The morning sun, already high in the sky, had begun to bake the landscape. Much of the dusty terrain beyond the fence, where gangs of sweating Mutes worked under Tracker overseers to extract mineral ores from the ground, was blanked out by a heat haze.
Steve still found it incredible that these two contrasting lifestyles could exist alongside each other. He knew that the First Family were feared and revered by ordinary Trackers. Though less impressed than most, he had shared those emotions, and accepted that because of their exemplary role as leaders and visionaries, they had to hold themselves aloof from the lower ranks.
That faith had been misplaced; the vision which had inspired uncounted generations of Trackers was a flawed illusion. The First Family might live longer, but in all other respects they were no different to, or better than, anyone else. In fact they were worse, because they knew the truth and had buried it beneath a monstrous edifice of lies. They demanded continuing sacrifice and preached unity, while they enjoyed undreamt of luxury and plotted to unseat each other.
Steve had tasted that luxury and been tempted by it, but the enormity and extent of the deception had proved too much even for him to swallow. And the realisation that the Family owed much of their pre-eminence to the Mute blood in their veins had left him with nothing to hang on to. There was no hidden Store of Truth waiting to be discovered. The only thing he could be sure of was himself.
He heard two sharp clicks and found Fran snapping her fingers in front of his face. She was sitting on the opposite side of a small table set against one of the train windows. Behind her, at the big table, Bull Jefferson and his cronies were playing a game of stud poker. The other guests had formed conversational groups or were looking out of the windows.
‘You playing this game or what?’
‘Wha—? Ohh, yes!’ He looked down at the chessboard and saw the threatening position taken up by Fran’s black queen. ‘Whose turn is it?’
‘Yours.’
‘Ohh, yehh … shit.’ His hand hovered indecisively over his beleagured pieces.
‘You’re absolutely hopeless, I don’t know why I bother. What were you dreaming about?’
Steve moved his one remaining knight. ‘Me …? Oh, I was just wondering what the people on the other side of those fences think when they see us and this train going past.’
‘It’s not their job to think,’ replied Fran. ‘And there’s not much they can see anyway. They’re too far away. Those robot watch-towers have proximity sensors which trigger loudspeaker warnings to keep away from the fence.’
‘And we have the same system around Cloudlands?’
Fran smiled. ‘Why? Are you thinking of running away?’
Steve swept a hand around the carriage. ‘From all this? I’m not that crazy. No, I’m just amazed that in all the years I spent down below, no one ever breathed a word about Cloudlands. I can’t figure out how it’s remained a secret for so long. Okay, no one can get through the fence or past the watch towers, but with all the air activity that’s going on, how come nobody’s spotted all those big white mansions?’
‘I’m surprised you have to ask,’ said Fran. ‘But then we did have a heavy night. It’s a prohibited zone. No one’s allowed to fly over it or near it. That’s why we have our own air force.’
‘Of course. The silver Skyhawks.’
‘The wagon-trains roll out from Nixon/Forth Worth, so their ’Hawks only operate north and west of the state line – unless of course they’re on supply runs to way stations. Any planes put up by the divisional bases are normally on routine patrols or supporting a ground action against marauding bands of hostiles. I hardly need to tell you that pilots are not allowed to take off from any of our bases without filing an approved flight plan but’ – she smiled – ‘even if someone was consumed with curiosity, nobody but us gets to fly within a hundred miles of Grand Central. Satisfied?’
‘Yes.’ The First Family airbase was definitely the answer to his problems. ‘Sounds as if you’ve got it all covered.’
‘We’ve got everything covered, Brickman.’ She picked up the black queen and took the white knight with it. ‘Checkmate.’
‘Again,’ sighed Steve. He pulled out the side drawer and swept his pieces into one of the boxed sections.
Fran did the same with the black. ‘I’m surprised you’re not better at this. I mean … when you consider I managed to teach you Japanese.’
‘Yes, I know. Maybe we ought to take a chess set to bed with us.’
‘That sounds like a good move.’
Steve looked up to find Eleanor Jefferson, Fran’s mother standing at his shoulder. John Chisum was just behind her.
Eleanor’s smile broadened. ‘But first, we’d like you both to join us for a picnic’
Steve jumped to his feet. ‘With pleasure, ma’am!’
The train stopped about fifteen miles from ‘San Antone’ as it was called. Everyone climbed down off the train and trooped across to the edge of a tree-shaded lake, where they sat down on rugs and reclining chairs in the dappled sunshine, or strolled around the lakeside while the Mute servants brought out hampers of food and drink and laid everything out on folding tables covered with sparkling white linen cloths.
Sighting a narrow landing stage with a railing on one side, Steve walked over and found it was attached to a small boat house containing two slab-sided dinghies. Fran accepted his invitation to row on the lake, and sat on the rear seat under her yellow parasol, trailing one hand in the water. The air was cooler over the lake, but Steve decided to strip off his jacket and roll up the sleeves of his white shirt.
Pulling on the oars reminded him of the journey across Lake Michigan with Cadillac. Compared to the idyllic scene that surrounded him now, that had been a nightmare. Fran, seen in repose, conveyed the impression of someone soft and alluring – demure, even. Animated chatter and laughter drifted across from the people dispersed along the shoreline. Sunlight sparkled on the crystal glasses and polished cutlery being laid on the buffet tables by the Mute servants – quiet as shadows.
What were they – rejects from the Life Institute? How did they feel about what they saw around them? He’d meant to ask Joshua the Head of Service back at Savannah, but had never gotten around to it. Compared to the Mutes in the chain gangs, they had it easy – and if they’d been born into it, they probably didn’t even question their status.
Steve heard the rapid tinkle of a small silver bell. ‘That sounds like lunch.’
‘Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty for everybody. Take me across to the far side of the lake.’
It didn’t take long. The lake was only about two hundred yards wide. Steve shipped the oars and let the boat glide towards another small landing stage.
‘Now get out.’
‘What?’
‘Get out! I’m going to race you back to the picnic!’ Fran closed her parasol and tossed it into the bow of the boat and took her seat at the oars. ‘Wait till I turn around!’ she commanded.
Steve checked the perimeter of the lake. ‘Do I get to choose the way I go?’
‘No! You have to go the long way!’ Fran paddled the boat towards him until the stern touched the bank then got a firm grip on the oars and positioned them just above the water for the first pulling stroke. ‘GO!!’
Steve started running. It was a lot further than it first appeared – and Fran was rowing strongly despite being hampered by her wasp-waisted corset. He piled on the speed. Bull Jefferson, his wife Eleanor and their family guests, seeing the contest, divided their support between the two, some shouting encouragement to Fran, others urging Steve to make a greater effort.
By now, Fran was halfway across the lake and Steve was flying like the wind. The running brought him back in tune with the overground. With who he really was. It felt good! Fran’s strike rate had dropped, but she wasn’t the type to give up. The cheers from the shore spurred her on.
Coming round the second bend, Steve switched from thinking he couldn’t make it to
thinking that perhaps he could, briefly considered throwing the race to humour Fran, then decided against it. No! Screw ’em! He kicked into a higher gear, making a controlled finish, reaching her arrival point while she was still three yards out. Everyone cheered themselves hoarse.
Bull slapped him on the back. ‘Well done, boy! For a minute there, I thought you were going to throw the race. But, heh-heh – that’s not your style. An’ that’s good. I like it. I got enough brown-nosers around me already!’
Steve retrieved his jacket and the yellow parasol then helped Fran ashore. She pinched his hand and gave it a savage twist. Steve responded with an even harder squeeze.
She didn’t flinch. ‘You bastard!’
‘You can’t win ‘em all.’ Steve returned her defiant stare, then they both let go by common consent.
‘Bring me something to eat.’
Steve bowed politely and handed back the yellow parasol. ‘My pleasure, ma’am!’
Just after two in the afternoon, when everybody had finished lunch, Steve saw John Chisum heading back up towards the train with some of the other men. He ran to catch up with them. ‘Where are you going?’
‘We’re going to take the train down to the end of the line and turn it around – then pick up everybody for the return trip. D’you want to come?’
‘Of course he does.’ Bull Jefferson came up from behind and moved between them. He gave Steve another pat on the back as they walked on. ‘Been meaning to thank you for that last batch of tape you brought us. You’re doin’ a great job.’
‘I’m only sorry it’s taking so long. I never imagined the data files would be encrypted.’ He looked across at Chisum. ‘How’re you doing on that?’
‘We’re managing,’ said Chisum.
Bull slapped Chisum’s back and said to Steve: ‘Cleverest man I’ve met. Don’t know what we’d do without him.’
Ten miles down the line from the lake the single line track ran out into a small shunting yard with several sidings, a turntable, water tower, coal hopper and a shed containing a squat shunting loco powered by massive batteries and plugged into the mains supply. And all this had been installed so that the First Family could play with trains.
This was where Steve discovered that riding the rails was only part of the fun for Bull and his friends. He was given a pair of overalls, and a union hat to change into, then put to work with an uncoupling hook as the carriages were shunted back and forth, swung on the turntable, then reassembled in the right order behind the big 4-6-2 loco which now stood with its nose pointed towards Grand Central. While Steve and his workmates had been ducking in and out under the buffers and tapping the wheels, Bull’s half of the team had topped up the engine with coal and water, oiled every bearing in sight, hosed off the dust and polished the brass work.
The shunter was rolled back into its shed, then everyone went into the shower and changing room built against the outside wall, tossed their overalls into a hamper that was carried off by two of the Mute train staff, then soaped off the grime under the line of shower heads while they sang several rousing choruses of ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain’!
Chisum, who was standing alongside Steve, caught his eye and winked. ‘This is the life, eh?’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Steve. He twisted the tap around to cold and jerked as the ice-cold needles hit his chest. ‘When are you and I going to have that long talk you promised me?’
‘Soon. Things are a bit difficult right now.’
They donned their uniforms and rejoined the train, along with the footplate crew who had handed over their oily rag and shovel to Zachary Taylor Jefferson, head of the wagon-train design bureau, and another relative of Bull’s for the return trip.
Steve stood on the rear observation platform on the way back to the lake. Looking up the line, he caught sight of the picnickers moving in small groups towards the track and heard the driver whoop the whistle in greeting. As the distance between them narrowed, the passengers formed an expectant line along the track. Steve glimpsed the bright yellow splash of Fran’s dress near the head of the line. He climbed down onto the bottom step of the platform as the train slowed then jumped off as it ground to a halt.
Fran took the offered arm. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘Yes, but not as much as your father. He was in his element back there.’ He helped her climb up onto the observation platform. ‘Am I forgiven?’
She folded her parasol and gave him a backward glance as she entered the carriage. ‘For the moment.’
Steve paused in the doorway. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to stay out here?’
‘And get soot all over my dress?’ Fran walked along the corridor past the galley towards the centre carriage. Steve followed as the Mute train staff loaded the picnic hampers and the folding tables and chairs in through a side door. In the centre carriage, everyone was settling down for the return journey. Some were yawning from their exertions in the fresh air. Steve saw the member of the Family who was acting as the guard on this trip walk past outside towards the rear of the train, flag in hand. The whistle sounded. The loco hooted. There was a series of squeaks and clanks as the couplings took up the strain, then the train moved off.
‘I’m going to lie down for a while,’ announced Fran. ‘By myself. Okay?’
‘Sure, go ahead. Want me to unhook your dress?’
‘As long as you don’t get any ideas.’
‘I don’t think this is quite the place for it, d’you?’
‘You’d be surprised.’ Fran threaded her way around the armchairs and past the big table where Bull had started another card-game.
The lead carriage was fitted out with toilets, six sleeping compartments, a small private study cum bedroom reserved for Bull, and closest to the loco, the room housing the computer workstation, the radio equipment that kept Bull in touch with Cloudlands and the railway control system, and the battery of small video-screens linked to the tv cameras that displayed views of the roof, sides and underside of the train and the track beneath.
Steve helped Fran out of her dress and caught the sullen look in her eye. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still upset about –’
‘The race? Of course not. While you were down the line, I had to listen to my mother telling me what a wonderful person you were, and how they both couldn’t wait for me to marry you.’
Steve concealed his own feelings. ‘Would that be so terrible?’
‘It would if I had a baby.’
‘Which is what they want’
‘Don’t try to pretend you didn’t know.’
‘I didn’t. And you’ve got to believe that. None of that means anything to me.’
‘Not even the child you had with Clearwater?’
Steve shrugged. ‘That was an accident.’
Fran gave him a searching look. ‘Yes, well, all this mother, wife and baby talk has given me a headache.’ She hung up the yellow dress then flopped down onto the bunk bed and vented her exasperation by pummelling the mattress.
Steve opened the door, placed the ‘Do not disturb’ sign into the eye-level slot, then looked back and smiled. ‘See you later.’
Emerging into the corridor, he walked past the other sleeping compartments, knocked on the door of Bull’s stateroom then, receiving no reply, entered and went on through to the communications room. One of the two ensigns detailed to watch the screens turned in his swivel chair. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Steve looked around the room. There was another door on the far side, marked ‘Toilet’. ‘Is Captain Chisum through there?’
‘No, sir. I haven’t seen him in a while.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
Steve closed the door behind him, exited from the stateroom and checked the other five sleeping compartments. One of the doors was shut, the other four were empty. He knocked on the locked door. ‘John…?’ No reply. He knocked again, but there was no response. Pausing in the doorway to the crowded centre carriage, he surveyed the interior then wa
lked through into the last carriage.
In the crowded galley, some of the Mute staff were catching a late lunch while others washed up the dishes from the picnic. He went past the guard’s cabin, towards the door that led to the rear observation platform. It had a glass panel in the top half with a view of the track running away into the distance behind them. He opened it, fully expecting to find John Chisum admiring the view.
The platform was empty. Where the hell had he got to…?
There was only one answer – Chisum had to be in the second occupied sleeping compartment. And if he hadn’t answered, it was because he’d got lucky and didn’t wish to be interrupted. So why hadn’t he put out the ‘Do not disturb’ sign?
Steve felt his stomach tighten. He had started out with the idea of pinning down Chisum for that promised talk while Fran was asleep and out of the way. The observation platform would have been ideal. But now a more alarming idea was creeping into his brain. He went back inside, checked the guard’s compartment, baggage room, store and galley on his way through.
As he came back into the centre carriage he suddenly felt giddy. He steadied himself in the doorway. Ahead of him was a sea of blurred, animated faces. Their laughter sounded tinny and their voices echoed sharply – as if the sound was coming down a long tunnel. And then other voices filled his head, a growing whisper that swelled to a warring crescendo like the wind building to a storm-force gust. Steve suddenly realised what he had to do, and knew he had only seconds in which to do it.
He stepped across to the nearest free-standing armchair, grabbed hold of its female occupant, threw her aside, picked up the chair, hurled it through the nearest window then, to a chorus of startled cries, launched himself head-first through the gaping hole in the shattered glass.
The window was only some eight feet above the track bed but it seemed an eternity before he hit the ground. He stretched out his hands in an instinctive effort to break his fall. As he curved downwards he saw the observation platform flash past him, and as it did so, all three carriages exploded sideways and upwards, throwing the rear of the tender and loco up in the air and –
Earth-Thunder Page 46
