The Amtrak Wars - Ironmaster Part 19

Clearwater laid her bedding roll against the part.i.tion and sat down with her back to Steve. She pulled back the cowl. Her flowing dark hair - which, when he last saw it, reached down to the middle of her back - was now drawn up and pinned with combs in the style of the Iron Masters.

Steve caught his breath. The smooth, olive-tinted skin on the back of her neck was unmarked. What had caused her to remove her body-paint?

A whiff of her natural body odour reached his nostrils. The memories it brought back sent a zing through his loins and made his mind reel.

Clearwater pulled off her glove, placed the fingers of her right hand on her shoulder and rested the chin of her mask on them.

Steve's movements mirrored hers. Leaning back against the part.i.tion, he slid his left forefinger through the gap in the planking and breathed - 'h.e.l.lo, stranger..."

The only answer was a slight pressure on his fingertip.

But it was enough to send a megavolt charge up his arm.

Oh, Mo-Town! You sweet mother! The Amtrak Federation's vocabulary did not include the word 'love', and the education syllabus did not include any reference to s.e.xual chemistry, but this was the real thing right enough.

Yess-sirrree . . .

'What happened to your -' Clearwater dug a fingernail sharply into his skin.

Steve interpreted it as a warning not to talk to her while the two women were there. For the next hour or more, he had to be content with maintaining fingertip contact. It was no hardship. When the chemistry is right, it is amazing how suggestive ten digits can be, and when he rang the changes by tracing tiny circles on her shoulder her body sent the same ardent message through the layers of cloth.

The sun had disappeared from the circle of sky above the campsite a long time ago, and now the light began to fade as Mo-Town drew her dark cloak across the world.

Within a short time, the gaps between the planks were almost as dark as the planks themselves. No one came to check up on them, but every so often yellow lanterns wandered by, proving they had not been totally abandoned.

Steve tried to master his frustration. Less than twenty-four hours ago he had gone to sleep tired, hungry and dispirited, his mission doomed to failure. Now here he was, only inches away from one of the two people had had come to rescue!

He knew why he had been thrown in the slammer, but why had Clearwater been taken prisoner? And why was she now clear-skinned and dressed up like a j.a.p? The questions crowded in. Who were the two women with her? Both wore identical outfits made of plain dark brown material: baggy trousers gathered into cuffs just above the ankle, and high-collared smocks with full sleeves fastened in similar fashion around the wrist. The full-length cape hid what Clearwater was wearing, but the cape itself was made of the same glistening material used to clothe Yama-s.h.i.ta - the top Iron Master that Steve had seen at the trading post.

From his observations so far, he knew that Iron Masters were dressed according to rank - unlike the almost-universal Federation jumpsuit.

The drab uniformity of the women's clothes indicated that their status was inferior to Clearwater's - so why was she unwilling to talk in front of them?

Steve sensed something was going down. She had been captured by a raggedy-a.s.sed bunch of Iron Masters who had been vigorously pursued by the forces of law and order. Taken in transit, perhaps, from one of those groups of drawn vehicles and people he had seen moving along the east-west highway. He deduced this from the mask and the outer clothing that concealed the fact that - to an uninformed observer - she had the body of a Tracker; an outlander whose social rating was only marginally higher than the Mutes.

Why had someone been at pains to conceal her ident.i.ty? Whoever it was had to be someone important; her clothes were proof that she was in contact with at least one high-flyer. And the two women - were they there to see she didn't give the game away? The fact that it was they, and not she, who had removed her blindfold, plus her reluctance to speak in their presence, suggested this was the case. There was something else. All three had been brought into the camp blindfolded.

That could only be for one reason: to prevent them from identifying their captors and describing where they had been held prisoner. Which meant they were due to be released at some future date.

The plot thickened - and became even more intriguing when Steve began to consider the reasons why Clearwater's mask had not been removed.

Her blindfold had been tied over it and around the outside of the cowl that concealed her dark, l.u.s.trous hair and her neck, whose skin-colour would have revealed it all. To his devious mind, it suggested that only some of the wild bunch were supposed to know the true nature of the person they had carried off. Or, alternatively, perhaps none of them knew. Either way, it implied that they had not captured Clearwater for themselves but for someone else.

From what Side-Winder had told him, Steve knew that the life of a Tracker - or a Mute - was not worth a soyabean. Yet here she was - a Mute who, in terms of appearance, was indistinguishable from a Tracker dolled up like an Iron Master out of the top drawer, with two personal minders to do the fetching and carrying.

Oh, yes ... something was going down all right.

There was a lot more Steve needed to know, but the big question was could he get in on the action and turn the situation to his advantage?

A pair of approaching lanterns cast their warm glow through the slatted timbers. Steve glimpsed a quartet of orange faces fringed with shanks of Mute hair. Four hard cases from the wild bunch. Clearwater quickly pulled the cowl back into place and replaced her glove. The j.a.ps stopped outside the door to the adjacent cell and shouted something in j.a.panese. Peering through the slats, Steve saw the diminutive female minders adjust each other's blindfolds. When the knots were securely tied, the door was unbolted and they were led away.

As darkness enveloped them once again, Steve knelt facing the part.i.tion and thrust both sets of fingers through the gaps in the timbers. The middle fingers got no further than the second knuckle. There was a rustle of garments on the far side of the wooden wall; a cool swish of limbs moving inside rich silk brocade - something he had never heard before.

This time she had taken off the mask as well as the gloves. She kissed the tips of his fingers then slid her face against them. Her own slim fingers wriggled through the gaps and touched his nose, then caressed his mouth. He held each one in turn, lightly between his teeth.

'Oh, cloud warrior,' she whispered. 'If you only knew how much I have longed for this moment."

The too,' said Steve. 'All I've thought about is being alone with you in the dark, but. this isn't quite what I had in mind."

'Be patient, beloved. Our journey together has just begun."

Yeah... Question is - where are we headed... ?

Steve saw a single lantern approaching - held aloft by a man.

'Watch out, someone's coming!" They both moved away from the part.i.tion.

Steve looked through the slats of the door. The j.a.p wore a mask like the samurai at the trading post, but Steve recognised his build. It was the stocky guy who had ordered him to be thrown into the slammer.

He unbolted the door to the other cell and entered, closing it behind him. Steve kept well back but was able to see Clearwater-mask, cowl and gloves now back in place - shuffle round on her knees to greet her visitor with a respectful bow.

The j.a.p transferred the lantern to his left hand so that, from where Steve sat, Clearwater was thrown into silhouette.

'Stand up."

She did so.

'Remove outer garment..."

Clearwater unfastened the collar that kept the cowl closed tightly round the edges of her white mask, lifted it over her hair and let it fall back. She then undid the front of the cape and cast it aside to reveal another long robe underneath with wide three-quarter-length sleeves and a low-cut collar that showed off her pretty neck. A deep sash wrapped round her waist and midriff was tied in a big bow at the back. The white gloves that hid her unblemished hands and forearms reached up inside the sleeves of her robe.

'Now gloves and mask."

Clearwater removed them and stood with her chin lowered. What's this guy going for? wondered Steve. A complete strip-down? He was seized by a sudden, irrational wave of anger at the pending violation of what he felt was his own private preserve. Irrational to Steve, that is, because jealousy and possessiveness were two more of the many word-concepts that did not feature in the Federation's vocabulary.

Once again, as when he fell in love and could not describe the feeling, he did not know what was eating him.

The j.a.p raised the lantern, lifted Clearwater's chin and inspected her face and throat closely. He then walked around her, peered at the back of her neck, ran his fingers over the roots of her swept-up hair, then came around the front and examined her hands and arms.

'Now you will dress as before."

He watched silently as Clearwater became the white-masked woman again, then, as she knelt submissively before him, he uttered a grunt of approval and left, bolting the door behind him.

Ahah, thought Steve. So that's how it plays. It's only the boss man who's got the inside track on this. The rest of the bunch are just spear-carriers. When the light faded away, he moved back to the part.i.tion and reestablished contact with Clearwater.

'Did you ride across the waters on one of the wheelboats?" she whispered.