Death-Bringer

by Patrick Tilley

  By the end of the evening, his feelings of hostility had waned considerably. Steve had not abandoned his desire to pierce the innermost secrets of the First Family. The truth had to be revealed. After Mr Snow’s revelations, they were not just the top layer of an oppressive regime, they were the enemy. They and everything they stood for had to be swept away, but that was an immense undertaking that could not be accomplished overnight. In the meantime, however much he might deplore the flagrant unfairness of the system, it would be foolish not to take advantage of what was on offer …

  Around eleven pm, the after-dinner conversation groups broke up. As the guests bade each other goodnight and departed to their own rooms or to other houses, Joshua, the Mute servant, led Steve upstairs to the large bedroom which had been set aside for his use. The curtained windows opened out on the front lawn, and through them, Steve saw a coach and pair, with bright yellow lamps, rattle away down the curving gravel drive. Animated voices floated up from the porch below. He caught a glimpse of someone in a yellow dress and thought he heard Fran laughing …

  A log fire like the one in the Oval Office blazed cheerfully in the hearth. The large bed, which had a post at each corner and a cloth canopy, looked soft and inviting. There would be no bug-uglies in that.

  After Steve had donned a bathrobe, Joshua took his uniform away to be freshened and pressed, leaving what he called a dressing-gown and a nightshirt laid out neatly on the foot of the bed. Crystal decanters of wine, peach brandy and a smooth, amber-coloured alcohol called Southern Comfort stood on a silver tray with a selection of glasses.

  Steve went into the bathroom and took a shower. As he stood under the warm spray, his body suffused with a sense of well-being, he reflected on the time he had spent among the Mutes and the Iron Masters, the pleasures and privations of life on the overground and within the Federation.

  It seemed incredible that four different worlds with such contrasting life-styles could co-exist within a few hundred miles of each other: hi-tech gadgetry and stone-age savagery, total freedom and slavery, individuality and restrictive conformity, equal rights and overbearing discrimination – sexual and racial, rigid hierarchies and relaxed anarchies. Why did people have to choose one over the other? Why was there no middle way?

  When Steve emerged from the shower, he found Fran occupying the left hand side of the bed. Her head and naked shoulders were propped against two of the four over-sized pillows. One hand held a glass of brandy, the other held a smoking reaf. The soft insistent beat of a blackjack tape floated out of a hidden speaker. Below ground, people went to the wall for peddling this kind of shit.

  ‘Surprised …?’

  ‘Not really.’ Steve searched for a suitably ingratiating follow-up. ‘I can’t think of a better way to end an unforgettable day.’ Yukkkk-hhh …

  ‘It’s just the beginning, Stevie.’ Fran patted the empty place next to her.

  Steve walked around the bed and reached for the nightshirt.

  ‘You won’t need that.’

  ‘Just clearing the decks.’ He gathered up the long loose shirt and the dressing-gown and put them on the low wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

  Fran proved to be an ardent sexual partner. Their coupling reminded him of his solitary encounter with Donna Lundkwist. Donna whose life had ended with a kiss and a knife in her throat. And like Donna, Fran started out making all the running, but when Steve delivered the goods, she ended up tender and grateful.

  ‘How did it feel, Stevie?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, I –’

  ‘Fran!!’

  ‘Sorry! I –’

  ‘Never jacked up a member of the First Family before.’ Fran treated him to a conspiratorial smile. ‘No need to answer. I know everything there is to know about you.’

  I wonder …

  She pulled his head closer and whispered in his ear. ‘What was it like with her – Clearwater? The same? Better?’

  ‘No … just different.’

  ‘In what way? What did she do that I didn’t do?’

  ‘Nothing, it was –’

  ‘Tell me! Ohh, I can feel you getting hard again! Are you thinking about doing it with her? Oh, come on! Give it to me! Oh, yes! She squeezed you like that, Stevie?’

  Almost, almost … Christo!

  ‘Why was it different? Was it because she said she loved you? Is that it, Stevie? Do you want to be loved? Would you like me to say I love you?’

  That question, that word, on her lips, sent a shiver through him. He raised himself up and began to withdraw.

  Fran locked her legs across the small of his back, and hung on tight round his neck, thrusting her pelvis hard against his. ‘No! Stay there! If you knew how long I’ve waited for this! Hooh, baby! C’mon, give it to me! Gimme all of it!’

  Steve suppressed the feelings of self-loathing and betrayal.

  Yessir-ma’am. If this is what it takes to get where I want, you GOT it!

  An hour or so later, when they’d screwed each other to a standstill, and she’d explored every inch of his body with her lips, tongue and fingers, they lay in each other’s arms, their skin glazed with sweat. Steve was having difficulty staying awake. Fran brought him back to life with a playful bite on the shoulder.

  ‘Jeezuss!’

  ‘It’s all right. I haven’t drawn blood.’ Fran kissed it better. ‘Mmmm … you smell and taste like a man should.’ She offered her throat. ‘Taste me.’

  Steve took a sample. Honey with a dash of salt …

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yeah. Tastes good.’ He put his cheek against hers and buried a yawn in the pillow.

  Fran took hold of one hand and slid it between her thighs. ‘And did you like this?’

  ‘Delicious …’ Didn’t this dill ever stop?!

  She twisted her body around so that she was looking down on him. ‘Did it shock you – me talking about love? It’s a word the Mutes use, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But it wasn’t so much shocking as, well … unexpected.’

  ‘Because of who I am?’

  ‘That was part of it, yes.’

  ‘Call me Fran. Say my name! Keep your hand there and whisper it in my ear.’ When he had repeated it several times with as much feeling as he could muster, she said: ‘I love your voice. You know that? Can’t you feel what it does to me?’

  Steve didn’t answer. He knew he was in bed with a member of the First Family. Not just any member of the First Family – a Jefferson. This kookie was related to the President-General! This couldn’t be just a reward for services rendered. What the hell was going on?

  ‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’

  ‘Uhh, well, yehh, y’know –’

  ‘That’s another Mute word, isn’t it? I bet you know lots, mmh?’

  ‘I was out there for quite a while …’

  ‘You’ll find we use lots of Mute words up here, Stevie. And quite a few I bet you’ve never heard of.’

  ‘Always willing to learn …’

  ‘Good. I’ll teach you things you’ve never dreamed of.’ Fran brought her mouth to his for a last tender, teasing kiss. ‘Did you enjoy doing it with me?’

  ‘Yeah, it was terrific’ What the heck was he supposed to say?

  ‘Would you like to do it again?’

  Aww, jeezuss … ‘You mean now?’

  ‘No. But soon. And often. She gave his starting handle an affectionate squeeze then leapt out of bed and went into the bathroom.

  Steve heard the swish of the shower. He pulled the bedclothes over his nakedness and reflected on what was happening to him and what might happen next. The session with Fran, although enjoyable on a purely physical level – which in the past was all that any Tracker would expect – left Steve feeling empty and vaguely ashamed of his opportunism.

  In the Federation, the sexual act was one of the few things to which no guilt was attached. No involvement was expected by either party beyond the brief physical proximity required for the act to take place.
Mutual consent was all that was needed; desire, the need to temporarily relieve the basic sexual drive, was the only emotional element.

  It had been different with Clearwater. The intensity of his feelings – feelings which she returned in equal measure – had given a new dimension to their physical relationship, enriching what, for him, had previously been a meaningless exercise involving his body but which, until then, had never engaged his heart and mind.

  Jacking up Fran had merely served to remind him of what he was missing. Clearwater had never claimed exclusive rights to his body. Indeed, for her, possession of the body was of minor importance. What counted was to whom you gave your heart and soul. And it was true – although it hadn’t stopped him hating the idea of Clearwater allowing Consul-General Nakane Toshiba to instal her in his island love-nest.

  Maybe it was the will of Talisman. Her liaison with the jap had certainly led to their escape. But it was good ol’ Brickman S.R. who had blown the Consul-General out of the sky. Watching his smouldering body fall to earth had been a sweet moment. Yes …

  Clearwater would not have felt the same need for revenge against a third party. She had never probed the intimate nature of his relationship with Roz. She was too wise. She had a serene confidence in the power of Talisman, in the pre-destined, ordered nature of existence.

  In her world, human frailty – except where it flagrantly transgressed a blood-bond sealed before the elders – was overlooked or generously forgiven. What counted was the purity of the spirit, the nobility of the soul. Which was fortunate, because it let Steve off the hook.

  Trackers were totally promiscuous, but due to the nature of their society, the word ‘promiscuity’ had been stripped of any moral connotation. In the pre-Holocaust world, copulation may have been raised to an art form and accorded the status of an inalienable civil right for commercial and political reasons, but in the Federation its importance as an essential activity was on a par with evacuating the bowels and was usually discharged with a similar lack of ceremony.

  By demoting sex while allowing a continued free-for-all, and by removing the word-concept ‘love’ from the Tracker vocabulary, the First Family effectively eliminated the basis for personal relationships between individual men and women. Widespread and persistent sterility had already destroyed the nuclear family; what remained was a collective identity based on the squad, the block, the battalion, the division. Loyalty, a sense of comradeship and allegiance, was directed upwards through the system towards the figure at the pinnacle of power – the President-General.

  Because of this, Steve was not burdened by guilt but he felt diminished. He’d been given a privileged glimpse of the system from the top down – a system that was not only harsh and unjust at the bottom, was not only built on lies, but whose leaders now stood revealed as corrupt and crazy.

  For centuries they had held out a dream of a bright future and here they were living in a self-deceiving dream-world that belonged to the distant past! And his sense of shame was increased by the knowledge that if Fran required his services again, he would answer the call without hesitation. Would do whatever had to be done.

  The idea that jacking up a high-flying member of the First Family could lead to advancement seemed, on the face of it, preposterous, but if that was part of the deal – what the hell?

  The higher he got up the wire, the more chance he would have of getting even with those who had helped to shaft him. And to that list were now added those who had manipulated his life and twisted his mind. Yes … given time, he’d get them all …

  When the hospital orderly left after cleaning her room, Clearwater noticed that the wheeled table carrying the computer terminal had not been pushed back into its proper place. It now lay within reach. Leaning sideways, she stretched out her good left arm, caught the edge of the table with her fingertips, pulled it towards her then manoeuvered it round until the keyboard and screen faced the bed.

  Thanks to Steve’s winter schooling she could now read and write. And on the wagon-train and now, in her new home which her senses told her was not far underground, she had watched medical staff tap the keys to call up or record information. This machine was part of a spider’s web of power that gave life to the Federation. And at the centre of this web lay something or someone called COLUMBUS. She knew this because the Cloud-Warrior had talked boastfully of these things to Mr Snow.

  Before his eyes and heart had been opened …

  She studied the keyboard and pressed the HELP button.

  Letters appeared on the screen: DO YOU WISH TO (A) TRANSMIT DATA (B) RECEIVE DATA (C) USE MATH FUNCTION (D) CONSULT LOCAL ARCHIVES? – SELECT LETTER AND PRESS ENTER.

  Clearwater selected (A) – Transmit Data.

  The screen cleared and a new message appeared: ENTER NAME OF RECIPIENT, UNIT, DEPARTMENT OR DIVISION AND ADDRESS CODE OF RECEIVING TERMINAL.

  She tapped out the letters carefully: C-O-L-U-M-B-U-S …

  There was a pause then: THE CENTRAL CORTEX CANNOT BE ADDRESSED FROM THIS WORKSTATION WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION CODE. INSERT ID-CARD OR ENTER PASSWORD.

  T-A-L-I-S-M-A-N …

  THE SYSTEM RESPONDED: PASSWORD NOT RECOGNIZED. ENTER FULL NAME AND NUMBER.

  T-A-L-I-S-M-A-N …

  A NEW MESSAGE FLASHED ON TO THE SCREEN: UNAUTHORIZED SYSTEM ACCESS IS A LISTED OFFENCE. THE LOCATION OF THIS WORKSTATION HAS NOW BEEN REPORTED. TO AVOID A MORE SERIOUS CHARGE YOU SHOULD REMAIN THERE AND AWAIT THE ARRIVAL OF INTERNAL SECURITY.

  CLEARWATER SIGNED OFF: G-O … T-O … H-E-L-L …

  An insistent bleeper alarm began to sound. Not deafening, but loud enough to be heard in the corridor outside.

  Clearwater pushed the trolley away from the bed and pretended to be asleep as a medical orderly came in and swore quietly under her breath. ‘The idiot … why can’t he leave things the way he found them?’

  Another medic poked her head round the door. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘That bloody cleaner!’ said the first. ‘Look at the way he’s left this! And I see this thing’s playing up again.’ She cleared the screen, switched the terminal off and straightened up the table then came to check on Clearwater as her eyes fluttered open.

  ‘What’s happening …?’

  ‘Nothing. Relax. Just let me fix your pillows … There. You all right?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Good. Go back to sleep.’

  Contrary to the stern warning displayed on the screen, the incident had not been reported, and the bleeper alarm was programmed to turn itself off after sixty seconds. Centuries of experience had shown that only a minority of youthful pranksters were frozen into fearful immobility by the order to remain by the computer terminal. Everyone else promptly left the scene.

  Like the tacit approval of rainbow-grass, the computer network controlled by COLUMBUS also acted as a safety-valve. The number, provenance and frequency of nuisance calls were noted for statistical purposes but the manpower and other technical resources needed to follow up the thousands of violations were simply not available.

  The efforts of the Federation’s computer security units were directed towards the apprehension of those trying to penetrate or corrupt the data and control circuits as part of a purely criminal conspiracy, and ‘moles’ – political subversives living inside the Federation but outside the eco-system maintained and policed by COLUMBUS: people who were trying to access services to get what they needed to stay alive while evading the checks and controls that would have brought the Provos down on their necks.

  For the moment it did not matter that the first attempt to contact COLUMBUS had failed. The terminal in her hospital room had enabled Clearwater to sense its all-pervading presence, its purpose, its power, its intelligence.

  This was why she had been sent into the dark world of the sand-burrowers. First, she had to regain her strength and then, in a way which would be revealed to her, she had to make contact with this soulless entity and destroy it.

  Karlstrom watched the President-General wa
lk to the high curving window behind his blue leather-topped desk.

  In front of the centre curtains, a large eagle with outspread wings, carved out of gleaming rosewood, was poised on a waist-high plinth. Between the eagle and the blue curtains were two crossed poles draped with the flag of the Amtrak Federation and Old Glory.

  Jefferson rubbed his hand over the eagle’s head as one might touch a good luck charm, gazed briefly out of the window at a stunning view of Kentucky Blue-Grass country then waved Karlstrom into his usual seat.

  Karlstrom hovered, waiting for the P-G to sink his solid rear end into his high-backed chair. In the Oval Office no one sat while the P-G was standing.

  ‘Sit down, Ben. Let’s skip the protocol. I need to walk around for this one.’

  Karlstrom subsided, and watched Jefferson gaze out across the wooded slopes towards the sunlit hills. The clarity of the image was amazing. This was the way America had once looked. Green and beautiful.

  ‘Ben, I’m going to tell you something which may put your mind at rest. You must have wondered why we’ve invested so much time and resources in young Brickman and his sister – which, by the way, she isn’t. With people dying for the Federation every day, two more, two less – what’s the difference? Well, they’re something of an exception and I think it’s time you joined the club.

  The P-G began to pace slowly to and fro, circling the desk and Karlstrom’s chair. Karlstrom followed him with his eyes.

  ‘As you know, we’ve been breeding Mutes for experimental work at the Life Institute for close on a hundred and fifty years. The stated objective was to find the genetic key to their longevity and immunity to radiation in the hope that we could transfer those benefits to our own people. If we could increase the average life expectancy from forty to sixty years it would give us a fifty per cent increase in our skill base and productivity – and that would release more people for overground operations.