‘Okay, okay! I’m not running away from any of this. I – I just need time to think it through!’
‘Don’t!’ cried Mr Snow. ‘Do you remember long ago when we talked of how one might discover the truth about existence and I likened that search to climbing a mountain? What you experienced out there was that rare and precious moment. You reached the peak. And someone reached down from Heaven and offered you their hand. Don’t analyse it. Grab it! Take it on trust – the way the Plainfolk put their trust in the Great Sky Mother. Make what in the Old Time was called an act of Faith.’
‘It won’t work, Old One. Before I can believe it, I have to know how and why.’
‘Spoken like a true sand-burrower,’ said Cadillac.
‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Snow. ‘You’re a tough nut to crack.’
Steve responded with a rueful grin. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get it sorted out. In my own way and in my own time. But thanks for telling me. It’s gonna make things a lot easier when we hit the train.’
‘Exactly. But in making our plans, we must not lose sight of why you must return to the Federation. The task which faces you and Clearwater is to destroy the Dark Cities from within.’
‘Wowww … just the two of us?’
Mr Snow gripped Steve’s hand. ‘She has the power, and so do you, Brickman – if only you will let your mind make that leap. But let me continue. To achieve this destruction you must win the absolute trust of those who rule the world beneath the desert. You must be seen to be working hand in glove with this man Malone against us. And your kin-sister must also play her part in this deception. If possible, we must try to achieve our objectives without the Federation realizing it has been defeated. But whatever happens we must ensure that you and Roz emerge entirely blameless from this encounter.’
Steve digested this mouthful. ‘Well, it’s a nice idea, but … jeez!’ He threw up his hands. ‘It was difficult enough as it stood. And now you’ve made it just about impossible!’
‘Oh, come, come, don’t exaggerate! You’re the master of deception, and this young pup is the man of a thousand voices. I’m sure that if you put your heads together you’ll be able to come up with something.’
Such is the perverseness of human nature, neither Steve nor Cadillac emerged entirely pleased from the meeting with Mr Snow. The revelation that Steve was of the Plainfolk made Cadillac more bitter not less. In their struggle to become top-dog, the knowledge that Steve was a sand-burrower had sustained Cadillac in the dark moments of despair and uncertainty that engulfed him whenever his rival appeared to have gained the upper hand.
Even if Brickman triumphed, even if he had won Clearwater’s heart and soul, there was always the comforting thought that Steve would always be inferior because he was a creature of the Dark Cities. But now, even that small consolation was denied him! He had sworn an oath of blood-brotherhood with someone who – on top of every other advantage he possessed – was also a Mute! Life was disgustingly unfair!
For Steve, the cold reality that came in the wake of the brief moment of rapture when the mind-blocks creating by years of conditioning were demolished to reveal his true nature was equally unpalatable. In one sense, the discovery that he was a Mute came as a great relief. It answered so many of the questions that had plagued him since early childhood, and more especially since that magical moment when he had emerged from the subterranean concrete world of the Federation and had caught his first glimpse of the overground.
There was also the added satisfaction of knowing that Cadillac was extremely upset at learning that his ‘blood-brother’ was a true son of the Plainfolk. But being Steve, he could not accept Mr Snow’s advice. He wanted to know why he and Roz had been raised as Trackers. For years he had vowed to unravel the secrets of the Federation and now here was another – probably the greatest secret of all!
That was the good part. The bad part was the discovery that his kin-sister was destined to end up as Cadillac’s partner and perhaps in his arms. Since the Mute had lost Clearwater, any reasonable person might have concluded it was a fair swap. But Steve was not a reasonable person.
Roz was more than just his kin-sister: their mental rapport made them psychic Siamese twins, and although he had tried to suppress it since meeting Clearwater, there was still a sexual dimension to their relationship although Steve would not have been able to express it in those terms.
Despite the frightening aspects of her newly-released power, Steve wanted her and Clearwater. Not in his bed but under his control. And if that, in the case of Roz, was no longer practical, then he wanted her love and allegiance – if only to deny them to Cadillac. The thought of them together was repugnant and his distress was in direct ratio to the pleasure the news had given his’ rival.
Both of them had gained and lost in equal measure as a result of their inability to become true brothers under the sun.
In the weeks they had spent together, Clearwater and Roz had not spoken to each other apart from the normal patient-doctor conversations centred around the medical treatment she was receiving while in Roz’s care: how well she felt, what hurt and what didn’t.
Roz’s attitude towards Clearwater had undergone a dramatic transformation but for the sake of appearances, she had to display a certain coldness. If Karlstrom, or one of his minions was watching the tapes, they needed to be reassured that she still regarded Clearwater as an unwelcome rival for Steve’s affections.
Their non-verbal conversations, on the other hand, had become a regular feature of their lives. And it was over the mind-bridge that Roz was able to warn Clearwater that their vocal transactions were probably being monitored by a hidden video-camera.
Now, in early June, six weeks after her near-fatal encounter with the Skyhawk, Clearwater was sitting up and taking stock of the sterile, hi-tech environment which served as a prison cell. Mutes did not have jails. Prison was an unknown concept. You were either alive and free to roam the overground, or dead.
The interiors of the huts built by the M’Calls were not as large as the pale-grey sharp-cornered cave in which she had been confined, but there at least she had the constant opportunity of stepping outside. Here, in a space measuring some three paces by four, whose flat roof lay just beyond a man’s raised fingertips, the sun did not shine, the rain did not fall and the light that filled it was not The Light of Heaven.
The breeze which moved across her face came from a humming device with whirling arms, but it was not real. This air had not swept down the snowy peak of a pine-covered mountain, or blown across a plain of sweet-smelling buffalo grass and sage. It was heavy with strange unnatural odours fashioned in the Dark Cities.
Clearwater’s heart was chilled by the thought of what lay ahead. Ever since that fateful moment when she had stood with Cadillac and Mr Snow on the edge of the bluff and watched the cloud-warrior climb steadily into the dawn sky she had known that one day she would be called upon to make the journey which had now begun.
Roz had assured her that all would be well. The cloud-warrior would return with her – but what would happen when they reached the sand-burrower’s lair? Would they be separated or allowed to stay together? Would he become enmeshed in his former mode of existence? And if he did so, would his feelings for her remain the same? Most important of all, when the healing process was completed, would her powers be restored?
Mr Snow had told her she would live to see the sun again but when would that be? She was already suffering severe withdrawal symptoms and the claustrophobia generated by her surroundings had increased as she made the transition from semi-conscious invalid to a wide-awake patient eager to regain her former mobility.
Only two things helped her cope with the feeling of slow suffocation: the caring presence of Roz and the revelation that she and her kin-brother were pure-blooded unmarked Mutes like Cadillac and herself. Knowing they shared a common ancestry removed the last lingering stigma from her relationship with Steve. Their union had not been a betrayal. Cadillac had suffered but eve
rything that had happened had been willed by Talisman. And she was further comforted by the knowledge that her soul-sister’s steps were also being directed by the Thrice-Gifted One.
The realization that she too was destined to play a central role in the Talisman Prophecy had burst upon Roz when she had emerged onto the overground to make the night flight to the Red River wagon-train. Like Steve, she had heard voices, but instead of panicking and trying to shut them out, she had listened.
Her guard-mother’s confession that Roz and Steve were not her natural children had helped prepare her for the moment when she would discover her true identity. It had come sooner than expected but although the moment of recognition was filled with wonder and a joyous sense of release, in a strange way it had not been a total surprise.
Ever since she had shared the visual images and emotions that caused Steve’s mind to reel during his first flight, she had longed to see the overground for herself. Not only to be there but to be where she belonged. Her own flight, and that first unforgettable glimpse of the star-filled heavens had merely confirmed what her heart already knew: she was part of the blue-sky world and her soul belonged to the Plainfolk.
Unlike Steve, she did not seek to know the reason why. A sunrise or sunset is not made more beautiful in the eye of the beholder by the knowledge that the light suffusing the terrestrial atmospheric envelope emanates from a G1 type dwarf star, hanging in space some 93,000,000 miles away.
Knowing who she was, the intensity of feeling generated by that knowledge, the sensation of being made whole, of being truly alive was enough. Roz was content to be. Raised in the Federation, she found the conditions aboard Red River easier to bear, but like Clearwater, she chafed at her confinement.
The rescue flight to the renegade’s abandoned campsite had allowed her an all too brief moment on the ground. Lifting her visor she had felt the wind on her face, had smelt the strange, rich, almost overpowering odours. After Clearwater had been given emergency first-aid and was being carried on a stretcher towards the waiting aircraft, Roz had dropped behind, torn off her gloves and run her bare hands over the earth, stones and grass that lay within reach. She had only been able to snatch two or three minutes at the most before her absence was noticed but it had been long enough to become addicted.
In the last eight weeks, during meal-breaks and off duty periods, she had managed to get up onto the flight-deck for a few minutes every day. As Steve’s kin-sister and the guard-daughter of a noted wing-man, Roz was able to claim a legitimate interest in air operations. But it was only an excuse to drink in the beauty and variety of the landscape that lay like some exotic coral reef beneath a vast cloud-flecked ocean of ever-changing hue.
Wallis, the head of the AMEXICO task-force, had allowed her to go up on deck without an escort but Roz knew she had to ration the time spent topside and exhibit a nonchalant attitude towards the overground. No one, especially Karlstrom, must suspect that she had developed a taste for the blue-sky world and she covered her tracks by referring only to the activity she had seen on the flight deck as opposed to what lay around it.
In those same eight weeks, the plans for dealing with the boarding party led by Steve and Malone and the subsequent massacre of the Clan M’Call had been progressively refined, and the crew of Red River had rehearsed their battle drills.
Even though she was a member of the task-force, Roz had not been involved in either the planning or the execution. Wallis was in overall charge of her fate but on a day-to-day basis, she worked alongside the medical team and took her orders from the CMO. Her job was to supervise Clearwater’s recovery. To become, in fact, her shadow. And now that she was out of intensive care, Roz was sleeping in the same ward so that she could be ready at all times to counter any threat from Clearwater’s earth-magic.
There was no danger of that but Roz has not passed this news on to her superiors. Had she done so, she might have found herself declared surplus to requirements and on a plane back to Grand Central. That was the one move that had to be prevented at all costs. Roz has the means to do so, but the power to manipulate the minds of those around her had to be used sparingly and with the utmost discretion in order not to raise doubts about her reliability.
As D-Day approached, she was unexpectedly summoned to a meeting with the wagon-master of Red River, his execs and the non-commissioned officers that headed the various groups within the battalion. Wallis and the others members of the task force were there, along with the Red River Trail Boss Marvin MacEvoy whose combative style of man-management had earned him the nickname of ‘Mad Dog’.
The meeting was held in one of the forward mess-decks which had been cleared and rearranged for that purpose. The tables and chairs now faced one of the large training diagrams showing a cut-away side view of a wagon-train. The twenty now serving with the Trail-Blazer Division were all built to the same basic design. An expert eye might detect variations in aerial arrays and other equipment updates but apart from the insignia and code letters the trains were virtually indistinguishable inside and out.
As everyone filed in, Wallis directed Roz to the centre table in the front row then stood alongside the train layout opposite Fargo. When everyone was seated, the wagon-master picked up a long pointing rod, acknowledged their presence with a curt nod and got down to business without further delay.
‘Gentlemen … the latest signals from sources in the field indicate that the attack which is the centrepiece of Operation Big-Fish will be launched within the next week, perhaps as soon as seventy-two hours from now. We had been expecting two primary targets, but it looks as if the most dangerous of these will not now appear. He has apparently died, but as you know these Mutes are firm believers in reincarnation so we must be prepared for a few last-minute surprises.’
The Red River personnel, recognizing this as one of Fargo’s jokes, laughed appreciatively.
Fargo continued: ‘Two White House operatives, YANKEE-ZULU and HIGH-SIERRA, will lead a joint force of approximately one hundred Mutes and renegades in the initial assault on the train. This group will be disguised as personnel from the 5th SIG-INT Squadron and will be wearing the standard overground combat fatigues and helmets. They will, in other words, look pretty much like our own dog-soldiers.
‘The group will be further identified by a strip of white marker tape on the upper arm, on the chin guard of the helmet and on the back visor stop. The two primary targets – or one as the case may be – will be similarly dressed. To avoid any mistakes in identification, YANKEE-ZULU, HIGH-SIERRA and six members of his team will not, repeat not carry white markers on their helmets and will enter the train with their visors raised. The Mutes, obviously, will keep their visors down in order not to give the game away. Any clear-skinned individual you see wearing a white chin or back marker on his helmet is a renegade and is to be shot on sight.’ Fargo surveyed his audience. ‘Is that understood?’
His audience responded with a murmur of assent.
The wagon-master indicated the two wagons labelled ‘A’ and ‘B’ just forward of the flight car then laid the pointer on wagon ‘A’. ‘In response to the May-Day from HIGH-SIERRA we will lower this ramp to allow the assault group to board the train. The bottom and middle floors of both wagons will be sealed off from the rest of the train.
‘The top floor of wagon “A”, and in particular the stairwells will be defended – and held – by ten squads under the command of Lt. Commander Torrance. A second group, led by Captain Lloyd, will hold the top floor of Wagon “B”.
‘Now, as you know, the plan is to create a situation which will draw the entire assault group up the ramp and into the train. We don’t want any of them falling back and raising the alarm. That is why another wagon-train will soon be delivering eighty Code One defaulters to us. They will arrive kitted out in fatigues bearing the appropriate rank badges and Red River insignia, and we will use these gentlemen – who are, of course, all volunteers –’
This was another of Fargo’s funnies, but
this time the laughter was genuine.
‘– to dress out the bottom and middle floors of wagons “A” and “B”. Twelve hours prior to the assault, they will all be given a carefully measured shot of a tranquillizing drug. Don’t worry, it has all been tested and timed. The defaulters will be placed in active duty work-stations and provided with the normal range of weapons and side-arms that are kept racked or carried by personnel throughout the train.
‘The weapons will carry loaded magazines, but the air bottles will be empty. So our stalwart volunteers are in for two unpleasant surprises. As they start to wake up, they will discover they are being invaded by a bunch of screaming Mutes and lawless renegades and then, as they try to defend themselves, they will discover that their weapons are inoperative.’
This news was met with grim silence. As Code One defaulters, death was inevitable, but everyone in the room was glad not to be in their boots.
Fargo pointed to a plan view of the bottom floor of wagon ‘A’. Two compartments on either side of the ramp access had been coloured in red.
‘These two special firepoints will each be manned by eight men. They are cargo skips which have been strengthened and fitted with firing ports. The two squads will be sealed inside and will do nothing to impede the initial assault. Their task is to ensure no one goes back down that ramp alive. As you can see from the plan, they are both able to cover the ramp with enfilading fire.
‘Okay. The assault is absorbed as follows. HIGH-SIERRA, YANKEE-ZULU, and the two Mutes who are the primary targets will be in the first third of the column as it comes up the ramp. They will direct their lead troops onto the bottom and middle floors, while they themselves – a party of ten made up of HIGH-SIERRA and six fellow operatives plus YANKEE-ZULU and the two targets – will make for the top floor of wagon “A” where Don Wallis and his team will be lying in wait.
‘As the group reach the top floor, both targets – or one, as the case may be – will be seized. If there is only one – the wordsmith known as Cadillac – then there should be no problem. But if Mr Snow, the second and much more dangerous target, decides to put in an appearance then you, young lady’ – Fargo aimed the pointer at Roz – ‘will have to defuse the situation without delay.’
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