Freedom's Ransom

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Take your time,” Zainal replied, the model of Catteni patience.

  After a few minutes of silence, Chuck said, “Zainal, this thing’s heavy as hell. Can you push the ship up so it will drift toward the floor?”

  “Get clear, and make sure there’s nothing between it and the cargo flooring.”

  After two quick puffs of the thrusters, a dull and satisfying thud echoed through the ship.

  “We’ve got it now, Zainal, thanks,” was Chuck’s enthusiastic reply. “Wait one while we get it braced with something … Okay … good to go now”

  “The KDM,” Zainal murmured to Kathy, “is a workhorse but you can get it to do more than just haul stuff from one planet to another.”

  “To be honest, Zai,” Gino Marrucci said, and he’d already flown KDMs between Earth and Botany, “I didn’t believe you could do that with this.”

  “Can we see what we snared?” Mpatane asked. “I’ve only seen pictures of the comm sats before they were launched. Never one on site, so to speak.”

  “Crew, gravity’s coming on. Three, two, one.” Zainal flicked the toggle to the “on” position. “Mitford, secure the hatch. Don’t want that thing rolling out on us.”

  “Couldn’t roll if it wanted to, Zainal. It’s too heavy. And besides, it’s square blocks stuck together, not a ball.”

  Those in the lock with Chuck were busy examining the catch before Zainal, Gino, and Kathy Harvey arrived.

  “Hey, it’s a Boeing 601. We can mount just about anything on this baby. Some of the parts for these things are on that wish list,” Mpatane said with respectful delight.

  “Can we service it then?”

  “If we had the parts, we could,” Mpatane said, circling the unit, putting her fingers through the holes some target practice had made in the “ear” and sighing at the blatant vandalism. “I wonder how many more fell to some Catteni’s notion of fun. Ooops, sorry, Zainal.”

  “Not to worry, Mpatane. But it can be serviced?”

  “If we can find the spare parts, sure. I don’t notice any holes in the mission package or the control units, but you did keep a record of its orbit, didn’t you, Zainal?”

  “Yes, it’s logged. So all we need to do is repair it and put it back in space.”

  “We’ll have our work cut out for us,” Mpatane said with a heavy sigh. “This one is one of many, you know. Do we get to do them all?” She cocked her head impudently at Zainal.

  “As many as we have to to extend the working footprint needed to ensure worldwide communications. We’ll need some sort of conference with someone down there to figure out how many satellites will be required to make a big enough footprint.”

  She exhaled over the enormity of the task.

  “Well, it’s a job,” she said with such resignation that everyone chuckled in semi-agreement, semi-sympathy.

  “Check the unit over, will you, Mpat, and see what else has been damaged. I’m hoping we can just unscrew, detach, and/or replace faulty parts.”

  “Plug in and go,” Gino said, pushing a triumphant fist in the air.

  “Now, crew, lash it down so when we enter Earth’s atmosphere, it doesn’t buck its way about the hatch,” was Zainal’s final remark as he turned to go back to the cockpit.

  Part of the inbound journey was then occupied by a full examination of the comm sat by the communications experts, with an emphasis on how to replace damaged solar vanes and restore power to the damaged equipment. They kept a list of the deployment of those that they thought they could repair. If they had the spare parts.

  “I never imagined we had so much orbiting the planet,” Kris said that night in the mess hall as she served the assembled crew.

  “Junk, a lot of it,” Harvey said with understandable contempt. “Too far out to be burned up in the atmosphere …”

  “Raining hot metal down on unsuspecting folk,” Gail said. “It did happen, you know. Australia got quite irate over some instances.”

  “I thought Australia was sparsely populated outside of the major cities.”

  “There are people and sheep in the outback, as well as Abotiginals who didn’t like their turf being pummeled by junk.”

  “Expensive junk,” Jax added, “still makes trouble.”

  Chuck came into the cockpit then with a sheet of notes in his hand. “Look, guys, in the category of ‘once bitten, twice shy,’ we ought to get contacted soon. Those NORAD boys in the Cheyenne mountains are sharp. Catteni couldn’t even budge them.”

  “You mean, they have a space station backup?” Kris said.

  “Of course we do,” Kathy said, almost contemptuously. “First world community project, called Watch Dog, with sensors at about forty-two kilometers from Earth. No one is ever going to catch Earth unawares again. Only, does anyone know what to say?”

  “Of course I do,” Chuck said, clicking his tongue. “I arranged a code before I came back to Botany. That’s why I had a radio put on board. It’s all set up. They ought to make contact about now. We are forty-three thousand klicks from Earth’s surface, ain’t we?”

  It was one minute and forty-two seconds before the radio unit crackled, startling them all even if they were waiting for it.

  “This is Watch Dog. What are you doing in our space?”

  “Not very polite,” Zainal murmured.

  “To the point, however,” Kathy said, pleased, and eyed Chuck Mitford sternly.

  “Botany boys are back, Watch Dog.”

  “Oh, the Botany boys, huh?” was the laconic reply. “You are a green for go, Botany Boy. What’s your destination?”

  Chuck grinned fatuously around and winked at Kathy. “Newark Airport.”

  “What’s your business?”

  “Liaison with New Jersey Coord Dan Vitali.”

  “Roger that, Botany Boy. Is that Mitford talking?”

  “Chuck Mitford, aboard the Botany spaceship Baker Alpha Sugar Sugar One.

  “Roger that, Baker Alpha Sugar Sugar One. Who’s your crew?”

  “Emassi Zainal, pilot, and Captain Kathy Harvey, copilot; Gino Marrucci, radio officer; flight engineer is Lieutenant Mpatane Cummings. Twelve passengers.”

  “You are free to proceed. Will alert Newark Airport and Coord Vitali. Over and out.”

  “Over and out—and thanks, Watch Dog.”

  “Newark radio frequency is 118.3, Ground Control 121.8 MHz. Out.”

  “Roger.”

  “Clever Chuck,” Kris said with a sigh of relief. “I didn’t think about possibly getting shot out of the skies.”

  “A little late but we learned.”

  “Was the International Space Station blown out of the skies?”

  “No, like its predecessor, it had a charmed life. It also had no armament when the Catteni came through and was hidden by the planet so it didn’t come in for some target practice. Now it’s armed and ready.”

  Chuck nodded approval.

  “Botany boys!” Zainal said with a snort.

  “Seemed easy to remember. Newark ain’t much, but the airport’s one of the few kept manned, and with the KDM being a vertical takeoff and landing ship, no problem to land there. Or anywhere. Newark’s also closer to the coordinators we need to talk to.”

  “Wouldn’t JFK be bigger and better?” Kris asked. She’d always been impressed by that huge airport.

  “No, too far out in Queens, and we ain’t got the right contacts there.”

  The KDM had reached the atmosphere, and even before Zainal called for a “safety-belt check, people,” all were strapped down—Peran and Bazil occupied the jump seats and were fascinated by the approach to a planet they had heard about but never seen, even in pictures. The KDM nosed into the atmosphere and the bucking started in earnest. Then suddenly it smoothed out and the spaceship was running east with the patchwork of the midwestern states passing beneath them at incredible speed.

  Gino warmed up the radio and got the Newark frequency, then nodded to Zainal. Gino’s bright tenor sounded amiably bo
red as he requested permission for Baker Alpha Sugar Sugar 1 to use the runway.

  “KDM, you’re cleared into Newark,” was the calm response. Gino blinked and even Chuck looked surprised at the insouciance of the acknowledgment. “We have you on radar at…” The voice suddenly was tinged with near panic. “Jeez! KDM, are you in trouble?”

  “No,” Zainal replied, “all systems are normal.”

  “Christ, KDM,” Newark Approach responded, and noise of confusion filtered from the background. “You’ve dropped ten thousand feet in the last two seconds! You’re going to be on top of the airport in here, I’ll patch you to the tower.” In the background, very clearly, could be heard “Call out the crash trucks. This one’s going to augur in!”

  “KDM, this is Newark Tower. You are cleared for immediate landing on runway Twenty-two-R. Winds calm at two hundred ten degrees. Your altitude is-about three thousand. We have you on radar. Say your intentions.”

  “I intend to land, if I may. Main engines will engage in a hover at one hundred feet.”

  Newark Tower replied, “Hover? Roger, KDM, you’re cleared to land.” Since the operator clearly forgot to un-key his microphone, they could hear him. “He says he’s going to hover that thing. Has anyone ever heard of the Cats hovering? Jeez, duck!”

  Right on the mark, the KDM’s main engines kicked in and brought the spaceship to a hover a neat one hundred feet from the runway. Zainal had Kathy bring the craft down to a mere ten feet before radioing the tower. “KDM requests parking instructions.”

  The tower operator was slow to reply. “Uh, roger, KDM, you are cleared to taxi to the West Park area. Take any convenient spot and any route you need.”

  “Yes, we are taking most direct path to West Park Area.”

  The tower contact cleared his throat suddenly. “Uh, KDM, what’s your port of origin? For the record, I gotta clear you. Your port of origin and flight docket?”

  “We are inbound from the planet Botany, wishing to make contact with Coordinator Dan Vitali. Do not have a flight docket, whatever that is these days.”

  “Inbound from where? Dan Vitali?” Everyone in the cabin could hear the barrage of questions from a number of startled voices in the tower with the operator.

  “Ohmigod, get Vitali on the phone. Snap to it. We got I dunno how many tons of spaceship hovering above us.”

  “Hell, we ain’t Bakersfield or the Space Center. What’s he doing in our skies?”

  “Trying to land, I think. Watch Dog cleared it with the boss about two hours ago. Code just came in. Have you got Vitali yet? This is—man, like, urgent. No messing.”

  Everyone in the cockpit, except the two Catteni boys, grinned at the panic they were causing.

  “Baker Alpha Sugar Sugar One, have you a Chuck Mitford on board?” Tower asked a short minute later, this query considerably more courteous than his first reaction.

  “Affirmative to that, Tower.”

  “Please await inspection and escort to the coord. They are on their way. Sorry, it’s a bit of protocol.”

  “Inspection? Good Lord, and when I think of all the alien goods we have on board, we’re in trouble,” Kris said facetiously. “I wonder how much duty they’ll charge for the electronics on board.”

  “I suspect they are more cautious now,” Kathy Harvey said dryly, “than they used to be. And this is obviously a Catteni spaceship, even if you call yourselves the Botany Space Force. So we’re not exactly aliens.”

  “Nor old-time, just long-lost friends,” Gino added.

  They were landing in the dusk of that day. Runway and perimeter lights came on. As Zainal lightly lowered the KDM to the paving in the Y that formed the international landing area, the view screen showed them the facade of the main facility. Someone wearing a striped luminescent jacket waggled lighted wands, directing them to turn into the appropriate bay, and Zainal obediently turned the nose of the KDM in that direction. As they approached, everyone in the cockpit could see that many people crammed the windows of the facility and the ground-level doors.

  There was no way they could match with an airway but the KDM had an extrudable ramp so one was not needed for the spaceship. As the KDM came to a halt, Sally Stoffers, showing an unexpected humor, gave the usual flight attendant’s warning about remaining seated until the seat belt sign went off and being careful about unloading overhead compartments. Her wit sent a ripple of laughter through the cockpit and the tension of landing eased.

  “Well done, Zainal, well done,” Kathy, Kris, and Gino said, and Chuck clapped Zainal on the shoulder to indicate his approval. Then there was the hollow sound of someone tapping on the hatch.

  “Hey, in there. Open up. Don’t keep Coord Vitali waiting.” “Coord” had to be short for “coordinator,” but they pronounced it as one syllable, “kward.”

  The announcement seemed to be blasted through the hull of the ship. The ground crew, which had originally been one man with the lighted hand paddles, had grown to a sizable crowd. Someone had a bullhorn, on which the “open up” message was being bawled.

  “Let’s go meet our hosts,” Zainal said on the intercom.

  “Can we spare some rock squats for the landing crew, Kris?” Chuck asked. “And some to present to Coord Vitali?”

  “Bribery or landing fees?”

  “I suppose a bit of both,” Chuck said. “Good public relations. Latter-day Cattenis arrive bearing gifts. Union, kids.” He cocked his finger at Peran and Bazil. They unstrapped their seat belts and obeyed. Kris followed, fretting over whether or not there was sufficient unfrozen rock squat to offer. She found Clune and had him bring up some wheat sacks.

  “Don’t know if these will be useful,” she said when they had all congregated in the lock.

  “Wheat?” Chuck grinned. “Always.”

  Zainal punched the open tab on the lock frame and the hatch slipped up while the ramp extended, forcing people to stand back from the port side.

  “Hi, y’all,” Kris said, wondering how her embarrassed greeting came out in a slightly southern drawl. She smiled broadly and then offered the tray of cold roasted rock squats to the man who had guided them in.

  “These are cooked and taste a little like chicken,” she said.

  The tray was almost ripped out of her hands and passed around, everyone reaching for a section. The tray was empty in seconds.

  “Call it a landing fee,” she added. “And we have some wheat here, if that’s any use.”

  “All supplies go to a licensed caterer,” a stout woman said, charging forward and directing the disposal of the sacks. “Our thanks. And this is good,” she added, waving the remains of her portion of the rock squat.

  “Did she inhale it?” Kathy muttered to Kris, who shrugged.

  Zainal led their mission down the ramp, Chuck close beside him, trying to find a familiar face in the dusky light.

  “Yo, here, Chuck.” A tall man wearing a baseball cap, a faded Levi’s jacket, and oil-stained trousers with frayed cuffs over heavy leather boots stepped forward, waving both arms.

  “Hi, Collin. Can we see the coord?”

  “Yeah, sure, he’s waiting inside.”

  “Kathy, grab another tray of rock squat, will you? And, Clune and Herb, hoist a coupla sacks of the wheat and flour,” Kris ordered to those behind her.

  “Can we come, too, Father?” Peran asked, bouncing behind Kris. She let him pass her to stand by Zainal.

  “People who come in peace bring kids,” she murmured.

  By then, Collin was embracing Chuck with great masculine slaps on the back and, in between, broad gestures for the rest of them to come down the ramp. “Botany Boy gets back, huh? Coord Vitali should be here by now,” Collin said nervously, resettling his cap on his bristle-cut hair as he motioned for everyone to proceed to the airport building. “He sure was surprised to get a note from Biff.”

  “Biff?” Zainal and Marrucci asked in surprise.

  “Alias for Watch Dog,” Collin said with a laugh.


  Another man, also capped, strode out of the gaggle of observers to lead the way and hurry people along. Zainal nodded at Gino and Jax to stay behind, on guard, and followed the man, with Chuck and Collin joining the little procession.

  They were led upstairs to what Kris identified as a once-elegant VIP lounge, though considerably the worse for wear now, judging by the stains on the upholstery and the general seedy appearance and stale air. Much at his ease in one of the armchairs was the man Kris thought must be this Coord Vitali. As his name suggested, he had an Italianate countenance, swarthy skin, black hair, and a beard barbered close to a strong jawline. He also looked to have been a much stouter person for his clothes, which were of good quality, hung loosely on him and his face was gaunt. But he flashed a genuinely welcoming smile and met Chuck with an outstretched hand, vigorously seizing Chuck’s.

  “Chuck Mitford, we have all heard of you,” he said, his tone slightly awed.

  “From your Texas colleague, I hope,” Chuck said, ignoring, as he usually did, any reference to the legend of his efforts on Botany.

  “From him as well. He said you might be paying this part of the Free World a visit.”

  “And let me introduce the rest of my motley crew,” Chuck said, grinning. “Our Catten friend is Zainal, his two boys, Peran and Bazil; Captain Kathy Harvey, copilot; Kris Bjornsen, Zainal’s mate; Gino Marrucci, our radio officer; Lieutenant Mpatane Cummings, flight engineer; and Alexander McColl, one of our pilots; and Clune and Herb, with the wheat sacks on their shoulders. Dr. Eric Sachs, lately of Columbus Circle. Allow us to present a small gift from Botany,” Chuck said, taking the tray of roasted rock squats from Kris and presenting it with due ceremony to Coord Vitali. He raised thick brows inquiringly.

  “Rock squats, cooked and ready to eat,” Chuck said. “We lived on these birds the first few months on Botany. Make good eating.”

  Between his offering and his words, those in the room who had stood back politely while the big men made their meeting looked eagerly at the tray.

  “Don’t mind if I do,“Vitali said, picking up a half squat and taking a good bite with astonishingly white teeth. “Hmmm, very good. Pass it around,” he mumbled as he chewed, his face lighting up with pleasure. “Hey, well, tasty. Nice to have something to sink one’s teeth into. Chickens here are scarcer than their teeth.”