Lundkwist tugged at Steve’s parade suit, forcing him to take a step towards her. She closed her trousered thighs against his legs. ‘Come on, Brickman, I never made it with you. And after today, I may never see you again.’
‘Nothing I can do about that.’
‘Oh, yes there is.’ Lundkwist stood up, slipped her arms round his waist and gently ground his genitals with the point of her pelvis. ‘Five weeks from now I could be on a wagon train heading into Mute territory. Six weeks from now I could cease to exist. Eight weeks before my seventeenth birthday. If I’m going to go into the meat business I want the satisfaction of knowing I’ve been with the best.’ Without waiting for Steve’s answer she lifted his trail-bag clear of the bed, closed the sliding door to the shack, unzipped his tunic then swiftly peeled off her own uniform and climbed onto the bunk.
Steve glanced at his guard-father. Jack Brickman’s head was slumped sideways on the pillow, his open mouth accentuating the hollowness of his cheeks. He lifted his guard-father’s hand a few inches then let it go. It fell back limply onto his lap with the lifelessness that characterized deep sleep. Steve turned back to Don Lundkwist and undressed in his own good time. He ran his eyes casually over her naked body. Neat. A strong neck and good square shoulders, well-defined muscles without that bunchy look that some of the guys went for. He lay down beside her.
Lundkwist ran an appraising hand along his shoulder, then down the side of his chest onto his hips. ‘I really get off on you, Brickman. How come we had to wait three years for this?’
Steve shrugged. ‘Busy, I guess. Okay, how do you want it?’
Don teased his mouth with her tongue. ‘Every which way. The works.’ She turned around and backed into him. Underneath the deep UV-tan, her shoulders were covered with freckles. Even though they had often been under the showers at the same time it was something Steve had never noticed before. He snaked one arm underneath her and up over her slim breasts. Don grabbed his other hand before he had decided what to do with it, and slid it down between her legs. ‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, yes!’ She arched her neck and rubbed her face against his.
Steve closed his eyes and pictured her making it with that creep Gus White. And the other guys. Saying the same thing, reacting the same way. It was an accepted fact that by the end of the course almost everybody had made it with everybody else. It was no big deal. If you were that way inclined – and most guys were – you just went the rounds on a regular basis.
Brickman was not so inclined. But don’t get the wrong idea about this young man. He was not lacking any vital parts, suffering from dimensional deficiency, or bereft of the normal urges that come upon young people of his age. His voluntary celibacy merely reflected his pragmatic approach to life.
Brickman had not gone the rounds for the simple reason that – while it might afford some welcome relief – it was not part of the curriculum. There were no marks awarded for jacking up, or bombing, one’s fellow cadets. It was not even regarded as a reliable way to make friends and influence people. Consequently, it figured lower than nowhere on his list of priorities. On the other hand, being Brickman, he could not bear the thought of doing anything badly and now that he had allowed Don to get to him, Steve wanted to do it right.
He held on like a limpet as Don ground her rump into his belly. It felt like someone had lit a fire in his lap. It wasn’t the first time but it was the first time in years. He had buried the memory of how it had felt at the back of his mind. Now it came flooding back, warming his body and for a while, he forgot that his guard-father’s wheelchair was parked less than two feet away and that at any minute, the rest of his kinfolk might walk in through the door.
Half an hour, or maybe an hour later, after they’d done everything but bounce off the walls, they lay alongside each other breathing deep and hard. Where their bodies touched the skin was tacked together by a thin film of sweat.
Lundkwist caught her breath and put her mouth against Steve’s ear. ‘D’you wanna drop another one in?’
‘Uh-uh,’ said Steve. ‘This is where I bail out.’
‘Okay.’ Lundkwist sat up and dropped her legs over the side of the bunk. ‘That was good. Right on the button.’ She ran a hand down her throat, between her slim breasts and onto her flat hard stomach. ‘Need a shower but, uh, somehow I think I’m gonna have to leave that till I get home.’
Steve nodded. ‘Long ride to Wichita,’ he observed. Lundkwist came from the northernmost Federation base – Monroe Field in Kansas, opened up in 2886. Which also made it the newest. ‘Your kinfolk here?’
‘Are you kidding?’ said Lundkwist. ‘They brought the whole base along.’ She began to dress.
As Steve put his clothes on he studied Lundkwist and thought about what they had done. It had set his brain and body fizzing with feelings and desires he had long since put a cap on. Putting the bomb in the barrel with her had provided an undeniable moment of pleasure but that was something he could live without. Allowing yourself to need other people in that way – to let them get that close was a dangerous luxury. It made you vulnerable.
‘So…’ said Steve, ‘It’s “goodbye” then.’
‘Yeah… we’re booked out on the four o’clock shuttle.’ Lundkwist checked her watch then zipped up her parade tunic and adjusted the tasselled Honour Cadet lanyard.
Steve could have cheerfully strangled her with it.
‘Good luck and, uh – good hunting.’
‘You too.’ Brickman established firm eye contact and smiled warmly as they shook hands. ‘And take it easy, okay? You made the Number One spot. You don’t have to prove it all over again to the Mutes.’
He patted her shoulder as she turned away. Lundkwist looked back at him from the doorway with a tight-lipped smile. ‘You know how to make a guy feel good, Brickman, but underneath that whiter than white smile you really are one mean sonofabitch.’
Steve eyed her steadily and continued dressing. ‘Part of my survival kit.’
‘You know what your trouble is?’ Lundkwist didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘You think you’re different. You’re so busy working at being Number One you’ve got no time to be one of us. It frightens people. And that’s bad – because one day you may need a friend.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Steve imperturbably.
‘Yeah,’ said Lundkwist. She tapped the Minuteman badge on the breast pocket of her tunic. ‘You and I both worked our asses off to win this. I just want you to know that whatever it was you did wrong, in my book you’re still the top gun.’
Steve shrugged modestly and zipped up his pants. ‘Time will tell…’
‘It will indeed,’ said Lundkwist. She stepped away from the door then leaned back in. ‘Oh, by the way – happy birthday.’
FIVE
Two days after his triumph against Shakatak D’Vine, Cadillac went with Clearwater and Mr Snow deep into the forest. They found a glade by the edge of a stream where they squatted crosslegged, facing each other on a carpet of red leaves. Behind them, on all sides, the black-brown trunks of the redwoods stood guard, like giant warriors. Here and there, rose-coloured shafts of sunlight pierced the thick canopy of leaves, casting bright pools of light on the sea of ferns that washed against the gnarled roots of the trees.
Cadillac listened attentively as Clearwater put questions to Mr Snow about her newly-discovered power which, like Cadillac’s prodigious memory, was a gift of the Sky Voices, sent with the blessing of their great mother Mo-Town. Mr Snow explained many things, emphasising that the effort needed to guide the power and shape it to his, or her, will drained the life-force from the summoner. Thus, the greater the force unleashed, the greater the power needed to control it. Great power should only be summoned in extremis because it could, in untrained hands, result in the death of the one who sought to wield it.
This was why Clearwater had fainted when she had saved Cadillac from Shakatak; the summoner was left weakened after the power had passed through their body. He, or she, had
then to wait until their life-force had been restored before the power could be used again. It followed that, in times of danger, the skill of the summoner had to be employed judiciously otherwise he, or she, might find their powers depleted when they were needed most.
When it was Cadillac’s turn to speak he said, ‘I am troubled that I do not hear the Sky Voices.’
Mr Snow smiled. ‘You will hear them when you are ready to listen.’
‘Then teach me how to listen.’
Mr Snow shook his head. ‘The heads of the young are filled with the sounds of the world. The trumpets of vainglory. The dark murmur of earth-longings. With age, your inner ear may learn to shut out such noises. Only then will you discover that the great truths are gifts that come wrapped in silence.’
‘I have a gift of which I have not yet spoken,’ said Cadillac.
‘A pupil should not conceal knowledge from his master,’ said Mr Snow.
Cadillac laughed. ‘Nothing is hidden from you, Old One.’
‘True,’ admitted Mr Snow. His eyes twinkled. ‘Though I do not send my mind into your hut at the dark of the moon.’
Clearwater put her hands over her nose and mouth and eyed Cadillac over her fingertips.
Cadillac took a deep breath to avoid stammering from embarrassment. ‘I did not speak because I was not sure whether it was a true gift or nothing more than dream-stuff fashioned by a half-empty mind.’ He hesitated. ‘I see – pictures in the stones.’
Mr Snow nodded soberly. Clearwater listened, wide-eyed.
‘Not all stones,’ explained Cadillac. ‘Only those which are…’ He groped for the right word.
‘… seeing stones,’ said Mr Snow.
‘Yes.’ Cadillac reached towards the bank of the stream and picked up a smooth rock the size of a large apple. ‘This one says nothing.’ He ran a finger round its circumference. ‘The seeing stones have a ring of soft golden light. I cannot always see it but if I hold one of these stones in my hand and take its essence into my mind, I see pictures. Whether they are in the stone or in my mind I cannot tell but–’ Cadillac shook his head and sighed regretfully, ‘I do not understand them.’
Mr Snow nodded again. ‘The power is difficult to master. The pictures you saw could have been from the past, or from the future. They are of the place where the stone lies. Stored memories, visions of things yet to come, sealed like reflections of the cloud-filled sky on the surface of the endless River of Time.’
‘Can you teach me to make sense of these things?’
Mr Snow shook his head. ‘No. The art of seer-ship cannot be taught. He who has the gift must learn to use it himself.’
‘So,’ said Cadillac. ‘I am wordsmith and seer. Might not the power of the summoner enter me in the days to come – as it has been given to Clearwater?’
‘It might,’ said Mr Snow.
Cadillac weighed up the old man and squared his shoulders. ‘The shadow of Talisman is upon me,’ he said boldly. ‘Am I to be the Thrice-Gifted One?’
Mr Snow closed his eyes as if seeking guidance. Clearwater reached out silently and took hold of Cadillac’s hand. Their eyes met briefly then returned to Mr Snow but he did not reply, or open his eyes for several minutes.
‘That is not a question I can answer,’ he said finally. ‘I conceal nothing. I do not know. There have been many times when I have felt the finger of the Sky Voices pointing at you but I now know that my thoughts were coloured by my desire to see Talisman enter the world before I go to the High Ground and–’ Mr Snow chuckled,’ – the unworthy notion that I had been chosen to be his Teacher.’ He sighed. ‘You may be.’ He indicated Clearwater. ‘She may be –’
‘But she is not a wordsmith!’ cried Cadillac. ‘Does it not say that the Thrice-Gifted One shall be wordsmith, summoner and seer?’
‘That is indeed the prophecy,’ admitted Mr Snow. ‘But six days ago, which of us knew of the powers that Clearwater possessed? And how long ago did you find your first seeing stone?’
‘Two or three years,’ replied Cadillac grumpily.
‘Let me remind you of the prophecy,’ said Mr Snow. ‘Man-child, or woman-child the One may be. And none will know who is the Thrice-Gifted One until the earth gives the sign.’
Cadillac eyed Mr Snow disappointedly. His voice was tinged with resentment. ‘Are you sure the Sky Voices have not spoken of this more directly?’
Mr Snow threw up his hands in mock despair and gave them both a long-suffering look.
Clearwater smiled sympathetically.
‘They have spoken but the meaning of their words is clouded,’ replied Mr Snow. ‘I cannot put your mind at rest.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said Cadillac.
‘Very well,’ said Mr Snow. ‘They have told me that Talisman will be someone known to you.’
Cadillac exchanged a look of surprise with Clearwater then turned back to Mr Snow. ‘Someone known to me now – or someone I will come to know?’
Mr Snow uncrossed his legs.
‘Wait!’ cried Cadillac. ‘Does that also include me?’
Mr Snow shrugged and got to his feet. ‘It means what it says. You are a wordsmith. Work it out.’
SIX
Within minutes of arriving at his kinfolk’s quarters, Steve fell into bed and slept for two whole days and nights. The relentless pace of his last year at the Flight Academy, plus the extra adrenalin that had been pumped into his system during the final run-up to the exams and his overground solo had put his mind and body into permanent overdrive. It was only when he finally slipped under the quilt with the knowledge that he would not be awakened by an electronic trumpet blast that the months of pent-up fatigue were released. As he lay back, he felt the aching tiredness flood out of his bones and into the surrounding flesh, spreading out in every direction like a slow-burning fire until his body was suffused with a dull, prickly pain that penetrated every fibre; oozed out of every pore. At the point when it became unbearable, darkness enveloped him.
Roosevelt Field – the place where Steve had been reared and schooled and with which he was identified by his middle name – was the operational headquarters and home base of a ten thousand-strong division of Trackers. Compared to Grand Central, it had the no-frills homespun atmosphere of a frontier town but it was nothing like anything ever built in the pioneer West. Roosevelt Field was a self-contained multi-level mini-city. An air-conditioned colony of human termites with tv in every burrow, situated fifteen hundred feet down in the bedrock under the pre-Holocaust city of Santa Fe. Like all the other once great cities of the Southern United States this was now nothing more than a dot on the map of the overground but its name had remained in use because it marked the geographical location of the Federation base in the earthshield below.
The layout of Roosevelt/Santa Fe followed the standard concentric ground plan developed by Grand Central engineers in the eighth century. Basically, it consisted of a central plaza surrounded by two circular transit tunnels (Ringways) at a radius of one and two miles. Eight more transit tunnels (Radials) arranged like the spokes of a wheel linked the plaza with the 1st and 2nd Ringway. At each intersection there were huge vertical shafts (2-Level Rises or 4-Level Deeps) with accommodation units, work-shops and community areas built into the sides – rather like skyscrapers turned inside out. The domed hub of Roosevelt Field was known as New Deal Plaza; Annie and Jack Brickman’s quarters were on Level Three-8 at N.E. and 2nd – the shaft known as Tennessee Valley Deep.
Steve woke on the morning of the third day. The aching tiredness had vanished but, in the process, his bones had turned to jelly. He felt drained of all energy and did not need much persuasion from Annie to stay in bed. Roz, his kin-sister, brought him a breakfast tray from the Level Three mess deck, and put the remote control handset for the tv within easy reach.
The Federation provided Trackers with nine tv channels. 1 and 2 gave access to the Archive/Data Bank; 3, 4, 5, 6 provided Study Programmes covering a wide range of subjects; 7 off
ered Vocational skills; 8 was a Recreation channel offering a variety of combative video games, such as the popular ‘Shoot-A-Mute’. Feeling he had earned a break from studying, and having trained for the last three years to kill Mutes, Steve selected Channel 9 – the Public Service Channel – something he rarely watched. PSC broadcasts were composed almost exclusively of inspirational programmes, banal blue sky balladeers, and the networked news from GC, interspersed with mind-deadening ‘local interest’ items from the home-base station.
One such item was on the screen now. An on-the-spot report about Young Pioneer work teams. An earnest stringer from Roosevelt Field who insisted on being called Ron, put the next of a series of penetrating questions to a sweat-stained, dusty, politely attentive thirteen-year-old Group Leader. ‘So, how many yards of rock do you think your team of boys and girls has dug out today, Doug?’
Thank you, and goodnight. Click. Steve ate the rest of his breakfast facing a blank, grey-faced screen.
After four days of virtual inactivity, Steve’s natural energy level was restored and he began to feel restless. He would have liked to talk more with his guard-father but Jack was unable to sustain a meaningful conversation. After two or three exchanges his voice would become faint with exhaustion and he would lose track of the subject under discussion.
Annie Brickman, in between looking after Jack, was working behind the counter on the Level Three South mess deck. With the exception of senior staff officers – like Bart – everybody on a Tracker base, regardless of their qualifications, had to put in a fixed number of Public Duty hours every month. In theory, PD entailed anything and everything to do with the running of the base; in practice, it usually meant one hundred hours on a work squad assigned to repetitive low-grade tasks ranging from food preparation and laundry work to road-sweeping and garbage disposal.
Steve wandered into his kin-sister’s room. Roz was packing her trail-bag, glancing every now and then at the tv set on the table by her bunk bed. She was running a videotaped Inter-Med lecture on genetics.
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