Death-Bringer

by Patrick Tilley

  Karlstrom tuned back into what the P-G was saying.

  ‘… while the operation could be said to have misfired, the failure is not yours, Steven. Overall, taking into account that this was your first assignment, we think your performance has been outstanding. Your achievements in Ne-Issan deserve special commendation, and it gives me great pleasure to be the one to tell you that as from today, you have been promoted to the rank of Captain.’

  Brickman who had been sitting rigidly to attention, with his parade cap aligned neatly on his knees, jumped up from his chair. ‘Sir! I, uhh – thank you sir!’

  ‘Thanks don’t come into it. You deserve it. Right, Ben?’

  ‘Yes, sir …’ Karlstrom rose as Jefferson came round his desk, took hold of Brickman’s hand and shoulder. The fatherly gesture that never failed.

  ‘Steven, I don’t want any secrets between us. That’s why I’m going to tell you that there were times when we had grave doubts about you. We have never thought you would deliberately betray the Federation but we were worried that your mind might have become contaminated by some of the experiences you have undergone. Experiences that might have affected your judgement – altered your perception of the world we’re trying to build.’

  Jefferson injected a more cheerful note. ‘But that’s all in the past, isn’t it Ben? This young man has been given a clean bill of health!’

  ‘Absolutely …’

  Jefferson firmed up his grip on Steve’s shoulder as he accompanied him to the ’stile. ‘We are going to give your life a new dimension, Steven. You will find that loyalty, allied to the courage and ability you have displayed is handsomely rewarded. And it is my belief that you will prove worthy of the confidence we have in you. Keep the faith, Steven. Never falter in your devotion to the First Family!’

  ‘I won’t, sir!’

  When they emerged into the outer suite of offices, Karlstrom turned to Steve and offered his hand. ‘Congratulations. How do you feel?’

  ‘About the promotion and everything? It’s incredible, sir. But I still feel bad about Roz. If I’d stayed with her –’

  Karlstrom cut him short. ‘You were following orders. It was my people that fouled up. And the real sickener is we’ll never know why. Even so, it’s not all bad news. Since you’re looking bright and healthy that would seem to indicate she’s still alive. Right?’

  Steve didn’t hesitate. ‘They both are, sir.’

  ‘Is Cadillac holding her prisoner?’

  ‘He thinks he is.’ Once again he didn’t bat an eyelid.

  ‘Good man …’ Karlstrom patted Steve’s arm. ‘Stay in touch.’

  ‘I will, sir. What about Clearwater, sir?’

  ‘Keep up the visits. Unless you have other duties, you have unlimited access, day or night. You’re an essential part of the get-well programme.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Did, ahh – Clearwater give you the good news?’

  ‘Sir …?’

  ‘I see. She didn’t. I wonder why? Well, there’s no point in keeping you in suspense. The surgeons on board Red River managed to save the baby.’

  ‘Baby …?’ The news took Steve completely by surprise. ‘I – I don’t understand –’

  ‘Ohh … isn’t it yours?’

  Steve felt totally confused. A confused babble of distant voices filled his brain and were submerged by a roaring sound. He felt the blood pounding through the arteries close to his ears. ‘No, sir! I – I mean … how could it be?!’

  It was the President-General who was the sole progenitor of humankind … the father of all life within the Federation …

  Karlstrom smiled. It was not often he managed to unsettle this artful sonofabitch. ‘You’ve only just begun to discover what you are capable of. That’s why you’re on the Special Treatment List. Do you think everything that’s happened to you so far is due to good luck and your winning smile?’

  ‘Uhh, no, I – I had no idea, sir!’

  ‘Well, you’ve managed to get this far, don’t jump the rails. There are interesting times ahead.’

  ‘Will I still be working for, uhh – your department, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you will,’ laughed Karlstrom. ‘You and I still have a great deal of unfinished biz –’ He broke off as his eyes were drawn to someone behind Steve’s shoulder.

  Steve turned to see a dark-haired woman walking towards them. She wore the silver grey and blue uniform that marked her out as a member of the First Family.

  It was the young President of the Board of Assessors that had tried him for desertion. The woman who had stripped him of his wings and sentenced him from three years to life in the A-Levels. He had guessed that she was Family during the trial and he was right. The trial, the sentence, the early reprieve, the chance to win back his coveted wings … it had all been a set-up. Nothing was what it seemed.

  Steve jumped to attention and threw a parade-ground salute as the woman with the grey eyes, the oval face and the wide firm mouth reached him. Her sleeves carried the stripes of a commander topped by the inverted chevron – an exclusive mark of the First Family which conferred automatic seniority over the commanders of ordinary Federation units.

  She acknowledged his salute with the casual assurance of someone who knows there is not the slightest chance of being hauled up on a charge of indiscipline and turned to Karlstrom. ‘Ben, I’m sorry! I was held up!’

  ‘That’s okay. Let me introduce you.’

  The grey eyes fixed on Steve’s. ‘We’ve already met, haven’t we Captain?’

  ‘Yesssir-ma’am! I believe so!’ News travels fast, thought Steve. The extra stripe he’d been awarded was not even on his sleeve.

  ‘Yes, but he doesn’t know who you are.’ Karlstrom did the honours. ‘This is Commander Franklynne Jefferson. She will be your host and guide over the next few days.’

  ‘Yess-SURR!’

  ‘Fine. We’ve completed the formalities. Now relax. You’re among friends.’ Franklynne Jefferson offered her hand. ‘It’s Steve, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir-ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, dear …’ She sought help from Karlstrom. ‘What does one have to do to get this man to unbend?’

  ‘Give him time …’

  She tried again. ‘We’re going to a place called Cloudlands, Steve. And by the time we get there, I shall expect you to call me Fran. Think you can manage that?’

  Nothing in his wildest dreams could have prepared Steve for what was to happen following that encounter outside the Oval Office. After an elevator ride which his stomach told him was in an upwards direction, Steve stepped out into a large lobby with several exits – the walls and doors of which were covered with panels of wood similar to Karlstrom’s office.

  The first surprise was finding the lobby manned by two smooth-skinned Mutes dressed in dark clothes cut in a style Steve had never seen before. Both Mutes had vari-coloured skins but were straight-boned, with no cranial lumps. Yearlings. One male, one female.

  The male – whose greying hair was cut short and brushed flat across his head – wore three pieces of black clothing – trousers, tucked into calf-length boots, and a long kind of tunic, with a tighter-fitting tunic with a V-neck underneath. This garment, buttoned down the front, reached to just below the waist and had broad diagonal gold stripes woven into the black. Instead of the universal T-shirt, he wore a shirt of white material drawn into a high tight band around the neck, with a looser, curly piece of the same material running from the throat down into the V-neck of the gold-striped tunic, and cuffs that poked out from the sleeves of the long, open garment covering it.

  The clothes of the female Mute were equally strange. She wore a cap of white cloth which covered most of her hair, and an elaborate curly-edged spotless white apron – a fancy cousin to the straight-cut style worn by kitchen staff on the mess-decks – and fastened at the back with a wide bow. Underneath she wore a black, sleeved garment puffed out at the shoulders but tight on the rest of the arm. The tunic had
a similar high collar but in black with a frilly white liner. The waist was drawn in then came over the hips in a slim bell-shape and went all the way down to the floor.

  Extraordinary …

  Fran addressed the male Mute. ‘Joshua, this is my guest, Captain Brickman. Will you help him change into the uniform I gave you this morning, then show him upstairs?’

  The Mute inclined his head respectfully. ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He indicated a door on the far side of the lobby with a white-gloved hand. ‘This way, Captain …’

  Steve hesitated, seeking guidance from Fran.

  She smiled. ‘Go on. Off you go. I’ll see you later.’

  The changing room had a marble floor and walls and the luxurious fittings and furniture he had seen in the Oval Office and the adjoining suites and corridors of the White House. Steve showered and dried himself on large soft white towels then emerged to find a new set of clothing laid out of him. The pale grey briefs were familiar enough, the T-shirt was replaced by a sleeveless under-garment with a curving neckline. Mid-grey socks. A white shirt similar to the one Joshua was wearing but with just a neat high collar band. So far so good …

  Next came a pair of mid-grey trousers with a line of yellow braid running down the outside seams. Then a long grey tunic with an overlapping rear split and a high collar that buttoned down to the waist. The sleeves were decorated with captain’s rank stripes in the same yellow braid as the trousers. And then there were the boots, of soft black leather.

  Joshua coughed politely. ‘The trousers go outside, Cap’n.’

  ‘Got it. Thanks …’ Steve corrected the mistake then reached for the grey stetson with the yellow crossed swords parade badge of the Trail-Blazer Division and placed it carefully on his head with the aid of a mirror.

  ‘If I may, sir …’ Joshua adjusted the tilt, then went over to the table to fetch the sword and helped Steve fasten it around his waist. It resembled the sword on his hat badge but Steve had never seen a real one before.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s a cavalry sword, Cap’n.’

  ‘Looks pretty old.’

  ‘It is. Been in the family for centuries.’

  ‘You look pretty old too, Joshua. How long you been here?’

  ‘Me, Cap’n? I was born here in Cloudlands.’

  Steve checked himself in the mirror. ‘I have to tell you this feels very strange. What is this outfit I’m wearing?’

  ‘That’s what we call Confederate grey, Cap’n. The uniform of a southern officer and gentleman.’

  Steve shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’m any the wiser.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Cap’n. But you look mighty fine to me. And I’m sure that Missy Fran, she’s going to be real proud to be seen walking on your arm.’

  Joshua ushered him back into the lobby and led the way towards a set of double doors which, when opened, revealed a flight of wide marble steps. Inviting Steve to follow, he led the way to a similar set of doors at the top then through into a spacious room filled with light from tall white-framed windows. Huge clusters of what looked like ice crystals hung from the high, sculptured ceiling. There were carpets covering sections of the gleaming wood floor, ornate chairs covered in richly coloured cloth, a magnificent marble fireplace, framed portraits and mirrors on the patterned walls.

  Steve turned full circle, head raised, mouth open like a first time tourist in the Big Apple. He gestured towards the trees and flowered gardens beyond the windows. ‘Columbus! Is that computer-generated?!’

  ‘I don’t understand, Cap’n.’

  Steve stepped towards the open glass panelled doors and peeked outside. There was no screen. What lay outside was part of the overground. Neat, sculpted, ordered – but beautiful nevertheless.

  Joshua smiled at Steve’s evident bewilderment. ‘Make yourself at home, Cap’n. Take a seat – or maybe you’d prefer to walk on the verandah.’ Joshua indicated a polished table with bottles and jugs of liquid and cups made of the same sparkling ice-crystal material. ‘May I offer you some refreshment?’

  ‘No – but those cups and bottles … are they made of clear plastic?’

  Joshua chuckled. ‘No, Cap’n. Them cups you’re referring to is what we call glasses. Same stuff as in them there windows only this –’ He picked one up and turned it so that it caught the light, ‘– is much prettier and finer. It’s what they call cut crystal – see?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Joshua. Must seem kinda stupid.’ Steve swept a hand around the room. ‘This is all so new.’

  ‘New?!’ Joshua chuckled again. ‘This ol’ place’s been standin’ close on two hundred years!’ The Mute indicated a circular button push on the wall. ‘With your permission, Cap’n, I’ll leave you be. If you want anythin’ just ring.’

  ‘Oh, yeah – thanks …’

  The Mute bowed. ‘Missy Fran’ll join you shortly. She’ll be in the yellow I expect.’

  Joshua, who had served Fran’s family since she was a child, was familiar with the routine that accompanied the elevation of tall, strong-shouldered young men – Fran called them her ‘beaus’ – from the subterranean world to the elegance of Cloudlands.

  When she appeared, she was dressed in yellow, but the transformation was so startling she was not immediately recognizable. The silver and blue uniform had been replaced by a frilled and layered costume which gave prominence to her breasts, hugged her rib-cage, squeezed her waist then flared outwards with draped folds to the ground. An outfit which, a century and a half before the Holocaust, was known as a ‘walking dress’.

  She also had a lot more hair. The neatly combed bob had been augmented by matching braids, ringlets, and a soft bun extending onto the nape of her neck. Her face looked softer, her eyes larger, her lips redder.

  Fran twirled around in front of Steve. ‘How do I look?’

  Steve eventually found his voice. ‘Amazing …’

  ‘And so do you, Captain Brickman. Raise your right elbow.’

  Steve offered it to her awkwardly.

  Fran unfurled a matching parasol, took his arm and led him towards the verandah. ‘Come … walk with me.’

  Yes sir-ma’am…

  Anyone with access to the cinematic archives of the 20th century – a privilege enjoyed by members of the First Family – would have immediately recognized Steve’s surroundings. Walking into that light-filled room with its sumptuous furnishings was like entering one of the interior scenes from ‘Gone With The Wind’.

  Like the closely-guarded domains reserved for the top brass of pre-Holocaust Russia, Cloudlands was a vast chunk of real estate reserved for the exclusive use of the First Family.

  But this was no space-age colony shielded from overground radiation by protective bubbles. On these landscaped acres, the First Family had lovingly recreated the mid-19th century sugar-plantation splendour of the Deep South. Pristine white mansions, with colonnaded porticos, nestled among trees and lakes, surrounded by immaculate lawns, formal gardens, arbours, fountains, drives and shaded avenues, tastefully furnished in a style that echoed the French colonial past of Louisiana and Mississippi, and staffed by an army of servants, grooms and retainers; liveried Mutes – the 29th century equivalent of the negro slave.

  There were no wheelies here. Horses, and horse-drawn carriages with Mute drivers carried the privileged inhabitants wherever they wanted to go. Pride of place was given to the railway with its hand-built replicas of period locomotives and rolling-stock spanning the glorious days of steam. But they weren’t the only anachronisms: the background lighting was powered by electricity, tv screens and computer keyboards were artfully concealed in antique cuboards and desks, and the open skies were patrolled by First Family wing-men flying silver Skyhawks.

  On the ground, however, authenticity was the keynote. The men were dressed in uniforms of the Confederate Army and the women as ‘southern belles’, but both changed clothes to suit the occasion or the time of day, donning what they called ‘evening dress’ when the sun w
ent down.

  For the men this meant a more decorative uniform in sober colours, or dark ‘civilian’ clothes; the women emerged in off the shoulder dresses with deep necklines that exposed the tops of their breasts, layered elbow-length sleeves and long gloves. The lower parts of these evening dresses were even more extravagant in their detailing and dimensions – wide, sweeping skirts with trailing extensions at the rear, supported by layers of hooped petticoats.

  Fran was an immensely agreeable and informative guide but it was a lot to take in all at once – even for Steve.

  The contrast with the uniformed monotony of the underground Federation could not have been greater. Steve had to keep reminding himself that this wasn’t a dream. This was for real – and yet this reality was tinted with a kind of madness.

  How long had this been going on? Was this what countless generations of Trackers – including Poppa-Jack – had sweated, slaved and died for? So that an already over-privileged elite could enjoy a lavish fantasy existence while the rest of the population lived in neon-lit concrete burrows where the biggest event in the calendar was a trip to the walled-in acres of John Wayne Plaza? Compared to Cloudlands, the fabled Plaza was nothing more than a marbled prison exercise yard.

  Steve kept his feelings to himself, but with the knowledge of who he now was, he couldn’t help identifying with the smooth-boned Mutes who did the fetching and carrying, who were ever-present but whose quiet-mannered discretion rendered them almost invisible. Part of the woodwork. Compared to the Iron-Feet, their Plainfolk brothers in Ne-Issan, these Mute yearlings were in a gilded cage, but one day they too would be free.

  Oh, yes, brothers …

  But now it was time to watch and to listen. There was much to see and a great deal to learn …

  Like on that first evening when Steve found himself invited to sit next to Fran at a long cloth-covered table decorated with bowls of flowers and silver candlesticks, sparkling glassware, polished metal knives and forks and ceramic plates with coloured patterns round the rim. The chairs around the table were occupied by twenty men and women the nearest of which addressed Steve with an easy familiarity. The food was good, the wine – quite different in taste to sake – was agreeably liberating, the company convivial and when Fran revealed that he had been to Ne-Issan on ‘Family business’, they listened with genuine interest to his descriptions of life in the Eastern Lands.