The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (68 page)

Unconsciously we drew together as we turned
to face the unknown.

A
splatter of rain blew in through the opening door. Welcome to sunny, holiday Liokukae. Which opened wider to reveal the group of very ugly-looking individuals who were waiting outside. They were dressed in an astounding variety of clothing—it looked like all the donations to charity in the entire galaxy had been sent here—and they all had two things in common. They were heavily armed
with a mixture of clubs, swords, maces and axes. And they all looked very angry.

Just about what I had expected; I chomped down on the Blastoff capsule I had put in my mouth. I had never thought much of the weaklings-recovering-from-treatment plan and had palmed this pill in case it were needed. It was.

A wave of energy and power washed through me as the mixture of powerful chemicals, uppers,
stimulants, adrenalins, swept away all the fatigue and shakes. Power! Power! Power! I swayed forward on tiptoes as Tremearne had advised, flaring my nostrils at the same time.

A great bearded lout swinging a crude but serviceable sword glared down at me. I glared back, noting that not only did his eyes meet in the middle but that his hairline also started at his eyebrows. When he shouted at me
his breath frightened me more than he did.

“You dere, little boy. Gimme what you carrying. You all drop what you got or you get it.”

“No one tell me what to do unless he can beat me, you illiterate cretin,” I shouted back. The macho showdown with
these macho mothers would have to take place sooner or later. Sooner was better.

He roared angrily at the insults, even though he could not understand
them, and swung up the sword. I sneered.

“Big coward kill little man with sword when little man got no ax.” I gave him two fingers to doubly amplify my feelings.

I hoped my simple syntax fitted the local linguistic profile because I wanted to make sure they all understood me. They must have, because Pigbreath dropped his sword and jumped towards me. I swung off my pack and stepped out into the
mud. He had his arms out, fingers snapping, ready to grab and crush.

I ducked under them, tripped him as he went by to splat down into a puddle. He rose up, angrier than ever, balled his fists and came on more warily this time.

I could have finished it then and there and made life easier. But I had to display a bit of skill first so his mates wouldn’t think that his downfall had been an accident.
I blocked his punch, grabbed and twisted his arm, then ran him into the wall with a satisfactory crunch.

The blood from his nose did not improve his temper. Nor did my flying kick that numbed one of his legs, a stab with my knee that crumpled the other. Legless, he dropped to his knees, then crawled towards me on all fours. By this time even the dullest of the audience knew who had won this fight.
So I grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up, hit his throat with the edge of my hand and let him keep going backwards, splatting down unconscious in the mud. I picked up his discarded sword, tested the edge with my thumb—jumped about so suddenly and menacingly that the armed men stepped away without thinking. I kept the momentum going.

“I got sword now. You want it, you die for it. Or maybe
the smart bloke one of you what takes me to your boss,
Svinjar. Guy what does dat gets this sword for free. Any takers?

The novelty of the offer and their inherent greed warded off any attack for the moment.

“Get out of there and get behind me’ I called over my shoulder. “And do your best to radiate obnoxious intolerance.” Growling and gnashing their teeth my merry band emerged and lined up
at my back.

“You give me sword I take you Svinjar,” an exceedingly hairy and muscle bound specimen said. He was armed only with a wooden club so his greed was understandable.

“You take me Svinjar
then
you get sword. Move it.”

There was hesitation, dark looks, muttering. I swished the sword under their noses so they had to step back again. “I got something real nice in my pack for Svinjar. You
betcha he kill any bloke stop him grabbing it soonest.”

Threats penetrated where blandishments hadn’t and we all moved off into the rainstorm. Along muddy tracks between collapsing hovels, to a small hill with a largish building made of logs, their bark still on, gracing the summit. I swung the sword so no one came too close, followed my guide up a stony path to the entrance with my weary musicians
stumbling after. I was feeling a bit guilty about taking the Blastoff capsule. But things had developed too quickly to get some to the others. I stopped at the entrance and waved them through.

“In we go, safe haven at last. Take one of these as you pass and chomp it instantly. It is a super-upper that will restore you to the world of the living.”

My club-bearing guide pushed inside and hurried
past the groups of men who lolled about the large room, to the man in the great stone chair next to the fireplace. “You my boss, boss Svinjar. We bring them like you say.” He swung about and stamped over to me. “Now you give sword.”

“Sure. Fetch.”

I threw it out the door into the rain, heard a yipe of pain as it bounced off one of his gang. He ran after it as I walked over and stood before the
stone throne.

“You my boss, boss Svinjar. These guys my band. Make good music you betcha.”

He looked me up and down coldly, a big man with big muscles—as well as a big belly that hung over his belt. Tiny piggy eyes peered out through the thicket of bristly gray hair and beard. The pommel of a sword projected from a niche in the stone chair and he touched it with his fingers, slipping it out
then letting it fall back.

“Why are you talking in that obnoxiously obscene patois?”

“I do beg your pardon.” I bowed deprecatingly. “I was addressed in that manner and assumed it was the local dialect.”

“It is—but only among the uneducated imbeciles who were born here. Since you weren’t, don’t offend my sensibility again. Are you the musicians that got into deep cagal?”

“Word sure spreads
fast.”

He waved his hand at the 3D set against the wall and I felt my eyes bulge. It was a solid metal block with an armored glass face—with the aerial under the glass. A handle stuck out one side.

“Our jailers are most generous in their desire that we be entertained at all times. They distribute these in great numbers. Unbreakable, eternal—and four hundred and twelve channels.”

“What powers
it?”

“Slaves,” he said and reached out a toe to prod the nearest one. The slave groaned and climbed to his feet, stumbled over, clanking his chains as he went, and began to turn the handle on the internal generator. The thing burst to life with a commercial for industrial strength cat food.

“Enough!” Svinjar ordered and the meows faded and died.
“You and your companions kept the news channels
alive. When they said crime and hospital treatment I was rather convinced they meant here. Ready to play?”

“The Stainless Steel Rats are always at the service of those in control. Which, in this case, I assume is you.”

“You assume right. A concert it is—and now. We haven’t had any live entertainment here since the cannibalistic magician died of infection after being bitten by accident in the
heat of passion. Begin.”

By necessity all our gear had to be compact. The fist-sized loudspeakers contained holoprojectors that blew their image up to room size.

“All right guys,” I called out. “Let’s set up by the back wall. No costumes for this first gig and we’ll start with ‘The Swedish Monster from Outer Space.’”

This was one of our more impressive numbers. It had been found in one of the
most ancient databases, the lyric written in a long-lost language called Svensk or Swedish or something like that. After much electronic scratching about, one of the computers in the language department at the university had been able to translate it. But this lyric was so dreadful that we threw it away and sang it in the original which was far more interesting.

There was more like this and Madonette belted it out at full volume to the accompaniment of my syncopated soundtrack, with Floyd knocking himself out on his blower-powered bagpipe. Steengo plucked at a tiny harp—whose holographic image stretched up to the ceiling. Sound filled and reverberated through the great chamber and dust was jarred loose from the
log walls.

I don’t think that this tune would make the galactic top ten—but it sure went down well here in endsville. Particularly when it ended with an atomic mushroom cloud that grew to room size—along with the best the amplifiers could do to simulate the atomic explosion itself. The part of the audience that wasn’t collapsed on the floor had fled shrieking into the rain. I took out my earplugs
and heard the light clapping of approval. I bowed in Svinjar’s direction.

“A pleasant
divertimento
—but the next time you play it I would appreciate a little less
forza
in the finale and a little more
riposo.
”

“Your slightest wish is our command.”

“For a young and simple-looking lad you learn fast. How come you were caught pushing drugs?”

“It’s a long story—”

“Shorten it. To one word if possible.”

“Money.”

“Understandable. Then the music business isn’t that good?”

“It smells like one of your bully-boys. If you can stay up there with the big ones, fine. But we slipped from the top notch some time ago. What with recording fees, agents’ commissions, kickbacks and bribes we were quickly going bust. Steengo and Floyd have been snorting back baksheesh for years. They started selling it to support
the habit. It’s nice stuff. End of story.”

“Or beginning of a new one. Your singer, what’s her name?” He smiled a very unwholesome smile as he looked over at Madonette. I groped for inspiration. Came up with the best I could do at such short notice.

“You mean my wife, Madonette …”

“Wife? How inconvenient. I am sure that something can be done about that, though not exactly at this moment. Your
arrival is, to say the least, most timely. Fits in with what you
might call a general plan of action I was considering. For the general good of the populance.”

“Indeed,” I said, controlling my enthusiasm for any plan of his that might be forthcoming.

“Yes, indeed. A concert for the public. Barbecues and free drinks. The public will see Svinjar as a benefactor of the first order. I gather that
you are prepared to play a benefit performance?”

“That’s what we are here for.”

Among other things that we are here for, Svinjar old chubkin. But the longest journey begins with but a single step.

“I’m not happy about the way this operation is going,” I said unhappily. Spooning up the almost tasteless gruel that appeared to be the stuff of life in this place.

“Who’s arguing?” Steengo said,
looking suspiciously into his own bowl of food. “This stuff not only looks like glue—it tastes like it.”

“It will stick to your ribs,” Floyd said and I gaped. Did he have a sense of humor after all? Probably not. Looking at his serious expression I doubted if he had explored all the meanings of what he had just said. I let it lie.

“I’m not only unhappy with this operation so far—but with the
company we have been

keeping. Svinjar and his loathsome lads. We’ve shot almost a day here already—for little purpose. If the artifact is with the Fundamentaloids we ought to be out there tracking them down.”

“But you promised a concert,” Madonette pointed out with a certain logic. “They are building a sort of bandstand and the word has gone out. You don’t want to let our fans down, do you?”

“Heaven forbid,” I muttered gruelly and put the bowl aside. I couldn’t tell them about the thirty-day poison or the fact that as of the moment over seventeen days had passed. Oh the hell with it. “Let’s get set up. Maybe a quick rehearsal to see if all the gear is working and, hopefully, we are still in good from.”

We put lunch aside with a great deal of pleasure and
humped our packs to the concert
site. There was a grove of trees here that were serving as supports for a singularly crude platform. Planks had been set up between them, with an occasional support stuck in below if the thing sagged too much. Our audience was reluctantly and suspiciously gathering in the surrounding field. Small family units with the men all armed with swords or cudgels, keeping close watch on the womenfolk.
Well, this was a slave-holding society so such concern was easily understood.

“At least they are trying to make it look nice,” Madonette said, pointing. Pretty crude and crummy, I thought, but spoke not my thoughts aloud. Shuffling slaves had brought up leafy branches which they were arranging around the platform; there were even a few flowers stuck in among the leaves. Oh, things were really
swinging on Liokukae tonight.

I was depressing myself sorely and did not want to pass it on to the others. “Here we go, gang!” I said swinging my pack up onto the platform and clambering behind it. “Our first live performance for this waiting world. If you don’t count that quick gig upon arrival. Let’s show them what a pack of real rats can do!”

With our appearance the assembling audience took
heart and moved closer; latecomers hurried to their places. While we tuned up and played a riff or two, I rolled some thunder effects that had people looking at the sky. When we were ready to go, Svinjar himself came trundling through the crowd, a couple of armed heavies at his side. With their help he climbed onto the platform and raised his arms. The silence was total. Maybe it was respect, perhaps
hatred and fear—or all of them rolled together. But it worked. He smiled around at the gathering, lifted his great gut so he could hook his thumbs into his belt. And spoke.

“Svinjar takes care of his people. Svinjar is your friend. Svinjar brings you The Stainless Steel Rats and their magic music. Now let us hear a big cheer for them!”

We got a big murmur which had to do. While he had been speaking
his bully-boys had manhandled a sizable padded chair up onto the platform; it creaked when he dropped into it.