But what if Mr Snow’s version of history contained an element of truth? What if Cadillac and Clearwater proceeded to give birth to their own kind, and more like them amongst the other Plainfolk clans spawned succeeding generations of straights? Mutes would no longer be Mutes. The whole basis for the centuries-old conflict would disappear. Christopher Columbus! How would the Federation function if it had no one to fight? For over five hundred years, dispensing death had become the way of life for generations of Trackers. In every aspect of its organisation, in thought, word and deed, the Federation was geared to the conflict with the Mutes. Since the age of five his own life had been totally dedicated to learning how to kill lumpheads. What would wingmen like himself do without a war?
As the complications multiplied rapidly, Steve blocked off this alarming train of thought and switched back on to Mr Snow. He found the old wordsmith watching him with an amused expression. ‘You’ve overlooked something too. I’m your prisoner. You’ve ribbed me about escaping but we both know I’m not going anywhere. Who am I going to tell?’
Mr Snow shrugged. ‘Who knows? Things happen.’
Steve wasn’t sure what that meant but couldn’t be bothered to find out. The old wordsmith loved to make things sound mysterious. Why not? Keeping people’s attention was part of his job. ‘Tell me something – is Motor-Head one of the guys who’ve got it in for me?’
‘He’s not the leader but, yes – he’s one of them. And you are right. Despite what I’ve told them about you being under Talisman’s protection, they have been looking for an excuse to get rid of you. Your, uhh – how can I put it…? Your interest in Clearwater could be the opportunity they’ve been waiting for.’
‘Who said I’m interested?’
‘Come on, Brickman – it’s written all over your face.’
Steve felt his cheeks begin to burn again.
‘Don’t be embarrassed. It happens to all of us. It’s nothing to feel bad about.’ Mr Snow stopped and studied Steve intently. ‘I’m wrong. You really are upset. Is it because she’s a Mute?’
‘She’s not a–’ Steve bit on his lip to stop himself getting in deeper.
‘Yes, I see what you mean.’ Mr Snow nodded understandingly. ‘It must be difficult for you.’
‘Look,’ said Steve. ‘You’re way off base, believe me. The fact that I now know Cadillac is a straight does not alter the way I feel about him. Clearwater is – well, another matter entirely. I can understand the clan wanting to keep her under wraps. Let’s face it, she’s…’
‘… unique?’
Steve answered cautiously. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. She’s certainly a rare specimen. But then you know that. Just make sure you take good care of her.’
Mr Snow chuckled. ‘She can look after herself.’
‘This is nothing to laugh at,’ insisted Steve. ‘The wagon trains will be back. Lots of them. It’s only a matter of time before the Federation starts treading on your turf. When they do, the M’Calls may be glad of the opportunity to trade Clearwater instead of paying tribute. She’s your greatest asset. Put her together with Cadillac and you’ll be able to write your own deal.’
Mr Snow shook his head. ‘The Plainfolk have never paid tribute and never will. What you say is true – Cadillac and Clearwater are like bright jewels in the crown worn by a great king of the Old Time. But we possess something of even greater value. The greatest asset of the M’Calls is our readiness to accept our destiny. That demands a courage beyond your understanding.’
‘You’re right,’ replied Steve. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will one day.’
It sounded more like a threat than a promise. Steve gazed at Mr Snow in silence then said, ‘So… what do you suggest I do?’
‘Do?’ Mr Snow shrugged. ‘You play it as written. Life goes on. The Wheel turns.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not quite. I’ve taken the liberty of assuring the clan elders that you will say or do nothing now or in the future that will harm Clearwater or her relationship with Cadillac. And that you will not attempt to approach her or converse with her except in the presence of others and only if requested to do so. Is that clear – and do you accept?’
Steve laughed. ‘What d’you think I’m planning to do – run off with her?’ He saw the old wordsmith’s expression and wiped the grin off his face. ‘I’m sorry. Yes, of course I accept. I don’t imagine I have much choice – right?’
Mr Snow waved the question away. ‘I’ve also told them that you will never, under any circumstances, reveal the existence of either to anyone outside this clan. Unreasonable?’
‘No, unlikely. As I already pointed out, I’m a prisoner – but, yeah, sure, I’ll go along with that.’
Since, in biting the arrow, Steve had gained the status of a warrior, Mr Snow briefly considered asking him to swear the traditional blood-oath to guard the secret with his life. He decided such a pledge would be meaningless to an individual who scorned the ways of the Plainfolk and had no concept of honour. Such strange people, these sand-burrowers. And such consummate liars!
Steve’s eyes wandered briefly over the random pattern covering Mr Snow’s body. ‘If no one is supposed to know their secret, why don’t Cadillac and Clearwater just leave the dye on their skin and paint over it when it wears off?’
‘It has to be removed at regular intervals to prevent their bodies from being permanently discoloured,’ replied Mr Snow.
‘But…?’ Steve looked baffled.
Mr Snow smiled. ‘Isn’t it obvious? There may come a time when they will need to appear un-skinned.’
‘You mean… disguised as Trackers?’
‘I would not discount that possibility,’ admitted Mr Snow. ‘As servants of Talisman they may be required to assume many guises.’
Steve nodded. ‘Okay, then let me give you a word of advice in case you’ve been picking my brains with the idea of breaking into the Federation. Forget it. Even if they managed to find a way in, they wouldn’t get ten yards without an ID-card. It’s the key to everything – and they’re non-transferable.’
Mr Snow digested this valuable piece of intelligence with a thoughtful expression. ‘Thanks for telling me.’
A couple of days later, Cadillac returned sporting his new paint job. As far as Steve could see, it was an exact duplicate of his previous body markings. He had even been rubbed down with something – probably a fine dust – to kill the fresh colour. Steve took care not to pay him undue attention, greeting him casually, as if he had been away for several minutes not several days and did not remark upon, or seek the reason, for his absence.
Shortly afterwards Steve glimpsed Clearwater moving about the settlement accompanied by her two sisters, or in a group with other She-Wolves. Although he was never conscious of a deliberate effort by the clan to keep them apart they somehow never managed to meet face to face. If their paths crossed it was always at a discreet distance. Despite his desire to get better acquainted Steve held firmly to the promise he had given to Mr Snow and contented himself with just looking at her whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was very seldom that their eyes connected and for the most part, her expression remained neutral but, from time to time, he found himself on the receiving end of a brief, tantalising glance which, had she been any closer, would have burnt the soles off his boots.
Steve took care not to let his frustration hinder his growing friendship with Cadillac. He introduced him to the quarterstaff and when the young wordsmith had once again demonstrated the ease with which he could acquire new skills, put forward the idea of teaching him to fly. Cadillac’s response was non-committal but, two days later, Steve emerged from their hut to find the dismantled remains of three Skyhawks arranged in several neat piles inside a large semi-circle of seated spectators.
Curbing his excitement, Steve made a casual but beady-eyed inspection of the various bits and pieces. Some of the struts and wing spars were badly distorted but most of the airframe
components he needed were available. The crumpled, vandalised cockpit pods looked beyond repair. The sole surviving engine looked more or less intact but it had a broken propellor.
Cadillac appeared at Steve’s shoulder. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s a possibility, no more.’ Steve’s doubt was genuine. ‘I’m not sure we have enough wing fabric,’ he added, realising he had torn up strips of the precious material to plait into his own hair. ‘But the biggest problem is the fact that we don’t have any metal working tools.’
‘What kind of tools do you need?’ asked Cadillac casually.
It took Steve several seconds to recover from his surprise. ‘You’ve got tools – here?’
‘Some. We may be able to get others.’
‘Where do you get them from?’
‘The people who make our crossbows. The iron masters.’
‘Who are they – Mutes?’
‘No, they are unskinned, like you. But like us in other ways.’
Steve tried to make his interest sound casual. ‘Where do they live?’
‘Beyond the eastern door. In the Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem.’ ‘Where is that exactly?’
Cadillac shrugged again. ‘No one knows. It is said that there are many lands beyond the eastern door but the Plainfolk have never been there. We trade with the ironmasters when their wheel-boats ride the great rivers. The Yellow-Stone, Miz-Hurry and Miz-Hippy.’
Steve committed the names to memory. ‘When do they come?’
‘Once, sometimes twice a year. Some years not at all.’ ‘And what do you trade?’
‘Bread-stalk seed, buffalo meat. Dream Cap, men, women.’
‘You trade your own people?’
Cadillac smiled at Steve’s reaction. ‘Only those who are prepared to go. Is that worse than staying and being killed because the clan has no sharp iron?’
‘No, I guess not,’ admitted Steve. ‘What else can you tell me about the iron masters?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But why do they trade you weapons?’ insisted Steve. ‘Why don’t they use them to defeat you and the rest of the Plainfolk?’
Cadillac answered with a shrug. ‘Perhaps because they are too few in number.’
‘Okay, in that case, why don’t your people attack them, make ‘em prisoner and set ‘em to work? Why trade valuable goods when you can make slaves of them?’
Cadillac smiled. ‘You’re thinking like a Tracker.’
‘Come on,’ riposted Steve. ‘You kill other Mutes.’
‘Only in defence of our own turf.’
‘Yeah, sure…’ Steve realised that it would be a waste of time to argue the point further. He fisted Cadillac’s arm. ‘Let’s get to work. We need a screwdriver, something to drill holes with, a saw to cut this tubing, a flat file, a–’
Cadillac frowned. ‘What’s a screwdriver?’
Steve sighed inwardly. ‘Just show me what you’ve got…’
Aided by Cadillac, Three Degrees, another skilled Mute with the apt name of Air-Supply and a score or more of willing go-fers, Steve proceeded to construct a serviceable airframe. Throughout the process of rebuilding, Cadillac worked alongside Steve, helping him every step of the way. Once again, Steve was impressed by the Mute’s agile brain and his mechanical aptitude. The young wordsmith had an almost instinctive grasp of aviation technology and the theory of flight. What Steve didn’t know was that Cadillac’s mental powers had enabled him to draw the knowledge and understanding of these things from his own mind.
The wing fabric proved to be the biggest headache but after sweet-talking the entire clan into handing back every usable scrap of fabric that had been ripped off by trophy hunters, two sets of panels were laboriously pieced together. The overlapping patchwork seams were bonded with pine resin, then hand sewn and then the two layers were fitted over the wing spars and securely fastened together with parallel lines of stitching. There was no way Steve could recreate the inflated aerofoil section wing of the Skyhawk he had flown into captivity but, amazingly, the solar cell fabric still functioned. Using short strands of wire from multi-cored power cable held in place with globs of resin, Steve connected the patchwork of panels in series. It was a slow fiddly job but finally the circuit was completed.
Lacking any proper measuring equipment, Steve was forced to improvise. He checked that he had a spark across the end of the wires then asked some Mute children to bring him a live fish from the nearest stream. They brought back a plump trout in a skin water-bag and watched curiously as Steve stuck the ends of the wires into the water. The trout bent in the middle as if it was trying to bite its tail off then rolled over and floated to the surface. Satisfied that he had a modest amount of power at his disposal, Steve proceeded with the repair and installation of one of the electric motors for which Three Degrees had proudly carved a new propellor from dark yellow wood.
Three weeks after picking up the first piece of tubing, a motorised, forty foot span hang-glider – which they had named Blue-Bird – stood poised on head-high sapling trestles. Steve connected the cable, bringing the current from the wing panels to the motor, then everyone held their breath and waited for the sun to clear from behind a seemingly endless bank of dull grey cloud. After an interminable wait, the thin fuzzy shadow cast by Blue-Bird’s wings darkened into a hard-edged arrow as the sun soared into a patch of deep blue and beamed down its warmth upon their upturned faces. Steve threw the switch. Nothing happened. He spun the prop. Nothing. Like churning mud with a stick. A disappointed sigh went up from the ring of spectators. Steve swore quietly and whacked the motor casing with the flat of his hand. The propellor turned obediently, blurring into a smooth disc of spun gold.
‘HEY-YAAH!’ roared the clan.
Steve threw a double-handed kiss at the sky. ‘Oh, you sweet Mother!’ he crowed.
‘Will you have enough power for take-off?’ asked Cadillac.
Steve shook his head as he tightened one of the starboard rigging wires. ‘If the circuit holds, it will help us stay up once we get airborne but that’s all.’ But that’s enough, he thought exultantly. With a zero sink-rate, I can wave goodbye to these lumps anytime I choose…
Blue-Bird was carried with great ceremony to the top of a gentle slope from where Steve made several test-runs, floating a few feet off the ground while Mute children raced alongside him laughing and shouting excitedly. The fear and pain caused by the arrowheads over the cropfields appeared to be entirely forgotten. Steve was pleasantly surprised to find that Blue-Bird was inherently stable and responded well to shifts of the control bar and his suspended body.
The first real take-off from the top of a steeply sloping bluff was perfect. As he hung in his harness, riding the cool updraft, Steve experienced anew the exhilaration of flight. It was like a re-run of his first overground solo; the quickening heartbeat, the sharpened senses, a new awareness. He banked round towards the bluff and went into a series of climbing figure-eights over the watchers below. Above him the sky was blue, with scattered white clouds. Behind him, the motor hummed smoothly.
Because of his stone-age circuitry, the solar cell fabric was delivering a fluctuating current that – from the level of sound from the motor – Steve judged to be between thirty and fifty per cent of its normal potential. While it did not enable him to climb, it produced enough power to maintain altitude once he’d got up there by riding into the wind like a kite, or on the back of a convenient thermal. As the watching Mutes below shrank to ant-like proportions Steve realised that he now had a golden opportunity to escape. The idea had been lurking at the back of his mind from the moment his feet had left the ground on the first test glides. Before taking off from the bluff he had concealed the map under his fatigues. He had not had an opportunity to recover the buried ration pack and water kit but that did not really matter. He could survive for the few days it might take to fly back to the Federation. He had been drinking contaminated water and eating raw fruit for months now; he had also been breathing radio-active
air and been in skin-to-skin contact with Mutes. Another week either way wouldn’t make much difference. Since emerging from the days of semi-drugged sleep way back at the beginning, Steve had gradually forgotten the invisible death shroud that still enveloped the overground. Now and then he remembered the constant danger with a sense of shock – followed by a moment of perplexity as he realised that, despite his prolonged exposure, he had not yet suffered any noticeable signs of radiation sickness. Steve knew it was bound to manifest itself sooner or later. There could be no escape. He would suffer the same fate as Poppa-Jack. But how strange! he thought. Maybe it’s just being up in the air again but it’s a long time since I felt as good as this.
Steve levelled out at an estimated altitude of three thousand feet – well beyond the range of any Mute crossbows below. If he was going to make a break for it, now was the time to do it. A see-saw battle raged inside him. Steve knew that, if he chose this moment to fly away, he would be betraying the trust of Cadillac and Mr Snow. And there was Clearwater. Despite his promises to Mr Snow and to himself, his resolution was beginning to crumble. Steve wanted to get close to her again; to talk to her without being surrounded by a milling crowd of Mutes. He would stay, he decided. He would delay his flight to freedom until he found some way to meet up with her. Just once. Just the two of them. But that was crazy too. He knew it was his duty to escape: knew that, if he did not, he would inevitably fall sick and die, yet…
Something was wrong. Something had happened to him. And Steve knew what it was: it was the same feeling that had gripped him when he had faced the open ramp doors after his first overground solo. The thought of returning to his life underground, a life which once seemed the normal – indeed the only possible mode of existence, now filled him with a strange dread.
Cloud Warrior Page 29