Karlstrom, who was implacably opposed to the current vogue for this pseudo-science, had been appalled to learn that Jefferson the 31st intended to have the child reared as a member of the First Family. To safeguard his own position within the ruling hierarchy, Karlstrom was obliged to keep his views strictly to himself, but to his mind, the P-G’s decision bordered on sheer lunacy. It was only storing up trouble. If the future could be foretold and the Talisman Prophecy was true, this individual would find his way back to the Plainfolk. The verses which predicted the end of the Federation would be fulfilled – and the fact that the President-General had made him his adoptive son and heir would probably serve to hasten the process.
On the other hand, if you believed – as Karlstrom did – that the future course of events could be changed by resolute action, then the best way to begin was by eliminating every possible individual, of whatever age or complexion, who might become the Thrice-Gifted One, and every female whose genetic fingerprint marked her out as a potential mother of this troublesome son of a bitch. Dumping Clearwater over the side now, while she still did not have two good legs to stand on, would save medical resources that could be better employed elsewhere and terminate her pregnancy in no uncertain fashion. If she was carrying the Talisman, he would have to go back to Square One and start his trip across the board all over again.
It was quick, simple and above all final, but Karlstrom knew he could not sell this idea to anybody, least of all the President-General. The only way out was to arrange her escape. But for that, he needed someone he could confide in, someone he could trust absolutely, someone who was prepared to betray his sacred oath of allegiance to the President-General in the higher interests of the Federation which – in this case – just happened to coincide with Karlstrom’s.
In a society where informing on your errant comrades earned you the secular equivalent of sainthood, such qualities were hard to find, but Karlstrom thought he knew someone who might fit the bill. Steven Roosevelt Brickman.…
The thought of turning to Steve for help made Karlstrom laugh out loud. He was always quick to appreciate the irony of a given situation and this one was doubly ironic. His future was already in Brickman’s hands. Fran’s new golden boy knew something which, if divulged to the wrong party, could threaten Karlstrom’s position as head of AMEXICO and cause untold harm to the organisation itself.
From the operational summaries dealing with the loss of The Lady from Louisiana and the subsequent annihilation of the M’Calls, the President-General had assumed that the explosives used so effectively by the Mutes in their surprise attack had come from the Iron Masters. Or, to be more precise, from the plundered wreckage of the five wheel-boats lost during the Battle of the Trading Post.
This was not, in fact, the case, but Karlstrom had decided not to set the record straight. Through an administrative error, real explosives had been supplied to a decoy unit made up of defaulters. As the sacrificial goats in an elaborate plan of entrapment, they should have been issued with dummy charges: AP mines filled with sand, foil wraps of PX containing a slab of modelling clay, and blank detonators. Some careless keyboarding lower down the line had resulted in them being issued with the real thing and it had ended up in the hands of the Clan M’Call.
It was a potentially messy situation which reflected badly on AMEXICO, but fortunately, an alert member of his personal staff spotted the error when checking the requisitions. The computer records had immediately been ‘sanitised’ using Track-Back – a top-secret programme designed to cover AMEXICO’s corporate ass.
Conceived by Karlstrom and developed by a trusted subordinate, Track-Back could seek out sensitive blocks or trails of data stored anywhere on the network like a pre-H bloodhound following a scent. Once it located the rogue data, it deposited a virus which caused it to self-destruct then re-sequenced the surrounding material to cover up any blank spots left on the storage tape or disk.
In a world run by computers, it was his insurance policy, and spring-board to the Oval Office. Track-Back did not only locate and destroy potentially incriminating data, it could also insert it at any point in the system without leaving any electronic fingerprints. Jefferson the 31st could not live for ever, and when the time came to arrange the succession, Karlstrom intended to use AMEXICO’s electronic expertise to help him eliminate his rivals.
There was now nothing held on the network controlled by COLUMBUS that could lead back to the organisation, and no one on the stricken wagon-train had survived. The Lady from Louisiana had been completely gutted by further explosions and fire, leaving the team of investigators with little to poke through.
Brickman was the only person, outside his personal staff, who knew the source of the explosives that had crippled The Lady. Had it been anyone else, Karlstrom would have had them shafted, but young Mr Brickman – the hero of the hour – had too high a profile. He had become a credit to the organisation and for as long as he found favour with Fran Jefferson he was fireproof.
Unbelievable.
What made it worse was the fact that Brickman knew there had been some kind of cover-up. Somebody close to the P-G must have commented upon the ‘official version’ over the dinner table. And on the first, and so far only occasion, when Karlstrom had encountered Brickman in Cloudlands, he had asked, with disarming casualness, to speak with him in private.
Agreeing – after a suitable pause – Karlstrom had allowed the rising star to steer him towards one of the many ornate stone fountains that graced the formal garden areas in Cloudlands. The young man was learning fast.
Karlstrom played back their conversation on his mental tape-recorder, picturing the look of transparent honesty on Brickman’s face – the kind of expression that only arch-deceivers can muster.
B: There’s something I need to draw your attention to, sir. And since it’s a rather delicate matter, it’s probably better we do it here rather than in a more formal setting.
K: Okay. What’s on your mind?
B: Well, sir, I recently heard a garbled account of the engagement between the Clan M’Call and The Lady, at North Platte, Nebraska.…
K: Go on.
B: There seemed to be certain inconsistencies with the facts as I remembered them, so I asked Miz Jefferson if she could access the official summaries for me. I hope that was okay?
K: I imagine that would depend on what you found.
B: Exactly, sir. It’s the source of the explosives used to cripple The Lady. I was on board when she went up. It couldn’t have been black powder, and gun-cotton fuses, sir. The blasts were too powerful, too well synchronised. These were Federation demolition charges, detonated by battery-powered timing devices. Like the ones I found in the M’Call settlement. But there’s no mention of them anywhere in these summaries.
K: I see. Did you mention this to Miz Jefferson? I imagine she would be interested to know why you wanted to access this material.
B: I haven’t breathed a word to anyone, sir. And my interest in the summaries can be explained by the fact that I was involved in the operation.
K: Of course. Have you come to any conclusion based on what you have learned?
B: Well, sir, it would appear there’s been some kind of cover-up. I obviously don’t know at what level this occurred, but I felt duty-bound to draw it to your notice. Whoever put those explosives into the hands of that fake SIG-INT unit bears a direct responsibility for the loss of The Lady from Louisiana. I don’t think the personnel involved should be left in a position where they can make the same kind of mistake again.
K: I agree.
B: The way I see it, sir, this is a strictly internal matter and should be dealt with on that basis. My overriding concern is to protect the good name of the organisation.
My ass! thought Karlstrom. But what he had said was: ‘I appreciate your concern.’ And then, quite stupidly, he had implicated himself by adding: ‘You will find that the organisation knows how to look after its own.’
What had prompted
him, of all people, to say such a thing and play right into Brickman’s hands?! Looking back, he could see why. Through Fran, Brickman had a direct route to the Oval Office. The slightest indiscretion on his part could open a can of worms that Karlstrom wanted to keep shut.
Officially, AMEXICO didn’t exist. Karlstrom’s official title was Director of Operational Research – a shell organisation with its own staff. AMEXICO was the hidden kernel within. Its sole purpose was to achieve the aims and protect the ass of the man in the Oval Office – against his own kind if necessary. Jefferson the 31st would not do anything that might upset that arrangement – unless, of course, he suspected he was not being kept fully in the picture. If the true story behind the loss of The Lady came to light it could make him nervous. And when President-Generals became nervous, no one was safe – especially their nearest and dearest.
Thinking it over again, Karlstrom decided he was not in any immediate danger. Brickman would keep silent because he thought he had acquired some leverage. Karlstrom was happy to let him think this was the case. It made him less dangerous.
For the moment, further overground assignments were out of the question. The President-General wanted Brickman to remain close to Clearwater. Karlstrom was only too pleased to oblige. He called Steve in and told him he was being temporarily reassigned to the Eastern Desk; a department which analysed and collated data fed into AMEXICO from its contacts and agents inside Ne-Issan.
It wasn’t a sinecure, or a pay-off for services rendered. It was a responsible job in which Brickman’s own direct experience of Iron Master society was a valuable asset – especially now, after the catastrophic loss of the last trading expedition.
Brickman was a shrewd operator, with many admirable qualities, but for nearly two decades, Karlstrom had been eating guys like him for breakfast. That was why he was the head of AMEXICO. He was glad Brickman had tried to lean on him. That took a lot of balls. And that was the kind of man Karlstrom needed to help execute the plan he was putting together.
Cadillac was also making plans, and as Roz listened to him, she realised that in helping him, she could endanger Steve. Since responding to his call after Clearwater had been wounded, the telepathic link between them had stayed open. Karlstrom and his masters knew this. They had agreed to rescue Clearwater just as they had responded to an earlier call to rescue Steve from the wheelboat on Lake Michigan. Now, following her last-minute escape with Cadillac from the stricken wagon-train, Steve had made the fatal mistake of telling Karlstrom that she was safe and well.
He had avoided suspicion falling upon them both by pretending that she was being held prisoner by Cadillac, but that had only complicated the situation. Karlstrom knew that she could induce hallucinatory experiences, and might begin to wonder why she did not use this new power to free herself. And as long as he believed her to be alive and well, he could pressure Steve to maintain telepathic contact with her in order to find out what Cadillac was up to.
After having demonstrated how efficacious that telepathic link was, it would look distinctly odd if Steve now claimed he could not get through. There was an even greater danger. If The Federation got wind of Cadillac’s plans and learned that she was helping him – against the Federation – Karlstrom might try to strike at her by harming Steve.
There was only one way to protect herself and Steve. Roz Brickman had to ‘die’. And in order to make it convincing, she had to warn Steve, then combine her powers in a new and terrifying way.
Fran emerged from the bathroom, tingling from a brisk rub-down after her morning shower to find Steve still lying in bed. She made a sarong of the bath towel and went over to haul him out of bed. As she got closer and saw his flushed face and drooping eyelids, she changed her mind. ‘What’s the matter, don’t you feel well?’
‘Not really, no. I don’t know what the hell it is, but I’ve been feeling a bit off colour, and late yesterday I started getting an odd tingling in my eyelids. Now they won’t open properly, and something’s happening in my throat.’
Fran laid a hand on his forehead. ‘Feels like your temperature’s up, but it’s not exactly raging. Stay there. I’ll call a doctor.’
By the time Joshua admitted one of the Family doctors, Steve’s eyelids were completely paralysed, and he had difficulty explaining what was wrong with him. The doctor prised his eyelids open, shone a light into his eyes, felt his throat, checked his temperature, took soundings with a stethoscope, then turned to Fran. ‘Have any other people in Savannah been taken sick?’
Fran referred the question to Joshua, the grey-haired Mute who was Head of Service in the mansion.
‘Not as far as I know, ma’am. Do you want me to make sure?’
‘I think you’d better,’ said the doctor. ‘I can’t be certain till we do some other tests, but it looks as if the captain’s suffering from food poisoning – and it could be serious.’
The diagnosis caused Fran to explode. ‘Food poisoning? How the hell can anyone here catch food poisoning?!’ She broke off and looked down as she felt Steve tug at her trouser leg.
He was trying to say something but seemed unable to get his tongue into gear. He jabbed his right forefinger nervously at the bed, then carefully traced out three letters on the coverlet.
R…O…Z…
Fran exchanged a puzzled look with the doctor. ‘Roz?’ Then she made the connection. ‘Ugh, jeezusss! Roz!’
The doctor remained perplexed. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s ROZ who’s got food poisoning!’
The doctor looked at Joshua for enlightenment, then returned to Fran.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand –’
‘You don’t have to,’ cried Fran. ‘Just get him to the clinic and do whatever you have to do!’
By the time Steve was admitted to the Cloudlands clinic, he was exhibiting the classic symptoms of botulism – the deadliest form of food poisoning. The toxin was known to attack the fine nerve fibrils, stopping the chemical reaction which, in a healthy person, causes muscular contraction.
With his speech muscles paralysed, it was not long before the toxin affected other parts of the throat, making it difficult for him to swallow. A breathing tube was inserted, and he was put on a ventilator to prevent any further deterioration. He was still fully conscious, but without an antidote, it was only a matter of time before the breathing muscles became paralysed. Without artificial respiration, he would suffocate, and with its supply of oxygen cut off, his brain would be irreparably damaged.
Unable to sit still, Fran paced up and down beside his bed, gripping his hand now and then to reassure herself that the masked, unmoving figure in the bed was still alive. Karlstrom had joined her in the intensive care unit, and now stood on the other side of Steve’s bed.
Fran took hold of Steve’s hand again. ‘Can’t they do anything? Isn’t there some drug they can give him?!’
‘It’s not that easy,’ said Karlstrom. ‘There is an antidote – but that can end up killing you as well. What we have to remember is that it’s not Brickman that has been poisoned.’
‘But he’s dying!’ shouted Fran. ‘Look at him!!’ She let go of Steve’s hand and strode angrily to and fro, clawing the air in frustration. ‘I just don’t believe this is happening!’
But Karlstrom was right. The tests on several samples of Steve’s blood revealed no trace of the botulinum toxin. Just as Roz’s body had reproduced Steve’s wounds, his body was duplicating the creeping paralysis that was bringing her closer and closer to death’s door.
Twelve hours later, Steve’s chest muscles were almost completely paralysed. It was only the ventilator that was keeping his brain supplied with the oxygen it needed. Karlstrom dropped in again to see how he was. Fran was still at his bedside. She looked worn and crumpled.
‘I hear the verdict’s not good.’
‘No. They told me he could die within twenty-four hours of the first signs of paralysis. He could last longer – it depends on Roz. But if she’s
at the same stage without any of this equipment she hasn’t a hope.’ Fran gestured helplessly and gave a tired laugh. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. When I hear people talk about bedside manners this is not what springs to mind.’
‘The fact that you are here shows him you care. That must be a help.’
‘Maybe.’ She became angry. ‘Isn’t there some way we can break this telepathic link?!’
‘I’ve already asked that question. And as usual the psionics department doesn’t have an answer. None of us know how this telepathy business works, but that’s only part of the mystery that surrounds these two. We know of other telepaths, but what’s happening here is absolutely unique.’
‘I know that, but Roz is his sister, for chrissakes! Doesn’t she realise she’s killing him?!’
‘She must do, but perhaps in a situation like this the contact is involuntary,’ said Karlstrom. ‘I can’t think that either of them would make the other suffer deliberately. We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed and hope that when she dies, she doesn’t take Brickman with her.’
‘So that’s all we can do is it? "Keep our fingers crossed"?’
Karlstrom smiled. As their controller, Fran had been overseeing the lives of Steve and Roz for the last five years. ‘Look on the bright side. If they both die, it’ll lighten your case load.’
Shrewd as he was, the head of AMEXICO was wrong. With Steve’s connivance, Roz had induced the progressive muscular paralysis that was the hallmark of fatal food poisoning which often arose from eating smoked, uncooked meats – a standard item in the diet of the Plainfolk. In the small hours of the following morning, Steve’s condition deteriorated further. As the doctors and nursing staff clustered round him, his body was shaken by a series of violent convulsions, then he went completely limp and his eyes opened. When they removed the oxygen mask and the tube from his throat, he was able to speak and breathe normally, but was completely exhausted.
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