‘It’s over. I just got word from CINC-TRAIN.’ The President-General invited Karlstrom to take a seat by the blazing log-fire. The logs were modelled in cast-iron, the glowing ashes were flakes of mica, and the flames were fuelled by a gas line but the effect was real enough.
Karlstrom wondered why this news hadn’t reached him through his own information network. He hated surprises. ‘And The Lady?’
Jefferson stretched a hand towards the flames. ‘A total loss I’m afraid. A lot of her crew ended up with their heads on sticks. The Mutes – and it has now been confirmed it was the M’Calls – formed up around the train and charged the Blazer battalions as they closed in for the kill.
‘With the supporting firepower from the trains it was over in minutes, but as the Mutes went down, the wagon-train went up. Nobody quite knows how. The suggestion is a combination of napalm, fuel and explosives taken from the stocks on board. They must have laid it from end to end of the train …
‘Anyway, it started a fire-storm that completely gutted her from end to end. Then she just … blew apart.’
‘And Mr Snow?’
‘No trace. But then there was virtually nothing left of the hundreds who must have died on board. Strange though …’
‘Why?’
‘When the final explosion occurred, it was accompanied by a severe earth tremor. The earth split four ways, with deep fissures running out towards True Grit and the other trains –’
‘Oh, shee –’
The P-G held up his hand to quell Karlstrom’s anxiety. ‘It’s okay, they didn’t reach them. But it was enough to throw people to the ground … and there was some structural damage.’
‘But nothing serious …’
‘We’ll get the score-sheet after they’ve been checked over at Fort Worth. We won’t release this news of course. But what I wanted to tell you was this – when The Lady fireballed and the earth split open, a shaft of white light fringed with rainbow colours shot out of the middle. The trains caught it on their cameras. They reckon it was about two hundred feet high. Seemed to flash upwards then vanished –’ Jefferson snapped his fingers. ‘Curious, eh?’
‘Very. Let’s hope it was him. What about Cadillac and Roz Brickman?’
‘No trace of them either. But since our young hero shows no visible signs of distress we must presume that she, at least, is still alive. A Skyhawk was seen to leave The Lady just before our counter-attack. We know that Cadillac can fly …’
‘Ye-ess …’
The P-G raised his eyebrows expectantly but Karlstrom did not respond to the prompt. ‘Assuming there was no prior collusion, they must have reached, ahh – how can one put it – an understanding? From what you told me about that young lady’s abilities it’s unlikely she would allow herself to be coerced.’
‘No. But “understanding” might be putting it too strongly. Given the situation she was, quite literally, catapulted into, she may have decided to take the least line of resistance.’
The P-G chewed this over. ‘You think she’s still working for us …’
‘I think we should assume that until there’s evidence to the contrary. Brickman did his utmost to warn us that things had gone wrong and both Hartmann and Malone praised his efforts to help save the wagon-train. I think we should give them both the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Mmmm, yes, I’m inclined to agree. There’s just one thing I’d like to clear up. How, in the light of all this, did she come to be transferred to The Lady?’
Karlstrom spread his hands. ‘I can’t tell you, although I hope to have an answer soon. As you know I consulted you on this as a matter of some urgency. Wallis was pressing me for a decision. My orders were quite specific. Brickman and Malone were to fly to Red River and give us a complete sit-rep before any further action was initiated. I wanted to establish that whatever was left of Hartmann’s battalion was still being properly led and capable of organized resistance.’
‘Wise move. But you didn’t okay the return trip …’
‘No. You can imagine how I felt when I received a signal from Wallis confirming that Roz had been landed on The Lady.’ Karlstrom gestured frustratedly. ‘I just can’t understand what got into him. And I still haven’t had an adequate explanation.’
The P-G gazed into the fire for a moment then said: ‘You’re unlikely to get it. Wallis shot himself.’
Karlstrom hid his relief behind a look of total consternation. ‘Wha-aat?! When?!’
‘A few minutes ago …’
‘I don’t understand.’ Karlstrom added a flash of anger. ‘Why wasn’t I told?!’
‘Calm down, Ben. Isn’t it obvious? With Wallis gone and the rest of your team missing, Fargo didn’t have a direct line to you. No one else on Red River had the codes to operate that equipment.’
‘No, of course …’
‘He had to go through CINC-TRAIN. I told them I’d break the news. But it means we’ll never know what prompted him to make that decision. Still, these things happen. We’ve got Clearwater, Brickman’s back on the team, Roz – we hope – is well placed to put Cadillac in the frame, Mr Snow may have finally shot his bolt and we’ve taken out the M’Calls.’
‘You’re right. It’s not all bad news.’
‘Except for the fact that it cost us a wagon-train.’ The P-G’s face clouded. ‘Well, we can live with that – and thanks to your clever little scam it wasn’t Red River. That really would have been a disaster.’
‘Nevertheless we did lose a whole Trail-Blazer battalion.’
‘Hartmann’s battalion. There were some good men in it but that’s how it goes. They ran out of luck from the first day they ran into the Plainfolk. Let’s hope their demise will make the other wagon-masters realize there’s no mileage to be gained out of supporting lost causes. If his Blazers had been on the ball, that train could never have been taken.’ Jefferson’s mouth tightened. ‘But it seems we won’t ever know how that happened either.’
‘Looks that way …’
‘Never mind. I refuse to be downhearted.’ The P-G rose from his chair. ‘We may have fumbled a pass but we’re still in the game.’
And I’m still on the team, thought Karlstrom, already on his feet. How long, he asked himself, would he be able to conceal the full story of his own involvement in this semi-fiasco?
The chain of administrative orders which had led to the issue of the explosives used by the M’Calls against The Lady had been ‘sanitized’. With the train now a shattered, burnt-out shell in enemy territory, no one was going to be checking it for tell-tale clues that, under other circumstances would have pointed to the use of Federation PX and not the black powder used by the Iron Masters.
Unfortunately, other people in AMEXICO had been involved in covering those tracks. Could they be relied upon?
With the order to transfer Roz from Red River to The Lady, Karlstrom knew he was on firmer ground. The message, routed directly from his own computer terminal to the comms-system operated by Wallis, had contained a code-virus which caused the message to self-destruct when it was transferred into memory. When Wallis keyed in the instruction ‘SAVE TO DISK’, the order concerning Roz disappeared from the screen and – despite the visual confirmation that it had been safely transferred to the hard-disk – vanished into thin air.
Despite the risks, the opportunity to swap Roz for Steve had been too good to miss. Karlstrom didn’t want Roz and her so-called psionic powers back inside the Federation. And especially not anywhere near AMEXICO. If she intended to betray the Federation then it was better to deal with her at a distance. If, on the other hand, she was as loyal as she claimed to be, there was always a chance that someone else might use her mental abilities to spy on him.
Someone like his cousin George Washington Jefferson the 31st. Karlstrom, a voracious reader, was aware of an ancient quotation which – as head of the secret organization dedicated to the protection of the President-General – was directly applicable to just such a situation: Quis custodiet ipsos Custodes? – Who is to guard the guardians themselves?
No. Steve Brickman might be devious but he was not a threat. The young man was brave, resourceful and gifted – but he also had a certain weakness which Karlstrom believed could be exploited to keep him in line until – like most pawns – he became expendable.
Five days later, Karlstrom found himself back in the Oval Office with the young man in question. And this time, there was no trace of the Mute whose painted presence had so disturbed the wagon-master of Red River. Brickman, immaculately dressed in a blue wing-man’s uniform, clear-eyed and clear-skinned, with his blonde hair trimmed into a regulation crew-cut would have been a credit to any passing-out parade. To have turned this half-breed into a Tracker from head to toe was an amazing feat …
Karlstrom tuned back into what the P-G was saying.
‘… while the operation could be said to have misfired, the failure is not yours, Steven. Overall, taking into account that this was your first assignment, we think your performance has been outstanding. Your achievements in Ne-Issan deserve special commendation, and it gives me great pleasure to be the one to tell you that as from today, you have been promoted to the rank of Captain.’
Brickman who had been sitting rigidly to attention, with his parade cap aligned neatly on his knees, jumped up from his chair. ‘Sir! I, uhh – thank you sir!’
‘Thanks don’t come into it. You deserve it. Right, Ben?’
‘Yes, sir …’ Karlstrom rose as Jefferson came round his desk, took hold of Brickman’s hand and shoulder. The fatherly gesture that never failed.
‘Steven, I don’t want any secrets between us. That’s why I’m going to tell you that there were times when we had grave doubts about you. We have never thought you would deliberately betray the Federation but we were worried that your mind might have become contaminated by some of the experiences you have undergone. Experiences that might have affected your judgement – altered your perception of the world we’re trying to build.’
Jefferson injected a more cheerful note. ‘But that’s all in the past, isn’t it Ben? This young man has been given a clean bill of health!’
‘Absolutely …’
Jefferson firmed up his grip on Steve’s shoulder as he accompanied him to the ’stile. ‘We are going to give your life a new dimension, Steven. You will find that loyalty, allied to the courage and ability you have displayed is handsomely rewarded. And it is my belief that you will prove worthy of the confidence we have in you. Keep the faith, Steven. Never falter in your devotion to the First Family!’
‘I won’t, sir!’
When they emerged into the outer suite of offices, Karlstrom turned to Steve and offered his hand. ‘Congratulations. How do you feel?’
‘About the promotion and everything? It’s incredible, sir. But I still feel bad about Roz. If I’d stayed with her –’
Karlstrom cut him short. ‘You were following orders. It was my people that fouled up. And the real sickener is we’ll never know why. Even so, it’s not all bad news. Since you’re looking bright and healthy that would seem to indicate she’s still alive. Right?’
Steve didn’t hesitate. ‘They both are, sir.’
‘Is Cadillac holding her prisoner?’
‘He thinks he is.’ Once again he didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Good man …’ Karlstrom patted Steve’s arm. ‘Stay in touch.’
‘I will, sir. What about Clearwater, sir?’
‘Keep up the visits. Unless you have other duties, you have unlimited access, day or night. You’re an essential part of the get-well programme.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Did, ahh – Clearwater give you the good news?’
‘Sir …?’
‘I see. She didn’t. I wonder why? Well, there’s no point in keeping you in suspense. The surgeons on board Red River managed to save the baby.’
‘Baby …?’ The news took Steve completely by surprise. ‘I – I don’t understand –’
‘Ohh … isn’t it yours?’
Steve felt totally confused. A confused babble of distant voices filled his brain and were submerged by a roaring sound. He felt the blood pounding through the arteries close to his ears. ‘No, sir! I – I mean … how could it be?!’
It was the President-General who was the sole progenitor of humankind … the father of all life within the Federation …
Karlstrom smiled. It was not often he managed to unsettle this artful sonofabitch. ‘You’ve only just begun to discover what you are capable of. That’s why you’re on the Special Treatment List. Do you think everything that’s happened to you so far is due to good luck and your winning smile?’
‘Uhh, no, I – I had no idea, sir!’
‘Well, you’ve managed to get this far, don’t jump the rails. There are interesting times ahead.’
‘Will I still be working for, uhh – your department, sir?’
‘Yes, you will,’ laughed Karlstrom. ‘You and I still have a great deal of unfinished biz –’ He broke off as his eyes were drawn to someone behind Steve’s shoulder.
Steve turned to see a dark-haired woman walking towards them. She wore the silver grey and blue uniform that marked her out as a member of the First Family.
It was the young President of the Board of Assessors that had tried him for desertion. The woman who had stripped him of his wings and sentenced him from three years to life in the A-Levels. He had guessed that she was Family during the trial and he was right. The trial, the sentence, the early reprieve, the chance to win back his coveted wings … it had all been a set-up. Nothing was what it seemed.
Steve jumped to attention and threw a parade-ground salute as the woman with the grey eyes, the oval face and the wide firm mouth reached him. Her sleeves carried the stripes of a commander topped by the inverted chevron – an exclusive mark of the First Family which conferred automatic seniority over the commanders of ordinary Federation units.
She acknowledged his salute with the casual assurance of someone who knows there is not the slightest chance of being hauled up on a charge of indiscipline and turned to Karlstrom. ‘Ben, I’m sorry! I was held up!’
‘That’s okay. Let me introduce you.’
The grey eyes fixed on Steve’s. ‘We’ve already met, haven’t we Captain?’
‘Yesssir-ma’am! I believe so!’ News travels fast, thought Steve. The extra stripe he’d been awarded was not even on his sleeve.
‘Yes, but he doesn’t know who you are.’ Karlstrom did the honours. ‘This is Commander Franklynne Jefferson. She will be your host and guide over the next few days.’
‘Yess-SURR!’
‘Fine. We’ve completed the formalities. Now relax. You’re among friends.’ Franklynne Jefferson offered her hand. ‘It’s Steve, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir-ma’am.’
‘Oh, dear …’ She sought help from Karlstrom. ‘What does one have to do to get this man to unbend?’
‘Give him time …’
She tried again. ‘We’re going to a place called Cloudlands, Steve. And by the time we get there, I shall expect you to call me Fran. Think you can manage that?’
Nothing in his wildest dreams could have prepared Steve for what was to happen following that encounter outside the Oval Office. After an elevator ride which his stomach told him was in an upwards direction, Steve stepped out into a large lobby with several exits – the walls and doors of which were covered with panels of wood similar to Karlstrom’s office.
The first surprise was finding the lobby manned by two smooth-skinned Mutes dressed in dark clothes cut in a style Steve had never seen before. Both Mutes had vari-coloured skins but were straight-boned, with no cranial lumps. Yearlings. One male, one female.
The male – whose greying hair was cut short and brushed flat across his head – wore three pieces of black clothing – trousers, tucked into calf-length boots, and a long kind of tunic, with a tighter-fitting tunic with a V-neck underneath. This garment, buttoned down the front, reached to just below the waist and had broad diagonal gold stripes woven into the black. Instead of the universal T-shirt, he wore a shirt of white material drawn into a high tight band around the neck, with a looser, curly piece of the same material running from the throat down into the V-neck of the gold-striped tunic, and cuffs that poked out from the sleeves of the long, open garment covering it.
The clothes of the female Mute were equally strange. She wore a cap of white cloth which covered most of her hair, and an elaborate curly-edged spotless white apron – a fancy cousin to the straight-cut style worn by kitchen staff on the mess-decks – and fastened at the back with a wide bow. Underneath she wore a black, sleeved garment puffed out at the shoulders but tight on the rest of the arm. The tunic had a similar high collar but in black with a frilly white liner. The waist was drawn in then came over the hips in a slim bell-shape and went all the way down to the floor.
Extraordinary …
Fran addressed the male Mute. ‘Joshua, this is my guest, Captain Brickman. Will you help him change into the uniform I gave you this morning, then show him upstairs?’
The Mute inclined his head respectfully. ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He indicated a door on the far side of the lobby with a white-gloved hand. ‘This way, Captain …’
Steve hesitated, seeking guidance from Fran.
She smiled. ‘Go on. Off you go. I’ll see you later.’
The changing room had a marble floor and walls and the luxurious fittings and furniture he had seen in the Oval Office and the adjoining suites and corridors of the White House. Steve showered and dried himself on large soft white towels then emerged to find a new set of clothing laid out of him. The pale grey briefs were familiar enough, the T-shirt was replaced by a sleeveless under-garment with a curving neckline. Mid-grey socks. A white shirt similar to the one Joshua was wearing but with just a neat high collar band. So far so good …
Next came a pair of mid-grey trousers with a line of yellow braid running down the outside seams. Then a long grey tunic with an overlapping rear split and a high collar that buttoned down to the waist. The sleeves were decorated with captain’s rank stripes in the same yellow braid as the trousers. And then there were the boots, of soft black leather.
Joshua coughed politely. ‘The trousers go outside, Cap’n.’
‘Got it. Thanks …’ Steve corrected the mistake then reached for the grey stetson with the yellow crossed swords parade badge of the Trail-Blazer Division and placed it carefully on his head with the aid of a mirror.
‘If I may, sir …’ Joshua adjusted the tilt, then went over to the table to fetch the sword and helped Steve fasten it around his waist. It resembled the sword on his hat badge but Steve had never seen a real one before.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s a cavalry sword, Cap’n.’
‘Looks pretty old.’
‘It is. Been in the family for centuries.’
‘You look pretty old too, Joshua. How long you been here?’
‘Me, Cap’n? I was born here in Cloudlands.’
Steve checked himself in the mirror. ‘I have to tell you this feels very strange. What is this outfit I’m wearing?’
‘That’s what we call Confederate grey, Cap’n. The uniform of a southern officer and gentleman.’
Steve shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’m any the wiser.’
‘That’s as may be, Cap’n. But you look mighty fine to me. And I’m sure that Missy Fran, she’s going to be real proud to be seen walking on your arm.’
Joshua ushered him back into the lobby and led the way towards a set of double doors which, when opened, revealed a flight of wide marble steps. Inviting Steve to follow, he led the way to a similar set of doors at the top then through into a spacious room filled with light from tall white-framed windows. Huge clusters of what looked like ice crystals hung from the high, sculptured ceiling. There were carpets covering sections of the gleaming wood floor, ornate chairs covered in richly coloured cloth, a magnificent marble fireplace, framed portraits and mirrors on the patterned walls.
Steve turned full circle, head raised, mouth open like a first time tourist in the Big Apple. He gestured towards the trees and flowered gardens beyond the windows. ‘Columbus! Is that computer-generated?!’
‘I don’t understand, Cap’n.’
Steve stepped towards the open glass panelled doors and peeked outside. There was no screen. What lay outside was part of the overground. Neat, sculpted, ordered – but beautiful nevertheless.
Joshua smiled at Steve’s evident bewilderment. ‘Make yourself at home, Cap’n. Take a seat – or maybe you’d prefer to walk on the verandah.’ Joshua indicated a polished table with bottles and jugs of liquid and cups made of the same sparkling ice-crystal material. ‘May I offer you some refreshment?’
‘No – but those cups and bottles … are they made of clear plastic?’
Joshua chuckled. ‘No, Cap’n. Them cups you’re referring to is what we call glasses. Same stuff as in them there windows only this –’ He picked one up and turned it so that it caught the light, ‘– is much prettier and finer. It’s what they call cut crystal – see?’
‘Yeah, thanks, Joshua. Must seem kinda stupid.’ Steve swept a hand around the room. ‘This is all so new.’
‘New?!’ Joshua chuckled again. ‘This ol’ place’s been standin’ close on two hundred years!’ The Mute indicated a circular button push on the wall. ‘With your permission, Cap’n, I’ll leave you be. If you want anythin’ just ring.’
‘Oh, yeah – thanks …’
The Mute bowed. ‘Missy Fran’ll join you shortly. She’ll be in the yellow I expect.’
Joshua, who had served Fran’s family since she was a child, was familiar with the routine that accompanied the elevation of tall, strong-shouldered young men – Fran called them her ‘beaus’ – from the subterranean world to the elegance of Cloudlands.
When she appeared, she was dressed in yellow, but the transformation was so startling she was not immediately recognizable. The silver and blue uniform had been replaced by a frilled and layered costume which gave prominence to her breasts, hugged her rib-cage, squeezed her waist then flared outwards with draped folds to the ground. An outfit which, a century and a half before the Holocaust, was known as a ‘walking dress’.
She also had a lot more hair. The neatly combed bob had been augmented by matching braids, ringlets, and a soft bun extending onto the nape of her neck. Her face looked softer, her eyes larger, her lips redder.
Fran twirled around in front of Steve. ‘How do I look?’
Steve eventually found his voice. ‘Amazing …’
‘And so do you, Captain Brickman. Raise your right elbow.’
Steve offered it to her awkwardly.
Fran unfurled a matching parasol, took his arm and led him towards the verandah. ‘Come … walk with me.’
Yes sir-ma’am…
Anyone with access to the cinematic archives of the 20th century – a privilege enjoyed by members of the First Family – would have immediately recognized Steve’s surroundings. Walking into that light-filled room with its sumptuous furnishings was like entering one of the interior scenes from ‘Gone With The Wind’.
Like the closely-guarded domains reserved for the top brass of pre-Holocaust Russia, Cloudlands was a vast chunk of real estate reserved for the exclusive use of the First Family.
But this was no space-age colony shielded from overground radiation by protective bubbles. On these landscaped acres, the First Family had lovingly recreated the mid-19th century sugar-plantation splendour of the Deep South. Pristine white mansions, with colonnaded porticos, nestled among trees and lakes, surrounded by immaculate lawns, formal gardens, arbours, fountains, drives and shaded avenues, tastefully furnished in a style that echoed the French colonial past of Louisiana and Mississippi, and staffed by an army of servants, grooms and retainers; liveried Mutes – the 29th century equivalent of the negro slave.
There were no wheelies here. Horses, and horse-drawn carriages with Mute drivers carried the privileged inhabitants wherever they wanted to go. Pride of place was given to the railway with its hand-built replicas of period locomotives and rolling-stock spanning the glorious days of steam. But they weren’t the only anachronisms: the background lighting was powered by electricity, tv screens and computer keyboards were artfully concealed in antique cuboards and desks, and the open skies were patrolled by First Family wing-men flying silver Skyhawks.
On the ground, however, authenticity was the keynote. The men were dressed in uniforms of the Confederate Army and the women as ‘southern belles’, but both changed clothes to suit the occasion or the time of day, donning what they called ‘evening dress’ when the sun went down.
For the men this meant a more decorative uniform in sober colours, or dark ‘civilian’ clothes; the women emerged in off the shoulder dresses with deep necklines that exposed the tops of their breasts, layered elbow-length sleeves and long gloves. The lower parts of these evening dresses were even more extravagant in their detailing and dimensions – wide, sweeping skirts with trailing extensions at the rear, supported by layers of hooped petticoats.
Fran was an immensely agreeable and informative guide but it was a lot to take in all at once – even for Steve.
The contrast with the uniformed monotony of the underground Federation could not have been greater. Steve had to keep reminding himself that this wasn’t a dream. This was for real – and yet this reality was tinted with a kind of madness.
How long had this been going on? Was this what countless generations of Trackers – including Poppa-Jack – had sweated, slaved and died for? So that an already over-privileged elite could enjoy a lavish fantasy existence while the rest of the population lived in neon-lit concrete burrows where the biggest event in the calendar was a trip to the walled-in acres of John Wayne Plaza? Compared to Cloudlands, the fabled Plaza was nothing more than a marbled prison exercise yard.
Steve kept his feelings to himself, but with the knowledge of who he now was, he couldn’t help identifying with the smooth-boned Mutes who did the fetching and carrying, who were ever-present but whose quiet-mannered discretion rendered them almost invisible. Part of the woodwork. Compared to the Iron-Feet, their Plainfolk brothers in Ne-Issan, these Mute yearlings were in a gilded cage, but one day they too would be free.
Oh, yes, brothers …
But now it was time to watch and to listen. There was much to see and a great deal to learn …
Like on that first evening when Steve found himself invited to sit next to Fran at a long cloth-covered table decorated with bowls of flowers and silver candlesticks, sparkling glassware, polished metal knives and forks and ceramic plates with coloured patterns round the rim. The chairs around the table were occupied by twenty men and women the nearest of which addressed Steve with an easy familiarity. The food was good, the wine – quite different in taste to sake – was agreeably liberating, the company convivial and when Fran revealed that he had been to Ne-Issan on ‘Family business’, they listened with genuine interest to his descriptions of life in the Eastern Lands.
By the end of the evening, his feelings of hostility had waned considerably. Steve had not abandoned his desire to pierce the innermost secrets of the First Family. The truth had to be revealed. After Mr Snow’s revelations, they were not just the top layer of an oppressive regime, they were the enemy. They and everything they stood for had to be swept away, but that was an immense undertaking that could not be accomplished overnight. In the meantime, however much he might deplore the flagrant unfairness of the system, it would be foolish not to take advantage of what was on offer …
Around eleven pm, the after-dinner conversation groups broke up. As the guests bade each other goodnight and departed to their own rooms or to other houses, Joshua, the Mute servant, led Steve upstairs to the large bedroom which had been set aside for his use. The curtained windows opened out on the front lawn, and through them, Steve saw a coach and pair, with bright yellow lamps, rattle away down the curving gravel drive. Animated voices floated up from the porch below. He caught a glimpse of someone in a yellow dress and thought he heard Fran laughing …
A log fire like the one in the Oval Office blazed cheerfully in the hearth. The large bed, which had a post at each corner and a cloth canopy, looked soft and inviting. There would be no bug-uglies in that.
After Steve had donned a bathrobe, Joshua took his uniform away to be freshened and pressed, leaving what he called a dressing-gown and a nightshirt laid out neatly on the foot of the bed. Crystal decanters of wine, peach brandy and a smooth, amber-coloured alcohol called Southern Comfort stood on a silver tray with a selection of glasses.
Steve went into the bathroom and took a shower. As he stood under the warm spray, his body suffused with a sense of well-being, he reflected on the time he had spent among the Mutes and the Iron Masters, the pleasures and privations of life on the overground and within the Federation.
It seemed incredible that four different worlds with such contrasting life-styles could co-exist within a few hundred miles of each other: hi-tech gadgetry and stone-age savagery, total freedom and slavery, individuality and restrictive conformity, equal rights and overbearing discrimination – sexual and racial, rigid hierarchies and relaxed anarchies. Why did people have to choose one over the other? Why was there no middle way?
When Steve emerged from the shower, he found Fran occupying the left hand side of the bed. Her head and naked shoulders were propped against two of the four over-sized pillows. One hand held a glass of brandy, the other held a smoking reaf. The soft insistent beat of a blackjack tape floated out of a hidden speaker. Below ground, people went to the wall for peddling this kind of shit.
‘Surprised …?’
‘Not really.’ Steve searched for a suitably ingratiating follow-up. ‘I can’t think of a better way to end an unforgettable day.’ Yukkkk-hhh …
‘It’s just the beginning, Stevie.’ Fran patted the empty place next to her.
Steve walked around the bed and reached for the nightshirt.
‘You won’t need that.’
‘Just clearing the decks.’ He gathered up the long loose shirt and the dressing-gown and put them on the low wooden chest at the foot of the bed.
Fran proved to be an ardent sexual partner. Their coupling reminded him of his solitary encounter with Donna Lundkwist. Donna whose life had ended with a kiss and a knife in her throat. And like Donna, Fran started out making all the running, but when Steve delivered the goods, she ended up tender and grateful.
‘How did it feel, Stevie?’
‘Well, ma’am, I –’
‘Fran!!’
‘Sorry! I –’
‘Never jacked up a member of the First Family before.’ Fran treated him to a conspiratorial smile. ‘No need to answer. I know everything there is to know about you.’
I wonder …
She pulled his head closer and whispered in his ear. ‘What was it like with her – Clearwater? The same? Better?’
‘No … just different.’
‘In what way? What did she do that I didn’t do?’
‘Nothing, it was –’
‘Tell me! Ohh, I can feel you getting hard again! Are you thinking about doing it with her? Oh, come on! Give it to me! Oh, yes! She squeezed you like that, Stevie?’
Almost, almost … Christo!
‘Why was it different? Was it because she said she loved you? Is that it, Stevie? Do you want to be loved? Would you like me to say I love you?’
That question, that word, on her lips, sent a shiver through him. He raised himself up and began to withdraw.
Fran locked her legs across the small of his back, and hung on tight round his neck, thrusting her pelvis hard against his. ‘No! Stay there! If you knew how long I’ve waited for this! Hooh, baby! C’mon, give it to me! Gimme all of it!’
Steve suppressed the feelings of self-loathing and betrayal.
Yessir-ma’am. If this is what it takes to get where I want, you GOT it!
An hour or so later, when they’d screwed each other to a standstill, and she’d explored every inch of his body with her lips, tongue and fingers, they lay in each other’s arms, their skin glazed with sweat. Steve was having difficulty staying awake. Fran brought him back to life with a playful bite on the shoulder.
‘Jeezuss!’
‘It’s all right. I haven’t drawn blood.’ Fran kissed it better. ‘Mmmm … you smell and taste like a man should.’ She offered her throat. ‘Taste me.’
Steve took a sample. Honey with a dash of salt …
‘Do you like it?’
‘Yeah. Tastes good.’ He put his cheek against hers and buried a yawn in the pillow.
Fran took hold of one hand and slid it between her thighs. ‘And did you like this?’
‘Delicious …’ Didn’t this dill ever stop?!
She twisted her body around so that she was looking down on him. ‘Did it shock you – me talking about love? It’s a word the Mutes use, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But it wasn’t so much shocking as, well … unexpected.’
‘Because of who I am?’
‘That was part of it, yes.’
‘Call me Fran. Say my name! Keep your hand there and whisper it in my ear.’ When he had repeated it several times with as much feeling as he could muster, she said: ‘I love your voice. You know that? Can’t you feel what it does to me?’
Steve didn’t answer. He knew he was in bed with a member of the First Family. Not just any member of the First Family – a Jefferson. This kookie was related to the President-General! This couldn’t be just a reward for services rendered. What the hell was going on?
‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’
‘Uhh, well, yehh, y’know –’
‘That’s another Mute word, isn’t it? I bet you know lots, mmh?’
‘I was out there for quite a while …’
‘You’ll find we use lots of Mute words up here, Stevie. And quite a few I bet you’ve never heard of.’
‘Always willing to learn …’
‘Good. I’ll teach you things you’ve never dreamed of.’ Fran brought her mouth to his for a last tender, teasing kiss. ‘Did you enjoy doing it with me?’
‘Yeah, it was terrific’ What the heck was he supposed to say?
‘Would you like to do it again?’
Aww, jeezuss … ‘You mean now?’
‘No. But soon. And often. She gave his starting handle an affectionate squeeze then leapt out of bed and went into the bathroom.
Steve heard the swish of the shower. He pulled the bedclothes over his nakedness and reflected on what was happening to him and what might happen next. The session with Fran, although enjoyable on a purely physical level – which in the past was all that any Tracker would expect – left Steve feeling empty and vaguely ashamed of his opportunism.
In the Federation, the sexual act was one of the few things to which no guilt was attached. No involvement was expected by either party beyond the brief physical proximity required for the act to take place. Mutual consent was all that was needed; desire, the need to temporarily relieve the basic sexual drive, was the only emotional element.
It had been different with Clearwater. The intensity of his feelings – feelings which she returned in equal measure – had given a new dimension to their physical relationship, enriching what, for him, had previously been a meaningless exercise involving his body but which, until then, had never engaged his heart and mind.
Jacking up Fran had merely served to remind him of what he was missing. Clearwater had never claimed exclusive rights to his body. Indeed, for her, possession of the body was of minor importance. What counted was to whom you gave your heart and soul. And it was true – although it hadn’t stopped him hating the idea of Clearwater allowing Consul-General Nakane Toshiba to instal her in his island love-nest.
Maybe it was the will of Talisman. Her liaison with the jap had certainly led to their escape. But it was good ol’ Brickman S.R. who had blown the Consul-General out of the sky. Watching his smouldering body fall to earth had been a sweet moment. Yes …
Clearwater would not have felt the same need for revenge against a third party. She had never probed the intimate nature of his relationship with Roz. She was too wise. She had a serene confidence in the power of Talisman, in the pre-destined, ordered nature of existence.
In her world, human frailty – except where it flagrantly transgressed a blood-bond sealed before the elders – was overlooked or generously forgiven. What counted was the purity of the spirit, the nobility of the soul. Which was fortunate, because it let Steve off the hook.
Trackers were totally promiscuous, but due to the nature of their society, the word ‘promiscuity’ had been stripped of any moral connotation. In the pre-Holocaust world, copulation may have been raised to an art form and accorded the status of an inalienable civil right for commercial and political reasons, but in the Federation its importance as an essential activity was on a par with evacuating the bowels and was usually discharged with a similar lack of ceremony.
By demoting sex while allowing a continued free-for-all, and by removing the word-concept ‘love’ from the Tracker vocabulary, the First Family effectively eliminated the basis for personal relationships between individual men and women. Widespread and persistent sterility had already destroyed the nuclear family; what remained was a collective identity based on the squad, the block, the battalion, the division. Loyalty, a sense of comradeship and allegiance, was directed upwards through the system towards the figure at the pinnacle of power – the President-General.
Because of this, Steve was not burdened by guilt but he felt diminished. He’d been given a privileged glimpse of the system from the top down – a system that was not only harsh and unjust at the bottom, was not only built on lies, but whose leaders now stood revealed as corrupt and crazy.
For centuries they had held out a dream of a bright future and here they were living in a self-deceiving dream-world that belonged to the distant past! And his sense of shame was increased by the knowledge that if Fran required his services again, he would answer the call without hesitation. Would do whatever had to be done.
The idea that jacking up a high-flying member of the First Family could lead to advancement seemed, on the face of it, preposterous, but if that was part of the deal – what the hell?
The higher he got up the wire, the more chance he would have of getting even with those who had helped to shaft him. And to that list were now added those who had manipulated his life and twisted his mind. Yes … given time, he’d get them all …
When the hospital orderly left after cleaning her room, Clearwater noticed that the wheeled table carrying the computer terminal had not been pushed back into its proper place. It now lay within reach. Leaning sideways, she stretched out her good left arm, caught the edge of the table with her fingertips, pulled it towards her then manoeuvered it round until the keyboard and screen faced the bed.
Thanks to Steve’s winter schooling she could now read and write. And on the wagon-train and now, in her new home which her senses told her was not far underground, she had watched medical staff tap the keys to call up or record information. This machine was part of a spider’s web of power that gave life to the Federation. And at the centre of this web lay something or someone called COLUMBUS. She knew this because the Cloud-Warrior had talked boastfully of these things to Mr Snow.
Before his eyes and heart had been opened …
She studied the keyboard and pressed the HELP button.
Letters appeared on the screen: DO YOU WISH TO (A) TRANSMIT DATA (B) RECEIVE DATA (C) USE MATH FUNCTION (D) CONSULT LOCAL ARCHIVES? – SELECT LETTER AND PRESS ENTER.
Clearwater selected (A) – Transmit Data.
The screen cleared and a new message appeared: ENTER NAME OF RECIPIENT, UNIT, DEPARTMENT OR DIVISION AND ADDRESS CODE OF RECEIVING TERMINAL.
She tapped out the letters carefully: C-O-L-U-M-B-U-S …
There was a pause then: THE CENTRAL CORTEX CANNOT BE ADDRESSED FROM THIS WORKSTATION WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION CODE. INSERT ID-CARD OR ENTER PASSWORD.
T-A-L-I-S-M-A-N …
THE SYSTEM RESPONDED: PASSWORD NOT RECOGNIZED. ENTER FULL NAME AND NUMBER.
T-A-L-I-S-M-A-N …
A NEW MESSAGE FLASHED ON TO THE SCREEN: UNAUTHORIZED SYSTEM ACCESS IS A LISTED OFFENCE. THE LOCATION OF THIS WORKSTATION HAS NOW BEEN REPORTED. TO AVOID A MORE SERIOUS CHARGE YOU SHOULD REMAIN THERE AND AWAIT THE ARRIVAL OF INTERNAL SECURITY.
CLEARWATER SIGNED OFF: G-O … T-O … H-E-L-L …
An insistent bleeper alarm began to sound. Not deafening, but loud enough to be heard in the corridor outside.
Clearwater pushed the trolley away from the bed and pretended to be asleep as a medical orderly came in and swore quietly under her breath. ‘The idiot … why can’t he leave things the way he found them?’
Another medic poked her head round the door. ‘Trouble?’
‘That bloody cleaner!’ said the first. ‘Look at the way he’s left this! And I see this thing’s playing up again.’ She cleared the screen, switched the terminal off and straightened up the table then came to check on Clearwater as her eyes fluttered open.
‘What’s happening …?’
‘Nothing. Relax. Just let me fix your pillows … There. You all right?’
‘Yes …’
‘Good. Go back to sleep.’
Contrary to the stern warning displayed on the screen, the incident had not been reported, and the bleeper alarm was programmed to turn itself off after sixty seconds. Centuries of experience had shown that only a minority of youthful pranksters were frozen into fearful immobility by the order to remain by the computer terminal. Everyone else promptly left the scene.
Like the tacit approval of rainbow-grass, the computer network controlled by COLUMBUS also acted as a safety-valve. The number, provenance and frequency of nuisance calls were noted for statistical purposes but the manpower and other technical resources needed to follow up the thousands of violations were simply not available.
The efforts of the Federation’s computer security units were directed towards the apprehension of those trying to penetrate or corrupt the data and control circuits as part of a purely criminal conspiracy, and ‘moles’ – political subversives living inside the Federation but outside the eco-system maintained and policed by COLUMBUS: people who were trying to access services to get what they needed to stay alive while evading the checks and controls that would have brought the Provos down on their necks.
For the moment it did not matter that the first attempt to contact COLUMBUS had failed. The terminal in her hospital room had enabled Clearwater to sense its all-pervading presence, its purpose, its power, its intelligence.
This was why she had been sent into the dark world of the sand-burrowers. First, she had to regain her strength and then, in a way which would be revealed to her, she had to make contact with this soulless entity and destroy it.
Karlstrom watched the President-General walk to the high curving window behind his blue leather-topped desk.
In front of the centre curtains, a large eagle with outspread wings, carved out of gleaming rosewood, was poised on a waist-high plinth. Between the eagle and the blue curtains were two crossed poles draped with the flag of the Amtrak Federation and Old Glory.
Jefferson rubbed his hand over the eagle’s head as one might touch a good luck charm, gazed briefly out of the window at a stunning view of Kentucky Blue-Grass country then waved Karlstrom into his usual seat.
Karlstrom hovered, waiting for the P-G to sink his solid rear end into his high-backed chair. In the Oval Office no one sat while the P-G was standing.
‘Sit down, Ben. Let’s skip the protocol. I need to walk around for this one.’
Karlstrom subsided, and watched Jefferson gaze out across the wooded slopes towards the sunlit hills. The clarity of the image was amazing. This was the way America had once looked. Green and beautiful.
‘Ben, I’m going to tell you something which may put your mind at rest. You must have wondered why we’ve invested so much time and resources in young Brickman and his sister – which, by the way, she isn’t. With people dying for the Federation every day, two more, two less – what’s the difference? Well, they’re something of an exception and I think it’s time you joined the club.
The P-G began to pace slowly to and fro, circling the desk and Karlstrom’s chair. Karlstrom followed him with his eyes.
‘As you know, we’ve been breeding Mutes for experimental work at the Life Institute for close on a hundred and fifty years. The stated objective was to find the genetic key to their longevity and immunity to radiation in the hope that we could transfer those benefits to our own people. If we could increase the average life expectancy from forty to sixty years it would give us a fifty per cent increase in our skill base and productivity – and that would release more people for overground operations.
‘Since you’re one of the Family and bright enough to be the head of AMEXICO, it probably won’t come as much of a surprise when I tell you that over the years we’ve fed a large number of what we call farm-boys into the units engaged on overground operations – the Trail-Blazer Division, QMGC, FINTEL, SIG-INT and AMEXICO. Not yearlings – super-straights, smooth-boned and clear-skinned. Just like you and me.
‘When I say a large number, don’t get the wrong idea. The percentage of farm-boys – and girls – in these units has always averaged less than ten per cent. We’ve always put the cream of the crop through the Flight Academy. The best of the rest have gone onto the wagon-trains. That’s why people like Brickman have performed so well.
‘The overground is in their blood. They can handle the vast open spaces and they don’t pull TRICS. But sometimes the conditioning fails and they get the urge to cut and run. They become renegades. But they’re the lucky ones. Ordinary cee-bees who go over the side eventually succumb to radiation-sickness.’
‘But we don’t …’
‘No. But then we’re Family.’
Karlstrom nodded. ‘Right. So the overground is still radioactive.’
‘Oh, yes. The level of contamination is less than it was a century ago, but it’s still dangerously high. Even if they could overcome their fear of open-spaces, extended exposure would prove fatal for the majority of our present population.’ The P-G smiled. ‘Did you think this was just another lie – like pinning the blame for it on the Mutes?’
‘No,’ said Karlstrom. ‘But it’s a useful control mechanism. If the atmospheric radiation dropped to a safe level tomorrow, I certainly wouldn’t tell anybody, would you?’
The P-G smiled again. ‘That’s why you and I get on so well, Ben.’ He sat down in his high-backed chair, laid his forearms on the table and clasped his hands together.
‘What I have to tell you relates to OPERATION SQUARE-DANCE. Some of our home-baked super-straights have also been “gifted”.’
‘Steve and Roz Brickman …’
Jefferson nodded. ‘They’re among the most outstanding examples to date, but the research programme has been running for several decades. And as a result of intensive investigation of their physiology down to the molecular level and beyond, we’ve discovered certain “markers” in their genes. We still don’t know the how and why of Mute magic but we can now identify those individuals who have the potentiality to become wordsmiths, summoners and seers.’
‘Or all three …’
The P-G nodded approvingly. ‘You’ve got it in one, Ben. We believe we now know the genetic markers that the Talisman would have to possess. Now that does not necessarily mean that someone with these markers will be the Talisman, but they would have the potentiality.’
‘I think I see where this is leading …’
‘Do you? I wonder. We’ve known about Steve and Roz’s genetic make-up since Day One, and now we have Clearwater’s. Tissue samples were flown to the Life Institute soon after the Red River medics got her on the operating table. The unknown element is Cadillac. But he may still fall into the net. Neither Steve, Roz nor Clearwater have all three markers but we ran their data through COLUMBUS and fed in some variable combinations for Cadillac.
‘The result was two interesting matches. Steve and Clearwater could produce a child with the potentiality to become the Talisman, and so could Roz and Cadillac. Both children could possess all three “gifts”.’
‘And we already have one of them under our control …’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you think that Cadillac may pair off with Roz …’
‘It’s not inevitable, but it’s a possibility we have to consider. We don’t know the full story behind her unauthorized transfer to the The Lady. She may have engineered it. The rational part of me says it doesn’t make sense but we can’t ignore the accuracy of the Talisman Prophecy. And its force, Ben. We’re up against something that is … beyond our present comprehension.’
The P-G brushed aside the metaphysical dimensions to the problem and got back to basics. ‘It’s quite possible to imagine Cadillac jacking up Roz just to get even with Brickman.’
‘Yes … interesting situation.’
Jefferson studied Karlstrom. ‘What plot are you hatching now?’
‘I was wondering if we could get Brickman to open up the way Roz did.’
‘You mean give us a map reference, plus what she was thinking and feeling?’ The P-G considered the possibility. ‘There may be no limit to what he might do – given the right inducements.’
‘I thought we were already providing them.’
The P-G responded with a tongue in cheek smile. ‘Fran has always had a weakness for young studs like Brickman. But if he proves more than a passing fancy we can always build her into the package. As you know, the Family is always prepared to support worthy causes.’
‘Indeed …’ Karlstrom expanded his initial suggestion. ‘If Brickman can establish contact, there’s a chance he’ll be able to give us a rough fix. Now that we’ve eliminated the clan, they’re on their own. We can snatch them any time we want. Failing that, Brickman should – at the very least – be able to tell us if she’s pregnant. Given their past relationship his reaction to that news should be very interesting.’
‘Go on …’
‘The child that Clearwater is carrying. Is it possible to run those tests you mentioned while it’s still in the womb?’
‘That’s something I’d have to check up on. But for the moment, let’s say yes.’
‘Then if the test proves that Brickman’s child doesn’t have all three markers, it’s possible that Roz – if she became pregnant – might give birth to the Talisman.’
‘She might. I think I know what you’re going to say but tell me anyway.’
‘Psychosomatic wounding. The involuntary telepathic link which caused Roz to share the mental trauma and enabled her body to mirror the wounds suffered by Brickman. Real wounds – even if the phenomenon was only temporary. If we wanted to eliminate Roz and her unborn child all we would have to do is kill Brickman.
‘If – for the sake of argument – he fell down one of the deep ventilation shafts and her mind and body shared the experience, there’s no way that child could survive even if, by some miracle, she did. The shock would cause her to abort.’
‘You’re right. That’s worth bearing in mind. However I don’t think I’ve explained why we’ve developed these conditioning techniques and what we’ve aiming to do. These farm-boys, the smart Mutes we’re raised … the programme is designed to turn their heads around, to change their whole nature, to make them into Trackers. To own them, body and soul – so that even if they somehow discovered they were Mutes, they would still remain loyal to the Federation and the Family.’
Jefferson stood up. ‘And despite the odd mishap, we’re almost there. Earth magic still eludes us. Clearwater may help us with that. But we’ve got the secret of their longevity, their resistance to pain and we’re close to reproducing the brilliance of their wordsmiths and the ability to read the stones.’
‘We can take that Mute clay and mould it any way we want. We can transform it into a human being. That’s why we been searching for the Talisman, Ben. We don’t want to kill him. We want to make him one of us.’