First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘But… Mr President sir, does that mean all those Trail-Blazers who have been court-martialled and shot for dereliction of duty were innocent?’ It was a question Steve was unable to resist asking. The look he got from Karlstrom told him he was pushing his luck.

  The P-G’s eyes had also lost their sparkle. ‘You don’t seem to understand, Steven. Innocent or not, they still contravened the Code by claiming the use of magic by the Mutes. They died as the Foragers and Minutemen died. In order that others might live. It is a sacrifice that every Tracker worthy of the name has been prepared to make in the past – and may be required to make at any time.’

  Steve got the message.

  ‘Including yourself, less than one hundred people in the whole of the Federation know of the existence of the Talisman Prophecy. The official view has been, and will continue to be, that there is no such thing as Mute magic. The truth is somewhat different. Over the past hundred years the First Family has accumulated enough evidence to prove beyond doubt that certain Mutes do possess the ability to manipulate natural phenomena. How and why they are able to do this is something we do not yet understand but we view it as a very real and a very serious threat.’ Jefferson paused to weigh up the effect of his words. ‘However, you will never hear me admit such a thing outside the Oval office – just as you will never speak of what you have just heard or what we are about to discuss. This meeting never took place. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Mr President sir.’

  ‘Good…’ Jefferson’s eyes and manner softened slightly. He clasped his hands together and placed his elbows on the arm of the rocker. ‘Who related the Prophecy to you – this Mr Snow?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think he meant it to be some kind of message he hoped I would pass on. I must say it scared the hell out of me.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Jefferson. ‘But I was about half your age when I first heard it.’ The P-G grimaced wryly, ‘Way back before even your guard-father was born. Yes… I wonder if the version you heard is the same as the one I know?’ He began the opening verse:

  ‘When the great mountain in the West speaks

  with a tongue of fire that burns the sky

  and the earth drowns in its own tears,

  then shall a new-born child of the Plainfolk

  become the Thrice-Gifted One,

  who shall be Wordsmith, Summoner and Seer.’

  Jefferson leaned forward. ‘Tell me the rest, Steven.’ Steve began the second verse –

  ‘Man-child or Woman-child the One may be.

  Whosoever is chosen shall grow straight

  and strong as the Heroes of the Old Time.

  The morning dew shall be his eyes,

  the blades of grass shall be his ears,

  and the name of The One shall be Talisman.

  The eagles shall be his golden arrows,

  the stones of the earth his hammer,

  and a nation shall be forged

  from the fires or War.

  The Plainfolk shall be as a bright sword

  in the hands of Talisman, their Saviour.

  Then shall the cloud-warriors fall like rain

  and the iron snake devour its masters.

  The desert shall rise up and crush

  the dark cities of the sand-burrowers

  for heaven and earth have yielded

  their secret powers to Talisman.

  Thus shall perish the enemies of the Plainfolk

  for the Thrice-Gifted One is master of all.

  Death shall be driven from the air

  and the blood shall be drained from the earth.

  Soul-sister shall join hands with soul-brother

  and the land shall sing of Talisman…’

  The words transported Steve back to that magical moment when he had first heard them in Mr Snow’s hut, squatting on the talking mats in the flickering firelight opposite Cadillac and the wiry, white-bearded wordsmith. He felt a sudden need for their good-humoured company, a longing to look again into the eyes’ of Clearwater, an urgent desire to be close to her.

  But there was something else. The first verse of the Prophecy as recited by Jefferson contained a variation that altered its meaning completely. After the line ‘and the earth drowns in its own tears’ the Federation version ran –

  ‘then shall a new-born child of the Plainfolk become the Thrice-Gifted One…’

  In the version of the Prophecy recited by Mr Snow the line ran –’

  ‘then shall a child born of the Plainfolk become the Thrice-Gifted One…’

  From what had been said, Steve had little doubt that the First Family were already working on ways to deal with the Talisman but any plans they had appeared to hinge on the idea that, when the earth gave the sign, they would be looking for a new-born child who would grow up to be the promised saviour of the Plainfolk. But if Mr Snow’s version of the Prophecy was the correct one, it meant that someone born years before the predicted event could be the Talisman. A grown man or woman – like Cadillac or Clearwater in whom the powers that would make them the Talisman were lying dormant. Ready to burst forth at any moment…

  The scenario based on the Federation version of the Prophecy appeared to include a fifteen year breathing space between the birth and the emergence of Talisman as the magical warrior chief of the Plainfolk: Mr Snow’s version allowed practically no reaction time at all. If the Federation hoped to confound the Prophecy and triumph over the Plainfolk it was extremely important to know which, of the two versions, was the correct one. Or was there a third – or a fourth version? And if so, would any of them come true? Or was the Talisman Prophecy the inevitable product of the endangered Mute psyche? The last, great, smoke-filled illusion; the dying dream of a race on the verge of total extinction.

  And there were practical problems too. If prophecy was truly possible, at what point in time would this ‘sign’ be given? Where, for example, was the ‘great mountain in the West’?

  Steve dragged his thoughts back to the Oval office and to what the President-General was saying to Karlstrom. ‘… the amazing accuracy with which this stuff is transmitted orally. More than a hundred years separate the version I quoted and the one Steven here has just given us and yet they match word for word.’

  Karlstrom nodded thoughtfully. As he listened to Steve he had wondered if the young Tracker realised that, apart from being the only person on record to have survived capture by the Mutes, he was also the only person this century – that the First Family knew of – to have learnt of the Talisman Prophecy from an overground source. How interesting that he, of all people, should have been chosen by the Plainfolk as a messenger. As Karlstrom considered all the possible implications, it occurred to him that Q-6, knowing Steve had already revealed that he knew of the Prophecy, had not gotten him to repeat it line by line. It was a minor oversight and in all probability didn’t matter but it was yet one more example of procedural sloppiness and it niggled him. ‘Tell me – does the first verse of the Prophecy as spoken by the President-General match what Mr Snow told you?’

  Steve faced him squarely. ‘Yes, Commander. To the best of my recollection I’d say it was a dead match.’

  ‘Okay. Did this, ah – Mr Snow give you any background on the Prophecy? For example, where it first came from?’

  ‘Yes, Commander. He told me it was first transmitted – that was the exact word he used – through a wordsmith called Cincinatti Red about four hundred years ago.’

  Jefferson and Karlstrom exchanged thoughtful glances. ‘Four hundred years,’ mused Jefferson. ‘I’d say that pretty well validates it, wouldn’t you? It means that whoever composed it predicted the appearance of both wagon-trains and wingmen two centuries ahead of time.’

  ‘The wordsmith may have been lying,’ said Karlstrom. ‘The problem is we have no way of proving that – even if he was available for questioning. He may just be passing on what his predecessor told him. Not that it really matters. Our plans are based on the assumption that it may be t
rue.’

  Steve caught Karlstrom’s attention. ‘Uh, Commander – this “great mountain in the West” – where this is all supposed to start. Do we know its precise location?’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ replied Karlstrom drily. ‘Or at least we’re 95 per cent certain we do. But we’re not here to talk about that. Why don’t you tell the President-General what you’ve learned about summoners and seers?’

  Jefferson settled back in his rocker. ‘Yes, go ahead, Steven.’

  Steve took one look at the eyes and told him almost everything.

  Everything except the claim made by Mr Snow that he, Steven Roosevelt Brickman, was also under the protection of Talisman.

  When Steve had finished, Jefferson aimed a questioning look at Karlstrom.

  Karlstrom responded with a barely discernible nod. His face gave nothing away. ‘The earthquake you mentioned when you and I talked earlier. The one that split the bluff when you were about to escape. Do you think Clearwater could have been responsible for that?’

  ‘It’s possible, Commander. Without me going back and asking her I have no way of knowing for sure but if it hadn’t happened when it did I wouldn’t be here now. I know it seems unbelievable but compared to what she claimed Mr Snow had done to try and wreck the wagon-train –’

  ‘And almost succeeded,’ said Jefferson. ‘Ben, I think we can take a chance on this young man. I’ve got a good feeling about him.’ Clasping his hands together he placed his elbows on the arms of the rocker and leaned forward. ‘Steven, do you know what a quest is?’

  ‘Yes, Mr President sir.’

  The P-G nodded. ‘Good. How would you like to take part in the quest for the Talisman?’

  Steve’s heart leapt. He tried to hide his excitement. ‘I’d like that very much, uh – Mr President.’

  ‘Okay.’ The P-G waved a hand towards Karlstrom. ‘Ben runs an outfit that carries out special assignments for the Family. As you can imagine, from time to time, there are things that I need doing that can’t be handled by existing units. Jobs that require people like you, with a high degree of resourcefulness, a brain that can function under pressure and a certain… originality. People who can operate with absolute discretion and –’ Jefferson’s eyes locked on to Steve’s, ‘– on whom I can depend totally. Looking for the Talisman is just one of several top priority tasks. The Commander will tell you everything else you need to know.’ Jefferson stood up to signify that the interview was at an end.

  Steve leapt out of the armchair and grasped the P-G’s hand – this time without trepidation. He felt an electric shock run up his arm. One hundred volts of human warmth and sincerity. A sign he was dealing with a real pro.

  ‘Your guard-father, Jack Brickman, I met him twice you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Poppa-Jack told me. He felt very proud, very, uh – honoured.’

  Jefferson walked with Steve and Karlstrom towards the ‘stile door. ‘I was the one who felt honoured. There are not many of our wingmen who qualify for two trips to the White House.’ He patted Steve on the back. ‘Ben, here, seems to think that some of Jack’s dedication may have rubbed off on you.’

  Steve faced both of them as they reached the ‘stile. ‘Mr President sir, I’d like nothing better than to be able to prove to you and the Commander that he was right.’

  ‘It will be dangerous, Steven. It’s tough, lonely work.’

  Steve judged that this was a moment when he could laugh and get away with it. ‘Mr President sir, it can’t be worse than what I’ve just been through.’

  Jefferson chuckled and gripped Karlstrom’s arm. ‘Make sure you let me know how this boy shapes up.’ He gave Steve a goodbye nod. ‘We’ll meet again. That’s a promise.’

  Karlstrom pressed a button on the wall by the ‘stile to alert the ensign guarding the door that someone was coming through. ‘Step aboard Brickman.’

  As Steve was rotated through to the outer office, the genial smile faded from Jefferson’s face. ‘Watch him, Ben.’

  ‘You bet,’ replied Karlstrom. ‘Like a fucking hawk…’

  Ten

  The day after his visit to the Oval Office, Steve returned to the White House to be formally enrolled into the ranks of AMEXICO. The simple ceremony, which was conducted by Karlstrom, required Steve to swear a new oath of personal allegiance to the President-General followed by a vow to maintain absolute secrecy about the existence of AMEXICO and his membership of it. As he repeated the words of the oath and the vow, Steve and the President faced each other, laid their right hands on each other’s heart and covered it with their left.

  Once the formalities were completed, Jefferson, who had remained stony-faced throughout, treated Steve to a paternal smile, shook him warmly by the hand, wished him well and despatched him with a pat on the back. Karlstrom too, in his dry, faintly mocking way, welcomed him onto the team and explained that the act of enrolment meant automatic promotion to JX-1, the first rung on the executive ladder. He was to begin training immediately; his first mission was already being planned. Steve promised once again to do his best, saluted and left.

  A stiff-necked ensign from the Presidential Honour Guard met Steve as he came back down into the fortress-like reception area and escorted him across the marble concourse to Karlstrom’s private elevator. Maggie Pruett, the friendly JX-2, whose appearance had heralded his rehabilitation, was waiting in the office to take him on the next stage of his journey. Still glowing from the news of his unexpected promotion, Steve walked alongside her chatting casually. Just after he had learned she came from Arkansas, Pruett stopped in her tracks and pointed towards a turnstile. ‘This is as far as I go. Here – you’ll need this.’ She handed him a blue ID wallet.

  Steve took out the Sensor card marked with a silver ‘X’ that signified his new rank and read off his name and number. He was back in business. He fingered it lovingly, wondering how far it had been upgraded, what new levels of information and services he now had access to. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Just doing my job,’ said Pruett. She turned abruptly and walked away.

  Steve carded himself through the turnstile. The right-angled corridor led to the platform of a shuttle line where a two-car unit stood waiting. As Steve stepped onto the platform the illuminated panel above the card-key slot controlling the doors of the shuttle flashed an ‘Insert Card’ instruction. Steve keyed himself on board the rear car, recovered his card from the slot on the inside of the door frame and sat down. He was the only passenger.

  At the end of the one-stop line, a soft pleasant voice came through the shuttle address system, inviting him to disembark. Steve stepped out onto an empty platform. A flashing red light drew his attention to an overhead tv screen carrying the image of a female Exec. Steve turned to face the screen and automatically came to attention before remembering he now had the same rank as the person he was looking at.

  The pleasant voice addressed him again. ‘Good morning, Steven. Please stand at ease and listen carefully.’

  Steve stared up at the face framed by short, neatly combed hair. Its symmetry was perfect, its features with the firm chin and jawline and high cheekbones, the strong neck and wide shoulders, contained all the desirable elements of the ideal Tracker but the blue eyes had a curious glassy quality that left Steve with a vague feeling of unease.

  ‘On behalf of the Reception Staff, I would like to welcome you to AMEXICO. My name is Lisa. This is the Rio Lobo training centre where you will be based for the next four weeks. There is no formal induction procedure, your presence here has been registered automatically. The issue of necessary clothing and equipment will take place this afternoon. Your first period of instruction will commence at 0800 hours tomorrow. I am required to explain to you that all instruction at this centre takes place on a one-to-one basis. Contact with other trainees is not permitted during this phase. Any attempt to contravene this rule during your stay here will result in immediate expulsion from the course and punitive sanctions as laid down for a Code One offence.�
�

  In other words death…

  ‘Let me emphasise that this restriction is not a punishment but an integral part of AMEXICO’s maximum security profile which you have sworn to maintain. Contact with other members of the Intelligence Commando is at the discretion of the Operational Director. You will find your quarters equipped with everything you need, including an inter-active tv channel on which you may seek assistance. I have been assigned to look after you during your stay with us and will be available on a twenty-four hour basis to answer your queries or process any problems you have. Follow the yellow arrows. They will guide you to your quarters where you will receive further instructions. Have a nice day.’

  Lisa’s face was wiped from the screen to be replaced by an instruction ‘Follow the yellow arrows’. The words, which were in yellow, were underlined by a flashing arrow of the same colour. Whoever ran Rio Lobo clearly intended to leave no room for any misunderstanding.

  The shuttle’s electric motor thrummed into life. Steve turned and saw the two empty cars glide back into the tunnel that led to the White House. Steve left the platform, turned right as directed, and strode confidently down a long corridor lined on both sides with flush, anonymous doors. At the far end, he followed more arrows and finally reached his alloted accommodation unit. He carded himself through into the small hallway then, acting on an impulses, tried to reopen the door. It stayed shut. The indicator panel displayed an Off-Limits sign and buzzed angrily. Lisa hadn’t been kidding.

  Inspecting his new quarters, Steve found they were spacious but strictly functional. The unit had a separate bunk and study area, its own shower facilities, a small exercise room with workout equipment and video screens everywhere. Laid out on a shelf were the patched camouflage fatigues he had been wearing when he made his escape from the M’Calls. He had forgotten how worn and faded they were. A message on his videoscreen told him to change into them and put his blue wingman’s uniform down the laundry chute.

  Chastened by his experience with the door, Steve obediently dumped his new uniform and slipped into his old combat fatigues. His remote-control reception and the threat of virtual solitary confinement had struck him as slightly odd but it was nothing compared with what followed in the next four weeks. The training programme and conditions he encountered at Rio Lobo were both strange and totally unexpected; a bizarre, and sometimes painful experience.