Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘The capo di capi,’ murmured Mr Snow.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Capo di capi,’ said Mr Snow. ‘Chief of the chiefs. The godfather. The top man. Do you not know all the words from the Old Time.’

  ‘Not that one,’ said Steve.

  Mr Snow smiled. ‘Then perhaps you may learn something from us. As we hope to–’

  Cadillac, impressed by the catalogue of the Jefferson’s gifts forgot his usual deference and cut in impatiently. ‘This great chief you speak of. You say he is – your father?’

  Steve dropped his head back on the furs. ‘I already told you. He’s everybody’s father.’

  Cadillac gave Mr Snow a questioning look. Mr Snow raised his eyebrows. ‘Must be a busy man…’

  Cadillac looked down at Steve. ‘Which of your three names is your Name of Power?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ murmured Steve. His eyes wandered over the roof of the hut. He was finding it increasingly difficult to answer the pointless questions these two oddballs kept coming up with.

  ‘You are a cloud warrior,’ explained Cadillac. ‘Do you not have a name which gives you the strength to fight?’

  ‘I don’t need one,’ replied Steve. ‘I’ve been trained to fight. Names have nothing to do with it.’

  ‘But you have just told us of your great chief. Is Jefferson not a name of power?’

  ‘Not in the way you mean,’ replied Steve. ‘I could be called Pete, Dick, Jim, Larry, anything. It’s just a handle. Whatever I was called I’d still be me. And so would the President-General.’

  Cadillac was perplexed by Steve’s answer. He looked at Mr Snow for guidance. Mr Snow said nothing. Cadillac looked down at their prisoner. ‘But your name is the essence of your being. A name of power enables your spirit to draw strength from the earth and sky.’

  ‘Maybe for you,’ replied Steve amiably. ‘We don’t need any of that garbage.’

  Cadillac raised his eyes to Mr Snow. ‘Garbage…?’

  ‘It must be another word from the Old Time,’ said his mentor. He whispered it to himself. ‘Garbage…mmm, not bad…’ He made a mental note to ask the cloud warrior to explain its meaning.

  Cadillac tried another question. ‘Do you not believe that there are powers in the earth and sky?’

  ‘There are forces,’ admitted Steve. ‘Gravitational forces, geomagnetic forces, static electricity, wind and water power. The way it all works is very simple. We know how the world functions. But when you talk about “essence, spirit, names of power”, I don’t know what words like that mean. Ideas about there being something else, some invisible power, are a waste of time. It’s all nonsense – like the magic you people are supposed to have. If you can’t see it through a microscope or prove something works by the laws of physics, or whatever, then it doesn’t exist.’

  ‘That’s an interesting point of view,’ mused Mr Snow.

  ‘It’s the only point of view,’ muttered Steve. He felt burned out by the effort needed to maintain a coherent conversation. He gazed up at the roof of the hut again. His captors squatted silently on either side of him. Steve got the impression that they were waiting for him to say something enlightening. He made an effort to focus on their previous conversation. ‘Roosevelt was a very powerful man,’ he ventured helpfully. ‘He was President of America. A great warrior who ruled the blue-sky world for a long time.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ said Cadillac. ‘Now I understand. Roosevelt is your name of power.’

  ‘If you say so,’ replied Steve. ‘It doesn’t make any difference to me.’ He raised his head. ‘What are you called?’

  ‘My name is Cadillac of the clan M’Call, First-born of Sky-Walker out of Black-Wing.’

  ‘Cadillac… is that a name of power?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cadillac…’ repeated Steve. ‘I never heard that word before. Interesting.’ He turned to the old, white-haired lumphead. ‘How about you?’

  ‘My name is Mr Snow.’

  ‘Is that on account of your hair? Or is that a name of power too?’

  Mr Snow shook his head. ‘I am not a warrior. My name was taken from the words of an ancient song.’

  ‘From the Old Time,’ added Cadillac proudly. ‘Before the War of a Thousand Suns.’

  ‘I guess you must be talking of what we call the Holocaust. Nearly a thousand years ago…’

  Mr Snow nodded.

  ‘So what are you – the doctor for these people?’

  Mr Snow smiled. ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He is a wordsmith,’ said Cadillac with a proud sweep of his hand. ‘The greatest and wisest of them all.’

  Mr Snow shrugged modestly and motioned his pupil to be silent.

  Cadillac, intent on extolling his teacher’s virtues, pressed on regardless. ‘His tongue reaches back beyond the beginning of the Plainfolk to the world that was lost in the fire-clouds. He knows of ice-huts piled one upon the other until they touched the clouds, giant beetles with men in their bellies, square baskets of frozen water full of music and pictures–’

  ‘You mean television sets–’

  ‘And jewels!’ cried Cadillac, flaunting his newly acquired knowledge. ‘All these things and more. Much more than even your President-General!’

  ‘I doubt it,’ countered Steve. ‘Can he read? Can he type?’

  Mr Snow smiled. ‘You already know the answer. It is true that my eye does not know the signs for the words I speak, and that my hand cannot draw them in the earth. But we of the Plainfolk have other gifts. The wisdom of the Sky Voices is greater than the all words that lie buried in your dark cities. We pass on knowledge in other ways.’ He reached out to touch Cadillac’s head. ‘This is the book on which I have made my mark. It has more leaves than the greatest forest.’

  ‘It’s a book that can be destroyed,’ observed Steve.

  ‘If Talisman wills it,’ admitted Mr Snow. ‘Man, and the works of man pass away like flowers before the White Death. This Columbus of which you speak and which knows so much is also the work of men. It too can be ground to dust–’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Steve. ‘Columbus survived the Holocaust. It was built in what you call the Old Time and it’s constantly being rebuilt – bigger and better than before. It will last for ever.’

  Mr Snow shook his head. ‘Nothing lasts forever. And when the day comes for it to return to the earth, the power you draw from it will pass through your fingers like the wind. But consider this: your iron snake sent many of our warriors to the High Ground. It may return with others and succeed in killing us all. Our past may perish with us, but you will never destroy true knowledge. That is the gift of the Sky Voices – and they are beyond the reach of even your long sharp iron.’

  Steve felt a pang of remorse. He had been party to the killing the old Mute spoke of. Whatever his final fate might be, these so-called savages had not left him to burn. ‘Listen, before we go any further, I just want to say thanks for straightening out my leg and everything. After what happened back there in the cropfields…’

  ‘Mo-Town thirsts, Mo-Town drinks,’ said Mr Snow quietly.

  ‘Well, I guess you both know what I mean.’ Steve looked at each of them in turn then dropped his head back with a resigned sigh. ‘Are you guys going to kill me?’ In his present mood of sedate euphoria, the prospect did not concern him unduly.

  ‘Not unless there’s a change of plan,’ said Mr Snow.

  ‘Great,’ replied Steve. He yawned sleepily. ‘Keep me posted.’

  The will to live is the crucial factor which enables certain individuals to survive in situations where others, in some cases their companions, quite literally ‘give up the ghost’; surrender without a fight. Jodi Kazan had that will; a tenacious, unquenchable spark of life that continued to glow feebly, against all odds, inside her burned and broken body.

  When her Skyhawk had been blown off the flight-deck, Jodi had smashed her fist against the quick rele
ase plate of the safety harness which held her in her seat. But when the cockpit pod crunched against the side of the wagon train, she found herself trapped by bent struts and crumpled metal. Despite this, and contrary to Buck McDonnell’s belief, Jodi had not been incinerated by the exploding napalm. The shrieking wind that tore her Skyhawk out of the hands of Steve and the ground-crew was also her unintended saviour. The spectacular blast that appeared to engulf her had, in the same instant, been whipped away by the falling pod into a long fiery plume; a giant blow-torch whose searing heat blistered the painted flanks of the rear cars.

  Badly but not fatally burned, Jodi only just escaped being drowned as the cockpit pod plunged into the raging current and sank under the weight of the rear-mounted motor. The mangled pod, with Jodi inside, was carried along the river bed by the force of the waters, rolling and tumbling end over end until it finally tore itself to pieces. Only then did Jodi finally surface, to be washed up some three miles down river from where The Lady had been trapped by the flash-flood.

  Jodi lay, half-dead, half-buried in mud and debris on the bed of the Now and Then River for two whole days, unable to move. Her legs were trapped under a pile of debris, both arms were broken, her neck and chest severely burned; the Mute crossbow bolt was still lodged under her right collarbone. The visor of her helmet had protected her face against the flames and subsequent injury, just as the tangle of branches under which she lay now protected her from the circling birds of prey. The coat of mud that covered most of her body dried out in the sun. She became part of the landscape. Insects swarmed over her, flies hovered, drawn by the smell of her charred flesh. When they began to feed on her Jodi thought she would go mad. She fainted – from the heat, from thirst, from the pain and the screaming, itching horror of the bugs that threatened to devour her. The hours passed. Jodi hovered on the edge of consciousness, now and then sinking back into merciful oblivion.

  On the second night, a prowling coyote found her. He sniffed her mud-covered body cautiously then nosed with obvious relish the raw flesh where the flies had feasted. When he began tugging at her camouflaged fatigues, Jodi set her teeth against the pain, reached down with the fingers of her right hand and teased her air pistol out of its holster. Her fingers closed round the butt. In her weakened state she found the pistol incredibly heavy. To move it even an inch sent stabbing shafts of pain zigzagging from wrist to shoulder, across her chest, and up into the base of her skull. Jodi persisted, pushing and pulling the pistol onto her belly as the coyote siezed her broken left arm in its jaws and tried to pull her from under the sheltering tangle of branches. Jodi almost fainted with the pain. A scream broke from her throat; a harsh, raw, animal cry. With one last desperate effort, she willed herself to remain conscious and took a firm grip on the butt of the pistol. Her fingers felt as if they were on fire. She pushed the pistol across her chest in the general direction of the coyote, summoned up her last ounce of strength to raise the barrel and pulled the trigger. One, two, three… she lost count…

  When she woke at half-light, Jodi found the coyote lying with its neck across her left arm. One of her shots had entered its skull just above the right eye. The socket had already been picked clean. Two huge black crows were tearing at the coyote’s exposed entrails. A third sat patiently on the broken branch above Jodi’s head. She became conscious of the weight of the pistol that lay on her chest, her fingers still curled round it. It was like being trapped under a rock. She found it difficult to breathe. She could no longer move her right arm. The left lay under the dead coyote. When the sun came up, the insects returned; flies settled on her swollen blistered neck and crawled over her visor, trying to find a way in.

  On the third day, in one of her brief moments of lucidity, Jodi realised that her chances of being found by a search party from The Lady were fast approaching zero. She had been written off. Given the circumstances of her disappearance, it was not an unreasonable supposition. When the waves of pain built up to yet another unbearable peak Jodi began to seriously consider the idea of killing herself before the rest of the coyote pack came looking for their missing brother. She had the means even if, at that moment, she did not have the strength to turn the pistol on herself. She knew that if the decision was delayed too long she would be too weak to act upon it. Yet, in spite of the hopelessness of her situation, she hesitated. She simply refused to admit that death was the only option open to her.

  Towards sundown, when Jodi was trying to focus her fading energy into the fingers lying limply across the pistol, she heard stealthy movements around her. The protective screen of broken branches was pulled away from her head and chest and she found herself looking up into the craggy, weather-beaten face of a Tracker. But this was no Trail-Blazer. He wore a battered wide-brimmed straw stetson with a ragged brim, his lean square jaw was fringed by an untidy beard. The sleeves were missing from his faded red, black and brown camouflaged fatigues, and they were covered in patches. A home-made bandolier of the same material with pockets shaped to hold magazines and air bottles were slung over each shoulder. The only thing about him that did not look worn and shabby was his three-barrelled air rifle. Its pristine condition told Jodi that this raggedy-ass was still a soldier; someone she could relate to.

  The bearded Tracker laid down his rifle and knelt beside Jodi. His first move was to relieve her of her air pistol. When this was safely stuffed in his breast pocket he raised the visor of her helmet and studied her face. ‘How’s it going, soldier-boy?’

  Jodi tried to speak but the words died half-formed in her throat. She rolled her head from side to side.

  The Tracker carefully peeled back the charred collar of her tunic, lifted out her dog tags and read off her name. ‘Ohh-kayyy, friend…’ He straightened up on his knees and cupped his hands round his mouth. ‘Hey, Ben! Roy! Come take a look-see!’ The Tracker dropped back on his haunches, fingered the protruding tail of the bolt then began to examine Jodi’s arms and torso, whistling tunelessly under his breath. His touch was sure but gentle. He sat back and pushed up the battered brim of his stetson. ‘Mmm-hmmph… you off that wagon train that got its ass kicked three days ago?’

  Jodi signalled silently with her eyes and mouth that she was.

  ‘Well, they took off, good buddy. Last we saw ‘em they was headed Kansas way.’ He sighed and scratched his beard. ‘So unless you want to wait here for the Mutes or the coyotes, I guess that makes you one of us, Jodi.’

  ‘What you got, Beaver?’

  Jodi could not see the owner of the voice.

  Her bearded saviour spoke across her. ‘We got us a woman, that’s what we got.’

  ‘No shit…’

  Two other raggedy-asses peered down at her. One to her left, the other over Beaver’s shoulder. Jodi guessed that they were Ben and Roy though she didn’t know which was which. The one on the left was wearing a wingman’s bone dome. It had been smeared with mud to hide the bright blue and green stripes but Jodi could see enough of the pattern to recognise it as once belonging to a crewman aboard the wagon train called King of the Pecos. The guy looking over Beaver’s shoulder wore a crumpled yellow command cap. The long peak was frayed and the woven badge was missing.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Yellow-Hat.

  ‘What kind of damn fool question is that?’ Beaver looked up at Yellow-Hat and chuckled. ‘You think I’ve forgotten what they look like? Start moving that shit off her legs.’

  Yellow-Hat went to work. Beaver pulled the stopper out of his skin water-bottle, eased Jodi’s head off the ground, and tipped a little water onto her parched lips. Jodi licked them dry and opened her mouth for more.

  ‘Thanks…’ she wheezed.

  ‘She don’t look so hot,’ said Bone-Dome flatly.

  ‘No. She’s broke up pretty bad,’ admitted Beaver. ‘But she’ll mend. Make no mistake, this is one tough lady.’

  ‘She’ll need to be,’ said Bone-Dome. He seized hold of the dead coyote and flung it aside. ‘Okay, let’s get her to Medicine Hat
.’

  Jodi had been found by a scavenging party from a band of Tracker renegades. She had known about them for years. As a youngster, she had seen several who had been captured and brought back to the Federation for trial, confess the error of their ways before being shot on tv. Later, during her time as a wingman, she had also seen the bodies of about a dozen renegades killed by patrols from The Lady. Men and women that she had helped hunt down. Beaver and his two friends were the first live ones she had ever met face to face. She remained conscious until they lifted her onto a makeshift stretcher then slipped into a coma. For a time, Jodi knew nothing of the outside world, but deep within her subconscious mind the ordeal continued. Her inner eye was continually assailed by jagged, abstract images of pain; a limitless form of mental torture that drove her, screaming soundlessly, to the edge of madness. Eighteen hours later she emerged from the fevered coma to find herself in the hands of Medicine Hat. Someone holding a clean worn rag mopped her brow. She looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, savouring the sweetness of the air. Oh, Columbus! It hurt. Her whole body burned from head to toe. It didn’t matter. She was going to live!

  For Steve, the next weeks seemed to blur together, making it hard to place specific events. He could only remember being fed a thick soup twice a day from a wooden bowl held by Cadillac, Mr Snow, and a number of female lumpheads who ranged from the simply plain and unattractive to the hideously grotesque. At first, the thought of eating Mute food filled Steve with revulsion. He refused it for a couple of days then became so hungry that he ate what he was offered – and was promptly sick.

  After several more days of mental and intestinal discipline, he found he was able to keep the food down without feeling nauseated and, eventually, began to look forward with growing relish to the next strongly flavoured dish. He did not, however, ask what he was eating. His progress was rewarded by a meal he could recognise – a fish with succulent pink, flaky flesh, roasted over a wood fire. Exactly as in that flash of memory he had had at Roz’s side in San Jacinto Deep. As he ate the fish, he wondered how he could have acquired that knowledge. Perhaps, he conjectured, it did not stem from a memory of past events but was a glimpse of the future. Perhaps he had foreseen this moment – in the same inexplicable way that he had often been able to predict the direction of the course marker lights when flying in the Snake Pit.