Steve grinned sheepishly. ‘Yeah, I suppose I’ve got a few things bugging me.’
Chisum leaned across the table towards him. ‘Listen. I cee-bee a little now and then like most guys but I’m no renegade. When the chips are down you’ll find me standing with the Family. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those freaks who tee-tee-eff-effs with every breath. Nobody’s perfect, but I reckon they’re doing the best they can.’
‘Nobody could ask for more,’ replied Steve drily.
‘Listen,’ snapped Chisum. ‘If you’re so hung-up on the goddam fucking overground, why the hell didn’t you stay up there when you had the chance?!’
‘Yeah…’ agreed Steve. ‘Might have been better if I had…’
‘Neeaaghh…’ Chisum waved dismissively. His voice lost its hard edge. ‘Know what your real problem is? You’re a wingman. One of the brightest and the best. Pick of the bunch. Top of the heap. Isn’t that what they tell you? Tell us, too? Trouble is, you guys swallow all this shit and start thinking you’re the smartest hats in town. Like you know the answer to everything. Well, it ain’t so, good buddie. All you hot-shots from Lindbergh Field are just more meat to put through the grinder. Top grade meat maybe – but it all looks the same when it comes back in a body bag. The really smart hats are right here in town. And they stay here, well out of the line of fire. If you want to do yourself a favour, get that brain of yours working on something useful – like landing a desk job in the Black Tower. Forget about being a hero. The promotion prospects are lousy.’
‘I’ll try and remember that,’ said Steve.
Chisum grinned. ‘Like hell you will. You’re a front-runner. It’s written all over you. Why should you pay any attention to a no-account shit-kicker like me? Go ahead. Do it the hard way.’
‘John,’ said Steve. ‘I hear what you say – but lay off with that shit-kicker stuff. I may not be as smart as I think I am, but I know one thing. You ain’t as dumb as you’re trying to make out.’
Chisum smiled and spread his hands. ‘I like to keep a low profile. The smart hats who run things don’t feel threatened by guys who clean out test-tubes. I live a quiet life but – I keep my eyes and ears open.’ He leaned towards Steve. ‘You asked me why you’re not a basket case. I don’t know why. Not for sure, anyway. What I can tell you is that most of the guys who are into double-time on way-stations and wagon-trains are still pulling tricks.’
‘Trick’ was the conversational version of the medical acronym TRIC – meaning Terminal Radiation-Induced Cancer.
‘So your idea about a big bad Family plot is way off beam,’ continued Chisum. ‘Some time back, I worked for a while at the Life Institute. That’s where I first ran into Roz. She and some other Inter-Med students were touring the place. Anyway, a guy there told me that the Family have had a research team working on the development of an anti-radiation drug – some kind of serum – for over fifty years.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe they’ve been using you for field trials. Maybe you’ve been shooting Mute juice instead of Vitamin B at your quarterly MedEx. Maybe you and those other guys are proof that it works.’ Chisum shrugged. ‘That would explain everything – right?’
‘Yeah, it would,’ conceded Steve. ‘Provided what that guy told you was true. I admit I’ve still got a long way to go but, over the years, I’ve come to realise that in this big, bright new world we’re building, things are not always what they seem.’
‘Nothing ever is,’ replied Chisum cheerfully. He looked at his watch and drained the last drop of Java from his cup. ‘Gotta get back to the unit and finish off some tests. You gonna be around tonight?’
Steve shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I have no idea what’s happening to me.’
‘I’ll check,’ said Chisum. He went over to the Provo’s table, conversed with them briefly then returned. ‘You have to wait here. The DPs will wheel you back in when the Board is due to reassemble.’
‘Did they say how long that might be?’
‘No,’ said Chisum. ‘But it’s bound to be today sometime. Which means by 1900 at the latest.’
Steve glanced at the time print-out on the nearest overhead screen. 1245.’Terrific…’
Chisum smiled down at him. ‘Relax. Buy yourself another KornGold. Browse through the Archives. Sharpen up with a few games of Shoot-A-Mute. You could do with the practice.’
‘I can’t. I haven’t been issued with a new ID. I can’t do anything, I can’t go anywhere!’
‘Got it. That’s a tough one. I’ll see if I can find out what’s happening on that.’ Chisum glanced around the room then leant his fists on the table and put his head close to Steve’s. ‘D’you want to see Roz?’
Steve rubbed his neck and thought it over.
‘She’s willing to take a chance if you will. All you have to do is say the word.’
Steve sighed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t want to get her into trouble.
‘You won’t.’ Chisum dropped his voice even further. ‘I’ve got friends. I can fix it. Three, four hours. No problem.’
‘Where’
‘Never mind where. “Yes”, or “No”?’
‘No. I can’t – listen, uh – I’ll think about it.’
Chisum gripped Steve’s shoulder. ‘Okay. But don’t leave it too late. These things take time to set up.’
Steve glanced across at his escort and the two off-duty Provos they were talking too. Once again his eyes were drawn to their shoulder insignia: two inverted white triangles standing corner to corner with a bright blue triangle nestling between them. The memory circuits finally clicked into place and he was able to recall the moment in his childhood when the self-same image had registered in his brain. He looked up at Chisum. ‘I’ve finally worked out where I am. This is the White House.’
Chisum’s face gave nothing away. ‘You could be right. Does it worry you?’
‘Nahh…’ replied Steve lightly. ‘I always knew I’d make it here some day.’
Chisum gave a quick laugh and walked away.
Around 1730, just at the point when Steve had run through all the ways he knew of keeping calm, the two Provos pulled the card on their high scoring Mute Massacre game and marched him back in front of the Assessors. Once again Steve stood at attention in front the hot seat, staring at the wall behind the high-backed chair. The eight Assessors filed in, took up their positions around the semicircular table and waited respectfully for their vermilion-robed President.
Fran entered, took her place and nodded to them to take their seats. She smoothed back her dark hair, clasped her hands together briefly under her chin then lowered them to the table.
‘Sit down, Steven.’
Of course! How could he have missed it? That gesture with the hands. He must have seen it a thousand times on inspirational videocasts delivered by the President-General.
Fran cleared her throat. ‘Steven. As I made clear on the opening day of this examination, this Board has no judicial function. Our primary task has been to evaluate the nature and content of your testimony and to make certain observations and recommendations on the basis of what we heard. The record of these proceedings and our conclusions, together with your request for reassignment to an overground combat unit will be forwarded to a higher review body. They may choose to accept our recommendations, they may modify them, or reject them. You may even be re-examined. Whatever course of action they decide upon, the final decision affecting your future rests with them. It maybe more, or less favourable than the one we are about to recommend but, in either case, once they have ruled on your case, no appeal can be lodged on your behalf. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir-ma’am!’
‘Good,’ said Fran. ‘Now, before you are informed of this Board’s recommendations, we would like to place on the record our admiration for the tenacity and courage you displayed while a prisoner of the Mutes and for the outstanding initiative employed to secure your escape by air. This, in itself, was a brilliant feat and worthy of the highest commendation.’<
br />
This is more like it, thought Steve. A happy glow spread through him as the dark-haired President continued her preamble.
‘We have also been most impressed by the highly detailed nature of much of your testimony regarding the weapons, tactics and day-to-day activities of your captors. I am convinced that it will prove of immense value to the Federation. You are to be congratulated on your coolness under the constant threat of death, your unwavering loyalty to the Federation and your steadfastness in what must have been the most appalling conditions. Your conduct, in this respect, has been exemplary.’
Damn right, said Steve to himself. This was all good stuff. It had to mean a set of gold wings and lieutenant’s bars at the very least. Plus an up-rated ID-card – and he wouldn’t say ‘No’ to one of those units in that fancy tower he’d seen at San Jacinto Deep. Yeah, carry on, lady, you’re doing fine…
‘However,’ continued Fran, ‘we are cognisant of the fact that none of this has been achieved without cost. It would be unreasonable to expect any normal human being to emerge from a protracted period of forced co-existence with a totally alien species without exhibiting symptoms of culture shock.’
Steve’s new-found confidence began to wilt.
‘We believe that we have detected clear signs of this mental damage in parts of your testimony. Your inability to categorise Mutes as sub-human in clear, unequivocal terms, and your ambivalent attitude towards them generally is, in our view, evidence of the traumatic experience you have undergone. We can only hope that this damage is not permanent. Only time will tell. But your present condition gives rise for concern. It is quite obvious, from many of your replies, that you now view certain of these individuals and your relationship with them in quasi-humanistic terms –’
‘Sir-ma’am –’
Fran slammed both fists down on the table. ‘Don’t interrupt! That view is directly contrary to the accepted teaching of the Federation – the truth of which has been long established. Mutes are not human beings. They are a degenerate species of anthropoid whose condition is irreversible and their continued existence is an affront to civilised humanity! This Board cannot allow your present opinions to contaminate the minds of others, and were it not for the singular circumstances in which those opinions were formed, we would be forced to regard their expression as a Code One offence and recommend the appropriate penalty.
‘However, having considered your exemplary record, this Board does not believe – despite the offensive nature of many of your remarks – that your attitude is inspired by wilful disaffection or criminal intent. It is, we believe, evidence of a deep-seated mental malaise. You are sick, Steven. And it is our duty to help you recover. In the circumstances, we cannot support your request to be reassigned to an overground combat unit. This Board’s recommendation is that you be regraded and transferred to Service Engineering and Maintenance for at least three years, with the right to an Annual Review Board thereafter.’
Steve sat there, unable to breathe, his body paralysed with shock, his brain a frozen block of ice. For a wingman to lose coveted combat-status was humiliating enough but – Sweet Christopher – three years in the A-Levels! That was worse than a death sentence! It couldn’t be happening! It had to be some kind of a grotesque joke!
The dark-haired President rose, her eyes fixed on Steve, her face a blank, expressionless mask. ‘As from tomorrow, you will be transferred to the A-Levels and assigned to general duties. You will remain there, on temporary detachment, until this Board’s recommendations are confirmed or modified by the higher review body. Steps have been taken to issue you with a new ID-card, and the appropriate uniform. All other personal items will be furnished by your new unit. From this point on, it is up to you to demonstrate that this Board’s confidence in your capacity to achieve complete rehabilitation was not misplaced. Do you understand?’
The question was a formal one. No protest was allowed. No clarification could be sought.
Steve somehow managed to get his tongue round the standard reply. ‘Yes, sir-ma’am. I thank the Board for its sympathetic consideration of my case. Long live the Federation!’
‘Long live the First Family,’ said Fran.
‘For ever and ever, Amen,’ chorussed Steve and the Assessors.
Fran gave Steve a curt nod then turned on her heel and walked out. The Assessors followed. This time, some of them favoured him with a backward glance, meeting his eyes with the same blank gaze that Fran had employed. Only Assessor 3 displayed the belligerent contempt which had characterised his outbursts during Steve’s examination; the others looked right through him.
Steve felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he found it was his Provo escort. ‘This way, soldier…’ Not for much longer would they call him that. From tomorrow, once he donned the chrome yellow and brown coveralls of a Seamster, he’d be a Zed-head, a greaseball, a scumbag. The lowest form of life in the Federation…
Six
Escorted by the two Provos, Steve returned to the medical unit where, as on the days since his first examination, he was placed in the small, but otherwise unoccupied, four-berth ward. Chisum had told him it was part of an isolation unit. The staff on duty in the corridor outside were not unfriendly but they were not curious either and made no attempt to engage him in conversation.
As Steve sat dejectedly on his bed, he realised that Chisum was the only person who’d been willing to talk to him. Not only talk but to actually offer help. Steve couldn’t figure Chisum out. At the back of his mind was the thought that there had to be an angle. Nobody helped out a complete stranger without a reason. So what was the trade-off? Steve concluded it must be his kin-sister. In his present situation there was nothing else he could deliver on. He certainly couldn’t exert any leverage on powerful but nutty Uncle Bart. It could only be Roz. She and Chisum had met and she had told him about her hot-shot brother who had powered down over Wyoming. It would be a natural thing for her to do. And then, by sheer chance, Chisum had found himself working in the White House medical unit to which he, Steve, had been brought for examination.
Small world…
Chisum obviously hoped to deal himself a better hand in his game with Roz by being nice to big brother. But what was he after that he couldn’t get by himself? Chisum didn’t need his permission to jack his kin-sister. There was nothing to it. It was a simple how-about-it proposition; a Yes/No situation. And if Roz said ‘No’, fresh jack-bait was not a problem in a place like Grand Central. John Wayne Plaza was full of wide-eyed Yippies – Young Pioneers – on their big trip to see the shrine of George Washington Jefferson the First; sometimes referred to by those who like to live dangerously as GWJ – the Great White Jabberwock.
But maybe it was something more. Maybe Chisum had the same kind of special feeling for Roz that he, Steve, had for Clearwater. Prior to being shot down, Steve had not known such feelings existed but if he could feel like that about somebody maybe Chisum could too. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it wasn’t Steve’s permission Chisum needed but his approval. Maybe Roz wouldn’t put out as long as she knew Steve was alive and especially now, when she knew he was back in town. Because of the way things had been. The special closeness no one else had shared.
It was odd. In the three years he’d been away at the Flight Academy – a period when he had rarely been in contact with home, Steve had never once considered the idea that Roz might have begun hanging out with other guys on the base. Like him, she’d always been a study-bug, nose glued to the video screen or, to use Tracker High School slang, a pixel – picking up an 825 line tan. In the short time they’d spent together between the graduation ceremony and his posting to the wagon-train depot at Fort Worth, it had not even occurred to him to ask Roz if she’d been with anybody else.
Thinking it over, Steve realised that his apparent disinterest in this aspect of Roz’s life was part of a reluctance to probe too deeply into her thoughts and feelings – especially those concerning him. As children they’d been inseparab
le but, by the time Steve was fourteen, he had begun to withdraw into the steel cocoon he was building around himself. He had been determined to sever all emotional ties, even with Roz – then twelve years old. To his annoyance, he had not succeeded. Even now, after Clearwater, Roz remained an unpluggable gap in his defences. Just as, in a lesser way, he retained an affectionate regard for Annie, his guard-mother, and pride and respect for his guardian, poppa-Jack.
It was only natural that his thoughts should fly back towards Roz as he waged a silent battle against the rising tide of hopelessness that threatened to engulf him. The sentence the Board had handed out – for no matter how they dressed it up, that was what it was – had been totally unexpected. And coming at the end of such a laudatory preamble it was absolutely shattering. Steve simply could not accept the idea that the brilliant career he had mapped out for himself since the age of five was about to end with his transfer to the A-Levels.
Sitting there with his head in his hands, he consoled himself with the thought that his future had looked equally bleak as he’d lain trapped in the wreckage of his Skyhawk in the middle of a burning cropfield. And again when Motor-Head, the paramount warrior of the M’Calls, had confronted him on the bluff as he was preparing to escape. He had to believe it would all come right. It would somehow. Christo – it had to! Three years in the A-Levels before his first grading review. He couldn’t bear the idea of being down there three hours!
Steve stood up and paced around the room, trying to figure a way out of the jam he was in. First there was the problem of the statement he’d made to the Assessors. Despite the President’s opening assurances about maintaining a spirit of enquiry, the Board had not been prepared to listen to any opinions about the Mutes that did not accord with the official attitude on the subject. He could still not get over the way he had not been allowed to even mention the Talisman Prophecy. In view of the Board’s blind prejudice, maybe that was just as well. The mere mention of earth magic, summoners and seers would have had them popping their rivets. Chisum might believe that the First Family were doing their best but what had happened was a prime example of their cynical suppression of the truth. By erasing all mention of the Prophecy from the record and allowing no discussion of it, the dark-haired President had proved what Steve had suspected for some time. The First Family believed in Mute magic – and yet any public discussion of even the idea was a Code One offence! The First Family knew it was true – and yet they were still sending guys to the wall! It was crazy…
First Family Page 12
