Freedom's Landing

by Anne McCaffrey

  Mitford snorted, shuffling several pieces of scribbled bark about on his worktop. “As far as we know, they made three drops this time. We were one of four. And three weeks between trips. That right?”

  Zainal cocked his head thoughtfully. “Could be. I was space, not col-on-y.” And he spread his hands in a very contemporary human gesture of ignorance. “You know the problem: one group does not know what other does.”

  “Yeah,” and Mitford’s drawl spoke of much experience with such inequities.

  A woman, face red, hair messed, coverall opened halfway to her waist, came stamping her way up the steps to Mitford’s office.

  “Mitford, either you cut his libido off at the root or I’ll do it myself with a dull knife.”

  “Arnie?” and Mitford rose, gesturing authoritatively at two men lounging to one side, playing some sort of game involving pebbles. “No questions, no answers. Bring ’im. Put ’im back in the stocks. And he’ll stay there till he rots or we can think of something else to do with him.”

  “Tie him out in a field for scavengers—and even that’s too good,” the woman said, closing the fastenings on her coverall and then smoothing her hair. “Horny pervert! I’ll give you a full report of this latest trick of his when you’re done here,” she muttered as she politely took herself to one side so Mitford could finish with his current interview.

  “At least the ratio between male and female evened up a little in the last drop. But I don’t need guys like Arnie,” Mitford said when the woman had settled out of earshot. “He’s been in the stocks four times for peeping and twice for stealing.”

  “Stealing what?”

  “Food! Extra blankets, a sharper knife because he’s too lazy to hone his own.” Mitford made a noise of disgust. “I need him like a boil on my ass. Don’t ever feel sorry, Kris, that he got force-whipped. He just got his in advance.”

  “Tie him out for the scavengers,” Zainal said blandly. “Good idea.”

  Mitford grimaced, showing his teeth and expelling air through them. “Can’t, but I may yet.…You get food and rest, ya hear, Kris?” When she dutifully nodded, he added: “And make sure Dane sees his leg.”

  Over Zainal’s protests that’s exactly what Kris did, roundly scolding the Catteni because he hadn’t reported in to Leon Dane when they reached camp. He was at first amused by her tirade and then frowned as she grabbed him by the arm, to lead him to the hospital end of the caverns, when he did not turn in that direction immediately.

  “Now listen here, Lord Emassi Zainal,” she said, “you were given an order by Mitford and, if you plan to go out tomorrow, you’ll obey it or you won’t go. And no one will go with you to help dig that message.”

  “Then no message.” He shrugged as if it were all the same to him.

  “Ohhh, you make me so mad…” Kris tried to keep her voice down because she knew she sounded shrewish. But he was being so unreasonable. “Just because you’re a Catteni doesn’t mean you don’t bleed like us frail Terrans, and that you didn’t damned near die from that thorn toxin, and I don’t want to go through that again. You’re too important to me to be stupid about your health.”

  He grabbed her by the finger she was shaking at him, looking around because he had noticed just how much attention her accusation had focused on them.

  “I go. I see Dane,” he said far too docilely and she watched to make sure he did.

  Lordee, you’d think a man as old as Zainal would have the sense to take care of himself. And she didn’t like it when he got all compliant. That wasn’t Catteni of him.

  * * *

  THE FIFTH GLYPH TOOK THEM MOST OF THE CLEAR day but went more smoothly since they all knew how to do it. They immediately started cutting sod at the top as Zainal laid it out and they were well started when he finished the design. They didn’t even have to find more mica rocks since there was a still a pile left over from their first job.

  “Shropshire Man this isn’t,” Kris said when they retired to the next field to get an overall view of their labors.

  “Man? Another ‘boy’ thing?” Zainal asked, one eyebrow quirking upward in amusement.

  “Yeah, you can if you wish substitute man oh man oh man, for boy oh boy oh boy. It’s how you feel.”

  “Young or old? Small or large?” Zainal asked, his eyes twinkling down at her.

  “I think,” she said in a severe tone, “that you’re kidding me.”

  “Ah, kid, a small goat,” Astrid said with an unexpected display of humor. “Oh, in slang a ‘boy’!”

  “Right!”

  Ole asked her a question and she replied, laughing when he grinned in comprehension. “Baby, kid, boy, man,” he said with just a hint of the liquid Norwegian in his tone.

  “Kidding? Can one having boying, too?” asked Zainal.

  “Yes, actually,” Kris said. “But it’s spelled differently and means a floating object in the water to warn seamen off underwater dangers.”

  “See men?” Zainal asked, gathering his brows slightly, which made him look quite ominous.

  “We have a lot of words in English that sound the same but mean different things.”

  “How do you know then what each means?”

  “Context—how the word is used in the sentence. Hey, is this a language patrol?”

  “Why not?” and Zainal grinned. “Work is done. Now we…play?”

  “Ha! You wouldn’t know how to play,” Kris retorted.

  “Wanna bet?” he replied.

  “You’ve listened too much to the Doyle brothers,” she said, waggling a finger at him.

  He grabbed her finger and she tried to pull away, which resulted in a tugging match, then turned into him chasing her, trying to recapture the finger while the Norwegians watched this juvenile display with unsmiling dignity.

  Kris was quicker on her feet than the heavier Catteni, so she eluded him, ducking under his grasping arms and hands and taunting him to catch her. When he did, he held her tightly against him. She could barely move, but she scrunched her hands behind her back so he couldn’t recapture the finger. It was all very silly, since inevitably his superior strength would win out, but she found she enjoyed Zainal’s surprising playful side. Inexorably, he recaptured the right hand, and, with amazing gentleness considering the strength he applied to the task, he drew her hand up and, recapturing the finger, kissed it. Then the palm of her hand.

  A spurt of something ran through her at the touch of his lips on the softer, if blistered, skin of her hand. Startled, she caught his eyes. The twinkle was there, for the success of his recapture, but some other emotion darkened his odd-colored eyes and made her catch her breath.

  “Happy now?” she asked with some asperity.

  “Yes,” he said simply and immediately let her go.

  * * *

  ON THE WAY BACK TO CAMP, IN BETWEEN FOR-aging, Astrid and her compatriots kept up quite a lively discussion until Kris finally asked them what was so interesting.

  “The land,” Astrid said with a sweeping hand. “It is beautiful country for growing and for animals who eat grass. Very well done, too. Oskar and Peter are raised on farms. They say very well done.”

  “It is, and wait till they see what the farmers are,” Kris said.

  “Pardon?”

  There was a brief delay in the conversation while rock-squats were added to the day’s bag. Throughout the rest of the day, Kris heard about the ecologically—the word was the same in Norwegian but sounded different—sound fashion in which Botany’s agriculture was done. Proper drainage, available water, copses of vegetation where land was not arable used as windbreaks, even the hedging that separated the fields was approved. For what it was worth. Kris did not want to be the ones to tell them what farmed the land here. But she began to have more respect for the acumen of the absentee landlords: whatever they were besides omnivorous.

  * * *

  GREAT EXCITEMENT BUZZED ABOUT THE CAMP when they returned and she didn’t report that observation to Mitfor
d. The Sergeant was sitting with what looked to Kris very much like a hand-held phone. He was talking into it, so unless Chuck Mitford had flipped his wig, and she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had, he was talking to another unit of the Botany Colonial Establishment.

  “Great, huh?” Bart said when Kris, Bjorn, and Oskar brought the results of their hunting into the cook cavern.

  “We’ve got a phone?”

  “Yeah, but more importantly, now the technies know what chips do in the mechanicals’ circuitry. Real breakthrough.”

  Kris allowed as how it must be since everyone was so happy about it and she supposed she should be as elated, because it was one more step back toward sophisticated living. She was oddly disturbed by the breakthrough. And certainly couldn’t figure out why. She’d probably been enjoying this atavistic hunter-explorer life more than she should—considering it also involved lots of discomfort and uncertainty: as well as enough hazard to get the ol’ adrenaline flowing freely most of the time. Camp Rock would really benefit by some modern conveniences. On the other hand, was instant communication really a benefit?

  “Put another toggle on my belt,” she muttered under her breath, “for the hand-held!” Then she added: “Say, Bart, where do I find out where I’m bunking tonight?”

  Bart pointed to the irregular opening that led to most of the dormitory facilities as well as the lake. “List right there.”

  Her name had a big fat P beside it: so did Zainal’s, and, as she looked down the list for the Norwegians, they were P’s, too. P for Patrol?

  “Bjornsen?” someone sang out at the front of the cave.

  “Yo!”

  “Sarge wants you.”

  Muttering about being homeless, Kris made her way to the “office.” There were three handsets on Mitford’s “desk.”

  “Latest in recycling mechanicals,” Mitford said in great good humor. “We can keep in touch with our outposts and our scouts. You gotta get some height to boost the signal…” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the top of the cliff behind him where, of all things, an aerial now swayed in the evening breeze. “But don’t seem to have any trouble with range. Anyway we’ll know soonest when the Catteni make another drop. We’ve got a network of lookouts—and not just for the Cattenis’ next move.” He rummaged briefly through the sheets on his worktop and flipped free a large one—no, it was quite a few sheets neatly glued (?) together. Well, the loo-cows had hooves, so someone had remembered to boil ’em up for glue. A map had been drawn on the big sheet—or, the beginnings of one, for only the center showed contour lines, streams, fields, forestry. The map gave Kris a much better idea of the terrain in and around the main camp, and the siting of the various mechanical facilities.

  “Neat,” she said.

  “We got a bona fide surveyor,” Mitford said proudly, tapping the map. “Pretty good, huh? Even got relative distances.”

  “Nat Geo Soc would be proud to claim it,” she agreed, grinning at Mitford. “You don’t waste time civilizing us, do you, sarge.”

  “Not much,” he agreed amiably, “but then we got lots of Yankee know-how—and Aussie.” He noticed her jaundiced expression and cocked eyebrow so he cleared his throat as if he’d had to do that before continuing. “Alien allies, too,” he added. Then he surprised her by hefting one of the units and plonking it down in front of her, all businesslike again. “I want your patrol to start examining this area,” and his thick index finger wandered down to easterly uncharted areas. “I’ll need to keep in touch with you in case we want Zainal.”

  “Sarge?”

  “Yah?”

  “Are you keeping Zainal out of camp for a reason?”

  Mitford regarded her steadily, his gray eyes not avoiding hers.

  “You might, at that, think I am, and I am. He’s too valuable a resource to be wasted…”

  “Then I haven’t been wrong—there’s feeling against him.”

  “Can you honestly blame people for resenting him as Catteni?”

  “Even if he was dumped down like everyone else?” Kris asked plaintively.

  “Even then, because he’s still Catteni and no weapons but a knife, and alone.”

  “He’s not alone,” Kris said staunchly.

  “I know, Bjornsen. But there’s this thinking that there must have been a good reason he got dumped, other than killing another Cat…Catteni,” Mitford said and, when she started to protest, he held up a hand. “I’ve seen and heard all about Catteni one-day vendettas, Bjornsen, and if it was only for killing a patrol leader, he’d’ve been released from the slammer the next day. He sure the hell isn’t like any other Catteni I ever met or heard about.”

  “What about the latest drop? If it hadn’t been for Zainal…”

  “Kris!” Mitford’s hand on her arm and sharp tone stopped her. He didn’t look around to see who might be near enough to hear their discussion, but there was something about his manner now that suggested to Kris that he didn’t want her blowing her top right now. “There are a lot of folk who should be grateful to Zainal. But they aren’t. And that’s the long and short of it. I can’t change human nature, you know.” And he sounded sincerely regretful. “And I won’t run him out of the camp.” He blinked and then said softly, “He’s too useful a resource. Now, girl,” and carefully he began to fold the map. He put it into a flat envelope made out of the ubiquitous blanket, complete with shoulder strap. He laid that alongside the comunit, then added a thick carbon “pencil” and fidgeted until he had them aligned to his satisfaction. “I want you and Zainal to go walk about with Astrid. She’s chosen Oskar to go with. Zainal says she’s competent and can keep up. I’ve a pair of Australians who swore blind they could keep up with Aborigines, so they oughta be able to keep up with you two. They were in the last drop and are grateful to Zainal. Though half the time they act like this was some great joke. Possibly it is.” He paused, musing on that theory. “One of ’em has medical training and did botany in the Outback Down Under. With this hand-held, you can keep in touch with me. Esker, Dowdall, and a new guy, ex-Anzac major by name of Worrell who did some military governing so he knows more than I do…” He waved off Kris’ immediate disclaimer. “I’m glad to have him aboard. They call him ‘Worry,’ and he does, so I don’t have to anymore. He’ll be at the other end if I’m not. That clear?”

  “In a way, yes,” she replied as civilly as she could, for she was seething with indignation that Zainal should be exiled and with relief that she was going with him. “Your friendly roving reporter!” She rose.

  “Good girl, Bjornsen, I like your style,” Mitford said, peering up at her. “I gotta defuse the situation, you understand.”

  “Yeah, I guess you do. Only why,” and she nodded her head in the direction of the stocks where Arnie was constrained, “can he be tolerated and not Zainal?”

  Mitford snorted. “Takes all kinds and he’s…supposedly…human. One more complaint lodged against him, though, and we take punitive measures he won’t like at all. Especially as we wouldn’t use anesthesia.” Then he looked over toward the main cavern. “That’s your patrol, Bjornsen. I told Zainal, too. Report in every day, will ya? So we know the equipment’s still working. The code here is 369,” and he grinned.

  “Sir!” she said, stamping her feet up and down, coming to attention and saluting him in the manner of a British soldier.

  He waved her away and three people vied to take her place, eyeing her map case and handset. She strode off, head high, looking neither to right nor left.

  Zainal was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching her progress. The other four members of the patrol were talking quietly. She nodded to Astrid and Oskar, then looked at the two new folks. She held her hand out to the woman, whom she liked on sight: almost spare in build but wiry, with a complexion that had been roughened by hot Australian summers, and faded, short, curly hair of a ginger shade. But she exuded an air of competence, a characteristic of so many Aussies. At her feet, beside her
travel gear, were a first-aid kit and a light bow with a sheaf of arrows.

  “M’name’s Sarah McDouall,” she said, giving Kris’ hand a firm, hard shake before letting it go. “This here’s Francis Marley. We made a good team in the resistance ’fore we got caught. I’m your medic.”

  “Call me Joe. Anything’s better than Francis,” he said, giving Sarah a mock glare for her introduction. He spoke in a slightly nasal tenor voice which seemed to have a lilt of quiet laughter to it. He was tall and lean, with sun-creased eyes, an open face and smile, and dark hair growing gray at the temples. One hand kept going to his head as if to adjust a missing hat. The gesture developed into a scratch of his skull. “Stockman—I know a bit about plants.” He had a sling tucked in his belt, a blanket pouch that bulged with pebbles. He sort of leaned against the three light lances he was armed with. They had, Kris noticed, metal tips. My, she thought, the Arsenal is improving, too!

  “Anyone know where we’re bunked?” Kris asked.

  “Zainal knows.”

  “I lead, you follow,” Zainal said, pushing himself off the wall and moving off, past the hospital cave.

  Kris wondered if he was annoyed that Mitford had given her the comunit. His expression did not give her any clues.

  It was more a dugout than a cave, but it would shelter them from the evening shower and the colder winds that now blew during the night. There was just room enough for six bodies, but there were hooks for hanging and even a ledge.

  “Rather snazzy,” Kris said. “Did Zainal tell you our mission?”

  “More or less,” Joe said with a grin.

  “You don’t mind a Catteni patrol leader?”

  Joe’s eyebrows raised slightly and Sarah gave her a sharp look.

  “Well, now…”

  “Zainal here leads,” Kris said firmly. “I’m signals,” and she tapped the comunit.

  “Gotcha!”

  “I need a bath,” Kris added, carefully stowing the map case and the hand-held on the ledge. She turned to Astrid. “You coming?”