First Family

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First Family Page 10

by Patrick Tilley


  ‘Yessir-ma’am,’ replied Steve.

  ‘Good.’ The President smiled again. ‘The First Family have asked me to say that they are aware of the hostile treatment you underwent en route and will take steps to provide appropriate compensation. I understand that the State Provost-Marshal of New Mexico explained some, if not all, of the reasons why it was necessary for you to be hooded and chained.’

  ‘He has, sir-ma’am.’

  ‘The various physical assaults were regrettable, but – given the unforeseen circumstances surrounding your return – I’m sure you will accept that the incidents were due to an excess of zeal.’

  ‘It was a small price to pay for the pleasure of getting back home, sir-ma’am.’

  ‘I’m glad you see it that way,’ said the President. ‘At least no permanent damage was done.’

  None that shows, thought Brickman. That was a good line. Well done, Steven. But why all this preamble – plus what amounted to an apology by the First Family? It was unheard of. Why should they suddenly start caring about guys getting beaten up by Provos? The alarm bells inside Steve’s head started ringing. The Board’s President worried him. She was, at a guess, closer to twenty-five than thirty. To be heading a full board of Assessors at that age meant that she was either very bright, or…

  Or what?

  Steve was aware of blurred images forming in his brain. The entity, the power, or whatever it was that lurked within was trying to tell him something but the lines were down between them. It was his own fault. He had fought it off, tried to shut it out, ignore it, bury it, for so many years it had retreated like some strange recluse into a distant room at the back of his mind, emerging only when it felt the need to do so. Steve tried to bring the images into focus but the dark messenger did not respond to his call and his inner eye remained clouded.

  He suspects, thought Fran. She had spent several days wondering whether to take this opportunity to come face to face with Brickman and now cursed herself for making the wrong decision. She should have waited; should have chosen a less distinguished role. Something with a lower profile. Dammit! Never mind – too late to backtrack now…

  ‘Ohh-kaay,’ she sang as she consulted the angled screen set into the table in front of her. ‘You and Gus White took off on June 12th to fire-bomb a Mute cropfield north-east of Cheyenne. Wingmen Fazetti and Naylor were to make a similar attack on a nearby forest – believed to be the location of a Plainfolk settlement. Why don’t you take it from there?’

  Steve had had a long time to prepare for this moment. He took a deep breath and began his carefully edited version of what had happened to him after he’d been knocked out of the sky by a Mute crossbow bolt. The daily sessions were divided into four two-and-a-half hour periods with a thirty minute break in the morning and afternoon and an hour for lunch. After just two periods during which he did most of the talking, Steve’s jaw ached intolerably and his tongue felt stiff and swollen. The prospect of another forty-five hours under the same pressure left him distinctly uneasy. It was not just physical stamina he needed, the mental effort required was considerable too. Apart from the highly sensitive information he wished and, indeed, had sworn to conceal, Steve knew that, in his own interests, he had to avoid making any value judgments. In this kind of examination, the choice of words and phrases was crucial; a careless remark, or an ill-thought out reply could suddenly lead to an explosive confrontation. And so he concentrated on the facts, expressing neither approval or disapproval of the Mute way of life, and their strange beliefs about the world.

  On the first day, after describing how he had been dragged from the tangled wreckage of his Skyhawk, Steve related how Mr Snow had used plant leaves to dress his wounds, and had forced him to eat dried shreds of Dream-Cap, a pain-killing mushroom, when setting the bones in his broken leg and how, with a self-imposed programme of exercises, he had brought himself back to peak combat-fitness in preparation for his eventual escape.

  Asked about the wounds in his cheek, Steve described how, to avoid being killed by a hostile faction of the M’Call clan, he had been forced to take part in a Mute test of warriorhood known as Biting the Arrow in which – under the threat of instant execution – he had to submit to having an arrow driven through his face without flinching before breaking it between his teeth. A memorable moment – not for the pain – but because that was the night he had caught his first glimpse of Clearwater.

  He went on to describe the organisation of the clan M’Call; the way their settlement was set up, and the ease with which the huts and their contents could be packed up and carried over long distances; the clan’s daily round of activity, the food-gathering and distribution process, the patrolling by posses of Bears and She-Wolves, and the aggressive defence of their ‘home turf’.

  On the second day, when the questioning turned to Mute tactics and weaponry, Steve scored a hit with the Board when he revealed the existence of the Iron Masters, the mystery men from the Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem who furnished the Plainfolk with their powerful crossbows and other edged weapons – what the Mutes called ‘sharp iron’. Pressed for more details he could only repeat the few scraps of information he had been able to glean: the Iron Masters’ trading expeditions were made aboard ‘wheel-boats’ that came up the great rivers called the ‘Miz-Hurry’ and the ‘Miz-Hippy’. Steve was unable to tell the Assessors where Beth-Lem was located. When asked the same question Cadillac had been noticeably evasive saying only that ‘it lay in the lands beyond the eastern door’.

  On the third day, the main subject was wordsmiths. The Assessors were particularly interested in Steve’s account of his relationship with Mr Snow and Cadillac and, in particular, his explanation of the old Mute’s key role as the clan’s historian and walking encyclopedia and his position as chief tactician and adviser to the governing clan elders, and how Cadillac was being trained as his replacement.

  ‘Are you telling us these wordsmiths are educators – that they can train any child to memorise nine hundred plus years of oral history?’ asked Assessor 6.

  ‘No, sir, not any child,’ replied Steve. ‘These wordsmiths are a breed apart. They are born with that capability. I don’t know how, or what the selection process is, but I do know the M’Call’s don’t yet have a third generation whizz kid to replace Cadillac. Don’t get me wrong. Outwardly these, uh – guys – look just like any other Mute. But beneath the skin and bone deformations they are remarkably gifted individuals.’

  Assessor 6 grunted. ‘Well, they obviously impressed you.’

  ‘Sir, these people are the enemy. If I were to ignore their undoubted potential to harm us I would be failing in my sworn duty to do all I can to protect the First Family and the Federation.’

  The young President of the Board smiled. ‘Well said, Steven.’

  Right, thought Steve. It was the kind of line that went down well with Assessors. But it also had an edge of truth. The irony was that Steve’s apparent eagerness to tell all concealed the real truth: Mr Snow’s potential to harm the Federation was greater than they could ever imagine.

  Steve fixed his gaze on the grey-brown eyes and beamed out his best honest-John look. ‘Ma’am, at the risk of incurring disfavour, I have to say that while – in terms of brain-power – the two word-smiths stood head and shoulders above the rest, the average Mute was not as stupid as I had been led to expect.’

  ‘Let me get this quite clear,’ said the President. ‘Are you trying to tell us that the Plainfolk Mutes possess human intelligence?’

  ‘Yes,’ added Assessor 3, a blunt-featured man whose neck was too wide for his face. ‘Are you saying these animals are our equals?’

  They were both loaded questions. Any discussion on these lines was pure dynamite. Steve weighed his reply carefully, conscious that an overlong hesitation would be interpreted unfavourably. ‘The Manual states that Mutes are sub-human, ma’am. Compared with our own life-style, theirs is certainly primitive, many of their customs savage and barbarous. But while they ha
ve no written form of communication, they speak a language that closely resembles Basic and, through their wordsmiths, they possess a history covering a similar time span to our own. They make music and they sing –’

  ‘So do birds,’ said Assessor 3.

  Steve accepted this interruption with a polite nod. He knew that one of the techniques employed by Assessors was to make seemingly stupid remarks in the hope of triggering a contemptuous and ill-considered reply. It worked well with examinees who thought they were brighter than their interrogator. ‘Sir, I know they are commonly referred to as animals – they are also called lumpheads, four-eyes, shit-balls and dick-eaters. Not without reason, I am sure. But I submit that the word “animal” applies more correctly to an overground beast incapable of communicating its thoughts, ideas and intentions to a human being through the medium of syntactic speech.’

  ‘Do you think you can buffalo us by using long words, boy?’ snapped Assessor 3.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Steve. ‘I know that particular definition is not in the Manual but –’

  ‘Maybe it should be…’ The President came to his rescue. ‘Go on, Steven.’

  ‘Ma’am – I can only speak with reference to this particular clan but what I’m trying to say is that, although the Plainfolk are technological illiterates, the various craft skills they possess shows they can learn. Their apparent inability to remember does not prevent them from absorbing information. The problem they have is one of information retrieval. They can retain knowledge but they can’t express that knowledge verbally. As a result, most of them appear incredibly stupid.’

  From the looks that passed between them it was clear that some of the Assessors did not like what they heard. Steve knew it was the wrong thing to do but some perverse impulse made him pursue this theme. He addressed the President. ‘Ma’am – I was asked if I regarded Mutes as our equals. In terms of their bodies and mental attitude, the answer has to be “No”. If we ignore the small number of “yearlings”, the physical differences are irreconcilable, their way of life totally alien. But if we apply different criteria – strength, stamina, manual dexterity, educability and – it has to be said – latent intelligence, then my answer would have to be “Not yet”.’

  The President compressed her lips into a thin line.

  Assessor 7, one of the other women examinees leaned forward. ‘Would you care to explain that last remark?’

  ‘Ma’am, I am not disputing the wisdom of the Manual. But if I have understood it correctly, the information it contains on this subject was compiled as a result of operations against the Southern Mutes. I have only observed them as captives in work-camps and chain-gangs. The Plainfolk are still independent. An undefeated warrior race. And, from what the M’Call wordsmiths told me, they have every intention of remaining so. Our first advances into their territory have shown them what they are up against. We should not underrate them. They have the capacity to adapt, to acquire higher craft skills – even technology.’

  Assessor 1 snorted drily. ‘Technology! Where the heck are they gonna learn that – from us?’

  Steve turned to his left. ‘Well, sir, that hadn’t occurred to me but now that you mention it, maybe it’s something we ought to be thinking about.’

  Assessor 3 exploded. ‘Have you gone soft in the head?! Those gammy-assed shit-balls can’t even tell the difference between a pick and shovel unless you whup it into ’em!’

  Steve fought down a sudden urge to let this overbearing turd have it right between the eyes. To tell him and his nit-picking friends that underneath the swirling patterns of black and brown, Cadillac’s body was as unblemished as his own; that with short hair and dressed in a jump-suit, the eighteen-year-old Mute could easily pass as a Tracker; that although uneducated by Federation standards the young warrior had an uncanny ability to learn at lightning speed – and was, in many ways, smarter than most graduates from the Flight Academy. Steve bit his lip and said nothing, mindful of his promise to Mr Snow never to tell his masters of Cadillac’s true physical state, or reveal the existence of Clearwater.

  He turned on a winning smile for Assessor 3. ‘I have to admit there were a few who were kinda slow.’ Yes, sir… this was definitely not the moment to mention that it was the M’Call clan who had provided tools and assistance in building Blue-Bird – the aircraft in which he had made his escape. That would have led to some awkward questions which, in turn, might have forced him into revealing that, in exchange, he had taught Cadillac to fly. Despite the honeyed assurances of the dark-haired President, that particular piece of news would really have caused the shit to hit the fan.

  ‘Steven,’ said the President. ‘I’m intrigued, why should we teach the Mutes anything?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, ma’am. I’m not questioning Federation policy –’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘It’s just that – having seen what the Plainfolk are capable of – it occurred to me that if they’re going to learn anything at all, we should control the process – rather than someone else. Like the Iron Masters. If these mystery men are trading crossbows, you can be sure they’ve armed themselves with something better to give them the edge. They have Plainfolk working them already, production facilities and water-borne transportation.’ He spread his palms. ‘Who knows what else they might have up their sleeves?’

  Fran smiled. This young man was fast – and cute. ‘Don’t worry about the Iron Masters, Steven. When the time is right, they’ll be taken care of. And forget about improving the Mutes. Let them live out what remains of their grubby little lives. The overground is ours by right. It’s been promised to us by the First Family. We don’t have to share the blue-sky world with anybody.’

  Five

  When he woke on the fourth day, Steve knew the Assessors would turn their attention to his escape. This was the moment that Steve had been worried about – and with good reason – for the explanation he planned to offer about the building of the hang-glider was a total fabrication. He had decided to tell the Board that, having recovered Naylor’s knife and stolen certain tools, he had escaped from the Mutes and made his way back to the spot where the clan had left the wrecked Skyhawks. There, working alone, he had salvaged enough parts to construct the glider – a task that had taken him two weeks.

  Thinking over this story on his way to the session, Steve realised that it now sounded grotesquely implausible and did not square with the other information he had given about the Mutes. Like – for instance – if they were so good at running, tracking and hunting, how had he escaped and then managed to avoid discovery during the two weeks it had taken to build the glider?

  Omission of certain facts during this kind of examination was relatively easy provided you kept your story consistent. If caught out you could, if blessed with a nimble brain and agile tongue, blame it on a faulty memory or a misunderstanding of the question. But in offering up a carefully woven tissue of lies you took a big risk. Inevitably you needed more and more lies to support the first. It only needed one Assessor to become suspicious and that was it. Once someone started picking at the loose ends, the whole thing started to unravel.

  Steve found himself in a real bind. Apart from his potentially fatal relationship with Clearwater, everything he had done had been to ensure his survival and provide the means and opportunity to escape. Even so, he was reluctant to reveal the full extent of his cooperation with the Mutes in case it was misinterpreted by the Assessors. Despite the assurances of their young President he didn’t have much faith in the Board’s impartiality. It was not the way Assessors functioned; under the Federation’s system of justice anyone facing a full board was presumed to be guilty until he proved himself innocent.

  As he entered the examination room and stood at attention, facing the Assessors, Steve suddenly decided to change his story. He would stay as close to the truth as possible. As the clouds of uncertainty were swept away, he was able to see several moves ahead and realised that it was the best decision
he’d made all week.

  When the Board was seated, the dark-haired President motioned Steve to follow suit then laid her hands on the table, linked her fingers together and cleared her throat. ‘Now, Steven – tell us about the events leading up to and surrounding your escape. In particular, how you managed to construct an aircraft in secret.’

  ‘I didn’t, sir-ma’am. I got the Mutes to help me.’

  The shock wave generated by his reply practically lifted the Board out of their seats.

  Fran Jefferson exchanged a look with the other Assessors then addressed Steve. ‘Would you care to explain that?’

  ‘It’s quite simple, ma’am. I discovered they had kept pieces of Naylor’s and Fazetti’s Skyhawks. They’d both crashed into the forest where the Mutes had their settlement. So I offered them a deal. I said if they would help me build an arrowhead – their name for our Skyhawks – I would teach ’em to fly.’

  The President’s fingers dug deep into the back of her hands. ‘And did you?’

  The lie came easily. ‘No, sir-ma’am.’ He grinned. ‘As soon as it was finished, I took the first flight out.’

  Much of the day was taken up with questions and answers about how he had designed and constructed the arrowhead and, in particular, the extent to which the Mutes had been involved.

  Assessor 3, who had been working on a short fuse all week exploded again. ‘I can hardly credit what I’m hearing, boy! Are you telling us you taught these lumps how to build airplanes?!’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Steve. ‘I didn’t teach them to do anything. I merely gave them the chance to demonstrate the skills they already possess. Skills which, up to now, we’ve either ignored – or have not even been aware of. If we’re going to pursue our stated objective of winning back the overground, we should not underestimate the Mute’s capabilities –’

 

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