‘Perhaps it is not necessary to understand these things,’ said Cadillac.
Steve smiled. ‘Are you kidding? When we started, the Amtrak Federation was little more than a hole in the ground. Now, thanks to the First Family and Columbus, we have twelve bases with more building, linked by linear-drive monorails. We have two-way video, geo-thermal power, hydroponic farms with automated weather systems, lasers, powered flight, the technological know-how to do whatever we want and you – you’re still in the stone age.’
Cadillac smiled. ‘And yet, in spite of these marvels, here you are.’ It was the kind of observation Mr Snow would have made and it pleased Cadillac immensely.
‘A lucky shot,’ said Steve.
‘And the other cloud warriors that fell?’
‘Freak weather plus a few bad breaks. None of that makes any difference. It’s time you faced up to the facts. No one can resist the power of the Federation. You’ve seen what The Lady can do. We have twenty wagon trains like that and we’re building more all the time. Ten years from now we’ll have a hundred. In twenty, we’ll have way-stations from coast to coast. We’ll be unstoppable. We are the future. You are the past that’s about to be swept away. You’re living in a make-believe world – Sky Voices, Mo-Town, Names of Power… you’ve all been swallowing too much Dream Cap. I don’t know where Mr Snow got his version of history from but, believe me, it didn’t happen like that.’
‘Are you not sand-burrowers?’ countered Cadillac. ‘Do you not live in the Dark Cities beneath the Great Desert of the South?’
‘They’re not dark,’ replied Steve. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?! We have electricity. Neon tubes. Long sticks that give off light like the sun.’
‘They cannot banish the darkness in the mind,’ said Cadillac. ‘This is what we mean when we speak of the Dark Cities. The truth stands in the words of the Plainfolk. After the War of a Thousand Suns, Pent-Agon and his servants – you, the sand-burrowers – were buried beneath the earth as punishment for your crimes against the world.’
‘We must have been let off for good behaviour,’ said Steve lightly. ‘It may not have come to your notice but the Federation has had way-stations on the overground for nearly two hundred years. And the way things are going, in another hundred, the whole of America will be ours once again.’
Cadillac shook his head. ‘It will not happen. The Sky Voices have spoken to Mr Snow. The iron snakes will be defeated. You will be driven back into your burrows, and your dark cities will be crushed beneath the desert.’
‘Really,’ said Steve. ‘And when is this supposed to happen?’
‘When the Earth gives the sign,’ replied Cadillac. ‘The Plainfolk shall be as a bright sword in the hand of Talisman, their Saviour.’
Steve frowned. It was the second time this name had come into their conversation. ‘Talisman? Who’s he?’
‘The Thrice-Gifted One,’ said Cadillac.
Steve’s curiosity was aroused but his young benefactor ignored his questions and left without offering any further explanation.
In the days that followed, Steve had a series of conversations with Cadillac and Mr Snow. They questioned him endlessly about the Federation, how it was organised, what it was like to live in an underground city, what people did, what they wore and what they ate. Steve, in turn, asked them about the history of the Plainfolk and how the M’Calls had come to be regarded as one of, if not the greatest of the She-Kargo warrior clans, along with more practical questions about food supplies and how they survived the long months of winter; the period the Mutes referred to as the White Death.
Sometimes, three or four, or as many as half-a-dozen Mutes, clan elders or Bears and She-Wolves would gather round them and sit silently listening to their conversation. Now and then one of them would rise abruptly in mid-sentence to be replaced by a new listener. Steve got the impression that their audience did not fully understand what was being said; they were just listening to the sound of his voice and that of the two wordsmiths; letting the flow of conversation wash over them as one might sit listening to the rippling murmur of a mountain stream.
Mr Snow was particularly interested in what the Federation termed its ‘pacification programme’ for the New Territories. Steve described in detail how the early Trail-Blazers had reconquered the overground above the Inner and Outer States. The resistance offered by the Southern Mutes had been sporadic. The clans that had fought had been wiped out; those who had opted to surrender had been reduced to serfdom. The majority of the surviving clans had been relocated in work-camps built around the semi-subterranean way-stations; where this was impractical, they had accepted to pay annual tribute in the form of work gangs, or fixed quotas of metallic or chemical ores, timber, or other raw materials. These were ferried by wagon train to overground sawmills, smelting and processing plants crewed by Mutes with Tracker overseers from the way-stations then hauled down to manufacturing plants within the earthshield. Mining operations located near Tracker bases were accessed directly from the underground levels by groups of Young Pioneers as they had been in the past before the Break-Out; the historic moment in 2464 when the Trackers opened up their first permanent interface with the blue-sky world.
Steve also told Mr Snow about ‘yearlings’. Following the Break-Out it had been discovered that now and then, Mute females sometimes gave birth to a ‘straight’ – a Mute child free from genetic malformation and with a uniform skin colour. For some unexplained reason straight Mutes were, without exception, males. Since any clan found harbouring an undeclared straight faced immediate annihilation, all such children were handed over to the Trackers at birth.
In return, the fortunate clan was released from its obligation to supply its quota of ore, timber or work gangs for a period of twelve months. Hence the name ‘yearling’. The new-born Mutes were taken to a special centre known as The Farm where, as far as Steve knew, they were subjected to various tests in connection with the Life Research Programme and then disposed of.
‘Have you ever talked with any of our Southern brothers?’ asked Mr Snow.
Steve shook his head. ‘You can’t talk to them. It’s hard enough getting them to understand what work they’re supposed to do. As a wingman on a wagon train I was never close enough to ‘em. But I must admit I never tried. First because, if it’s not your job, it’s not encouraged; second, because it’s, well, uhh – not healthy to hang around them too long; third because it just wouldn’t enter my head to talk to a lump He broke off with an embarrassed smile. ‘I mean, they’re not like you and Cadillac. They’re…’
‘Stupid…?’ volunteered Mr Snow.
Steve shrugged. ‘If you want me to be honest, yes, most of them probably are. They don’t know anything and they can’t learn anything.’ Steve hesitated then concluded lamely, ‘Well – that’s what we were told.’
Mr Snow nodded with an understanding smite. ‘How do you think they feel?’
‘Feel…?’ Steve looked puzzled – as if he couldn’t quite grasp the idea that a Mute could feel anything; could have expectations of anything other than the life to which history had condemned him.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Snow. ‘How do you think they feel about working in slave-camps?’
Steve pursed his lips and pondered the question. ‘I don’t know. They’re alive aren’t they? They get regular meals. They don’t have to fight other clans.’
‘They are also bound with iron ropes.’
‘Iron…? Oh you mean chains,’ said Steve. ‘Yeah, that’s true. But not everybody. Only the trouble-makers.’
Mr Snow nodded then said quietly, ‘Why do you think they make trouble?’
Steve responded with a quick laugh. ‘I guess they don’t like work.’
‘Maybe they have a different way of looking at the world.’
‘Maybe they have,’ said Steve. ‘What they have to learn to do is look at it our way.’ He smiled to take the hard edge off his words. ‘This is our world. This country belongs to us. T
he Mutes in those work camps are there because they lost out. They had a choice – and they chose not to die.’
‘Are those the only two options we have?’ asked Mr Snow. ‘Slavery or death? We think, we feel, we draw breath. Don’t we have a right to exist?’
Steve chewed over his reply. ‘I don’t know quite how to put it.’
‘Put it anyway you like. Shoot to kill.’
‘Then the official answer is “No”. Not in the eyes of the Federation. We’ve been raised to think of you as lower than animals; that it is our duty to wipe you off the face of the earth. But…’
‘But what…?’
‘Now that I’ve met you and Cadillac I’m not so sure. I’m – well, kind of – confused. I mean you talk like a – real person.’
Mr Snow chuckled. ‘Thank you.’
‘And Cadillac – if you ignore the colour of his skin–’
‘– looks like a real person. Yes, I can see the problem. Never mind.’ Mr Snow patted Steve’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’ll work it out.’ He uncrossed his legs and stood up. He began to walk away, then turned back. ‘What would you say if I told you that the ancestors of the Plainfolk were people from the Old Time – straight-limbed people, many of them with skins the same colour as yours?’
Steve decided it was time to be diplomatic. ‘After meeting you I’d have to say that anything is possible.’
Mr Snow chuckled heartily. ‘You’re a smart cookie, Brickman. You’ll go far.’
As he watched Mr Snow walk away he had the distinct feeling that the old wordsmith and his heir apparent were stringing him along. Steve had always prided himself on staying one step ahead of the game and it annoyed him to be kept in the dark. It was Mr Snow who was the smart cookie. It occurred to Steve that, just as he had been able to ‘predict’ certain minor events a few seconds before they occurred, his two principal captors might also possess some means of knowing what was passing through his mind – such as his firm intention to escape at the earliest possible moment. Maybe that would account for the amused expression with which Mr Snow listened to what he had to say. On the other hand, it was just possible that they actually enjoyed his company despite the fact that he had made no attempt to curry favour. Steve was a survivor but he was not, by nature, a groveller. So far, his robust approach seemed to be working. They did not seem to mind his outspokenness, in fact, they seemed to encourage it.
As a consequence, and totally against his better judgement, Steve found himself looking forward to his daily conversations – what the Mutes called ‘rapping’. He could hardly bear to admit it to himself but, in an odd sort of way, he was beginning to warm to his hosts. This was not, as so often in the past, a calculated act of deception; the feeling was quite genuine. He still viewed them as little more than primitive misshapen savages who stank like an A-Level garbage line but they had a relaxed life-style that was in marked contrast to the tightly-structured Developmental Activity Programme which had ordered his life within the Federation from Day One. His Tracker psyche was being torn in two. One part chafing at the lack of discipline and vigorous organisation, repelled by an alien way of life; the other part succumbing to the insidious attractions of overground existence.
Despite years of indoctrination some long-buried instinct had been aroused; was responding – as on his first solo flight – to the blue-sky world. It had, admittedly, been a privileged kind of existence thus far. He hadn’t yet been obliged to hunt for food, or cook over open fires in pouring rain or a snow storm. He had enjoyed room-service and the attentions of a string of nurses, and the clan had not had to defend its turf since he crash-landed amongst them. That said, compared to the Federation, it was still like living on a five-star dung heap.
But there was something else.
The one great discovery Steve had made as a captive of the M’Calls was the quality of stillness. An almost narcotic calmness had crept into his mind. There was noise but it came from natural sources; the sound of wind through the trees, running water; the human voice in speech and song; living sounds; children laughing, crying, being comforted with soothing murmurs; the haunting music made by blowing through wooden pipes, vibrant notes that hung on the air, created a disturbing resonance within him.
Such a simple device yet something quite unknown within the Federation where all music was produced electronically and – except for blackjack – under the total control of the First Family. But, above all, up among the Plainfolk there was no hassle; there was no one riding herd on your ass; the eye and ear was not being constantly battered by inspirational video-casts yet, in spite of the complete absence of exhortation from some central ruling body, there was a unity of purpose; a cooperation in time of need without any overt sign of discipline.
A kind of togetherness. An unspoken kinship. An…
Awareness.
The word-concept came fully into Steve’s mind, catching him by surprise.
FOURTEEN
The day after Steve’s conversation with Mr Snow, Cadillac appeared with an elderly lumphead called Three Degrees. Both Mutes carried several freshly cut saplings and the lumphead was equipped with a machete, paring knife and awl, a bone needle and coarse handmade binding thread. Cadillac got Steve to draw the design of Federation-issue crutches in the dirt outside the hut. As these were made in metal, certain modifications were inevitable and after some discussion Steve made a revised sketch which – although he could not know it – resembled the old wooden frame model that had supported the wounded in the first half of the twentieth century. Steve watched with undisguised admiration as Three Degrees wielded his primitive tools with skilled precision. Prompted now and then by Cadillac he quickly fashioned a pair of crutches with firm neat-fitting joints and arm rests padded with fast-foot skin.
Cadillac helped Steve to his feet and stood by him as he took the first few halting steps with the aid of the crutches. His left leg could not yet bear any weight, his left shoulder and wounded right arm were still painfully stiff but the pleasure of regaining a measure of mobility more than outweighed any discomfort.
Three Degrees watched with a delighted grin as Steve got the hang of one-legged walking and began to move more rhythmically. ‘Is good?’
Steve nodded approvingly. ‘Terrific.’
Three Degrees looked at Cadillac uncertainly.
‘A word from the Old Time,’ said Steve. ‘It means very good.’
‘Numero Uno,’ explained Cadillac. ‘Prima.’
‘Ahh, dig. Right on.’ Three Degrees smiled broadly as he gathered up his tools. ‘Have a nice one.’ He patted Steve on the arm and ambled away.
One of the female Mutes who had brought Steve food on several occasions approached carrying his camouflaged flight fatigues rolled up under her arm. They had been washed and inexpertly sewn together where they had been torn in the crash. Cadillac helped Steve back into them. All the pockets that held his survival equipment were depressingly empty. It made Steve feel half-naked.
‘How far am I allowed to go?’
‘As far as you want,’ said Cadillac. ‘But for your own safety it might be better if you stayed within the bounds of the settlement.’ He smiled. ‘The overground can be a dangerous place.’
Steve nodded. ‘Is that all?’
‘No. Don’t go into any huts without being invited, don’t pick up any sharp iron or tools you might find lying around, don’t take any food unless it is offered to you.’ He smiled again. ‘There are people here who would dearly like an excuse to put your head on a pole. Capeesh?’
‘Terrific,’ said Steve, mentally filing ‘capeesh’, ‘dig’ and the other new words he had just heard from Three Degrees. He had discovered that the Mutes had two distinct speech modes. The first was a kind of ceremonial language with a curious elliptical syntax in which the words were full of imagery. Mute songs were written in this style – probably the reason why it was known as fire-speech. It was the favoured speech mode of warriors when greeting people, in formal discussions
and in encounter situations. Cadillac, who seemed very concerned with status and protocol, had used it a lot in the beginning but now he and the old wordsmith were conversing in a mixture of Mute and Basic – the language of the Federation they had picked up from Steve. The second, more informal, speech mode known as ‘sweet-talk’ was closer to Basic, and possessed the raw juicy directness that characterised Trail-Blazer jargon. Sweet-talk also embraced a fascinating sub-set known as ‘jive’. A semi-secret warrior tongue which was almost impossible for a stranger to understand without an interpreter.
Steve adjusted the crutches comfortably under his armpit and set off on his first walk through the settlement. The M’Call huts were scattered across a high wooded plateau where the days dawned crisp and clear. The adjacent slopes were thinly covered with the same dark red-needled trees; to the west, a further range of hills rose even higher. Steve remembered being moved at least four times. From his general knowledge of the area gleaned from study of the maps aboard the wagon train he reckoned that the clan had moved in a westerly direction. The trouble was that, without a map, he had no idea how far they had travelled but the fact that many of the huts had been set up on open ground without any attempt to conceal them from the air implied that the clan now judged themselves to be beyond the range of the patrolling Skyhawks.
As he hobbled around the M’Call settlement, Steve began to discern the daily pattern of Mute activity. Each morning, posses of Bears and She-Wolves went out on hunting expeditions, returning soon after sundown with game of various kinds – mountain deer with thick curving horns, and, once, a buffalo. The She-Wolves specialised in snaring birds and fish. Other mixed groups of warriors chosen for guard duty squatted motionless on high ground around the settlement or patrolled the limits of what the clan deemed to be their turf. Evading these sharp-eyed sentinels when he made his planned escape was yet another problem he had to overcome.
In between his exploratory walks, Steve sat in on several of Mr Snow’s classes for the young Mutes and admired the patience with which he dispensed the rudiments of knowledge. After a few sessions he realised that many of the lessons and stories were repeats of previous material. The long question and answer sessions with the two wordsmiths who, up to that point, had been his principal interlocutors had caused Steve to overlook this basic flaw in the Mute make-up. He was reminded again of their congenital forgetfulness when he ran into Three Degrees on one of his walks. The old lumphead failed to recognise his handiwork and it was obvious that he only had a hazy recollection of who Steve was.
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