Why the sudden eagerness? wondered Steve. He tightened his grip on the quarterstaff and planted his feet firmly on the ground. The two breakers stopped an equal distance from the arrow, cradled their rifles and ran their eyes over the Mutes, according Steve the same cautious appraisal they gave the others. If they were ordinary breakers there was no reason to think he was anything other than a straight Mute.
Both men looked to be in their mid-twenties. They were dressed in a mixture of skins and the remnants of standard-issue red, brown and black combat fatigues. Both were unshaven; one had a long, straggly moustache. If they were mexicans then their disguise was perfect. They were ragged, gaunt and weather-beaten, and their eyes were filled with weary defiance. The kind of look you’d expect to get from someone who’s gone through seven kinds of hell to stay alive yet won’t give up – even though he knows he’s losing.
The breaker with the moustache faced up to Blue-Thunder. ‘What can I do for you, sky-brother?’
The paramount warrior squared his shoulders and folded his arms. He was big but nowhere near as ugly or as fearsome as his predecessor, Motor-Head. ‘I am Blue-Thunder, of the Clan M’Call from the bloodline of the She-Kargo, greatest among the Plainfolk.’
Mustachio exchanged a glance with his companion, then inclined his head courteously. ‘I have heard of the M’Call and know the truth of your words. It is also said that your people are friends to the red-skins.’
‘We are friends to those who wish us well but not to strangers who take meat from our turf.’ Blue-Thunder snapped his fingers. One of the six Bears stepped forward and tossed the severed head of the fast-foot down by the smoking arrow. Blue-Thunder held up the tell-tale hollow-point round. ‘Can you say in truth that this was not thrown by your long sharp iron?’
The two breakers eyed one another, then the second – who was relatively clean shaven, with long corn-coloured hair held down by a camouflage sweat-band continued the exchange. ‘It is said that the M’Calls are mighty hunters and that their turf is heavy with meat. Can not the greatest among the Plainfolk share these riches with their sky-brothers who have nothing? Would you let us die with empty stomachs while the death-birds eat their fill?’
Blue-Thunder paused, momentarily lost for words and visibly perplexed by this robust and cogent response. Finally he said, ‘The M’Calls are as generous as they are brave. But a gift should not be taken before it is given. This is the way of the coyote and the long-tails who come like thieves in the night.’
Corn-Hair turned the insult aside. ‘The greatest of the Plainfolk speaks with the tongue of truth. We are less then the coyote and the long-tails. We have no turf, we have no clan. We drift, like cloud-shadows, outcasts who know only shame and hunger. Yet we breathe, we are of the world and would be brothers with all those who live under the sky. But we are not afraid to die. And it is because of this we have the courage to seek justice from the strong.’
Top that, thought Steve, momentarily forgetting which side he was supposed to be on.
Blue-Thunder gestured impatiently. Mutes loved these formal exchanges but this one was not leading in the desired direction. Worse, he was in danger of losing the argument. ‘You seek food and you seek justice. The M’Calls have the power to grant both these things but you are many.’
Mustachio swept his eyes over the warriors spaced around the rim of the draw. ‘Not as many as you.’
‘These things must be spoken of,’ insisted Blue-Thunder. ‘Gather your people. Let us pass the pipe and make trade.’ He reached into one of his waist pouches and produced one of the slim compressed air bottles that powered the Tracker air rifle. He offered it to Corn-Hair. ‘Take it. We have more. And also many iron pebbles.’
Corn-Hair weighed the bottle in his palm. An experienced Tracker could tell by the feel of it roughly how much it contained. He passed it to his colleague. ‘Half-full…’
‘Yeah, I’d say that was about right.’ Mustachio looked up at Blue-Thunder. ‘What d’you want in exchange?’
The big Mute smiled and spread his palms. ‘Why don’t we sit down and talk about it?’
The breakers got the message. ‘We’ll get the others,’ said Corn-Hair.
Blue-Thunder gripped Steve’s arm and pushed him forward. ‘Go with them.’
The two breakers started back towards the lake with Steve close behind them. When they’d gone about five yards, he began to whistle softly the opening bars of the tune he’d learnt at Rio Lobo: ‘South of the Border… down Mexico Way…’
The breakers stopped briefly to glance up at the surrounding Mutes. Cora-Hair waved reassuringly to the breakers on the shore then, taking care not to look at Steve, he issued a muttered warning. ‘Watch your step, amigo…’
The two men broke into a jog, cleared the rock-strewn section with one bound and continued at the same pace. Steve followed, taking care to match his steps to theirs. Reaching the other five breakers, Steve and Corn-Hair quickly exchanged the secret signal by which mexicans could make themselves known to each other.
‘Deep-Six,’ said Corn-Hair. It was the code-name of the leader of the back-up squad with whom Steve had been in regular radio contact.
‘Hang-Fire,’ said Steve, identifying himself.
Deep-Six responded with a snake-like hiss. ‘What the fuck are you doing with this bunch?’
‘I don’t have time to explain. But if you don’t move fast, you’re headed down river – or worse. D’you have a way out of here?’
‘Yeah,’ muttered Deep-Six. He turned to the other members of the back-up squad, gesturing to them and towards the Mutes to make Blue-Thunder think he was selling them on the idea they should sit down and talk. ‘We’ve got a powered inflatable. It’s stashed in the rocks behind us.’
Steve looked past him and saw the breaker who had ducked out at the beginning of the proceedings pop back into view and give them the thumbs-up. He ran his eyes over the rest of the group. The scruffy blonde girl with the swollen belly was kneeling on the sand, gathering up some of their gear that had spilled out of a broken back-pack. Their eyes met briefly then she went on with what she was doing. Steve had a feeling he’d seen her somewhere before. ‘Where are you planning to go?’
‘That big island out there,’ said Mustachio. ‘These shit-kickers can’t swim, they don’t have boats and they don’t like deep water. They won’t be able to touch us.’
Steve gauged the distance to the islands. It was about a mile. ‘You’ll never make it. These guys are hot-shots. They’ll fill you so full of iron you’ll be on the bottom before you’ve gone fifty yards.’
Mustachio shrugged. ‘Better than staying here and getting a stiff neck.’
‘We got a couple of things going for us,’ said Deep-Six. ‘There are AP mines sewn around the camp –’
‘Mines?’
‘Yeah, you jumped over them. Nothing big but, if you stand on one, they don’t leave too much below the knee.’
‘Shit…’ Steve glanced over his shoulder. ‘In that ring of stones?’
‘Yeah. And we can also put out smoke from the skimmer.’
Steve’s brain and belly went ice-cold as he realised what he had to do. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. ‘Okay,’ he rasped. ‘Good luck fellas. You’d better get going.’
The five breakers behind Deep-Six and Mustachio started to melt away towards the rocks where they would be shielded from the crossbow-men on both sides of the draw. The engine of the hidden skimmer started with a powerful roar. A cloud of blue-grey smoke billowed out from behind the rocks.
‘Make it look good,’ said Steve, raising his voice. ‘But don’t put too many holes in me. I’m still on the case!’
Deep-Six’s arms blurred as he swept his rifle shoulder high and rammed the hard rubber butt at Steve’s head. Fast as he was he was still too late. Steve had already stepped back out of reach. His quarterstaff was also a moving blur, drawing in its wake a brief, brilliant arc of light as the rays of the sun glanced off the
razor-sharp blade. A split-second later, it sliced across Deep-Six’s body in a straight line that passed through his navel with the precision of a surgical laser. The mexican’s long, straw-coloured hair lifted at the shock of the blow. His pale blue eyes ballooned out of their sockets, and turned downwards with an indescribable expression of horror as his guts spilled out. He tried to hold himself together but it was like trying to stuff live eels back through a gaping slit in the bottom of a full sack.
Mustachio, who had already begun his turn towards the hidden skimmer spun round pulling the butt of his rifle into his hip. For a split second, Steve found himself looking down the barrel-cluster with Mustachio’s finger tightening on the trigger. But he was already into the reverse parry. Side-stepping Deep-Six as he staggered forward and tripped over his intestines, Steve advanced his left foot and swung the weighted base of the quarterstaff upwards and to the right, knocking the rifle across Mustachio’s body. He was just in time. The triple volley tore past his right ear. Mustachio pulled his head back into his right shoulder to avoid getting hit in the face by the barrel-cluster and staggered as he lost balance. Before he could recover, Steve followed through with the bloodless coup de grâce – a battering ram blow to the left side of the head that tore Mustachio’s brains loose and broke his neck at the same time.
‘They died so that other’s might live…’ Hadn’t the President-General himself reminded him of the fundamental precept that gave meaning – was, in fact, the sole reason for a Tracker’s existence? Deep-Six and Mustachio had made the ultimate sacrifice – and had paid the price for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As Steve came under attack, the Mutes spaced around the rim and those with Blue-Thunder behind the smoking arrow leapt into action. Steve, who had his hands full, had no time to warn them about the ring of AP mines and had there been time they would not have understood. Blue-Thunder and one of the Mutes with him cleared the rock-laden strip with one fortuitous bound but two others, running a few yards behind, landed squarely in the danger zone. The resulting detonations also took out three of their companions. The mines, an MX speciality, were double action. The primary charge, detonated on impact, sent a secondary charge upwards out of the ground spinning like an airborne top. This exploded at a height of three feet, spraying out a deadly disc of shrapnel that cut through surrounding flesh like a circular saw.
More mines blew, creating more carnage, as the warriors on the rim, realising they could not prevent the breakers from escaping if they stayed where they were, came leaping down the surrounding slopes onto the rock-strewn floor.
Steve, at the water’s edge, was out of range of the disabling blasts but as the first wave of explosions erupted he threw himself instinctively into the lake. The bottom fell away at a steep angle. He kicked out strongly in the direction of the big boulders. Breaking the surface, he found a footing in waist-deep water and half-waded, half-swam into the drifting cloud of blue-grey smoke. From the shore came a confusion of screams and angry shouts, punctuated by more staccato explosions.
Closing in, Steve caught a glimpse of the skimmer. The engine had stalled unexpectedly; the helmsman and his five passengers were clustered in the stern, coughing and choking as they tried feverishly to restart it. The smoke that was supposed to mask their dash to freedom was rapidly threatening to become a funeral shroud.
The engine burst into life. Dragging his quarterstaff along the surface of the lake, Steve threw himself forward, left hand raised, the top of his thighs now clear of the water. ‘Wait! Wait for me!’
His cry came as the five passengers turned and threw themselves down on the slatted floor between the inflated rubber sides of the skimmer and the helmsman pushed the throttle wide open. The roar of the engine drowned out his voice. Only one of the mexicans was fast enough to react. Rising to his knees, he swung his rifle up over the side towards Steve as the boat leapt forward, pumping out smoke from bow and stern. The sudden acceleration threw the mex onto his back. He disappeared leaving his rifle waving in the air. The helmsman, alerted by his colleague’s shout, turned the skimmer towards Steve – no doubt intending to run him down. It was then he realised there was a two-foot high chunk of rock sticking out of the water behind him. He veered away sharply to port but it was too late. He had made the fatal mistake of coming within range of Steve’s quarterstaff. As the skimmer raced past, the blade sliced through his neck, sending his head rolling down his chest onto the slatted floor between his knees. The headless trunk, driven backwards by the force of the blow, fell across the tiller tightening the turn even more.
Now under full power and full left rudder, the skimmer became locked into a series of tight, skidding circles that kept it close to the shore, enclosed in a choking whirlpool of smoke. The surviving occupants tried to regain control but two of them were tumbled overboard by the dizzying spin. Steve headed towards them but before he could get there, several Bears ran in and seized the one closest to the shore, dragging him back into the shallows where he was savagely hacked to death with knives. The other, attempted to swim towards the islands but was stopped short in the water by a crossbow bolt that pinned the collar of her flotation jacket to the top of her spine and came out under her chin. The mexican turned over onto her back and floated gently with one limp-handed arm raised in a bizarre gesture of farewell.
The skimmer zig-zagged away from the shore, its outlines and occupants hidden by the continuous output of smoke. Steve stood waist-deep in the water and watched the blue-grey cloud move away towards the centre of the lake leaving the headless corpse of the helmsman floating chest up in a soft-edged pool of crimson. The Mute crossbow-men had fired several volleys into the heart of the smoke cloud. Of the three mexicans still on board one, at least, had been in sufficiently good shape to steer the skimmer out of trouble. But what about the other two? He knew that Blue-Thunder would not rest until this question had been resolved. Too many clan-brothers had died. This particularly bloody encounter and Steve’s troubles were far from over.
He sought out Blue-Thunder. The warrior’s broad back ran with blood from several shrapnel wounds. They were not large, or dangerously deep but they were not flea-bites either. Blue-Thunder simply ignored them. That was one of the Mutes’ strengths. For some reason, either because of their genetic make-up or, possibly, through a special mental attitude linked to their strange beliefs they had an incredibly high threshold of pain.
Crushed by the realisation that he was partly responsible for the death and destruction that surrounded him, Steve followed the paramount warrior as he completed the doleful task of despatching the badly mutilated Bears. Warriors whose feet and lower limbs had been blown away or shredded to the bone, or whose bodies had been torn beyond repair by the murderous shrapnel blasts.
‘Mo-Town thirsts, Mo-Town drinks…’ One swift knife thrust to the heart and the light in their eyes flickered and died. Mr Snow had told him that the light was a reflection of the spirit within. The soul-being which, on the death of the earth-body, was drawn upwards to merge with the loving presence of the Great Sky-Mother. The Mutes thought of this mysterious spirit-soul as being like a stream of crystal clear water, filled with shimmering light like the myriad starry eyes in the dark, seamless and infinitely beautiful cloak that Mo-Town drew over the sleeping world at the end of each day. It was a comforting thought, reflected Steve, to think that one might live again. To have a chance to get things right, to do things differently. Not just once, but over and over and over again as the world, and the star-filled space around it, were carried slowly down the River of Time towards the infinite horizons of the Sea of Eternity.
When Blue-Thunder finally kissed and cleaned his knife, eighteen Bears lay dead. Some twenty more were wounded but could walk and would recover with the help of Mr Snow. The warriors began to gather wood to make a large funeral pyre whose rising flames would carry the departing spirits up beyond the clouds to where Mo-Town waited with the Cup of Life held in her outstretched hands.
/> While the pyre was being built, Steve waded out until he was neck deep then swam some twenty yards to retrieve the female mex. He dumped her slim body on the beach. That left the pregnant woman and two males to be accounted for. As he turned away, a passing Bear straddled the corpse, turned it face down, took hold of its arms and pulled it up into a kneeling position. A second unsheathed his machete, seized the wet hair on the crown of the head to extend the neck and cut through it with two swift blows.
The eighteen Bears were piled in three layers interleaved with lengths of wood; leafy branches were stacked around the sides. As the flames took a firm hold, the warriors circled the pyre singing a defiant chant that reflected the valour of the dead who had gone to join the past heroes of the clan M’Call.
Blue-Thunder turned to Steve, his lumpy features heavy with grief. He gestured towards the bodies of Deep-Six and Mustachio. ‘You fight well, Cloud-Warrior.’
‘Not as well as my sky-brother, Blue-Thunder.’
The Mute shook his head and sighed heavily. ‘This is a bad day. I cannot fight men who wrap themselves in smoke. Where is the honour in that?’
‘There is none,’ replied Steve. ‘We were misled. You offered the pipe to those with false faces. These were not true red-skins. They were sand-burrowers. They do not respect the ways of the Plainfolk.’
‘The sand-burrowers have powerful sharp iron. Did you know of these things that speak like earth-thunder?’
‘I have heard talk,’ admitted Steve. ‘Today the truth was written in the blood of the Bears.’
Blue-Thunder growled angrily. ‘The sand-burrowers tread with poison feet. They sow death in the earth. They send fire from the sky and now they turn the land against us. These are bad things. The wind that bears you aloft is the breath of Talisman, the earth his body, the sun and moon his eyes, the thunder his voice, the rivers his blood. The crimes that those without courage commit against the world violate his sacred being. This insult must be avenged.’
First Family Page 31
