Some of the specialist lineman grades also had this multi-role capability. And given a relatively simple aircraft such as the Skyhawk, many more Trackers could have been trained as pilots. But learning to fly was not the problem. There was another reason why wingmen rightly regarded themselves -as CFI Carrol had said – as the élite force of the Federation. The thing that separated wingmen from other Trackers was their ability to act independently at long range, for days at a time if necessary. The wingmen were the highly disciplined lone wolves; the sole permitted aberration in a tightly regimented society which placed unceasing emphasis on group identity, group effort.
Linemen on Trail-Blazer expeditions were able to function beyond the reassuring confines of the wagon train as members of a combat-group but it should be understood that many of them had a residual fear of the sheer vastness of the overground. Isolated from his unit, or companions, an ordinary lineman started to come apart in a matter of hours. He would undergo progressive disorientation and, if isolated for twenty-four hours or more, his movements would become increasingly lethargic. He would seek cover, in a cave, or by digging a hole under a rock, and stay there – unable to move further. Linemen had been found after several days in a completely comatose condition. If not found, they simply died – from exhaustion or starvation. Trail-Blazer records contained reports of men having been found dead from thirst under rocks on the banks of rivers. In other instances, when no cover was available, it had been known for Trackers to bury themselves alive.
The work during the pre-embarkation period was organised on a four-hour on, four-hour off basis, with each section divided into two work squads to allow specialist maintenance tasks and equipment tests to continue without interruption. The four off-duty hours were known as ‘Stand-Down’; the all-too fleeting moment when crew-men caught up with their personal chores and grabbed some sleep.
It was also the time when Steve and the other ‘wet-feet’ questioned the old trail-hands about what it was like ‘up top’. Depending on your attitude to things military, it may be sad, or reassuring, to learn that, despite the Holocaust, soldiers have not changed since time immemorial. Steve and the other young wingmen were treated to the traditional blood-curdling tales of hand-to-hand combat and the primitive savagery of their wily enemy – the half-idiot, half-magical Mute.
‘D’you know what those lump-heads sometimes do if they catch you?’ said one grizzled trail-hand, concluding a particularly hair-raising catalogue of Mute atrocities.
The eight wet-feet who sat round him, most of them with open mouths, shook their heads silently.
‘They carry you on a pole back to their village, strip you off and peg you out with your arms and legs apart, then they set this bunch of beavers onto you.’
‘What’s a beaver?’ asked Steve.
‘A female Mute,’ said the trail-hand. ‘You never heard talk of bouncin’ beaver?’
‘No,’ said Steve. The others silently shook their heads.
The trail-hand eyed them all and nodded soberly. ‘I can see you guys have got a lot to learn. Anyway – five or six of these dick-eaters set themselves around you – right? And you’re lyin’ there lookin’ up at these big jaws and big teeth some of ‘em have got and you’re prayin’ that one of ‘em’s goin’ to do you a favour and tear your throat out. But no. You know what they do? They take turns to stick their tongue in your belly button. True as I’m sittin’ here, that’s what they do. Then bit by bit, two of’em start working their way up to your shoulders and along your arms and two more work down to your feet. A lick here, a little nibble there. By the time the bottom two are kissin’ your kneecaps you start thinking – “Hey, what the hell? This ain’t so bad after all.” – and maybe you start to jack up a little.’
By this time, his audience was leaning forward with rapt expressions, hanging on every word.
The trail-hand ran his tongue round his lips and continued, his voice becoming softer. ‘That’s what they’ve been waiting for. One of ‘em sits on your chest with her ass in your face, and brings you up real good. “Oh, mother!” you say to yourself. “How come this ain’t in The Book?” That’s when the four of ‘em grab a hand and a foot and start bitin’ off your fingers and toes. And you holler, boy. Oh, Columbus! You hit high C. It hurts, believe me.’
The trail-hand raised his hands and extended the fingers. Both the middle fingers had been severed at the second joint and the tips were missing on the third. ‘That’s for openers. Just when you think you can’t stand the pain, the one on your chest bares those big teeth and chews your jack off – the way a mountain lion tears the leg off a buffalo. And while she’s doing that, another beaver sneaks up behind your head, grabs you by the ears and sucks your goddam eyeballs out!’
Steve felt a cold shiver pierce his loins. Gus White, who had been sitting between Fazetti and Webber, went green about the gills, leapt to his feet and was sick in the corridor outside. The story-teller, a Lucky Six known as Bad News Logan, turned to Steve with a contented grin. ‘You sure your friend is up to this trip?’
Thinking it over afterwards, Steve was inclined to dismiss a large proportion of what he had heard but he was intrigued by the sotto-voce tales of Mute magic. Encountering Jodi Kazan when they were both stood down a couple of days later, Steve decided to risk asking for her opinion on the subject. To his surprise, he discovered that, when off duty, Kazan’s belligerence dropped below boiling point and while she could not be described as friendly she was, at least, approachable; her manner dry, her conversation laconic. She admitted that ‘some strange things have been known to happen’ but was clearly unwilling to discuss the subject further. When Steve pressed her for details she held out her hand. ‘Gimme your ID.’ She got up from the table where they had been drinking java and, using his sensor card, called up the Public Archives on the nearest VDU.
Steve walked over and looked over her shoulder as she scrolled through the index of the Historical Section. ‘I’ve read everything in that,’ he said.
‘Not everything,’ said Kazan. ‘There are different levels of access depending on where you are – and who you are. Didn’t you know that?’ She looked up at him. ‘Obviously not.’
‘You mean – there’s data in there that we don’t know about?’ said Steve, thinking back to what Roz, his sister, had said. The possibility that more information existed had never occurred to him. A store of hidden knowledge! Kazan’s casual announcement of the fact came as a startling revelation. ‘That’s – incredible.’
Kazan shrugged. ‘What you don’t know you don’t miss. You get access to another level when someone in the White House decides you’re ready for it. When they do, they mark your card. Upgrade it.’ She keyed in a seven-digit call-code and brought up the reference she was looking for. She got out of the chair. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
Steve sat down and studied the printed extract on the screen. It was headed ‘922-854-6/MUTE MAGIC’. ‘There are a couple of words I haven’t come across before.’
‘Never mind,’ snapped Kazan. She sat with one leg up on the edge of the table. ‘Just read it out loud.’
Steve took a deep breath and began. ‘Mute magic. From time to time it is rumoured that Mutes possess paranormal –?’
‘Keep going,’ said Kazan.
‘– para-normal powers of communication and the ability to control the forces of nature. This claim can be confidently discounted. Repeated investigations have proved that the temporary tactical successes gained by Mute clans in attacks on wagon trains and way-stations are, without exception, due to the incompetence, or the failure of will, of wagon masters and their crews. In every case examined by the Assessors, the attribution of – mystical – powers to the Mutes has been found to be a device employed by defaulters to rationalise their own failure in the vain hope of avoiding punishment.’ Steve swivelled round to face Kazan. ‘The only force to be feared is that of the Federation.’
‘That’s official,’ she said.
Steve wiped the text, retrieved his ID-Sensor card and put it back in its protective wallet. ‘Yeah, but – is it true?’
Kazan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’
On the sixth day, the depot was crowded with the kin-folk of crew-men from nearby Nixon Field. Harried by Provos, they streamed in orderly fashion across the roads – the long, pillared bays where the wagon trains were housed – and pressed three deep against the crush barrier to watch the crew form up, section by section, alongside The Lady under the gaze of Hartmann and his ten execs.
On the booming command of Buck McDonnell, the crew snapped to attention and the flag-waving crowd fell silent as the familiar, heart-stirring Fanfare for the First Family echoed through the depot’s loudspeakers. The face of George Washington Jefferson the 31st appeared on the ubiquitous television screens and delivered a short, inspirational address in a firm, well-modulated voice – to which the crew of The Lady and the crowd responded with a thunderous ‘HO!!’.
On the command ‘MOUNT WAGONS!’ the crew climbed quickly aboard and took up their stations. The airtight hatches were locked down; the waving crowd became an electronic image on the train’s visicomm system. Up in the saddle – the control centre of the lead command car – Hartmann settled in the Commander’s chair, called a systems read-out and spoke the eagerly awaited words into the mike. ‘Wagons ROLL!’ The clusters of jumbo-sized turbines whined shrilly up to full revs. Power flowed through the drive motors. The giant steel-clad tyres began to turn, easing the camouflaged, serpentine bulk of the wagon train out of its parking bay, and past the crowd of flag-waving spectators.
On the screen above him, Steve saw the crowd break up and run alongside; heard them cheering; felt the glow of excitement as the music flooded through the depot and the wagon train; joined in the singing as The Lady from Louisiana began the long haul up the one-in-twelve gradient towards the overground to the echoing strains of the Trail-Blazer anthem, ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’.
EIGHT
Within a few days of the time predicted by Mr Snow, a posse of Bears returned to the settlement and announced breathlessly that they had seen arrowheads in the sky. They pointed to the south; to that part of the sky where the dark rainclouds and the thunder were stored beyond the rim of the world.
‘How far away were you when you saw them?’ asked Mr Snow, when the Bears faced the hastily gathered clan-elders.
‘Two days running,’ said Mack-Truck, the leader of the hunting party.
‘Does this mean that the iron snake comes?’ said Cadillac. He sat in his appointed place, beside the silver-haired wordsmith. With the exception of those Bears manning the outlying guard posts of the settlement, the rest of the clan was gathered round them.
Mr Snow nodded. ‘Yes, this is the one predicted by the Sky Voices. The cloud warriors seek the best path for the snake. He paused, then added grimly, ‘They also seek us.’
An awed murmur came from the squatting crowd of Mutes.
‘Should we not run?’ asked Long-Tooth, a clan-elder.
Mr Snow shook his head. ‘We cannot outrun the cloud warriors. They can soar over mountains like eagles, and can see as far. But we should hide our huts from the sky. We must move the settlement into the forest that lies four bolts north of where we stand.’
Plainfolk Mutes did not like forests. They preferred to sleep under open skies. ‘It will be dark,’ said a warrior called Hershey-Bar. ‘I have seen this place. The trees are set close one upon the other and the branches press heavy on our heads. We will not be able to breathe.’
‘The darkness will hide us,’ said Mr Snow. ‘And it is good that the trees stand close. The iron snake will not be able to enter. It is the fear of the forest voices that puts a tight band round your chest. You must master that fear. Make the green spirits your friends and the forest will shelter and protect you. And you will soon find you can breathe as easily as on a clear mountain peak.’
The clan elders accepted Mr Snow’s advice. Drawing in the M’Call warriors from the hilltop guard posts, the clan quickly folded their small hide and timber huts, wrapped their pots and other possessions into mats made from plaited grass and loaded everything on trucking poles – a contraption made of saplings and carried on the shoulders of four people like a palanquin. Within a couple of hours, the two thousand strong M’Call clan was assembled in two long files with Bears stationed at the head, middle and tail of the column. Rolling-Stone, the once-great warrior who was now the aging but alert chief elder gave the order to move; the clan broke into a jog-trot, then opened their stride to assume the loping gait of Mutes on the move. At the rear of the column, Bears dragged branches to cover the tracks made by the two lines of runners.
When the M’Call settlement had been re-established around a small clearing several hundred yards in from the southern edge of the forest, the clan reassembled, squatting around the clan elders in their various groups; the warrior Bears, the males over fourteen years old; the She-Wolves, female warriors of the same age group who in times of extreme danger could fight alongside the Bears but whose main role was defence of the settlement; the Cubs, children of both sexes aged from six to fourteen, with their pack leaders; the Den Mothers, child-bearing women whose offspring were five or under; and the Clan Elders – all those over fifty years old. Everybody – except the youngest children, who were carried – moved under their own steam, on their own two feet. Anyone over fifty unable to do so was left to die. In Mute parlance, to refer to someone as ‘legless’ meant they were dead, or near death.
Mr Snow sat to one side of the clan-elders, in case they should wish to consult him. Cadillac sat close behind him. His eyes sought out Clearwater, sitting with her clan-sisters among the She-Wolves.
The subject under discussion was how the clan should react to the imminent arrival of the iron snake on their turf. Iron-Maiden, a clan-elder, was speaking – and advocating a hasty retreat. ‘It is said that the snake’s breath turns men to bone. That sharp iron cannot pierce its skin. That it has eyes in its head and tail that can see in the dark and–’
Motor-Head snorted and leapt to his feet. ‘Why do you fill our ears with the tales of faint-hearts, old woman?! Those in the south are not Plainfolk. They live under the heel of the sand-burrowers. Let us have no more of their yellow words. The names of their clans are dirt in our mouths!’ He spat on the ground; the ritual gesture of defiance.
Mr Snow held up his hand, staying Iron-Maiden’s angry reply. ‘We should not condemn them. Even though they are not of the Plainfolk, many of our Southern brothers fought long and hard with sharp iron – and died with the name of their clan on their lips.’
Motor-Head planted his legs astride and folded his heavily muscled arms. ‘They do not fight as we fight.’
‘Hey-yah!’ chorussed the massed warriors.
Mr Snow smiled. ‘No one fights like the M’Calls. That is a truth carved on the heart of the world. But those in the south who chose life know the darkness of dishonour. Their hands and feet are tied with iron ropes and they work under whips from sunrise to sundown like the tame buffalo of the Old Time.’
‘Oyy-yehhh…’ The clan groaned in unison, rocking from side to side in the traditional response to bad news.
Rolling-Stone, the chief elder turned to Mr Snow. ‘What do the Sky Voices say?’
Mr Snow closed his eyes briefly as the gaze of the clan fell upon him. ‘They say there are two ways to go. We can withdraw into the high hills where the iron snake cannot pursue us – or we can stay and fight on ground of our own choosing. If we head for the hills, we will have to abandon our bread stalks and the other earth food we have planted. For if the iron snake reaches this place unchallenged you can be sure that all we have sown will be destroyed before the Gathering.’
‘We cannot give up the growing places,’ said Buffalo-Head. ‘We need ripe seed to plant in the New Earth.’
‘Have we none in store?’ asked Cadillac.
‘A handfu
l,’ she replied. ‘The rest has been fouled by the grey dust.’ Buffalo-Head was the chief among the women charged with organising the M’Call’s food supply.
‘Oyy-yehh…’ groaned the clan.
‘But if we stay and fight,’ said Sting-Ray, another elder, ‘many of our clan-brothers will die.’
‘That is certain,’ agreed Mr Snow.
‘But if we move to the hills,’ said Buffalo-Head, ‘there will be nothing in our huts when the White Death comes. The Bears will have to raid other settlements. There will be blood on the meat. Our soul-brothers will not let us take the food from their mouths without killing.’
This time, it was Hawk-Wind who leapt to his feet. ‘We are not afraid to die,’ he cried. ‘But if we are to kiss sharp iron, we should do it over the bodies of sand-burrowers!’
‘Hey-YAH!’ roared the warriors.
Cadillac rose. ‘My brother Bear speaks with the wisdom of a great warrior. We must defend our turf against those who have not laid the hand of friendship upon us but if we cut down those we have made our soul-brothers, we are no better than the flesh worms that devour the dead. The Plainfolk will become as dust, scattered by the four winds across the empty land.’
Mr Snow nodded approvingly as Cadillac sat down again. ‘Well said. If this should happen, not even the power of Talisman could bring us together again. Our turf is sacred but we must always remember that the Plainfolk are brothers under the sky. Even those who are dirt in our mouths will one day stand at our side against the sand-burrowers.’
‘Those are good words,’ said Rolling-Stone, the chief elder. ‘Let us hope that day may come.’
‘But not before we have filled our head-poles!’ cried Convoy from the rear of the massed warriors.
‘Hey-yah!’ replied the warriors, amid peals of laughter.
Cloud Warrior Page 10
