First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  According to his instructor, some renegades had developed a rapport with certain overground animals. The two main types were wolves and falcons, of which young wolves were the most common. When trained, the wolves provided companionship and a source of warmth during the winter and could be harnessed to pull loads through the snow. They acted as sentinels, and in skilled hands they could be trained to hunt down game. And when their keeper was faced with starvation, they could always be killed and eaten.

  Baz gave up trying to bite Steve’s hand off and rolled over onto his back and begged to have his belly stroked. Steve laid a hand on the cub’s chest and shook him playfully. ‘Okay, that’s enough.’ He reached for a piece of wood and tossed it towards the door of the dugout. Baz leapt after it, pinned it down with his paws and began to gnaw one end.

  As he watched, Steve wondered why Mutes, who were formidable hunters, had not developed a similar relationship with animals. He concluded that the Plainfolk, who he judged to be totally in tune with their environment, probably related to animals in a way that he did not yet fully understand. He had, after all, only spent a little under six months among the Mutes and his knowledge of them was based entirely on the M’Calls, who were She-Kargo Mutes. The customs of other clans, such as those belonging to the D’Troit, the San’Paul, the C’Natti and M’Waukee might be quite different.

  Steve had been ordered to live in the dug-out for a week before setting out to find the M’Calls. Those seven days would allow him to put his mark on the place and give him time to explore his immediate surroundings. It would also enable him to improve his control over Baz. The videotapes he had watched at Rio Lobo had already given him a working knowledge of the area; now he had to physically cover the ground to get the feel of it. To check the fish trap where the stream ran deep under the big leaning rock, to renew the blaze marks on the trees beyond the river to mark the way back to the hide where he was supposed to have spent the winter. But first, he had to bury the body.

  Steve fetched a small entrenching tool from the dug-out and went over to where the dead cee-bee lay. The four dark birds that had been pecking their way into the skull scattered then returned to perch on nearby branches. Steve dragged the body over to a patch of softer ground, dug a shallow grave then covered the infill with a layer of rocks, the dead cee-bee was part of his cover story. He wanted the evidence to stay there until it was needed – not dug up and dragged away by some scavenging animal.

  When the task was completed, Steve headed for the other grave whose location he had memorised while under training at Rio Lobo. The cee-bee in this one had lain buried since last November. Grass and moss had already taken root amongst the stones. Beneath them lay the remains of the other dead man in Steve’s cover story. He did not relish the task of having to dig up the body and hoped he wouldn’t have to.

  As the end of the week drew near, Steve spent several hours studying the creased and grimy AirNav map that Snake-Eyes had left behind. The dug-out in which he had been living was located to the south side of the Platte River which ran east to join the Missouri at the NavRef point called Omaha. To the west, the Platte divided into two smaller tributaries known as the North and South Platte. If he followed the North Platte as it snaked westwards around the Laramie Mountains, it would take him into Wyoming, the scene of last year’s battle between the M’Calls and The Lady.

  According to the latest information Karlstrom had received, the clan were expected to pass through this area sometime in the next three months. All Steve had to do was to position himself along their general line of advance and make contact.

  Nothing to it – or so MX appeared to think.

  His insertion had been planned down to the smallest detail but the hardest part had been left to him. Just how, wondered Steve, was he make contact without getting himself killed? And even if he managed that, how long would he survive? The shadowy cabal within the clan that had resented his presence before would be bound to try and avenge the death of Motor-Head and his two companions, Cannon-Ball and Freeway. More importantly, how would Clearwater react – and could he ever win back the trust of Cadillac and Mr Snow? Without it, he would never be able to carry out his mission. That left the biggest question mark of all; even if all went as planned, when it came to the crunch, would he be able to find enough iron in his soul to do what had been asked of him?

  Eleven

  On the day he was due to leave the dug-out, Steve packed the essentials he would need for the trip onto a wooden back-frame that his fellow Mexican had put together during the winter. Baz prowled around restlessly, sensing that they were about to embark on some new adventure. Steve hoisted the bulky load onto his back, locked his thigh muscles to stop himself buckling at the knees and adjusted the shoulder straps.

  Satisfied the harness was as comfortable as he could make it, Steve set the pack down and considered whether or not to take the crossbow. Since he was supposed to have spent the winter on the overground, the three compressed air bottles he had were all less than a third full, and he only had a limited supply of bullets. All of them showed signs of having been fired at least once and bore traces of blood. Like any other renegade Steve would have been forced to recover the rounds from the carcasses of the animals he had shot for food, and whose furs now adorned the interior of the hide.

  If he ran out of compressed air, the bow would afford useful protection. He had been taught how to use it at Rio Lobo and turned in a high score. It was accurate and lethal – and it was also a liability. Steve knew that if he ran into a bunch of Mutes whose clan mark was on the bowstock he could end up being killed before getting a chance to explain. Crossbows weren’t things you just ‘found’. A warrior would rather lose his life than surrender such a highly-prized object. For Steve to have one could only mean he had killed one or more of their clan brothers to get it.

  During his briefing, Karlstrom had revealed that killing Mutes was something that Tracker renegades avoided whenever possible. During the last several decades, the small groups of scavengers who roamed the overground had gradually gained a measure of acceptance among the clans whose turf bordered the New Territories.

  As enemies of the Federation, their presence was tolerated but not actively encouraged. A limited amount of trading went on, mainly abandoned items of equipment, but no other kind of social interaction was sought or offered by either side. They might be on the run but most renegades were still Trackers at heart. None of them were looking to share their bedrolls with lumpheads. The result was a fragile and rather precarious kind of co-existence which AMEXICO supported wholeheartedly when it suited their devious purpose and also, with equal dedication, did its best to undermine.

  Steve decided to leave the crossbow in the bolthole – a small escape tunnel Snake-Eyes had excavated during the winter, and which was just big enough to crawl through. The exit, which was at some distance from the dug-out, was concealed by stones and undergrowth; the entrance by an earth and wickerwork plug that the escapee pulled in behind him. Everything of value that he did not need on the trip had already been stowed inside.

  Having closed up the bolthole, Steve then remembered he had forgotten to pull the fish trap out of the stream. With a muttered curse he picked up his rifle and went up the steps of the dug-out. Baz scampered past him then stopped a few yards away with one front paw raised and sniffed the air cautiously. Steve dropped down behind the rocks and branches shielding the entrance to the dugout and surveyed the surrounding area with the aid of a battered pair of binoculars.

  Once again he could discern no sign of danger. The landscape was as empty of humans as it had been all week. Still one could never be sure. Any renegade planning to evade the Trail-Blazer hit squads had to master the art of concealment – something that was second nature to Mutes. Steve had taken a crash course on the theory but was still short on practical experience.

  Whispering to Baz to come to heel, Steve moved out from cover and headed down the gentle slope towards the stream, holding his r
ifle at the ready, finger cocked around the trigger. The fur on Baz’s shoulders bristled as they entered the trees. He stopped again and his muzzle shortened as he bared his teeth in a silent snarl.

  Steve crouched down against the trunk of the nearest tree and listened carefully. All he could hear was the rippling murmur of the stream that marked the curving line of the valley floor. He checked the ground behind him, on both sides of the dug-out, then made a crouching run down the slope, zig-zagging from one tree to another until he reached a large redwood.

  Peering round the trunk, he saw what had made Baz’s hackles rise. Over to his left, by the leaning rock, a large furry animal was crouched at the water’s edge. Probably a bear. Steve had learned that some bears made a habit of raiding fish traps in search of an easy meal. The trouble was they usually wrecked the trap getting at whatever was inside.

  Steve closed in on the intruder. If he could save the fish and nail the bear it would add variety to the menu. With a limited supply of ammunition he had to try and bring the bear down with one triple burst. These bears were tough customers. Three rounds in the rump would only annoy it. He needed a head shot or, if he could get the creature to rear up on its hind legs, three in the heart.

  Reaching the bank about fifty yards downstream of the trap, Steve found a spot which gave him an unobstructed view of his target. The bear lifted the trap out of the water and rose obligingly on its hind legs. It was only when he pulled the rifle firmly into his shoulder and took aim that he saw that this particular bear had already been turned into somebody’s winter overcoat. He lowered the rifle and moved forward, finger still on the trigger. The owner of the bearskin turned towards him, still holding the trap. A rifle and a homemade backpack lay nearby in the grass at the base of the rock. The rag-taggle appearance of his visitor matched his own. It was a renegade. The bulky furs concealed the finer points of build and gender but he, or she, was on the short side, with a weathered oval face and grey deep-set eyes that were vaguely familiar.

  Steve drew closer, keeping his rifle pointed at the middle of the bearskin coat. He called to Baz. The wolf cub came to heel but continued to defy the intruder with a low, continuous growl. The left side of the renegade’s face including the neck right down to the collarbone had been badly burned. The lumpy scar tissue was a raw, ugly pink.

  Bearskin hefted the empty fish-trap. ‘This belong to you?’

  Steve nodded. ‘You almost got yourself killed.’

  Bearskin responded with a twisted smile. ‘So did you.’

  Steve threw a quick glance over both shoulders and saw several more renegades step from behind cover. One of them wore a yellow command cap. They all had three-barrelled air rifles – and they had him surrounded. It was no time to appear unsociable. Steve set the butt of his rifle on the ground. ‘If you and your friends here are hungry, you are welcome to share what I’ve got in the hide.’

  ‘That’s right friendly of you, soldier.’ Bearskin tossed the woven fish trap towards Steve. ‘You’d better let me have that rifle of yours until we get better acquainted. My friends here are very nervous people.’

  Steve exchanged the rifle for the fish-trap which he stuck casually under his arm. Baz had already started to make friends. Steve looked long and hard at Bearskin as they started back up the slope. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  ‘Funny you should say that. I was thinking the same thing. What train did you fall off?’

  ‘The Lady from Louisiana. I powered down last June.’

  ‘Sonofabitch!’ exclaimed the renegade. ‘I thought it was you! Brickman, right?!’

  Steve stopped and turned towards Bearskin. ‘Don’t tell me you’re from The Lady too!’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t you recognise me?’ The renegade pulled back the hood of the fur coat and brushed the tangled fringe of dark hair away from his forehead. ‘Try the right side. The left don’t look too good.’

  Steve’s mouth sagged open as recognition dawned. Bearskin was not a he but a she, his section leader who had been swept off the flight deck in a flaming shroud of napalm during their first major battle with the Mutes. ‘Jodi…? Jodi Kazan?!’

  ‘Right first time.’

  Steve tried to master his confusion. ‘But… I – I was there on the flight deck when you got killed!’

  ‘Correction. Almost got killed. And believe me, until these guys found me, there were moments I wished I had been.’

  Steve gazed at her, his brain still refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes. ‘This is incredible. I just don’t understand how…’

  Jodi nodded. ‘Luck I guess. Must have made quite a spectacular exit.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Steve eyed the scarred side of her face. ‘Looks like you had a rough ride.’

  ‘I did but –’ Kazan shrugged, ‘– here I am. Large as life and twice as ugly.’

  The other renegades who had been with Jodi closed in on both sides. Steve counted eight of them. They made a real rag-taggle collection. All of them wore a patchwork of animal skins over thread bare combat fatigues, and sported a variety of non-regulation headgear. Hand-sewn bandoliers stuffed with air bottles and spare magazines were slung across their chests, and most carried machetes or combat knives. Their weathered faces were unshaven, and their eyes were those of hunters and fugitives who had learned how to survive the hard way.

  ‘This is Brickman,’ explained Jodi. ‘He’s okay. We shipped out together last April aboard The Lady. He powered down in June.’

  ‘Same day as she went overboard,’ added Steve.

  ‘Where’s Malone?’

  ‘He’s checking out the hide,’ said Yellow-Cap.

  ‘Okay, let’s go join him,’ replied Jodi. ‘Our friend here has kindly offered to share what’s in the larder.’

  As they made their way back to the hide, Steve counted a dozen more armed renegades standing guard with varying degrees of watchfulness. One of them went down the dirt steps to fetch Malone, the boss of the outfit. Jodi pointed him out as he emerged. The five guys with him fanned out on either side, cradled their rifles and gave Steve the once-over. Yellow-Cap joined them. The other guys closed in to form a half circle behind Steve.

  Malone was a lean, mean-looking sonofabitch with pale piercing eyes like the Assessors who had given Steve such a hard time. Unlike most of the renegades, Malone was relatively clean-shaven. His long brown hair was tied together on the nape of his neck with a strip of camouflaged fabric and he wore a sweatband of the same material around his high forehead. Somewhere along the line someone had tried to kick his nose through the back of his head and, from the expression on his square, deeply lined face, he was still sore about it.

  Malone sat on a rock and listened in silence while Jodi said her piece then waved her aside and switched his attention on Steve. ‘Okay, friend, what’s your story?’

  Steve launched into an account of his capture and escape from the Mutes, omitting all mention of Clearwater and the fact that he had taught Cadillac to fly. He described how the patched fabric of the home-made hang-glider had started to unravel, forcing him to abandon his original plan to return to the Federation.

  Malone listened to his adventures with an expressionless face that made it hard for Steve to guage how well he was doing. He hesitated, hoping to trigger some reaction but Malone merely nodded and gestured to him to continue.

  Steve went on with the story he had carefully rehearsed at Rio Lobo. How he had hidden the glider then headed south on foot until sighting a posse of Mutes. Deciding to work his way round their turf, he had struck out eastwards, eventually reaching the junction of the North and South Platte rivers. Once again he encountered Mute warriors from the same clan and managed to escape, floating downstream past their encampment during the night on a small raft of logs. Gaining the southern shore he had set off south again determined to reach the Federation – his only hope of survival. It was at this point, close to collapse from exhaustion and hunger, he had had the good fortune to stumb
le across this hide – where he had spent the winter.

  Malone glanced over his shoulder and signalled to one of his side-kicks – a guy with a straggly blond beard. The renegade produced a portable radio set and put it down between Steve and Malone. Steve had learned how to use one like it at Rio Lobo. It was one of several highly-sophisticated pieces of communications equipment manufactured exclusively for AMEXICO.

  Steve looked down at the radio then up at Malone.

  ‘You want to tell me what this is doing here?’

  ‘It belongs to the guy I found living here. Joe Tyson.’

  Malone nodded. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I, uh – shot him.’ Steve paused but there was no reaction so he continued as per the script. ‘I thought he was okay. He offered to share his food, let me rest up, then taught me to hunt and set traps. We were getting along fine then, one day, towards the end of December he sent me out hunting. I came back early ‘cos my gun had iced up. That’s when I heard him talking. So I snuck up real quiet and found him working that thing. The sonofabitch was giving somebody my name and number!’

  Malone didn’t look impressed. ‘So what? Wasn’t that what you wanted – to get back to the Federation?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s what I set out to do but this Tyson had me figured for a renegade and –’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  Steve gave it the old down home touch. ‘No, sir! Leastways I wasn’t then. I’d escaped because I wanted to get back to my outfit. I didn’t know any other way to function – ask Jodi. And here was this guy marking my card.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well – he said how he’d caught me roaming around and how he had a hunch I’d been cosying up to the Mutes.’

  ‘And had you?’

  ‘No!’ cried Steve. He pointed to the scars on his cheeks. ‘Look! They even stuck a goddam arrow through my face! That’s how cosy we got!’