There were occasional short pauses, as the Catteni guard at the door stripped clothing off. She gritted her teeth.

The procedure had overtones she didn't like, but she'd been through this sort of line in the slave pens and had come out the other side alive - and breathing fresh air.

Anything was better than the stench behind her.

Disrobing her was simple. The Catteni simply ran the cutter down the front of her tunic, pulled at the back and shoved her forward, naked, into the hot spray. It felt good, battering her from below, above and all sides It smelt slightly better than the room she'd just left but the disinfectant was undoubtedly a wise and sensible addition.

She walked as quickly as she could, her eyes front and unfocused so she wouldn't see anything. The water was hot enough to cause a misting, so there wasn't that much to see but bodies, green, grey, and other shades of pale, moving through it. Then they were in the drying room and a.s.sailed by jets of air almost too hot on skin roughened by the disinfectant, but she was dry by the time she had traversed that chamber. A slight pause at the exit and she was handed a bundle and peremptorily gestured to move quickly forward. She found enough s.p.a.ce in this dressing room and clambered into the coverall. How her size had been estimated, she didn't know, but the garment fitted.

The lumps that const.i.tuted Catteni-style footwear folded around her feet and took the shape of them in the first few moments. Handy enough if ma.s.ses of different sized and shaped feet had to be covered.

There was one of the thin thermal blankets, which she roiled up and tied over her left shoulder by the strings attached to the ends.

When she was clad she joined the line going through the next entrance, where she was given a cup and a package about a handspan square and about eight centimetres thick. As others did, she tucked the package behind the blanket. She was pushed along to where hairy brindle Rugarians were ladling a steaming liquid into cups and then she was allowed out, thank G.o.d, into fresher air and a huge force-field netted a.s.sembly area.

Catteni marched along a catwalk above it, sending their whips in random directions to remind the prisoners that they were there and watched. Having noticed that the perimeter walls were occupied by the early-corners, she worked her way deeper into the centre - the other area generally safe from force-whip lengths - and started to sip the soup. It was hot and it was liquid, both which her belly appreciated, but it was the tasteless sort of fflling food that was definitely ma.s.s-produced prisoner issue. She noticed that some people had opened their packages, which contained the sort of ration bars that had been handed out in the slave quarters. The way the rations were being wolfed down, it was fairly obvious some folks hadn't eaten regularly.

And if the Catteni gave them rations in advance, she rather suspected she'd better hang on to hers. They did nothing out of charity: always expediency.

Metallic clangings echoed over the silent throng as the doors through which people had filed were shut. She wondered what was going to happen next, but getting clean and being fed was somehow encouraging. Talking was never encouraged in such gatherings and, while Kris had noted that there were representatives of all the common species she'd seen in Barevi City and that she was currently in a group of Terrans, no-one had spoken to her. And everyone was avoiding eye contact.

A second series of metallic clangings and once again the force-whips slashed out over the a.s.sembled. This time they were driven towards eight apertures which, she saw when she reached the one nearest her, gave access to a ramp. She'd seen such a ramp once before and she started to tremble with apprehension. Where were they being driven this time?

A low terrified murmur arose from those already going up the ramp, and occasional cries of distress, but no-one could have backed out: the rampway was narrow and barred. Catteni appeared with the short force-sticks that ensured the prisoners would keep moving. The sticks hurt more than the force-whips, but both could be lethal.

As she was pushed towards the ramp by the press of bodies behind her, her height gave her the clearance to see over heads and into a dark place. Closer, she could also smell the combined acrid odours of metal and fuel and realized they were being packed into a transport of some kind that was adjacent to the processing area. She had to give the credit to the Catteni mind-set that they sure knew how to get the unwilling to do what they wanted them to do and go where they wanted them to go. No Disney world this!

She was halted by a Catteni force-stick barring her way. She sucked in her guts so it wouldn't touch her. A hatch slid shut in front of her. The ramp which had been aimed at a lower level now purred softly and moved level with the walkway she stood on. A second hatch slid open, the force-stick was lifted and she ducked into the ship.

She, and those emerging from the seven other entrances, moved quickly across the low-ceilinged compartment to the far wall. As she sat down to claim her s.p.a.ce, 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 la.s.situde 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 the others 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 s.p.a.ce.

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 centre.

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 d.a.m.ned soup.Forcing herself to move, she managed to raise herself on one elbow, ignoring the twinges of abused flesh and stiff muscles. Blinking to clear her eyes of grit, she carefully turned her head towards the sounds of dispute. A group of males was evidently contesting the possession of a line of crates.

Several were standing atop of 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 Morphins.

Well, knives certainly hadn't been issued before this voyage. Why were they available at the destination? The early bird gets armed and can then defend against the late risers. 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.

"You only got two hands," the shouted words drifted to her and were repeated in lingua Barevi. Unmistakable gestures emphasized the next word. "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 famous 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 colour, 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 real good before she did any drinking. And she wouldn't drink too much at first go, she told herself, remembering her survival course again. Not one of those drinking seemed to be suffering any ill effects as she watched. And watching them drink became unbearable.

She had to moisten her mouth and throat and guts.

She struggled to her feet, still holding the cup and lurching against the person lying sideways to her. She saved herself from falling on her face by propping her free hand on a c.o.c.ked, bony hip.

"Sorry," she said automatically but the body didn't so much as twitch.

It also felt cold and rigid through the coverall material.

Startled, she peered up at the gaunt, odd-cheeked face - a Deski at the open mouth and staring eyes, dead: another casualty to Catteni ma.s.s productions.

"You poor devil," she murmured, shaking spasmodically. She got up in the next try, as much to get away from the corpse as to get to the water. That was her first priority.

She started in a direct line to the stream, then she noticed what some people were doing in and around the water and veered uphill. As she neared the stream she saw that it bordered this field, coming from beyond the oddly formed tall vegetation and cascading almost in steps down past the field and beyond the trees on the lower edge. The sound of the water rippling spurred her stumbling steps into a firmer stride.

Only the severest self-control kept her from dropping to her belly and burying her face in the clear stream. The water was divinely clear, running over a rocky bottom. Such a stony bed would filter out most impurities. Besides, the Catteni had put them close to water, so they'd probably tested it. No-one further down the stream had yet showed ill effects, although the way in which they were contaminating the stream disgusted her. Still, the water before her was clear. She dropped to her haunches and rinsed the cup, doing a bit of polluting herself as a film of residue from the cup was carried away. She only allowed herself to scoop out enough to cover the bottom of the cup.

She sipped once to moisten dry lips. Sipped again and rinsed the cool sweet water around in her mouth, letting the parched tissues absorb the moisture. Her throat demanded its share.

She swallowed slowly, attempting to trickle the water down drop by drop. They landed coldly in the pit of her stomach and her system insisted on more of the same. By then her taste buds had revived enough to appreciate the taste of the water, better by far than any designer water she had ever drunk either at home in Philadelphia or in IColorado. Good, simon-pure, mountain spring water.

A loud altercation started among the people downstream of her.

Well, maybe not an unpleasant argument, for there seemed to be cupfuls of water thrown about.

A few people moved away, out of the range, content to watch as they drank from their cups. She watched and sipped. She was not about to get embroiled in any group, not until she had figured out a few details like: Where were they? What were they doing here? Were there any Catteni in discreet guard over them? What, besides knives, was in those crates and who had taken control of them? She intended to get at least one knife. Preferably two - one to hide in her boot. That once-derided survival course had included instructions on how to sharpen, use and throw a knife. And the guys on the top of the crates were humans.

Thirst eased somewhat, her stomach started growling.

She reached in her coverall and took out the package, carefully opening it. That was why they'd been given food ahead of time, then.

To eat at this destination.

Water laid on. As she'd also no idea how long she'd been without eating, or drinking, she broke off a third of the bar and carefully nibbled at that, interspersing it with more judicious sips of water.

By the time she'd finished her portion she felt considerably better.

She rose and looked around 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 s.p.a.ces - 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 towards the crates.

When she could see both sides of the line of crates, she realized that there were quite a few people lounging on the far side: mostly Terrans and some of them female. That was rea.s.suring.

"Whatcha 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.

"Anybody 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 be a great many.

"Knives, hatchets," the man said. He was a heavy-set 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, and one in each boot judging by the way his trousers 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."

"You in charge, then?" He made a gesture with one hand and a second Terran jumped down, a knife on his open palm, the handle towards her. He was as well equipped with extras as the first speaker.

"Can I show you how to use it, beautiful?" the guy asked, leering at her.

"You mean - like this," she said, taking the knife from his hand, hefting it a moment to get its balance before ffickirg it into the nearest crate, which it penetrated enough to be held firm.

"Whoa!" 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 offence, sister."

"No offence taken," she said airily and retrieved the blade, checking the point to be sure it hadn't been nicked.

"Good steel."

"It'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." "Army?" she asked.

"Marine," he replied firmly and correctingly, as marines generally did after such a question.

"Kris Bjornsen. Where'd you get taken?"

"Recently?" He spoke with considerable bitterness. "Or do you mean on good ol' Terra?"

"Both,' she said and went back to sipping what water hadn't spilled out of her cup when she'd shown off her knife skill.

"Some d.a.m.ned fools started a riot at one of the discipline a.s.semblies,' he said in a growl and in the southernish drawl that had become military standard among American forces. The other man looked as if he was about to erupt. "OK, OK, some of the poor dumb heads they were whipping to death were Terrans, too, but d.a.m.ned stupid to attack Catteni even if there were a h.e.l.luva lot more of us than them." He made a throaty noise of disgust.

"We've taken enough from them, Sarge," the other man said, his resentment boiling over.

Mitford acted like a sergeant, too, Kris thought and decided he'd be a good ally.

"And look where it got us," he barked back. "Arnie here's never been against a superior force. Thinks being brave is all there is to overcoming dictators." He ignored Arnie then. "I was on leave from my unit in Lubbock, Texas, when we got pearl-harbored. Haven't found a trace of my family." He shut his mouth tight then.

"Denver," Kris said. She turned to Arnie. "You?"

"DC." She hadn't encountered anyone from the Philadelphia area so maybe the rest of her family was still safely at home.

If that was a safe place to be with Catteni overlords.

"Could I have some of those medical supplies, if they're going begging?" "Sure," and Mitford walked along the top of the crates while she followed on the ground. Arnie stayed a discreet step behind her.

"I figured someone had better take charge of supplies like these," and he pointed down to yet another crate of knives. At the next one he stooped and came up with a hatchet which he handed to her. "Here.

Might as well have one of these, too. There isn't more ration bars so make the ones you got do until we can figure out what's edible on this effing plant."

"I'd planned to," she replied, tucking the hatchet in the belt at her back. She'd hack a piece off the thermal blanket to make sheaths for knives and hatchet. Mitford handed her a compact kit, already supplied with a broad shoulder strap.

"Hasn't got much medicine. Cats don't use it, seems like. Tough mothers!"

"Hey, Sarge," yelled a man, running full tilt towards them and pointing back over his shoulder. "There's a Catteni! He's waking up. Let's kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d before he does." Roaring out an order for others to join him, Mitford jumped down, a knife already in his hand.

"Wait a minute," Kris said, holding up her hands. "If a Catteni's here with us, he's as much a prisoner as we are.

"Who cares? He's a Cat and Cats should die," Arnie said, moving around her Kris started after them, running to catch up with Mitford who was the leader.

"Sarge, I saw one Catteni in the same hold as I was.

And he's a good guy."

"There're no good Cats!" Mitford said in a snarl, chopping at the air with one flat, finger-braced hand.

"There are," she said just as fiercely. "And if it's the one I think, don't kill him."

"You're asking too much, girl.

"Not right away, at least. Use the sense G.o.d gave you, Mitford," she said. "If it's the Catteni I think it is, he'll know a lot we have to find out about this place. Unless there were some guide books in those crates." Mitford halted so abruptly that the three men right behind him bounced off his back. Narrowing his eyes, he glared at her.

"And how would you know that about him, girl?"

"Because I watched him being hunted by other Catteni.

They blasted him out of the sky and then blew up the crashed plane and searched all around until they were d.a.m.ned sure he'd been blown up in it."