Earth-Thunder

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘Is he dead?’ whispered Cadillac.

  ‘No,’ said Kamakura. ‘That particular neck-punch merely knocks a man senseless for an hour or more. Do you want me to kill him?’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ Cadillac tip-toed into the bed-chamber and found Roz drawing the coverlet over Ichiwara’s sleeping form.

  ‘There was no message, mother.’

  ‘There, there, never mind. It’s not your fault. It was all a mistake. Your father is so busy these days, he must have got things mixed up. You know what he’s like. Just go to sleep and don’t worry about it any more.’

  ‘All right, but you must promise not to go away.’

  ‘Of course I’m not going to go away! Whatever makes you think I would such a thing? I love you, my darling, and I always will.’

  Deep within the subconscious where external reality becomes the stuff of dreams, Ichiwara thought: what strange tricks the mind can play! For years he had believed his mother was dead, but here she was miraculously restored to life and as beautiful as in his tenderest memory of her. She leaned down over his bed, tucked the goose-down quilt snugly round his body then stroked and kissed his forehead. He felt warm, happy and secure. And he was glad to be home.…

  Chapter Ten

  The stormy weather, which had plagued Steve and Fran, finally blew itself out during the third night leaving the junk gliding across a tranquil moonlit sea. When they felt they could trust the deck not to throw them off balance, Steve helped Fran to her feet and over to a stern window. A three-quarter moon had bleached a big grey hole in the sky, but where it shaded off into solid black it was sprinkled with stars. The jewelled eyes in Mo-Town’s cloak.… Beneath them lay the Atlantic Ocean, a vast gleaming sheet of hammered silver whose distant edges were shadowed by the thin band of frosted blue clouds that rimmed the horizon.

  ‘Now you’ve got to admit that’s beautiful.’

  ‘Ask me that again when they start pouring concrete,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve had it with oceans.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s been a pretty rough ride. Fujiwara says it’s going to stay calm from now until we dock tomorrow morning.’ Steve tried walking back and forth across the floor then halted in front of Fran. ‘Makes a change being able to move around without being pitched on your nose. You oughta try it. Might make you feel better if you stretch your legs – do a little exercise. And who knows? You might even be able to face a –’

  ‘Don’t say it, Brickman! Don’t even think about it!’

  Fran had not only gone off food, after an abortive attempt on their first night at sea, she’d given up on screwing as well – which in her case was a sure sign she was seriously indisposed. But as Steve knew from previous experience, sea-sickness, as opposed to drowning, is not fatal, and the victim recovers rapidly on reaching shore.

  After several hours of restful sleep on a calm sea, he was already on the mend, and upon waking he saw layered shafts of pale winter sunlight piercing the darkness of his shuttered cabin. He leapt out of bed, splashed cold water on his face, went out onto the stern balcony to fill his lungs with cold, fresh air, then put himself through the limbering-up exercises he and his classmates had been required to perform every morning for three years at the Flight Academy. After the last fifty press-ups, his body was tingling from head to toe and he suddenly realised he was very hungry.

  And this time, the meal stayed down.

  Fran joined him after it had been cleared away by the Thai servant girls. She was still unable to face solid food, but she looked a lot better. Her tanned skin had regained most of its usual colour; this time yesterday, her face had been a greenish grey. All it lacked now was a smile.

  Spending three days at sea with Fran had taught Steve a great deal. The adverse conditions they had encountered had brought out and reinforced the most unappealing aspects of her character. The pampering and the privileges that had been part of her birthright might have taught her how to order other people around, but they had left her woefully ill-equipped to endure any kind of hardship. On the other hand, that may have been why the President-General had decided to send her on this mission. To give her a taste of life at the sharp end.…

  Having been fully briefed on the geography of Ne-Issan as part of their preparation for this high-level encounter, Steve was able to recognise the land mass they were approaching. Prior to the Holocaust, it had been known as Long Island. The Iron Masters, who had kept many of the old place names but had problems getting their tongue round certain consonants, called it Aron-Giren. If this was where they were due to land, it meant they were headed for the Summer Palace.

  Steve checked the self-winding wrist watch he had been given in place of his battery-powered digital model. It was just after nine a.m. Before leaving, they had each been issued with a special miniaturised communications pack for use in an emergency. These had been concealed in a layer of foam padding under the false bottom of their trail bags.

  Karlstrom had told them that the Chamberlain’s office would report their safe arrival over their secret radio link with AMEXICO. The communications pack was only to be used as a last resort, in the direst of dire emergencies. Not of course that he was expecting anything to go wrong. The meetings with the Lord Chamberlain and the Shogun and their officials were scheduled to last three days. He and Fran would return by junk to Cape Fear then by SkyRider to the AMEXICO base near Houston/GC.

  Karlstrom’s warning about their electronic aids had been aimed at Fran. Steve already knew from personal experience how nervous most Iron Masters became when confronted with devices powered by ‘the Dark Light’. The ruling Toh-Yota and their Traditionalist allies were implacably opposed to the use of electricity in any form, but as Steve had discovered since going overground, nothing in this big wide world was what it seemed. A special cadre of agents employed by Ieyasu, the Lord Chamberlain, had been using powerful handsets and a variety of surveillance equipment for over a decade.

  If the existence of AMEXICO was the best-kept secret of all, this covert use of radios by Ieyasu’s agents ran it a close second – and it was destined to remain so.

  It was Karlstrom who had set up the deal on behalf of AMEXICO following a series of secret discussions with Ieyasu’s most senior aide. Karlstrom and Ieyasu had finally met on Mute territory close to Ne-Issan’s southern border to put their signatures to a mutual aid treaty between their respective intelligence organisations.

  Now, Steve and Fran were on their way to propose another aid package, but this was not another hole-in-the-corner deal between two spy-masters: this time the goods and services on offer were so comprehensive, they could only be supplied with the full knowledge and approval of the Shogun.

  Passing through the channel between the overlapping sand-bars which guarded the south-facing coastline of Long Island, the junk entered Great South Bay, and turned eastwards, towards the cluster of small islands where the junk carrying Cadillac and Roz had been moored some thirty-six hours earlier.

  Now that they were close inshore and within hailing distance of other coastal traffic, Fujiwara had asked them not to use the stern gallery. The shutters protecting the cabin windows against the storm also had to remain closed. Through the angled slits Steve saw the crew of a small oarboat fishing broken timbers out of the water. Looking farther afield, he saw there were several other boats doing the same thing. He heard people shouting on deck, then the junk came to a shuddering halt as the propellor slowed and was thrown into reverse, causing the sea to boil thunderously under the stern.

  Fran came through from the portside cabin. ‘Quick! Someone’s spotted a body in the water!’ She ran back so as not to miss anything. Steve, his curiosity aroused, joined her at the window. It was the first time she’d had a smile on her face in three days. Karlstrom was right. This girl was dangerous to know.

  There was more muffled shouting from the deck above. ‘What’s happening?’ asked Steve.

  ‘They’re calling out to that small boat over there – see? T
elling them where the body is. It’s close to the ship. But of course with these things in the way you can’t see a bloody thing!’ She slammed the heel of her hand against the locked shutters to vent her frustration.

  The oarboat was now making its way towards the junk. There was another exchange of shouts. ‘It’s now almost underneath us,’ said Fran. ‘It’s got no head. Half of one leg is missing and its arms are tied behind its back. That’s kind of weird isn’t it? What d’you think happened?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Steve. ‘This is a big stretch of water. Maybe it has big fish in it that eat people.’

  ‘You mean they tie people up and throw them overboard?’

  ‘Commander, compared to some of the ways the Iron Masters have of killing people that’s nothing, believe me.’

  Although Steve and Fran didn’t know it, the junk was now covering the same stretch of water as the loaded longboat. Its destination was Bei-poro, the small harbour that Cadillac had taken care to avoid. As they drew closer to shore, Fujiwara knocked on the outside cabin door and entered to explain the landing procedure. Two of the servant women followed him in, carrying several neatly folded garments.

  When the junk had been secured fore and aft by ropes to the iron stanchions of the jetty, Fujiwara came downstairs to collect his visitors. Steve and Fran now wore the classic loose black tunic, sash and trousers normally reserved exclusively for samurai, white, splittoed socks and rope-soled sandals. The camouflage fatigues and boots they had worn up to boarding the junk had been packed away in their luggage, alongside the silver grey and dark blue First Family uniforms they planned to wear when meeting the Shogun.

  Fujiwara had also furnished them with lacquered papier mâché masks moulded to cover their faces from hairline to chin, and from ear to ear. A pair of gloves and a warm hooded cloak with the cowl drawn well forward completed their disguise. At the top of the companion way, they found the same side and roof screens obscuring their view of the main deck. Directly in front of them lay the open door of a two-seat carriage-box.

  ‘What about our baggage?’ enquired Steve.

  Fujiwara bowed. ‘That will follow with servants.’ He made sure they were securely seated then closed the door.

  The interior was comfortably padded and furnished with richly coloured fabrics, but there were no windows. The Iron Masters who used this class of carriage-box liked their privacy, but there was adequate ventilation, and the outside world could be glimpsed through the tiny apertures in the pierced wooden screens fitted at shoulder height on either side of each passenger.

  The four Vietnamese serving-women, who had never travelled in anything better than an open ox-cart, could hardly believe their luck when Fujiwara told them they would be travelling in two more closed carriage-boxes with the luggage.

  Make the most of it, thought Fujiwara. He had been instructed to have them killed as soon as the long-dogs left Ne-Issan to return home. No one, outside Ieyasu’s most trusted group of special agents, was allowed to know that this visit had taken place.

  Fujiwara, now wearing the same traditional black travelling-dress as Fran and Steve, took leave of the ship’s captain and officers, and strode down the gangway followed – at a respectful distance – by the servant-women in their baggy brown tunics and trousers that were drawn into a cuff around the neck, wrists and ankles.

  His four companions were already astride their horses. When the servant women had boarded the waiting vehicles, Fujiwara took the reins of his own mount from the groom and swung into the high-backed saddle with the fluid movements that were the mark of a skilled horseman. He waved to the porters waiting on the deck of the junk.

  Steve and Fran felt themselves lifted into the air. The box angled forward as they were carried down the gangplank, obliging Fran to hold onto the wall handles to avoid sliding into Steve’s lap. The box levelled out again, then rose, wobbling from side to side as it was manoeuvered onto the two-wheeled chassis. The retaining pegs were slid into place and hammered tight with a single clout from a wooden mallet, then there were two dull clunks as the fore and aft cross-bars were fitted to the slab-sided carrying poles.

  From his previous time in Ne-Issan Steve knew the number of porters depended on the importance of the passenger – which bore a direct relationship to the amount they could afford to pay. Merchants usually hired six, two at the front and four at the rear. During the journey, each pair would take it in turns to man the front bar.

  There was a shouted command – probably from Fujiwara. The porters got a grip on the chest-high crossbars and pushed. The wheels trundled noisily over the cobblestone jetty, rocking Steve from side to side. The Iron Masters did not use sprung chassis on their wheeled vehicles; that was why the inside of the carriage-box was padded.

  ‘Yo!’ exclaimed Steve. ‘We’re up and rolling.’ He removed his face mask. Fran did likewise. ‘Are you frightened?’

  She had been during the sea-voyage, but it was the wrong word to use that morning about Commander Franklynne Delano Jefferson, now that she was back on solid ground.

  ‘I’m a little apprehensive, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not this time. On my last trip there were many occasions when I was scared shitless. But now we’re honoured guests – representing the First Family. With the whole weight and authority of the Federation behind us.’

  ‘And I’ve got you to look after me.’

  ‘You could do worse, ma’am. You could do worse.’

  Fran’s mouth hardened as her natural arrogance came to the fore, then gradually her face and eyes softened. Steve’s winning smile broadened into a grin.

  ‘Relax. They might not accept what we’re going to put on the table, but apart from that, what can happen?’

  What indeed.…

  The perforations in the side-screens allowed them a partial view of the countryside, but they could only see outwards horizontally; the thickness of the wooden panels and the smallness of the holes prevented them from seeing what lay ahead. The first intimation they were approaching the end of their journey was the sudden change in the sound made by the horses’ hooves then the carriage wheels, as their mounted escort left the stone and dirt road and drummed across a planked wooden bridge.

  There was a noticeable coolness, a feeling of a massive stone enclosure. The light outside was briefly eclipsed then returned just as swiftly as the horses clattered and the wheels trundled evenly into a courtyard whose walls were made of dressed stone. They were inside the Palace.

  Steve motioned to Fran to replace her face mask and did the same, pulling the cowl of his cloak forward so that his head was deeply shadowed. Outside, people were shouting and responding to orders; wooden-soled sandals clattered to and fro.

  Fran listened to the babble of voices then said: This is not quite the end of the line. They are taking us to the Inner Court.’

  The carriage-box was hoisted off its wheeled chassis onto eight new sets of shoulders then carried on a twisting course that took them through a series of walled courtyards containing neatly pruned trees, shrubs, and ponds fed by small waterfalls, into a long dark passageway and up a flight of stairs, emerging again into the light on a balcony. Fran and Steve both caught a brief glimpse of a neatly raked stone and pebble garden then a sharp right turn took them back into the shadows.

  A moment or two later, they were lowered gently to the floor and the two side poles were withdrawn. They heard several pairs of bare feet shuffle away, followed by the smooth swish of closing wall-screens. There was a respectful knock on the door followed by Fujiwara’s voice, inviting them to step out and remove their masks and hooded cloaks.

  Fujiwara stood facing them, flanked by his four companions. All of them now wore white headbands bearing the red disc – the hinomaru – the rising sun emblem of Ne-Issan. On the left breast of their loose black tunics was a white circle containing two overlapping horizontal bars with chamfered ends – the house badge of the Toh-Yota family.

  After everyone had tried to outdo e
ach other in the bowing contest and finally called it a draw, Fujiwara said: ‘Allow me to show you to your quarters.’

  Steve caught Fran’s look and didn’t need further prompting. ‘When do we get down to business, Major?’

  ‘I regret this is not for me to say. Decisions as to when and where any meetings will take place are made at a very high level. My orders are to ensure that you are properly housed, fed and supplied with every convenience until you are granted audience by those who wish to hear what you have to say.’

  As they followed Fujiwara down passages and up more stairs, ever deeper into the Palace, Steve’s earlier bravado began to wear off. He hadn’t forgotten what had happened on his previous trip but he had put it firmly at the back of his mind. But now, the sights, the sounds and smells wafting on the air were starting to trigger freshly-minted gut-churning memories of his many narrow escapes from violent death. And with the memories came a growing realisation that if anything was to go badly wrong, he hadn’t the faintest idea where the emergency exit was.

  On the command of General Tadoshi, the three companies of soldiers stiffened to attention as the Shogun’s road convoy rumbled across the drawbridge into the main courtyard of the Summer Palace.

  The 4th Guard Company had been allotted the task of manning the outer keep and battlements, much to the relief of the soldiers involved who had been spared the extra bullshit involved in formal parades, plus the inevitable waiting around. The road convoy had been expected to arrive at midday: it was now nearly three in the afternoon.

  Backed by his juniors officers, Captain Kamakura stood next to his flag-bearing ensign at the head of the centre company. Captain Mashimatsu headed the block of troops to his right; Captain Setsukane commanded the third company on his left. It was not normal for a samurai-general to lead so small a unit, but the post of Castle Commandant was something of a sinecure. Social rank and the right background were more important than military competence, which was why Tadoshi – an ageing member of the Toh-Yota family – had been given the job.