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her with a keener interest. More bodies were moving among those laid out like disaster victims, row after row. The field must be a couple of acres at least and it was covered. Here and there were empty places where people had roused. There were more empty spaces—she counted—than the number of upright people she could see. How many had been chased off by the guys on the crates?
    She dipped her cup for one more draught of cold, pure Adam’s Ale and sipped as she hiked slowly around the bodies, toward the crates. When she could see both sides of the crates, she realized that there were quite a few people lounging on the far side: mostly Terrans and some of them female. That was reassuring.
    â€œWhatcha guardin’ there, fellas?” she asked when she got close enough, giving a friendly wave with her free hand.
    Kris was accustomed to reactions to her tall lanky self. It never hurt to be blonde and moderately attractive. Until the men got past the usual trite remarks and innuendoes, she kept her smile intact and kept sipping her water a few safety lengths from the nearest one.
    â€œAnybody sussed out where we are or what they’ve done with us?” She directed that query to the men on top of the crates. She could see now that most of the containers had been broken open to discover the contents. She saw other items besides knife blades of which there seemed to a great many.
    â€œKnives, hatchets,” the man said. He was a heavyset man in his mid-to-late thirties and had the unmistakable air of the military in his stance. He had two knives tucked in his belt, one in each boot to judge by the way his pants bulged out at his ankles. His thermal blanket was stuffed with other items for it bulged across his chest. “Some medical kits with basic bandages and that orange stuff the Cats poured on anything that bleeds.”
    â€œYou in charge then?”
    He made a gesture with one hand ana a second Terran jumped down, a knife on his open palm, the handle toward her. He was as well equipped with extras as the first speaker.
    â€œCan I show you how to use it, beautiful?” the guy asked, leering at her.
    â€œYou mean—like this,” she said, taking the knife from his hand, hefting it a moment to get its balance before she flicked it into the nearest crate, which it penetrated enough to hold it firm.
    â€œWhoa!” The man jumped back, hands up in front to fend her off. Above her she caught sight of a blade in the military man’s hand. “Didn’t mean no offense, sister.”
    â€œNo offense taken,” she said airily and retrieved the blade, checking the point to be sure it hadn’t been nicked. “Good steel.”
    â€œIt’s not steel,” the military man said, hunkering down so he was on a level with her. He held out a weaponless hand. “Nice to see a woman who knows the value of a knife. Chuck Mitford.”
    â€œArmy?” she asked.
    â€œMarine,” he replied firmly and correctingly as marines generally did after such a question.
    â€œKris Bjornsen. Where’d you get taken?”
    â€œRecently?” He spoke with considerable bitterness. “Or do you mean on good ol’ Terra?”
    â€œBoth,” she said and went back to sipping what water hadn’t spilled out of her cup when she’d shown off her knife skill.
    â€œSome damned fools started a riot at one of the discipline assemblies,” he said in a growl and in the southernish drawl that had become military standard among American forces. The other man looked about to erupt. “Okay, okay, some of the poor dumbheads they were whipping to death were Terrans, too, but damned stupid to attack Catteni even if there were a helluva lot more of us than them.” He made a throat noise of disgust.
    â€œWe’ve taken enough from them, sarge,” the other man said, his resentment boiling over.
    Mitford acted like a sergeant, too, Kris thought and