The Amtrak Wars: Blood River

by Patrick Tilley

  The next morning, when Izo Wantanabe emerged from his quarters on the wheelboat, the skies had cleared. Climbing up the newly-swept steps to the bridge, Izo scanned the surrounding landscape. A deep covering of snow – heaped in places into mountainous drifts – stretched away to the north, east and south as far as he could see.

  Because of the weather, Izo had been unable to send the message he had prepared the previous day and it was now probably a waste of time to do so. If the bird-men had managed to outrun the snow cloud and return to their roost the answer to his query would be largely academic. On the other hand, the receipt of his message and its contents would be duly noted in the log. If examined by his superiors it would provide proof of his alertness. But even if the agent at Ludington had nothing to report it did not significantly alter the overall situation. The iron snake, which carried the cloud-warriors in her belly and killed all those who came too close with its white-hot breath, might still be lurking on the west bank of the Miz-Hippy River.

  Offensive actions during the winter months were unprecedented but they could not be ruled out. The cloud-warriors could have seen the wheelboat. If their masters concluded that its presence signified a strengthening of the links between the Iron Masters and the Plainfolk they might return to attack it with the much-feared fire-blossoms. From now on, he and his staff must remain vigilant. Summoning them on deck, he told them what he had seen the previous day and explained its importance. Starting immediately, the entire crew, working in pairs on two-hour shifts, were to maintain a sky-watch from dawn to dusk until further notice.

  After adding a hasty postscript to his original message, Izo ordered the pigeon-keeper to prepare the fastest bird they held from the Ludington coop. While the message, in its tiny capsule, was being attached to the bird’s leg, a carrier-pigeon arrived from Di-taroya, the first outland station, on the straights of Hui-niso. Reports passed on by ‘friendly’ Mute clans, whose turf lay to the northwest, spoke of two ‘arrowheads’ that had flown ‘out of the east.’

  From Ne-Issan …

  An inner voice told Izo that these were the same pair he had seen running ahead of the snow-cloud. The agent at Di-taroya, who was preparing a report to send to Lord Yama-Shita, wanted to know if these craft had been sighted by the staff of the other stations. If the answer was ‘yes’ they were to contact Lord Yama-Shita directly.

  Seized by a premonition that he had accidentally become a player in an intriguing and mysterious drama, Izo tore up his first message and swiftly prepared another. The thought that the account of what he had seen, signed and sealed with his name, would soon be on its way to the palace at Sara-kusa excited him. The original query to Ludington might lay unnoticed for months, even years; this report would reach people of importance in a matter of days, drawing their attention to the diligence with which he performed his appointed task. Izo closed his eyes and called upon the Goddess of Good Fortune to bless his actions. He felt her calm hand on his brow; his brush hand ceased quivering. This was not the end of the affair. There would be more questions. When they came, he intended to have some of the answers.

  The pigeon circled several times as it got its bearings then flew off eastwards on rapidly beating wings.

  Calling the master-sergeant to his quarters, Izo informed him that he had decided to make a four-day journey on horseback into the interior, accompanied by two sea-soldiers, pack-mules, and one of the male domestics to act as forager. By making contact with the scattered clans whose turfs lay to the south of his station Izo hoped to establish with some precision where the ‘arrowheads’ had gone after passing over Benton Harbour. He asked the sergeant to select three dependable men and appointed him to command the house-boat in his absence.

  Each agent had been supplied with four horses and six pack mules for overland sorties. The weather was far from ideal for a horseback ride but the primary reason for the animals’ presence was to impress the natives. The enormous size of the Great River wheelboats and the formidable appearance of the masked nobles and samurai created an atmosphere of authority and power that could not be matched by the agent’s modest house-boat and relatively puny entourage. Nor could the sense of occasion that accompanied their brief annual visits to the trading post be sustained for months on end.

  The boats anchored at the outland stations could have been easily overrun but the agents had been assured they were unlikely to be attacked. The Plainfolk clans – who were not as dumb as they looked – had long realized that any unprovoked aggression would be counter-productive. But that realization did not automatically engender respect – especially when you were inferior both in numbers and physical stature.

  That was the real problem: the average grass-monkey stood head and shoulders above the average Iron Master. Since they did not have the awesome bulk of three giant wheelboats to act as a backdrop to their negotiations, Izo and the other agents needed something to enhance their status as Sons of Ne-Issan. Horses – which the Plainfolk had never seen before – had been the answer. Once seated in the saddle, Izo was immediately elevated to an impressive height and wherever they went, horse and rider were greeted with universal awe.

  After the necessary preparations for the journey had been completed, Izo took leave of his tearful wife and children and set off in a southwesterly direction. The Iron Masters were used to harsh winters but the deep snow hampered the movement of both men and horses.

  Since this was the first winter spent in the outlands, they did not know that with the onset of the ‘White Death’, the Plainfolk went to ground, living in a state of semi-hibernation like wild animals. Their brains tended to fall asleep too, and the inhabitants of the few settlements Izo managed to find were even more doltish than usual and could offer no assistance even when their spirits had been warmed with a cup of sake.

  On the fourth day, numb with the cold, hungry and ill-tempered, Izo turned back towards Benton Harbour. His patient escort, hardly able to believe their luck, followed in grateful silence, buoyed up by visions of steaming tubs, hot food, warm beds and glowing charcoal braziers. Their expectations of an early return to ‘civilization’ were shattered when Izo, acting on a sudden impulse, turned left and cantered off along an ancient hardway which the cutting wind had partially cleared of snow.

  The three-man escort exchanged weary glances then followed with sinking hearts, tugging the reluctant pack-mules behind them. Head down, face averted, man and beast leant their right shoulders into the wind as it tore thin white streamers from the razor-edged crests of the drifts and sent them snaking across their path. On they went for the rest of the day, covering some twenty-five miles – much of it on foot – urging their exhausted animals through the more densely-covered sections where the snow was often thigh-deep.

  As darkness fell, Izo’s party sought the shelter of a clump of pine trees that stood huddled together in the freezing wastes like beleaguered sentinels. Cutting branches to provide the tethered horses and mules with a warm footing, they tied blankets to their backs, fed them the last of the hay then set up the communal tent at the foot of the innermost tree.

  Supper consisted of balls of cold rice and meat washed down with hot green tea cooked over a small charcoal firepot. Izo sent one of the soldiers out to make a last check on the animals then, on his return, poured a small cup of sake for each man as a nightcap and announced his firm decision to start out for Benton Harbour at first light. Since their rations were almost exhausted and their search had so far failed to turn up one single piece of useful information his companions were ready to believe that this time he meant it.

  Warming their feet and hands over the embers, they slid into their fur-lined sleeping bags, pulled the hood tops tight around their faces and dreamt of home: of boughs heavy with pink cherry blossom, sun-dappled meadows, the quicksilver flash of fish rising from the mirrored surface of a lake, the laughter of children as they lay sprawled on top of a wagon-load of sweet-smelling hay, the autumn sun, a vast red disc, sinking through a golden
haze, the scent of pollen and wild flowers lying heavy on the still evening air.

  *

  On the morning of the fifth day, they awoke to discover they had passed the night less than a hundred paces from another encampment: a curious structure which betrayed its alien origin even under a thick coating of snow. Arming their bows, the two soldiers approached cautiously. Izo, brandishing a sword that had never drawn blood while in his hands, called upon the occupants to show themselves. His imperious command in Japanese was unlikely to be understood, but the sound of his voice breaking the stillness ought to have produced some response.

  Nothing moved, no one stirred.

  Covered by the drawn bows of the two sea-soldiers, Izo and his servant made a circular tour of inspection and found themselves confronted by the snow-covered remains of a straight-winged vehicle which lay tilted on one side. The body of the vehicle, whose width was less than the span of his outstretched hands contained a windowed compartment, one side of which had been crushed against the nearby tree.

  Izo made a cursory examination of the snow-covered interior of the compartment from a safe distance, noted the coverless, empty storage space that lay behind it then walked round to the other side.

  The downward-pointing wing had been turned into a make-shift shelter using branches cut from the surrounding pine trees. Izo ordered his servant to check that it was empty then followed him in. Smaller branches had been laid inside to make a floor. A few charred pieces of wood lay around a small soot-covered metal container. There were several similar open-topped containers which, from their smell, may have contained outlandish food. There were also some irregular-shaped pieces of a mysterious flexible material with a surface like polished steel and – most significant of all – some torn strips of bloodstained blue-grey cloth.

  One of them bore part of a house-symbol which Izo recognized instantly. The dark-brown eight-petalled flower of the Min-Orota. Pale blue-grey was the colour of the clothes worn exclusively by the slave workers of Ne-Issan. This was part of a tunic and the blood seemed to indicate the owner had been injured when the sky-chariot had come to earth.

  The reason for him being on board was obvious – this was an attempt to escape. But how had an ignorant slave gained access to such a craft and where were the long-dogs who had guided it and its twin companion through the air?

  A shout from one of the soldiers put an end to further speculation. Emerging from the shelter, Izo hurried round to the other side of the wrecked sky-chariot and saw one of the sea-soldiers floundering towards him through the knee-deep snow. The soldier pointed to his companion who had moved some considerable distance along the hardway and was waving his arms excitedly.

  Izo broke into a high stepping run, trying to place his feet in the holes already dug by the two soldiers.

  ‘Another sky-chariot!’ gasped the first soldier. ‘Empty – but this one –’ He paused to gulp down more air, ‘– unbroken!’

  Izo ordered him to rejoin the servant by the wreck and pressed on. Halfway there, when his thigh muscle began to burn, he abandoned the high step and began to kick his way through the snow like a blunt plough, leaving a ragged furrow behind him.

  As he drew closer to the second soldier, Izo caught sight of the second, snow-covered craft and began to share his excitement. Viewed from a distance, it was almost invisible against the white landscape. The wind-driven flakes had stuck to the freezing cold surface, covering all but the extreme underside of the dark grey body.

  Bursting with pride, the sea-soldier led Izo towards his find, stamping the snow down ahead of him. The sky-chariot stood on three legs with its feet buried in snow that rose to within inches of its belly. With its straight wings spread out on each side at shoulder height it looked like a plump-bodied duck gliding down to alight on a pond.

  Its tail – which Izo could just touch by reaching up with his fingertips – was attached to two parallel hollow beams that grew out of the rear edge of the wings. A raised hatch, held open by a stay, revealed another empty storage space. Moving onto the passenger compartment, he ordered the soldier to scrub away the frozen coating from one of the side windows then peered inside.

  The snow lying on the rest of the canopy cast an eerie light over the dark-coloured interior. Despite their outlandish design, the two seats with sets of straps to secure the occupants were easy to identify. As to the function of the strange devices that lined the four sides of the compartment, that was a mystery Izo did not intend to pry into. He had seen enough to convince himself that it was an exceedingly dangerous place which he and his men should not attempt to enter. The craft, and everything within it, was the work of the sand-burrowers, slaves of The Dark Light; the evil force that had totally destroyed The World Before.

  Izo was left in no doubt that these were the two sky-chariots that had been seen flying out of the east and had later passed over Benton Harbour. He and the soldier scoured the surrounding area but the intermittent blizzards that had hampered their progress during the first three days had obliterated the tracks made by the departing cloud-warriors.

  It would make finding them more difficult but Izo was not unduly worried. Since his party had not encountered tracks of any small groups during their southward journey, it meant the cloud-warriors must have headed in the direction he expected – towards the west. If they were travelling on foot through deep snow with at least one wounded companion, their progress would be painfully slow.

  The condition of his quarry and the direction they had taken were guesses based on the most tenuous evidence but, in the past, Izo had always been lucky when he had backed his own judgement. If he was right again (and he was convinced he was) then there was a reasonable chance of picking up their trail before they reached the Miz-Hippy.

  But without food for themselves and their exhausted horses, Izo knew that immediate pursuit was impossible. Given the present weather they would need fresh mounts and more pack-animals before undertaking another overland journey. The first move was to return to the house-boat and send word to his masters. Signalling the sea-soldier to follow him, he turned back towards the campsite and broke into a stumbling run …

  *

  Steve’s unknown adversary was right. Since abandoning their first makeshift shelter beneath the wing of the wrecked Sky-rider, progress across the snow-covered landscape had been painfully slow but the problem of keeping warm had been partially solved prior to their departure. Leaving Clearwater to look after Kelso, Steve and Jodi had gone out hunting with Cadillac. The hand-guns lacked the range of the Mute crossbows but after two days of plugging away at anything and everything dressed in a fur coat they amassed enough skins to keep the worst of the cold out.

  The problem of stitching them together had been foreseen by whoever had designed the survival packs that came with each Skyrider; each pack contained a variety of needles and reels of stout waxed thread. Squatting around the fire like immigrant tailors fresh from a shetl in Czarist Russia, they set to work. By dawn, the sewing circle had produced some rough shapeless over-garments which they then tied in place around each other’s bodies using electric wiring and strips of fabric culled from the wrecked Skyrider. It was fortunate they were concerned more with keeping warm than keeping up appearances for when the last knots were tied and they emerged to test their yeti-boots in the snow, they looked like a ragamuffin quartet of stone-age primitives in search of a mammoth beefburger.

  The collective but somewhat reluctant decision to head west along the hardway was taken round about the time that Izo Wantanabe decided to head in the same direction. A bitterly chill wind was driving the snow horizontally across the landscape but Steve would not allow them to wait until it stopped. They set out in a somewhat acrimonious mood but despite the appalling weather they chose the right moment for the snow and wind quickly obliterated their tracks.

  Dave Kelso, trussed up like a Bacofoil mummy in his reflective blankets, and covered with a bear skin – still raw and bloody on the inside – lay on a
n improvised stretcher with Jodi’s half of the canopy lashed over the top part of his body as extra protection.

  With Steve paired with Clearwater at the front, and Cadillac with Jodi at the back, the load was evenly and easily distributed but after they’d covered the first few miles, Steve realized there was no way they could carry him through the snow to Wyoming.

  Besides being not physically possible, there was no point in doing so – as Steve had already concluded. Kelso’s fractures would be incurable by the time he got there. But even if they dumped him, it was highly doubtful whether they themselves could survive such a journey, ill-prepared, and in the depths of winter.

  They had to find somewhere to hole up until spring. Steve only knew of one place – the dugout he’d used in Nebraska. It was warm, dry, well-concealed and just about big enough for the five of them. Nice idea, but there were two big snags. The dugout had been set up by AMEXICO, which meant there might be another undercover agent in residence – in radio contact with Karlstrom. And – the real killer – it was more than seven hundred miles from their present position.

  With a pang of regret, Steve recalled Baz, the playful wolf-cub whose brief life had been blown away by Malone. He wiped the scene from his inner eye and turned his thoughts back to the problem of finding suitable winter quarters.

  There had to be another solution …

  There was – but the elements did not drop into place until several days later.

  Warmed by an hour-long soak in a steaming bath-tub and the loving embrace of his wife, Yumiko, Izo Wantanabe’s spirits rose even further when his trusty sergeant presented another dispatch which had arrived by carrier-pigeon the day before his return.