Steve laughed disgustedly. ‘Aww, c’mon, guys, stop jerking off! This is a pipe dream! There’s no way the M’Calls could capture a wagon-train. I’m not saying Mr Snow couldn’t wreck one. He came pretty close to doing that at the Now and Then River. But capturing one in working order … hell!’ He laughed again. ‘Can you see a wagon-master lowering the ramps to let a screaming bunch of Mutes on board?’
Malone’s brow furrowed. ‘No …’
‘Exactly. It’s a total waste of time to even think about it. Cadillac and I have already been through this. That was what started the argument which brought out the knives. I wanted to try and rescue Roz. He said it couldn’t be done. And he was right.’
‘I didn’t say it couldn’t be done,’ said Cadillac. ‘I said I wasn’t prepared to waste the lives of my clanfolk trying to rescue your kin-sister.’
‘Whatever you say, Caddy. I’m not gonna argue with you any more. I broke my blood-oath once and look what happened. I lost Clearwater.’
‘We both lost Clearwater. But she is not lost forever. Thanks to you, she is alive – and has asked us to deliver her!’
‘Aren’t you forgetting the prophecy? Isn’t she supposed to go into the Federation? She asked Mr Snow if she would die in the darkness of their world and he said, “No, you will live”.’
‘I am a wordsmith as well as a seer,’ exclaimed Cadillac. ‘I forget nothing. And only a seer can interpret the images he draws from the stones. In speaking of you I said this: He will come in the guise of a friend with Death hiding in his shadow and he will carry you away on a river of blood. I said nothing about her going into the Federation. Clearwater just assumed that. In replying to her question – Am I to die in the darkness of their world, or will I live to see the sun again? – the Old One merely said she would live. He said nothing about the dark cities.’
‘So she’s not destined to go into the Federation …’
‘Not in my reading. For me, the images apply to our time in Ne-Issan. You came in the guise of a friend, offering to help me, but you were really planning to wreck my work.’ He held up a hand. ‘No! Don’t interrupt! The death hiding in your shadow was your secret link with the Federation who supplied the devices you used to destroy the Heron Pool. The slaughter surrounding our escape was the river of blood on which you carried Clearwater away.’ Cadillac smiled disdainfully. ‘You see how it all fits together?’
‘Yeah, it’s neat. Okay, so I blew you out of a job. And yes, I conned the Federation into thinking I was working with them. It was the only way to get you out of there. I’d promised Mr Snow I’d do my best to rescue the pair of you – and that’s what I did. Your place is with the Clan M’Call. And if you’re still peeved because I forced you to face up to reality, well tough on you!’
‘The reality, Brickman, is that Clearwater is now a prisoner of the Federation, held on board Red River. And until she is rescued, you have only kept half your promise to the Old One.’
‘Sweet Sky-Mother! Caddy, for crissakes, be practical! Okay, Clearwater is not dying but she needs medical attention! That’s why all this talk of storming the train is sheer lunacy. She can be moved, yes, but you’re not going to be able to walk out with her thrown over your shoulder!
‘She’ll have to be evacuated properly – preferably not in the middle of a fire-fight – and for a while she’ll need to be cared for by a doctor. The only person we can rely on to do that is Roz. Which means we have to get her out in one piece as well, plus some of the drugs, dressings and equipment that are stored in the blood-wagon –’
‘We have no need of such things. The Old One can heal her.’
‘The Old One didn’t save everybody after the battle with the wagon-train. He can set simple fractures and use plant-based substances to keep some types of wounds free of infection but he’s not a miracle worker. You might as well stuff his herbal remedies up your ass for all the good they’re going to do Clearwater. You are right, I goofed – but at least I managed to save her life.’
‘And I’m grateful for that …’
‘Good. All you’ve got to do now is get used to the idea that we can’t get her off the train. I’m the only person who can rescue her.’
‘Oh? How?’
‘By switching sides – talking them into believing I’m still the straight arrow they thought I was. I’ll have to go back to the Federation with Clearwater and then, when she’s better, try and find some way to get her and Roz out into the blue-sky world.’
Cadillac looked dismayed. ‘But that could take months, years!’
‘It could do,’ admitted Steve. ‘You got any better ideas?’
‘I don’t know – surely there must be some way we could –’
‘Caddy! For the last time! Forget the fucking train! What are you gonna do? Hang around in the hope that someone’s gonna leave a door open? There’s absolutely no way your people can get on board! I’ve served on one of those things! The spectre of Mutes running wild inside a wagon-train is the nightmare all Trail-Blazers share. But it doesn’t keep them awake at night because they know it can’t happen. That’s why the trains are designed the way they are. Even if you got past the guns and the steam jets there’s still no way you can get inside. When those ramps are up, those wagons are shut tighter than a gnat’s ass!’
Malone came out of his reverie. ‘The wagon-master …’
Steve had almost forgotten he was there. ‘What?’
‘The wagon-master. He wouldn’t lower a ramp for a bunch of Mutes, but he might lower it to let a group of Trail-Blazers on board – ‘specially if they had some lumpheads in hot pursuit.’
Steve saw Cadillac’s interest quicken. ‘Meaning …?’
‘Well, it’s just an idea but … if we were somehow able to get hold of enough helmets, uniforms and rifles …’
‘Disguise ourselves as Trackers?’ asked Cadillac.
‘There’d have to be enough of us to seize control of the ramp and hold it long enough to get more of your people aboard.’
‘You’re crazy,’ said Steve. ‘D’you think the guys running Red River are just gonna sit there and let it happen? As soon as you show your hand at the top of the ramp, they’ll close the fire doors at either end, unhitch the wagon then pull away and reform, leaving you sitting there with nowhere to go!’
‘They could do,’ admitted Malone. ‘But I’m hoping this Mr Snow character might be able to do something about that. But if you think he can’t deliver then forget it. To pull this off, we need brains, brawn and magic.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘Never thought I’d hear myself say that.’
‘The Old One has the power,’ said Cadillac. ‘He will know what to do when the times comes.’
‘Does that mean we’re in business?’ asked Malone.
‘No. It means I’ll think about it.’
Cadillac had tried to sound non-committal but Steve knew exactly what was going through his mind.
And so did Malone. The lump had taken the bait. He was on the hook …
Later, as dusk fell, Steve caught Malone sitting by himself in front of a small camp-fire. He hunkered down beside the brooding renegade and stretched his hands over the flames.
‘How am I doing?’ asked Malone.
‘With Cadillac?’ Steve smiled. ‘Great. Just keep oiling him up. You’ll have him eating out of your hand.’
‘Brown-nosing ain’t exactly my style,’ said Malone. ‘But if that’s what it takes to get a result…’
‘It’s a relief to be working with someone of your experience.’
‘Don’t get smart, Brickman.’
‘I wouldn’t dare. The last time I spoke out of turn, you loosened a couple of teeth and almost broke my jaw.’ He glanced over his shoulders. ‘I’d better go. We shouldn’t be seen too often with our heads together.’
‘You’re right. But listen – these seeing-stones … are they for real? Can that lump actually tell what’s gonna happen?’
‘You’d better believe it,’ sai
d Steve. ‘He saw both of us going down under the water, and a week or so later we were trapped on a sinking boat and nearly drowned! Creepy, huh?’
‘Yeah.’ Malone shifted uneasily. ‘I hate all this magic shit.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ replied Steve. And he was not just thinking of Nevill. Steve liked situations where you could figure all the angles, plan several moves ahead. The trouble with magic was it was so fucking unpredictable. People were bad enough, but magic was unfettered by the rules of logic, the scientific laws that governed cause and effect. ‘But don’t let’s knock it,’ he concluded. ‘It’s saved my ass several times already.’
‘That’s what worries me,’ growled Malone. ‘Bouncing beaver may have softened your brains a little but you’re no dick-head.’
‘Thanks …’
‘If a guy like you takes it seriously then we could be in big trouble.’
‘You mean with Mr Snow?’
‘Yeah. It looks like our friend here will run him up the ramp but how the fuck do we put the brakes on someone like that before he puts a bolt of lightning up everybody’s ass?’
‘That’s where Roz, my kin-sister comes in.’
Malone accepted this with a nod. ‘Mother mentioned something about a demo. Is she a summoner too?’
Steve laughed at the idea. ‘Of course not. She’s a straight-A like you and me. But being a telepath, her brain – like mine – must have some extra capability, or be using circuits we all possess but which most of us never plug into. And now, suddenly, another part of her brain has been switched on, giving her the ability to take temporary control of other peoples minds – by altering their perception of reality.’
‘Whatever that is,’ grunted Malone ‘– but how’s this gonna fix Mr Snow?’
‘Jeez, what a question! This new power’s come as much a surprise to her as it had to everyone else.’
‘C’mon, Brickman! If I’ve gotta put my ass on the line to nail Mister Magic, I wanna know what she’s providin’ in the way of back-up. You were there when she spooked Wallis and the other guys. You tryin’ to make out you and she didn’t connect over this?’
‘No. But all I got were a series of sensations, not the workshop manual.’ Steve hesitated. ‘The best way to explain it is to imagine Mr Snow is a radio transceiver and she’s a heavy burst of static. When he switches on, she’s gonna swamp the air-waves and block out all incoming and outgoing signals. If she can prevent his brain from functioning coherently then, in theory, he won’t be able to draw in these forces or direct them outwards on to a specific target.’
‘Sounds plausible. Question is, will it work on the day?’
‘That’s something we’re gonna have to take a chance on.’
‘Great. That really builds up my confidence. One last thing. That business with Roz and the message from Clearwater. Was that for real? Did she really come through then or were you just juicing our feathered friend?’
Steve smiled knowingly. He warmed his hands one last time then rose to his feet. ‘No point in answering that, is there? You don’t believe in all this magic shit.’
‘Malone’s eyes narrowed but his battered face was not unfriendly. ‘Gidd-outta-here!’
Since leaving the Clan Kojak on the shores of Lake Mi-Shiga, Steve, Cadillac and Clearwater had followed, wherever possible, the line of the ancient hardway listed on Federation maps as Interstate 80. In the pre-Holocaust era it had been part of a continuous east-west ribbon of concrete that began in the Big Apple and ended at Denver, Colorado, passing through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa and Nebraska on the way.
They had long since gone off the left hand edge of the map that Steve had found on board the aircraft they had stolen at Long Point, but the clans they met along the way all agreed that if they continued towards the setting sun they would reach the edge of a wide endless river. Since they had already crossed the Mississippi, Steve knew from the maps he’d seen during his training at Rio Lobo that this had to be the Miz-Hurry – the Mute name for the Missouri.
The crumbling weed-covered remains of Interstate 80 had finally petered out some miles from the river, but eventually they found themselves on the edge of a one hundred foot high bluff overlooking the east bank. On the far side lay the buried remains of Omaha. The headquarters of Strategic Air Command, sited at Offut AFB just south of the city had made Omaha a prime target in the global nuclear war which brought 20th century civilization to an abrupt end.
In the public archives which could be accessed via COLUMBUS, the blame for the Holocaust was laid firmly on the Mutes; the role played by the Russians was ignored, the very existence of the USSR, along with all other nation-states beyond the borders of the USA, had been erased from the records and the minds of the Federation’s soldier-citizens.
According to COLUMBUS there was only one continent, America: only one race, Trackers – born to inherit the blue-sky world once it had been cleansed of the subhuman scum spawned in the hell-fires of the Holocaust, the incendiary tidal wave of murder and mindless destruction that had burned every city, township and hamlet to the ground and which – as everyone knew – had been the work of the degenerate, drug-crazed hordes who had fathered the Mutes.
It was an agreeable fiction: the historical fact, insofar as it concerned Omaha, was that the air base, the city and its riverbank neighbour, Council Bluffs, Iowa, had been obliterated by a multiple strike which included both air and ground bursts.
A single H-Bomb would have sufficed, but despite the endless attempts (some genuine, other entirely fraudulent) to reduce the stockpiles of nuclear weapons, the politicians and the generals who held the fate of the planet in their hands were still wedded to the concept of overkill. The first missile obliterated its target, the remainder merely rearranged the glowing ashes and ensured that the key personnel sheltering in SAC’s bomb-proof bunker beneath Offut AFB stayed there – permanently.
The initial fire-flash which, in its first few milliseconds of incandescent life was hotter than a solar flare, had vaporized all the timber-frame houses and reduced their brick-built neighbours to cinders. The four bridges linking the two cities, scarred and riven but still standing after the first blast, had disintegrated in the second, their steel-work fusing with stone and concrete into huge red-hot gobbets of volcanic lava which had been hurled into the boiling river below.
Half-submerged in the wide shallow waters, they had fused and cooled to form irregular clusters of giant stepping stones, their jagged edges worn smooth by the slow-moving, endless flow of the river. Over the centuries, ash and dirt, settling on the exposed surfaces had provided a fertile bed for airborne seeds, and debris floating downstream had become entangled with the rockpiles, forming a ragged gap-toothed weir thatched with wild grasses and a scattering of trees and bushes whose trailing roots were draped with river weeds.
Driving what remained of their herd of captured horses into the tranquil waters upstream of the highest weir, the trio crossed over into Nebraska. In its early, troubled history, the territory had proved so unappealing to would-be settlers, it had become known as the ‘corridor state’. Thousands of pioneering families passed through it on the Oregon and Mormon Trails which converged at Fort Kearney then tracked westwards along the line of the Platte River. The Mormons kept to the north bank and were later followed by the riders of the Pony Express; those bound for Oregon stayed on the southern side until the river split into its main northern and southern tributaries some two-thirds of the way across Nebraska.
From here, the trails angled north-westwards, each convoy of covered wagons and handcarts keeping to its chosen side of what was now called the North Platte on the long haul up towards the high plains of Wyoming. It was only after they had passed through Caspar and had turned away from the river that their parallel paths finally came together at the South Pass through the Rockies before going their different ways again at Fort Bridger in the south-west corner of the state.
At this point, those on the Oregon Trai
l were only just over half-way to their final destination, but the Mormons, whose millennial fervour had roused their more orthodox eastern neighbours to violence, were close to their journey’s end – the great salt lake in whose fertile valley they were to build the city that would become a monument to their unshakeable faith in a God who had not only walked the shores of Galilee but also the plains of North America.
A faith which had not saved them: a monument which the Holocaust had turned into a tomb.
Steve, Cadillac and Clearwater had been intercepted by Malone some forty miles east of Kearney, just north of the river near navref Grand Island. On the fatal afternoon when the Skyhawk had made its strafing run, Red River had been a hundred and fifty miles south of the renegade’s campsite. Acting under the orders relayed by Wallis – head of the AMEXICO task force – Commander James Fargo had kept her rolling northwards while his aircraft had gone out to pick up Clearwater, closing the gap between the wagon-train and his second visitor-Steve.
After leaving the train and crossing back over on to the north bank of the shallow river, Steve had re-traced the route taken by the Mormon leader Brigham-Young and his flock of zealots. By the time he caught up with Malone, the renegades were over a hundred miles west of the ill-fated campsite and had already passed beyond the fork in the river at navref North. Platte – a long-vanished city whose name came from its location on the slim point of land between the convergent tributaries.
Cadillac knew the place well. It was burned into his memory. He had journeyed here with Mr Snow and a posse of M’Call Bears led by Motor-Head. And at the Old One’s bidding he had searched for and found a seeing-stone. A stone full of terrifying images, heavy with blood, death, sorrow and utter desolation.
This was the Old One’s dying place. The memory of that revelation brought back the crushing weight of guilt and grief the act of foretelling had laid upon him. Urging his horse into a gallop, he pulled ahead of his companions to hide the bitter tears streaming down his cheeks. He wanted to distance himself from this dreadful place, but he knew it had already laid claim to his soul and was content to await his return.
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