The Amtrak Wars: Blood River

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘Fresh from the waters,’ said Cadillac. ‘A gift from the Kojak to grace the table of the great warriors from the east.’ He bowed again then looked up expectantly.

  Wantanabe treated them both to another impassive stare then told his sergeant to summon the cook from the galley. The cook – a fat Chinese dumpling – appeared with two assistants and lowered a basket over the side on the end of a rope.

  ‘How-ah many you ah-give?’ asked Sergeant Kurabashi.

  ‘As many as you want,’ replied Steve.

  ‘Good,’ said Wantanabe. ‘We take all.’ He lifted his son Tomo away from the rail, snarled briefly at the female servant who was supposed to be looking after him then handed him over. ‘But from ah-now after you keep away from ah-this boat. If you ah-wish speak or make trade, ah-do so on shore. Unnah-stan’?’

  Steve and Cadillac bowed again. Yeah, we unnah-stan’, you ah-firat-faced ah-rittar creep …

  As darkness fell, Cadillac, Steve and the Kojak boatmen shared a stew made from their reserve of dried fish and some rice provided by Wantanabe’s cook. It wasn’t exactly a generous helping considering the number of fish they’d handed over but this was not the time to get pushy. Especially after the beady looks they’d drawn.

  They bulked up the meal by tossing stale pieces of flat-bread into the stewpot – acquired, like so many domestic items, from the trading post at an exorbitant exchange rate. There was no doubt about it; the Iron Masters really knew how to gouge the natives.

  When the two boatmen hit the hay, Cadillac and Steve stayed by the fire until the glowing embers collapsed and began to turn grey.

  ‘What d’you think?’ asked Steve.

  ‘About Wantanabe? He certainly didn’t give much away.’

  ‘No. But I’m willing to bet my last meal credit he wasn’t thinking about fish. That guy’s brain was in overdrive.’

  ‘He’s certainly no dum-dum,’ admitted Cadillac. ‘But even if he didn’t like us sneaking up on his boat, there’s no way he could figure out we were listening in.’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’ Steve stared into the fire and weighed up the situation. In the light of what Cadillac had overheard, their chances of sinking the wheelboat appeared to have diminished considerably. With so many troops and horses on board, it sounded as if it was going to be standing room only. How, in sweet Christopher’s name, were they going to be able to move around?

  ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re in big trouble, good buddy.’

  ‘Wrong. They’re the ones who are in trouble,’ said Cadillac confidently. ‘We’ll manage it somehow. But first, we’ve got to send ‘Bull and Death-Wish back to warn the others.’

  ‘Better wait a couple of days. It’s running things a little tight, but providing they make the same time on the return trip Carnegie and Clearwater should have enough time to get the reception committee organized. If they take off straight away it might look suspicious. We don’t want Flat-Face connecting their departure with us hanging around underneath his window –’

  Cadillac nodded. ‘Good thinking …’

  As a wordsmith, Cadillac was endowed with a phenomenal memory but he appeared to have forgotten that ordinary Mutes were not the ideal carriers of verbal messages – especially ones containing precise numerical information. Since Mutes had no written language they were unable to read; with two exceptions – Cadillac and Clearwater.

  Cadillac had gained the ability to read when he had used his extraordinary mental gifts to tap into Steve’s fund of acquired knowledge, and during the last three months as guests of the Kojak, Steve had taught Clearwater what Mr Snow called ‘silent speech’. At the time, it had been nothing more than an agreeable exercise; a way of being together without necessarily having to be in bed. Looking back, it had been a smart move for besides helping to deepen their relationship, her new skill was now going to help save lives.

  Despite her eagerness to learn, Clearwater’s written vocabulary was still limited. But it was not her fault. Steve, like all Trackers, had learned to read at a very early age but he had never learned to write. There had been no need. The focal point of his education had been video-screen with its host of interactive teaching programmes and to make use of them, Trackers acquired keyboard skills.

  The verb ‘write’ was only used in the context of writing computer programmes – a task rarely performed by anyone outside the First Family. Trackers used the verb ‘key’ instead. Paper, pens and pencils as used in the pre-Holocaust era were unavailable. The only thing to write with was a light-pen, the only surface, a computer screen. Any drawing was done the same way, coloured by selecting shades from a palette offered by COLUMBUS. There were no books, paintings, prints, no photographs except those stored in the video archives. The only ‘hard copy’ available were the plasfilm navref maps issued to overground units. From Day One, everything a Tracker knew about the world and the meaning of existence came through the screens of the video-network controlled by the First Family.

  Apart from word of mouth, there was only one subversive medium – ‘blackjack’ – unofficial, and therefore illegal, music secretly recorded onto tapes and discs. Sometimes it was accompanied by bizarre images but usually there was just a sound-track recorded onto blank videotapes. Copies of copies of copies of countless copies of thousand-year-old masters.

  Not everyone had access to the necessary equipment but those that did heard a mix of husky, snarling, raucous, plaintive vocals about seeking, finding, losing, yearning, backed by wild, soaring urgent harmonies and underscored with a spine-tingling rhythmic beat. The words mirrored the dreams, some bright, but more often broken, of an imperfect world where the freedom to love, to be and do anything, was both a boon and a curse. A world full of hope yet beyond salvation; lost forever in the fires of the Holocaust.

  No one knew who had started the trafficking or who was behind it now. And Steve, who had always steered clear of the stuff had not inquired further. Handling blackjack was a Code One offence: a one-way ticket to the wall.

  So … although Steve knew the shape of each letter, its sound value and was able to spell, until he began to teach Clearwater, he had never actually formed words using anything other than a typewriter keyboard. So he had traced the outlines of letters in the snow and when darkness fell, he drew them on smooth pale-coloured stones using a charred stick from the fire.

  To provide a more permanent record of the alphabet, Clearwater had sewn the letters onto the sleeves of her cotton tunic using an Iron Master needle and thread; thirteen letters running in two rows down the left hand sleeve, the remainder running up the right hand sleeve. She began by identifying each one as Steve called them out in random order and then progressed to spelling out the names of objects around her.

  The first words she wanted to write were ‘cloud-warrior’ and her own name. He tried to explain that his given name was Steven Roosevelt Brickman but she was not interested. Cloud-Warrior was his name of power and that was how she, like all Mute women, wished to address her chosen soul-mate.

  The first tentative sentence produced entirely unaided read: ‘Clearwater gives to Cloud-Warrior her long life heart loving.’ Using the inside of a piece of tree bark, Steve scratched a reply with the point of his knife. ‘It is a gift I will always strive to be worthy of.’ Not exactly a vibrant piece of prose but Steve had never written a love-letter before.

  Inside the haybarn, out of sight of the Iron Masters, Steve got to work on another small piece of bark. Congratulating himself on having had the foresight to teach Clearwater basic arithmetic as well as reading and writing, he scratched out a cryptic message using symbols she would be able to decipher.

  This was the first time he’d ever drawn anything without the aid of a computer and he enjoyed doing it. And apart from the mathematical signs, the symbols were not borrowed from COLUMBUS’s vast store of graphic elements: they were entirely his own creation.

  It was a strange feeling and it reminded him of the artisans he’d seen at work during hi
s time as a road-runner in Ne-Issan. Men who drew pictures on paper-covered screens with brushes and pots of coloured water.

  Not pictures composed by soulless circuit boards, but created out of their own imagination – of forests, snow-capped mountains and mist-shrouded valleys. Horsemen hunting wild animals with spear and bow, birds perched on branches heavy with pink blossom, or wading on long slender legs through reedy marshes. Courtesans in richly patterned kimonos, some with their chalk-white faces half-hidden by parasols, poised daintily on the edge of lily ponds where plump red and white fish rippled the surface with their noses.

  Compared to the marvels they produced his efforts were pitiful but now, at least, he knew that some human beings had the potential to produce such things – no matter how brutal their society might be. And if the Iron Masters could do it, why not Trackers?

  After cutting the last line of the message, he opened the small earthenware pot of powdered dark brown dye he’d brought along to keep his hair from going blond at the roots. Mixing a little powder with some water in the lid, Steve used a sliver of wood to stain the knife cuts to make them more legible. Satisfied with the effect he had achieved, he then copied the original onto a second piece of tree bark.

  When both medallions were ready, he gave Cadillac one to look at. ‘Think she’ll be able to understand that?’

  Cadillac studied the engraved message then read it back: ‘Is this …? Oh, yes, a K on its side, making an arrow pointing down to fish. Got it … the Kojak. Drawn crossbow … Be ready? On your guard?’

  ‘Keep going …’

  ‘Five plus five. Suns … one dark one light. Must be sunset and sunrise … ten days … you will wake to see – mmmm, quite clever. Are those meant to be wheels?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wheelboats coming over water to lodges. Arrows coming from both sides. Surrounding …’

  ‘Settlement.’

  ‘Five times ten times five … what are these – hoofprints?’

  ‘Who ride horses?’

  ‘Samurai. Yes … neat idea. I take it this next set of numbers refers to the red-stripes. Doesn’t look much like a mask.’

  ‘You got it didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I know what the message is.’ Cadillac handed back the medallion. ‘Wouldn’t it have been simpler to write it in Basic?’

  ‘Of course it would! D’you think I did this for fun?!’

  Cadillac made a soothing gesture. ‘Don’t get irritated. It’s very ingenious. The thing is – with something this crucial – we don’t want any misunderstandings.’

  ‘There isn’t gonna be any misunderstandings,’ said Steve heatedly. ‘Has it occurred to you that Wantanabe might be able to read Basic? Better than he can speak it? Obviously not. Suppose he takes it into his head to search the boat and our two friends before they leave? Unlikely to happen, I grant you, but having gotten this far why take chances?’

  ‘You’re right. But in that case, won’t he be suspicious of anything that looks like a hidden message?’

  ‘It’s not going to be hidden. I’m planning to hang these round their necks. They’re good luck charms. That’s why I’ve only used ones, plus signs, X’s and square noughts. Any other numerals would give the game away.’

  Steve’s worries were not entirely groundless. Wantanabe’s suspicions had been aroused upon finding them lurking directly below his quarters on the houseboat while he was discussing information that would be of use to an enemy. But the more he thought about it the more he realized there were no grounds for believing the Mutes were up to some mischief. Even so, he felt a certain unease. There was something about the two guides the Kojak wordsmith had sent him. Something about their eyes, their demeanour. They looked … What was it? Too … astute? On the other hand, that might be the reason why they had been selected.

  In Ne-Issan, slaves were forbidden to make eye-contact with persons from the upper classes. They were dealt with by persons of inferior rank. Perhaps it was his own attitude that was incorrect. Perhaps they weren’t all as dumb-looking as the two that were leaving, and the majority of Mutes he’d met since arriving in the outlands. Yes … Clearly, there was still a lot to learn.

  Two days later, the two Kojak boatmen sought permission from Sergeant Kurabashi to return to their settlement in order to confirm the safe arrival of the guides. Kurabashi told them their request would receive due consideration and strode off to check up on the new building work. The japs had negotiated a deal with their nearest Mute neighbours to supply timber and were employing a sixty-strong gang working under close supervision to saw the logs up into planks and do other labouring jobs using Iron Master tools. The Mutes had brought along their women and children and they were now camped in a mini-settlement about half a mile inland. It was a neat arrangement. The Japs didn’t have to feed or house their work force, and they didn’t have them under their feet after the whistle blew.

  Steve and Cadillac helped ‘Bull and Death-Wish prepare the out-rigger for the voyage home then sat down on the beach near the gangway to the houseboat. When Kurabashi returned, they looked up at him expectantly but he walked on board without giving them a second glance.

  Cadillac watched the sergeant enter Wantanabe’s quarters then eyed Steve. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You tell me, you’re the expert. You know what these guys are like. They like to make a big production out of everything. He’s probably trying to make us sweat a little.’

  If that was Kurabashi’s intention, he succeeded. Half an hour later he reappeared with Wantanabe, and followed him down the gangway. Steve, Cadillac and the two boatmen scrambled to their feet and bowed but the Japs walked right past them and on up the beach. And so it went on all through the morning. It was as if they had suddenly become invisible and although they joked about throwing themselves across the foot of the gangway there seemed no way of attracting the Jap’s attention without giving offence – and that would have been counterproductive.

  The midday meal-break came and went and it was not until the late afternoon, when Steve was becoming increasingly anxious at the thought of losing a day off an already tight schedule, that Wantanabe and his hatchet-faced sergeant condescended to address them.

  Kurabashi was carrying the pigeon-basket they’d brought back. The two birds were inside and the remaining ribbons were looped through the woven cane. The two Kojak boatmen bowed as he placed the basket in front of Raging-Bull. Death-Wish was on his left then Steve and Cadillac, forming two sides of a square.

  Wantanabe drew himself up to his full height and adopted his severest expression. It was difficult to impress your authority on loutish savages when you were obliged to look up their nostrils. It was also extremely annoying. In Ne-Issan, these monkeys would have been grovelling at his feet with their noses in the dirt.

  ‘Tell your ah-wordsmith we ah-will soon thank him in-ah person for his ah-sistance. Tell him also he mus’ ah-send back bird with message as we ah-range.’ He glanced sideways at Steve and Cadillac but they were careful not to react.

  ‘Bull and Death-Wish bowed. As they straightened up, ‘Bull’s bark medallion swung out of the v-neck of his leather overshirt. Steve’s earlier assurance vanished as he saw Wantanabe’s eyes light up. Pointing to the medallion, the Jap snapped his fingers then opened his palm. ‘Bull took it off his neck and handed it over.

  Wantanabe scanned the symbols scratched in the bark, checked the other side, took another closer look at Steve’s handiwork then passed it over to Kurabashi. There was a muttered exchange that Cadillac failed to get the gist of.

  The head Jap turned back to Raging-Bull. ‘What is ah-meaning of this?’

  ‘It’s a good luck charm,’ replied ‘Bull. ‘It contains magic to ward off evil spirits.’

  ‘Ah-so … we no see before. Who ah-give this thing?’

  ‘Our clan elders. To guard us on this dangerous voyage. No one from our clan has ever crossed the Great River before.’

  Well done, ‘Bull. Keep
going …

  Wantanabe grunted. ‘These ah-marks which bring good fortune. These suns, these eyes. What is it they ah-say?’

  The boatman bowed and spread his hands apologetically. ‘I cannot tell you, master. They are sky-signs. Only our word-smith knows the language of Mo-Town, the Great Sky-Mother.’

  Wantanabe accepted this with a nod but the set of his mouth showed he was far from happy. He turned to Death-Wish. ‘You also carry necklace to bring you good fortune?’

  The second boatman produced his bark medallion but didn’t remove it from his neck. Wantanabe compared it to the one he held in his hand then beckoned Steve and Cadillac to step forward. Steve tried to think of a convincing answer to the question he knew was coming as Wantanabe planted himself in front of them and held out his hand. How stupid not to have made two more copies!

  Cadillac came to the rescue while Steve was still struggling to put words together. ‘It is only our clan-brothers who carry the magic amulets charged with the power of Mo-Town for it is they who must cross the Great River. We do not need the sky-signs to protect us. The Great Sky-Mother has placed our lives in your hands.’

  Wantanabe inclined his head graciously. ‘You speak well. The Kojak have ah-tongues as slippery as eels.’ Turning on his heel, he issued a rapid stream of orders to Kurabashi.

  The sergeant relayed them to an underling on the deck of the houseboat and within seconds, Steve and the three Mutes were surrounded by eight armed soliers.

  ‘What in hell –’

  ‘Don’t say or do anything?’ hissed Cadillac.

  Two soldiers grabbed Death-Wish by the arms and forced him to kneel. Two more grabbed Raging-Bull. A fifth handed Sergeant Kurabashi a short wooden stick then joined the three who stood poised ready to cut down Steve and Cadillac should they be rash enough to interfere. Kurabashi stepped behind Death-Wish, slid the stick through the knotted leather thong onto which the bark medallion had been threaded and twisted it round to take up the slack.