. Dated about five years ago. All legal and neat—though it could be a forgery."

  "Well, gee, thanks," Bonnie said, rolling her eyes. "That makes me feel so much better."

  He grinned into the viewscreen. "Don't it though?"

  Drummond had been around a long time, knew every immigrant to the sector, and considered it part of his du­ties to look after them. He wasn't a clergyman—though in his capacity as magistrate, he did perform the occasional marriage—but tended to view the entire population of the Nimbaza region as his flock. Bonnie figured he'd prob­ably seen it all. Maybe he was better at spotting a liar than he knew. "Does it 7ooMike a forgery?" she inquired.

  "Well, no," he conceded, "but they get better at it all the time, though maybe they're really lousy at it where he came from."

  "Well, let's hope so," she said fervently. "I need help, not more trouble!"

  Drummond leaned closer to peer at her, his eyes dis­torted by their close proximity to the sensor and his mus­tache seeming to grow to startling proportions. "Looks like you've already had that," he observed. "What the devil happened to your hair?"

  "Got tired of messing with it and cut it off," she said shortly.

  "Looks more like you got mad at it," he remarked. Cocking his head to one side he asked hopefully, "What'd you do with it?"

  "Gave it to the chickens to line their nests," Bonnie replied. "That's about all it's good for."

  Drummond shook his head and sighed. "Wouldn't mind having a lock of it myself," he said. "Beautiful stuff, that."

  "And just what would your wife say if she knew you had a lock of my hair?" Bonnie asked with a wry smile.

  "Dunno," he said, scratching his bald spot. "Prob­ably beat the livin' shit out of me. Still... it might be worth it."

  "I doubt that," she said with a reluctant chuckle. "Just tell that man how to get here and stop feeding me a line."

  "Sure thing, Bon-bon," he grinned.

  She hated the nickname—which, unfortunately, was one she'd heard from various people throughout her life— but she liked Drummond, so the irritation she normally felt was missing from her voice when she retorted, "And would you please stop calling me Bon-bon? My name is Bonnie! How many times do I have to tell you that?"

  "A few more, Bon-bon. A few more." Still chuckling, Drummond reached forward and terminated the connec­tion. Bonnie was a feisty little woman, and he liked her more than most. It was too bad she had such lousy taste in men, but then some people just weren't meant to find happiness—no matter how much they might deserve it.

  Bonnie was glad that help was finally on the way, but so far all she knew was that he wasn't talkative and, if he looked anything like Cat and Leo, he probably had pointed ears and long, curly hair like they did. They both had fanglike canines that looked as if they could tear a hole in you, too. But Bonnie had always liked Cat; he was friendly and had a very dry sense of humor, and Captain Jack seemed real taken with him—in fact, Bonnie had hardly ever seen them more than a few meters apart. Their three boys were pretty cute, too—looked just like their dad—and Leo and the witch, Tisana, had three babies, as well: two sons and one daughter. The little girl had her mother's black hair and green eyes, but the boys both had their father's tawny curls—which made Bonnie wonder who her own baby would resemble. Sylor was tall and powerfully built, with jet black hair and rakish good looks, while Bonnie was petite for a Terran female and was as fair as he was dark. Telling herself it didn't matter, she went back to work.

  Bonnie was out weeding the vegetable garden when it occurred to her that she was completely unprepared for her new helper. There was nowhere for him to sleep in her house; no spare bedroom, and not even another bed. She didn't know where to put him, even in the outbuild­ings, which consisted of the cavernous equipment shed and the henhouse. Then she remembered that he'd been a slave at one time, and perhaps he wouldn't expect a bed or a room to himself. As things stood, the only way Bonnie could give him a room of his own would be for him to help her build it—and pay for it, too, since Sylor had taken the money earmarked for home improve­ments. Adding two rooms would be better, she decided, because that way everyone could have his own: one for Bonnie, one for her baby, and one for him—whatever his name was.

  For now, though, that would just have to wait. They would all be crammed in together, but she knew that the baby wouldn't take up much space for a while, and perhaps a former slave wouldn't object to camping out on the floor.

  Having slept badly the night before, Bonnie was ex­hausted. Dreams had kept biting at her like flies, but snatches of them were all she could remember, and nothing that made any sense at all. Her dreams never did. She had plenty of daydreams, but they weren't romantic and sweet; she'd quit dreaming about love long ago, and now her daydreams were spent going over details. How would she be able to care for enocks in addition to a child? How many eggs would she have to sell to get enough money to add on to the house?

  What would she give for a man she could trust?

  Her right arm was the first thing that came to mind, but she preferred to keep it, since it was so much more useful to her than any man had ever been. Men had al­ways been trouble, and she had no need for any more of that—or for pretty things, either. She needed stuff she could use, like a new speeder, or a force field for the enocks, or, as always, more money.

  Sighing, she bent down to pull a weed that was too close to a bean plant to use her hoe, noting that it was getting harder to bend over, and the baby kicked her sharply to remind her not to squash it. Maybe she should have used a spray on the weeds, but they were expen­sive, and, because they weren't good for the environ­ment, there was a limit on how much you could use and where you could use it. Not wanting to be the one to poison the water or foul the air, Bonnie had opted not to use any h
erbicides at all, but it made her work that much harder.

  She and Sylor had been required to attend some ex­tensive orientation classes before they were allowed to build a place of their own and begin farming. There were a multitude of regulations, and although Bonnie felt that she'd signed away most of her freedom, she could un­derstand the need for it. With a staggering number of ruined planets across the galaxy to serve as examples, and Earth itself only having been brought back from the brink of death when the inhabitants made some very tough choices, the powers that be had taken their time and had given considerable thought to the details.

  By midday there was still no sign of her new hired hand, so Bonnie ate some lunch and wondered if he'd opted to be deported rather than work for her. Then she remembered what a long walk it was from Nimbaza and wished she could have gone to fetch him—which was what she would have done if the speeder hadn't been so worthless. She had been intending to work on it—even though she wasn't the best mechanic in the world—but the simple fact was that she just hadn't had the time.

  After lunch she went out to feed the chickens and noticed that one of them was missing. There were al­ways predators about, but she hadn't had any problems with them for a while; her little border collie, Kipper, had seen to that. Bonnie looked around a bit and finally spotted it—as luck would have it—in the enock pen. Gasping in dismay, she didn't know who she was most annoyed with; the chicken for being so stupid, or the enocks for being so murderous.

  Her only consolation was that the enocks were still busy picking at the feed she'd put out for them that morn­ing, and the chicken was at the far side of the enclosure. After throwing out more feed to keep them busy, she went around to the gate. Even though the chicken was close by, she knew the best she could hope to do was herd it toward the gate, because if startled, she would never be able to catch it. With that in mind, she went back to the equipment shed and got the net she and Sylor had used to catch the enocks.

  The enocks were busy eating, and the chicken was strutting around as if it had no idea it was in mortal peril. I'm going to eat that chicken myself, Bonnie thought grimly. Damn thing is too stupid to live and reproduce. She needed smarter chickens than that if they were going to stay alive long enough to lay eggs.

  Slipping quietly through the gate so as not to star­tle any of the birds, Bonnie inched her way toward the chicken, noting that there was an enock egg there as well. The egg was worth far more than the chicken— and was less mobile—so she retrieved it first and set it outside the gate.

  Returning quickly, she saw that the chicken was now even farther from the gate, but the enocks still hadn't spotted it. Moving along the fence, she managed to trap the chicken, but it squawked loudly, arousing the interest of the big male enock. She had no choice now but to make a dash for it and took off running, but tripped on the net and fell. Cursing, she stumbled to her feet and ran, flinging the chicken over the fence, net and all. She would have climbed it herself, but Sylor had modified the fence to prevent the enocks from get­ting a toehold in the lower third of it, and, therefore, neither could she.

  Bonnie was still a good three meters from the gate when she felt the enock's beak sink into her shoulder. She'd been bitten many times, but had never been caught. They were amazingly strong, and, as if to prove it, the bird flung her to the ground as though she weighed no more than the chicken she'd rescued. Screaming loudly, she fought off his attack, punching him in the head with her fist in desperation, but nothing stopped him for long. Then, to her horror, she saw that the others were now headed toward her, looking as though they'd like a piece of her too.

  Scrambling to her feet, regardless of the bites she was taking, Bonnie ran for her life, but the enock was faster, this time catching her by the forearm. She tried in vain to work her way toward the gate, but not only did the bird outweigh her, he had also dug in his heels, making him impossible to budge. With a bloodcurdling chill, she realized that his intention was not to kill her out­right, but simply to hold her there until the others caught up—then they would kill her. In desperation, Bonnie fought back the only way she could think of, grabbing the giant bird by the throat with her free hand and trying to choke him into letting go. It wasn't enough, because her hand wasn't large enough to encircle his neck, nor was it strong enough to do any damage.

  The pain she felt was indescribable, and her vision was growing misty when, seemingly from out of no­where, two large hands gripped the bird's neck beneath her own and squeezed. The enock gagged and opened his mouth just enough to set her free.

  "Run, you fool!" someone shouted.

  Barely able to stand, much less run, Bonnie staggered toward the gate. Moments later she was seized by those same hands and was half carried, half dragged to safety. Slamming the gate shut behind them, her rescuer snarled, "You stupid female! They might have killed you!"

  Gazing up at him with eyes that could barely focus and taking note of his blazing yellow eyes, pointed ears, and fangs, she said, "Well, hello to you too," and promptly fainted.

  Lynx's heart was pounding like a drum; he'd heard her screams and had run to her rescue. The horrifying scene he'd found was enough to make him fear he was too late, but now that he had her safe, his fear gave way to anger, and as Lynx gathered Bonnie up in his arms and headed toward the house, his irritation with his pre­dicament grew. He had come so far and had such plans. Now he found himself not only working on a farm, but for a woman—and a very stupid woman, at that! All the jibes and laughter of the men he'd worked along­side in the diamond mines of Paemay came back to him. "You'll wind up a slave again," they had jeered. "You wait and see." Lynx had sworn to prove them wrong, but so far, his plans had all gone awry. What money he had left after paying his passage had been stolen from him, and he'd landed on Terra Minor without a single credit; at the mercy of a system of government that looked upon the homeless and unemployed as little better than ver­min. With nothing but a few meager possessions and the clothes on his back, he'd had no choice but to take the job Drummond had offered or be deported.

  His only consolation was that at least it would be quiet here. The chatter of voices—particularly female—disturbed him. The deafening clang of hammers in the mines wasn't much better, but didn't torment him nearly as much as words whispered behind his back or screamed in his face.

  But now he had this woman bleeding all over the place, and he focused on the task at hand. Carrying her into the house, he dropped her in a chair and grabbed the first thing he could find to wrap around her arm in an effort to staunch the bleeding. She was a small woman, too, and no match for the huge birds. What an idiotic thing for a woman alone to have been doing! It was a wonder she hadn't been killed.

  But Lynx had heard her screams and come running, saving her from certain death. He wondered if she would acknowledge that fact or find some way of putting him in his place. Lynx was so accustomed to having even his best efforts laughed at by women that he expected nothing less. He would leave this place just as soon as he possibly could. He would not remain here to be treated as a worthless slave by another woman—no matter how beautiful she was.

  Because she was beautiful—and so different from the women he'd known before, who had been all allure and seductive sexuality. This woman was small and deli­cately made, and even with her roughly cropped hair, there was no hiding the fact that she had the face of an angel. Not that he cared about that sort of thing any­more.. . not that he ever would again...

  Bonnie was not one to faint easily, but when an enock all but bites off your arm, it's hard to do much else. When she came to, she was in her kitchen, and her rescuer was binding up her arm. Blood was splattered everywhere— though she knew that spilled blood always looked like more than it really was, especially when it happened to be your own.

  His first words to her were not a comforting, "Hello, my name is George, and don't worry, you're not going to lose your arm," but instead were a half-shouted, "What were you doing in there?"

  "
Rescuing a chicken," Bonnie replied weakly. "And an egg," she added as an afterthought.

  "A chicken," he repeated. Lynx had never heard the term before. "And what is a chicken?"

  "It's a kind of bird," she replied. "You probably saw some of them on your way up from the road."

  "The small, feathered creatures?"

  "Yeah."

  "They are very valuable?" he inquired curiously, hoping that this, at least, was the case. "Not really," she admitted.

  "Then why would you risk your life to save one?"

  "Just didn't want the enocks to get it, that's all," Bonnie muttered.

  Lynx had seen much loss of life in his time, and the thought of anyone putting themselves in danger for such a pointless reason was enough to feed his anger. "It was not worth the risk," he said fiercely.