First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  For the whole month he was there, Steve was not allowed to remove his clothes without permission – not even when he slept – and at no time was he allowed to take a shower. Nor was he able to. The supply to the shower head had been turned off. A limited amount of cold water dribbled through the faucets of the washbasin in the shower room but there was no liquid soap, the basin had no plug, and he soon discovered that the toilet flush only worked once a day. Worst of all, there was no cotton waste. He was obliged to wipe his ass with a handful of red leaves from a pile in a bucket. Not one of them, on its own, was big enough for the desired purpose and the discomfort was compounded by the discovery that the supply was only replenished once a week. The bunk was fitted with the standard padded cotton mattress but instead of the usual cover sheet and quilt there were two layers of smelly animal furs. Meals were delivered twice a day via a small service elevator. They were a surprise too. It was Mute food. When the first dish of hot spicy stew arrived Steve understood what was happening. He was being conditioned. They were going to send him back to the overground.

  Steve was not only required to become dirty and sweatstained, his body had to be tanned and weathered to the point where his skin peeled, then became raw and blistered and his lips cracked. With over two hundred years of experience behind it, MX had brought the process to a fine art.

  It was hard to concentrate on anything beyond just staying alive when you were being blasted by driving salt spray in a wind chamber but, during the time he lay under the banks of UV lamps, Steve was required to continue with his video studies, committing to memory pictures of various locations so that when tested, he could recognise them instantly and describe the route from one point to another.

  Apart from Lisa’s screen image, Steve did not come face to face with anyone. The instructors he met during the Uve training sessions, or via the tv screen, ail wore close-fitting helmets with tinted visors and on such occasions he was required to do the same. And he had been addressed not by name but as ‘Zero-Two’, the number sewn on the front and back of a sleeveless cotton jacket he had been ordered to wear over his fatigues.

  The three years of specialist training at the New Mexico Flight Academy had already furnished Steve with many of the skills required by a member of the Intelligence Commando and after a month of twelve-hour workdays and seven day weeks, his anonymous instructors judged him ready for ‘insertion’ – an MX term for transfer to a specific field assignment on the overground, or within the earthshield. There was no parades or presentations, no back-slapping celebrations; one morning, towards the end of his stay, he was simply informed by Lisa that he had completed his period of instruction, and had been given the code-name HANG-FIRE.

  Steve, who had never heard the word before, was unaware that it was a term used by the military before the Holocaust to describe an artillery shell whose propellant charge had not detonated. The procedure for dealing with a hang-fire consisted of opening the breech of the gun, and waiting for several minutes before attempting to remove the faulty charge. Artillerymen traditionally regarded it as a risky business for there was always the danger the charge could explode when being removed from the gun – with fatal effects for the person handling it. Given Steve’s background, it had seemed an apt label and its choice had given Commander-General Karlstrom a certain amount of dry satisfaction.

  As he rode back down the line to the White House to be briefed on his first mission, Steve reflected on the weird set-up he had just left. He’d been obliged to undergo several kinds of hell to become a member of the Intelligence Commando but he had been unable to discover anything about the unit’s organisation, the scope of its operations, the number of people involved or their identity. Apart from knowing it was linked directly to the President-General and that Karlstrom was its Operational Director, MX itself remained as secret and as impenetrable as ever.

  The only person he could have picked out of a crowd was Lisa, the member of the reception staff who had been assigned to look after him. Considering AMEXICO’s obsessive concern with security it seemed a curious omission especially since Lisa and, presumably, her colleagues would be in the position to identify everyone who passed through Rio Lobo.

  What he did not know was that Lisa only existed as a pattern of pixels on the screen of a cathode ray tube. She was a computer-generated image created by COLUMBUS – like the view through the windows of the Oval Office. The ability of COLUMBUS to create talking heads was one of the many things Steve had yet to discover about the world created by the First Family.

  An hour after sunset on 1st April, 2990, Steve settled into the passenger seat of an unmarked dark grey Skyrider that was waiting on a special airstrip above Houston/G C and headed north.

  As they rose into the sky Steve felt the same joyous feeling of release that had swept through him on his first overground solo but he had not yet escaped AMEXICO’s obsession with security. For despite the fact that he was sitting in an enclosed cockpit beneath a darkening sky, he had been instructed to keep the tinted visor of his helmet closed. The pilot did the same and conversation throughout the eight hundred mile flight was minimal.

  Steve’s initial sense of frustration faded before the wonder of his first night flight. There was no moon but, for the first part of the journey, the sky above was clear of cloud and full of stars. The ‘eyes in Mo-Town’s dark cloak’ that watched over the Plainfolk while they slept.

  Gazing up through the canopy at the shimmering points of light, Steve wondered, yet again, who had put them there and why. What did it all mean? Only a handful of the Trackers destined to spend their lives within the ‘dark cities’ of the Federation knew that such marvels existed – and many of the wagon-train crews studiously ignored them. Trackers were trained to obey orders, not ask questions – especially about subjects not covered by the Manual. Overground operations were always terminated when the light began to fade. Trail-Blazers headed back to the safety of their wagons, battened down the hatches, turned their backs on the video pictures of the great outdoors and went to sleep with the lights on.

  As they crossed the state line between Oklahoma and Kansas, the clouds began to build up. The MX pilot flew on steadily into the gathering darkness. Steve looked down over the side. There was no sign of the ground below. ‘You happy about this?’ he asked with a hint of anxiety.

  The pilot nodded. ‘No problem.’ He pointed to a glowing panel in front of him. ‘Terrain radar. It’ll take us all the way there and get us down in one piece.’

  Steve decided there was no point in asking him to explain further. He had to believe that MX knew what it was doing. If it didn’t, he would be in big trouble. Not that it mattered overmuch. He was in big trouble right now, whether he failed or succeeded, and he was not even halfway there. The totally unexpected interview with the President-General had been an awe-inspiring moment and his promotion to JX-1 had been a welcome surprise but neither event had caused him to lose sight of his own objectives.

  Faced with at least three years in the A-Levels, Steve had grabbed at the opportunity to regain his former status and had leapt at the chance of going overground. He would have agreed to almost any proposition that offered the prospect of seeing Clearwater again. But even he, a past master in duplicity, had been quietly appalled as Karlstrom had calmly briefed him on his first mission. Questions were allowed, objections were not; there had been no choice but to accept. As a result Steve was now between a rock and a hard place. Karlstrom had spelt it out quite clearly. If he didn’t go through with it, if he betrayed the organisation and his oath to the President-General, his own life would be forfeit and his gifted kin-sister’s chosen career would also come to an abrupt end.

  And the threat didn’t end there. Steve knew that Roz and Annie, his guard-mother, could be transferred to the A-Levels, or sent to the wall; Poppa-Jack, the dying hero who had been his guard-father, could be stripped of his combat badges and publicly dishonoured. Steve nurtured no deep feelings towards his guard-parents beyond
the normal ties of kinship but he still found the prospect disturbing. The danger to Roz upset him even more. Despite his deliberate neglect of their extraordinary mental relationship he knew, deep down, that their lives were interlinked in ways and for reasons he did not care to dwell on. If she was threatened, so was he. He was obliged to do all he could to protect her for his own sake. The unwelcome sense of responsibility he felt ran counter to his highly-developed instinct for self-preservation but he could not shake it off. It was a burden that was impossible to ignore.

  Steve sat back, willed himself to relax and dozed fitfully until the the Skyrider banked steeply and headed down towards the rendezvous point near a watercourse once known as Medicine Creek some thirty miles north of the pre-Holocaust site of Cambridge, Nebraska. At two thousand feet the pilot cut the motor and wound down the flaps. The sky was no longer pitch black but it was still dark and there was a heavy ground mist that cut the visibility to under ten yards. Steve glanced at the altimeter and held his breath. He could hear the wind swishing through the wing struts. The masked pilot hummed the opening bars of a blue-sky ballad, made a few adjustments to the glide path, and put the aircraft down without a bump.

  ‘Neat,’ said Steve, as they rolled smoothly to a stop.

  The pilot grunted. ‘All parts of the service…’

  Steve dropped to the ground, opened the cargo hatch behind the cockpit, grabbed the two nearest carrying loops of the body bag and tipped it out onto the ground. Taking hold of it again; he dragged it clear then returned to the SkyRider and took out a weather-scarred air rifle, the fur bedding roll he had slept in at Rio Lobo, and the wickerwork basket that held the animal who had shared his quarters during training. He left the hatch open and slapped the side of the cockpit. ‘Okay. See you around.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the pilot. He turned his masked face towards Steve and gave a brief, casual salute. ‘Buena suerte, amigo.’

  ‘Thanks. I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.’ Steve shouldered his load and strode away from the plane towards the fuzzy orange glow he could just make out through the leaden murk.

  The glow was coming from inside a primitive dug-out built into the side of a slope. The entrance was partially concealed by stones and branches. As he drew nearer he saw an unkempt bearded figure carrying an air rifle. Like Steve, he was dressed in worn combat fatigues plus a long, sleeveless fur coat made up of the skins of different animals.

  Steve identified himself through the special device all MX operatives carried; the bearded figure – the first real Mexican he had met face to face-did the same then thrust out a welcoming hand. ‘Snake-Eyes…’

  ‘Hang-Fire,’ replied Steve.

  ‘Good trip?’

  ‘Quiet.’

  Snake-Eyes grinned, displaying a set of stained, yellow teeth. ‘They usually are. You must be new to this outfit.’

  Steve nodded.

  ‘It’s okay to take off your helmet now. I’m gonna need it for the trip back.’

  Steve passed over the helmet and glanced through the doorway of the dug-out. A short flight of steps led down to the messy interior. After living with the M’Calls, Steve’s nostrils knew what to expect but the first whiff of the pungent aroma made him catch his breath.

  ‘You’ll find everything you need.’ Snake-Eyes smoothed back his long hair and pulled on the helmet leaving the greasy tangle of whiskers sticking out from under the chin guard. ‘Just think,’ he said, as he tried to fasten the neck strap, ‘Ten hours from now I’ll be able to razor this fuzz from my face and lather up under a hot shower. And best of all, I’ll be able to take a crap without freezing my balls off, or worrying if some crawlie’s gonna latch on to my ring.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ said Steve. ‘Anything happen in the last twenty-four hours I should know about?’

  ‘D’you read the weather reports before leaving Rio?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’re up to date.’ Snake-Eyes picked up his fur bedding roll and slung his rifle. ‘Okay, dump your stuff. Let’s get it over with.’

  They walked over to where Steve had dumped the body bag. Snake-Eyes unzipped it and and helped him pull out the Skyrider’s third passenger; a bearded, unkempt Tracker with a tanned hide, dressed like renegade. Except this wasn’t a renegade or an undercover Fed and he wasn’t dead. It was a cee-bee, a code-breaker who, while awaiting execution had been conditioned like Steve then been given a hearty breakfast laced with a tranquilising drug.

  ‘How d’ya want him face up or face down?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Steve put his rifle on single shot.

  Snake-Eyes stepped back and began to hum ‘South of the Border’, the tune that Mexicans used to alert other operatives to their presence. He picked up the body bag and folded it with neat practised movements. Steve aimed down at the unconscious cee-bee, took a deep breath then calmly put two rounds though the forehead and a third through the left eye.

  Snake-Eyes stopped humming, picked up his gear and slapped Steve on the shoulder. ‘Hope it stays fine for you, good buddy. Hasta la vista.’

  Steve watched as Snake-Eyes was swallowed up by the clammy greyness. The outline of the plane were barely discernible but the pilot had switched on the small red navigation light mounted under the fat fuselage pod. The light winked out. Steve heard the cargo hatch slam shut then a brief snarling burst of sound as the pilot gunned the motor to turn the plane around and start it rolling. The snarl became a smooth disembodied hum that faded rapidly as the Skyrider became airborne leaving him marooned in the middle of a dark and hostile landscape. The only sounds were the plaintive whimpering of the caged animal at his feet and the faint crackle from the wood that Snake-Eyes had thrown on the fire before leaving. Steve squared his shoulders, made a mental resolution to face whatever lay ahead with his customary courage and persistence, then carried his gear inside.

  The interior of the dug-out was more or less identical to the mock-up in which Steve had spent the last week of his training. Snake-Eyes had moved a few items around and had hung the Mute crossbow by the door instead of on the wall to the left of the primitive fireplace but otherwise, Steve felt completely at home. The only thing missing was the video through which he had been taught and tested right up to the last minute. It was all part of the careful preparation for his return to the overground. His mind had been required to soak up information the way his body had soaked up the ultra-violet radiation. He had committed to memory the salient details of the weather for every week of the past winter in Southern Nebraska, together with the movements of herd animals and general wildlife activity. He had even memorised several hunting anecdotes relating to the acquisition of the furs that hung from the walls.

  Steve pulled the buffalo skin curtain across the doorway then unrolled his sleeping furs and took out Fazetti’s helmet. The scabbard containing Naylor’s knife was already strapped to his right leg. He spread the furs over the thick bed of dry fern, hung the helmet on the end of a branch buried in one of the walls, threw some more wood on the fire then let Baz out of his basket.

  Baz was a young wolfcub. He leapt up happily at Steve then padded nervously around the dug-out, snuffling at everything within reach. Steve pulled a coiled piece of rigging wire from the cage, fixed it around Baz’s neck, tied him up outside the door of the hide and gave him a strip of raw meat to chew on. Baz subsided happily.

  With that vital chore completed, Steve ducked back inside, tossed the wickerwork cage on the fire then sat down on the bunk and watched it burn. He took off his boots and surveyed the holes in his threadbare socks. The grimy nail of his big left toe stuck through one of them. There was no doubt about it, the masked make-up technicians at Rio Lobo had done a great job. Pulling the furs over his body, he lay back with a yawn and watched the play of the firelight on the woven pattern of thick branches that made up the ceiling. He wondered briefly if anyone had found the wreckage of Blue-Bird that an MX field team had carefully hidden in a tangle of undergrowth a hundred a
nd ten miles northwest of his present position, then he fell asleep.

  A few hours later, Steve was woken by the yapping bark of the wolfcub. Pulling his boots on, he grabbed the crossbow, loaded it and stepped outside cautiously. There was no sign of any movement. The sun, rising above the trees into a clear sky, had begun to melt the heavy overnight frost. Crystal-clear droplets, filled with trapped sunlight, hung from the curving blades of grass, sparkling like diamonds scattered by a mad millionaire. Buds were straining to burst through the smooth bark on the leafless branches of the trees and new shoots of bright orange grass were already pushing up between the yellowing seed stalks that had somehow weathered the White Death.

  Steve drank in the cool sweet-tasting air, felt it out deep into his lungs, felt his heart quicken. Once again he felt the same sense of belonging, a sense of unity and, with it, the realisation that he was now truly alive. And, once again, he did not dare ask himself why. His reverie was broken by Baz, the wolf-cub leaping up at his legs, barking and whining alternately. Steve untied him and let him into the hide where Baz cajoled him into handing over part of his own breakfast of freshly grilled buffalo meat.

  As he watched the cub eat, Steve reflected on his relationship with the animal he had acquired at Rio Lobo. In the beginning, it had seemed a strange idea to live in close proximity to a smelly beast that, when it grew bigger, might revert to its savage state and attack without warning. The instructor had emphasised the importance of regular physical contact and, once he had overcome his initial revulsion, Steve’s curiosity and interest had been aroused. Gradually, he had become used to handling it and now, as it finished its share of the meat and came to him for more, he rubbed its head and let it wrestle with his hand.