Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  Brushing aside the congratulations of other A-Flight cadets in the crowd milling excitedly around the screens, Brickman retired to his shack, wedged the door shut, and spent two silent, solitary hours trying to come to terms with what had happened. He went over every move he had made in each of the tests and could find nothing that could have cost him marks. His one error had been that fatal hesitation on the ramp after landing but he could simply not believe that those seven seconds had cost him not only the first place he was convinced he deserved but also second and third.

  And to find himself trailing fourth behind a no-hoper like Gus White who had not even been close in the monthly class tests! It just didn’t add up…

  Admittedly there had been the additional problem of the three minute break in the transmission of data from the sensors taped to his body but he had talked this through exhaustively with the Adjudicators and Ground Control after landing and they had accepted that the switch could have been moved inadvertently. The data transmitter was not fitted to Skyhawks when used operationally and during his discussion with the Adjudicators they had admitted that it was positioned awkwardly. But despite their apparent understanding he had been savagely penalised.

  No matter. One day, he would even the score. With Lundkwist, with Gus White, Carrol, the Flight Adjudicators and the others – as yet unknown – who had conspired to humiliate him. They would all pay. It might take years but that would only make his revenge all the sweeter.

  The decision did nothing to assuage his bitter disappointment but it filled his breast with a harsh, cold joy. It enabled him to think clearly, to function.

  Rising from his bunk, Brickman showered, put on a fresh, neatly pressed jump-suit, then sought out Lundkwist and Gus White amidst the raucous celebration party in the mess and offered his congratulations; hugging each of them in turn with heart-warming sincerity.

  Faced with the astonishing results, CFI Carrol felt obliged to commiserate with his star pupil. Brickman put on an outward show of philosophical resignation but Carrol knew that he felt himself to be the victim of a blatant injustice. Inwardly, Brickman was suffering. And would continue to suffer.

  Which, in so far as Carrol could understand these things, was how those who ordered the affairs of the Federation wished it to be. For, in addition to their luggage, the Adjudicators from Grand Central had brought floppy-disc files on all the candidates. No one at the Academy had been allowed to see what they contained but, in an unguarded moment, Carrol had glimpsed an enigmatic notation on the cover of Brickman’s electronic dossier.

  It read: ‘This candidate is to be marked down’.

  THREE

  Armed with a crossbow and a handful of the precious iron bolts fashioned in the Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem, Cadillac and Clearwater made their way down to the grassy plain below the settlement. Clearwater was the sixteen-year-old girl chosen by the clan elders to be his soul-mate. They had not yet crossed wrists or exchanged the blood kiss but since the Yellowing of the Old Earth they had lain together, skin against skin, under his furs at each black moon – what was known to the Plainfolk as ‘sleeping between the wolf and the bear’.

  Underneath the swirling pattern of black, brown and dark cream pigment, Clearwater’s body was smooth skinned, like Cadillac’s. Her jaw was small, her teeth evenly set and concealed by her lips; her long hair was streaked with yellow and brown like the leaves blown from the trees before the White Death; her eyes were a brilliant pale blue like the morning sky that poured light into the lakes and streams, bringing them to life and making them good to drink. Hence her given name of Clearwater, blood-daughter of Sundance and Thunderbird, a great warrior who filled ten head-poles before falling at the battle of the Black Hills. She was tall and straight-limbed like Cadillac, swift as an eagle, strong as a mountain-lion, and her heart was warm and filled with goodness, like the Middle Earth at the time of the Gathering.

  Cadillac and Clearwater journeyed eastwards through the shoulder-high orange grass until the mountain which rose behind the M’Call settlement was no wider than the fingers of their outstretched hand. As the sun reached the head of the sky, they drank from a shallow, swift-running river and rested for a while in the cool shade of a large rock. The water rippled over worn pebble beds with a slapping noise like women throwing flat-bread at a clanbake.

  Cadillac climbed up onto the rock and cautiously scanned the ground beyond the river. The grass was shorter on the far side and in the distance, he saw the tell-tale flash of white hindquarters that indicated a herd of fast-foot; sharp-eyed reddish-brown deer that could outrun a mountain lion. They would require careful stalking but if he could bring down one of the horned males it would be a highly prized catch that would give him standing with the Bears – and might even earn him a fire song.

  Cadillac slithered quickly down the rock to where Clearwater lay curled in its shadow. He touched her shoulder. ‘Fast-foot.’ He pointed across the river then picked up his crossbow and cranked the lever that drew the bowstring onto the half-trigger.

  Clearwater sat up and smoothed her boned and ribboned rat-tail plaits into place around her ears. ‘How far?’

  ‘Two bolts,’ grunted Cadillac. Even with the aid of the lever, it required considerable strength to pull the bowstring back to the half-way position.

  A bolt was one of the methods used by Mutes to judge distances and was, as the name suggests, the distance a bolt travelled when fired from a fully-cocked crossbow. Since the maximum range could vary considerably it was a somewhat imprecise measurement but, on average, one bolt equalled a little under four fifths of a mile.

  Clearwater climbed swiftly up onto the overhanging rock and searched the plain beyond the river. ‘I see them.’ She clambered halfway down then jumped, landing gracefully at Cadillac’s feet. ‘Let us wait here. They will come to the river at sundown.’

  ‘Are we old ones?’ said Cadillac. ‘Must we sit and wait until someone puts meat in our lap? She-ehh!’ He breathed out sharply, making a short hissing sound – a sign, among Mutes, of annoyance. He turned away, and moved to the water’s edge.

  Clearwater caught hold of his wrist. ‘We should not cross the river. The water marks the edge of our turf. If you would bring food, let us take fish.’

  Cadillac jerked his arm free. ‘Fish!? Where is the standing in that!?’

  ‘You have standing,’ said Clearwater. ‘You are the one who will speak for us after Mr Snow has gone to the High Ground. You have no need to hunt, or run with the Bears. That is the task of those born without pictures on their tongues.’

  ‘Need… She-eeh! What do you know of my needs?’ said Cadillac. He laid a fist on his heart. ‘I would be as they are. Oh, I know I cannot be like my brothers in the strength and shape of my body. Like you, I was made from a different clay. But my heart is as strong and as brave as theirs. I paint pictures with my tongue, yes – but the colours are those of the brave. The flashing silver of sharp iron, the blood red of victory. The history of the M’Call clan and the Plainfolk is the history of its warriors. The tales I tell are of battles won by Bears with Names of Power –’

  ‘You, too, have a Name of Power –’

  ‘It is empty. I have no standing. My tongue is full of brave deeds but my knife-arm has never drawn blood. How many fire songs will bear my name when I go to the High Ground?’

  Clearwater’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘Is that all that fills your mind? To be puffed up by praise – like a marsh frog with a throat full of wind? How many times must it be said? You were born in the shadow of the Talisman. It fell upon you! Not upon Motor-Head, Hawkwind, Steel-Eye or Convoy or the other Bears you long to run with, but you! When the Sky Voices call you to the service of Talisman, you will have to be braver than the bravest of your clan-brothers. More fearless than my father. Mightier than the mightiest warriors who have gone to the High Ground. When that moment comes you will stand at the side of Talisman, and there will be a thousand fire songs that bear your name!’

  ‘But
when will that be? asked Cadillac.

  ‘Who can tell when, or how, Talisman will enter the world?’ replied Clearwater. ‘You must wait as we all wait. But you must prepare your heart and mind. You must listen to the sky.’

  ‘I listen. But I hear nothing. The Sky Voices do not speak through me.’

  Clearwater tossed her head. ‘She-ehh! You anger me when you talk as if you had nothing between your ears. How many times has Mr Snow spoken of these things? You must hold yourself ready for whatever task is to be given to you.’

  ‘I am ready,’ said Cadillac. ‘But I am sick of waiting.’ He broke away and splashed across the pebbled bed of the river. Even at the deepest point, the rippling water barely covered his knees. Clearwater sighed, shook her head – and waded after him.

  She caught up with him as he reached the far bank. ‘Cadillac – stop. This is not our turf. You swore to Mr Snow to keep within bounds – to never put the gift of words in danger.’

  Cadillac laughed. ‘Where is the danger in a herd of fast-foot? Did you not say I was born in the shadow of the Talisman? If it is true, then his shadow will protect us. Come…’

  The young fast-foot males were scattered around the edge of the herd on picket duty, alternately grazing and nosing the air, their long necks arched, white-rimmed eyes sweeping across the knee-high grass. With the sun beginning to descend towards the mountains, the fast-foot were slowly moving closer to the river where they would gather in the cool of the evening to drink at the water’s edge – unless a careless movement by Cadillac or Clearwater stampeded them in the opposite direction.

  Clearwater was tempted to make such a move but she knew that Cadillac was determined to bring one down. There was no point in making it more difficult. She understood his feelings. ‘Standing’, being able to ‘cut it’, was of paramount importance within a Mute clan, and crucial to the self-respect of a young male reaching the age of fourteen – the age when he became a warrior. But as the next wordsmith of the M’Calls, Cadillac had no need of standing. The gift the Sky Voices had given him set him apart from the rest of the clan, and when he took Mr Snow’s place, even the clan elders would seek his advice, would defer to his opinions and judgement. Wordsmiths did not need the raw, hot-blooded courage of Bears. They needed to be calm, resolute. Cadillac could be both but, at other times, he burned with a child-like impatience that made Clearwater doubt the wisdom of the Sky-Voices that spoke through Mr Snow; the all-seeing, all-knowing powers that guided the destiny of the Plainfolk. When they had poured her spirit into the belly of Sundance, her mother, and shaped the course of her life-stream to flow alongside that of Cadillac, did they really know how difficult he could be…?

  Moving downwind, Cadillac found a dry, shallow gully which snaked away into the plain towards the centre of the herd where the capo – the dominant male – grazed, surrounded by his retinue of a dozen or so females. Cadillac carefully parted the long grass and counted the branches on the capo’s horns. Ten points. No Bear in the M’Call clan had brought in a fast-foot with more points in the lifetime of Mr Snow. To bring down this capo would give him great standing in the eyes of his clan-brothers.

  Squatting in the bottom of the gully, Cadillac and Clearwater cut tufts of the long orange grass and quickly wove them together to make a tall crown for their heads and a cape to cover their shoulders and backs. They tied the capes around their necks and waists with plaited ribbons of grass and put the tight-fitting crowns with their waving plumes of grass on their heads, arranging the strands that made up the deep fringe around their faces. Using their hunting knives, they unearthed a layer of damp clay which they smeared over their bodies to mask the smell of their flesh. Thus prepared, they crawled along the gully, working their way deeper into the heart of the plain, cautiously raising their heads from time to time to check the position of the capo.

  He was still in the centre of the herd, but masked from attack by the does in his mating group. Twice, as they crept closer, young fast-foot males leapt across the gully only yards ahead of them to continue feeding on the other side. Hardly daring to breathe, Cadillac and Clearwater inched along. The gully became shallower, forcing them to worm along on their bellies to avoid showing themselves above the rim. The carpet of knee-high grass had broken up into scattered tufts, interspersed with short, sweeter, red grass on which the fast-foot were grazing.

  The gully angled sharply to the left around a large outcrop of rock, taking them away from the capo. Cadillac led the way round the bend and froze. A few yards away, the earth had been gouged out from under a rock by the flood waters in the rainy season. A big rattle-tailed snake lay coiled in the shadow of the overhang.

  Adopting the almost imperceptible movements of a stick insect, Cadillac peered over the edge of the gully. There was no long grass within reach. Three fast-foot were grazing some twenty to thirty yards away, tails lazily flicking flies from the long heart-shaped white flash on their hindquarters. One of them raised her head and looked over her shoulder towards Cadillac, her jaw moving from side to side in a casual, ruminative manner. As Cadillac held his breath, she tossed her head sharply in a vain effort to drive away the flies hovering round her eyes then stepped forward to crop a new stretch of grass.

  Cadillac sank slowly back into the gully and saw that Clearwater had been checking the other side. She pointed towards the sleeping rattler, indicating that Cadillac should go past him.

  ‘What if he wakes?’ hissed Cadillac.

  Clearwater smiled. ‘You shall have a fine fire song – telling how bravely you died. Go –’ she whispered. ‘He will not wake until we are ready. We will send him to the capo.’

  Brave as he believed himself to be, Cadillac had an unreasoning fear of snakes. But to have any standing at all, if it had to be killed, he would have to kill it. He regretted bringing Clearwater with him. He had done so to have an eyewitness of his hunting prowess. Now he would have to be brave. He took out his hunting knife, placed it between his teeth and, pushing the crossbow ahead of him, he edged forward gingerly with his back pressed against the right-hand slope of the gully.

  Taking the knife-sticks from her belt, Clearwater inserted the tapered end of the first into the hollow handle of her knife and twisted the second into the tube of rolled hide that was bound to the end of the first – transforming her hunting knife into a spear with a strong four-foot shaft. She moved forward, knife-stick raised, poised on one knee ready to skewer the rattler at the first sign of danger.

  As Cadillac eased his chest past the snake he saw to his horror that its black beady eyes were open. He froze momentarily as the forked tongue began darting in and out less than two feet from his stomach, then willed himself forward, wriggling past with the minimum of movement. His heart was pounding as he drew clear and turned on his tormentor. Hurriedly assembling his own knife-stick, he aimed the trembling blade at the coiled bulk of the snake.

  Clearwater reversed her knife-stick and gently prodded the rattler with the butt of the shaft. The rattler stirred, uncoiled the top half of its body and hissed angrily. Clearwater’s eyes fixed on the snake with an unwavering, hypnotic stare. Cadillac jabbed the point of his knife-stick against the rattler’s throat as it flicked its head towards him, jaws open, then both recoiled simultaneously. The bones on its tailed rustled ominously. Uncoiling the rest of its six-foot length, the rattler tried to slither up around the rock under which it had been sleeping. Clearwater quickly drove it back. Caught between the two prodding knife-sticks the rattler took the only avenue of escape, zig-zagging out of the shadows onto the sunlit side of the gully and up over the edge into the short grass.

  Cadillac took a tentative peek over the top. ‘Where has it gone?’

  ‘Towards the capo,’ whispered Clearwater. Holding the knife-stick in her two hands, she rested her elbows on the edge of the gully, pointed the knife blade towards the capo, put the butt of the shaft against her forehead and closed her eyes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ whispered Cadillac.r />
  ‘Don’t talk,’ she hissed, closing her eyes even tighter. ‘Load your crossbow and aim for the capo.’

  Cadillac slithered quickly along the gully, pushed the camouflaged crossbow over the edge and wormed his way into a patch of long grass. Reaching into the bag at his belt, he took out one of the barbed, ten inch-long bolts and placed it against the taut bowstring, with one of its four vanes in the slot cut in the barrel of the bow. He parted the grass cautiously. The capo with its prized ten-point horns was about two hundred yards away. Well within the range of a Mute crossbow but a difficult shot for a relatively untrained marksman like Cadillac. He rubbed his palms in the earth to wipe off the sweat.

  The female fast-foot masking the capo started nervously and skittered sideways as the rattler reached them. The capo backed away, stamping its right foreleg, nosing the ground, then tossing its great horns in the air. Cadillac came up on one knee and brought the crossbow hard into his shoulder, the elbow of his left arm locked against his raised thigh, hand supporting the barrel of the bow rock-steady. He sighted along the upright vane of the bolt, aiming at the chest of the capo, allowing for the distance the bolt would drop on its way to the target. The big fast-foot lunged forward, caught the rattler on the forward points of its horns and tossed it high into the air. As the powerful neck arched backwards, Cadillac fired at the base of the white throat. The capo staggered under the force of the impact, mouth open to the sky, emitted a brief deep-throated roar of pain and alarm, staggered, fell to its knees then toppled sideways, hitting the ground with a great thud.

  Cadillac leapt to his feet with a whooping cry of triumph as the rest of the herd bounded away eastwards across the plain; the young males, who had crossed the gully behind them, jinking crazily as they passed. Clearwater scrambled out of the gully carrying their knife-sticks.