Clearwater’s return in exchange for Fran gave Cadillac an immense amount of satisfaction. It could not have been achieved without Roz’s help, but if he had not ignored her initially scornful reaction to the idea, Clearwater and her child would still have been prisoners of the Federation. Knowing that he had also stolen a feather from Steve’s cap made him feel even better.
All his rival had to do now was save himself – assuming he still wanted to. In the past Steve’s true motives had been open to question, but Cadillac was now more than ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. Roz’s unshakeable faith in her kin-brother and the conciliatory mood of his last meeting with Brickman, had caused him to take a hard look at himself. For the first time in his life, he was now able to admit that his own peculiar blend of pride, arrogance, insecurity and vaulting ambition had been the root cause of much of the trouble between them.
The destruction of The Lady from Louisiana and Roz’s arrival had marked a new beginning, a chance to remake himself from the inside out. And despite the occasional twinge of jealousy, Cadillac had made remarkable progress. In expressing the hope that Steve would find a way to rejoin them, he was being perfectly sincere. Steve was, after all, the fourth Chosen One. Despite the arguments and the bitterness they had proved they could work together in the past and they would do so again. Only this time their relationship would be on a different footing. The sheer brilliance with which he had conceived and executed the plan to destabilise Ne-Issan would force his longtime detractor to accept him as an equal.
At the beginning of their relationship when they had used bits and pieces salvaged from wrecked Skyhawks to build the powered hang-glider on which Steve had then taught him to fly, there had been a period of real rapport. It was Steve’s involvement with Clearwater which had sown the seeds of distrust. In the interval between that painful episode and now, Cadillac had come to understand that the betrayal – in which his ex-soulmate had been a willing accessory – was part of a larger pattern of events; a pre-destined step along The Path which had led to Clearwater’s journey into the Federation and the appearance of his true life-partner – Roz.
Bringing the four of them together was more than a question of simple symmetry. Despite the bitter words that had passed between them, Steve was the only close male companion – apart from Mr Snow – that Cadillac had ever had. The ‘otherness’ of his straight-boned body and unblemished skin, and the fact he had been chosen as the next wordsmith of the M’Calls, had always distanced him from his clan-brothers. They had shown respect for his status, but his peer group had cruelly mocked his appearance as a child and later, on entering manhood, they had treated him with benign disdain for not being a true warrior.
Brickman had been no better, but in a different, more exciting way. Having expressed his gratitude for being pulled from the burning wreckage of his Skyhawk, he had proceeded to show him absolutely no respect at all. He had challenged every assumption, questioned every decision, demanded endless explanations – and had even muscled in on his own pupil-teacher relationship with Mr Snow.
Cadillac had borne all this – though not always nobly – because he regarded Brickman as his intellectual equal. A stimulating companion and thorn in his side, whose own courage and daring had set the standard by which he now measured himself. The loving partnership with Roz had given him a new assurance and sense of completeness, but there was still a gap which only Steve could fill: the deep-seated bond between male warriors who have faced danger and death together.
A similar bond united Roz and Clearwater. A bond which went far beyond the spoken word. They were soul-sisters, twin spirits united in mind and body by a shared destiny and the pain and joy of motherhood. Clearwater had given birth to a child she would never see, the dark star whose life-task was to destroy the Federation from within, and now Roz carried the other half of this cosmic equation, Talisman, the Shining One, who would become the saviour of the Plainfolk.
For the moment, this knowledge was theirs alone. Cadillac did not know that Roz was pregnant, or that Sand-Wolf was not Clearwater’s true son. Which was just as well, because he had more than enough to occupy his mind – namely when they should leave Ne-Issan, what they should demand by way of payment, and how they should deal with any attempt by the Yama-Shita to double-cross them.
Given the services they had rendered to the Yama-Shita, they should have been able to sleep easily in their beds, but Cadillac did not wholly trust their hosts, or any dead-face for that matter. His familiarity with their language and customs had enabled him to detect a subtle shift in their hosts’ demeanour since returning with their grisly trophies from the Summer Palace, and it had made him realise – more forcibly than ever – the unbridgeable gulf that lay between Iron Master and Mute.
They might have made him an honorary samurai, but it was nothing more than a convenient device to circumvent protocol and facilitate face-to-face discussions on how to remove the Shogun. In all other respects, he, Roz and Clearwater were still regarded as non-persons.
The Iron Masters’ sense of superiority did not flow from their territorial conquests or their social pre-eminence. It sprang from an inner certitude, and was so deeply engrained in their psyche, it could not be eradicated by a military defeat. When the Plainfolk finally became a nation and their warriors swept into the Eastern Lands to liberate the Lost Ones, the Iron Masters would die with a contemptuous sneer on their lips rather than submit.
It was a pity. Putting his taste for sake on one side, there were many positive and pleasureable aspects to Iron Master society that he was loth to abandon. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Clearwater and Roz. Both were anxious to return to the Plainfolk, and the combined pressure was irresistible. After spending weeks in alien environments in constant danger of one kind or another, they longed for the moment when they could let their minds relax and their guard drop – secure in the knowledge that they were among their own kind.
Flying north with Sand-Wolf, knowing that she would soon be gaining her freedom, had been a wonderful moment for Clearwater. No one had told her she was to be handed over to the Yama-Shita family at the borders of Ne-Issan. Finding herself a house-guest in the Sarakusa Palace had been the second unpleasant surprise. In setting up the exchange, Cadillac had completely overlooked the possibility that someone might recognise Clearwater as the ‘white witch’ who had killed Lord Hirohito Yama-Shita and dozens of his compatriots at the Heron Pool, just as Lord Min-Orota had eventually seen through his own disguise.
Karlstrom had provided her with a set of body dyes and a spare pair of hands to transform herself back into a painted Mute before leaving the Federation, but this had merely compounded the danger because her skin markings now matched those she had carried on her first visit to Ne-Issan. It was only after Clearwater had voiced her concern that Cadillac made all the connections and realised he had seen officials in the palace who had been part of the original reception committee which had grilled them before passing them on to Lord Min-Orota.
Officials who had seen Clearwater painted up just as she was now.…
The flight from Wyoming to the domain of the Yama-Shita had taken place over two years ago, but in view of what had happened afterwards, this particular set of Iron Masters were unlikely to forget. If just one of them made the connection, or Lord Min-Orota decided to drop in to offer his congratulations, it could make life extremely complicated.
But not dangerous. Despite the nail-biting uncertainty attached to summoning, the combined power of Roz and Clearwater over mind and matter made them virtually invulnerable to any form of violence. Cadillac’s optimistic assessment of their situation was shortlived. Clearwater made it quite plain that he need not expect any awe-inspiring displays of earth-magic from her while she was carrying a babe-in-arms or from Roz – who chose that moment to tell Cadillac he was going to be a father. It was up to him to protect his brood, and the best way to do that was to take them home. Now.
Unbeknown to Cadillac, their principal host, Aishi Sakimoto, Acting Regent of the Yama-Shita, was working on the same problem. He and the other leading members of the family had wanted the Shogun and the Lord Chamberlain removed, but their pleasure was marred by a lingering dissatisfaction which stemmed from the fact that the murders had been engineered by grass-monkeys – albeit with their full support and the direct involvement of Lord Min-Orota.
Even though it was Yoritomo who had killed Ieyasu, and Lady Mishiko who had poisoned her brother, the knowledge that it was Cadillac who had removed the Shogun’s head left several members of the family council feeling that the honour of the nobility had been besmirched. Witchcraft might have achieved what a brave and selfless band of samurai could not, but in their eyes, it was an unwholesome and unacceptable way of achieving power which demeaned the warrior ethic and should not be pursued further.
Sakimoto himself was privately unrepentant. The deed had been done – and not one of the ‘purists’ now expressing reservations had raised this issue before the Mute witches had been despatched. What they wanted was to have their cake and eat it, but Sakimoto – who did not enjoy the same autocratic power as his predecessor – could not afford to alienate them by pointing this out. To maintain the unity needed to win the war against the Toh-Yota, he agreed to dispense with the services of Cadillac and Rain-Dancer forthwith, and reduce the lavish reward they had been promised to a minimum.
All of which was easier said than done. The friendly demonstration of the grass-monkeys’ magic had been alarming enough. What hellish creations might they unleash if they became angry?
With Clearwater and Roz demanding action, Cadillac knew he had to move fast, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to cut through the swathe of officials and gain an audience with Sakimoto. The Regent, who blamed the current civil unrest for his unavailability, was always courteous and deeply apologetic for the brevity of their meetings, but kept evading the question of the promised reward each time it was raised. Cadillac realised he was being given the runaround but he was determined not to leave empty-handed.
Removing the Shogun and Ieyasu had not been the only reason for coming to Ne-Issan, but it was the stunning success of that venture which now hindered his hopes of concluding an agreement on trade and cooperation between the Yama-Shita and the She-Kargo.
Aishi Sakimoto repeatedly assured him of the family’s desire to maintain trade-links with the Plainfolk, but explained that the bulk of their energies and resources were now being poured into the armed conflict with the Toh-Yota and the handful of domain-lords who had rallied to their defence.
The giant wheel-boats used on the Great Lakes trading expeditions were needed to ferry troops and to act as mobile gun-platforms in the river war now being fought along the navigable length of the Hudson, and around the island garrisons – such as Mana-tana, Sta-tana and Govo-nasa that controlled access to the sea, to Aron-Giren and the coastal domains further south.
Sakimoto also pointed out – with a remarkable lack of rancour – that the present shortage of suitable vessels had been aggravated by the loss of five large wheel-boats at the hands of the She-Kargo. He accepted Cadillac’s assurance that he and his two female companions had taken no part in that particular battle, but – as his honoured guest must surely understand – there could be no further trading expeditions until those vessels had been replaced and the present conflict had been resolved.
In other words, ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’! Cadillac knew the Regent was bluffing. The Yama-Shita were pretending they didn’t need the business in the hope of wringing concessions from the Plainfolk. The family needed to trade; opening up the Great Lakes route to the Western Lands had boosted their wealth and power. But they could afford to wait – and get even at the same time. Having squeezed the Mutes dry for years, they had a layer of fat to live off until their raggedy-assed clients became so desperate, they’d cut each other’s throats in order to be first in line to do a deal.
Just like it was before.…
It didn’t seem a good time to tell Sakimoto that the new Plainfolk Council had decided to shift the trading post inland to Sioux Falls, or that from now on barter rates on all goods would be fixed collectively by the Plainfolk and – best of all – none of the clans in the She-Kargo faction would be sending any more journey-men down the river to fill the slave compounds and the dreaded Fire Pits of Beth-Lem.…
It was a frustrating time, but Cadillac refused to give up, and finally managed to pin Sakimoto down on the question of the reward and the provision of a suitable conveyance to take them to Du-Aruta. Sakimoto promised to do his utmost to find a seaworthy vessel – not easy in these troubled times. As for the reward, Cadillac should submit a list of goods which, in his estimation, would be fair recompense for his praiseworthy efforts. The list, added Sakimoto, should not be too large, since it would only be a small boat.
Okay, thought Cadillac. If it’s a list you want, that’s what you’re going to get.…
The next time he appeared before Aishi Sakimoto, Clearwater was at his side. They both knelt on the appointed spot, touched their foreheads to the floor then, as they sat back, Clearwater rekindled the blue-ice fire in her eyes and speared the mind of the unsuspecting Regent just as she had caught and controlled Nakane Toh-Shiba, the Consul-General of Masa-chusa and Rodiren.
Sakimoto found himself seized with an overwhelming desire to grant these grass-monkeys whatever they wished. He tried to fight it off, and was struck with a blinding headache. Yes, yes, of coursel What was he thinking of? He wanted to help them. It made him feel so much better! Two scribes? He sent one of his secretaries to fetch them. The leading members of the family? An aide was despatched to summon all those within the precincts of the palace to the council chamber. As they arrived, Clearwater transfixed each of them in turn with the same electrifying stare, leaving them with but one thought burning in their brain – to show their gratitude for what their honoured guests had achieved by an unmatched display of generosity.
Cadillac dictated the list of items they required, the scribes wrote them down one by one, the Yama-Shita family council nodded approvingly then added their signatures and seals to both copies.…
At the beginning of March, 2992, when the heavy rains unleashed by the eruption of Mount St Helens had given way to wind-driven snow, a hunting posse of San’Paul Mutes from the Clan Shawnessee were alarmed to see a ghostly white wheel-boat moving across the Great River towards the site of the vanished trading post.
Those blessed with a vivid imagination took it to be a phantom vessel returning to collect the wandering souls of the dead-faces who had perished so far from home, but the boat was as real as the dark plume of smoke that gushed from its funnel then was torn to shreds by the keening wind. Its ghostly appearance was due to the fact that its decks and galleried superstructure were encrusted with snow and ice collected on the long journey from Bu-faro on Lake Iri.
Inside the boat, the huge cargo decks were packed from stem to stern with goods, animals and people. The loading manifest, which ran to several pages, was akin to the one compiled by Noah for the ark. Ten stallions, fifty mares, twenty-five breeding pairs of oxen, a similar number of ox-carts, wheels and sub-assemblies to make a hundred handcarts, pigs, ducks, chickens, a small mountain of farm implements and tools ranging from adzes, anvils, augers, axes, brad awls, chisels, drills and hammers to lathes, mallets, picks, pincers, rakes, saws, spades, shovels and vices; various seed grains and vegetable plants, boxes of dried fish, sacks of rice; cooking pots, pans, nails, knives, needles, thread, buckles, bolts of woven cloth, straw matting, six hand looms, spindles, woollen yarn, dyes, rope, pulleys, chains, candles, tinder boxes, lengths of metal rod, angle iron and flat strip, finished timber; five hundred cross-bows, several box-loads of metal parts for assembling two thousand more on wooden stocks made by the Mutes themselves, five thousand cross-bow bolts, boxes of arrow and spear heads, et cetera, et cetera, and – the biggest prize of all – seven hundred and sixty-eight Mutes from She-Kargo, M’Waukee and San’Paul clans who had journeyed eastwards and had ended up as slaves in the Yama-Shita domain.
Their release had been Cadillac’s proudest achievement.
The wheel-boat sent up the usual salvoes of green rockets to indicate its peaceable intentions, but the beach was deserted as the flat nose ran aground on the sloping shingle. From the wheel house perched on the roof of the top deck, there was no sign of last year’s battle. The piles of bodies had been burned or picked clean by the death-birds; the wreckage of the five wheel-boats had been stripped by hordes of human scavengers and the remaining structures dismantled. Every plank, beam, pillar and bolt had been prised loose and carried away along with the cannon and roundshot by teams of sweating Mutes who recognised them as weapons of war, but did not know how to make them spit sky-fire and earth-thunder.
Cadillac had acquired that knowledge. He knew that the three ingredients of black powder could be found in Plainfolk territory, and that it was possible to grind and mix them by hand. The problem lay in the extraction process; obtaining worthwhile quantities required a degree of cooperation and organisation that was beyond the present capabilities of the Plainfolk. They regarded themselves as warriors and hunters, not workers. If his own plans were to bear fruit, and Talisman was to forge them into a nation, the old ways would have to go, their entire lifestyle would have to change.
Dramatically.…
When the newly-liberated Mutes had unloaded the collection of goods and animals, the wheel-boat captain bade Cadillac a polite farewell and headed for home. None of his fellow officers had returned from the last expedition, but he had heard the stories gathered by the out-stations from the stricken D’Troit and C’Natti clans. He and his crew had no wish to remain a minute longer than necessary on a lake which could throw up a murderous wall of water to the height of the surrounding hills.
Cadillac, Clearwater and Roz – all warmly wrapped against the cold ~ watched the wheel-boat gather speed as it pulled away from the shore. Around them, the liberated Mutes whooped and yelled, hugged one another and danced for joy.
Roz and Clearwater – who was carrying Sand-Wolf against her chest – turned to Cadillac and gave him two fat kisses, one on each cheek.
‘You’re a genius,’ said Roz lightly. ‘But shouldn’t there be someone here to meet us?’
‘It’s all under control,’ said Cadillac. He interrupted the celebrations of the nearest group of Mutes and asked them to pass the word. Buffalo-Soldier was wanted. Now.
‘The warrior from the Clan Shawnessee?’ asked Roz.
‘That’s right. Their turf is just south of here. We can stay there till the snow melts.’
‘And then move on to Sioux Falls.’
‘Yes. For the Plainfolk Council. It’d be crazy for us to go all the way to Wyoming in this weather then have to come all the way back again.’
Clearwater brushed a fleck of snow from Sand-Wolf’s face, re-adjusted his hood, then surveyed the cheerful throng of Mutes who milled around them. ‘Do you think they’ll have room for all of us?’
Having got this far, Cadillac had no intention of letting the freed Mutes disperse. They, along with the goods and animals he had acquired, were a vital part of the triumphal entry he planned to make at the second Plainfolk Council. Despite his youth, he wanted to come away from that meeting as the leading policy-maker of the She-Kargo faction.
‘We’ll make our own room,’ he said. ‘We’ve got tents, poles, rolls of sailcloth, food –’ He broke off as Buffalo-Soldier appeared. Just the man I need.’ They both climbed up onto one of the ox-carts to get a clear view over the crowd. ‘Now – where exactly do we go from here?’
Buffalo-Soldier cast a loving eye over the surrounding terrain. ‘Many snows have fallen since I last stood here but that is the one thing I have not forgotten. The smell and the shape of this land is in my blood.’ He pointed in the direction of his home turf. ‘You will find my people beyond the third hill.’
As he spoke, the Shawnessee hunting party, who had been watching the proceedings from a safe distance, decided to send up a ‘white arrow’, a smoking tuft of grass tied to a crossbow bolt. It was the signal used when opposing groups of Mutes wished to parley.
Cadillac watched the trail of white smoke rise towards the dark grey blanket of cloud then curve down towards them. The Mutes clustered around him greeted it with the traditional cry of approval. ‘Heyy-yaaaghh!’
Buffalo-Soldier leapt off the cart and darted forward to join several Mutes who were running towards the point where they expected the smoking arrow to land. When they got there, they formed a loose arc and stood with upturned faces as it fell towards them. The bolt buried its point in the snow-covered ground a few yards in front of where they stood, extinguishing the smouldering tuft of grass.
Cadillac waited expectantly as the Mutes clustered round it. They would be looking for the notches on the shank – the clan mark which established ownership.
Buffalo-Soldier gave a delighted whoop, grabbed the arrow and ran back towards the crowd, waving it excitedly in the air. ‘Shawnessee, Shawnessee. Shawnessee!!’
‘Heyy-yaaaghh!’ The watching crowd of returnees gave a ragged shout as the hunting party rose into view and formed a line along the crest of a rise to the south of the landing beach. Each one raised an arm and displayed the open palm – the traditional sign of greeting.
The crowd responded. ‘Heyy-yaaghh! Heyy-yaaghh! Heyy-yaaghh!’
Cadillac looked down at Roz and Clearwater and turned on his modest ‘man of the moment’ smile. ‘What did I tell you? Stick with me and you can’t go wrong.’
Clearwater eyed Roz. ‘I see what you mean.’ Cadillac was becoming more and more like Steve. But not copying him. It was as if their two personalities were fusing together.…
In Sara-kusa, Aishi Sakimoto and the other leading members of the Yama-Shita family were still shaking their heads over their copy of Cadillac’s shopping list. The baffled whispers quickly became howls of rage and disbelief as the bills from outside suppliers started coming in and the abacus beads clicked to and fro under the nimble fingers of their accounting staff. Day after day the cost of their largesse mounted inexorably, like a rising tide, and with it came the growing realisation they had been duped.
But how? What on earth, they asked each other, had persuaded them to do such a thing?! The Mute witches had made no threats, had conjured up no demons. They had been immensely grateful, and the family had been delighted to provide them with what they had asked for. Everyone could remember the overwhelming feeling of joy as they waved goodbye to their guests from the dockside, but now that the euphoria had worn off they realised it was not at all what they had intended. These damned grass-monkeys were supposed to have been dismissed with a flea in their ear – instead of which they had sailed away with an emperor’s ransom!
At the second Plainfolk Council, Roz and Clearwater were content to let Cadillac steal the limelight. The freed Mutes were given a rapturous welcome from their clansmen; the animals, tools, weapons and other goods were shared out between the various bloodlines. Everyone undertook to make weapons, but some clans were allotted specific tasks – the breeding of horses, oxen, pigs and poultry which would then be traded as their numbers grew; others took on the job of making carts and simple sailboats for use on the lakes and rivers. In the years to come, transportation and communications would play a key role in bringing and holding the Plainfolk together.
Striking the balance wasn’t easy, but eventually a consensus was reached and no one was left feeling deprived. The plan was to build on the inter-clan trading that had proved so successful the previous year, but Cadillac proposed that from now on, bartering should be a year-round process. Delegations from each clan would still meet at the annual Plainfolk Council, but the venue should be changed from year to year. So far, these gatherings had managed to avoid the attention of ‘arrowheads’ from the Federation, but they could not expect to remain immune to attack from the air.
Cadillac also won the delegates’ support for two other parts of his master plan: first, the setting up of a skills cadre, formed by the newly-returned Mutes. Aided by wordsmiths from the three bloodlines, they would draw together everything they had learned about animal husbandry, crop cultivation and the other occupations which had filled their working day. The wordsmiths would help to organise this information into a coherent body of knowledge, and the ex-slaves – who had already broken through the mental barriers that separated one clan from another – would become the first generation of itinerant teachers who would train others to pass on what they had learned, and so the process would be repeated until all the Plainfolk were versed in the ‘New Ways’.
The second proposal involved the election of equal numbers of male and female delegates to a permanent council which would travel around the territory held by the Plainfolk, visiting the various clans to bring them up to date with what was happening elsewhere, check on how they were progressing and settle any disputes that had arisen with their neighbours.
Cadillac knew that the changes he was trying to introduce were not going to bring peace and harmony overnight, but when the Second Council broke up and the delegations departed, he had every reason to feel satisfied with what had been accomplished. Best of all, he had established his authority and, despite his youth, had gained the respect previously accorded to his much-loved teacher, Mr Snow.
Through the late spring and summer, as Roz’s child grew within her, and Sand-Wolf learned first to crawl, then attempted to take his first faltering steps, Clearwater was never far from her side. Both had now settled down to life with the Clan M’Kenzi, and had become firm friends of Magnum-Force, the clan’s female wordsmith.
Cadillac, now heavily into his role as the first of The Chosen, was totally immersed in his twin tasks as head teacher and member of the roving Plainfolk Council. Both took him away for weeks at a time, but he had promised faithfully that he would be at Roz’s side during the last month of her pregnancy from mid-August to mid-September when the baby was due.
All the Plainfolk knew of the eruption – the word that the great mountain in the West had spoken with a tongue of flame had been passed around during the gathering at Sioux Falls. Everyone’s expectations had been raised, but Cadillac still had no idea that the Sky Voices had told Roz she was carrying Talisman.
An inner voice also told her she should pass on the parts of her medical knowledge that could be usefully applied in a world where there were no thermometers, stethoscopes or diagnostic instruments of any kind, no antibiotics, sterile bandages, swabs, IV-drips, scalpels, suture needles, thread, clamps – in a word, nothing.
Apart from Dream Cap – a narcotic used as a painkiller – all the Mutes had were herbal remedies to cure sickness, stop infection and heal wounds. They knew how to set simple bone fractures and amputate limbs, and there was the occasional shaman, like Mr Snow, who had ‘healing hands’, but basically, only the healthy survived. The process of natural selection.
As a doctor, Roz’s primary concern was the coming birth of her child. Her studies had covered the various stages of pregnancy and childbirth and it was this, above all, that she wanted to pass on to Clearwater. All clans had female elders who acted as midwives, but their knowledge was based on practical experience and observation. It was totally unscientific and they had very little idea of what happened inside the womb. The fact that infant mortality was relatively low and complications few was entirely due to the basic toughness and physical fitness of female Mutes.
Roz had Mute blood in her veins, but she had been brought up in a softer environment, inoculated against infection and knew far too much for her own peace of mind about the changes taking place inside her body and the dozen and one things that could go wrong.
There was also one extra factor the video-texts hadn’t covered – the telepathic link with Steve and its bizarre side-effect which caused her body to reproduce wounds inflicted on him. Roz wasn’t plagued with every cut, bruise or knock Steve suffered; the wounding or injury had to be accompanied by a severe emotional shock. It was mental trauma that was the trigger, and the basis for Roz’s unexpressed fears that Steve might unknowingly endanger the life of her unborn child.
Clearwater understood this without being told, for Steve was also uppermost in her mind. Her love for him had not diminished. She continued to hope that he would find his way back to them, and the knowledge that her soul-sister shared her feelings drew them even closer together. Now, when Roz’s mind reached out towards Steve, Clearwater’s thoughts travelled with her and in that moment they became one.…
Steve had got the message, but so far he had been denied the means and the opportunity to escape. From New Year’s Day through spring and summer, he had been working below ground, war-gaming in the Simulation Room, and learning Japanese in the language lab.
With Fran’s help, he was becoming increasingly fluent, and had even managed to impress Major Fujiwara. The Major had been assigned to the Eastern Desk, but had hinted that he might soon be leading his team back into Ne-Issan to try and re-establish a network using known agents which would be run directly from the Federation.
Steve knew there was little hope of being given another field assignment in the near future. With Karlstrom’s tacit approval, he had been trawling through AMEXICO’s private data bank and passing on enticing morsels to John Chisum. With Fran, he was now a regular visitor to Bull Jefferson’s train, and had even been awarded the privilege of stoking the fire-box and in July – as a special treat for his birthday which had come and gone – he was allowed to drive it over a fifty mile stretch of track and toot the whistle.
And these men were going to rule the world. It was insane.…
Near the middle of August, Karlstrom met the other AMEXICO operative who was working inside Bull Jefferson’s camp. ‘Is everything in place?’
‘Yes. What about Brickman?’
‘Brickman?’
‘Aren’t you planning to tip him off?’
‘No. He’s served his purpose – and he knows too much.’
The operative smiled. ‘Don’t we all?’
‘There’s a difference. Brickman is concealing information. You’re not.’ It was Karlstrom’s turn to smile. ‘At least, nothing of any importance.’ Which was not the case with Brickman. Karlstrom now knew about Steve’s chance meeting with Annie and Bart Bradlee and his conversation in the stalled elevator with Sutton. Karlstrom had called Crazy Uncle Bart and asked him to apply some pressure. Fearing she might lose custody of Lucas, Annie had immediately revealed her indiscretion.
Given her relationship with Brickman it was a forgiveable lapse. But the young man had said nothing, and to Karlstrom that spelled bad news. Given Brickman’s track record, he could not risk him gaining access to his son. Now or later.
Steve had said nothing because Roz had come through to explain the painful sacrifice he and Clearwater had to make. He had already abandoned any idea of rescuing his son – but Karlstrom didn’t know that. Which was a pity, because if he had, and had then proceeded to ask himself why, the Federation might have avoided the trouble that was coming their way.
But that was not how it was meant to be.…
At the end of the second week in August, Steve and Fran boarded Bull Jefferson’s train to inaugurate a newly completed 200-mile stretch of line from Grand Central to Eisenhower/San Antonio. As this was a special celebration, everyone was dressed up ‘Southern style’; Steve in the rebel grey, and Fran in a full-skirted walking-out dress made up in her favourite colour – buttercup yellow.
They steamed out of the yard to the sound of music, piped from the concealed speakers inside the wagons. Everyone joined in with the recorded voices, echoing the words and bouncing to the rhythm of a song about a railroad called ‘The Aitchison, Topeka and Santa Fe’.
The railway took them outside the protected borders of Cloudlands, but the First Family had ensured their privacy by erecting a chain link fence backed up by robot watchtowers at a distance of one mile on either side of the railway line. It was along this wide corridor, adorned with landscaped clumps of trees and small grass-fringed lakes, that Bull Jefferson’s three-car train now travelled at a steady fifty miles an hour.
The morning sun, already high in the sky, had begun to bake the landscape. Much of the dusty terrain beyond the fence, where gangs of sweating Mutes worked under Tracker overseers to extract mineral ores from the ground, was blanked out by a heat haze.
Steve still found it incredible that these two contrasting lifestyles could exist alongside each other. He knew that the First Family were feared and revered by ordinary Trackers. Though less impressed than most, he had shared those emotions, and accepted that because of their exemplary role as leaders and visionaries, they had to hold themselves aloof from the lower ranks.
That faith had been misplaced; the vision which had inspired uncounted generations of Trackers was a flawed illusion. The First Family might live longer, but in all other respects they were no different to, or better than, anyone else. In fact they were worse, because they knew the truth and had buried it beneath a monstrous edifice of lies. They demanded continuing sacrifice and preached unity, while they enjoyed undreamt of luxury and plotted to unseat each other.
Steve had tasted that luxury and been tempted by it, but the enormity and extent of the deception had proved too much even for him to swallow. And the realisation that the Family owed much of their pre-eminence to the Mute blood in their veins had left him with nothing to hang on to. There was no hidden Store of Truth waiting to be discovered. The only thing he could be sure of was himself.
He heard two sharp clicks and found Fran snapping her fingers in front of his face. She was sitting on the opposite side of a small table set against one of the train windows. Behind her, at the big table, Bull Jefferson and his cronies were playing a game of stud poker. The other guests had formed conversational groups or were looking out of the windows.
‘You playing this game or what?’
‘Wha–? Ohh, yes!’ He looked down at the chessboard and saw the threatening position taken up by Fran’s black queen. ‘Whose turn is it?’
‘Yours.’
‘Ohh, yehh … shit.’ His hand hovered indecisively over his beleagured pieces.
‘You’re absolutely hopeless, I don’t know why I bother. What were you dreaming about?’
Steve moved his one remaining knight. ‘Me …? Oh, I was just wondering what the people on the other side of those fences think when they see us and this train going past.’
‘It’s not their job to think,’ replied Fran. ‘And there’s not much they can see anyway. They’re too far away. Those robot watch-towers have proximity sensors which trigger loudspeaker warnings to keep away from the fence.’
‘And we have the same system around Cloudlands?’
Fran smiled. ‘Why? Are you thinking of running away?’
Steve swept a hand around the carriage. ‘From all this? I’m not that crazy. No, I’m just amazed that in all the years I spent down below, no one ever breathed a word about Cloudlands. I can’t figure out how it’s remained a secret for so long. Okay, no one can get through the fence or past the watch towers, but with all the air activity that’s going on, how come nobody’s spotted all those big white mansions?’
‘I’m surprised you have to ask,’ said Fran. ‘But then we did have a heavy night. It’s a prohibited zone. No one’s allowed to fly over it or near it. That’s why we have our own air force.’
‘Of course. The silver Skyhawks.’
‘The wagon-trains roll out from Nixon/Forth Worth, so their ‘hawks only operate north and west of the state line – unless of course they’re on supply runs to way stations. Any planes put up by the divisional bases are normally on routine patrols or supporting a ground action against marauding bands of hostiles. I hardly need to tell you that pilots are not allowed to take off from any of our bases without filing an approved flight plan but’ – she smiled – ‘even if someone was consumed with curiosity, nobody but us gets to fly within a hundred miles of Grand Central. Satisfied?’
‘Yes.’ The First Family airbase was definitely the answer to his problems. ‘Sounds as if you’ve got it all covered.’
‘We’ve got everything covered, Brickman.’ She picked up the black queen and took the white knight with it. ‘Checkmate.’
‘Again,’ sighed Steve. He pulled out the side drawer and swept his pieces into one of the boxed sections.
Fran did the same with the black. ‘I’m surprised you’re not better at this. I mean … when you consider I managed to teach you Japanese.’
‘Yes, I know. Maybe we ought to take a chess set to bed with us.’
‘That sounds like a good move.’
Steve looked up to find Eleanor Jefferson, Fran’s mother standing at his shoulder. John Chisum was just behind her.
Eleanor’s smile broadened. ‘But first, we’d like you both to join us for a picnic’
Steve jumped to his feet. ‘With pleasure, ma’am!’
The train stopped about fifteen miles from ‘San Antone’ as it was called. Everyone climbed down off the train and trooped across to the edge of a tree-shaded lake, where they sat down on rugs and reclining chairs in the dappled sunshine, or strolled around the lakeside while the Mute servants brought out hampers of food and drink and laid everything out on folding tables covered with sparkling white linen cloths.
Sighting a narrow landing stage with a railing on one side, Steve walked over and found it was attached to a small boat house containing two slab-sided dinghies. Fran accepted his invitation to row on the lake, and sat on the rear seat under her yellow parasol, trailing one hand in the water. The air was cooler over the lake, but Steve decided to strip off his jacket and roll up the sleeves of his white shirt.
Pulling on the oars reminded him of the journey across Lake Michigan with Cadillac. Compared to the idyllic scene that surrounded him now, that had been a nightmare. Fran, seen in repose, conveyed the impression of someone soft and alluring – demure, even. Animated chatter and laughter drifted across from the people dispersed along the shoreline. Sunlight sparkled on the crystal glasses and polished cutlery being laid on the buffet tables by the Mute servants – quiet as shadows.
What were they – rejects from the Life Institute? How did they feel about what they saw around them? He’d meant to ask Joshua the Head of Service back at Savannah, but had never gotten around to it. Compared to the Mutes in the chain gangs, they had it easy – and if they’d been born into it, they probably didn’t even question their status.
Steve heard the rapid tinkle of a small silver bell. That sounds like lunch.’
‘Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty for everybody. Take me across to the far side of the lake.’
It didn’t take long. The lake was only about two hundred yards wide. Steve shipped the oars and let the boat glide towards another small landing stage.
‘Now get out.’
‘What?’
‘Get out! I’m going to race you back to the picnic!’ Fran closed her parasol and tossed it into the bow of the boat and took her seat at the oars. ‘Wait till I turn around!’ she commanded.
Steve checked the perimeter of the lake. ‘Do I get to choose the way I go?’
‘No! You have to go the long way!’ Fran paddled the boat towards him until the stern touched the bank then got a firm grip on the oars and positioned them just above the water for the first pulling stroke. ‘GO!!’
Steve started running. It was a lot further than it first appeared – and Fran was rowing strongly despite being hampered by her wasp-waisted corset. He piled on the speed. Bull Jefferson, his wife Eleanor and their family guests, seeing the contest, divided their support between the two, some shouting encouragement to Fran, others urging Steve to make a greater effort.
By now, Fran was halfway across the lake and Steve was flying like the wind. The running brought him back in tune with the overground. With who he really was. It felt good! Fran’s strike rate had dropped, but she wasn’t the type to give up. The cheers from the shore spurred her on.
Coming round the second bend, Steve switched from thinking he couldn’t make it to thinking that perhaps he could, briefly considered throwing the race to humour Fran, then decided against it. No! Screw ’em! He kicked into a higher gear, making a controlled finish, reaching her arrival point while she was still three yards out. Everyone cheered themselves hoarse.
Bull slapped him on the back. ‘Well done, boy! For a minute there, I thought you were going to throw the race. But, heh-heh – that’s not your style. An’ that’s good. I like it. I got enough brown-nosers around me already!’
Steve retrieved his jacket and the yellow parasol then helped Fran ashore. She pinched his hand and gave it a savage twist. Steve responded with an even harder squeeze.
She didn’t flinch. ‘You bastard!’
‘You can’t win ‘em all.’ Steve returned her defiant stare, then they both let go by common consent.
‘Bring me something to eat.’
Steve bowed politely and handed back the yellow parasol. ‘My pleasure, ma’am!’
Just after two in the afternoon, when everybody had finished lunch, Steve saw John Chisum heading back up towards the train with some of the other men. He ran to catch up with them. ‘Where are you going?’
‘We’re going to take the train down to the end of the line and turn it around – then pick up everybody for the return trip. D’you want to come?’
‘Of course he does.’ Bull Jefferson came up from behind and moved between them. He gave Steve another pat on the back as they walked on. ‘Been meaning to thank you for that last batch of tape you brought us. You’re doin’ a great job.’
‘I’m only sorry it’s taking so long. I never imagined the data files would be encrypted.’ He looked across at Chisum. ‘How’re you doing on that?’
‘We’re managing,’ said Chisum.
Bull slapped Chisum’s back and said to Steve: ‘Cleverest man I’ve met. Don’t know what we’d do without him.’
Ten miles down the line from the lake the single line track ran out into a small shunting yard with several sidings, a turntable, water tower, coal hopper and a shed containing a squat shunting loco powered by massive batteries and plugged into the mains supply. And all this had been installed so that the First Family could play with trains.
This was where Steve discovered that riding the rails was only part of the fun for Bull and his friends. He was given a pair of overalls, and a union hat to change into, then put to work with an uncoupling hook as the carriages were shunted back and forth, swung on the turntable, then reassembled in the right order behind the big 4-6-2 loco which now stood with its nose pointed towards Grand Central. While Steve and his workmates had been ducking in and out under the buffers and tapping the wheels, Bull’s half of the team had topped up the engine with coal and water, oiled every bearing in sight, hosed off the dust and polished the brass work.
The shunter was rolled back into its shed, then everyone went into the shower and changing room built against the outside wall, tossed their overalls into a hamper that was carried off by two of the Mute train staff, then soaped off the grime under the line of shower heads while they sang several rousing choruses of ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain’!
Chisum, who was standing alongside Steve, caught his eye and winked. ‘This is the life, eh?’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Steve. He twisted the tap around to cold and jerked as the ice-cold needles hit his chest. ‘When are you and I going to have that long talk you promised me?’
‘Soon. Things are a bit difficult right now.’
They donned their uniforms and rejoined the train, along with the footplate crew who had handed over their oily rag and shovel to Zachary Taylor Jefferson, head of the wagon-train design bureau, and another relative of Bull’s for the return trip.
Steve stood on the rear observation platform on the way back to the lake. Looking up the line, he caught sight of the picnickers moving in small groups towards the track and heard the driver whoop the whistle in greeting. As the distance between them narrowed, the passengers formed an expectant line along the track. Steve glimpsed the bright yellow splash of Fran’s dress near the head of the line. He climbed down onto the bottom step of the platform as the train slowed then jumped off as it ground to a halt.
Fran took the offered arm. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘Yes, but not as much as your father. He was in his element back there.’ He helped her climb up onto the observation platform. ‘Am I forgiven?’
She folded her parasol and gave him a backward glance as she entered the carriage. ‘For the moment.’
Steve paused in the doorway. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to stay out here?’
‘And get soot all over my dress?’ Fran walked along the corridor past the galley towards the centre carriage. Steve followed as the Mute train staff loaded the picnic hampers and the folding tables and chairs in through a side door. In the centre carriage, everyone was settling down for the return journey. Some were yawning from their exertions in the fresh air. Steve saw the member of the Family who was acting as the guard on this trip walk past outside towards the rear of the train, flag in hand. The whistle sounded. The loco hooted. There was a series of squeaks and clanks as the couplings took up the strain, then the train moved off.
‘I’m going to lie down for a while,’ announced Fran. ‘By myself. Okay?’
‘Sure, go ahead. Want me to unhook your dress?’
‘As long as you don’t get any ideas.’
‘I don’t think this is quite the place for it, d’you?’
‘You’d be surprised.’ Fran threaded her way around the armchairs and past the big table where Bull had started another card-game.
The lead carriage was fitted out with toilets, six sleeping compartments, a small private study cum bedroom reserved for Bull, and closest to the loco, the room housing the computer workstation, the radio equipment that kept Bull in touch with Cloudlands and the railway control system, and the battery of small video-screens linked to the tv cameras that displayed views of the roof, sides and underside of the train and the track beneath.
Steve helped Fran out of her dress and caught the sullen look in her eye. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still upset about –’
‘The race? Of course not. While you were down the line, I had to listen to my mother telling me what a wonderful person you were, and how they both couldn’t wait for me to marry you.’
Steve concealed his own feelings. ‘Would that be so terrible?’
‘It would if I had a baby.’
‘Which is what they want ’
‘Don’t try to pretend you didn’t know.’
‘I didn’t. And you’ve got to believe that. None of that means anything to me.’
‘Not even the child you had with Clearwater?’
Steve shrugged. ‘That was an accident.’
Fran gave him a searching look. ‘Yes, well, all this mother, wife and baby talk has given me a headache.’ She hung up the yellow dress then flopped down onto the bunk bed and vented her exasperation by pummelling the mattress.
Steve opened the door, placed the ‘Do not disturb’ sign into the eye-level slot, then looked back and smiled. ‘See you later.’
Emerging into the corridor, he walked past the other sleeping compartments, knocked on the door of Bull’s stateroom then, receiving no reply, entered and went on through to the communications room. One of the two ensigns detailed to watch the screens turned in his swivel chair. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Steve looked around the room. There was another door on the far side, marked ‘Toilet’. ‘Is Captain Chisum through there?’
‘No, sir. I haven’t seen him in a while.’
Steve closed the door behind him, exited from the stateroom and checked the other five sleeping compartments. One of the doors was shut, the other four were empty. He knocked on the locked door. ‘John…?’ No reply. He knocked again, but there was no response. Pausing in the doorway to the crowded centre carriage, he surveyed the interior then walked through into the last carriage.
In the crowded galley, some of the Mute staff were catching a late lunch while others washed up the dishes from the picnic. He went past the guard’s cabin, towards the door that led to the rear observation platform. It had a glass panel in the top half with a view of the track running away into the distance behind them. He opened it, fully expecting to find John Chisum admiring the view.
The platform was empty. Where the hell had he got to…?
There was only one answer – Chisum had to be in the second occupied sleeping compartment. And if he hadn’t answered, it was because he’d got lucky and didn’t wish to be interrupted. So why hadn’t he put out the ‘Do not disturb’ sign?
Steve felt his stomach tighten. He had started out with the idea of pinning down Chisum for that promised talk while Fran was asleep and out of the way. The observation platform would have been ideal. But now a more alarming idea was creeping into his brain. He went back inside, checked the guard’s compartment, baggage room, store and galley on his way through.
As he came back into the centre carriage he suddenly felt giddy. He steadied himself in the doorway. Ahead of him was a sea of blurred, animated faces. Their laughter soundec tinny and their voices echoed sharply – as if the sound was coming down a long tunnel. And then other voices filled his head, a growing whisper that swelled to a warr ing crescendo like the wind building to a storm-force gust. Steve suddenly realised what he had to do, and knew he had only seconds in which to do it.
He stepped across to the nearest free-standing armchair, grabbed hold of its female occupant, threw her aside, picked up the chair, hurled it through the nearest window then, to a chorus of startled cries, launched himself head-first through the gaping hole in the shattered glass.
The window was only some eight feet above the track bed but it seemed an eternity before he hit the ground. He stretched out his hands in an instinctive effort to break his fall. As he curved downwards he saw the observation platform flash past him, and as it did so, all three carriages exploded sideways and upwards, throwing the rear of the tender and loco up in the air and –
Steve’s own world blew apart.…