The Trackers were, of course, unable to reproduce without the intervention of the First Family but the Mutes were encouraged to have children and raise them in Mute-type settlements attached to the estates of the great houses.
Side-Winder’s greatest concern was how Steve was going to move around carrying a knife and a bladed quarterstaff. All Mutes and Trackers were dressed in outfits identifying their job or status and carried armlets or neck-rings showing which estate they were assigned to. Apart from the couriers, the captive labour force only moved from one area to another under armed guard. Runaways were harshly dealt with and there was an absolute prohibition on Mutes and renegades carrying any type of weapon. Even he, Side-Winder, was not allowed to take his knife ashore; it was to be worn only on duty, when working with each new batch of journey-men.
Steve thanked the mexican for his advice and told him he appreciated his concern but he did not intend to proceed unarmed. The information Side-Winder had given him had alerted him to many of the dangers. He would not go looking for trouble but, if his luck ran out, he wanted to be able to meet it head on. The mexican accepted his decision with a philosophical shrug.
Ten days after leaving the trading post, the beat of the engines was stilled. Once again concealed in the coffin-like space under the bunk, Steve felt the wheel-boat shudder as it drifted sideways and crunched against the timbered wharf that lay to starboard. There was a moment of silence then the air erupted with a muffled babble of voices, bumps, thumps and hurrying footsteps as the process of unloading commenced. He lay back and willed himself to wait patiently for night to come. As the hours passed, he was sorely tempted to get out and see what was going on but Side-Winder had shrewdly taken the precaution of battening down the lid.
Eventually, the Mexican appeared and let him out. A flickering lantern lit the bare boxroom that served as his sleeping quarters. Between it and the central passageway lay the second half of Side-Winder’s nautical estate – the equally small cabin which Steve had ducked into to avoid the guards.
Side-Winder handed him a few twists of dried meat and a hunk of flat-bread. ‘Okay, this is where you get off. End of the line.’
Steve chewed on one of the twists. ‘The place feels deserted.’
‘It is. Apart from a skeleton crew, everybody’s gone ashore.’
‘Where do you go from here?’
‘Nowhere. This is where I live.’ Side-Winder swept a hand round his domain.
‘Christopher! How do you stand it?’
Side-Winder laughed. ‘How many Mutes do you know who have got a two-roomed hut? And two buckets. One to crap in and one to drink out of.’ He saw Steve’s expression. ‘Listen, I’m not complaining. If I couldn’t hack it I wouldn’t have drawn this assignment. It’s not so bad. If I want fresh air or something to see I can go on deck and every now and then I get a few hours ashore. What I miss most is the video. The dinks don’t have electricity. But even that has its compensations. At least I don’t have to listen to that moronic musical shit the Federation pumps out. Mind you, the stuff the dinks listen to isn’t much better. To me, it always sounds as if they’ve missed out half the notes.’
‘Okay… I’d better get going.’ Steve paused hesitantly. ‘You mentioned you might be able to, uh…’
The mexican went into the outer cabin and returned with a set of walking-skins.
Steve gulped down the last mouthful of food and tried them on for size. The skins were impregnated with the smell of their previous owner. ‘Mind telling me where these came from?’
Side-Winder eyed him narrowly then relented. ‘Someone took a ride on the wheel and decided he didn’t like it. On a trip like this you always get a few cancellations.’ He opened the wall-cupboard and took out two small ceramic cups and a flask. Laying the cups on the shelf he uncorked the flask and poured out two portions of a pale liquid. ‘Here… one for the road.’
Steve sniffed the cup cautiously. ‘What is it?’
‘Sake. It’s a, uhh… medicinal restorative. It’ll help keep out the cold.’ Side-Winder emptied his cup in one gulp and smacked his lips. ‘Good stuff. Go on, it won’t kill you.’
Steve raised the cup gingerly and let the liquid come in contact with his lips. It was sweet flavoured with a slightly bitter aftertaste. Not wishing to appear frightened, he took a deep breath and swallowed the lot. The sake hit the back of his throat like liquid fire. He gagged in a futile effort to stop it going any further, coughing and choking as it came back up and entered his nasal passages. For one moment his chest felt as if it had been stabbed with a hot knife then the sharpness eased, blurring into a warm glow which turned his ears pink and made him feel agreeably light-headed. ‘Wowww…’
Side-Winder refilled the cups. ‘Alcohol. One of their better inventions. This one is made from fermented rice. Imagine what that would do to a wagon-load of Trail-Blazers…’
‘Well, I don’t know how it works but it sure makes you feel good.’
The mexican nodded. ‘It certainly smooths off the rough edges. Trouble is it, uhh… numbs your central nervous system and ruins your coordination. Two is the limit. Three leaves you legless and four puts you on the floor. I speak from experience. That’s where I usually spend my off-duty hours. In fact if it wasn’t for this I’d have taken a dive from the top deck long ago.’
‘No friends, no company?’
‘None of your business, amigo.’ The mexican took Steve’s cup and put it away with the flask in the cupboard. Loosening a panel in the timbered wall behind his bulk, he slid it to one side, stuck the whole of his left arm in through the hole and pulled out Steve’s combat knife and quarterstaff. Steve strapped the knife back onto his left forearm, covering it with the strip of cloth.
‘That’s, uhh – my spare knife you’ve got there,’ said Side-Winder. ‘You’ll probably find it more useful than the one you came on board with.’
‘Thanks. But if I call, who’s going to hear me?’
‘I’m sure somebody will. The Family always keep one ear close to the ground.’ Side-Winder led the way up onto the main through-deck and opened a small hatch on the port side. Beyond was a wide expanse of river. ‘You’ll have to swim for it. The wharf’s crawling with dinks. The other two boats are moored ahead of us. Let the current take you down-stream until you’re well clear of the dock then make your way ashore.’
‘Okay.’ Steve crouched down by the hatch. ‘One last question. When you were unloading, did you happen to see a female renegade – medium height, dark hair, with a big slab of pink scar tissue down one side of her face and neck?’
Side-Winder cast his mind back. ‘Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. Funny thing… they usually march the renegades straight off to the mines but this time they lined ’em all up and asked if any of’em were wingmen.’
Steve’s interest quickened. ‘And…?’
‘Two guys stepped forward. She was one of ’em.’
‘Did the other guy have red hair?’
‘Yeah, he did.’
Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso… ‘What happened to them?’
‘They were taken away by Yama-Shita’s people. Which could mean they’re headed across the river and down the east road. It cuts through the Allegheny mountains to the coastal plain beyond.’
‘Did anybody say anything – like where they might be going, for instance?’
‘Nope. At least no specific place name that meant anything to me.’ Side-Winder made an effort to recall what he had overheard. ‘Wait a minute, I did hear one of the dinks mention something about “the Heron Pool”.’
‘What’s a heron?’
‘It’s a bird, compadre.’
‘How do you say “Heron Pool” in Japanese?’
Side-Winder told him. ‘I can’t show you what the sign looks like because I’ve got nothing on me to write with and even if I had it’s too fugging dark to see anything.’
‘That’s okay.’ Steve grasped the mexican’s hand and shook it warmly. ‘Thanks. You�
�ve been terrific.’ He pointed across the river. ‘The east road is thataway – right?’
‘Yeah. You’ll see the landing stage for the ferry about half a mile down river. If I were you I’d keep well clear of the road between sun-up and sunset. Especially over the next few days. Yama-Shita and his crowd are due to travel that way tomorrow. There’s going to be a lot of people gathering at the road-side to pay their respects as he goes through.’
‘Will you be staying here?’
‘Me? No. These boats carry shipments all over the place.’
‘In that case, I may see you again sometime.’
‘Maybe…’ Side-Winder uncoiled a length of rope and lowered it over the side.
Steve slung the quarterstaff across his back and slid down into the water. As soon as he let go of the rope, Side-Winder pulled it back in and shut the hatch. Steve struck out for the far bank and came ashore near a clump of trees that reached down almost to the water’s edge. Unrolling his walking skins he dressed quickly and took stock of his surroundings. Beyond the trees was a large patch of newly cultivated ground divided into neat squares. Keeping to the paths separating the square plots, Steve worked his way round towards the landing stage and took cover behind a cluster of wooden shacks with lighted windows. A small knot of people stood by the roadside where it sloped down towards the river. Edging closer, Steve saw they were unmasked red-stripes armed with swords and bows. There were four of them gathered round a fire burning inside what looked like a pierced metal bucket. The sight of them was a timely reminder that he would have to proceed with caution. There might be other check points further on.
Retreating into the darkness, Steve went down a path leading directly away from the river, climbed over a wall at the end and turned onto the road about half a mile from the landing stage. The road had a bare dirt surface. Across the river, beyond the line of warehouses and dock building, the horizon was aflame. A flickering orange glow pushed back the velvet night and lit the undersides of billowing drifts of white, brown and grey smoke. The Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem. His visit there would have to wait. He had other, more pressing business to attend to. With a quickening heart, he turned east and strode forward confidently. Each new step along the road brought him nearer to Clearwater and a new adventure. He had been the first Tracker to return alive from the Plainfolk. If not the first, he would be one of the select few to return alive from the land of the Iron Masters. And this time, he would not return empty-handed.
As he pushed onto into the enveloping dark, Steve had no idea that Clearwater, as a member of Lord Yama-Shita’s entourage, was preparing to pass the night in considerably more comfort on the other side of the river. But she had sensed his fleeting presence and knew they would meet again as foretold in the stone. Until that moment, the power that she had poured into the quarterstaff would protect him.
In the Federation, Commander-General Karlstrom also had reason to feel confident. In the essential field-tests, Brickman had proved he possessed the required courage, endurance, dedication and ruthlessness required of every mexican. All in all, it had been a most satisfactory performance but the nagging doubts about his loyalty remained.
After learning from High Sierra about the destruction of the backup squad, Karlstrom had become concerned at Brickman’s failure to maintain contact even though he had the means to do so. His only consolation was that Roz Brickman, who was under constant surveillance, had not displayed any signs of physical distress since Brickman had successfully rejoined the M’Calls. There had only been one instance of psychosomatic wounding – when she had developed brief sympathetic skin lesions on her rib-cage and left arm. Her general condition and demeanour indicated that Brickman was still very much alive and the latest signal from Side-Winder confirmed that he was also on course. His meeting with Brickman had been most fortuitous. On Karlstrom’s instructions, he had given Brickman a new radio-knife that contained an additional refinement. It automatically broadcast an intermittent signal that allowed its position to be accurately plotted – even if Brickman failed, or decided not to make contact. As long as he kept the knife in his possession the First Family would know where to find him.
A Note on the Author
Patrick Tilley was born in Essex in 1928, but spent his formative years in the border counties of Northumbria and Cumbria. After studying art at King’s College, University of Durham, he came to London in 1955 and rapidly established himself as one of Britain’s leading graphic designers. He began writing part-time in 1959.
In 1968 he gave up design altogether in favour of a new career as a film scriptwriter. Work on several major British-based productions was followed by writing assignments in New York and Hollywood. His books have been translated into several languages, and have achieved cult-novel status.
Discoverbooks by Patrick Tilley published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/PatrickTilley
Mission
The Amtrak Wars: Cloud Warrior
The Amtrak Wars: First Family
The Amtrak Wars: Iron Master
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1985 by Sphere Books Ltd
Copyright © 1985 Patrick Tilley
All rights reserved
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eISBN: 9781448210695
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First Family Page 42
