The Stainless Steel Rat eBook Collection (39 page)

“Attention,” it said. “This program has been interrupted, as have all programs throughout Nevenkebla on all stations, to bring you the following important announcement.” He scowled at the sheet of paper he held and shook it angrily.

“A dangerous spy is at large in our country tonight. It is known that he entered
the harbor of Marhaveno yesterday morning disguised as a laborer on one of the ships from Brastyr. A search was made of the harbor but he was not found. The search was extended today and it was discovered that the spy entered a pleasure vessel in the adjoining harbor and stole a number of items.”

A deathly chill stirred the hairs on the nape of my neck as he held up a bundle of clothes.

“These
were found buried in the sand and have been identified as the clothing worn by the spy. The entire area has been sealed, curfew declared and every building is now being carefully searched. The public is ordered to be on the lookout for this man. He may still be wearing these items of clothing that he stole. If you have seen anyone dressed like this notify the police or security forces at once.”

His image vanished and was replaced by a carefully done computer simulation of the clothing I had borrowed from the boat. These rotated slowly in space—then appeared on a man’s figure which the computer strolled about the screen. The face was a blank but I knew all too well what face would soon appear there.

How long would it take them to identify me, to track me down, discover that I was now
in the army, to follow me here?

There was a grating thud as the barracks door locked and the lights went out. The chill spread down my body and my heart thudded with panic and I stared, sightless and horrified into the darkness.

How long?

I would like to say that it was nerves of steel and fierce self-control that enabled me to fall asleep, after hearing the announcement that the entire country was turned out and searching for me. But that would be a lie. Not that I mind telling a lie or two, white lies really, to further myself in this universe. After all a disguise is a lie and continuous lying, sincere lying, is the
measure of a good disguise. That went with the job. But one must not lie to oneself. No matter how distasteful the truth it must be faced and accepted. So, no lies; I fell asleep because I was horizontal in the dark, fairly warm and totally exhausted. Panic ran way behind exhaustion in the sleepy-time race. I slept, hard and enthusiastically, and awoke in the darkness only when a strange noise
cut through my serious sack time.

It was a distant rustle, like waves on the beach—or leaves blowing in the wind. No, not that, but something else equally familiar. An amplified sound I thought numbly, like an ancient and worn recording being played, just the background scratching without the recording itself.

Theory was proved correct an instant later as a blurred and distorted recording of
a bugle thundered through the barracks just as all the lights came on. The barracks door crashed open and, as though summoned from some dark hell by this hellish sound and light, the sergeant entered screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Get out and get under! Off your bunks and on your feet! Roll bedding! Dip into your footlockers! Remove shaving gear! Then on the double to the latrine! You’re
late, you’re late! Barracks will be washed in twenty seconds precisely! Move it—move it—move it!”

We moved it, but we really didn’t have enough time. I fought my way through the latrine door with the other frenzied purple figures just as the footlockers slammed shut and the barracks wash-heads let go. At that precise instant the sergeant stepped backward and slammed the door. From all sides torrents
of cold water gushed forth, catching at least half of the recruits still on the run. They followed us into the latrine, soaked and shivering, their disposable uniforms beginning to dispose in long rents and tears. Crying and sniveling they pushed forward like sheep. Sheep struggling for survival. There was a limited number of sanitary facilities and all were in use. I forced my way through
the mob until I could glimpse my face in the corner of a distorted mirror, almost did not recognize myself with the dark-circled eyes and pallid skin. But there was no time to get organized, to take stock, to think coherently. At some lower level I realized that it had all been planned this way, to keep the recruits off-balance, insecure, frightened—open for brainwashing or destruction. This realization
percolated up to a slightly more conscious level and with it a growing anger.

Jimmy diGriz does not destruct! I was going to beat them at their own game, until I beat it out of here. It didn’t matter that the entire country was looking for me—until they tracked me to this military cesspit all I had to do was survive. And survive I would! The supersonic razor screeched in my brain as it blasted
my overnight whiskers free. Then, while the automated toothbrush crawled around inside my mouth, I managed to get a hand under a running faucet, scrubbed my face clean, ignored the air-dryer and pelted back to my bunk over the puddled floor. I stowed my kit away just as the footlocker flew open, then spun about as Sergeant Klutz popped through the door again.

“Fall out for rollcall!” he bellowed
as I rushed by him into the night. I snapped to attention under the single glaring light
as he turned and approached me with grim suspicion.

“Are you some kind of joker or something?” he shouted, his face so close to mine that that his spittle dotted my skin.

“No, sir! I’m raring to go, sir. My daddy was a soldier and my grandaddy and they told me that the best thing to be was a soldier and
the highest rank in the army was sergeant! That’s why I’m here.” I stopped shouting and leaned forward and whispered. “Don’t tell the others, sir, they’ll only sneer. But I wasn’t drafted—I
volunteered.”

He was silent and I risked a quick look at his face. Could it be? Was it, there, a drop of liquid in the corner of one eye? Had my tissue of lies touched some residual spot of emotion buried
deep with the alcohol-sodden, sadistic flesh of his repulsive body? I couldn’t be sure. At least he did not strike me down on the spot, but turned on his heel and rushed into the barracks to boot out the stragglers.

As the moaning victims stumbled into line I put some thought to my future. What should I do?
Nothing,
came the quick answer. Until you are tracked down, Jim, stay invisible in the
ranks. And learn all that you can about this military jungle. Watch and learn and keep your eyes open. The more you understand about this operation the safer you will be. Then, when you run, it will be plan not panic that guides you. Good advice. Hard on the nerves to follow, but good advice nevertheless.

After repeated mumbled mistakes, mispronunciation of names—is it really possible to mispronounce
Bil?—the sergeant finished stumbling and muttering his way through the rollcall and led the way to the messhall. As we approached it, and the smells of real food washed over us, the splattering of saliva on the pavement sounded like rain. Other recruits stumbled up through the night and joined us in the long line leading into the warmth of this gustatory heaven. When I finally carried my
heaped-high tray to the table I found it hard to believe. All right so maybe it was grundgeburgers with caramel sauce, but it was food, hot, solid food. I didn’t eat it—I insufflated it and went back for more. For one moment I actually thought that the army was not so bad after all. Then I instantly banished the thought.

They were feeding us because they wanted to keep us alive. The food was
nasty and cheap—but it would sustain life. So if we washed out it would not be because of the diet but because of our own intrinsic insufficiency or lack of will. If we got through basic training each of us would supply one hot and relatively-willing body for the war machine. Nice thinking.

I hated the bastards. And went back for thirds.

Breakfast was followed by calisthenics—to aid the digestion
or destroy it. Sergeant Klutz double-timed us to a vast, windswept plain where other recruits were already being put through their paces by muscular instructors. Our new leader was waiting for us, steely-eyed and musclebound, the spread of his shoulders so wide that his head was disproportionately small. Or maybe he just had a pinhead. Speculation about this vanished as his roar rattled the
teeth in my jaw.

“What’s this, what’s this? You kretenoj are almost a minute late!”

“Pigs, that what they is,” our loyal sergeant said, taking a long black cigar from his pocket. “Little trotters in the trough. Couldn’t tear them away from their chow.”

Some recruits gasped at this outright lie, but the wiser of us were learning and stayed silent. The one thing that we could not expect was justice.
We were late getting here because our porcine sergeant could not move any faster.

“Is that so?” the instructor said, his beady eyes swiveling in his pinhead like glowing marbles. “Then we will see if we cannot work some of that food off of these malingering cagal-kopfs. ON THE GROUND! Now—we do fifty pushups. Begin!”

This seemed like a good idea since I usually did a hundred pushups every morning
to keep in shape. And the chill wind was blowing through the rents in our disposable uniforms. Five. I wondered when we would be issued with something more permanent. Fifteen.

By twenty there was plenty of wavering and grunting around me and I was warming up nicely. By thirty over half of the pipe-stemmed striplings had collapsed in the dust. Sergeant Klutz dropped cigar ashes on the nearest
prostrate back. We continued. When we reached fifty just I and the muscular lad
who hated injections were the only ones left. Pinhead glared at us.

“Another fifty,” he snarled.

The weightlifter puffed on for twenty more before he groaned to a halt. I finished the course and got another glare and a snarl.

“Is that all, sir,” I asked sweetly. “Couldn’t we do another fifty?”

“On your feet!” he
screamed. “Legs wide, arms extended, after me. One, two, three, four. And one more time …”

By the time the exercises were finished we had worked up a good sweat, the sergeant had finished his cigar—and two of the recruits were collapsed in the dust. One of them lay beside me, groaning and clutching his midriff. The sergeant strolled over and pushed him with his toe which elicited only some weak
moans. Sergeant Klutz looked down with disgust and screamed his displeasure.

“Weaklings! Faggots! Momma’s boys! We’ll weed you out fast enough. Get these poofters out of my sight. Man to each side pick up the malingerers, bring them to the medic tent. Then fall back in. Move!”

I bent and seized one arm and lifted. I could see that the recruit on the other side was having difficulty so I shifted
my grip to take most of the weight and heaved.

“Get his arm around your shoulder—I’ll do the carrying,” I whispered.

“My … thanks,” he said. “I’m not in such great shape.”

He was right, too. Thin and round-shouldered with dark circles under his eyes. And older than the others I noticed, in his mid-twenties at least.

“Morton’s the name,” he said.

“Jak. You look kind of old for the draft, Mort.”

“Believe me, I am!” he said with some warmth. “I almost killed myself getting through university, keeping top of the class to keep out of the army. So what happens? I’m so overworked I get sick, miss the exams, wash out—and end up here anyway. What do we do with this dropout?”

“That tent there, I guess, where they’re bringing the others.”

The limp form hung between us, toes dragging in the dust.

“He doesn’t look too good,” Morton said, glancing at the pallid skin and hanging head.

“That’s his problem. You have to look out for number one.”

“I’m beginning to get that message. A crude communication but a highly effective one. Here we are.”

“Drop him on the ground,” a bored corporal said, not deigning to even look up from his illiterate comic book. When he touched the page little voices
spoke out and there was a mini scream. I looked at the four other unconscious forms stretched out in the dirt.

“What about some medical treatment, corporal. He looks in a bad way.”

“Tough cagal.” He turned a page. “If he comes to—it’s back to the drill field. Stays like that the medic will look at him when he gets here tonight.”

“You’re all heart.”

“That’s the way the kuketo crumbles. Now
get the cagal out of here before I put you on report for cagaling off.”

We got. “Where do they get all these sadistic types from?” I muttered.

“That could be you or I,” Morton said grimly. “A sick society breeds sickies. People do what they are ordered to do. It is easier that way. Our society lives on militarism, chauvinism and hatred. When those are the rules there will always be someone eager
to do the dirty work.”

I rolled my eyes in his direction. “They taught you that in school?”

He smiled grimly and shook his head. “The opposite, if anything. I was majoring in history, military history of course, so I was allowed to do research. But I like to read and the university library is a really old one and all the books are there if you know how to look, and how to crack some simple security
codes. I looked and cracked and read—and learned.”

“I hope you learned to keep your mouth shut as well?”

“Yes—but not always.”

“Make it always or you are in big trouble.”

Sergeant Klutz was just leading our squad off the field and we fell in behind them. And marched to the supply building to
get outfitted at last. I had heard that clothing came in only two sizes in the army and this was true.
At least most of mine were too big so I could roll up the cuffs. In addition to clothing there were mess kits, webbing belts, canteens, sewing kits, assassination kits, foxhole diggers, backpacks, VD testers, bayonets, scrokets and more items of dubious or military nature. We staggered back to the barracks, dumped our possessions and hurried to our next assignment.

Which was something called
Military Orientation.

“Having possessed our bodies they now seek to take over our minds,” Morton whispered. “Dirty minds in military bodies.”