Earth-Thunder

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘Follow me and you’ll find out.’

  They went downstairs into the large hall and into a side-corridor. Fran halted opposite a marble side table bearing a huge bouquet of imitation flowers, and grasped the right hand side of a small framed picture of a landscape. Instead of being hung on a hook, it was hinged down the left hand edge. Behind it was a card-slot and key-pad.

  Fran produced an ID card from her small evening bag, inserted it into the slot, keyed in four digits, then retrieved her card and swung the picture back into place as two complete wall panels moved six inches backwards and parted to reveal an elevator the size of the living room Steve had shared with Roz and his guard-parents at Roosevelt/Santa Fe. They stepped inside and were carried down to a lower level which led directly to a miniature, marbled subway station.

  A two-car train running on a twin set of rails was drawn up at the platform which was at the same level as the track; a second set of rails ran alongside it and both disappeared into lighted tunnels lined with glazed white tiles. Each car, or ‘trolley’, was wide enough to accommodate a lady in a full skirt and long enough to hold six of them with their ‘beaus’. Motive power was gathered from an overhead line through a sprung metal frame mounted on the roof.

  The car bodies were made of framed polished wood panels with metal reinforcements, mounted on two sets of four-wheeled bogies. Everything in sight was gleaming, spotless.

  ‘Incredible,’ breathed Steve. ‘Who cleans all this?’

  Fran laughed. ‘Cleaners! Who d’you think?’

  Of course. Stupid question. An underground army of Mutes.…

  A scanning device sensed their presence and obligingly opened the sliding double doors. Steve followed Fran inside. The cars were fitted with folding seats, but the row of polished brass poles that ran down the middle of each car showed that they were designed to encourage stand-up travel. Fran punched in a six-figure code on the key-pad mounted on a side partition by the doors, causing them to close as the driverless vehicle whined into life.

  Steve put a hand around Fran’s waist and held onto the same pole as the trolley gathered speed and moved towards its chosen destination at a stately ten miles an hour. ‘Quaint,’ he said, surveying the antique wooden interior. ‘Is this another Family exercise in nostalgia?’

  ‘Yes. These are scaled-down versions of the trolley-cars that used to run above-ground in a place called San Francisco. Several decades before the Holocaust.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’ Steve looked out of the window as they came to a wide intersection with curving rows of columns supporting the roof. Between the columns he could see twin tracks running away into other tunnels. Other directions. He turned back to Fran. ‘How big is this systeip? Does it run under the whole of Cloudlands?’

  ‘The most important parts.’

  ‘Like the estates?’

  ‘Among other places.’

  ‘So basically, it will take you anywhere you want to go.’

  Fran answered with a teasing smile. ‘Provided you have the right card and know the codes.’

  When they stepped out of the elevator at Grand Palisades, the P-G’s guests were already filing down the carpeted steps into the viewing theatre. This time, there was an ensign posted by the door and armed with a scan board and a light pen. He checked everyone off as they entered and gave them a seat number. It was a full house. Steve and Fran had drawn seats in the centre of the fourth row, but as they settled in, he saw people preparing to sit on the aisle steps by the exit doors.

  This time Steve was better prepared for what he was about to see. He had cottoned on to the idea the characters in movies were impersonated by ‘actors’ – in the same way that Side-Winder had disguised himself as a Mute. So he was not at all perplexed when John Wayne put in an appearance as a marine sergeant in an army where they didn’t wear racoon-skin hats.

  The movie was called Sands of Iwo-Jima – a story about men trying to capture a heavily-defended island. The one disappointment was the lack of colour. The movie was set in a drab grey world, but it was still an enthralling experience.

  The big surprise came in the shape of the enemy. The tenacious defenders of the island were Japanese, but the only connection with the Iron Masters he had encountered were the samurai swords carried by the officers. In every other respect, the soldiers were part of a recognisable modern army with modern weapons. Steve was completely baffled. If they’d reached that stage a thousand years ago, why were they now riding around in suits of armour, brandishing spears and firing bows and arrows? What was it about the past that made them and the First Family want to put the clock back?

  The curtains closed, the music ended. Everyone stood up and waited until Jefferson the 31st and the top-ranking brass left, then joined the general exodus. Steve waited while Fran gathered her skirts together then followed her along the row of seats.

  She took his arm as they reached the aisle. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Yes, amazing – but it looks like you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not the film.’ She took a deep breath and gritted her teeth. ‘It’s sitting down in this goddam corset. It’s practically cut me in half! Come on, let’s get a drink.’

  Four glittering chandeliers hung from the high ceiling of what was called the Rose Room, and beneath them, liveried Mute servants carried trays of drinks and snacks to the chattering clusters of movie-goers and house-residents who’d dropped in to spread or catch up with the latest scuttle-but.

  Fran introduced Steve to a trio of women who were obviously old friends, but he soon found himself on the margin of an animated conversation about someone he had never met. Making his excuses, he slipped away, culled a glass of wine from a passing tray and set about inspecting the paintings hung on the walls of the Rose Room.

  The only pictures in the underground Federation were those supplied on screen by the nine tv channels, or the holographic portraits of the President-General. These were different. They reminded him of the decorated screens and wall-panels he’d seen in Ne-Issan.

  As he stared up at a large framed portrait of a man dressed in a strange hat, long jacket and knee breeches, and carrying a long-barrelled rifle and accompanied by two four-legged relatives of the jackal, he became conscious of someone standing beside him.

  It was Karlstrom. ‘What did you think of the movie?’

  Steve told him – and relayed his puzzlement about why the Iron Masters had chosen to go backwards in time instead of forwards.

  Karlstrom smiled and made a sweeping gesture. ‘The answers are all here in Cloudlands, Brickman. But your trouble is you want to know everything, and you want to know it now. Slow down. You’ll get a great deal further if you take one small step at a time. But let me give you a friendly warning. There’s a saying – "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing". Knowing too much can also be bad for your health.’

  They both saw Fran making her way towards them. Karlstrom’s voice changed gear – becoming louder and more abrasive. ‘So tell me – are you pleased to have your bed-mate back?’ He acknowledged her arrival with a wintry smile and raised his glass. ‘We were just celebrating your safe return, weren’t we?’

  Steve felt Fran’s fingers slide through his left hand and tighten. He returned the supportive squeeze. ‘I’m certainly glad things worked out, sir, but I thought you had given me the job of managing the hand-over. It was only when I discovered Clearwater had gone missing from her room in the Life Institute – and ran into a wall of silence – that I realised it had gone ahead without me.’

  ‘Ye-ess.’ Karlstrom eyed them both. ‘A change of plan. The P-G decided the job should be given to someone else. And I agreed. Let’s face it, you’d already managed to lose Commander Franklynne once. Another foul-up would have reflected badly on the organisation.’

  ‘I can see that, sir – but why wasn’t I told?’

  Karlstrom gave a dry laugh. ‘I think you overestimate your importance, Brickman. You’re just a member of the team
. An elite team with a good track record. Don’t do anything to spoil it.’

  ‘No, sir.…’ Steve stiffened to attention and held his salute as Karlstrom walked away.

  ‘The bastard!’ breathed Fran. ‘After all you’ve done. Don’t worry, we’ll wipe the smile off his face one of these days.

  Steve was destined to see that face the very next day. A trim female lieutenant wearing White House insignia on her olive green fatigues beckoned him out of the lunch line-up on the language lab’s messdeck and took him through the usual obstacle course of card-controlled turnstiles and elevators to their leader.

  Karlstrom met him with a firm handshake as he entered, and shepherded him to the chair in front of the desk which was only marginally less splendid than the one in the Oval Office.

  ‘Sorry to spoil your lunch, but I’ve got a tight schedule. If you’re hungry I can call you up a snack tray.’

  ‘No need, sir – but thank you.’ What was happening? Steve could not remember Karlstrom ever apologising for anything.

  ‘Okay. I’ll get to it.’ Karlstrom leaned forward and laid his hands carefully on the desktop. ‘I just want to explain that little exchange we had last night. That put-down over Clearwater was purely for Commander Franklynne’s benefit. You, unfortunately, were the meat in the grinder. I felt it necessary to explain that personally, and to reaffirm your standing within this organisation. We still regard you as a key player.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Boy! thought Steve. This really is a snakepit! He laid on some clear-eyed sincerity. ‘I’m grateful for this opportunity to see you, sir, because there’s something I think you ought to know. Commander Franklynne was visited by Cadillac while she was held at Sara-kusa and –’

  ‘He gave her information that she intends to use to discredit me.’

  ‘Yes, sir. She didn’t tell me what it was, but I think it could be related to that problem we talked over last year in Cloudlands. About The Lady from Louisiana.’

  Karlstrom nodded and sat back. ‘I remember it well. And you’re right on the button. Your bed-mate has already paid me a visit and threatened to make trouble if I don’t fall into line on certain sensitive issues.’

  ‘And can she …?’

  ‘She has no hard evidence to support her claim. We could argue that Cadillac’s motive in saying what he did was to create internal dissension – and thus wreak more damage on the Federation.’ Karlstrom settled deeper into his chair, steepled his fingers and tapped them thoughtfully against his chin. ‘But if you, for example, were to tell her what you told me.…’

  The surprises were never-ending. ‘Finger the organisation …?’

  Think about it. Apart from the wing-men who were already airborne, you’re the only survivor. And you’re the only man who was on The Lady when those explosions occurred – and lived to tell the tale. That makes you a key witness.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Just reveal your suspicions, Brickman. About the nature and force of the explosions and your conclusions as to how the material may have fallen into the wrong hands. What you do not tell her is that you actually found the M’Calls’ cache of PX, dets and one-oh-eights and let it slip through your fingers. She knows you’re not perfect but there’s no need to give the impression she’s working with an idiot. Just feed her enough to make her feel that (a) she’s got a hot lead on this story, and (b) she has you in her pocket.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Karlstrom threw up his hands. ‘Let’s see where it takes us.’

  When the right moment came, and Fran’s head lay close to his on the pillow, Steve rolled over to bring his mouth close to her ear, and whispered the poisoned words as per instructions. The cumulative effect on Fran was almost orgasmic – lending substance to the saying that power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. She kissed him fiercely, hugged him to the point of suffocation then leapt out of bed to send a video-gram to her father.

  Theodore Bulloch Jefferson. Known to his friends and enemies as ‘Bull’.

  The following weekend, Steve found himself crossing the railyard towards Bull Jefferson’s personal train. A 4-6-2 loco and tender hauling three luxury coaches and a long guard’s van that housed the Mute staff and a kitchen capable of providing three meals a day for the passengers.

  Steve pointed to the flatcar that was hitched to the front buffers of the loco. ‘What’s that for?’

  Fran threw him an odd look. ‘In case of accidents.’ She exchanged familiar greetings with the driver and firemen as they passed the cab. Both wore Union hats and striped bib overalls and were clearly having a great time.

  ‘They family?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fran stopped as she reached the steps to the centre wagon. ‘They’re both cousins. Not everyone’s crazy about trains, but those that are take turns to man the footplate.’ She grasped the side rails and climbed in. ‘Come on – time to meet Dad.’

  Steve – who had been steeling himself for this moment since the meeting had been announced – took a deep breath and followed.

  Fran had already explained that the coaches were fitted out in a style inspired by the furnishings of the white colonial mansions. They were certainly different to the harsh functionality of the wagon-trains.

  The centre carriage was one big room with a conference table and chairs at one end, deep buttoned leather banquettes and comfortable armchairs at the other, and there was even a small counter with decanters of wine and glasses racked on the wall behind. The floor was carpeted and the walls panelled with polished wood which rose to meet an ornately carved cornice. Two shallow crystal light bowls hung from the white ceiling, and there were smaller fittings on the walls between the brocade curtains that fringed the six large windows.

  The antique decor contrasted oddly with the clothes of the occupants, who were dressed in open-necked camouflage fatigues, or silver-grey jumpsuits – like Steve and Fran. The only difference was that most people on board appeared to be two-, three- and four-star generals.

  Everybody looked round but only Bull Jefferson rose from the head of the table as Fran ushered Steve in. He wasn’t overly tall but he had broad shoulders and looked fit and strong. A tough customer with a bullet-headed crewcut going grey at the temples and a deceptively pleasant smile.

  ‘Hello, honey –’ Bull gave his daughter a shoulder pat and friendly peck on the cheek.

  ‘Dad – this is Captain Brickman.’

  Two deep-set grey eyes drilled into Steve like lasers as he stiffened into a salute.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, son. It’s Steve – right?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ He’d always fancied he had a strong grip, but Bull’s handshake was a real bone-crusher.

  ‘Welcome aboard.’ He turned to the only other captain in the room. ‘Tell Tom we’re ready to roll.’

  The captain left. Bull introduced Steve to the other top brass around the table and each one rose in turn to greet him with a brief handshake.

  The three most important were: John Adams Jefferson, Commander-in-Chief of the Wagon-Train Division – CINC-TRAIN himself. The top Trail-Blazer; Andrew Jackson Jefferson, C-in-C Military Engineering Division – whose men actually built and serviced the wagon-trains, and Zachary Taylor Jefferson, current Head of the Design Bureau of MED – which had originally created the wagon-train and was still engaged in a rolling programme of modifications and improvements.

  And they were all related to Bull. John Adams was a brother; the other two were cousins.

  Bull steered Steve into the seat at the opposite end of the table where everyone could see him, and resumed his place with Fran immediately to his left. ‘Okay, Steve. I’ve got the gist of your story from Fran, but I’d like to hear it again in your own words.’ He saw Steve’s reaction. ‘You have my assurance that nothing you say here today will get back to AMEXICO. Y’understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The train started with a series of jerks as the couplings tightened and the buffers collided, then it moved slowly out of the railyard.


  ‘Okay. Take us through it from where you put Clearwater on Red River to the action on board The Lady – and don’t miss out what you told Fran about the explosives.’

  Steve gave them what they wanted, editing the story so that he was no longer the prime mover for the attack on Red River. As he now told it, the idea to draw the Mutes into a rescue attempt had came from Karlstrom to Malone and his renegades. He was merely the hardworking go-between building on the links he had already forged with the M’Calls. Links which were now fragile because Cadillac was no longer sure he could be trusted.

  He re-lived the moment when he and ‘Malone’ reached the train, seconds before the M’Calls launched their attack with a series of explosions that had immobilised The Lady and crippled its defensive systems, and took his audience up to the time when he had been flown off on Karlstrom’s orders to Red River, while The Lady’s crew made a last desperate effort to hold back the invading horde of Mutes. And he repeated his suspicions about the type of explosives that had been used in the attack and where they might have come from.

  When he finished, his hosts exchanged thoughtful glances and muttered amongst themselves. Outside the windows, the overground stretched away into the distance, muted tints of grey, brown and yellow under a pale wintry sky.

  Steve sat there, not knowing whether they were going to turn on him and expose his duplicity before throwing him under the train, or award him a Gold Merit Star. But nobody tore into him. Fran sent a ‘Well Done’ signal with her eyes, and Bull’s aide asked him if he’d like a drink. Steve asked for a KornGold – a tangy synthetic orange-flavoured cordial. The generals ordered the more potent Southern Comfort and stood up to stretch their legs.

  Nobody in the wagon appeared to have the slightest suspicion that there was a murderer sitting in their midst. Someone who had helped slaughter Hartmann and his execs – Buck McDonnell and the others – in an unforgivable but necessary act of betrayal. Talking about it again had made Steve wonder how he managed to sleep at night with so much blood on his hands. The blood of friends as well of enemies.…