Death-Bringer

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘I can’t tune in on him. It only works with Steve.’

  ‘I know,’ said Wallis soothingly. ‘We’re assuming from what we’ve heard that they’re pretty close to one another. Just give it your best shot. The Director tells me you’re pretty hot stuff. If you manage to pick up your kin-brother maybe Malone will come into the picture.’

  Roz nodded and closed her eyes as she mentally debated whether to sink into a deep trance state or fake it. She knew Malone was dead but she had no idea where Steve was supposed to be. And contrary to Karlstrom’s fears, her psionic powers did not yet include the ability to read people’s minds like a video-screen.

  This could be a test. Wallis and Karlstrom might already know where Steve was. If they had any suspicions about what he was up to, her failure to find him would make it look as if they were working together to deceive the Federation. She was trapped. She had to make a genuine effort to find him and hope that he had foreseen this possibility.

  Steve had. The knowledge that her mental map-reading powers might be put to the test was precisely why Steve had elected to stay behind and broadcast intermittent progress reports on his efforts to evade the M’Calls. Since Long Point, his telepathic powers had increased or – to be more accurate – had regained some of their original sensitivity.

  There was no internal bell or buzzer that went off when Roz’s mind reached out towards his, but he was aware of her presence. It was like a cool breeze wafting through his brain which, during the moment of connection, seemed to contain the infinity of space and then – although it was all in the mind – a delicious physical sensation as her whole being merged with his.

  It came now, as he cantered up a forested slope close to the state line between Wyoming and Nebraska. He welcomed her, and through her reached out towards Clearwater. There were no barriers between them now.

  Wallis and Nevill watched with growing mystification as Roz’s fingers searched blindly across the plasfilm map then gradually zeroed in on Steve’s position. For a while, she sat slumped in the chair, eyes closed, chin on her chest then she raised her head. Nevill glimpsed the upturned whites of her eyes through the partly open lids as her head sagged over towards her left shoulder. Her lips moved wordlessly then in a slurred voice she said: ‘Here … somewhere here …’

  Wallis used a black wax marker to draw a circle round Roz’s forefinger.

  ‘A hill, with trees … animals … running. He’s …’

  ‘Riding a horse?’ ventured Wallis.

  ‘Yes, fast. I can feel the wind on my face. He sees … Malone. More riders …’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On …’ Roz made a scooping motion with her right hand. ‘A valley. On the other side of a valley … horsemen.’

  Her eyes fluttered open. Wallis and Nevill saw her look around in an effort to get her bearings. When her eyes met theirs it was if she had never seen them before then a moment later, her senses returned in full measure. ‘Did I …?’

  Wallis nodded. ‘Yeah, it looks very encouraging. You even picked up Malone. And it wasn’t too hard, was it?’

  Darryl Oates poked his head round the entrance to the skip. ‘We just picked up another sit-rep from Brickman. He has visual contact with Malone plus five. Looks like we lost one. Hope it’s no one I know.’

  ‘Did you get a fix?’ demanded Wallis.

  ‘Yeah, lemme show you.’ Coates advanced towards the map. ‘He’s just west of navref Lagrange on a bend in the Bear River. Close to the state line.’

  ‘In that circle somewhere?’

  Coates checked. ‘Yeah, look – right in the middle. There y’are, see? Lagrange. About a hundred sixty, seventy miles from the rendezvous point.’

  ‘Thanks, Dee …’

  As Coates made his exit, Nevill looked over Wallis’s shoulder at the circled location. ‘Now that, is fucking ay-mazing …’

  ‘Yes …’ Wallis sneaked a sideways glance at Roz. ‘I just hope we didn’t imagine this.’

  Roz looked puzzled. ‘Imagine what?’

  ‘Never mind. Well done.’ Wallis edged between Nevill and the table. ‘I’ll pass this through to Mother.’ He gave Roz’s shoulder a nervous pat on the way out.

  Towards sunset, a runner despatched by the scouts on the high ground to the south-east, returned with news that an iron-snake had been sighted heading in the general direction of Big Fork. As instructed, the scouts were falling back ahead of the train and would send further word of its progress.

  Not long afterwards, more encouraging news arrived. The hunting posses had encircled a big herd of buffalo and were shepherding it towards the twin rivers.

  As the sky cooled, and the Mute’s anticipation grew to fever-pitch, they sighted three high-flying cloud-warriors. Flashing silver-bright like fish in a blue rock-pool as they were touched by the rays of the setting sun, they wheeled tirelessly back and forth across the heavens until the first grey-blue veil that lined Mo-Town’s velvet cloak turned their shining bodies into dark bat-like silhouettes with red-eyes that blinked in time to their beating hearts.

  Bunched close together like geese on the wing, they flew off on a descending curve towards the south-east then later, when the second, darker veil had been drawn across the sky, the iron-snake appeared in the distance, its head studded with glowing eyes and rows of lights along its flanks like a giant fiery caterpillar.

  The feverish anticipation, which had always been grim rather than delirious, became somewhat fearful as the train’s massive bulk bearing down upon its wheels caused the ground beneath to tremble. And now, to this mind-numbing vision of their possible nemesis was added the chilling dimension of sound. The drumming roar of its engines and the thunderous rush of exhaust gases exploding through the roof vents of the power cars.

  The hungry, belly-rumbling, hunting growl of the iron-snake as it crawled towards its terrified prey.

  The M’Calls had heard these sounds before but only in the distance. When they had attacked The Lady from Louisiana, she had been trapped silent and helpless in the flood debris of the Now and Then River. Not so helpless as it turned out but by the time the engines had been revved up for the roll-out the clan had withdrawn to lick its wounds.

  The sound that was burned into the memory of the M’Calls was the gut-shrivelling scream that erupted as the iron-snake tore its attackers apart with its fiery white breath. Now, in the fading light of a June evening almost two years to the day since that bloody confrontation, another iron snake was heading towards them, filling the sky with its voice and causing the ground to shake in fear at its coming.

  Cadillac, who had only ever seen a real wagon-train at a distance and in pitch darkness stared aghast at its proportions. Even though he had paced its length out on the ground, its sheer bulk was absolutely staggering. It was even bigger than the shadowy monster in the visions drawn from the stone! It dwarfed everything in sight! A few scattered trees which might have been considered to be quite large shrank into insignificance and were brushed aside or flattened and pulped beneath the huge wheels.

  How could he and Brickman have been so foolish to think they could storm this armoured giant with the aid of a dying summoner?! They must have been insane!

  Cadillac willed his pounding heart to slow down and tried to radiate assurance to the warriors who lay hidden on either side of him. ‘Courage! The sand-burrowers hide in the belly of the iron-snake because they fear the Plainfolk! They cannot triumph against the will of Talisman! When the time comes let each one of you display the courage for which the M’Calls are renowned and remember – the spirit of the Old One will guard and guide us!’

  Easy to say, thought Cadillac. He at least was one of the select few who knew that Mr Snow was still alive and gearing himself up to deliver one last stupendous burst of earth-magic. The rest of the clan, who did not share that comforting piece of knowledge, were probably wishing the old wizard had passed on the Seven Rings of Power to his apprentice instead of the gift of the gab.

  P
arting the feathered reeds on the bank in front of him, Cadillac saw the wagon-train roll to a stop with its nose pointing towards the river. It was parked in a straight line, more or less at right-angles to the bank on a north-south axis. The forward command car was about a hundred paces from where he lay. On its flanks, the nearest scrub was some two hundred paces away while behind its tail, the long line of white-trunked larches which formed the ragged edge of a wood was more distant still.

  The wagon-train, with its gun-turrets mounted high above the ground had a virtually uninterrupted circular field of fire and the cameras mounted on the roof could see clear across both rivers and westwards towards the rising ground and the hills beyond from where Brickman was due to appear.

  But before then, there was much to be done. Despite his unshakeable belief in his abilities as a seer, Cadillac was astounded to see that the wagon-train had stopped exactly on the spot he had chosen – right in the middle of a random pattern of shallow trenches of varying lengths, none of them more than two feet deep. The apparent aimlessness with which these trenches had been dug gave no clue as to what they might be for, and their shallowness posed no obstacle to the wheels of the wagon-train – each one of which was twelve feet wide and twelve feet high.

  From his hiding place, Cadillac had a good view of the right flank of the train. A ramp had been lowered from the belly of one of the wagons aft of the flight car. He aimed the monocular viewer at the ramp and brought it into sharp focus as a couple of dozen armed Trail-Blazers emerged, their helmet visors lowered, and fanned out to inspect the ground on either side of the wagon-train.

  As Cadillac expected, they spent some time studying the large number of shallow trenches and from their gestures appeared to have no idea what they were for. The M’Calls had left other items for them to find: post-holes, the charred remains of cooking fires – the kind built by migrating Mutes – animal bones, some crushed, some raw, the rotting entrails of a buffalo and several bog-holes containing human feces.

  Operating the zoom on the viewer, Cadillac framed the top half of the nearest Trail-Blazer. As he turned, Cadillac caught sight of his shoulder badge – a grinning Mute skull speared by a sloping red stake. The insignia of Red River, popularly known as Big Red One. Brickman had told him what to look for. He re-focused on the wagon-train, panned left along its length to the forward command car and found three large white letters emblazoned on the side – RVR, the abbreviated code and call-sign for Red River.

  On the sloping nose was a large version of the shoulder-badge. This was it. He counted the wagons … sixteen. One of them held Clearwater and Brickman’s kin-sister. If Brickman was right, they would be found in the wagon immediately aft of the flight car and ahead of where the ramp had been lowered.

  Cadillac sent out a silent message of encouragement to his one-time soul-mate in the hope that she might pick up his thoughts and gain some comfort from the presence of her clanfolk. He did not expect a response but that did not stop him being disappointed. And once again he regretted she could not be at his side to observe the new Cadillac Mark Two, the brave, resourceful leader of his people.

  Just for once, he would have liked to evoke a cry of admiration instead of exasperation – and her magic would have come in handy too …

  Commander James Fargo and Don Wallis reviewed the findings of the line-men who had inspected the site.

  ‘The general consensus is that the trenches were sleeping holes. If I remember my pre-history correctly, the dog-soldiers in the Old Time used something similar.’ Fargo searched for the word. ‘Foxholes – only they were deeper than these. But the principle’s the same. Digging down gives you a measure of wind-cover and you’re able to utilize the earth’s internal heat to keep warm.’

  The wagon-master who knew nothing about Wallis apart from the fact that he worked in the White House didn’t realize that he was speaking to someone who’d got his hands dirty and his ass bitten over several years of overground assignments.

  And Wallis was not about to tell him. ‘Yeh … it’s just that a collection like this has never featured in any FINTEL report that I ever read.’

  ‘Me neither. But it’s definitely an abandoned campsite.’

  ‘Yeah, absolutely. Question is – should we move ’em off it?’

  Fargo grinned. He was a big man but his teeth were small and narrow and there seemed to be too many of them. Wallis didn’t like being smiled at by teeth like that.

  ‘I think the train should stay right where it is. You know what these lumps are like. They have what they call ‘sacred places’ – like for instance where they put their dead. Maybe this site has some kinda special significance.’ The wagon-master gave a throaty chuckle. ‘If our guys stay sitting right on top of it, there’s a chance we might make a whole big bunch of them eye-poppin’, foot-stompin’ mad. And when they get mad, they keep on comin’.’

  Fargo treated Wallis to another of his predatory grins. ‘I tell you, good buddy, when you’re behind a six-pack, belted up an’ ready to let the hammer down, there ain’t no better sight in the whole fuggin’ blue-sky world!’

  ‘Okay,’ said Wallis. ‘We’ll let it ride. But tell ’em to keep their eyes peeled. If Malone and the others make it through the night, they should arrive just after dawn tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Around 0200 hours, when the attention of the wagon-train’s night-watch was at its lowest ebb, the two Duty Vid-Comm Techs manning the screen console in the forward command-car were roused from their torpor by a high-pitched bleeper. Jeff Simons, a Master-Tech, cancelled the alarm then shared the task of checking the battery of screens with his buddy for the night, a Tech-4 called Ben Mason.

  The alarm told them that one of the master-scans had been corrupted. Like way-stations, parked wagon-trains used a special computerized scanning system to pick up movement. The landscape around the wagon-train as viewed by the battery of surveillance cameras was captured and analysed by a computer. This image – ‘the master-scan’ – was then stored in the computer’s memory and all subsequent images recorded by each of the cameras were compared with its own individual master second by second. If any of the elements in the picture moved, or a new element was introduced – corrupting the master – the alarm sounded to draw the operator’s attention to what might be an incursion by hostiles – Mutes.

  In this case, it was only a large, slow-moving herd of buffalo advancing diagonally from NNE, across the twin rivers towards the train. They were still some way off but there was a lot of them, and as they moved into view of some of the other cameras, it set off more bleepers.

  Simons told Mason to cancel every alarm right across the board and paged the night-duty exec, Betty-Jo Aarons, the Second Systems Engineering Officer.

  Two or three minutes later, Captain Aarons, a crew-cut ash-blonde with good shoulders and a boyish ass, ran up the stairs to the saddle with a towel draped round her head like a prize-fighter on his way to the ring. The front of her OD jump-suit was unzipped to the navel and there was nothing underneath but wet golden skin that was already causing the fatigues to come out in dark blotches. Her bare feet were jammed into a pair of trainers.

  ‘You’d think at two o’clock in the morning a guy could grab a shower! What the fuggizappening? Is that May-Day unit on the line?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s buffalo.’ Mason tapped the screen.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ breathed Aarons. She leaned over their shoulders and studied the loosely-packed mass of fuzzy green shapes picked up by the image-intensifiers. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Grazing,’ said Simons. ‘But they’re moving this way. If they stay on their present heading they’ll pass right under the train.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘Well, do we want that? Don’t you think we should blow ’em off course with a few rounds from a Vulk?’

  ‘Or a whiff of steam?’

  Aarons eyed them both then shook her head. ‘Piping steam’s a job for the EO’s. They’re n
ot going to be too pleased at being hauled out of bed to burn the butts of a herd of buffalo. And there are no gunners on duty. Everyone’s got their heads down. Tomorrow’s a big day – or hadn’t you heard?’

  Mason tried to be helpful. ‘We could always switch on the headlight array. That should scare ’em off.’

  ‘It would. But if you remember, the idea is not to advertise our presence any more than we have to.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop you using one of the forward six-packs,’ insisted Simons.

  ‘No, there isn’t. But I’m not going to. Christo!’ Aarons pointed to the screens. ‘They’re just a bunch of dumb animals! If it was a horde of Mutes –’

  Simons nodded. ‘Yehh, sure. Just wanted to clear it with you.’ He straightened up in his chair. ‘Okay, Captain, if you’d just like to card in …’

  Aarons swore quietly. Fishing out her ID-card, she ran it through the reading slot mounted on the sides of the screens showing the herd of buffalo and pressed the ACCEPT button.

  It was a procedure designed to ensure that those meant to see transmitted material – be it words or pictures – left an electronic record of having done so. Its main purpose was to prevent tiresome protestations of ignorance later if the shit should hit the fan.

  ‘And maybe you’d better call up the boys in the rear command car and tell ’em what’s coming through …’

  Aarons did so then gave Simons the beady-eye as she pocketed her ID. ‘Since when did you start going by the book?’

  Simons shrugged. ‘These days a guy has to cover his ass.’ He started pressing buttons. ‘We’ll strike the masters and make new ones after these dumbos have moved on.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Aarons. She patted their shoulders. ‘I’ll leave you to it…’

  ‘Yessir-ma’am …’ Mason adopted an alert position and hit a few buttons. Simons, who had his back to her, already had his eyes closed.

  There was a brief high-pitched warning tone as Aarons reached the bottom step. To make life easier, Simons and Mason – with the tacit agreement of the other Vid-Comm Techs had concealed small pressure pads on the first three steps leading up to the saddle to alert them to the approach of the Duty Officer.