Anderssen pressed a button that put her through to the junior aide in the outer office. ‘Okay, wheel him in.’
Lieutenant Harmer and Line-Sergeant Nolan entered, saluted, and stood on either side of the door as Brickman was marched in, closely escorted by two linemen. The manacles round his wrists were attached by chains to steel leg cuffs fitted below each knee. The chains were long enough to allow a prisoner to bring his forearms level with the ground when standing, and to be able to eat or wipe his ass when sitting down; the chain linking the cuffs below each knee allowed him to walk but not run. His head was covered by a black hood tied with a draw string around his neck.
Nolan filled the room with his voice. ‘Defaulter and escort – HALT!’ The heels thudded down in unison. ‘Ess-corrrt, disss-MISS!’
Anderssen nodded as the two linemen saluted, about-faced and marched smartly from the room. Nolan removed the prisoner’s hood and stepped back, heels thudding together as he came to attention.
‘At ease, gentlemen,’ said Anderssen. ‘You too, Brickman.’
Brickman, blinked rapidly in the bright light and gulped air. Anderssen studied the young man. Like Harmer, she found the long hair with its seven ribboned plaits rather hard to take. In the Federation the haircuts fitted in with the general Marine boot-camp atmosphere; crew-cuts or short bobs were the only styles allowed. Only Mutes had long, weird hair-dos; Mutes and cee-bees. But that was something the base barber could fix inside fifteen minutes. Anderssen mentally deleted the hair and noted with approval his tanned, well-boned face with its strong lean jaw, his clear blue eyes, square shoulders and slim-hipped body. This was the kind of man she liked to bunk down with in the few off-duty hours she allowed herself. This one was strictly off-limits. Never mind. There were quite a few of them at Pueblo; rock-hard jack-dandies that knew how to thump the tub. Not all as good-looking as this boy, but close enough to pass muster in the half-light.
Anderssen fingered the piece of wood on which Brickman had carved his name, looked up at him and nodded at the video monitor. ‘We’ve been on the wire to The Lady. They confirm that an 8902 Brickman, S.R. was posted aboard at Nixon/Fort Worth on the date you claim. The same wingman was also listed PD/ET on June 12th following an engagement with a strong force of Plainfolk Mutes northeast of Cheyenne. Naylor and Fazzetti, wingmen from the same section were also listed PD/ET the same day.’
‘PD/ET’ was Tracker shorthand for ‘Power down/Enemy territory’; a crash – with predictably fatal results – during combat operations over Mute country.
Anderssen entered a three-digit number on the keyboard. Deke Haywood’s face appeared on the tv monitor. ‘Deke – have you managed to raise Grand Central yet?’
‘No, sir-ma’am. We’re still having a problem with that. I’ve had to route the signal via Roosevelt/Santa Fe.’
‘Okay. Let me know the moment you receive that voice- and palm-print data.’ Anderssen cleared the screen and looked up at Brickman. ‘In the meantime, we’ll assume you are who you say you are.’ She looked past him at Lieutenant Harmer. ‘Did anything else turn up during the body search?’
‘No sir-ma’am. All there is is what’s on the table.’
Anderssen’s eyes met Brickman’s; noted the shrewd, intelligent gaze that met her own; direct, unflinching. ‘No ID-card?’
‘No sir-ma’am.’ He spread his palms in an apologetic gesture, arms moving as far as the chains would allow. ‘I lost everything except the clothes I’m standing up in.’
Anderssen cast an eye back to the tv monitor where the details supplied by the wagon-train were displayed. ‘You went down on June 12th…’ she mused. ‘It’s now November 14th. Where have you been and what have you been doing for the last five months?’
It was the question Brickman had been dreading as he had sheltered in the high places on his journey south, waiting for a threatening storm to pass, or for a favourable wind. Perched precariously on mountain ledges, he had thought long and hard about this moment, working out exactly what he would say, how much he would reveal.
He had done so because he knew his reply was bound to lead to a great many other questions; questions which, depending on his answers, could transform his interrogation into a matter of life or death. He could not tell the whole truth because many of those in positions of power would find his story not only incredible but also totally unacceptable. What had happened to him, the things he had witnessed, what he now knew to be the truth ran contrary to everything he had been taught as a child of the Federation; what he had discovered challenged even the received wisdom of the First Family.
Anderssen frowned. ‘Did you hear what I asked you?’
‘Uh, yes, sir-ma’am.’ Brickman took a deep breath and jumped in the deep end. ‘I was taken prisoner by the Mutes. Plainfolk. The clan M’Call.’
Colonel Anderssen exchanged a glance with her two battalion officers then addressed Lieutenant Harner and Line-Sergeant Nolan. They looked as surprised as she did. ‘Matt, Jake –’
Harmer and Nolan leapt to attention.
‘You didn’t hear the defaulter answer my question. Is that understood?’
‘Loud and clear, sir-ma’am!’ they chorussed.
‘Okay, wait outside. I’ll call if we have any problems.’
Harmer and Nolan saluted and left. Harmer didn’t slam the door but he shut it with sufficient vehemence to convey his annoyance at being dismissed just when things were getting interesting.
Anderssen had her reasons. If what Brickman had said was true, the fewer people that knew about it the better. She ran her fingers along the streamer of blue-solar-cell fabric, smoothing it flat against the desk top, then looked up at Brickman. ‘Mutes don’t take prisoners.’
‘They do now,’ replied Brickman.
Anderssen turned to Major Hiller. ‘Jerri – get a chair for this young man. And grab a couple for yourselves. Oh, and here –’ She handed the red and white helmet to Major Roscoe, ‘– put this junk somewhere.’
Roscoe cleared Anderssen’s desk, laying the bits and pieces on a shelf.
Anderssen gazed at Brickman squarely. ‘I’d like to draw your attention to the two framed Unit Citations on the wall behind me. They were awarded to this battalion because, here at Pueblo, we run things by The Book. That means, until your story checks out, you will be held as a suspected cee-bee, subject to the conditions and restraints laid down in the Manual. In other words you will be kept in chains, in solitary confinement, and you will be hooded whenever you are removed from your cell. The lieutenant in charge of the welcome home party is a good man but inclined to be over-zealous. Apparently, it was something you said. I will not permit any unwarranted maltreatment but you should know that I and my fellow officers share his dislike for code-breakers. If that’s what you turn out to be, you’ll go the wall – either here, or at Grand Central. If it’s here, I’ll be there to give the order to fire. Is that understood?’
‘Loud and clear, sir-ma’am!’
‘Okay. Sit down.’ Anderssen’s face softened a little. ‘You look like you had a rough trip.’
‘It was worth it, ma’am.’ Brickman sat down, keeping his back straight and his head up like a freshman during Induction at the Flight Academy.
Interesting, thought Anderssen. The usual disciplined reaction to authority but a distinct lack of awe. A typical NewMex wingman. But there was something else that was different about this young man. A winner, certainly. But it was more than that. Anderssen found it hard to define but, if pressed, she would have said that Brickman exuded a subtle air of natural superiority, of latent unstoppable power. The kind that could take a man right to the top.
The light on her tv monitor flashed as Deke Haywood appeared on screen. ‘Brickman’s ID-data just came down the wire from Grand Central. I’ve put it on the converter. We can run a voice- and palm-print match anytime from now.’
Anderssen pressed the button that put her picture on the screen in front of Deke. ‘Okay, I’ll get back to y
ou on that.’
‘There’s just one thing, ma’am. His record contains a Level Nine entry.’
Anderssen caught her breath. ‘Okay, put it through.’
Information transmitted over the video networks controlled by COLUMBUS was graded into different levels of confidentiality. The level of access was controlled by the magnetically coded ID-sensor card carried by every Tracker. The card was upgraded with each promotion, or when an individual was awarded extra privileges or assumed a post with extra responsibilities. As a colonel in command of an important way-station, Anderssen had Level Nine access.
Deke wiped himself off the screen and put up a section of the file on Brickman transmitted, via Roosevelt/Santa Fe, by COLUMBUS, the giant, omniscient computer that functioned as the brain and the central nervous system of the Federation.
Anderssen pulled the box hood out of the casing around the tv, blocking off the screen from her two battalion officers, now seated on either side of the desk. Pulling out her ID-card, she slipped it into the slot provided and spoke to the machine. ‘5824 Anderssen. Print-out please.’
There was a brief pause as the network matched her voice print to the one on file then a new bottom line appeared on the screen.
It consisted of two letters, a four digit serial number, then two more letters: ST-3552-RX. Brief, but highly significant. ‘ST’ stood for ‘Selective Treatment’; ‘RX’ for ‘Refer to Executive’; the number merely indicated Brickman’s position on the ‘ST’ list.
Anderssen pressed the Card Eject button, causing the ST code to vanish from the screen. She put her ID back into its protective wallet and slid the box hood back into the casing. It had been a close call. Fortunately, good old Deke had spotted that Level Nine entry before she had gone any further. An ‘RX’ rating meant that no administrative action affecting the subject was to be initiated without reference to the White House at Houston/GC.
The First Family had plans for Steven Roosevelt Brickman.
Two
Columbus had been programmed to alert the White House to any enquiry relating to personnel records carrying an ‘RX’ tag. As it sent the data down the line to Pueblo, it simultaneously reported the fact to Central Records Control – a unit under the direct supervision of members of the First Family occupying twenty floors, each the size of a football pitch, containing line after line of tv screens and keyboards that were manned round the clock. Notification of the Triple-R – a Restricted Record Request – was flashed on the screen of an operator in the section dealing exclusively with the Selective Treatment List.
The White House was quick to confirm its continuing interest in 8902 Brickman, S.R. The Transmission of his voice-print data was followed by a ‘Your Eyes Only’ videogram to Colonel Anderssen. Brickman was not, repeat not, to be interrogated. No one from his home base was to be allowed near him or to learn of his presence. Apart from the briefest orders or instructions, no one else was to converse with him. Once positively identified, he was to be examined by the way-station doctor who was to report on his general state of health. He was then to be held incommunicado until arrangements could be made for his transfer. Until that time he was to be treated as a suspected code-breaker – with two exceptions: he was not to be ‘boxed’, and he was not to be ‘physically admonished’. To use a pre-Holocaust term, Brickman was clearly a hot potato – a vegetable that no one in the Federation had tasted for nigh on a thousand years.
Anderssen was not, by nature, nervous but she knew she would not rest easy until Brickman was off her hands. She had been right to dismiss Harmer and Nolan at the first mention of imprisonment by the Mutes. If the news got out, it could have an adverse effect on the morale of combat units. It was, she supposed, only natural that Grand Central would want to analyse all the implications first, but – godammit – she was a front-line way-station commander! Surely she should be allowed to know what was going on out there?
Anderssen paced around her private quarters trying to control her frustration. No wonder that mother Harmer had slammed the door. She knew how he felt. She turned and slammed both fists down hard on the long table at which she occasionally dined with her fellow officers. It helped restore a measure of outward calm. All in good time, she told herself. Grand Central would assess the facts then FINTEL – Field Intelligence – would circulate a report to all interested parties. The fact that Brickman claimed to have been held prisoner for nearly five months before escaping was not going to change anything. It hadn’t stopped bands of Mutes attacking work-parties around Pueblo during the summer. And it wouldn’t stop Trackers killing Mutes.
Brickman’s achievement in building an aircraft from cannibalised parts was remarkable but if, as Marie Anderssen surmised, he had put it together under the noses of his captors, it meant that the Plainfolk Mutes were ever dumber than their Southern brothers, the scattered remnants of which had been rounded up and herded into work-camps; the penultimate phase of the pacification programme for the overground: the ultimate phase – annihilation – would come when there was no more Mute poison in the air.
Anderssen knew the words of the Fourth Inspirational off by heart. It was a video she often drew comfort from in moments of doubt; those moments in the twilight gloom, alone in her bunk, when she began to wonder, to ask… she shook the memory from her mind, turned towards the big picture of the President-General that hung on the wall beyond the far end of the table and let his message echo through her mind. Yes! That day would come! When the way-station bunkers would empty and everyone in the Federation would emerge from their bases within the earth-shield to repossess their birthright: the blue-sky world the Mutes had stolen from them.
That was the promise made by the First Family, founders of the Amtrak Federation and generation after generation of Trackers had laboured and sweated unceasingly to help make it come true; had willingly laid down their lives on overground operations. Their efforts had not been wasted. The dream which inspired those who had gone before was almost within grasp. The children of the children born to the guard-mothers of Anderssen’s generation would live under the open skies; would see sunrise, moondark; would feel the rain on their faces – not just see it splash against their visors or hear it drum on their helmets; would cleanse the overground; would wipe every last Mute off the face of the earth and build the New America.
It was more than a dream. It could happen. But not until the mass of Trackers who resided in the earthshield were able to overcome their dread of the vast open spaces. Not to worry. The First Family were working on that. The Amtrak Federation had come a long way since its founding father, George Washington Jefferson the 1st, had gathered the faithful Four Hundred around him and nursed them through the Long Night – the traumatic aftermath of the Holocaust.
In the beginning, the Federation had consisted of nothing more than a few scattered holes in the ground on the southern edge of the nation state once known as the United States of America. That country had been burned to the ground, sacked and ravaged by an unstoppable horde of Mutes – deformed, half-idiot mutants who in an orgy of destruction had unleashed a poisonous cloud of radiation, which had killed millions of Good Ole Boys – the affectionate nickname for the Trackers’ ancestors – and forced the handful of survivors to take refuge within the earthshield.
The recovery had begun deep in the earth under the shattered city of Houston, in an underground base built to house and power COLUMBUS. Renamed Grand Central by George Washington Jefferson the 1st, the first President-General, it became the permanent home of the First Family. Although none of the pre-Holocaust states now existed as legal, social or economic entities, their historic boundaries and names had been retained. Texas, the focal point of the Federation, became known as the Inner State. As time passed the underground empire had expanded, establishing bases under Oklahama, Arkansas, New Mexico, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Arizona. These were called the Outer States. Kansas and Colorado, the latest additions, had been designated New Territories; in 2886 and 2954, the ye
ar Anderssen had been born. New Territory was an oblique way of saying that the state was not yet under Federation control. There was a small, growing Tracker base in the earthshield under Wichita, Kansas, that would eventually house a full division; in Colorado, there was only the way-station at Pueblo manned by Anderssen’s pioneer battalion. The Federation might have laid claim to the whole of Colorado but, for all practical purposes, Pueblo – situated in the southern quarter of the state – marked the frontier; the northern limit of the Federation’s over-ground fief. Beyond that lay enemy territory. Mute country or, as they themselves liked to regard it, the Land of the Plainfolk.
The trouble was, the Mutes didn’t recognise frontiers. For a race that was supposed to be sub-human, they were both cunning and tenacious. They had this unshakeable idea that the overground belonged to them. And so they kept coming back and getting themselves killed. Anderssen assumed it must be because of the brain-damage that had been passed down from their ancestors. Too dumb to learn. But not dumb enough, reflected Anderssen. Their inability to remember was one of a long list of Mute failings that had been hammered into her since Junior Leaders school but the bastards still knew their way around. Groups of lumpheads would infiltrate the so-called ‘pacified areas’ of the Outer States and make sneak attacks on overground work-parties, supply trains and guard posts in the mills and process plants. The network of way-stations, set up at strategic points was supposed to halt these incursions.
First Family Page 3
