First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘You say you feel pretty good. How good do you feel about the Federation, boy? How good do you feel about the First Family?’

  Steve suddenly felt better. This was familiar ground. ‘Same way as I did before, sir. Thinking about them was the only thing that kept me going out there.’ The words came easily. Steve knew it was the kind of stuff Bart loved to hear. ‘Never once did I forget what they’ve done for us. The way they built the Federation from the bottom up. The way they gave us life, the will to live, the rules to live by and the promise of a better tomorrow. What we owe them is a debt that can never be repaid. But each of us can show our gratitude by living right and thinking straight, and by being ready and willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.’

  Bart thrust out his bottom lip and nodded approvingly. ‘Well said, boy.’

  ‘That’s how it is, sir. Nothing’s changed.’ Steve paused, then added with appropriate solemnity – ‘I still believe that the greatest honour that can be bestowed on any Tracker worthy of the name is to be called upon to lay down his life in defence of the First Family and the Federation. That’s why I want to clear myself of any suspicion of misconduct and get back into action. I know one should never ask for favours but – can you help me do that?’

  Bart replied with a shake of the head. ‘Your case is not under my jurisdiction, Stevie. Best I can do is to give you some advice.’

  ‘Well, I’m always grateful for that, sir,’ said Steve, with as much sincerity as he could muster. ‘I recognise that it was the guidance you gave me during those years when Poppa-Jack was away fighting Mutes that helped keep me on course.’

  Bart appeared to accept the tribute. ‘Maybe so. It’s up to each of us to do what we can for who we can – starting with those nearest to us. I’ve never held back from helping you, Stevie. Not because you’re family, but because I really and truly sincerely believe that you have that something special that can take a man right to the top.’

  Coming at any other time, such a glowing assessment would have been music to Steve’s ears. Unfortunately, having just reclassified Bart as a Category One basket case, rendered his opinion on any subject totally valueless. Steve’s awareness of his own treacherous intentions lent a certain irony to his reply. ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll try not to disappoint you.’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Bart. He straightened up off the desk and took a step towards Steve and fixed him with his mad blue eyes. ‘I want to ask you something, Stevie. Man to man.’

  ‘Go ahead, sir.’

  ‘I’ve heard and read about Mutes but you’ve got closer to ’em than any man I know. I’ve watched videos of what these animals do to our boys, but you’ve seen it with your own eyes. Those lumpheads are killers – am I right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So how come they didn’t kill you?’

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that question, sir. They came pretty close to it more than once. Maybe if I hadn’t escaped…’

  ‘Yeah, sure, but in those five months you were with ’em didn’t it ever cross your mind to ask ’em what made you so special?’

  ‘No, I just kinda steered right away from that.’

  Bart eyed him doubtfully.

  Steve felt obliged to offer some explanation. ‘Maybe the Plainfolk do things differently to the clans we’ve been fighting up to now. Or maybe they don’t yet realise they’ve got a real war on their hands.’

  Bart gave Steve a twisted grin. ‘Come on, Stevie, you can do better than that. What did you do to save your skin – offer them some kind of a deal?’

  Steve replied with a surprised stare. Crazy Bart was a lot closer than he realised. ‘No, sir!’ he said firmly. ‘The thought of doing such a thing never crossed my mind but even if it had and I’d been foolish enough to try something like that it would have been a waste of time. There’s no way Trackers are ever going to be able to do a deal with Mutes. It’s like you said – they’re animals!’

  Bart chuckled and clapped him on the arms. ‘You’re a heck of a boy, Stevie. I’m sure, deep down, you’re bustin’ to let it all out. But –’ he smiled genially, ‘– I’m not upset at you holding out on me. After what you’ve been through it takes time to unwind. It’s only natural…’ Bart raised his right hand, palm open, fingers extended.

  Steve knew that hand; knew it had been hardened by countless hours of karate practice; had seen it smash through a stack of half inch-thick clay tiles. He braced himself but, instead of the expected blow, Bart patted him on the cheek. In a strange way, the amiable gesture was even more frightening than the use of brute force.

  ‘Yeah …’ chuckled Bart. ‘I bet if you and me were to sit down nose to nose for a while we’d end up jawing all night about the things you’ve been up to but…’

  Steve went to reply. Bart motioned him to remain silent.

  ‘… we don’t have time,’ he sighed. ‘That’s why I want you to take note of what I’m about to say.’ He walked round behind the desk, picked up his swagger stick and stood with his legs astride, flexing the stick slowly between his hands. ‘When you get to Grand Central don’t hold anything back. I want you to promise me you’ll tell them every single thing that happened to you. Everything you did, everything you saw, everything you heard, everything you felt – no matter how strange or foolish it might sound, or whether it goes against everything you’ve been taught to believe in.’

  ‘I promise, sir.’

  ‘Good. I knew I could count on you, Stevie. You are going to be talking to some pretty important people. Put your trust in them the way you’ve always trusted me. Have faith and everything will come out right.’ Bart looked at his watch. ‘The shuttle from Johnson/Phoenix’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Is there anything else you want to say to me?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’d like to ask how my guardians are. Is Annie –?’

  ‘Annie’s just fine.’

  ‘Is Poppa-Jack still alive?’

  ‘Yeah, just about…’

  ‘And Roz?’

  ‘She’s still at Inner State U.

  ‘Do they, uh – know what happened to me?’

  ‘They got the same news we all did – that you’d powered down in enemy territory.’ Bart shrugged. ‘Jack, well – being an old Trail-Blazer himself I guess it was no more than he expected. Annie was kinda cut up at first. I helped talk her through it.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes… I don’t suppose –?’

  ‘Not a chance, boy.’

  ‘In that case could you let them know I’m all right, sir? Would you tell them what’s happened?’

  Bart shook his head. ‘Nope. Can’t do that either.’

  Steve stared at him. ‘Sir… I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s very simple.’ Bart laid his swagger stick down at ninety degrees to the edge of the desk, picked up his stetson and used both hands to position it at the correct angle on his head. He then retrieved his stick and thwacked it against the palm of his left hand: ‘As far as they, and the rest of this base is concerned you crashed into a burning cropfield. Bang into the middle of a whole screaming mess of Mutes – right?’

  ‘Right…’

  ‘So that’s it. What do I have to do – spell it out? Mutes don’t take prisoners. You’re dead.’

  ‘But, sir –’

  ‘There are no “buts”, Stevie. Be reasonable. You can’t expect Grand Central to start rewriting Federation history just on account of what happened to you.’

  Steve’s satisfaction at scoring points off Bart was replaced by a feeling of uneasiness. ‘So… what are they planning to do with me?’

  ‘You mean after they get through with you at Grand Central?’ Bart spread his hands. ‘That’s not for me to say, Stevie. The Federation’s a big place. There’s all kinds of things going on. Maybe they’ll give you a new assignment. On the other hand… who knows? I guess it all kinda hangs on the way you shape up from here on in.’ Bart stepped out from behind the desk and gripped Steve’s shoulder as he went past. ‘Let me give y
ou a last piece of advice. We know all there is to know about you. Don’t think you can fool the First Family. No one can. You think I’m crazy –’

  ‘Sir, I –’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me, boy. How d’you think I got where I am? I can read you like Page One of the Manual. You know why I had you figured out to go places? It’s because I’ve spotted a lot of me in you. I guess we’ve both got a bit of the same little something from the President-General. You’re a survivor –’

  Once again, Steve went to reply.

  Bart held up a warning finger. ‘No. Don’t deny it. It’s a good thing to be. In the world we’re trying to build we need men with the qualities you have. But don’t ever make the mistake of trying to survive at the expense of the system.’ He gave Steve’s shoulder a friendly pat. ‘One of these days, if you ever get where you’re aiming to go, you’ll see things a whole lot differently. And you’ll think back to your good old Uncle Bart and you’ll say – “Yup, there was a man who did what he had to do”…’

  Steve swivelled round after him and felt the chains tug at his knees. ‘Sir –!’

  Bart paused at the door, a faint mocking smile on his face.

  ‘… will Jack and Annie ever know?’

  Bart’s eyebrows went up, lifting his eyelids clear of his cold blue eyes as his mouth went down at the corners. ‘That all depends on the First Family, Stevie.’ He gave him a friendly poke with his swagger stick. ‘S’ been mighty good talkin’ with you. Be sure and take care of yourself now, d’ya hear?’

  Steve watched the door close then turned back to face the empty desk and the blank walls with a long sigh. When he’d been up in the hills above the Wind River in Wyoming, he had been faced with three possible options. One – remaining a prisoner of the Mutes and probably getting himself killed, either because of what had happened with Clearwater or because of his unlooked-for feud with Motor-Head: two – escaping and becoming a renegade, a wandering outcast who, sooner or later, would die from radiation sickness: three – returning to the Federation and a hero’s welcome. At the time, the third option had seemed like his best bet but, up to now, it wasn’t quite working out the way he’d expected.

  He heard footsteps and took a deep, calming breath as the door opened. Boots crashed on the floor. Once again he was seized from behind and everything went black as the hood came down over his head. There was a metallic jangle as the chain anchoring him to the floor was withdrawn.

  ‘Okay, move it!’ Someone struck him across the small of the back with a rubber truncheon. Not hard enough to break any bones or rupture any vital organs. Just hard enough to let him know he was in the hands of people who were not about to fool around.

  Steve’s calculated guess as to his location turned out to be right on the nose. After a couple of right and left turns down various corridors and through a number of doors Steve was halted on the east-bound platform of the subway station under New Deal Plaza. He recognised, from his previous trip on the same line with Roz, the faint echo-effect added to the voices and footsteps of people moving about and his nostrils picked up the same antiseptic odour through the two light-proof breathing filters of his black hood.

  Running from Johnson/Phoenix, Arizona in the west, to Le May/Jackson, Mississippi in the east and with direct connections to Houston/Grand Central, the Trans-Am shuttle ranked as the major engineering achievement of the Federation, rivalled only by GC’s spectacular John Wayne Plaza. The system of tunnels, driven through the earthshield over the last three hundred years by generations of fourteen-year-old Trackers during their twelve-month stint with the Young Pioneers housed a single monorail track straddled by a string of cars propelled at high speed by a linear induction motor. Passing loops at each subway station and at intervals along the line enabled a twice-daily service to be run in each direction. The shuttle was usually loaded to the roof with freight but there were always plenty of spare seats. Trackers from the bases along the line did not travel just for fun, only when required to do so. Everybody in the Federation got to make at least one trip as part of an organised group to visit the memorial shrine of George Washington I at Grand Central, but anyone ‘riding the rail’ had to have a movement order issued by their local Provost-Marshal’s office. To deter potential code-breakers the subway was regularly patrolled by pairs of the dreaded meat-loaves who often boarded the shuttle to run checks on passengers in transit.

  A two-tone electronic chime and a recorded announcement signalled the imminent arrival of the east-bound Central Liner for Reagan/Lubbock, Nixon/Fort Worth, and Houston/GC. Steve felt a sudden draught swirl round him as the incoming shuttle rammed a column of air down the tunnel ahead of it. A tunnel he himself had helped build during his time with the Young Pioneers. He wondered what it was like in Arizona. Around him, his unseen escort chatted in a desultory fashion, mainly about what they might do in the short time they would be spending at Grand Central. Steve had the impression that there were four of them but he couldn’t be sure. He heard the faint hum of the shuttle as it drew nearer.

  ‘Where’s this one gonna ride – in the hot box?’ asked a voice.

  ‘No, with us,’ said a second voice.

  It was the first time Steve had ever heard the term ‘hot box’. He wondered what it could mean and decided that it must be Provo slang for a cramped, poorly-ventilated punishment cell.

  ‘Which of you has that disk with the medical report from the way-station?’ asked a third voice.

  ‘I have,’ said the second voice.

  ‘Okay. Don’t forget to hand it over. And Gazzara – forget any ideas you got about jack-assing the local yippies. I’ve keyed you in for a two-hour furlough to take a look at the Plaza and then it’s back here on the first westbound out of GC. Comprendo?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ said Gazzara – now identified as the second voice.

  Steve committed his name to memory.

  ‘You forgot the shrine, Sergeant,’ said the first voice.

  ‘Fuck the shrine,’ replied the third voice.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gazzara. ‘We’ll be standing in line all fucking day.’

  ‘Even so, we ought to pay our respects.’

  The noise from the approaching shuttle grew louder.

  The Provo-Sergeant raised his voice. ‘Delaney – you got two hours. If you want to spend it waiting to see a fifteen foot high face carved out of white marble, that’s okay by me.’

  Steve filed Delaney along with Gazzara for future reference.

  The shuttle, banded along its length from the bottom up in red, white and blue, slid smoothly out of the tunnel and eased to a halt with its bullet-nose at the far end of the platform. The passenger and freight doors opened with a hiss of compressed air and there was a sudden bustle of activity as the loading and unloading process got underway.

  A hand closed round each of Steve’s arms but this time there was no baton blow in the small of the back. ‘This way, fella…’ said Gazzara. His tone was less abrupt than before. Steve was walked a short distance up the platform then wheeled round to the right. ‘Okay, mind your head.’

  Steve ducked down and stepped forward. The surface under his feet changed from unyielding concrete to the more resilient hard rubber tile flooring of the shuttle cars. He was turned again and felt the edge of a seat behind his knees.

  ‘Okay, siddown.’ Gazzara was obviously the one that did most of the talking.

  Steve did as he was told. He could tell from the shape and feel of the seat that he was in one of the normal passenger cars. There was a rattle of chains. Someone bent over him.

  It was Delaney. ‘I’m hooking you up to the chair. Just relax and take it easy. Give us a break and no one’ll give you a hard time. All right?’

  Steve nodded in silent assent. ‘I need to go to the can.’

  ‘Arrghh, Christo!’ spat Delaney. ‘Listen, uh – you’ll have to wait a while. I’ll get back to you after we pull out.’

  Steve sat back and tried to ignore the ache from his cons
tricted bladder. He’d felt the need to urinate on landing but had been hustled away by the Provos, and somehow, at the end of his rather heavy audience with the State Provost-Marshal when Bart had asked him if he had anything to say, it had seemed a rather frivolous request to make.

  Fifteen minutes after its arrival, the Central Liner headed out of Roosevelt/Santa Fe on the next leg of its journey – to Reagan/ Lubbock, Texas, the base where the new Mark 2 Skyhawk was being readied for series production. The shuttle, which attained a top speed of 120 miles an hour, took around seven hours – including stopovers – to make the eight hundred mile run to Grand Central.

  A short while after they’d gotten underway, Delaney unlocked the chain holding Steve to the seat and shepherded him along the aisle to the washroom. Delaney pushed open the door and followed Steve inside. ‘Hold it – I’ll pull the hood.’

  Once again, Steve found himself blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light. He took a deep breath and glanced appreciatively at the D-P.

  Delaney responded with a nod. ‘Knock on the door when you’re through. The orders are to keep you hooded until the handover at GC.’

  ‘I understand. Is it the 17th today?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘1408. We should get to GC around 2100 hours. Okay?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  Delaney shut the door behind him.

  Steve stood against the wall-mounted urinal and unzipped the trouser section of his black fatigues. The muscles had been locked tight around his bladder for so long it took a couple of seconds to release the tension and a good minute to empty it. He closed his eyes and continued to breathe deeply.

  Ever since he had entered the way-station at Pueblo, he had been struck at the difference between the air that filled the underground world of the Federation and that of the Plainfolk. After his crash, when he had recovered consciousness to find himself a prisoner of the Mutes, he had been unable to breathe without feeling nauseous. The smell of their bodies, their huts and their food made his bile rise and during the first week he had been physically sick several times. Yet within a month he had become totally acclimatised, so that now, the filtered, purified air pumped out and sucked in through the countless vents and grilles throughout the Federation seemed positively thin and stale; all the ‘flavour’ had been processed out of it.