Cloud Warrior

by Patrick Tilley

  Filled with foreboding, Steve inched his right hand over and ran it lightly along the forearm that pinned him down, reading the distinctive pattern of crinkled patches with his fingers. He’d seen that arm enough times when she brought him his food. His bed-mate was Night-Fever.

  Christopher Columbus!

  The skin on the back of his neck crawled at the thought of lying in bed with a naked female Mute. Luckily he was fully clothed. Moving an inch at a time, his ears straining to catch any change in her deep, slow breathing, Steve edged round so that his back was towards her. He held his breath as Night-Fever stirred sleepily, covering him with her body. Her mouth lay half-open against his jugular vein. Not a good scene. Night-Fever had fang-like lower canines set in a heavy jaw just like the claw-toothed bucket of an excavator. If she woke up and got excited and he said ‘no’ he could end up with a permanently engraved windpipe. Ahh, what the hell… Steve sighed resignedly. He had long since caught whatever he was due to catch and die of. Provided he stayed zipped up inside his flight fatigues and kept his back to her he couldn’t come to much more harm. Our hero was, above all, a practical young man: the fact of the matter was that, despite the genius of the First Family, nobody had yet come up with a better way of keeping warm.

  In addition to his exercise periods with the quarterstaff, Steve continued his self-imposed programme of physical training. He was now able to sprint effortlessly, and could do fifty push-ups without feeling a twinge of pain in his right arm. He was back at the level of fitness he had reached on graduation from the Academy.

  Striking off down a new trail on an afternoon run, Steve descended towards the plain. He wanted to test his stamina against that of the Bears by emulating their uninterrupted run back up the slope to the settlement. Reaching the plain, he ran out to one of the poles marking the edge of the M’Calls turf then looped back to the foot of the slope about a mile north of the settlement. So far so good but, as is always the case, the bluff he now had to run up looked a great deal higher than the one he had run down. Steve’s resolve faltered momentarily then, without breaking his stride, he began to zig-zag back up the slope. His intention had been to angle southwards across the slope to pick up the trail down which he had descended but some rocky outcrops which he had failed to pinpoint on the way down barred the way. To clamber round them would have meant losing valuable momentum so he turned north again, lost sight of the trail and was forced to pick out a new route as he went along. The going got harder, and he wasted precious breath in a string of curses as he slipped and missed his footing, scraping his ankles painfully whilst crossing a sharp-edged patch of scree.

  Two-thirds of the way up the slope, Steve realised that he was running out of steam and wasn’t going to make it. Once again his formidable self-discipline came into play, driving him on. Looking up, he saw, to his right, a feathery plume of water cascading over a ledge of rock. The idea of running through it, letting it splash over his burning face, catching some of it in his mouth to relieve the raw dryness in his throat became irresistible. He altered his zig-zag path towards the water course, his earlier nimble step becoming more leaden with each stride. His thigh and calf muscles were shot through with rods of pain – as if every vein was on fire. Every ounce of his willpower was now concentrated on reaching the pencil-slim waterfall. His heart slammed itself against his ribs like an angry caged animal, the pounding inside his head blotted out the thud of his feet against the rocky path; the air he gulped down burned and ripped through his gullet like red hot sand. With a desperate weariness, Steve realised that even if he reached the plume of falling water, the top of the slope was another hundred yards away. It might as well have been a hundred miles. Stumbling across the rocks, he sank to his knees under the spray, fell forward onto his hands then rolled over and gave up, content to let the cool mountain water cascade over him.

  Twenty to thirty minutes later, when his heartbeat had slowed and the band of fever heat had been washed from his brow, Steve crawled stiff-legged out of the waterfall and peeled off his sodden clothes: red, black and brown camouflaged trousers, combat boots and flight blue T-shirt and underpants. He twisted the garments into tight rolls to wring out the bulk of the water then beat them, Mute-fashion, against a flat rock to get rid of the remainder. The afternoon sun had sunk towards the western hills, throwing the slope into shadow. Steve rubbed himself vigorously with his damp T-shirt then gathered up the rest of his clothes and clambered barefoot up the steep rockface that flanked the slim waterfall. Not the easiest way to the top of the slope but certainly the shortest.

  Stepping into the warm autumn sunshine he spread out his clothes to dry then sat down in a nearby patch of long yellow-pink grass. Behind him, the ground rose in a series of undulating rocky ledges, carpeted with a profusion of grasses, ferns and moss, until it met a wide bank of tall red trees. Concealed within it was the head of the stream that trickled past the spot where he lay before plunging over the smooth tongue of rock onto the slope some fifty feet below. Lulled by the murmuring passage of the stream and the warm earth at his back, Steve fell asleep.

  When he woke, the sun was setting behind the mountain, its last rays turning the edges of the gathering clouds into liquid gold. The Mutes had a quaint idea that the sun went through a door in the sky which, when closed, left the world in darkness until it entered again through a similar door set below the eastern horizon. Seized by a sudden chill, Steve hauled on his blue underpants, reached for his T-shirt and stopped, hand outstretched. Eight small black-skinned ovoid fruit that Steve now knew to be wild plums were piled neatly on a red leaf that someone had placed on the chest of his T-shirt.

  Steve scanned the high ground quickly, then walked over to the edge of the slope. Nothing. No sign of movement. No dust trail. Nobody. He walked back, laid the leaf and its gift of plums carefully aside and finished dressing. His clothes were still clammy but would soon dry off with his body heat. He tightened the laces in his combat boots, strapped the knife scabbard Cadillac had given him through the trouser loops around his right calf, picked up the plums then – on a sudden impulse – set off cautiously along the line of the stream, eating them as he went.

  As he bit into the juicy flesh, he speculated on the identity and motive of the donor. He felt sure he knew who it was –but why had she not woken him? Was the gift inspired by the simple concern of providing food for an exhausted runner, or was it something more – a sign of her presence? A message saying ‘I am here. I care. Keep looking.’? Confirmation that she, too, was consumed by the same ardent curiosity? Or had he totally misread the fleeting glances they had exchanged? Was it all in his imagination or, worse still, was it some kind of trap? A wry smile crossed Steve’s face. With his luck, it would be Night-Fever he would discover lurking behind the first tree. Or Motor-Head.

  Steve smiled inwardly. If that mean mother had found him exhausted and asleep he would not have made him a present of eight wild plums; he would have left eight rocks piled on his chest. No, this was nothing to do with him, but the thought of Motor-Head served to remind Steve that he ought to temper his curiosity with caution. Although Cadillac told him he could go wherever he liked, it might not prove too healthy to be caught prowling around in an area the clan regarded as being off-limits. But, on the other hand, without being told how was he to know? Deciding that his momentary apprehension was primarily inspired by feelings of guilt, Steve shrugged it off and pressed on. In some perverse way, the inherent danger of the situation added spice to the strange, but by no means unwelcome, emotions that had assailed him ever since he had first seen her face in the firelight.

  Working his way slowly through the tangle of ferns bordering the stream, Steve scaled the series of ledges towards the first line of trees. Every twenty-five paces, he squatted down and carefully checked his front, flanks and rear. Holding his breath, he listened intently, hoping to pick up the sound of some human activity. Only the shrill chatter of an occasional bird cut across the constant background murmur of t
he stream trickling between the brown lichen-covered rocks.

  A hundred yards inside the tree line, the pines closed in on one another, creating a wall of loosely interwoven branches that began at knee height. Several, wrenched from their tenuous hold on the slope by the downward rush of water from melting winter snow, had fallen at awkward angles across the stream blocking his path along its banks. He had to make a detour, but to go forward on foot meant cutting or crashing his way through the branches, making it impossible to proceed with stealth. The only other alternatives were to crawl under them or find a way round. Since he was unsure of what kind of a situation he was getting into, Steve did not want to risk being trapped in a tangle of branches with his nose in the dirt. He was just about to give up and turn back when he caught sight of a broken yellow line up ahead. Cadillac had told him about the seasons of the overground year – the New Earth, the Middle Earth, The Gathering, The Yellowing and The White Death. It was too soon for the leaves to turn yellow and fall from the trees. Steve suddenly realised that it was dead foliage that had been cut and arranged as a screen, and his uncanny sixth sense told him that behind it was what he was looking for.

  Taking care to move as silently as possible, Steve circled away from the stream and crawled between the densely packed pines towards the suspect yellow foliage. As he drew nearer, he saw what appeared to be a long clump of bushes about eight feet high lying to one side of a grassy oasis; an irregular patch of grass, ferns and chest-high undergrowth surrounded by the almost impenetrable wall of trees. Wriggling out from under the last branches, Steve cautiously stuck his nose above the undergrowth, checked what he could see of the clearing then tunnelled his way between the stems of a tall bank of fern until he reached the yellowing leaves. The ‘bush’ in front of him was made of cut branches, loosely woven together.

  Steve took another deep breath and lay there for a good minute, ears cocked, straining to catch the slightest sound of movement. All he could hear was his own heartbeat. Reaching forward, Steve carefully pulled out one of the branches that had been stuck in the ground. The end had been cut at an angle by a machete. Pushing it gently aside, he peered through. A Mute hut stood in a small clearing enclosed by a circular screen of leaves. The doorway to the hut faced a gap in the screen on the opposite side to where Steve lay, making it impossible to see if the hut was occupied. There was no sign of smoke coming from the ring plate in the roof and none of the usual living debris scattered around. Even so, Steve’s sixth sense told him that someone was inside. Wait a minute! He could hear something. Was that somebody, humming a – tune? She was there! It had to be her. There was no one else it could be.

  With rising excitement, Steve crawled round through the ferns towards the gap in the surrounding screen and stopped a yard from the opening. Moving with the stealth of a praying mantis, he eased another cut branch out of the ground and gingerly poked his head and shoulders in under a curtain of withered leaves. Steve found himself confronted not by the hoped-for view of matchless beauty, but by the decomposing heads of Naylor and Fazetti spiked on poles on either side of the doorway. A large, dark bird of prey was perched on Fazetti’s head, tearing a sinewy strand of flesh out of one of the gaping eye-sockets. Steve recoiled in horror. The bird, startled by the sudden movement, flapped away with a harsh cry of alarm.

  Steve swallowed hard and collected his thoughts. According to Mute tradition, the heads of his fellow-wingmen were the battle trophies of whoever occupied the hut. But didn’t Fazetti go bananas in mid-air? How could she, if indeed it was she who…? Another more pressing thought struck Steve. If whoever owned the hut had downed the two wingmen maybe they had taken more than their heads. Maybe some of their gear was inside. Like a map, air pistol, flame grenade, con-food pack. Useful things that someone planning to escape would need. Nerving himself to face his two spiked friends, Steve pushed his head back through the curtain of leaves. As he did so, the flap over the doorway, framed by the two headpoles, was pushed aside and the owner of the face that had haunted his dreams emerged, stood up, and stretched with the grace of a waking cat.

  It was Clearwater. Steve, of course, did not yet know her name but, in the few seconds that she stood there in full view, Steve’s eyes roved over every detail of her naked body; the long, straight-boned, supple limbs, the slim-hipped torso with its firm, rounded breasts, strong shoulders and small waist, the smooth skin free of the disfiguring tree-bark patches and the tumour-like bone growths that afflicted other Mutes; her whole body unflawed – apart from the swirling pattern of pigments – from head to toe. Since art, in the generally accepted sense of the word, did not exist within the Federation, Trackers were not overly susceptible to its attendant qualities such as the harmony of form and colour, the gracefulness of line and proportion. But something deep within Steve responded; made him aware that the Mute female in front of him was-an object of great beauty even though he could not express himself in those words. He was seized simultaneously by two totally conflicting emotions; an irrational desire to possess her and a sense of shock, disgust even, at feeling thus. In 20th century terms, his reaction was akin to a founder member of the ultra-right wing Afrikaaner Broederbond – that bastion of white supremacy – discovering within himself a secret prediliction for ‘dark meat’. What passed through Steve’s mind in those few seconds was unthinkable. Allowing Night-Fever to serve as a bed-warmer was bad enough but to actively contemplate… Come on! he urged himself. Snap out of it!

  Clearwater re-entered the hut. Steve heard a peal of laughter, another voice, muffled but deeper, then more laughter as the door flap was brushed aside and Clearwater tumbled out backwards struggling playfully in Cadillac’s arms. The young wordsmith was naked too.

  Not daring to move in case he betrayed his presence, Steve watched them with mixed feelings; disappointment, irritation, toe-curling embarrassment – and a dash of envy. They horsed around for a minute or so, kissed briefly, got up, moved outside the circular screen and began to gather big five-pointed pink leaves from some kind of plant. In her search for more, Clearwater moved nearer to where Steve lay concealed. Looking up, Steve saw that the tangle of ferns under which he lay contained several plants with the same pink leaf. He had to move before either of them came over. There was only one way he could go – through the hole he had made in the screen of leaves into the clearing containing the hut. But supposing the leaves were to make soup with? Where would he hide if they came back in? Steve resolved to work his way round behind the hut. From there he could slip out through the first hole he had made. He wriggled under the screen just as the Mute girl walked over, leaned in and began picking the leaves. Steve froze on the other side of the screen. Close! A couple of seconds more and she’d have tripped over him. Ooops! Surprise, surprise. Hey, fancy running into you guys! Steve ran through the dialogue of discovery in his head. Don’t get the wrong idea, folks. Walking around on my elbows is part of my physical fitness programme…

  The Mute girl went on picking leaves until she had an armful, then, as soon as she turned her back, Steve began to wriggle round towards the rear of the hut. Luckily the grass inside the clearing was not too short. On the other hand it would not serve to hide him if they walked back in. Steve worked his way backwards, pressing in under the fringe of leaves, conscious that his blue T-shirt stood out like a sore thumb against the orange grass and the yellow foliage. To his relief, Cadillac and the girl turned their backs on him and sauntered away from the hut hand in hand.

  As the two Mutes went out of sight, Steve got up, tip-toed over to the gap in the screen and peeked through the leaves at the edge. His previous worm’s-eye view of the area had been limited. From where he now stood, he could see a waist-deep rock pool which fed the stream he’d followed. Cadillac and the Mute girl were in the pool and, in between fooling around, she was scrubbing his back with a handful of the pink leaves they’d picked. Dipped in water and rubbed on his back, the leaves produced a thin soapy foam. Bath night. Oh, well… Steve, who would ha
ppily have swapped places with Cadillac, sensed that they would probably be busy for some time. Now was the moment to search the hut.

  The entrance to the hut, the gap in the leaf screen and the rock pool were almost directly in line but on crouching down, Steve saw that a slight rise in the ground blocked the bottom third of the hut from the view of someone in the water. Hugging the ground, he crawled through the grass, circling behind Fazetti’s headpole and then in under the door flap. He had been with the Mutes so long, he no longer noticed the attendant smells. Steve got to his knees, peeked through the flap to check that Cadillac and the girl were still in the pool then sat back on his haunches and surveyed the interior.

  The hut was not as messy, or as crammed full of junk as Mr Snow’s but there was not a lot of room to move. Several bundles of clothing along with various-sized baskets with pot lids, woven from dried orange grass, were stowed round the buffalo hide walls; bunches of fruit, dried meat twists, and sweet-smelling flowers hung from the curved poles that gave the hut its squat beehive shape. The furs on which Cadillac and the girl had no doubt been thrashing around lay in disarray. To his surprise, Steve saw two other sets of furs, rolled up – as was usual during the day. That meant the girl shared the hut – probably with a couple of She-Wolves. Now that he thought about it, it was obvious. If, for whatever reason, the girl was regarded by the M’Calls as a hot property she would not be left unprotected. Her two hutmates had obviously pulled out to avoid crowding Cadillac. Steve had discovered that Mutes accorded each other a greater degree of privacy in these matters. Which meant that the Mute’s clan-sisters would probably not return until she and Cadillac had humped each other dry. But they might not be far away – and the area around the hut was bound to be regularly patrolled. Zip! Steve swore under his breath. He had totally ignored that angle when, on a sudden impulse, he’d set off up-stream in the hope of finding her. Well, you’ve found her, Brickman – and she belongs to the guy you’ve been planning to get very friendly with. So forget the daydreams. All that was sheer insanity anyway. Start looking for those hidden goodies and get the hell out of here.