As he washed his hands, Steve tried to work out the reason for the noticeable change in the attitude of his escort. He decided that Delaney and Gazzara must be the afternoon shift. On the other hand, they might be two of the original bunch who, having temporarily vented their aggression, were now resting between rounds. Whatever the answer, Steve did not intend to probe the limits of their new-found amiability. He knocked on the door.
Delaney stepped inside and unfolded the hood.
‘Thanks for giving me a chance to breathe,’ said Steve.
‘Don’t understand why you’re dressed up in this gear in the first place,’ grunted Delaney. ‘A guy with your connections. If we get an empty car at Lubbock, I’ll pull it again so’s you can watch some tv.’
‘Terrific.’ Steve bowed his head so that Delaney, who was a little on the short side, could replace the hood without having to climb on the can. So that was it, thought Steve, as darkness enveloped him. His escort had unearthed the fact that he and the State Provost-Marshal were kin and were hedging their bets in case he was acquitted and came back into circulaton. Good thinking, Delaney. I’ll get back to you later, you little creep. You can help me track down those six guys who hauled me off the ramp…
Delaney sounded disappointed when the carriage didn’t empty at Reagan Field. Steve did not mind missing the video being shown on that particular run and declined the offer to listen to the sound track over one of the headsets provided for passengers. ‘There are people around,’ he explained diplomatically. ‘I don’t want you guys getting into trouble.’
The truth was slightly different. Even before he had gone overground and discovered the world of the Plainfolk Steve had never been an avid viewer of Federation tv. Apart from the vocational and archive channels, the programming was as bland as the air being pumped by those Zed-heads in the A-Levels; blue-sky balladeers and processed inspirational pap interspersed with newscasts composed, of the most part, of mind-numbing trivia.
For Steve, the turn-off had begun somewhere around his sixth or seventh year and the inability to swallow this uninspired diet had increased as he grew older. Roz, who was two years younger, had confessed to having a similar rejection problem and it was this shared aversion that had led them to believe that they were somehow different; superior. This belief in their ‘otherness’ had become their secret and throughout their brief childhood, they had been inseparable. By the time he was fourteen – the age at which, in the Federation, you were regarded as an adult – Steve, who admitted no other friends, was aware that the relationship between Roz and himself went beyond the bounds of kinship as defined by the Manual.
Leaving Roosevelt Field to begin his year of labour service with the Young Pioneers, Steve had pretended not to care about being parted from Roz. He had become skilled at camouflaging his true feelings but soon after starting work on the last lap of the shuttleway to Phoenix, Arizona, he had been troubled by the discovery that, on certain occasions, he and Roz were together even when they were hundreds of miles apart. He had said nothing about this to his sister but, in the few days he had spent with her between leaving the Flight Academy and joining his wagon-train, Roz had revealed that she had been in mental contact with him during his first overground solo. She had experienced the same heart-stopping sensation as he soared off the ramp and caught his first glimpse of the overground; had seen, deep within her mind, the same great glorious sweep of earth and sky.
The strength of his feelings for Roz, which he had never fully revealed to her or dared admit to himself, were only surpassed by his response to Clearwater, the female Mute – no, that was wrong – the Mute girl with whom he… Christopher! It was too painful to think about. From the moment he first set eyes on her on the night he had been called upon to bite the arrow, he had been plagued by powerful, conflicting emotions that, at times, had blotted out all other concerns. Ever since catching sight of her perfectly formed face in the firelight he had felt an overwhelming need to be in her presence; a burning desire to possess her physically and in every other way; to merge her entire existence with his.
In plain Pre-Holocaust language, Steve had, quite simply, fallen passionately in love but, unfortunately, he did not know what that meant. A far-reaching decision by the First Family taken centuries before Steve’s birth had deleted the words ‘love’, ‘passion’ and ‘desire’ from the Federation’s video dictionary along with a great many other potentially disturbing word-concepts such as ‘individuality’ and ‘freedom’. There was no place for such ideas in a nation shaped by military discipline and empirical logic, nor was it necessary to admit the existence of such intangible notions as those expressed by the words ‘art’, ‘literature’, ‘religion’ and ‘soul’.
The removal of these words from the language deprived Steve of the means to express his true feelings. He was stricken by the age-old fever but was powerless to describe the symptoms. Worse still, his brief liaison with Clearwater ran contrary to everything he had been taught. Trackers were raised from birth to consider Mutes as subhuman. If the mere thought of touching them was considered abhorrent, then what Steve had done was so unthinkable it was beyond rational consideration. Yet, in the midst of this mental confusion, one clear thought remained, piercing the fog of uncertainty like a white-hot laser beam. Steve knew that, as a result of meeting Clearwater, his life had changed irrevocably. From now on, she was part of the equation; his need to be reunited with her, to possess her totally, would be the basis of all future calculations.
Steve lay his head back against the seat and made an effort to shut off all external sensations; the low murmur of conversation, the monotonous hum of the shuttle, the manacles encircling his wrists and knees, the stifling constraint of the hood. After a while he felt himself floating away into the enveloping darkness. He wondered where Cadillac and Mr Snow went in their periods of stillness and thought about the voices he had heard in the past. Could they have been the mysterious Sky Voices which Mr Snow claimed to be in contact with? Could such things actually exist? Clearwater’s name came into his mind. He tried to conjure up a vision of her but the image that formed in his mind’s eye was of Roz. He felt her mind reaching out to his, bridging the hundreds of miles that lay between them. A voice that only he could hear flowed through his inner consciousness. A cool urgent whisper that reminded him of the wind sweeping gently through the tops of the trees. She knew he was alive. She knew he was coming. He must be careful. They were watching her.
Four
At Houston/Grand Central, Steve was handed over to another kid-gloved Provo escort. Still hooded and chained, Steve was hoisted aboard a wheelie, driven some considerable distance to another subway station and marched onto a second shuttle – this time for a brief twenty minute trip. The final part of the journey, which entailed stepping on and off a series of moving walkways and an upward ride in an elevator, left Steve completely disorientated.
Even if he had been able to see, it would have made little difference. His two previous visits to Grand Central had both been brief; the first, at the age of seven, as part of an organised group whose fixed itinerary had taken him through the shrine of George Washington Jefferson the 1st, and past the awe-inspiring façade of the White House; the second, eight months ago, when he and Roz had spent two days wandering around the recently completed John Wayne Plaza, and the spectacular new accommodation deeps. Neither visit had been long enough, nor sufficiently wide-ranging to enable him to acquire a precise mental map of the Federation’s capital.
When the hood was finally removed, the only thing Steve could deduce from his surroundings was that he was now in some kind of medical unit. On the edge of his field of vision he could just discern two Deputy-Provos standing behind him. He decided not to swing his body round to look at them more directly. Defaulters were expressly forbidden to make direct eye contact with their escorts: to do so, with any hint of aggression or defiance, unleashed an instant massage with rubber truncheons. That was why the lieutenant at Pueblo had
cut loose with his rifle butt.
The second shuttle ride provided a tenuous clue to his possible location. Steve knew that the White House and AmEx – the executive arm of government – were both situated in closely guarded enclaves some distance from Grand Central. But there were also other specialist agencies located around the main base; Inner State U – the huge college campus where Roz was currently studying for her medical doctorate; the Life Institute where all Trackers were conceived ‘in vitro’ and implanted in their host-mothers, the headquarters of the Provost-Marshal Division, known formally as ‘The Bureau’ and informally as Meat-Loaf Mountain, and Columbus Circle, the home of the Federation’s giant computer.
Steve had ridden on the special subway that linked the White House to Grand Central but that had been ten years ago. At the time he had paid little attention to the mechanics of the journey and could no longer remember how he’d gotten to it from Grand Central Station. He dismissed the problem from his mind. If the Family decided he was to be allowed back into circulation all would eventually be revealed; if they didn’t, his whereabouts would swiftly become irrelevant. His illustrious career would end – this time permanently – with a nosedive down the nearest available shaft.
So much for the predictions of the Sky Voices…
A medic in a white coat came through the doorway and paused in front of Steve with his hands in his coat pockets. Pursing his lips he gave Steve the once-over then addressed the DPs. ‘We won’t be needing the cuffs. Take them with you.’
The two DPs unlocked the chains. Steve rubbed his wrists with a grateful sigh.
The DP who had unlocked the knee cuffs straightened up and coiled the chains neatly around his hand. ‘What about the MO?’
‘It’s been initialised,’ said the medic. ‘Pick it up from the office on your way out.’
Steve watched them walk out of the room then turned towards the medic and stood to attention.
The medic waved him down. ‘Relax.’
‘Thanks.’ Steve looked around the room. ‘It’s kinda hard to imagine that I woke up this morning in Colorado – and here I am in Grand Central.’
‘Yeah… you’ve had a long ride. Feel like a shower?’
‘That would be great.’
‘Did they give you anything to eat at Pueblo?’
‘Yes, sir. I had breakfast. Cup of java and a B-side special.’
‘Nothing since?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Okay,’ said the medic. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. While you’re in the washroom I’ll get rid of that cee-bee outfit and get you a set of blues – and then we’ll go down to the mess deck and pin down some hot chow. How does that sound?’
‘Fantastic.’
‘And go easy on the “sir” bit. I just empty the test tubes round here.’ The pleasant-faced medic stuck out his hand. ‘The name’s Chisum. John Chisum. Okay?’
Steve shook the offered hand firmly. ‘Glad to meet you, John.’
‘There’s just one thing…’
Steve eyed him warily.
Chisum smiled, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You’re gonna have to lose some of that hair before you walk onto the mess deck.’
‘I’d be happy to,’ replied Steve. ‘Every time those Provos get a look at me they start foaming at the mouth.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Wonder what it is that makes a guy volunteer to be a meat-loaf? Maybe they breed a special brand of shit-head over at the Life Institute.’
That cancels out one possible location, thought Steve. And if the Provos collected his movement order on the way out, then he was not in the Bureau either.
Chisum pulled open a drawer of a counter unit set underneath a wall cabinet full of various surgical instruments and took out a pair of scissors and electric hair clippers. He plugged the clippers into a nearby socket. ‘Pull that chair over here.’
Steve wheeled the metal chair into place and sat on it passively while Chisum chopped off the bulk of his hair with the scissors then used the clippers to give him an impeccable crew cut. ‘Makes a change from shaving the hair off guy’s dongs…’ he grunted. He waved his right hand in front of Steve’s nose. ‘Wish I had a credit point for every one I’ve picked up with these pinkies.’
Steve said nothing but deep down, he resented having to lose his long hair all because of some damnfool regulation. Once again he reminded himself he would have to keep a tight rein on his reactions. You’re back inside, Brickman. Play it cool and, above all, play it smart…
Chisum stepped back to study his handiwork. ‘Guess that about does it…’ He picked up the scissors and trimmed off a few stray ends then switched on the clippers again and moved in close to clean up the hair line behind Steve’s right ear. ‘Listen, I know your kin-sister – Roz,’ he muttered. His voice was barely audible under the whine of the clippers. ‘D’you want me to tell her you’re okay?’
An alarm bell rang inside Steve’s head. What was this guy’s connection with his kin-sister? ‘Won’t that be dangerous?’
Chisum laughed off the question. He laid aside the clippers, pulled the towel from around Steve’s neck and invited him to stand up. ‘Welcome back to the human race.’
Steve felt his eyes suddenly fill with tears. Rising from the chair, he rubbed his face vigorously with both hands in an effort to conceal his emotions and berated himself silently. Get a grip on yourself, Brickman! You mustn’t let any of these people get to you. Especially the nice guys. They are the most dangerous of all…
During the meal on the mess-deck, Chisum made no attempt to question Steve on his period of captivity. The conversation ranged in desultory fashion over Steve’s life at Roosevelt Field, his three years at the Academy, and what it was like to serve aboard a wagon-train. Chisum was amiable, asked intelligent questions but was not over curious. By the end of the meal, Steve realised that Chisum had revealed virtually nothing about his own background.
As they pushed their plates aside, Steve asked the questions he’d been waiting to ask since the haircut. Questions he knew Chisum would expect to be asked. ‘Where am I?’
Chisum considered the question. ‘I think, at this stage, it’s better for you not to know that. Better for both of us.’
‘What’s the connection between you and Roz?’
Chisum shrugged. ‘Nothing special. Just good friends.’
Steve waited but Chisum did not elaborate further.
‘The thing is, no one’s supposed to know that I’m back.’
‘That’s okay, she can keep a secret.’ Chisum’s eyes did not waver.
‘Maybe, but…’ Steve shook his head, ‘… there’s too much at stake. If anyone found out it could really screw things up – for both of you.’
Chisum shrugged. ‘I’ll take a chance if you will.’
‘John, come on. You know what the score is. They’re keeping me under wraps. Why stick your neck out? You don’t owe me anything.’
Chisum’s eyes stayed on Steve’s. ‘That’s right. I don’t owe you anything – and that includes an explanation. Okay?’
‘Guess it’ll have to be. Thanks anyway.’
Chisum rose from the table. ‘She’s a good kid. Gonna make a fine doctor.’
‘If she makes it.’
Chisum nodded firmly. ‘She’ll make it.’ He took Steve up from the mess deck to a small four-berth hospital ward, bade him good-night and announced he would collect him in the morning.
The ward was one of six set behind translucent partitions on either side of a wide corridor. Two white-coated orderlies sat at a lamp-lit table inside the door to the unit. The rest of the lights were turned down to twilight level. Steve took the only bed that was made up and slept soundly.
Over the next two days, Steve underwent an exhaustive medical examination covering virtually every part of his body – both inside and out. He was given a complete body scan, skin tissue, bone marrow, blood, saliva and urine samples were taken and he had the unappetising task of spooning a sa
mple of his faeces into a small jar. His mental and physical reflexes were tested by a wide variety of devices ranging from electronic displays to a rubber hammer, and electrodes taped to his ribs and his newly shorn skull monitored his heart and brain.
Steve assumed he was being checked for radiation damage but, as at Pueblo, none of the medical staff explained the purpose of the tests, or communicated any of the results. His body was manipulated and examined as impersonally as one might examine a black box filled with transistors. Chisum, who he glimpsed occasionally, was his only contact with reality.
At the end of the second day, when he found himself alone with Chisum, Steve asked the medic if he knew how he was doing.
Chisum went to the doorway to check that no one was coming then opened up the taps of a nearby sink unit. He beckoned Steve to come closer. ‘I haven’t seen anything official, you understand, but the word is you’re clean.’ His face split into a broad grin. ‘You don’t look surprised.’
Steve frowned. ‘I’m not surprised because, personally, I never felt better in my life. But… are you saying they’ve found absolutely nothing wrong with me at all?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Chisum.
Steve stared at him. ‘But… you and I know it’s impossible to survive that long without some –’
Chisum didn’t let him finish. ‘Yeah. Maybe that’s why they’re keeping you under wraps. I’ll tell you something else, soldier –’ He glanced again at the doorway and brought his face in close so that Steve could make out what he was saying above the noise of the running water. ‘You ain’t the first.’
The news was so surprising, it left Steve temporarily speechless. But, for some unexplained reason, it also had a deeper, more unsettling effect. His legs felt wobbly – as if the ground was crumbling away beneath him. Part of him seemed to be coming loose. There was the same roaring in his ears he had heard when Roz had told him about their mental contact during his first overground flight. Shaking uncontrollably, he made an uncoordinated grab for Chisum’s arm.
First Family Page 8
