The Amtrak Wars: Blood River

by Patrick Tilley

  When the ceremony was over, Roz stayed with Annie while Bart Bradlee went to a meeting at the Black Tower – home of the Amtrak Executive. Annie had two hours to kill before she and Bart boarded the west-bound shuttle for Santa Fe. Stepping into one of the two elevators that ran up and down the central core of the spiralling ramp, they descended to Level One and used Annie’s ID-card to pull a wheelie from the head of the line. There were over fifty of them parked obliquely along the roadway, plugged nose first into a long, low recharging unit.

  Running on four small fat tyres, the battery-powered wheelies were like topless, pre-Holocaust golf-carts. The type Roz and Annie had selected functioned as a self-drive taxi; a larger version consisting of a prime mover hauling a string of open trailers ran at pre-set times over fixed routes.

  When inserted into the dashboard, Annie’s ID-card switched on the motor, and when it was withdrawn at the end of the journey, an appropriate number of credits was deducted. The micro-chip control unit also recorded the ID-number of the card owner and when the wheelie was parked on the next recharging plug, it transmitted this information to COLUMBUS along with the grid coordinates of the entire journey. These coordinates were stored as magnetic data on flat metal ribbons buried at regular intervals beneath the road surface, and should someone in authority wish to do so, they could be reproduced on a VDU to give a visual display of the route taken.

  The turnstiles and elevators which gave access to specific areas and levels operated on the same principle. In this way, everyone’s movements could be continuously logged and, if necessary, impeded. Access to certain areas, services and levels of information available over the public channels of the video network depended on your rank and function and this was controlled by having ID-cards with differential ratings. The micro-processors at the various control points also rejected any card if the credit balance was within five points of zero, and could be programmed by COLUMBUS to swallow the card carried by a wanted person and sound a piercing alarm to alert any Provos nearby.

  The ID-cards, which had to be presented for ‘topping-up’ every eight weeks in the same way that pre-Holocaust workers lined up to collect their pay cheques, was one of the many ways in which the First Family kept their hold on their loyal subjects. Without an authenticated card, a Tracker could not obtain food directly from one of the mess-decks, could not send a videogram or use a videophone, could not use any of the available means of transportation, change levels, or move from one control area to another. He or she could not even play Shoot-A-Mute – the most popular arcade game in the Federation. Deprived of the means to stay alive or move around – unless sheltered by card-carrying friends – a code-breaker or a ‘diss’ was like a rat caught in a trap. There was only one way to avoid being caught and to those who knew how, it was known as ‘eating your way through the brickwork’.

  Roz sat silently beside Annie as they drove down the curving four-lane tunnel that linked the Wall of Heroes with John Wayne Plaza. As they passed the turn-off to the shrine of the Founding Father, George Washington Jefferson the 1st, Roz saw Annie glance towards the brightly-lit arched colonnade.

  ‘Do you want to visit?’

  Annie slowed the wheelie. ‘D’you mind? We don’t have to wait in line. Just sit on one of the benches for a minute or two.’

  ‘Whatever you want. We got plenty of time …’

  Annie let a couple of oncoming wheelies pass then turned right and drove into the crowded parking area. Pressing the ‘Hold’ button on the dash, she pulled her card and returned it to its protective wallet. This action reserved the vehicle – which would now only start if the same card was inserted, and a slow wink-light on top of the dash came on to indicate the wheelie was still in use. But not for ever. The ‘Hold’ button had a count-down mechanism. If the card-holder didn’t return within an hour, the micro-chip turned off the wink-light and put the wheelie back on offer.

  The memorial shrine of the Founding Father attracted a steady stream of visitors like Lenin’s Tomb in Moscow’s Red Square. The red marble mausoleum, along with the nearby Kremlin had been vaporized in the global Holocaust that had obliterated virtually everything ever built from the time of the Pharaohs to the beginning of the 21st century. Lenin’s tomb had lasted less than a hundred years but the Founding Father’s last resting place, fifteen hundred feet below ground, had been kept safe and secure for nearly five hundred years and would remain so. Not just for another five hundred years but for five hundred thousand. That proud boast was an indication of how long the First Family planned to stay at the helm.

  Skirting the slowly moving eight-deep line, Annie and Roz found an empty bench carved out of the same white marble as the fifteen foot-high sculpted portrait head of George Washington Jefferson the 1st. The base of the neck rested on a deliberately rough, jagged granite plinth, standing ten feet high so that no matter how many people crowded into the rotunda, his face could always be seen by those entering. His two immortal phrases were carved into the surrounding wall on either side so that those queuing up on the left to touch the spot worn smooth by pilgrims approached under the words, ‘They died so that others might live’ and walked out past the ominous reminder, ‘Only people fail, not the system.’

  The Founding Father had actually died in 2045 AD, some thirty years after the Holocaust but his vision of the Federation and the future had been stamped indelibly on his descendants. The shrine, formally opened in 2500 AD, had been built to commemorate the Break-Out in 2445: the long-dreamed-of moment when the first Pioneer Battalions broke through the earth-shield and began construction of the first permanent interface, above Houston/Grand Central.

  This return to the overground, which the Founding Father had laid down as the overriding objective of the following generations, had been the first step in the present battle to repossess the Blue-Sky World. Five and a half centuries of unrelenting guerrilla warfare with the wily Mute, to which was added the equally violent struggle to tame the vast, hostile landscape. A landscape which was overlaid by an invisible, poisonous blanket of air. Those five and a half centuries of conflict had taken its toll, as the Wall of Heroes and the lesser Monuments to The Fallen in the divisional bases testified. And now Poppa Jack’s name had been added to the list.

  As they gazed up at the strong, serene face of the Founding Father, even Roz – who had become increasingly prey to doubts about the integrity of those who ran the system – felt a sense of security, solidity, continuity. And with good reason. Had not the First Family protected and nurtured them for nearly a thousand years? Had they not sheltered their flock from the fires of the Holocaust and the freezing darkness that followed? Had they not led them back towards the light that filled the Blue-Sky World?

  The Founding Father had foreseen the dangers, had laid plans by which the Four Hundred and their families would survive. And when the world of the Old Time was put to the torch by the ravening hordes of Mutes that poured out of the cess-pits the once-proud cities of America had become, he had dared to dream: that one day, when the corrupt and evil elements had choked to death by feeding on their own poisonous flesh, the strong and the brave would emerge to cleanse the earth and take their rightful place in the sun.

  The succeeding generations of the First Family had cherished that dream and, as a result, vast areas of the overground were now controlled by the Federation. But the poisonous presence of the Mutes still polluted the atmosphere. According to the Manual, their sweat, their excreta, their breath were charged with lethal toxins. Death radiated from their bodies like heat from a ceramic hob. And it was an accumulated dose of these poisons, absorbed over years of active duty, which had laid waste to Poppa Jack’s body and finally killed him.

  In Roz’s own lifetime, the newscasts had carried figures showing that the level of poison in the atmosphere had been dropping. Years ago, when Steve had dared to ask if there might be another reason – apart from the presence of the Mutes – that made the air bad for Trackers to breathe, Poppa Jack had bec
ome angry, warning them both that a person could get into deep trouble for having bad ideas like that. And when pressed to explain why the danger was decreasing, he had slammed his fist on the table, shouting: ‘That’s because every year that goes by, we’re killin’ more ’n more of the foul-smelling sons of bitches! Ain’t it obvious? The less there are, the better it gets! But it won’t ever be fit and proper to breathe until the bones of the last lump-head have been bleached white and ground into the dirt!’

  But Steve had spent six months as a prisoner of the Plainfolk Mutes, had eaten their food, breathed the same air, had even – Roz shuddered at the thought – shacked up with one and was, apparently, none the worse for the experience …

  ‘Always makes me feel good – comin’ here,’ murmured Annie. ‘Makes you realize how long the Family’s been lookin’ after us. And how well they done it. That man up there, he held it all together. All those hundreds of years ago … he knew where we was headed, an’ what had to be done for us to get there. An’ every year that passes brings us a step closer.’ She sighed. ‘I won’t live to see the Blue-Sky World but you might. A lot can happen in ten years.’

  Annie was referring to the Family’s promise to repossess the Blue-Sky World by the year 3000 AD.

  ‘I have a feeling, from what –’

  Roz broke off abruptly. She had been about to say ‘from what Steve told me’ but, as far as Annie knew, Steve had never returned from his first overground tour aboard The Lady from Louisiana. Officially, he was dead; missing in action over Wyoming, last year. She made a new start.

  ‘– uhh, from what, uh, y’know, one hears around the campus. From guys who have kinfolk on the wagon-trains …’

  ‘Yeah …?’

  ‘That it could take a whole lot longer.’

  ‘Scuttlebut!’ snapped Annie. ‘Never heard Poppa Jack spreadin’ spineless rumours like that. An’ I don’t want to hear any from you. Now or ever!’

  ‘No, ma’am …’

  They sat in silence for a while then Annie produced a tissue and wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Y’know what I wish? That Poppa Jack and Stevie could have been remembranced together. I know they didn’t always see eye-to-eye.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘Never knew a boy who wanted to know so much. Every time Poppa Jack answered a question, he came back with two more. Just couldn’t seem to make him understand that things were just the way The Manual said they were. The rows they had …’

  ‘And the beatings …’

  ‘Yeah … still, they thought the world of each other. Would have made me real proud to see their names set side-by-side on that wall. I know the rules ‘bout those who go missin’ but it don’t seem right for Stevie’s body to be lyin’ out there somewhere and not be remembered.’ She dried her eyes again then wiped her nose.

  Roz hesitated then reached out and took firm hold of her guard-mother’s hand. Bracing herself, she said: ‘Annie, I couldn’t tell you this over the video-phone but… Stevie isn’t dead. I can’t tell you how I know. I just do. He’s going to come one day, I’m sure of it. And he’ll be a hero. Just like Poppa Jack.’

  To her surprise, Annie did not reproach her for going against the official word concerning Steve’s fate. She patted Roz’s outstretched hand. ‘Glad you told me. I’ve had that feelin’ too.’ She looked around to see who was in earshot then lowered her voice. ‘But it doesn’t do to talk about such things. Even if it’s true – an’ I pray to the Foundin’ Father to make it so – it won’t bring him back any quicker.’

  ‘Just don’t lose hope.’

  Annie shook her head. ‘The bag-men’ll have to show me his body first. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Then don’t.’ Annie hugged her. ‘I appreciate you tryin’ to soften the blow.’

  ‘I’m not making it up, Annie. It’s true, as sure as I’m standing here.’

  Because when he dies, so will I …

  ‘I know, I know, sweetie.’ Annie stood up. ‘C’mon. Let’s go before we lose that wheelie.’

  They spent the next half-hour wandering around a small part of John Wayne Plaza, the biggest rock chamber in the entire Federation. The free-flight dome at Lindbergh Field was the only other excavation that approached it in size.

  The Plaza’s ground plan was in the form of a five-pointed star lying within a circular ringway with a diameter of one mile. The V-shaped areas grouped about the central pentagon were lined with galleries which came together in a smooth semi-circular sweep above the arches that gave access to the encircling ringway. The views across the Plaza were spectacular but they were nothing compared to the view upwards; the tapering vault above the pentagon measured a dizzying eight hundred feet from floor to apex.

  Above the apex, Pioneers were already sinking a shaft through the last layer of rock and earth to link the plaza with the overground and when the final stage was completed, a steel and glass tower would continue the lines of the vault upwards, converging to form a glittering five-sided pyramid eleven hundred feet high, topped by a covered observation platform. The world above would become one with the world below, linked by express elevators that would carry you upwards towards the clouds and a breathtaking view of the Blue-Sky World.

  Even now, there was a lot to see (some said too much) and a leisurely visit took the best part of two days. Parties shuttling in from outlying bases on three day passes were quartered in units running off the top galleries of the V-shaped vistas; the Trackers who staffed the Plaza were stationed immediately below.

  ‘Working the Plaza’ was viewed by many as the best underground posting a guy could pull, better even than promotion to executive rank. ‘High-wiring’ it up the Black Tower might prove ultimately more rewarding but it was also a great deal more precarious. Like the dog-soldiers said: ‘The higher you go, the further you fall’.

  As Commander Bill Hartmann and the disgraced executive officers of The Lady knew only too well.

  But back to the Plaza. The second and first street-level galleries contained a variety of arcades, mess-decks, space parks – combinations of architectural and landscaping elements where you could just sit or stroll around and enjoy the view – and exhibition areas covering every aspect of the Federation, past, present and future.

  Twenty credits brought you a 10-minute ride in a cockpit of a Skyhawk surrounded by a computer-generated bird’s-eye view of the overground. Artfully placed jets of air created a slipstream to complete the illusion of movement and a series of targets were presented for the rookie-pilot to gun down by firing a soft laser. Another exhibit, a full-sized walk-through mock-up composed of three sections of a wagon-train: the command module, power car and a typical battle-station, attracted a steady flow of visitors.

  After watching the accompanying video-display, many yip-pies – Young Pioneers, who spent their 13th year as unskilled labourers, digging subway tunnels, air shafts and other back-breaking engineering projects – left the mock-up and headed straight for the recruitment information bureau to add their names to the list of would-be Trail-Blazers. And for the even younger visitor, aged four to seven, there were seats to be had aboard a minature, open-topped wagon-train that made regular trips around the Plaza. They, too, stepped down, filled with a wide-eyed sense of adventure and a restless desire to grow up as soon as possible.

  Few, from either group, would ever step on board a full-sized, battle-worthy wagon-train but the illusion of choice was carefully fostered to counter the impression of a suffocating regimentation being imposed from the top down.

  You obeyed the orders of the First Family because you believed that it was right and proper to do so, not because you were forced to. The Family gave you life, fed you, reared you, gave you a valued role in society, a sense of purpose and a promise of a better future. The President-General, like those who had preceded him, regarded you as his own kin; sons and daughters of one great extended family. And like the father of any family he placed his trust in you and, not unreas
onably, expected that trust to be returned. Plus undying gratitude and life-long obedience. Sanctions were only applied to those who betrayed that trust. Such irrational behaviour was the product of a diseased mind; a sickness that was judged to be highly contagious. Code-breakers were like plague-carriers; they had to be removed from society and if they could not be cured then they had to be destroyed.

  Roz and Annie enjoyed a leisurely cup of Java by the cooling fountains and greenery in the spacious central pentagon beneath the soaring light-filled vault. It was not the only source of illumination but its warmth and brightness gave a hint of what it would be like to live in the rays of the sun that generations had died without ever seeing. The lush broad-leaved vegetation had been grown from seeds carefully preserved by the First Family. Back in the Old Time, before the hell-fires that spawned the Mutes, the overground had been green too. Now the trees and grass were blood-red, flesh pink and fireball orange but one day that would change. When the air had been purified and the earth was purged of all that was unclean, a new world would be created; a world that embraced the simplicity and goodness that had been lost along the way and – as in the words of the song–the good ole boys would return ‘to the green, green hills of home’…

  Roz gazed around the Plaza and down the tapering broad-walks filled with air, light, colour and movement and mentally compared it to the grey, cinder-block face of Roosevelt/Santa Fe, her divisional home. ‘How the other half live …’ She turned to Annie. ‘Still, you should be okay, now that you’re moving in with Uncle Bart. I seem to remember you took me there once. When I was … six?’

  ‘Five …’

  ‘It was pretty fancy.’

  ‘It’s certainly better than the quarters me an’ Jack started out with. But things improved when you two came along. Bart lives better’n most but then … he had an important job to do. When those high-wires from the Black Tower come out to see him, you can’t have ’em sittin’ with their knees under their chins.’ Annie gestured towards their surroundings. ‘You mark my words. One day, everywhere’s gonna look as good as this.’