Steve straightened his back. ‘Ours, Commander. I could make a big speech with all the right words but we both know there’s a better way to prove my loyalty to the First Family. Put me in a Skyhawk, point me at the Plainfolk, and watch the feathers fly.’
Karlstrom looked distinctly unimpressed. ‘Brave words, Brickman. I’ll bear them in mind. Okay… now give me a brief outline of your trip from the Wind River Range to the way-station at Pueblo.’
Steve described the last perilous stage of his journey in which the patched wing fabric of his glider constantly threatened to rip apart, and his arrival at the Tracker way-station on the Arkansas River. In the end, there were only two subjects that had not been broached. Mute magic and the Talisman Prophecy. Steve, who had been secretly dreading this moment, knew he would not be able to hold off much longer.
As if reading his thoughts, Karlstrom laid his empty cup on the desk, checked his watch and said, ‘Very good. Okay, we’ll leave it there. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about Mute magic.’
‘Uhh… Mute magic?’
‘Yes,’ said Karlstrom. ‘About your friend Cadillac’s ability to read the pictures in ‘seeing stones’. About the magical powers that Mr Snow and Clearwater were able to summon from, where – the earth?’
Never, in his wildest speculations, had Steve imagined he would ever hear a high-ranking member of the First Family talk so openly about Mute magic. So this was it! There was going to be a trade. He had something the Family wanted. Experience. Knowledge. Something. Steve knew it was not the time to hold back but his throat felt constricted. The taboos surrounding the subject were too firmly imprinted on his subconscious to allow him to speak unrestrainedly to someone like Karlstrom. His sixth sense told him that this was the time to play it by The Book. ‘I, uh – Commander, uh – you know the position as well as I do. The Manual is quite specific on this point. There is no such thing as Mute magic – and any public statement in defiance of that ruling is a Code One offence.’
‘That’s right,’ replied Karlstrom amiably. ‘And so is smoking grass and plugging blackjack. Do you think we don’t know what’s been going on in Unit-8, Santanna Deep?’ He laughed as he saw the expression on Steve’s face. ‘Now perhaps you can understand how much your kin-sister’s future career depends on your cooperation.’ He switched off his desk video and stood up. ‘Think it over.’
Steve leapt to his feet and stood to attention. ‘Commander,’ he began, ‘… you have Roz’s statement. There’s, uh – nothing I can tell you that you don’t know already.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Karlstrom. ‘But I’d like to hear it once again. This time from you.’ He acknowledged Steve’s salute with a curt nod then stepped through the door in the wall behind the desk.
A few seconds later Pruett came in through from the outer office and ushered Steve back to the empty four-bunk unit in the isolation ward where he had been kept the previous November. Only the medics on desk duty in the corridor outside had changed. Steve wondered what had happened to the guys who’d been on duty during his last stay. Had they gone down with Chisum? Steve smiled to himself remembering Chisum’s boastful assurances about how he had friends in high places. Fixer… Some fixer he turned out to be…
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the rest of the day by yourself,’ said Pruett. She pointed to one of the two overhead tv screens. ‘I can arrange to have these switched on if you like. Do you have a preference for any particular subject, or channel?’
Steve toyed with the idea of asking for a diet of First Family Inspirationals then decided that, since his stay with the more forthright Mutes, his insincerity might show through. ‘That’s good of you, ma’am. I think I’d prefer to sit here and get my head straight for tomorrow.’
Pruett gave an understanding nod. ‘Okay. If you change your mind, the medics on the desk will put something through. A Provo will be along later to take you down to the mess-deck.’ She smiled and pointed towards the door. ‘Down the corridor you’ll find a wall-store with a flat-iron and everything else you need. Put some work in on that jump-suit. I only want to see the regulation creases when I pick you up at 0830 hours.’
Steve saluted. ‘Yes, ma’am!’ After she had gone, he lay back on the bunk he’d used last time and mulled over his meeting with Commander-General Karlstrom. Interesting guy – and not someone you could feed the usual garbage to. Karlstrom was one of the dangerous kind. He didn’t try and overpower you with his intelligence. He gave the impression of being a casual listener but he didn’t miss a trick. His brain was razor sharp. Steve consoled himself with the thought that, so far, he had not fumbled too many passes. But he had to watch his step. To be ushered around courteously by an Amtrak Exec worried him. It was true that Pruett was only a JX-2 (the junior grades ran from 1 to 10, the senior high-wires (SX) from 1 to 5) but it was VIP treatment compared to being prodded along by a Provo truncheon. Despite the verbal bruising from Karlstrom his ego was being gently massaged. Something was going down. He didn’t know what it was – not yet, anyway – but his sixth sense told him he was being set-up. It also told him he should go along with it; should make the most of this opportunity.
Yes… to be hauled out of the A-Levels, put back into uniform and then find yourself talking to one of the First Family – to someone working directly with the President-General – was, well… amazing, incredible. Steve sensed that this new situation was different from his appearance before the Assessors. Then, he had been overconfident, had allowed himself to be drawn out by the dark-haired young President of the Board into making provocative statements – and had been well and truly slapped down. That wouldn’t happen this time. No, there was a deal in the air. He could smell it. The way Karlstrom held off talking about Mute magic until the very last moment, and had then mentioned it almost as an after-thoughts, confirmed Steve’s suspicion about there being a conspiracy of silence on the the subject. So be it. The Family were in a position to know what the score was. They wouldn’t do anything without a good reason. It was important to let Karlstrom know that the loyal, stalwart and trustworthy Steven Roosevelt Brickman could also keep a secret.
Steve had not forgotten his earlier decision to hew his own path through the impenetrable forest of lies and deception that had sprung up around the First Family but now that he had gotten within spitting distance of a man who worked with the President-General this was not the moment to start wielding the axe.
When Pruett came to collect him next morning, she found Steve standing at ease in an impeccably pressed jump-suit by the door to the ward. ‘Good morning, Mister Brickman.’
‘Good morning, ma’am,’ replied Steve. Again the smile – and now ‘mister’! Was this part of the softening-up process? Or was this how Junior Execs addressed each other? Steve had never met anyone from the Black Tower before. He’d come into contact with some of Uncle Bart’s senior staff but they were Provos. And like Uncle Bart they were, well – a special brand of shit-head.
Steve and Pruett retraced the route that led to Karlstrom’s office. ‘The Commander-General will be with you in a moment.’ She left him standing facing the large, solid desk made of red-brown wood. Smooth and gleaming, with swirling black lines that reminded him of the pattern on Clearwater’s oiled body…
Commander-General Karlstrom appeared through the door behind the desk and acknowledged Steve’s salute with a curt nod. ‘You ready to talk?’
‘Yes, Commander.’
‘Good. Step this way.’ Steve followed him back through the door and found they had entered a small elevator. The door slid shut as Karlstrom aimed his voice at a grille that occupied the place where the floor selector buttons were usually found. ‘Up four please…’
Steve assumed he meant four floors – which would bring them out on Level Four-6. In other parts of the Federation the level was displayed boldly on the wall facing the elevator but he had noticed this was not the practice in the White House. Steve concluded that it must be a security measure designed t
o confuse intruders. But who, he asked himself, would contemplate storming the White House?
He followed Karlstrom out of the elevator into an enormous circular lobby with a domed thirty-foot-high ceiling. Doors to other elevators were set at regular intervals around the wall. Clustered together in the centre of the lobby were four big tubes each about a yard in diameter. The tubes came out of the floor and went up through the ceiling. Set around the tubes was a circular wall of marble about ten feet high divided into segments by turnstiles. A bevelled, horizontal aperture set in each section of the wall at counter height made the whole structure look like a cross between an futuristic reception desk and a way-station bunker. Trackers wearing uniforms Steve had never seen before manned the counters. They wore parade caps with red tops, white headbands and a dark blue peak that was angled down sharply over their eyes and short, tri-colour jackets over white straight-legged ducks. The jackets were cut waist-high at the back and up in a V over the abdomen, the blue across the shoulders, upper chest and sleeves being separated from the red by a broad white chest band and matching chevron on the arm. Each guard carried an extra-long-barrelled air pistol in a white leather holster and all of them wore gold ensign rank bars on their high collars.
The set-up, Steve decided, could only be designed to guard one person. His knees became watery at the thought. Karlstrom was recognised as he approached and a captain appeared at the turnstile, saluting as the Commander-General went through. He handed an ID-card to the captain, who passed it on for verification. One of the ensigns at the counter gave Steve the nod as his card was returned to Karlstrom. ‘Okay, you’re clear to go on through.’
Steve joined Karlstrom inside the marble wall as the captain summoned a couple of elevators. The four tubes each contained a capsule just large enough to accommodate one person at a time. Steve stepped inside as instructed and was carried upwards into a large office with dozens of desks and video consoles, staffed entirely by people wearing silver jumpsuits. The turnstile doors and elevators were guarded by more red, white and blues. Karlstrom led the way past a saluting ensign to one of the turnstiles, stepped inside, and was rotated through. The ensign indicated to Steve that he should step aboard. The ‘stile rotated, carrying Steve into a large room with long windows set in a curved wall at the far end. The walls were white, the carpet deep blue. A high-backed rocking chair and two sets of facing armchairs placed either side of a low framed alcove in which flames leapt from what looked like charred wooden logs. Karlstrom stood by the side of a large blue-topped wooden desk. Sitting behind the desk, framed by two draped flags and a magnificient carved wooden eagle, was a white-haired man dressed in a pale blue-grey military style jacket with a high collar, matching pants and shoes. As he sat with his elbows on the padded arms of his chair, looking at Steve over the joined tips of his fingers, his tanned face bore the same firm but benign expression that gazed down from countless walls throughout the Federation. George Washington Jefferson the 31st. The President-General, Father of the Federation, Giver of Life, Guardian of the Earthshielu, Creator of the Light, the Work and the Way.
Steve had guessed where Karlstrom was taking him when he’d seen the marbled defences below but now that he was here, in the Oval office that had formed the backdrop to so many of the First Family Inspirationals, he found himself totally intimidated, rooted to the spot. Jefferson the 31st rose and beckoned to him. ‘Come on in, Steven.’
Steve moved across the carpet unable to feel his feet touching the ground. The P-G came out from behind the desk and offered his right hand. Steve thrust his own forward but did not dare make contact until the P-G’s fingers closed around his palm. Despite all his previous cynicism it was a moment that took his breath away.
Jefferson gave an understanding smile and patted Steve on the shoulder. ‘Good to have you back with us, my boy. Ben here’s told me all about you. You’re, uh – a remarkable young man…’ The P-G used his grip on Steve’s shoulder to turn him around and steer him over to one of the armchairs by the fire. ‘Sit down, make yourself comfortable.’
Steve waited until Jefferson and Karlstrom had seated themselves opposite. The P-G in the rocking chair by the fire; Karlstrom in the chair furthest away making it impossible for Steve to see both of them at once. The armchair was deep and soft. Softer and more embracing than anything that Steve had ever sat upon in his whole life. He lay back savouring the luxury for one brief moment then sat up straight with his butt on the front half of the seat cushion.
Jefferson stretched a hand towards the leaping flames. ‘So… Steven, Ben here tells me you’re thinking of joining us.’
‘Uhh, sir –?’
Jefferson looked at Karlstrom.
‘There are a few details still to be ironed out.’
‘A formality, I’m sure.’ Jefferson stopped roasting his hand and waved at the framed alcove. ‘Bet you never saw one of these before, eh, Steven? You know what they call this? A fireplace. A long time ago, back in the days of the blue-sky world, every house used to have one of these. Yes… they used to call it the heart of the home. The good ol’ boys would come in at the end of the day after working on the ranch, the wells, in the mills and the townships; the womenfolk would come in from the fields and they’d sit together round the fire, share a meal made with fresh food won from the good earth and they’d talk about their dreams for an even better tomorrow.’ Jefferson gazed at the fire reflectively. ‘Yes… it was a great country. Folks stuck together, believed in the same things. People were honest, upright and true. With courage and hard work there was no limit to what a man could do, or how far he could go.’ He turned his gaze onto Steve. ‘Those good ole boys built it up just fine. They blazed trails, put down railroad tracks and highways, built cities out there on the grass. Built ’em of brick and stone, pine and cedar, glass and steel. Look out of the window there –!’
Steve followed the P-G’s outflung arm. Through the windows set in the curved wall behind the desk, he could see a great sweep of green grass, burgeoning willows, silver-trunked larches, and in the middle distance, a white timbered steep-roofed building with a pointed tower topped by a cross.
‘You know what that is?’ cried Jefferson. ‘A picture of part of this country as it used to be. New Hampshire… in the spring. All over America a man could look out of his window onto views as good as that! Green grass, green trees, green hills – just like it says in the song. And one day, it will be green again. Our forefathers fought wild beast and nature for every inch of it so as to be able to hand it on to future generations. It was worth fighting for then and it’s worth fighting for now – to win it back again. The Mutes shattered those dreams, turned ’em into a nightmare, robbed our forefathers of that bright tomorrow. It’s up to us – to me, and Ben here, to young, gifted men like you, and every able-bodied Tracker, to do what we can to put the Federation back where it belongs.’ The P-G pointed to the ornate, moulded ceiling. ‘Up there in the blue-sky world. What we’ve managed to do down here within the earthshield is nothing to what we’ll accomplish when the overground is ours again!’ He raised his right hand, made a fist and brought it down sharply on the arm of his rocker. ‘That’s my one regret, Steven. The fact that I won’t be around on that evening when there’ll be fires again all over America. Not flames and smoke in the sky from the burning cities, but here –’ The P-G gestured towards the blazing logs, ‘– in the hearth, in the homes of the brave. But you… you might see that day or, at the very least, join with us in helping to bring it nearer. My whole life has been spent working towards that one goal. So has Ben’s, and the rest of the Family. Are you prepared to dedicate your life to making it happen, Steven?’
Steve squared his shoulders. ‘Mr President sir, – up to now I’ve always tried to do my duty as best as I know how. I’m ready to do whatever you ask of me, sir.’
Jefferson gave a satisfied nod. ‘Good, good, that’s what I like to hear.’ He looked across at Karlstrom. ‘I like this boy, Ben. He speaks my kind of lang
uage.’ The P-G turned back to Steve and fixed him with a penetrating gaze. ‘Do you trust me, Steven?’
‘Absolutely, 100 per cent, Mr President sir.’
‘Enough to talk to me about Mute magic?’ Jefferson kept his eyes on Steve, studying his reaction. ‘You don’t look surprised.’
Steve caught the laugh in his throat and managed to turn it into a strangled cough. ‘Uh, Mr President sir, after five months out there with the Mutes it’s, well – kinda hard to be surprised at anything. When the President of the Board of Assessors cut me off as I began to tell her about the Talisman Prophecy it was obvious that I wasn’t the only one who knew about it. But since the rest of the Board were being kept in the dark it could only mean that other people, in more senior positions, were taking it seriously. And if they felt that way about the Prophecy then it followed that they took the same view of Mute magic. The threat to the Federation contained in the Prophecy is so serious that one of those people had to be you, sir.’
Jefferson chuckled and slapped the arm of his rocker. ‘I don’t think you need worry. Ben. This boy’s going to do just fine.’ He returned to Steve. ‘You’re right, of course. But it has been necessary to deny the existence of Mute magic in order to maintain field discipline among wagon-train and way-station crews – and the morale of Trackers in general. From a study of the records I know that it was a hard decision for my predecessors to take but they believed that the only way to crush all doubt and rumour was to back that ruling with the force of law. And so any public discussion of Mute magic became a Code One offence.’
First Family Page 20