First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  Some two-thirds of the Mutes left the lines – the name given to the octagonal camp area – and trooped down to the shore where they milled about in excited anticipation as the wheel-boats continued to advance steadily towards them in arrowhead formation. A cloud of white smoke billowed up from the lead boat then, a few seconds later, a deep steam-powered ‘vroooommm’ drifted across the water. The Mutes replied with a whooping cheer, followed by a frenetic burst of drumming.

  Now that the boats were closer, Steve – who was standing on the far left of the huge crowd – was able to see that they were propelled by large paddle wheels mounted at the stern and driven by two huge pistons that came out of angled housings on either side of the deck. The superstructure was made up of three ornate galleried decks with an extra housing fore and aft which, he guessed, served as a command centre like the saddle on a wagon-train. This massive pile rested on a wide, shallow-draught hull with low sides and a sloping, blunt-nosed foredeck.

  The overall colour of the boats was black, relieved with dark stained wood and red, gold or silver trim. Pennants, bearing strange markings fluttered from masts spaced around the sides of the top decks. Steve glimpsed crewmen moving along the galleries and wondered which of the three ships Clearwater was on. At this very moment she might be scanning the shore, looking right at him without suspecting for one moment he was there.

  ‘Excited?’

  Steve turned to find Mr Snow standing beside him with two of the M’Call clan elders, Boston-Bruin, and Awesome-Wells. ‘What do you think?’

  Mr Snow looked amused. ‘This is the twenty-eighth time I’ve made this trip and they still send shivers down my spine.’

  ‘I can understand how you feel. I mean, we’ve got some pretty spectacular stuff back in the Federation, but…’ Steve gestured towards the wheel-boats, ‘… whichever way you slice it, these guys are in the big league.’

  The boats responded, as if on cue, sending wave upon wave of multi-coloured rockets soaring skywards. Steve watched open mouthed as they exploded, throwing out cascades of stars which burst apart as they fell, filling the sky with dazzling showers of rainbow-coloured light.

  A rumbling ‘Heyy-yahhhhh’ rose from throats of five thousand Mutes.

  ‘Never fails to impress the natives,’ said Mr Snow drily.

  ‘We have rockets too,’ riposted Steve. ‘But they create a different kind of impact.’

  ‘I bet…’

  Steve let it pass. ‘Tell me – the markings on those banners – do they mean anything?’

  ‘The shapes – like that flower pattern for instance – are the marks of the various houses to which the wheel-boats belong. The Iron Masters are a warrior people like us but instead of clans they have families. They even have a first family.’

  ‘But not a President-General.’

  ‘No. Their great chieftain is called the Shogun.’

  ‘What about the other markings? The ones that look like animal tracks – or dead spiders.’

  Mr Snow smiled. ‘That’s a good description of them. I have no idea what they mean but in the Old Time they were known as ideograms. They are the signs for words which speak silently to the eye.’

  So… the Iron Masters could read and type. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them,’ remarked Steve.

  ‘It is a strange tongue,’ admitted the old wordsmith. ‘Totally incomprehensible to the ear and the eye. Fortunately they can also speak as we do but in a curious way – as if they had the tongue of a snake.’

  ‘Why do you call them dead-faces?’

  ‘You will see for yourself soon enough.’ Mr Snow took hold of Steve’s arm and led him aside. ‘A word of advice. I look upon you with feelings of friendship and high regard but you are a headstrong young man who sometimes speaks rashly. I, who am older and wiser, know this rashness springs from your undoubted courage and – more regrettably – from an inflated sense of self-importance. As the years pass, your manner may become more circumspect but in the meantime –’

  ‘I think I get the message –’

  ‘– watch your lip. These people you’re about to meet have absolutely no sense of humour. Their idea of a joke is to watch some poor paisano get a red hot spike shoved up his ass an inch at a time.’

  ‘They sound like nice people to do business with.’

  ‘They may not be much fun to work with but they offer better terms than the Federation.’

  Steve grimaced ruefully. ‘I guess I asked for that.’

  Mr Snow patted his arm. ‘You know something? You’re too sensitive to be a Tracker.’ He saw Steve’s eyes return to the approaching wheel-boats. ‘Listen – you want to watch? Go ahead. My advice is to keep back but if you do run into any of these dinks, or one of them speaks to you, act simple and – this may come hard – try a little servility. Avoid too much eye contact and bow a lot from the waist. They like that. They do it all the time.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s it.’

  The huge rear paddles of the wheel-boats slowed then went into reverse, turning the waters under the stern into a bubbling carpet of white foam. The lead boat dropped rapidly astern and, having arrested its forward movement, proceeded to turn in its own length. Foam boiled up from under the bows indicating the presence of an additional propulsion unit or units – presumably to aid just such a manoeuvre. Having presented its port beam to shore the boat dropped anchor in deep water while its two companions continued their stately advance.

  Now that they were closer, Steve was better able to appreciate their impressive bulk. The Federation wagon-trains were longer, sleeker and technically more sophisticated but they suddenly seemed quite puny compared to these huge floating fortresses. There was an ear-splitting crunch of iron-shod timber on gravel as the two boats ran their flat bow sections up onto the shelving beach, coming to rest about one hundred yards apart. A murmur of anticipation greeted the appearance of the first Iron Masters, short, stocky, dark-complexioned individuals with a broad white stripe running down the centre of their faces from forehead to chin. Dividing into two teams, the Iron Masters wound latticed wooden walkways out from both sides of the bow decks of the flank boats; one for boarding and one for coming ashore. Parties of Mutes waded into the shallows to seize the ends as they angled down, carrying them onto the beach where they were firmly bedded in the pebbles. With this task accomplished, the Mutes formed two densely packed lines that began at the water’s edge by the bows of the vessels and converged on the square of ground which lay behind the trading post.

  It was here that Mr Snow now stood with the two senior M’Call elders and the leaders of the other clans. Steve, who had elbowed his way through to the front row of spectators thought the old wordsmith had rarely looked so impressive as he did now. He had certainly never been as well turned out, his walking skins freshly dyed and patterned with relief stitching, clusters of feathers and stones, his brilliant white hair plaited, ribboned and boned.

  Some two dozen ‘white stripes’ swarmed down the walkways of each boat, carrying lengths of timber and blocks of wood, folding screens and rolls of cloth. The ‘whites’ wore loose, geometrically-patterned tunics over wide trousers which ended several inches above the ankle, and strange open shoes made up of a sole and straps – a type Steve had never seen before. But it was their faces which were the most arresting feature. The Iron Masters all wore close-fitting masks moulded in the shape of a savage, snarling face. As they scuttled past, Steve spotted several variations in the basic design, all equally ferocious, some quite alarming. All wore wide headbands made of white cloth tied at the nape of the neck and bearing a large solid red circle at the front flanked by two of the strange word-signs.

  With practised movements, the ‘whites’ quickly turned the material they were carrying into a raised, cloth-covered platform facing the assembled Mute elders. The folding screens were opened out and placed along the rear edge, almost touching the fifty-foot high trading post. Their task accomplished, the ‘
whites’ scurried back to the wheel-boats. Seconds later, the heavies appeared. More masked, stocky individuals but dressed in full armour and bearing a long and a short curved sword in elaborately decorated scabbards thrust through a sash tied around their waist. The contorted features of their black face masks were picked out in gold, silver and red, their gleaming metal helmets had wide, swept-down brims and they wore layered and jointed body armour that covered them front and back from head to toe.

  ‘Samurai,’ muttered the Mute at Steve’s shoulder.

  To Steve, they looked like oversized bug-uglies. He watched them file down the ramp past the rows of armed Mute warriors who outnumbered them several hundred to one. Yet despite this vast numerical superiority, it was the Mutes who bowed low while the Iron Masters swaggered past as if they owned the place. Mindful of Mr Snow’s advice, Steve followed suit. Each samurai was accompanied by two armed ‘red stripes’ – presumably a higher grade of flunkey. One carried a square banner hung on a spacer from the end of a long thin pole; the other a folding, highly polished stool. The twenty-four samurai, twelve from each boat, formed two lines from the water’s edge to the trading post then turned inwards to face each other. The ‘reds’ formed up in pairs immediately behind them.

  As they took up position, a small slab-sided craft with a curving fore and aft deck line and slim central cabin set out from the wheel-boat moored offshore. It was propelled by four standing oarsmen and steered by a helmsman with the aid of a huge paddle. Six more masked samurai, stood guard in front and behind the cabin, their arms folded, legs planted firmly astride. When the boat reached the shore, the brawny rowers stowed their oars, threaded matching carrying shafts through each side of the red and gold cabin, got their shoulders underneath and lifted it clear of the deck. Preceded by the six swordsmen, they carried the ornately decorated box towards the trading post. This time, even the Iron Masters bowed, each one joining the procession as it went past.

  The mine of information next to Steve whispered, ‘Yama-Shita.’

  ‘What’s that?’ hissed Steve.

  ‘Name of big Iron Master. He controls boats which make trade with Plainfolk.’

  When the procession reached the square, the Mutes left the beach and reformed behind and on each side of the welcoming elders. The palanquin – for that is what the cabin had now become – was lifted gingerly onto the platform and placed in front of the trading post. The shafts were withdrawn and the sides and front were folded open to reveal the chief Iron Master reposing majestically in a lavishly decorated chair. At the sight of him all the Plainfolk fell to their knees and put their noses on the ground. Steve, taken by surprise, was the last one down.

  Yama-Shita’s mask, armour and general appearance was even more impressive than the samurai who now took their seats on either side of him. The ‘reds’ having made sure their masters were seated comfortably, planted their banners along the back of the platform and spaced themselves out at ground level, around the front and sides of the platform, one hand on hip, the other poised ostentatiously on the hilts of their long curved swords.

  Steve edged his way to the rear of the crowd as the formal welcoming speeches were exchanged. Mr Snow had explained that the real business began on Day Two; on the first day, the Iron Masters compiled a list of all the clans now present and the heads of each delegation drew lots to decide the order in which they would be called into the square to ‘make a trade’. Beside the captured renegades and the Mute journey-men, there were woven baskets of grain, dried meat, small pouches of precious Dream Cap, sacks of rainbow grass, skins and furs to be exchanged for new sharp iron. All items had to be inspected, quantities had to be checked, their barter value agreed. The merchandise had to be listed, tallied and loaded; the weapons that the Iron Masters had shipped from the east had to be brought ashore. But the dead-faces were not just merchants of death; they traded woven mats and cloth, thread, needles, knives and various tools and farming implements to which handles could be fitted – shovels, rakes and a host of other items Steve could not put a name to.

  Once the formalities had been dispensed with, the samurai summoned their administrators, officials of subordinate rank able to translate the spoken word into silent-speech. The elders from each clan lined up patiently in front of a team of masked scribes equipped with brushes and rolls of a kind of plasfilm that Mr Snow called paper. Using a brush and a jet black liquid called ink, the scribes noted down details of the clan’s present numbers – how many male and female warriors, elders, den mothers, children, et cetera. The speed at which they composed the various symbols was amazing and Steve was forced to marvel at their dexterity.

  The stated purpose of this ‘trading register’ which was updated every year was to enable the Iron Masters to estimate the future needs of the Plainfolk. It occurred to Steve that Karlstrom would probably give his right arm for such information. The problem was it appeared to be completely inaccessible. It was compiled by hand in such a primitive way it was virtually impossible to process. Each scrap of data was recorded in symbols that only an Iron Master could understand and the sheer bulk of the complete register would make its theft a major operation.

  Steve left them to it. Making his way down to the shore, he sauntered up and down in front of the beached wheel-boats in the hope of catching a glimpse of Clearwater. It was a wasted journey. He scanned the decks and galleried superstructure for over an hour, willing her to appear, but only caught a glimpse of more Iron Masters. Steve consoled himself with the thought that, if the Shogun, the big boss back in Beth-Lem, regarded the delivery of an arrowhead and the secrets of powered flight as something special, then perhaps Cadillac and Clearwater had been treated as something special too. If so, they could be on the third wheel-boat, moored offshore; the lavishly-decorated vessel that housed Yama-Shita.

  From what Steve had seen so far, the dead-faces appeared to be a highly disciplined bunch who knew how to put on a good show and were clearly able to look after themselves. A Tracker could relate to people like that. In addition to their long and short curved swords, some of the samurai carried bows – not the crossbow with the rifle-type butt and stock prized by the Mutes, but a completely different design – a light, elegant, double curved bow that they carried on their backs in a flat woven basket containing a clutch of extra long arrows, flighted with cut feathers. Their ships, armour and weapons were proof of their superb craftsmanship but it was all low level stuff. There was no sign of them possessing what the Mutes called the ‘High Craft’ – the technological marvels of the electronic age.

  The Iron Masters’ society seemed to be pitched halfway between the Trackers and the Mutes, taking something from each but totally different from both. They had taken a third way. But where had they come from? And how had they survived the Holocaust? Were they immune to the sickness that had been spread through the air by the poisonous presence of the Mutes? Or were they merely another species of lump-head, a breakaway bloodline that had come up in the world, and was now hiding their common ancestry beneath the masks and armour and a coded nonsense-language? More questions to which he would probably never find the answers. But… if the Iron Masters were a different race that had survived the Holocaust or had somehow sprung up later, then there could be others. There might even be other lands beyond the eastern and western seas – with different people with different ways of doing things. People who might never even have heard of the First Family.

  Despite his rebellious nature Steve had been so thoroughly indoctrinated he found that hard to visualise. Back in the Federation everything had been so simple. The world was divided into ‘us and them’, Trackers and Mutes. There were no ifs and buts, no uncertainties. The way ahead was clear. Everyone knew who they were and what they had to do. But now…

  Steve’s thoughts returned to Clearwater. He toyed with the idea of swimming out to Yama-Shita’s wheel-boat then decided to heed Mr Snow’s advice. At this point, there was too many unknowns. Better to wait and see what happened.
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  At the end of the day, the Iron Masters retired to their ships and backed them offshore to anchor in deep water for the night. Steve listened to the shouted commands as the Iron Masters prepared to get underway and could make no sense of the language at all. It sounded as if they were speaking Basic backwards with their tongue stuck halfway down their throats.

  He returned to the lines where dozens of cooking fires sent up thin columns of smoke. Around the bull-ring, the eight bonfires were already well alight and a stick and drum group had swung into action. And round the lines, there were Mutes chanting, singly or in groups, accompanied by wind-pipes or percussion blocks, playing a game with coloured pebbles on a piece of buffalo skin marked out in squares, rapping in groups and generally having a good time. One of the prime aims of the week-long festivities was to ensure that the journey-men – the Mutes who had been tapped to go down river – had the time of their lives. As a result, the air was so thick with pipe smoke you got high just by breathing in, and it was difficult to walk more than ten yards in any direction without having to step over some heavy traffic.

  The only group not participating in the festivities were the captured renegades. Steve had taken care to steer clear of Dave Kelso and his friends but he had continued to keep a friendly, if distant, eye on Jodi Kazan. The breakers were still kept separated from each other, and guarded twenty-four hours a day. Escape was not the only danger; there had been occasions, in the past, when captured renegades had been stolen by other clans – not always from rival bloodlines. And once they had been spirited away they were almost impossible to get back without a major bloodbath. The M’Calls had no intention of losing valuable trading points.