Stainless Steel Rat 11: The Stainless Steel Rat Returns (20 page)

I passed her my pack.

“And here are some clean clothes.”

She gasped, laughed—and kissed me on the cheek.

“You never cease to amaze me! A Stainless Steel Rat . . . with a heart of purest gold.”

We sat on a grassy bank and watched the sunrise. Another nice day in what should have been paradise, but was a green purgatory instead.

“I have worked out a rough plan of action,” I said as I reached into the pack. “And this may be the key.”

I took out the jar of face cream and held it proudly aloft.

“No more puzzles—or jokes—if you don’t mind.”

“I’m deadly serious. Before we leave this wretched planet we must find out if the gruesome Greenies have interstellar communication. After all, that’s the reason we came here in the first place. And we certainly can’t ask them for all the obvious reasons. But our new friends told me that pink prisoners have been seen from time to time. And there is the possibility that there is one in a cotton mill less than a day’s walk from here . . .”

She clapped her hands and laughed: no dummy my Angelina.

“So you are going to dye your skin—and break in so you can break the prisoner out!”

“Right in all ways! The pinks use a green vegetable dye for their leather clothes. A quick mix and I’m ready to go.”

“Clothes?”

“Our tracker prisoner, Grincch, is just about my size . . .”

“I’ll have him stripped now so I can wash his clothes before you even think about putting them on.”

“While I get the dye—and put the proposition to Bram.”

Who understood at once—and ran with the plan.

“I will get the dye and tell the others. They will all want to come!”

“Not all of them. A small war party is all I need.”

“But you must know more about the mill and the cotton fields. I am going to send one—no two is better—of our fastest trackers to meet our people nearest to the fields. We will need their guidance. You really want to just, well, walk in among them?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You are indeed a brave man . . .”

“Lots more would say I’m incredibly stupid.”

“Not us! You must pick a time—perhaps at dusk?”

“Perfect.”

“That means we should arrive there when there is still some daylight left.” He looked up at the sun. “It is too late to leave today . . .”

“Not to mention getting a bit of sleep before we go—”

“That too, of course.” He didn’t sound convinced. Trackers were made of stern stuff.

The green dye was a whitish powder that turned a brilliant green when mixed with a little water. I stirred and blended, working it into the face cream until it took on a satisfactory hue. I rubbed some on the back of my left hand and held it up to admire.

“I get a cold chill just looking at it,” Angelina said and held out the still-damp, burlap clothes.

“My size?” I asked.

“We’ll soon see. They really are baggy and shapeless so I don’t think it will be a problem. But his sandals are falling to pieces, a disaster—”

“Not a problem. I’ll wear my own boots. Scuff them up and cover them with mud, until they look like everyone else’s footwear.”

Next morning we were all up before dawn. Angelina worked by the light of a guttering lamp to spread the dyed cream smoothly over my hands and face.

“I suppose you are not inviting me along on your little expedition,” she said casually but most meaningfully. I sighed and shook my head.

“If there were something you could do to help I would ask in a flash. But it is a one-man job. That I will do all the better if I know that you are here and safe.”

Her slow nod was answer enough. She was realist enough to know that—this time at least—her talents could not be of any use.

“Done,” she said. Holding up the lantern to admire her cosmetic skills. “You look utterly loathsome.”

“My thanks! I aim but to blend with our equally loathsome adversaries.”

“Don’t go near any of the children here—you’ll only make them cry.”

Bram was equally taken. He actually reached for his cudgel when he turned and saw me in the dim light of dawn.

“For an instant, I thought we were being attacked! Come, we must show the others.”

My makeup and outfit were an instant and horrible success. Men gaped and twitched their weapons: women screamed and fled.

“Just the five of you are going?” Angelina asked.

“They’ll get me there—and safely back. And there should be plenty of help waiting for us when we arrive.”

A lot was left unsaid. I had to do this alone, we both knew that. We started our journey just as the sun was breaking through the trees.

The trackers were hard men and experienced. Twice whispered word came back of danger ahead, and we made a quick circle around the trouble. Two of my companions had dried meat in their shoulder bags; we ate as we walked, then drank from a stream that cut through the woods.

The sky darkened and by late afternoon there were ominous rumblings from the clouds. A thin mist began to fall: I could only hope that my war paint was waterproof.

It was not an easy trek, so I was more than happy to flop down when Bram signaled a halt. The rain had stopped—and my skin coloring was still intact.

“The cotton fields are just ahead,” Bram said. “We’ll meet the others, the ones who left before us, here in this grove.”

We didn’t have to wait very long before dark and silent forms began to filter through the trees. More and more of
them—the local trackers had joined them, most of them carrying bows. A tall man, obviously their leader, stepped forward.

“You are Bram. I knew your father well when we were growing up.”

“Then you must be Alun.”

“I am.” They clasped hands. “And your father is in good health?”

“He’s dead. Killed by them.”

“A curse on all Grønner.”

Bram nodded; a fate all too familiar to even talk about.

“Have there been any more sightings of the person we seek?” Bram asked.

“Just one,” Alun said, pointing at the low building just beyond the field. “A positive identification. They had ropes tied to him and he was not green.”

“Can you get me close to him?” I asked. He nodded.

“Let me show you what this place is like.” He bent over a dry patch of ground, used the tip of his bow to trace a square shape in the dirt.

“This is the cotton field—and we are here, on the forest side of it. On the other side,” he traced another box, “is a building with machines of some kind. I am told they make the cotton into cloth in some way.”

Beyond the mill he traced out more squares. “Here there are many buildings where the cotton workers live, more and more of them. We want to stay away from them. Many guards there, many more of their people.” He tapped the largest square.

“The field workers will be leaving here very soon. When they do, we’ll let you through the fence so you walk after
them.” He looked at my green face in disgust. “You will do fine, just fine.”

“They are leaving the field now!” Bram called out. “You must go and follow them.”

Two of the trackers bent over the wooden fence, holding open a gap they had forced between interlocked boughs. As I wriggled through Bram pointed to the grove of tall trees we had just left. “We’ll be waiting here when you come back.”

Then I was through, standing and walking behind the others. On my own.

Which was just the way I liked it.

Some of them carried wooden hoes, shambling, tired from a long day’s work. As I walked closer no one even looked my way.

First step done, Jim. You are just one more green among Greenies. Now all you have to do is find your target.

My fellow travelers shuffled past the building, going around it to their quarters beyond. I slowed and lagged behind. I paused at a door and pulled on the handle. It was open.

I closed it and waited until the last worker had trudged out of sight. Pulled the door open just enough to slip through. Closed it behind me.

A large open space with many wooden supports to hold up the roof. There were rows of hulking machines—crude looms—just visible in the darkening gloom. People—women perhaps—were grouped together at the far end of the building, leaving through the doors there. A few smoking lanterns lit their way. I worked my way towards them, moving furtively from loom to loom.

There was a sudden scuffle and some angry cries. I
crouched low, looking through a gap between the machines. I heard loud male laughter and shouted commands. The women moved aside and three men came into view forcing themselves through the crowd.

The shrill voices were angry now as the men emerged. The one in the center appeared to have his arms tied behind his back, was bent over trying to avoid the grasping hands. When he finally straightened up I could see bloody scratches on his face.

Red tracks on his pallid pink skin!

Got you!

I skulked after them, among the dark looms, and moved closer.

“You morons are supposed to protect me,” an angry voice said. I could see the prisoner rubbing his face along his shoulder, smearing away the blood.

“You just shut them face,” one guard said—and followed with a hard blow to the man’s ear. His companion laughed at the good fun.

Then they stopped under a lantern; I hunkered down behind a loom. They fumbled with the lashings on his wrists, taking an unconsciously long time to free him. Then he was pushed, stumbling, through the doorway into what must be a room beyond. The warders struggled a heavy beam into place, sealing the door shut.

“Don’ go long time!” The remaining man called out as the other guard shuffled away.

“Come back when sr’gent say come back.”

“No long, no long . . .” The man wailed.

Better and better. One against one now; good odds. I
slipped between the rows of machines. Then stood and walked silently towards him. He caught the motion, spun about, his jaw dropping.

“Who you? What here for . . .”

“See this finger,” I said quietly, holding out my fist, thumb rigid.

He stared and gaped. Drooling a bit too.

I stabbed forward, my thumb catching him hard, just on the ganglion in his neck. He grunted and folded, thudding silently to the filthy floor. I stepped over his inert body and took the lantern off its hook. Looked around carefully.

Silence. The lamp guttered and smoked as I put it down. Then I worked the beam free from the retainers on the door and set it quietly aside. Picked up the lantern and opened the door.

“Go away,” the voice said hoarsely from the darkness. “Don’t beat me again. The loom was broken when I got there. It was that cow’s fault—I told you what she did . . .”

“Quiet,” I said and walked towards him. “I’m a friend.”

He stared, eyes wide as I approached.

“I have no friends,” he said through bruised lips. I could now see the scabs and unhealed bruises on his face, matted filthy hair. I felt a surge of hatred at the malicious, stupid creatures who had done this to him.

“Look at my skin,” I said pulling up my jacket to bare the undyed skin at my waist. “You have a friend now.”

He collapsed against the wall, sobbing and gasping—pulling back in fear when I reached down to help him to his feet.

“Questions—and explanations—later. Now just come with me. We’re leaving this place.”

There were voices in the distance. I blew out the lamp, threw it aside, pulled him to his feet, dragged him after me.

There was a fierce whooshing sound behind us and flames lit up the darkness. The fuel from the lamp had caught fire. I wasn’t going to worry about it. The approaching voices turned to shouts and there was the sound of running feet.

We met at the doorway. Two of them. Wide-eyed, gaping green faces.

I struck out with my free hand, knocking the first one to the ground. The second guard raised a club. I jumped for his wrist, seized it and kept his arm coming up and over until the man screamed with pain: I silenced him with a quick blow.

Two down. No more in sight. Behind me the flames roared as the dry wood of the building caught fire.

“That should keep them busy,” I said to my new companion. “Just keep going.”

We ran between the looms, easily avoiding them in the flickering light as the flames flared in the dry wood. We were still unseen by the locals who had all of their attention focused now on carrying the unconscious men from the burning building.

I stopped for a breather at the same door I had used to enter the building. Though it felt like hours had passed since I had come through it, there was still light in the eastern sky. And the field was empty.

There was more shouting now—but all of it well behind us.

“You ready to go on?” I asked.

“Yes . . . of course. Lead the way.”