‘Yep …’ Malone grinned reflectively. ‘There were some good men among that bunch but – that’s the way it goes.’ He rummaged in the first aid bag and produced two pre-packed syringes of morphine. ‘I don’t think she’s gonna wake up again but then this is not your average run-of-the-mill beaver. So keep those handy in case the medics don’t get here. She may need ’em when the shock starts to wear off.’
‘Thanks.’
‘That’s okay. We’re not all as bad as we’re painted.’ Malone grinned at the unintentional joke then slapped Steve’s shoulder. ‘Take care, amigo.’
Steve watched Malone walk down the slope to where his band of breakers now waited with the remaining horses. Some had decided to ride in the saddle, others had elected to lead a string of roped horses. Cadillac sat slumped on the back of his mount with his wrists and feet secured as Steve had suggested. The ragged column set off westwards without a backward glance and was soon lost from sight among the trees.
He wondered how many of them, besides Malone, were working for AMEXICO. Jodi was right. You couldn’t trust anybody. Nothing was what it seemed. He himself was a prime example: a Tracker who was not only decked out like a Mute but had actually taken one for a bunkmate. A trusted envoy of the President-General who felt more at home with his enemies. He had already mentally deserted the Amtrak Federation and if a way could be found to spring Clearwater from Red River – and Roz too – he was now ready to spend the rest of his life in the Blue-Sky World.
But freedom had its downside. Once you started to challenge the accepted order of things, you could no longer be certain of anything. If there was such a thing as truth, you couldn’t be sure what the word meant or whether the truth about anything – final, absolute and indisputable – could ever be established.
Most Trackers went through life without ever considering there might be an alternative mode of existence. They knew about Mutes, of course, but Mutes were sub-human. If you were a Tracker, you obeyed orders, believed what you were told, and never questioned the wisdom of the First Family. That was the way you survived.
The trouble started when you deviated from the norm. Once you strayed from the path laid down by The Manual, you found yourself sinking into a morass of fear, uncertainty and doubt. To avoid going crazy, a person needed something to believe in, an objective to aim for, a dream to cherish. The Family had one, but Steve no longer shared their vision of a purified Blue-Sky World purged of all those who did not conform to the chosen image.
Trackers were fired with an unshakeable belief in the rightness of their cause but it was a certainty based on blind ignorance. The Mutes were equally convinced they were destined to triumph over their oppressors, but they were merely defending their right to exist; the conflict had been started by the Federation.
In material terms, the Plainfolk Mutes led an impoverished existence, but in other intangible ways their life-style was more rewarding and less restrictive. Warriors of rival clans subscribed to a common code of honour and there was a generally accepted set of rules governing social interaction which each clan adopted to suit its particular circumstances. The punishment for transgressing these rules could be as harsh as that meted out by the Federation but the rules themselves were not oppressive and – as Steve knew from experience – and they were not always strictly applied.
Compared to their underground counterparts, Mutes possessed an enviable degree of freedom and they also enjoyed an instinctive, harmonious relationship with everything that made up the fabric of the Blue-Sky World and the invisible beings who – they believed – watched over it and them from a spirit-realm beyond the clouds.
The Federation did not deal with such intangibles. The notion of individual liberty, the idea that the human body might carry within it a spiritual element – a kind of guidance mechanism that could not be dissected, analysed or weighed simply did not arise. The word-concept ‘soul’, along with ‘freedom’ and ‘love’ did not form part of the Tracker vocabulary.
Love …
Kneeling down, Steve laid a hand on Clearwater’s forehead. It was cold. Her eyes were now closed. After making sure she was well covered, he set about gathering some wood to make a fire. When darkness fell, it would serve to guide the medics and the soldiers who would come with the wagon-train.
With Roz …
Adopting the cross-legged style favoured by Mutes, Steve sat down by Clearwater’s shoulder and watched the flames spread through the layers of chopped branches. The wood popped and crackled and hissed as the sap boiled, the tiny jets of steam mixing with the drifting plume of white smoke. A fire like this on a late afternoon under a cloud-filled sky was something the majority of Trackers now alive had never seen and would probably never experience.
Until a short while ago, his kin-sister had had to content herself with a filtered version of his own vivid experiences. Not any more. She had gazed upon the real world with her own eyes, and from the enhanced ‘colour’ and depth of the word-images now reaching over the mind-bridge Steve knew that she too had felt as if she was coming home.
Would she be afflicted by the same uncertainties? Would she be able to reject everything she had been taught to believe in and accept without question the secret knowledge now flooding into her heart and soul? How would she cope with the process of unlearning – of deciding where the real truth lay?
Despite everything Steve had gone through he was no closer to resolving the problem. He still felt torn between the two cultures. The attitudes inculcated over seventeen years of indoctrination could not be eradicated overnight. He no longer regarded the Mutes as either sub-human or the enemy but deep down he still believed himself to be – in some undefined way – superior. But there had been some improvement. Only two short years ago he had berated Roz for daring to suggest that the Mutes had a right to exist!
From the moment Steve had emerged onto the overground for his first flight over the white sands of New Mexico, his perceived view of the world had begun to change; a process which had accelerated following his capture by the clan M’Call. Cadillac and Mr Snow and, above all, Clearwater had helped him discover unsuspected depths of feeling, a sense of wonderment and an affinity with the Blue-Sky World.
At first, the inner conflict between these new emotions and what he, as a Tracker, knew to be right had crippled him with guilt. This was followed by a growing realization that he had been reared on a steady diet of lies and that what he was now discovering was the true state of things and a new self. He felt drawn to the Plainfolk. Emerging onto the overground had been like ‘coming home’; a phrase he had used many times since. He knew, deep down, precisely what it meant, but in terms of his Trackerhood it made no sense at all. Home had been Roosevelt/Santa Fe, but he no longer belonged there.
The trouble was, despite his warm attachment to Mr Snow and his continuing desire to be with Clearwater he was no longer sure where he belonged. The last two years had provided ample proof that his life was being shaped by forces he did not understand. He had seen with his own eyes the power of earth magic flow through Clearwater and had watched Cadillac read the future in the stones – had even caught a glimpse of it himself. Yet he still could not accept unreservedly, as the Mutes did, that every action was predestined, that past and future events were shaped by a collection of invisible beings.
Despite everything that had happened, despite the fact that he had invoked the name of the Great Sky-Mother on more than one occasion, he retained a healthy scepticism. Talisman, Mo-Town, the Sky Voices, the lesser spirits who rode the wind, dwelt in the forests, the rocky crags, the rivers, lakes and streams were agreeable fantasies dreamed up by past generations of Mutes over pipefuls of rainbow grass to explain known geophysical phenomena.
The Eastern and Western Door in the sky through which the sun entered and left the world each day was a classic example. Mutes had attached a mystical significance to events for which there was a straightforward, rational, scientific explanation. Admittedly, there was, as ye
t – as far as he knew – no basis in science for the special gift he shared with Roz, or the powers possessed by Clearwater, Cadillac and Mr Snow, but one day there would be.
In a sense, they were both right. If you believed, like Trackers, that everything could be explained or, like the Mutes, that nothing happened by chance, then life – the totality of existence – had to have meaning. And if it had meaning, then it had a logical structure which, in turn, meant that one day everything, including Mute magic, would be understood. All would be known.
Yes … the intervention of Talisman in moments of danger was what Trackers called ‘good luck’. Nothing more than a fortuitous conjunction of events which conspired to put the right person in the right place at the right time. Or vice versa. Cadillac could claim The Path was drawn, but it was equally true that if you had a clear objective, if you analysed all the elements of a situation and their impact, in various permutations, on a chosen course of action then – nine times out of ten – you ended up knowing what to do. Assuming, of course, you had enough brains to reason things out in the first place.
Steve knew the Blue-Sky World was where he wanted to be, but despite the occasional urge – usually in moments of utter desperation – to let whoever was upstairs run things, he believed that the future was shaped down here on earth. By people like himself. The feeling that he was destined to accomplish great things might, as Cadillac claimed, have been put there by Talisman, but it could have also been there all the time, a product of his own genetic make-up, slowly maturing as his physical and intellectual abilities were honed by endless hours of training exercises and study.
The tests of courage and endurance he had undergone in the past two years had strengthened his resolve but he did not imagine he was invincible; what had just happened to Clearwater was a timely reminder that a well-aimed bullet or crossbow bolt could stop him dead in his tracks. But deep down he was convinced that nothing would.
He piled some more branches on the fire and took another look at Clearwater. No change. He wanted to cradle her in his arms – kiss her, breathe life into her, soothe the pain away, but he knew that in her present condition she should only be moved by skilled medics.
Oh, Mo-Town! Sweet Mother! If you or Talisman are REALLY up there why don’t you DO something?! Are you just going to sit there on some stupid fucking cloud and watch her die when you could reach out a hand and wipe the hurt away?!
George Washington Jefferson the 31st, President-General of the Federation, closed the book he was reading and used the handset to cancel the soft but insistent bleep-bleep and bring up the incoming call on the nearby video-screen. Karlstrom’s personal call-sign was replaced by a close-up of the man himself – beaming exultantly.
‘Evening, Ben. It’s a long time since I’ve seen your face crack open like that. You must have some good news for me.’
‘Not exactly good news. Let’s just say promising.’
‘Spit it out, Ben. Even I like to have a little time off now and again.’
‘I’m calling with an update on OPERATION SQUARE-DANCE. Steve Brickman. D’you want to pull the file?’
‘No. As the saying goes, “I remember him well”. Didn’t you put his kin-sister, uhh – whatshername … Roz – on board Red River?’
‘That’s her, yes. Amazing. What with everything that’s going on topside …’ Karlstrom shook his head. ‘How do you do it?’
‘I don’t keep tabs on them all, Ben. Just the ones where our collective asses are on the line.’
‘Yes, well – we just heard from High Sierra – one of my top men. We used Roz to track Brickman from navref Chicago. Once she’d established they were moving along the North Platte, we moved High Sierra’s group in ahead of them.’
‘And?’
‘My hunch paid off. Brickman came clean. He’s back on track. In fact, he was never off it. Roz has been picking up positive signals for some time and High Sierra has just confirmed it. He’s enlisted Sierra’s group to help complete his original assignment.’
‘So when can we can expect to hang out the flags, Ben?’
‘Not for a while yet, but it’s looking good.’
‘Now give me the bad news.’
Karlstrom’s ebullient smile faded. ‘What makes you think there is any?’
‘There always is, Ben. There always is. You’ve laid these upbeat openings on me before. So let’s have it.’
Karlstrom assumed his normal poker-face then said: ‘In an hour or two from now, Clearwater –’
‘Jefferson’s interest quickened. ‘The summoner that our young hero has been, uhh –?’
‘Stiffing? Yes, the very same. He’s arranged for her to be collected by Red River. Roz is making the pick-up.’
‘Are they going to be able to …? I’d hate to think that train might be at risk.’
‘That’s not going to be a problem. One of Red River’s ’hawks on forward air patrol spotted a bunch of hostiles and used up his last rounds on a strafing before turning for home. He reported seeing several targets go down. I guess he didn’t realize who he was shooting at. Fortunately, Roz got the message within seconds of it happening.’
‘How badly is she hurt, Ben?’
Karlstrom grimaced. ‘Well, it’s critical but High Sierra says it’s not fatal – providing the medics get there in time. Two of the surgical team are going out to handle the transfer. She’ll be flown in on a buddy frame.’
‘And Roz?’
‘She’s going out too.’
‘Have someone keep an eye on her, Ben.’
‘Don’t worry, she’ll be well covered.’
‘And Brickman?’
‘Well, according to Roz, he wants to come aboard to coordinate the final stage of the operation. He’s with Clearwater now. Everything’s been prepared for her to undergo immediate surgery on board Red River. She’s in no condition to travel any further. On the plus side, of course, she’s in no position to do us any harm.’
Jefferson met this news with a satisfied nod. ‘Okay, Ben, well done. Keep me posted N and D on this until she’s off the danger list.’
‘Will do. Goodnight, Mr President-General.’
‘G’night, Ben.’ Jefferson cleared the screen with his handset then picked up his book and gently fondled it’s leather binding for a moment before turning to the page where he left the marker ribbon.
The book he held in his hands – about steam locomotives that once ran through Texas on the Southern Pacific and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe railroads – was over a thousand years old. The history of the American steam locomotive was one of Jefferson’s two private passions; the other was the cultivation of antique roses.
The First Family possessed a magnificent library of real books covering both of these and many other subjects, and COLUMBUS, the guiding intelligence of the Federation, held the texts of virtually all the books ever written. But the time when their contents would be made known to a wider audience was still a long way off. The material they contained was not even available to all members of the First Family. The work Jefferson was reading was harmless enough but even the fact of knowing that such things as books existed could have an unsettling effect on those who served the Federation.
Books were beautiful things, but they were also dangerous.
Steve gently removed the bundle of clothes he made into a pillow and rested Clearwater’s head on his thigh. The move enabled him to hold her right hand in his, while caressing her head. He was as close to her as he could get. Her forehead was still cold, her hair damp, her eyes were shut.
Seized with a feeling of hopelessness, he decided to direct his attention somewhere else. If he did that for a while then perhaps when he looked down at her again, their eyes would meet. It didn’t matter how briefly. If she could just see that he was there – if he could just connect and somehow beam in the message that she was in safe hands – that she had to LIVE ..!
He dragged his eyes away from her face and stared into the glowing embe
rs. The next few weeks were not going to be easy. When Cadillac found out that Clearwater had been put aboard Red River he would go apeshit. But it had to be done. It was the only way to save her life. That was all Steve was concerned about. Only highly-skilled Federation surgeons using the advanced techniques developed by the First Family could rejoin ruptured flesh and rebuild shattered bone. Mr Snow would understand. Steve was counting on his wise, calm counsel to stop Cadillac bouncing off the walls. For his part, Steve was prepared to call a truce – was ready, in fact, to end all hostilities. Permanently. In the present situation, the one thing neither of them could afford was the luxury of another argument.
As part of the medical team aboard the wagon-train and through her connection with Karlstrom, Roz would ensure that Clearwater got the best possible treatment. And at the very first opportunity, Roz would tell her that she had not been abandoned. Roz would also convince Karlstrom that Clearwater had to be kept on the wagon-train as bait to catch the others.
Karlstrom had to believe that Steve was utterly loyal to the Federation – as Roz had claimed. But it was not so. Federation medical skills would mend Clearwater’s body but she would convalesce among the Plainfolk.
Somehow or other – and at the moment he hadn’t the faintest idea how it could be accomplished – Steve intended to rescue Clearwater from Red River: the wagon-train with the best operational record and the highest kill-rate in the Federation. The task he had given himself was like trying to storm the Shogun’s palace-fortress at Yedo single-handed. Ordinarily, he would have dismissed the idea as impossible, but with Roz on the inside, it was suddenly a whole different ball-game …
Steve reached out absent-mindedly for a rounded stone and held it in his palm, turning it this way and that, and wishing he had Cadillac’s ability to read the future in the stones. Nothing happened. The stone did not come alive. But as he held it tightly in his fingers, he reflected on what Clearwater had told him about the prediction Cadillac had made as they stood on the bluff with Mr Snow watching him rise into the dawn sky –
The Amtrak Wars: Blood River Page 40
