Cadillac stirred as the effect of the sleeping-pills began to wear off. Griff, the breaker who had been guarding the smooth-boned Mute, stood up as Malone approached. ‘Another five or ten minutes and he should be on his feet.’
‘Good. Get saddled up. I want to make the most of this moonlight.’
‘If it’s okay with you, I’d prefer to walk and just use it to carry my gear.’
‘I don’t give a lump’s ass for what you prefer,’ snarled Malone. ‘You’ll get on that fuckin’ horse and learn to ride like the rest of us!’
‘Wilco!’ Griff stepped back out of range of Malone’s fists and feet then ran towards the line of tethered horses they’d inherited from a strange trio of travelling Mutes. These three, who had come out of the east, didn’t act like your normal run-of-the-mill lump-head. In fact, to judge by the amount of time Malone had spent talking to them before the air strike, they were something extra-special.
Griff’s curiosity about the matter ended there. Malone was one tough hombre, and if, for some reason, he’d decided to cosy up to a bunch of Mutes then that was strictly his business. The guy knew what he was doing and anyone who poked his nose where it wasn’t wanted got a short, sharp lesson he never forgot. Any breaker foolish enough to forget the first lesson, didn’t survive the second.
Like most breakers, Griff didn’t like Mutes but he’d learned to live alongside them. And provided you didn’t kill ’em. they left you pretty much alone. The clans preferred you to stay off their turf but if you went on through their boundary markers and were challenged by a posse of warriors you could usually buy ’em off by giving them a few bits of junk to hang on themselves. And if you handed over any crossbow bolts you’d found – because they did sometimes miss when out hunting – then you really made their day.
The bolts, like the crossbows that fired them, were highly-prized items made by a bunch of ginks over in the east. Mutes even traded their own people to get hold of them, so a handful of free bolts was a big bonus. They’d start laughing and leaping around, shouting and crowing. But in amongst all the jibber-jabbering, they used real words, strung together – and which made sense.
That had been his biggest surprise on encountering Mutes during his first tour of duty as a service engineer in a Kansas work camp. And ever since becoming a breaker – the moment when he’d been obliged to treat Mutes as equals and not as sullen slaves – Griff had been constantly amazed to discover how normal they were. Okay, they had lumpy skulls and multi-coloured hides, but they were like Trackers in so many ways. Griff could never figure out how they could act the way they did and yet not be human beings. It was a real mystery.
This trio who’d come riding out of the east at the head of a whole bunch of horses was a good example. They spoke regular Basic and their brains were as sharp as a knife. And if you stripped away the dark to light brown patches on their skins with your mind’s eye and stood ’em alongside three good ole boys you’d be hard put to tell the difference. And when Griff thought about the time he’d spent watching the training videos about bug-ugly Mutes – poisonous savage vicious animals that had to be ruthlessly exterminated – he couldn’t help wondering why the First Family hadn’t told Trackers the whole story: like the fact that a bunch of breakers could live alongside Mutes and not end up with their heads on a stick.
Yeah … it was a puzzle right enough – like trying to figure out why anyone would want to sit on top of one of these four-legged freaks they’d been landed with. Especially when they had teeth that could bite right through your hand and back legs that kicked like a fuggin’ jack-hammer. Okay, this bunch had come complete with a seat on their backs and leather straps for steering ’em round corners but it was a helluva way to travel.
Griff could see that horses would be useful for carrying gear but even that had its drawbacks. Leading a string of pack-horses just made you a bigger target and there was always the risk that the beasts might decide to bolt with your precious possessions. Better to travel light than start relying on a transportation system that a passing Skyhawk could blow away in nought seconds flat.
On the other hand, if he put his own feelings to one side, Griff could see what Malone and his new Mute friends had been getting at. If you managed to stay in the saddle and figure out how to get the thing in gear, you could cover a lot of ground pretty fast. Fast enough to outrun a Mute. Some of the guys had already cracked the problem and when he watched them show off in front of the others, Griff could see it gave the riders a real buzz.
There was no two ways about it. It was impressive – but it wasn’t natural. Or practical. You just had to take the problem of maintenance. Horses weren’t like wheelies. If one of those broke down you just ran the on-board diagnostic programme and ordered whatever new part was required. With horses, you were totally screwed. To begin with, nobody knew what went on inside and you couldn’t bolt on new legs like you could wheels. If one of those broke that was it. You couldn’t even cannibalize the unit to create a stock of spare parts. You had to ditch the whole bundle.
Griff picked up the wood and leather saddle, admired once again the handiwork of the unknown craftsman then positioned it on the back of his horse. ‘Steady, friend,’ he muttered. ‘I know you hate this as much as I do but the boss-man wants us both back on the trail …’
He drew the girth tight around the horse’s belly then pulled another notch through the buckle. He’d already done one slow roll off his mount to the raucous cheers of his companions and he didn’t intend to make that particular mistake again.
Malone experienced similar misgivings as he gazed down at Cadillac. The Mute was one problem he could have done without. Although he parlayed with Mutes and observed the ground rules of peaceful co-existence, he did not share Griff’s qualified forbearance. Malone didn’t like Mutes. Period. But then Malone wasn’t a renegade, a breaker on the run from the Federation. Some of the men he led were genuine deserters – brave enough to seek an independent existence on the overground but also a treacherous heap of garbage. Malone didn’t mind. That was what he been sent out to run: a garbage disposal unit. Malone and the core of his renegade band were mexicans, agents of the undercover organization controlled by Commander-General Karlstrom.
Trapped between the worlds of Tracker and Mute, renegades were basically scavengers; wanderers who roamed the overground with no particular destination and no home to return to. Death was the only welcome they could expect from the Federation. Fortunately there were large areas which had not yet attracted the attentions of the Trail-Blazers and where Mutes were thin on the ground. Like the Rocky Mountains for instance. But there was a good reason why the lumpheads gave the Rockies a wide berth. For six months of the year it was so cold, and the snow was so deep, no one could survive there. Unless of course you were well-organized and properly equipped. Karlstrom had made sure his groups had the expertise and equipment they needed but each item was carefully selected and given a worn, weathered look so as not to strike a false note.
Like any species fighting for survival, renegades were subject to the process of natural selection. The strong prospered, the weak perished. A large group offered safety, continuity and companionship. Malone’s organization also provided the other vital element – strong leadership. Within months of its formation, it had become a magnet, attracting smaller groups and individuals who, up to that moment, had opted for a hermit-like existence. And within the Federation, Malone’s name was deftly inserted into the information network run by known subversives.
To many in this twilight world, Malone had already assumed the status of a folk-hero. Someone who had beaten the system. It hadn’t taken long for his name and approximate whereabouts to surface in the way-stations and work-camps. His wasn’t the only name that was passed along in whispered conversations. There were several others obligingly provided by AMEXICO for the benefit of potential defectors – all of them fostering the notion of a growing rebel movement and a relatively safe haven.
Only very few who managed to join Malone realized they had fallen back into the hands of the Federation and they were quickly eliminated. It was a sweet operation – one of several similar overground ‘stings’ which enabled the First Family to keep its finger on the pulse of the protest movement. And it also ensured a steady supply of candidates for the televised show trials. If the wagon-trains failed to flush out a sufficient number of breakers, Malone and his counterparts made up the balance by sending unsuspecting candidates into a carefully-coordinated ambush.
Had the matter been left to him, the Mute at his feet would now be on his way to the Federation. This Cadillac Deville character was on the wanted list. He’d been nailed. He should have been shipped out pronto. End of the story. Neat, clean and simple to arrange. But that wasn’t how HANG-FIRE wanted to play it. HANG-FIRE was the operational code-name for Steve Brickman, a wet-back who had graduated from Rio Lobo the previous year after serving briefly as a wing-man aboard The Lady from Louisiana.
Malone knew these background details because he had been selected to give Brickman his final test. A potentially fatal ordeal designed to measure a candidate’s courage and endurance. Brickman had been ‘posted’ – tied in a kneeling position against a stake, face to face with the corpse of a Tracker he’d killed in the line of duty. He’d come through it, earning himself full marks in the process. There was no doubt about it. Brickman had the makings of a real operator and his latest trick had been to get in and out of Ne-Issan, bringing two important Mute targets with him: Clearwater, a female Mute and Cadillac, the lump now at Malone’s feet who was taking forever to shake off the double dose of Cloud Nines.
Clearwater had been seriously wounded in a surprise air attack by a stray Skyhawk. At Brickman’s request, Malone and his renegades had struck camp and ridden off, leaving them behind. If she hadn’t died in his arms, Clearwater was now on board Red River. Cadillac had been superficially wounded and knocked unconscious by the same hail of fire.
To Malone, it seemed like an ideal opportunity to ship them both out together. Two out of three wasn’t a bad result, but Brickman wanted a full house. By leaving Cadillac free, he hoped to entrap his third target – Mr Snow, the power behind the Clan M’Call. Which was the reason why he, Malone, had been lumbered with the task of escorting this lumphead as far as navref Cheyenne, Wyoming. A journey which placed his band of renegades in considerable danger.
This was the wrong time of year to be moving around. April was the month when the Mutes hunted ‘red-skins’ – breakers; the annual round-up of strays which were handed over to the Iron Masters in exchange for goods and shipped east. Malone hadn’t planned to leave the camp that Brickman and his friends had ridden into until mid-May. The site was in a commanding position, with good cover and running water: ideal for a long stay. It had been chosen because AMEXICO knew which way Brickman was heading and he was expected to pass close by. At which point Malone – quite by chance – was to pop up and renew their acquaintance. Everything had gone according to plan and then – thanks to some asshole in a Skyhawk and two scumbags who hadn’t seen it coming – everything had gone wrong, forcing him to head west when every sensible breaker was lying low.
The only solution was to travel at night. Mutes, for some reason rooted deep in their collective past, were only active between sunrise and sunset. After that, the hunting posses and turf patrols went home or bedded down for the night. It wasn’t the ideal time for travelling cross-country but after umpteen years in the field, Malone had become adept at reading the terrain and moving men across it under the most adverse conditions.
Even so, he was sorely tempted to call up a sky-hook to take Cadillac off his hands. But this was not his operation. The orders from Mother had been clear and unequivocal. He had been detailed to intercept Brickman at a given point during his journey, assess his reliability and – with Mother’s approval – to render assistance if and when required. Brickman had said and done all the right things but he’d set Malone’s internal alarm system ringing. There was something about him. Maybe it was just Malone’s instinctive antipathy towards clean-cut blue-eyed golden boys, but Brickman was too smart for his own good – and just too good to be true.
In the previous year, six of Malone’s people, including a class-mate of Brickman’s, had been sent north to provide him with the back-up he’d requested to help kidnap the same three Mutes. In the last radio contact made by a mex called Donna Lundkwist, she reported the squad had been sighted by a posse of M’Call Mutes – recognizable by the colour of the feathers in their headgear. The Mutes had put up a smoking arrow – a sign they wished to parley. End of message. No one had ever heard from those six mexicans again. Brickman had been running with that clan. Painted up, grassed-out and leathered. His degree of involvement in the back-up squad’s disappearance was a question that had plagued Malone ever since.
He glanced up at the clear moonlit sky and saw a bank of dark cloud building up on the northern horizon. Malone was astute and resourceful but patience was not one of his virtues – especially when it came to unwanted guests, and even more so when that guest was a Mute. Following the shooting of Clearwater, Cadillac had not regained consciousness. To avoid any hassles, he had been kept in a drugged stupor for the past two days. Helped by clear night skies, they had covered some seventy odd miles. One way or another, Clearwater was now beyond reach. It was high time for this lump to stand on his own feet instead of having to be carried around everywhere. When Mother had asked him to help Brickman, he hadn’t figured it would mean having to namby-pamby an uppity Mute. That was the bit that really pissed him off – not the move.
He dug his boot into Cadillac’s side. ‘C’mon! Wake up you sonofabitch! We haven’t got all night!’
Cadillac stirred drowsily. ‘Uh-humm, yeah … sure …’ His eyes fluttered open then closed again as his mouth opened in a huge yawn.
Malone unhitched his water bottle and emptied it over Cadillac’s face. Some of it went down his throat causing him to gag. He rolled about choking and coughing then eventually sat up clutching his head.
‘On your feet! C’mon! We’re moving out!’ Malone slid a hand under his left armpit and hauled him upright.
Cadillac steadied himself and rubbed his face. His body seemed gripped by a strange lethargy. ‘Mo-Town! I feel –’ His eyes widened as he focused on Malone, then he quickly took in his strange surroundings. ‘Where’s Clearwater? And Brickman?’ A jab of pain from his various flesh wounds caused him to frown. He looked down at his left side and saw two bloodstained rips in his walking skins on the outside curve of the thigh. There was also a deep graze in his belly. An expression of alarm crossed his face. ‘Who shot me?!’
‘You don’t remember? Must have been after you hit the ground.’ Malone told him about the Skyhawk that had appeared out of the blue, making a single strafing run across the campsite before turning for home.
Some premonition of what he was going to say next made Cadillac howl with grief. He wrapped his arms around his chest and rocked from side to side. ‘Oh, Sweet Sky-Mother! Clearwater! Is she dead?’
‘Not when we left. But she was hurt pretty bad.’
‘Oyy-yehh! This is all my fault! What about Brickman?’
‘He’s fine. Came out of it without a scratch.’
The news caused Cadillac to grind his teeth. ‘He would! Hah! How typical! So what did you do?’
Malone did his best to conceal his irritation at being questioned in this peremptory manner. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? ‘Do? The best we could. State she was in she couldn’t be moved. So we dressed the wounds with what we had then got the hell out. No point in staying there once the camp had been spotted. We’ve had ’hawks over our heads for the past couple of days.’
Cadillac’s mounting anger boiled over. ‘Are you telling me she was shot two days ago?!’
Malone checked his watch. ‘Exactly fifty-four hours and twelve minutes ago.’
‘Why didn’t someone tell me before now?!’
Malone resisted the impulse to smash Cadillac in the mouth. ‘Because there was nothing you could do, friend.’
‘Hahh!’ Cadillac became aware of the metallic aftertaste on his tongue. ‘Was it Brickman’s idea to pump me full of drugs?!’
‘Yeah. He said you’d be hysterical, and he was right. Pull yourself together for crissakes!’
‘I am together! He had no right to take matters into his own hands like this! We’ve got to go back for her!’
‘Are you crazy? The only thing that could’ve saved her was major surgery. Federation-type medicine – not the mumbo-jumbo you monkeys mess around with. She’ll be dead and buried by now –’
‘No! Don’t say that!’
Malone ignored the interruption. ‘My job is to help you get back to your own people. Isn’t that what Brickman promised to do?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘There are no “buts”. That’s what we’re gonna do, friend. It was two of my guys who let that plane take us by surprise. So quit blaming yourself for what happened. I can understand Brickman bein’ upset at losing a neat piece of ass but what the hell have you got to cry about?’
Cadillac brushed away the tears of rage and grief with shaking hands that longed to fasten themselves around Malone’s throat. ‘She didn’t belong to him!’
‘Could have fooled me. Is that what the fight was about?’
‘No. We were fighting because Brickman is a treacherous, lying toad!’
‘That seems a mite ungrateful. Didn’t he help you and Clearwater get out of Ne-Issan?’
‘He didn’t do that to help us! He got us out in order to hand us over to his masters in the Federation! He’s not a renegade! He’s been working with a network of undercover agents for over a year!’
‘I see …’ Malone ruminated on this for a moment. ‘Did he tell you anything about this network – like it’s name for instance? Or who was running it?’
Cadillac realized he had said too much and was already regretting his temporary loss of control. His antagonism towards Steve had not diminished but Malone was a virtual stranger. A cipher whose mind, for the moment at least, was inaccessible. ‘No. But we couldn’t have escaped without outside help – which he organized. If he turns up again, ask him about it. All I can say is, no one’s safe when he’s around.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Malone. ‘Meanwhile forget we’ve had this conversation. If Brickman does rejoin us, I may decide to let things ride for a while. If you’re right, and he is an undercover Fed then it may be to our advantage to let him think we trust him completely. Know what I mean?’
‘I think so …’
‘Good. Let’s hit the trail.’ Malone gave Cadillac a friendly slap on the back then ushered him over to the waiting horses. He would have preferred to have broken the back of this snivelling piece of lumpshit but – like Brickman – he had a job to do and a role to play. That of big-hearted Matt Malone, friend and protector of abandoned Mutes.
Some six hundred miles to the south of Malone’s present position close to the Platte River, Nebraska, The Lady from Louisiana wagon-train had emerged from the repair bays and was back in what was known as ‘the roads’, being readied for action in the vast underground depot at Nixon/Fort Worth.
In June 2989, The Lady had narrowly avoided a major disaster in its first encounter with a Plainfolk clan aided by a summoner. Caught in a flash-flood, The Lady had managed to extricate herself virtually undamaged but in doing so, she had lost nine out of the ten wing-men posted aboard and their aircraft, plus over eighty line-men. Close on double that number had been wounded.
In November 2990, when The Lady had been sent out into the snows on a special mission, it had been even worse. The explosive charges planted by Cadillac and Clearwater had totally destroyed the blood-wagon and flight car, and the tidal wave of fire that erupted from the stock of napalm canisters and liquid methane tanks stored beneath the hanger deck had rolled through three more cars, incinerating the crewmen in its path.
Abandoning the five gutted cars, The Lady reformed and set course, as directed, for Monroe/Wichita, the still-uncompleted divisional base in Kansas. Arriving at the interface, the wounded crewmen had been off-loaded and rushed to hospital. Commander Hartmann and his team of execs, including Trail Boss McDonnell had been placed under close arrest and shuttled to Grand Central to await trial. The surviving members of the crew who had escaped the same ‘dereliction of duty’ charge were placed under the temporary command of an executive team drawn from the training staff at Fort Worth. It was they who had brought The Lady – defeated and disgraced – southwards through Oklahoma into the relative safety of the Home State and back down the long incline into the depot.
The winter months – whose high point was the celebration of the New Year – were, by tradition, spent on ‘rest and refit’ (R & R). A period when Trail-Blazer crews enjoyed a welcome spell of leave after eight to nine months on the overground, and when the depot engineers began their task of overhauling the trains, readying them for their next assault on the blue-sky world.
The Lady was in need of more than a refit. The missing wagons had to be replaced, fire-damage to several others had to be made good, the crew had to be brought up to strength and their shattered morale restored. Bringing The Lady back to operational status was a major undertaking but it proved easier than raising the crew’s spirits. Despite the damage and the casualties The Lady had sustained, Hartmann and his executive team – with perhaps one exception – were held in high regard by the Trail-Blazers who served under them. The exec who failed to inspire the troops to the same degree was Captain Baxter, the Flight Operations Officer. He had died in the blast that ripped through the packed hangar deck of the flight car, killing Gus White and the other wing-men, the mechanics, deck handlers and a score of Trail-Blazers.
The Lady’s Trail Boss, Buck McDonnell, whose alertness and quick reactions had saved the forward command car and its crew had been released after two months detention. In a brief appearance before a Board of Assessors, he was informed that all charges had been dropped and was ordered to report for active duty at Nixon/Fort Worth. Exiting from the court room, he was met by a Staff-Commander from CINC-TRAIN who welcomed him back into the ranks of the Trail-Blazer Division. His first task would be to knock the new crew of The Lady into shape and he was to begin immediately. Due to operational requirements, there would, explained the Commander, be no chance of the four weeks base leave to which he was entitled.
In his usual blunt but respectful fashion, the big Trail Boss told him it didn’t matter. After eight weeks on the shit and bucket detail he was just happy to be soldiering again.
The decision to release McDonnell had paid off. From Day One there had been a noticeable rise in the spirits of the veteran crewmen and the transferees and wet-feet – the uninitiated replacements – soon discovered that Big D’s reputation as a fire-breathing disciplinarian was, if anything, an understatement. A second stand-in team of execs from the depot’s permanent staff helped the crew go through their on-board drills but as the weeks passed, even McDonnell became concerned about the deafening silence surrounding the appointment of a new wagon-master.
Finally, one day in early April, when the crew had assembled for the usual morning parade alongside the wagon-train, McDonnell strode along the ranks behind the duty officer with a noticeable gleam in his eye. When the DO completed his formal inspection of the battalion and passed control over to McDonnell, it was clear to old hands like Bad News Logan that something was up.
Somethin’ good for a change. Ol’ Big D was practically burstin’ …
McDonnell braced himself. ‘Wagon-train-n-n-n EASY!’ he boomed.
The battalion stood at ease with a thunderous stamp of boots, the palms of their hands crossed in the small of their backs.
‘Okay, hear this!’ he said, in the same foghorn voice. ‘I have been reliably informed that The Lady has a new commander and he will shortly be arriving with his team of execs!’
The announcement provoked a subdued murmur.
‘And as soon as they’re settled in – and we’ve shown them the ropes –’
A ripple of laughter.
‘– they’ll be taking The Lady out for a shakedown supply run to Abilene, San Angelo and Brady!’
This news raised an audible groan. Abilene, San Angelo and Brady were way-stations to the south-west of Fort Worth in the Home State of Texas. Territory under the total control of the Federation where there was no chance of a fire-fight.
‘And then we’re goin’ north – to hunt Mute!’
The battalion responded with an exultant shout, punching the air with their fists. ‘HO!’
McDonnell caught sight of an approaching wheelie. It was a four-car enclosed model: the type used by hire-wires. He called The Lady’s crew to attention. ‘Wagon-train-n-n-n READY!’
Close on a thousand pairs of boots came together with a synchronised thud. The Trail Boss made a smart about-turn, his brass-topped drill stick braced stiffly under his left arm, and parallel to the ground.
The wheelie whined to a halt in front of him. The doors on both sides opened and disgorged the team of executive officers who were to take charge of The Lady from Louisiana. There was an audible gasp from the veteran crewmen as they glimpsed the bushy white moustache of the officer with the yellow commander’s rank bars on his lower sleeve.
It was Hartmann, their old commander. Buffalo Bill – back in uniform and back in charge, and eight of the twelve smiling faces around him belonged to the executive officers who had served with him up to the moment the Provos had come aboard to arrest them all.
Buck McDonnell’s right hand snapped into line with the brim of his stetson, fingers and thumb aligned in a perfect drill manual salute. ‘Eight Battalion, Trail Blazer Division, mustered aboard The Lady from Louisiana, ready for your inspection, SAH!’
‘Thank you, Mr McDonnell.’ Hartmann returned the salute, as did the twelve execs lined up in two staggered rows behind him. The formal greetings over, Hartmann exchanged a warm handshake with his Trail Boss.
‘It feels good, Buck. When did you hear we were on our way?’
‘Last night, sir. Had quite a job keeping it from the boys.’
‘Well, they look happy enough,’ observed Hartmann, ‘I thought they might be a bit leery about serving under a two-time loser.’
‘Sir! Are you kidding?!’ McDonnell turned towards the men lined up in three ranks in front of The Lady. ‘Okay, you clapped-out, time-serving bunch of slack-assed mothers! Let’s hear it for the commander!’
The six hundred veterans that formed the core of The Lady’s crew cut loose with the time-honoured chant: ‘Buffalo Bill! Buffalo Bill! Just say the word and we’ll kill, kill, kill! Give us a rifle, helmet and pack, and we’ll follow you to hell and back!’
‘Are we ready and able?! Are we fit to show?!’ demanded McD.
Everyone, including the execs behind Hartmann, joined in the traditional response: ‘You bet your ass! Let’s GO – GO – GO!’
Hartmann, noticeably moved by the warmth of his reception, signalled McDonnell to stand the men down.
‘Wagon-train-n-n-n EASY!’
The nine hundred men and women making up the crew of The Lady were mustered in individual groups in front of the cars to which they were assigned: medical staff in front of the blood wagon, ‘fire-men’ in front of the power cars, and so on. As Hartmann led his team of execs along the ranks, each squad or section leader called his individual group to attention. The wagon-master paused to exchange a few words when he encountered a familiar face and the veteran execs did the same. Those drafted in as replacements would each get the customary one-on-one interview with Hartmann, and the executive officer in charge of their particular specialization, once they were on board.
When the inspection and greetings were over, Hartmann sought out his deputy, Lt.Commander Jim Cooper. ‘Mount up, will you Coop? I have to place a call to a friend of mine …’
The first two video-phone booths had plasfilm notice strips stuck diagonally across their screens bearing the words ‘LINE FAULT – VID-COMMSERV NOTIFIED’. It meant a service engineer was on his way. Sometime between now and the millenium …
The third booth he found was working. Hartmann inserted his newly-returned ID-card, keyed his way through the on-screen call menus, entered the state-code for Colorado (09) followed by the three-digit code for the Pueblo way-station (012) and the x-listed number he had memorized.
The Amtrak logo on the screen was replaced by the head and shoulders of Major Jerri Hiller, one of Mary-Ann’s junior battalion comanders. Hartmann noticed her hair was considerably longer than when he had last seen her. He also couldn’t decide whether she was surprised to see him or annoyed – or both.
‘Is Colonel Anderssen available?’
‘One moment, Commander …’ Hiller moved out of view of the tv camera mounted immediately above the screen carrying his image.
There were muted voices off then Colonel Marie Anderssen moved quickly into the empty seat. ‘Bill!’ She too was surprised, but the pleasure at his call was evident in the broad smile that came beaming across the ether. ‘Christo! You’re wearing active duty OD’s!’
OD was the abbreviation for the olive-drab, military-style fatigues he was wearing.
‘Yeah. They let me out of detention yesterday morning. Plus Coop and the rest of the guys. All charges have been dropped. We’ve been re-instated – and we’ll be rolling The Lady up the ramp at 0700 hours tomorrow.’
Mary-Ann interlaced her fingers and squeezed her hands together. ‘Oh, Bill, that’s wonderful! It’s the best news I’ve had all year!’
‘I tried to get permission to see you …’
‘Yeah, I know. Your message got through to me. Thanks. It helped a lot.’
‘Is there any chance of you heading this way?’
‘Can’t say. We’re warming up with a home state supply run. After that I’m not sure what they’ve got lined up for us. The hire-wire from CINC-TRAIN in charge of the welcome-back party hinted we might be given another special assignment.’
Mary-Ann looked concerned. ‘Oh, gosh, I hope it’s not –!’
Hartmann cut in. ‘Honey – we just have to take what comes.’ He smiled. ‘You’re looking great. This picture quality’s very good.’
‘It is now it’s tuned in properly. VID-COMM had no end of problems trying to set up the link with Santa Fe.’
‘How long have you been on-line?’
‘Not long.’ Mary-Ann smiled back at him. ‘You’re the first personal call I’ve had. Up to now they’ve either been test transmissions from VID-COMM or from HQP-DIV. How did you get my number?’
‘Through a friend. Amazing as it seems, I still have a few.’
‘I’m one of them.’
‘Oh, you’re more than just a friend. You’re something special. Let’s hope the next time we meet there won’t be a piece of glass and an ocean of red grass between us.’
Mary-Ann smiled wistfully as she recalled the comfortable intimacy of their past encounters. ‘Amen to that.’ Then, on a more cheerful note she added: ‘I’m so pleased for you, Bill. Every night I’ve prayed that somebody somewhere along the line would have the good sense to realize you were innocent.’
‘Well, as you can see, your prayers have been answered …’
‘And not only that, you’re back in charge of The Lady. How does it feel?’
‘Like coming back from the dead,’ said Hartmann.
Wallis and Malone rose from their chairs as Commander-General Karlstrom entered his wood-panelled office. As the metal door of his personal elevator closed behind him, a matching section of wood descended over it, sealing it from view. Karlstrom skirted his desk and advanced, right hand extended.
As senior operatives, holding the military rank of Commander, Wallis and Malone had earned the right to warm handshakes and use of their given names in meetings with the Operational Director. This relaxed atmosphere (enjoyed by everyone with more than four years successful service) did not permit them to address Karlstrom as ‘Ben’, but they weren’t required to include the word ‘sir’ every time they spoke, and there was none of the jumping to attention or parade ground saluting required from wet-backs fresh out of Rio Lobo.
‘Don …’
‘Morning, sir …’
Karlstrom turned to greet Malone. ‘Matt! Glad you could make it. Hope it wasn’t a problem calling you in at such short notice.’
‘No, sir. I managed to cover it. Took off with four of the boys to check our southern flank.’ He smiled. ‘With so much air activity in our sector, I thought we might have a wagon-train on our trail. Provided I’m back by dawn tomorrow, there shouldn’t be any problem.’
‘We’ve got enough as it is,’ said Karlstrom. ‘This particular operation has become so complex I felt we should talk it over face to face.’ Karlstrom waved them into their seats and settled into the high-backed chair behind his desk. ‘Don, uhh, before you give us your sit-rep, where is Mr Brickman at this moment in time?’
‘Still on the wagon-train, awaiting the outcome of this meeting. If he gets a green on the next phase of the operation he intends to head west with his three horses towards the junction of the North and South Platte Rivers in the hope of catching up with Cadillac and, uhh …?’ Wallis’ eyes questioned Malone.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there. I don’t know how good he is at following trails but I reckon it’ll take him at least four days. Karstrom nodded, then turned back to Wallis. ‘Run us through what happened on the train.’
‘From when Brickman first came on the air?’
‘Yes. I want Matt to have the whole picture so that he knows exactly what we’re up against.’
Malone looked puzzled. ‘Am I on the wrong track, sir? I was under the impression Brickman and his kin sister were working for us.’
‘It’s not quite that simple, Matt. In theory, yes, they are. Unfortunately, in practice, some doubt has arisen over the question of who is manipulating who. Let Don say his piece and you’ll understand what I’m getting at.’
Wallis gave a crisp, coherent account of the rescue operation that had been triggered by the telepathic contact between Brickman and Roz: an operation which Karlstrom had approved over his direct radio link with the task-force. He then gave a brief résumé of the surgical treatment Clearwater had received and her present state of health, described Steve’s arrival on board, played back the tapes of his conversations with Roz, and concluded by describing her terrifying demonstration of mind-control.
‘Don’t ask me how she does it. All I can tell you is it works, and she can turn it on just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘When you imagine what she could have dreamed up, you may think that sitting on top of a rock tower is not all that bad –’
Malone held up his hands. ‘I didn’t say anything, Don.’
‘No, but I can see your face. I’m telling you it was absolutely horrendous. And when Jake fell off that fucking …’ He tried to shake the memory away. ‘I hope and pray I never have to go through anything like that again.’
‘How is he now,’ asked Karlstrom.
‘Jake? Having trouble sleeping.’
Malone grunted. ‘He’ll get over it. Sounds like he got what he had coming.’
‘He always did tend to run off at the mouth,’ agreed Wallis. ‘I don’t think he’ll do it again while she’s around.’ He turned to Karlstrom. ‘The question is – if she was able to take control of our minds then, is she in control of them now?’
Malone laughed. ‘How the hell can she be? You’re not on the wagon-train.’
‘Why should that make any difference? The telepathic link between Roz and her kin-brother works just as well even when they’re thousands of miles apart?’ He appealed to Karlstrom. ‘Right, sir?’
‘It would appear so, yes. But with all due respect, Don, I think you’re over-reacting. It was obviously a bad experience but you asked for a demonstration and you got it. Technically she may have taken control of your mind but she did not actually make you do anything rash or foolish. As I understand it, apart from Nevill, none of you budged from that table.’
‘That’s true, but –’
‘What she did was induce what psychologists call a positive hallucination. Which you all shared. That’s the interesting bit. Mass hypnosis is not unknown. You appear to have experienced a sophisticated “instant” version, and a very effective one too. If she can warp someone’s perception to that degree and at that speed, I have a feeling she really could neutralize Mr Snow.
‘But that’s not really mind control – at least not the kind that worries me. Roz has no reason to turn against the Federation. Her rival for Steve’s affections is now wired to a life-support system – and at her mercy.
‘Brickman may still be mixed up over the two of them but he’s not going to jump ship if we’ve got Clearwater and Roz in Grand Central. It would be absolutely pointless. He is a natural undercover agent. He’s almost impossible to read but there is one thing I do know about him. He’s hungry for power. And this is where the power is. No …’ Karlstrom paused reflectively. ‘He and Roz will come through for us. I’m sure of it.’
‘So we don’t need to worry about her, uhh –?’
Karlstrom smiled, apparently satisfied with his reasoning. ‘Don – if she was planning to betray us, would she have shown us what she could do?’
Wallis conceded reluctantly. ‘No, I suppose not.’
Malone caught Karlstrom’s eye. ‘Excuse me asking, but this guy Brickman – is he all right in the head? I mean, does he still know where the edges are? It’s no secret he’s been bouncing beaver and you’ve just hinted he’s been jacking up his kin-sister.’
‘They’re not related, Matt. But that’s classified, okay?’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Okay, let’s get down to the real business – setting up this attack by the M’Call Mutes on Red River. I’ve got approval for the idea from the Oval Office. It could be a good way of finishing off the M’Calls but what we have to do is figure out how to get our two remaining targets on board a wagon-train and safely under lock and key without losing the whole shebang.’
‘Sir, I’m not saying it can’t be done, but do we have to bring these other two in?’ asked Malone. ‘You’ve got Clearwater. Why don’t we just close down the file by putting three triples through their heads?’
Wallis nodded in agreement.
Karlstrom responded with a thin-lipped smile. ‘That might take care of Cadillac but from what I’ve heard about Mr Snow, you could find the bullets coming back at you.’
‘Sir – with respect – nobody’s that fireproof.’
‘Don’t count on it. I know it’s tempting, Matt, but there are other factors to be taken into consideration. High-level strategic objectives that I’m not at liberty to disclose at this moment but which I’ll bring you in on as soon as I’m given clearance to do so. Brickman’s idea seems unnecessarily complex but it could give us the set-piece engagement we’re looking for.’
‘Ahh … I didn’t know that.
‘And there’s something else,’ continued Karlstrom. ‘I’m not prepared to jeopardize the relationship you’ve built up with the Mutes in your sector. From past experience, we know that some mutes are able to communicate over long distances. As wordsmiths, Mr. Snow and Cadillac may have that capability.
‘Yeah. Don’t ask me how. It just does.’
‘Exactly. As we speak, the M’Calls may be organizing a Welcome Home party. Could make things very awkward if we suddenly lost him overboard. If you followed that up by the on-site removal of their wordsmith – hell! That would really shake the shit loose.’
Malone grimaced ruefully. ‘You’re right, sir. I hadn’t figured it that way. Guess I was just tryin’ to cut a few corners.’
‘Nothing wrong with that. Just for the record, I sent Brickman out with a dead-or-alive option on these two. But since then I’ve acquired a better overview. Believe me. Icing Cadillac and Mr Snow at this point in the game would cause more problems than it would solve. Especially for you.’
When Wallis and Malone had left for the airfield, Karlstrom remained in the office he used for meetings with his operatives. Slumped in his upholstered swivel chair, his left elbow resting on the padded arm, he reflected on what he had heard, pulling slowly at his nose, lips and chin with thumb and forefinger as he did so.
He had maintained an up-beat mood throughout their discussions but that had been a front. Don Wallis’ account of Roz Brickman’s hallucinatory powers filled him with alarm. Despite the soothing assurances he’d laid on Wallis, this was mind control – of a pretty spectacular kind. The kind that could plunge them all into deep shit.
Karlstrom didn’t give a toss whether Roz had taken temporary control of Wallis and his team; the only mind he was concerned about was his own. Was she only able to distort reality and thus induce total disorientation – or was she capable of something far more sinister? And anyway, how the hell did you define reality in the first place? Could she have manipulated him into putting her aboard that train? It had been her suggestion, yes, but had she forced him to go along with the idea?
No – that was impossible. The President-General had had the final say. In all matters concerning Steve and Roz Brickman, Karlstrom had been careful to cover his ass. Unfortunately that was not sufficient to remove him from the line of fire. If OPERATION SQUARE-DANCE went down the tube, he would be the one taking the flak, not G.W.J. the 31st. Yes, sir …
But was she planning to go over the side, or was that just something that Brickman had pulled out of the air to lay on the lump-heads? It had to be a bluff. A wind-up. What the hell would she do out there? No. With Clearwater out of the way Roz had what she wanted. Steve Brickman. Karlstrom was convinced he was back on the rails. The psychologists who selected, shaped and supervised the people on the Special Treatment List knew what made that young man tick. He wanted power, and he wanted to get even. That was why the results of his final exams at the Flight Academy had been fixed, giving him fourth place instead of first and the honours he merited. Yes … that had really lit a fire under him. And the Federation was the only place his needs could be satisfied.
These thoughts provided Karlstrom with scant comfort. Roz and Brickman were both telepaths, sensitives of a remarkable kind. Did Brickman possess the same latent powers to bend reality out of shape? Right from the very beginning, Karlstrom had been reluctant to meddle with the grey area the Life Institute called ‘psionics’. But faced with the threat from such people as Mr Snow, the Federation could not afford to ignore what little home-grown talent it possessed. Karlstrom knew of Steve and Roz; only the P-G and COLUMBUS knew who the rest were. If there were any others. Karlstrom hoped not. The P-G had likened Steve and Roz to a weapon-system. But what was the point of a weapon-system whose workings no one fully understood and whose destructive potential was incalculable?
No one in their right mind would launch such a weapon. But the appropriate target data had been fed into Steve and Roz Brickman and the button had been pressed. They had been fired towards enemy lines. Were they, as Karlstrom sometimes feared in the small hours of the morning, beyond recall? Was this weapon they had unleashed about to veer off course – turn back on its makers? That was what Karlstrom feared the most. And he wondered if the handful of quacks who had elbowed themselves into an unassailable position as the sole experts in the so-called ‘science’ of psionics had had the foresight to fit their charges with a self-destruct mechanism.
Probably not. How could they when none of them could explain in words of less than three syllables (that any normal person could understand) how and why someone like Roz Brickman could fall to the ground with a hole punched through her upper arm by a phantom crossbow bolt? A real hole, with real blood, that healed and disappeared without leaving any scar tissue within eight hours!
They had no answers because they didn’t know. There was no science, only jargon. Psycho-babble. The Department of Psionics at the Life Institute was an empty shell providing nothing but a few quick promotions, some cheap prestige. A scam. He had never wanted to get involved. He had been pressed into using Steve and Roz, and as a result he was marooned in the middle of a fucking minefield – with the President-General watching from the other side of the warning tapes.
Faced with the possibility that the decision to deploy Roz alongside her kin-brother might backfire with sufficient force to remove him from office, Karlstrom decided to take some avoiding action of his own. He would agree to Steve’s request to leave Red River in Nebraska. Clearwater, in any case, could not be moved. There was no danger of losing her: any rescue attempt mounted by force of arms would be fatal. And despite the risk that she might – just might – defect, he would leave Roz there too.
To bring her back into the Federation after this demonstration of new, uncharted powers would be an act of criminal folly. If there was going to be any heat, Wallis and the task force could take it. Karlstrom was aware that his decision placed the entire crew of Red River in jeopardy but there was, for the moment, no acceptable alternative. He had no desire to find himself sitting on top of a dizzying pinnacle of rock, or whatever other horror she might produce from the depths of her mind. And until some way could be found to deal with the problem he, for one, did not intend to get within a hundred miles of her.
If she was the loyal soldier-citizen he believed her to be there would be no problem. But until she proved that beyond all possible doubt it was wiser not to take any chances. As long as she was marooned in Nebraska she could not warp his own mental processes or affect his deliberations in any way. And he would circumvent any treachery by cutting Wallis out of the planning process they had begun that very day. He would continue to receive documentation but it would not be the real thing.
Only Malone and the other units would know the final plan. Roz and Steve would be left in the dark. If they played their parts, all well and good, if not, well … Amtrak could survive the loss of a wagon-train. Sensitives like Roz and Steve were a lurking cancer; a menace to the system. Their elimination – by death, or permanent transfer to the overground – was the only way to secure the future of the Federation. The Department of Psionics would be discredited, disbanded; Karlstrom’s doubts would be vindicated. AMEXICO could return to the tried and tested ways of secret warfare, and its director would sleep more soundly in his bed.
It was a neat, satisfying scenario, but Karlstrom knew from experience that things never went entirely to plan. Somewhere along the line somebody always fucked-up. The reason why he had held his job for so long was because he was also an expert in containment – the art of damage limitation.
Disclosure was a central feature of that art. You never told anyone anything they did not need to know, and you never ever gave them bad news when good news might be just around the corner. That was why Karlstrom had decided not to tell the President-General about Roz Brickman’s new and alarming capability. If challenged, he would defend himself – like all canny administrators – by saying he was waiting for a fuller report.