Freedom’s Choice (13 page)

“General, I don't think the population here will appreciate leniency,” Bull Fetterman said.

“I don't see why not,” Hassan Moussa said with a vulpine grin. “It could provide some sport.”

“Now, wait a bloody minute.” Kris felt her breakfast roiling about in her stomach. “We are not Catteni. We are human beings…”

“They can be tried as war criminals,” Moussa said, still grinning, and looked down at Zainal to see his reaction, but the Catteni was adding details to the sketch, apparently oblivious to the moral issue.

“Take a camp vote,” Yuri Palit said, standing up at the end of the table.

“That's always assuming that we take the damned transport in the first place,” Beverly said.

“Now wait a minute, general…”

“Beverly, if we can't overpower twenty—”

“Referendum!”

“Everyone needs to know—”

“Those guys murdered—”

“We don't have to do the same—”

Kris got up from the table, taking her dishes and Zainal's before she heaved up breakfast listening to such vengeful talk. She
did,
she told herself as she stalked to the cleanup area, understand why they wanted to take it out on any Catteni they could, but the slaughter still made humans no better than Catteni and polluted this new world, and this fresh start, with all the old hatreds and prejudices that bubbled just skin-deep and could be sublimated by attacking a new species-victim.

She almost threw the dishes down but spotted the still-sleeping cook and slipped them quietly in the warm dishwater to soak. Possibly, if she had to, she could kill a Catteni in cold blood. She hadn't minded when Fek and Slav had killed the kidnappers but her blood certainly hadn't been cold then—it had been frozen with fear that the ruse would be uncovered and Zainal taken. All the arguments were specious. It was the principle that was important. And more important here on Botany than at any other time in her life…even when she had feared rape by the brutish Catteni steward on Barevi.

“Kris!” Zainal's voice had not been pitched loudly but he stood at the exit and beckoned to her. The “strategists” were so involved in arguing points of honor, law, principle, integrity that his departure had not been noticed. Except by Easley and Rastancil, who hurried toward him.

“Zainal?” Easley's quiet voice held a note of apology and Rastancil's expression was entreating.

“We will see what weapons and other useful junk is on scout,” Zainal said. “That is next step to take to prepare for Phase Two.” He exited first, turned to wait for Kris, Rastancil, and Easley, and added, “You are men of sense.”

He strode at such a pace that even the long-legged Easley had trouble keeping up. Abruptly he stopped,
staring ahead as the predawn sky outlined the hangar, which Kris realized had acquired the most peculiar outline. Zainal snorted and walked on.

“What'd they do to it?” Kris asked, though she thought she knew the answer.

“Mitford suggested we disguise the contents,” Easley said. “Just enough in case someone should scan. All they'd see is metal hunks. Roof'll take the weight. The engineers checked.”

The moment they cracked the inset door, a shadowy figure got to his feet and challenged them: in Vic Yowell's unmistakable tones. He even had a lance at the ready. “Who's there?”

“Zainal, Kris, Easley, and Rastancil,” Zainal said, taking him literally.

“Oh,” and Vic let out a relieved sigh. “More damned people poking their noses in,” and he changed his voice to a whine. “I didn't get to see it when it landed…” He altered tone again. “I want a lock on that damned door.”

“No one could get into the ship, Vic,” Kris said.

“I told 'em that but they wanted to see the outside at least if they couldn't see in.”

“Go get some proper sleep, Vic,” Easley suggested. “We'll need you later on and I appreciate your taking charge here.”

Vic gathered up his blanket and pallet and grinned as he passed them.

“Never thought I'd have a chance to land anything ever again. Don't want it messed up.”

Rastancil gave him a genial slap on the back as he went, and when Vic had closed the door behind him, the hangar was dark again. Rastancil cursed but Easley turned on a hand beam. Kris recognized it as one that had been lifted from the kidnappers' bodies.

“You're quick,” she said with a grin up at Easley.

“Spoils of war are meant to be used,” he said.

Kris wondered if the man was ever out of sorts. He'd been up all night arguing with brass-headed types and his equanimity seemed not the least bit strained.

“You always this way?” she asked.

“Which way?”

She could see his so innocent grin in the light.

“Zainal calls them brass-heads,” she added, since he wasn't answering her question.

“Brass-heads?” He chuckled. “Indeed, indeed.”

“Lord, I can't even get you to commit yourself to a joke.”

“Oh, I commit myself, Miss Bjornsen. Believe me, I do.”

The hatch opened and lights inside came up, surprising an exclamation out of both Easley and Rastancil.

“
Do not,
” Easley murmured, lowering his head to Kris' ear, “let them get Zainal's control away from him.”

“He isn't planning to let them,” she whispered back under the noise of Rastancil stumbling up into the ship. So Easley had committed himself—and to the right people—she thought, hauling herself up inside the ship. It had been easier from the air-cushion vehicle.

A low noise started, and Kris felt fresh air drawn in past her.

“You can vent to the outside?” Rastancil asked.

“Air is…old,” Zainal said. He made a gesture of a spinning blade. Then he indicated for them to go toward the stern rather than the pilot's compartment. They'd only taken a half dozen steps when he stopped and pulled at handles set flush in the wall.

The closet he had opened was stocked with an assortment of ordnance, much of it unfamiliar to Kris but Rastancil sighed with unadulterated delight and, looking to Zainal for permission, picked up a rifle-type affair with a thick cartridge case and a stumpy muzzle. Zainal pointed and named what each knob or toggle did.
“Safety, power up is red, white is empty. Make thin or fat spray of…” He turned to Kris.

“Bullets?” She made a space between thumb and forefinger. “Metal? Kill?” Zainal closed the distance to almost very thin. “Needle?”

He nodded.

“Oh, I heard about them on Earth. They started using toxic tips just before I was rounded up. Nasty.” Rastancil carefully returned the weapon. “Any single-shot, revolver-type weapons?”

Zainal frowned. Kris made her hand into a gun shape and enunciated a single “Pow!”

“Stunner,” Zainal said, and touched the rack of eight. Then he laid his hand on their neighbor, a thick long barrel. “Ground-to-air.” Then nodded toward the bow. “Space stuff up front.”

“What sort of armament do you have?” Rastancil said eagerly.

Zainal gave a little laugh. “Space, air-to-ground, small satellite to mark places. Not much. This is fast, and moves well.”

“So you count on its speed and maneuverability more than its ordnance?”

Kris wondered which words needed translating but Zainal was looking at Rastancil and then gave a brief nod. “Yes, speed and…other word…” He did look at Kris now, flipping his hand and fingers.

“Flexibility,” she supplied.

“Any telepathy in your family, Kris?” Easley asked.

“None, but I've been partnered with Zainal since we were dropped. I know what words he has learned…and he's got a very good vocabulary,” and Kris stressed that, “so it's less guess and more acting as synonym finder.”

Easley chuckled. “I suspect he understands far more English than people think.”

“I don't suspect,” Kris replied, and she meant that as a tacit warning. “I know.”

“I shall keep that remark under my…hair, since my wardrobe does not run to a hat.”

Whether or not Easley might just be jollying her along, Kris sensed that Peter Easley was on Zainal's side and wanting to be considered a friend.

By the time Zainal had revealed the other goodies the scout contained—like very high-powered binoculars with thermal readings and nocturnal settings; a variety of comunits, emergency lights, beacons, maps, and the completed photos that he had taken on the way in; as well as hand cameras, Catteni-style exploratory equipment, compasses, ropes, backpacks, winter and summer gear, thermal suits, and a lot of other gear that would see the scouting teams far better equipped—her head was reeling with such riches. Mitford would go bananas! There was even diving equipment and two watercraft, dismantled and packed for transport.

“Sail! Or powered?” Easley said, coming alive with interest at their appearance. He diagrammed a sail in the air and made a putt-putt noise for the power.

Zainal grinned. “Both.”

“It's Christmas!” Kris said, wanting to clap her hands together.

“Well, to a degree,” Easley amended, but he was grinning, too. “You've done so well with so little, don't let all this stifle ingenuity. There isn't even eight of everything.”

“There's eight of everything we'd need for Phase Two,” Rastancil said in a sober tone, eyeing the weapons cache.

Zainal nodded but he was far more interested in Kris' reaction to the photos he offered her. She wasn't quite sure why she would be interested in mountains and valleys, until his index finger touched first one, then another point.

“Oh, more dead ends, like the valley we found?”

He nodded. “Many.”

“All empty?” she asked.

Zainal shrugged one shoulder and grinned. “We go see?”

“What?” Easley wanted to know, peering over her shoulder.

“Our scouting project,” Kris said, not wanting to go into much detail.

“Oh, blind valleys like the one your team discovered, which Mitford told me about?” Easley and his face wore a hopeful expression, soliciting their confidence in him.

“Is a thing kept in? Or out?” Zainal said, giving it.

“Out would be my educated guess, considering the nocturnal horrors Botany has,” and Easley gave a little shudder.

“You've seen them?”

He pretended a repugnance that was probably sincere. “Don't care to, either, but then I never go…went…to horror pictures, either.”

Rastancil craned his neck, nodding approval at the prints. “Very clear! What sort of camera equipment do you have on board?”

Zainal chuckled. “I let experts tell me. Baxter says he was cameraman on films…no, filums.”

“Films,” Kris said, as clearly as possible.

Zainal grinned. “Whatever. I push button and later,” and he nodded to the slot in the wall, “picture comes out. Show these to Mitford, Kris, please.”

“We can both show him,” she said.

Zainal shook his head. “My duty is here today, showing off.”

“Show me around a couple more times, Zainal, and I'll spell you,” Rastancil offered.

“Many will want grand tour,” Zainal said, his eyes sparkling with such open amusement that Rastancil regarded him with surprise. “I learn much from Kris,” he
said, dropping a proprietary arm across her shoulders.

“Ah, yes, well,” Rastancil said, ducking his head in what Kris thought was as close to embarrassment as a brass-head was likely to get. “There wouldn't be an inventory of what's on board Baby, would there? I know it'd be in your language but we've got a couple of personnel down here now who learned to read Catteni.”

“Come,” and Zainal beckoned Rastancil to walk forward to the pilot's compartment. “You take a good look around, Kris, Peter,” he added, pointing to the other doors along the narrow hall. “Familiarize yourselves.”

Easley was shaking his head respectfully as Zainal followed Rastancil.

“He's quite a guy. I'd never have thought a Catteni had an active sense of humor.”

“Maybe they just never had the opportunity,” Kris said, and slid back the first door. “Phew! This needs an airing. What slobs!” Clothing was thrown about floor and bunks while used cups and plates, attached to the surface of the table, had not been collected for washing. There was a blank screen and a hand control unit which Easley picked up, examined, and replaced, as the markings meant nothing to him. There were four bunks, wide enough for Catteni bulk, and all unmade and messy.

Easley did look into the nearest locker, pinched his nose, and shut it up. But he glanced in at the others. “Some of the gear can be useful. Especially the uniforms for Phase Two. Once they've been washed.”

There were two more compartments, one with three bunks, and one—the captain's, Kris thought—with one, which also contained command equipment. A viewer plate like the one she'd seen the steward on Barevi use, and racks of the disks used in it. Easley homed in on that. He was familiar with such things, neatly inserting a disk and turning on the viewer. A Catteni voice in monotone added comments to whatever was printed in the glyphs.

“Well, very interesting, I'm sure,” he said, clicking it off and absently returning the disk to its rack. “Now where did they eat and wash?—if they did.”

One of the doors in the captain's unit slid back to disclose what had to be a shower compartment, complete with what Kris thought resembled a urinal, and another odd opening. Well, Catteni had much the same alimentary requirements as Humankind. Easley gave a mild grunt when he peered in over her shoulder.

There was another unit next in line down the passageway which would accommodate two at once. The galley was just beyond it, almost the last door in the passage.

“One-butt, at that,” she said, looking at the “kitchen” side and its equipment. A table with padded seating around it was evidently where the crew ate, if not in their rooms. But the place was neat and tidy. Even clean. Ah, but Raisha had said that they'd eaten aboard the ship so she had probably also cleaned it up.