Yes… All this was true, and yet she felt confused, guilty. Ever since she had gazed upon the cloud warrior across the firelit circle on the night he had bitten the arrow, her heart had been torn in two. She felt guilty because her mind harboured thoughts that the laws of the blood-kiss forbade; images of lying in the moon-dark with the Death-Bringer. Images that brought her body to fever-heat. Cadillac’s eyes were dark; his were blue. It was like looking into her own eyes, reflected in the untroubled surface of a shadowed rock pool. Cadillac’s shoulders were broad and square but were not his broader, squarer? And was he not taller? Cadillac’s hair was straight and dark as a raven’s wing; his hair rippled like a field of breadstalks in the wind. It shone like grass struck by the rays of the rising sun, and his voice, ah… his voice was strong and smooth like deep running water. It made her heart tremble like the roar of a mountain lion and lit a fire in her belly that caused the bones in her thighs to melt like snow.
No one had seen her on the occasions when she had crept into the settlement under the cover of Mo-Town’s starry cloak. She had crouched outside Mr Snow’s hut and listened to all they had said; had heard him speak of the dark cities under the earth. The word-pictures he drew had filled her with terror but she could have sat there for days on end listening to the sound of his voice.
Some of her clan sisters, who suspected nothing, had said he had the tongue of a viper, the smile of a coyote, and a heart of stone. Others had told her that they had sent Night-Fever to test his manhood and that he had spurned her. He fights well with a long stick, they said mockingly, but there is no sharp iron between his legs: only a broken twig. Clearwater had joined in their laughter but chose not to believe them. She did not care that his blue eyes were veiled and his spirit hidden. She had looked upon him and sensed the power within; had felt his heart quicken. And that was enough. The cloud warrior was, quite simply, the most beautiful being she had ever set eyes on.
By the tribal laws of the Plainfolk, Clearwater knew that she merited death at Cadillac’s hand for harbouring such desires; knew also that she would welcome death if it came to her while in the cloud warrior’s arms. The guilt engendered by these feelings and the torment caused by their concealment had grown daily. Amazingly, no one seemed to have noticed but she was sure that Mr Snow knew, in the same way that he knew she and the cloud warrior were destined to meet.
Clearwater began to paint Cadillac’s chest. As she charged the flat sliver of wood with more dye she looked into his eyes and saw they were focussed on the horizon of a world beyond that bounded by the reddening sky. She traced two curving lines down the centre of his chest and began to fill in the space between.
And she wondered if he knew that it was she who, hidden by the darkness into which she had retreated, had silently summoned up the power within her to save the cloud warrior from Motor-Head’s hammer.
SIXTEEN
On the day after Steve’s encounter with Clearwater, he took the map from its hiding place and set off into the hills behind the settlement. After climbing for a couple of hours, he reached a point which gave him a panoramic view of the surrounding terrain. Orienting his map by the sun, he was able, by careful observation of various topographical features, to pinpoint his position with some degree of accuracy. His hunch that the M’Calls had moved westwards was largely correct. From their original encampment north of Laramie, they had trekked some two hundred miles north-westwards to the eastern slopes of the Wind River Range from where Steve now looked down towards the head of the Sweetwater and Beaver River.
To the south, the line of the Rocky Mountains – of which the Wind River Range was part – opened out to surround the Great Divide Basin, an arid stretch of bare rock and sand dunes that looked as if they’d been shipped direct from the Sahara. From his map, Steve saw that the Rockies ran southwards through Colorado. Proceeding on the improbable supposition that enough materials had been salvaged to allow him, with the help of his captors, to build a hang-glider, his best bet would be to fly from peak to peak until he was within striking distance of the nearest way-station – Pueblo, on the Arkansas River, in the southern quarter of the state. The steep slopes would provide a plentiful supply of up-drafts and thermals and, if he had to come down, it would be better to land on high ground from which he could take off again.
Steve’s flight map only covered Wyoming and Colorado, plus a narrow strip of Kansas, Nebraska and South Dakota so he could not work out how far he was from Grand Central. He did not even know the shape or extent of the American continent. It was not, and had never been, Federation policy to allow Trackers access to more information than they needed; not even Trail-Blazers. Each expedition was issued with the cartographical data covering its specific operational area, no more. Houston, in fact, lay some twelve hundred miles south-east of where he sat at that moment.
On his way back down the mountain, Steve mulled over how best to proceed and cursed himself for leaving his quarterstaff lying somewhere under the ferns at the back of Clearwater’s hut. If it was found, it might blow his chances of enlisting Cadillac’s help. He considered going back for it and decided it was too risky. With luck, it would remain undiscovered. The return visit he had inwardly vowed to make to the Mute with the blue eyes would have to be shelved. Indefinitely.
Steve’s mixed-up feelings about Clearwater hadn’t lessened but his near miss with the cross-bow bolt and the subsequent chase through the woods had been an all too sharp reminder that he was in enemy hands. So far he had not been challenged about the incident or confronted by his pursuers but that didn’t necessarily mean he was in the clear. Mutes didn’t think the way Trackers did. There was no knowing what these lumps might be cooking up. He had allowed the regular meals, the good-natured discussions, and the general lack of restraint to lull him into a false sense of security. Worse, in his thoughts about Clearwater, he had permitted himself to indulge in the kind of fantasy that the Mutes wallowed in all the time. Pipe dreams…
In reality, his life was balanced on a knife-edge. A knife which the two wordsmiths were holding between them. If he stepped too far out of line the heat being generated by the head-hunters among the M’Calls might get too much for Mr Snow. The old guy had come up with this great line about him being under Talisman’s protection; he could just as easily arrange for Talisman to change his mind and declare him surplus to requirements. It could prove equally fatal to intrude into the relationship between Cadillac and Clearwater – especially in view of the cooperation he was about to solicit.
Steve’s step lightened as he came to a firm decision. Even if it never left the ground, building a hang-glider would provide an alternative focus for his thoughts and energy. It would also give Cadillac’s mind something more important to latch onto than Steve’s walk in the forest. If he and Mr Snow put their weight behind the project then his own continued well-being was guaranteed until it was completed. Cadillac had not reacted in any positive way when Steve had first broached the subject but he was pretty sure that the young wordsmith would not turn down the chance of learning to fly. At the back of Steve’s mind lurked the idea that Cadillac might – just might – break his neck in the process. Steve banished such thoughts resolutely. The loss of Cadillac would be a double tragedy for if the craft was wrecked in the process it would put an end to all hopes of escape but… on the other hand…
No. Forget it, Brickman. You can’t afford to let it happen. The clan wouldn’t let you get away with it.
Three more days went by. Cadillac didn’t show.
It figures, thought Steve. Those patterns obviously take time to apply. She has to paint him all over – and then he has to paint her. And so on…
Steve found he didn’t like to think about it. Jealousy was another word that had been omitted from the Tracker vocabulary. But, once again, Steve didn’t know that. He only knew that he didn’t like feeling the way he did. Back home, if you felt like putting the bomb in the barrel with one of the guys you just propositioned them. They eit
her said ‘yes’ or ‘no’ depending on how they felt or whether they were busy. Either way it was no big deal. Nor did it matter who they’d been with or who you were planning to go with next. There were no ties, even when you decided to pair off with somebody and filed a bond application. That was primarily an administrative requirement relating to guardianship. Provided you and your partner performed that role adequately you could both jack up whoever you liked. This was why Steve found himself tormented and confused by his feelings towards Cadillac and Clearwater. He did not like to think of them together; did not like the thought that Clearwater belonged to someone else. To someone who had saved his life and on whom his future well-being depended.
Steve’s inner turmoil was compounded by the fact that he had begun to like the two wordsmiths; had actually felt stirrings of genuine warmth towards them; had experienced a very real but unsettling sense of kinship. And that was bad news. Such feelings corroded the armour plate he had riveted around his Tracker psyche. It made him feel vulnerable – and he didn’t like that.
What Steve needed was something he had never previously contemplated: someone to confide in. He had been the confidant of his kin-sister but, even though they were close, he had always resisted the temptation to reveal his own secret thoughts or desires. With a supreme effort of will, he sought out Mr Snow and found him perched cross-legged on a ledge above the settlement.
‘I need to talk.’
Mr Snow studied Steve’s face. ‘Okay, go ahead. Talk.’
Steve squatted down beside him and gave the old wordsmith a hesitant and heavily-edited account of how, in stumbling across the bathing party, he had discovered that Clearwater and Cadillac were straight Mutes. ‘It’s amazing,’ he concluded. ‘There they were, right in front of me but I just didn’t see it! I suddenly realised that I wasn’t looking at the colour of their skin but at them as, uhh – as people.’
Mr Snow responded to Steve’s confession with an indulgent smile. ‘It happens.’
‘Who is she?’ asked Steve with what he hoped was beguiling innocence. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Her name is Clearwater, first of three daughters born to Sun-Dance. Thunder-Bird, her father, was a great warrior who fell in the Battle of the Black Hills.’
‘What is her relationship with Cadillac?’
Mr Snow patted Steve’s knee. ‘Let me give you some good advice. Questions like that could be bad for your health.’
Steve pretended he didn’t understand. ‘Why? You’ve told me all kinds of things about the Plainfolk. I’m just curious to know why she is separated from the rest of the clan. What harm is there in that? Have they exchanged the blood-kiss?’
‘Not yet. But a match has been made.’
‘What does that mean?’
The old wordsmith sighed. ‘They have been summoned before the council of elders. It is the clan’s wish that – with Mo-Town’s blessing – they bring forth children in their own image.’
‘The clan’s wish?’ Steve saw a possible loophole. ‘Does that mean the two of them didn’t have any choice?’
‘None of us choose what we will do or not do,’ said Mr Snow quietly. ‘The exercise of what some call “free will” is a cruel illusion. Happiness, contentment, stems from recognition of this fact.’
It was Steve’s turn to smile indulgently. ‘Ah, yes, I see. We’re all marching to Mo-Town’s music.’
‘Go ahead, laugh,’ said Mr Snow. ‘You don’t have to believe it. Maybe you’re destined to have a difficult time on this trip.’
Steve replaced the smile with an earnest expression which, this time round, was genuine. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’
Mr Snow moved dismissively. ‘What can I tell a man who doesn’t want to listen?’
‘I’m trying,’ insisted Steve. ‘But you don’t seem to understand. Some of the weird ideas you have about the way things work are, uh – well, they’re kind of hard to take on board.’
The old wordsmith eyed him. ‘Don’t try and tell me how hard it is. I’ve been searching for answers ever since you and your guard-father were no more than gleams in your President-General’s eye.’ He paused. ‘Tell me – is it really true he billies every would-be mother in the Federation?’
‘The first President-Generals may have,’ replied Steve. ‘But now it’s all done by artificial insemination. The real action takes place in culture dishes at the Life Institute.’
‘Sounds impressive.’
‘I’ll explain it some other time,’ said Steve. ‘Let’s get back to Clearwater.’
‘What is it with you, Brickman? Too much wax in the ears? I told you – forget you ever saw her. Oh – by the way…’ Mr Snow leaned to his left, pulled Steve’s quarterstaff out from behind some rocks and offered it to him with both hands. ‘She sent you this.’
Steve stared at it for a moment, then took it from him and laid it by his side. He tried to hide his embarrassment. ‘Does Cadillac know?’
‘Not yet. Have you told anyone else?’
Steve shook his head. ‘Who is there to tell?’
‘Exactly. However, I think I should warn you – the word has gotten around. You were seen.’
Steve felt the colour flood through his cheeks under Mr Snow’s piercing gaze. What was it with this guy? He had always been able to hide things so easily before. ‘You mean in the woods?’
Mr Snow didn’t answer.
‘Oh, yeah… I forgot to mention that,’ said Steve lamely. ‘I was on my way back, walking along minding my own business, when somebody with a crossbow tried to nail me by the neck to a tree. I didn’t wait to ask who-what-where-why. I just took off.’
Mr Snow nodded. ‘In the circumstances I’d have probably done the same thing. My brother Bears were under the impression you had reasons for wishing to avoid them. Is there anything else you’ve missed out?’
Steve eyed him. ‘This is like being up in front of the Assessors.’ He gave a quick bitter laugh. ‘What can I tell you that you don’t know already?’
‘Not much,’ admitted Mr Snow.
Steve decided that, whatever else she might have told Mr Snow, Clearwater hadn’t mentioned giving him the map, the food-pack and the water-kit. ‘Look, okay, it may have been stupid to run away but it was you and Cadillac who warned me that not all the natives were friendly. I don’t know what their story is. I can only assure you that I haven’t knowingly done anything I was told not to do.’
Mr Snow greeted this with an enigmatic smile. ‘I’m sure you haven’t. Nevertheless your little jaunt yesterday has made things very difficult.’
‘In what way?’
Mr Snow drew his hand down over his beard before replying. ‘There are certain people who feel that you should never have been taken alive – and that you now know too much.’
Steve frowned. ‘How did they work that out? If you are the only person Clearwater and I have spoken to…’
Mr Snow shrugged. ‘Certain assumptions have been made.’
‘One of them being that I must have discovered Cadillac and Clearwater are what we call “yearlings” – straight Mutes?’
‘Yes – you could say that is their principal concern. They wanted to, ahh – question you–’
‘I bet…’
‘… I advised them to wait until you came to talk to me about it.’
Steve looked down at his quarterstaff, ran his hand along it, then looked up at Mr Snow. ‘You knew I was coming… How?’
‘There’s no mystery about it. I keep telling you. All things are known to the Sky Voices.’
Steve tried to bite back a smile. ‘In that case you must have known what was going to happen yesterday.’
‘Not necessarily. I said “All things are known to the Sky Voices”. That does not mean that I know everything.’
Steve breathed an inward sigh of relief. ‘Okay. But why should these zed-heads want to jump on me? “That path is already drawn” – isn’t that what you keep telling me? So how can whatever’s ha
ppened be my fault? You can’t have it both ways. If you guys are not happy with the way things are going why don’t you take it up with Talisman, or the Sky Voices, or whoever it is that’s supposed to be running things up there?’
‘Good point,’ conceded Mr Snow.
‘Here’s another,’ continued Steve. ‘There’s no need for anyone to get worked up about this – not unless they’re deliberately trying to stir up trouble. If I had bumped into Clearwater on any other day I would never have known that she and Cadillac were straights. And even if, by chance, I had discovered the truth, why should it be such a big secret? You and I discussed this weeks ago. The Southern Mutes have been trading in straights for centuries.’
‘Not female straights.’
‘True,’ admitted Steve. ‘I overlooked that.’
It was a lie, of course. Steve knew perfectly well that, ever since the Break-Out in 2464 when the Federation first learned of the existence of unmarked, smooth-skinned Mutes and the first rare specimens were found, no female straight had ever been captured or handed over in lieu of tribute. Indeed, it was widely believed that, due to some genetic quirk in an already flawed process, female straights simply did not exist. The M’Calls had not only produced one – they possessed a perfectly formed, highly intelligent, breeding pair! It was the kind of hard data that the Amtrak Executive would give their eye teeth for and was bound to earn him good grades at his next assessment. Always assuming there was one.
Steve thought back to something Mr Snow had said in an earlier conversation. About the ancestors of the Mutes being straight-limbed people from the Old Time. Up to the moment of discovering the true colour of Cadillac’s and Clearwater’s skin, Steve had believed that to be a grotesque lie. Since birth he had been taught that the Trackers were the only true descendants of those who lived before the Holocaust. The hellfires that had consumed the Blue-Sky World had been ignited by the Mutes who – according to the Archives – were already sub-human.
Cloud Warrior Page 28
