Read Freedom's Landing for Free Online

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 stiffmuscles. 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.
    â€œYou 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 three 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