Earth-Thunder

by Patrick Tilley

  The neighbouring Da-Tsuni – the smallest and least powerful domain – neutered by marriage to Yoritomo’s family – could have been easily overrun, but without the Dai-Hatsu, the noose could not be drawn tight around the Toh-Yota and its staunchest allies, the Mitsu-Bishi, Su-Zuki and Toh-Shiba. Faced with the Dai-Hatsu’s dithering, the San-Yo and Hi-Tashi, the two families whose domains were at the southern end of Ne-Issan, decided to sit on their hands.

  The struggle for control of Ne-Issan had begun. With the help of Cadillac and Roz, the Yama-Shita had dealt the Toh-Yota a major blow and had seized the military initiative, but a swift victory for the Progressive faction was far from assured.

  Despite Fran’s absence, Steve continued to use the same suite of rooms, commuting each day from the white colonnaded mansion to the Simulation Room and underground language lab, where Samurai-Major Fujiwara – now wearing a cut-down Trail-Blazer parade uniform with yellow rank stripes – was endeavouring to explain the mind-boggling complexities of the Japanese language.

  To cite just one example: each of the simple personal pronouns – the ‘I, me, my, you’ and ‘your’ in Federation Basic – could be expressed in several quite different ways in Japanese, and the correct choice of word depended on whether the speaker was of superior rank to the addressee – or vice versa – their social relationship and the degree of intimacy between them, the nature of conversation, and the age and sex of the person doing the talking.

  Cadillac had acquired his mastery of the language through the magical equivalent of a brain transplant, but how in the name of the Great Sky-Mother had Fran done it?

  Steve’s renewed respect for her linguistic abilities might have been tempered had he known that Fran’s studies had begun at the age of three as part of a First Family programme to create a special cadre of potential administrators that could take control of Ne-Issan when it was finally subjugated by the armies of the Federation. Whatever their faults, no one could accuse them of not thinking ahead.

  The Federation-wide celebrations held to mark New Year’s Day, 2992 AD, were matched on the overground by glittering receptions, dinner parties and dancing on the various colonial-style estates spread across the First Family’s private enclave.

  The twenty-four hour break from Fujiwara’s language class gave Steve’s brain a chance to come off the boil, but the rest of his body remained restless. As someone who had spent his life training for active duty and had loved every minute of it, he still found it difficult to adjust to the idea of ‘spare time’ – one of the many privileges enjoyed by members of the Family.

  Ordinary Trackers were allowed R&R, but the normal priorities of an off-duty soldier were sleep, food and more sleep, and maybe – but not necessarily – jacking-up whatever came within reach. To be able to wallow in your bunk long after reveille had sounded and have a buddy bring you food down from the mess-hall was the dog-soldier’s ultimate dream.

  In the past, it had been Steve’s too, but since his promotion and elevation to Cloudlands, he had been introduced to a more elegant life-style that offered a greater element of choice and a range of diversions that went far beyond the Shoot-A-Mute type arcade games that was the major legal form of entertainment for those down under.

  And on this New Year’s Day he discovered another. From midday onwards, the presidential cortege conducted a leisurely whistle-stop tour of the various estates, to meet, mingle and press flesh with the inhabitants of each mansion at a lavish outdoor or indoor reception.

  The itinerary varied from year to year, and on this occasion, Savannah, the mansion to which Steve had been assigned was the last call of the evening. Answering the summons to greet the P-G, he joined the other residents assembled on the front steps; the men in their Confederate grey uniforms and sword belts, or formal civilian attire, the women resplendent in their wideskirted ball gowns, soft elbow-length gloves and silk or woollen shawls to protect them from the cold.

  They did not have long to wait. These visits were always carefully timed. The horse-drawn presidential cortege drew up, two lines of ensigns from the honour guard formed on either side of the welcoming red carpet, and Jefferson the 31st was warmly cheered and applauded as he mounted the steps with his immediate entourage to be greeted by the Chief Estate-Holder then taken inside.

  Steve glimpsed Karlstrom among the pack of top brass. Steve himself was not on the short list of people due to be presented to the P-G, but as he mingled with the chattering throng sipping his third glass of white wine, he felt a hand grasp his elbow. It was Karlstrom.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Happy New Year.’ They raised and touched their glasses.

  ‘And to absent friends,’ said Karlstrom.

  ‘Have you heard any more about when the Yama-Shita are going to hand over Commander Franklynne?’

  ‘Not yet. But when I do I’ll let you know. How’s it going at school?’

  Steve grimaced. ‘My toughest assignment yet. That language is a real bitch. Given the choice I’d rather be out doing damage to people and property.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later. If you put your back into it, you should be able to read and speak with reasonable fluency in six months.’

  ‘Six months …!’

  ‘Six to eight. That’s all it took me. And I was over thirty. Jeezuss, you’re not even twenty yet! Stop complaining. Just get in there and give it your best shot.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. I will.’

  ‘You’d better – otherwise you could lose your star rating.’ Karlstrom eyed the surrounding throng of men and women then adopted a friendlier tone. ‘Have you lined up anything for this evening?’

  ‘Uhh, no, sir!’ said Steve. If Karlstrom meant what he thought he meant, that would have been asking for trouble.

  ‘Good.’ Karlstrom checked his watch and began to move away. ‘We’re due out of here in about fifteen minutes. Come back with us to Grand Palisades. We’re going to be running a little item that may interest you.…’

  Grand Palisades was the President-General’s mansion – the place where the very top echelons of the Family congregated. As he dismounted from Karlstrom’s carriage, his host pointed out a dark-haired powerful looking man who had buttonholed the P-G. ‘That’s Theodore "Bull" Jefferson. Member of the Supreme Council, and States-General of Texas. If you leave AMEXICO out of the picture, he’s the second most powerful man in the Federation – and the father of your missing bed-mate.’ Karlstrom laughed. ‘So keep well back because I don’t intend to introduce you.’

  After entering the mansion – which was even more spacious and splendid than Savannah – another round of drinks and refreshments was offered to the presidential party then a group of about thirty led by Jefferson split off and filed out. Karlstrom signalled Steve to follow.

  Thickly carpeted stairs took them below ground level into a room with panelled walls, a stepped sloping floor and eight rows of five comfortable armchair-type seats like the one he’d seen in the apartment in Santanna Deep. Karlstrom signalled Steve to take a seat in the back row, then walked on to join Jefferson and Fran’s father at the front. The P-G took the centre seat, facing a high curtained wall about fifteen feet in front of them.

  Turning round, Steve saw a line of four small square holes in the wall behind him. Weird. Everyone was clearly waiting for something to appear from behind the curtain – but what? He settled down in his seat as the lights dimmed. Stirring music – richer than the usual stuff piped through the Federation – issued from banks of speakers on the side walls. The curtains parted soundlessly to reveal a large white rectangle – several feet wider than the block of seats, then as the music swelled, a ray of light shot from the back wall and filled the screen with colour.

  How strange! thought Steve. This is not a video-wall – this is some entirely different process. This picture’s being projected onto some kind of special material. The colours are so bright! And the sound! He watched open-mouthed as the story unfolded. A story about a fight to th
e death by a small band of heroes facing overwhelming odds. Steve was watching his first cinemascope movie: The Alamo – starring and directed by the First Family’s favourite hero. John Wayne.…

  Incredible. And of course Steve believed he was watching the real thing. He was still rooted in his seat while everyone else was heading for the exit.

  ‘You planning to stay there all night?’

  Karlstrom’s voice brought Steve back to earth. He leapt up.

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘Staggering. To have a visual record of something that happened over a thousand years ago.’

  ‘Yehh … 1836 – what’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. It was kind of strange, y’know – the mexicans being the bad guys.’

  Karlstrom smiled. ‘They were the old kind. Nothing to do with us.’

  Steve followed him to the door. ‘D’you mind if I ask you something else? How did they make the cameras work? There wasn’t anything in that fort that used electricity. And how did the guys who were taking the pictures get over to the enemy side without being shot?’

  The question made Karlstrom laugh. ‘That language course really has burnt your wires out! What you just saw was a recreation of an actual historical event. Nobody got shot, nobody died. Those weren’t real soldiers. It was staged for the cameras in 1960 – more than a hundred years after it happened!’

  Steve tried to take all this on board. He had discovered that the Iron Masters made up stories about non-existent people and imaginary events, but for someone brought up on a diet of training videos and educational documentaries, who had never held a book in his hands and who knew nothing about the creative or cinematic arts, the concept of fiction as entertainment was difficult to grasp.

  Watching the story unfold on the screen had been a totally new experience that had held him spell-bound from start to finish, but after learning from Karlstrom that everyone involved had been pretending, he could not help wondering why anyone should want to make a fake version of a real battle. Having only received a practical education which virtually excluded the imaginative process, the question was quite natural, but he didn’t ask it for fear of making a fool of himself.

  ‘What was the process we were watching?’

  Karlstrom took him into the projection room and provided him with a succinct explanation of how film images were captured and displayed on the big screen. ‘That’s why they’re called movies.’

  ‘Sounds kinda primitive.…’

  ‘It is,’ said Karlstrom. ‘But it’s also part of our heritage. You’ve only seen one, but we’ve got dozens of these movies. They are stories about heroism and self-sacrifice. They express a set of values which have guided the First Family from the very beginning. They are the source of our inspiration. They represent what the Federation stands for, the kind of America we are going to rebuild when we have conquered the blue-sky world.’

  Well it was certainly more watchable than the guff they pumped out on the nine video channels. ‘If that’s so, sir, why keep them to yourselves? If they’re as valuable as you suggest, wouldn’t it boost everyone’s morale if they were shown nationwide?’

  Karlstrom responded with a mocking smile. ‘That’s just the kind of question I’ve come to expect from you. Let’s just say that they will be shown one day, but not yet.’ He led Steve out of the projection room and back upstairs. ‘What did you think of John Wayne?’

  ‘Uhh, yes … I saw the name. Is that the same man whose –’

  ‘Yes. John Wayne Plaza. When you see more of his work and realise what he represents, you’ll understand why.’ Karlstrom paused. ‘What’s bugging you now?’

  ‘They called him Davy Crockett … was that his codename?’

  Karlstrom propelled him in a friendly fashion towards the liveried Mute manservant waiting by the huge front door. ‘Forget it, Brickman. Just go home and go to bed!’

  January the 15th turned out to be another day to remember. Forced to study late into the night to catch up with his course-work Steve was unable to get over to the Life Institute to see Clearwater for three days in a row. On each occasion he had sent three video-grams through to the LTC Admin Office asking them to pass his apologies to the occupant of Room 18 together with the promise to be there without fail on the 15th – the day when Sand-Wolf would be one month old.

  He passed his new up-rated ID card through the monitor on the reception desk, waited while the relevant details were flashed onto the screen, then got the nod from the duty clerk and was through the turnstile in a matter of seconds. The guy hadn’t even bothered to read the data. If you had a valid ID and a silver-grey uniform formalities were kept to a minimum. You could bypass any line-ups at security barriers and, best of all, the truncheon-wielding Provos all became fawning brown-nosers.

  Bastards…

  Steve followed the now-familiar route down the sterile pale green corridors, rappa-tap-tapped on the door to Room 18 and entered. The room was empty. The bed had been stripped, the cot had disappeared along with the vases of flowers. A plastic cover had been placed over the medical computer terminal. The air was scented with the smell of antiseptic cleaning fluid.

  He went back outside and checked the number on the door. No mistake there – what the hell was happening? Simple. She’d been moved somewhere else during the last three days. He stopped a passing nurse. ‘Room 18. There was a mother and child in there. Can you tell me where they’ve been moved to?’

  ‘Uhh, I’m not sure. I think they been discharged, sir.’

  Steve’s stomach turned over. ‘Discharged?! Where to?!’

  ‘No idea, sir – but the Chief Nursing Officer should have the details. If you go to the end of this corridor and –’

  ‘Yehh, I know where it is. Thanks.’

  To avoid the confusion of inserting alien Plainfolk names into the computer, Clearwater had been logged into the Life Institute as Brickman C. W. The given name had not been spelt out; the W stood for Washington – the divisional name for those born in Houston/GC.

  The Chief Nursing Officer was not there when Steve arrived, but one of his admin staff obligingly screened the nursing records. ‘Here we are … 9616 Brickman C.W. and 0987 Brickman S.W. Discharged from LTC, 1200 hours, 12 January 299 –’

  ‘Jezusss! Three days ago? Where were they logged out to?’

  The staffer studied the screen then tapped some more keys and studied the result. ‘Strange … No destination has been entered.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Steve. ‘Let’s get this straight. I’m enquiring about a 19-year-old woman and a new-born child. Those are the records you’re looking at?’

  ‘Yes. Brickman S.W-born 1627 hours, 15 December, 2991.’ The staffer tapped a few more keys. ‘I’ll just check through the B file on either side in case there’s a double entry. If someone types in the initials back to front, the computer thinks it’s a different person. If the mistake is repeated, you can end up with data held in two separate files.’

  Steve contained his frustration. ‘I thought the system was foolproof.’

  The staffer smiled. ‘Yes, I heard that too.’ She studied the screen again. ‘Nope. Sorry, sir, there –’ An item caught her eye. ‘Wait a minute. What’s this…?’ She looked across the counter at Steve. ‘The subject of your enquiry … she just had the one child, right?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Well, there’s another Brickman listed here. Lucas W. Brickman, born 1642 hours on the same day – 15 December. Just fifteen minutes apart. Multiple births are very rare, but that’s a typical time scale – which is why I asked if she’d had twins.’

  This is getting stranger by the minute, thought Steve. ‘Who’s listed as the guard-mother?’

  ‘Of Lucas Brickman …?’

  A hard-edged voice behind Steve said: ‘That’s okay, Jenni, I’ll handle the captain’s enquiry.’

  The staffer made a diplomatic exit leaving Steve facing the CNO. A brisk figure of authority who introduc
ed himself as Major Bradman. Steve repeated his original query about Clearwater.

  Bradman checked the screen. ‘Ahh, yes. This file has a data lock. One moment…’ He inserted his ID, typed in an access code and read the displayed information. ‘Unnh! I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Captain. The woman and child were discharged on receipt of a presidential order. A PO-1. Which means it came from the Oval Office as opposed to somewhere else in the White House. There are no other details – and no onward destination. See for yourself –’

  Bradman swung the screen round towards Steve, who read the sparse strands of information with a sinking heart. ‘But you must know something! Who took her away?!’

  ‘All I can tell you is what’s on the screen, Captain. I don’t know how well you’re connected, but as a member of the Family you can access more information than I can.’

  ‘Maybe. What about this Lucas Brickman?’

  Bradman spread his hands. ‘I’m not authorised to answer that query, Captain.’

  ‘Then who is, Major?’

  ‘I can’t answer that either. Ask someone inside the Family.’

  Steve saluted curtly and walked out. Who the hell was he going to ask inside the Family? He had met both the President-General and Karlstrom, but he had only ever been in their offices in answer to a summons from on high. He was a serving officer. He wasn’t able to drop in on them whenever he felt like it. There were channels to go through, desks manned by senior officers who could bin any request he made without giving a reason.

  On the social front, it was the same story. Wearing Confederate grey didn’t entitle him to walk into Grand Palisades and accost Jefferson in the privacy of his famous rose garden. Door-stepping Karlstrom wasn’t any easier. The head of AMEXICO was the kind of man who was only seen when he wanted to be seen – and Steve did not even have his Cloudlands address. No. He was screwed. Yet again.…

  Coming out into the main reception area, Steve was so wound up with his personal anxieties, he barely noticed the people around him. He threaded his way towards the exit through the blur of faces like an industrial robot programmed to avoid obstacles.