In the short and somewhat imprecise history of renegade existence it was these fugitives from the Federation who were the original breakers and it was they who had coined that name for themselves. Medicine-Hat was of the opinion that it was probably derived from the historic event known as ‘The Break-Out’. The moment in 2464 when, according to the Manual of the Federation, the first permanent interface between the earthshield and the overground was finally established, allowing the battle for the blue-sky world to begin in earnest.
Steve shook his head in disbelief. ‘I had no idea there were ways to escape from inside the Federation. What kind of people are involved? Where’s it happening – and how?’
Medicine-Hat smiled. ‘I imagine it’s people who don’t agree with the way the First Family runs things. I’m told that, if you look hard enough, you’ll find them all over the Federation. As to how…’ He shrugged. ‘Best not to ask. The less you know about things like that the less there is to tell the folks back home.’
‘You mean if I get picked up?’
‘If your Mute friends don’t trade you with the rest of us, you may soon have a bunch of Trail-Blazers’ breathing down your neck.’ Medicine-Hat checked through the contents of his first aid bag. ‘You’ve done time on a wagon-train. It’s not just Mutes they’re looking to kill. Breakers are a high priority target too.’
‘True,’ admitted Steve. ‘But what do you expect when you jump the rails? Even so, I’ve never understood why the Family spends so much time and energy trying to wipe you guys out. I mean, with conditions the way they are out here none of us are going to be around for very long.’
Medicine-Hat treated him to another faint smile. ‘When did you power down?’
‘June 12th, last year.’
‘And how do you feel? You been sick? Noticed any skin lesions? Your gums been bleeding?’
‘No, not yet,’ replied Steve. ‘But I had my quarterly MedEx aboard The Lady. I got a shot of anti-radiation serum a few days before I powered down. And I got another one from Tyson – the guy I found living in that dug-out.’
‘Oh, yes… the undercover Fed.’
‘Right.’
‘I know about vitamin shots but… anti-radiation serum’ Medicine-Hat eyed Steve derisively. ‘Who gave you that story?’
‘Tyson. He was worried about running out of the stuff. Said he was down to his last three capsules.’
‘You told Malone that Tyson was planning to hand you over to the Feds. If he was running out of this “serum”, why would he share it with you?’
‘He didn’t,’ replied Steve glibly. ‘I injected myself after I shot him.’
‘And you think this is what has stopped you falling sick.’
‘Isn’t it what you guys have been using?’
Medicine-Hat responded with a wry laugh. ‘Wake up, Brickman. Every item in this bag has come from the pockets of dead Trail-Blazers. Okay. Malone was tough on you. He had reason to be. You know what those undercover Federal sons of bitches have been doing? Like Tyson and that other guy you killed? Booby-trapping the goddam bodies! When you move ’em, or pick up their equipment – BLAM!’ He threw up his hands and sighed. ‘Lost three good men that way. You wanna know something? It’s over a year since I broke open my last wound dressing. And as for morphine… getting hold of that is harder than getting your hands on the President-General’s dong. I haven’t, personally, taken a pill or a shot of anything for the last three years.’
Steve shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re immune.’
‘Maybe…’ Medicine-Hat eyed Steve. ‘I can see you’ve got a lot to learn.’
‘It could happen, couldn’t it?’ insisted Steve.
‘Yehh…’ said Medicine-Hat with a laugh. ‘Once you been out here for a while you discover all kinds of things are possible.’ He slipped his head through the strap of his first aid bag and stood up. ‘Better go check on my patients.’
Seven days after their capture, Steve and his fellow captives came in sight of the M’Call’s spring settlement. On the way in, Steve noticed several patches of ground that had been dug up to form new crop-fields. The Mutes tending the soil abandoned their tools and rushed to join the happy crowd that flocked out to meet the returning warriors.
When the triumphal procession reached the outlying huts, Mr Snow drew Steve to one side and handed him over to Kid-Creole and Doctor-Hook. ‘I want you to go to my hut and wait till I come for you. May I take it that you won’t do anything to cause me further embarrassment?’
Steve held up his right hand, Tracker-style. ‘I promise.’
‘So you said before.’
‘I can explain all that.’
‘I’m sure you can. But it’ll have to wait. I have to attend a little celebration.’
Steve laid a hand on Mr Snow’s arm as the old wordsmith went to turn away. ‘Listen – I just want you to know that I regret what I did. I shouldn’t have run away.’
Mr Snow tried not to smile. Having managed to catch Brickman off balance he now had to try and keep the advantage. ‘In the circumstances it was probably the wisest thing to do.’
Steve wondered what lay behind that remark. How much did the crafty old coot know? ‘That may be so,’ he replied, ‘but when I left, part of me remained here…’
How true, thought Mr Snow.
‘… and my one wish,’ continued Steve, ‘has been to return.’
Mr Snow accepted this avowal with a gracious nod. ‘Your wish has been granted.’ He indicated their surroundings with a sweep of his hand. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’
Steve watched uneasily as the old wordsmith rejoined the long column and saw that Jodi and Medicine-Hat had been tied side-by-side to a sapling. He caught their eye as they were driven past with the other renegades into the settlement and gave them what he hoped was a reassuring look.
Drums started an incessant beat, developing and repeating increasingly elaborate rhythmic sequences. As Steve knelt to enter the wordsmith’s hut the drums were joined by stick instruments, reed pipes and voices; separate melodic threads subtly woven together to form a vibrant tapestry of sound.
To the assembled renegades, hearing it for the first time, it must have been an awesomely frightening experience. A savage, alien symphony that awakened their worst fears, those deep-rooted primal terrors that lurked in the blood and which had been reinforced during childhood. For the ordinary Tracker, this was something that years of living on the overground could never totally dispel.
Steve understood but remained untouched. He lay back on the woven grass mats and let the waves of sound wash over him. His body seemed to resonate to the music, bringing him into harmony with the world around him. It felt… it felt as if he…
Had come home.
Home. Steve knew the word was to be found in the Federation’s video-dictionary but he was suddenly aware that the word held some special, deeper meaning for him. And he heard voices again. Distant echoing whispers that he could not quite decipher. Like the voice he had heard on catching his first glimpse of the overground. The magic moment of awakening he had shared with Roz.
Was it the music, or was it the familiar odours of herbs and dried fruits draped in bunches around the walls of the hut that had triggered this reaction? Or was it his total response to the overground? He was, after all, entering his third week of…
Freedom.
The Federation, the First Family, Karlstrom and his secret war games suddenly seemed a long way off and strangely irrelevant. It was as if a door had unlocked in the recesses of his mind, opening up new avenues, new vistas of consciousness. He was being invited to begin another stage in the journey towards deeper knowledge and understanding. He would go, but reluctantly, for beyond these fresh horizons lay the hidden secrets about his true nature that he both coveted and feared. Mr Snow had likened the search for Truth to climbing a mountain. But what he had omitted to say was that the unwary, or the misguided, could lose their footing on the way to the summit and be plunged into the abyss
.
Darkness fell; the celebrations continued. Steve fuelled the fire-stone to light the interior of the hut then lifted the door flap and saw that a large bonfire had been lit on one edge of the settlement.
Some time later, Mr Snow thrust his head into the hut and beckoned to Steve. ‘Okay, let’s get it over with.’
Kid-Creole and Doctor-Hook were waiting outside. On a signal from Mr Snow, they draped a long, hooded cloak over Steve’s shoulders then retired out of earshot. The cloak was made up of an irregular patchwork of small skins, dyed in a variety of dark colours. It also smelt. But that was something Steve was rapidly readjusting to.
‘What’s this in aid of?’ he asked.
Mr Snow pulled the hood forward so that Steve’s face was completely shadowed. ‘You’re about to be resurrected. Apart from Cadillac and Clearwater, no one knows you escaped. Everyone thinks you were killed in that landslide.’
‘With Motor-Head…’
‘And his two friends. Yes. Their bodies were recovered, of course.’
‘And Blue-Bird?’
Mr Snow shrugged. ‘It was buried along with you.’
‘What about Motor-Head’s other friends – the ones who didn’t want me around?’
Mr Snow laughed dryly. ‘Let me worry about that. You’re past history, Brickman. All these people have forgotten what happened last year. As their wordsmith, it’s my job to remind them.’
‘Which also means you can choose what they remember.’
Mr Snow responded with a mischievous smile. ‘Exactly. It’s a great responsibility.’ He patted Steve’s shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ As they walked towards the waiting warriors he said, ‘Oh, by the way – can you do an aerial somersault?’
Steve hesitated. ‘Well, I haven’t done one in a long time but I imagine so – at a pinch. Why?’
‘Everybody’s high. If I hit ’em now, I should be able to paint you back into the picture without too much trouble. But I need your help to create a little excitement. A little razzmatazz.’
‘Razzmatazz…?’
‘Forget it.’ Mr Snow handed him over to Kid-Creole and Doctor-Hook. ‘They’ll tell you what to do.’
‘Wait a minute! What do I have to say?’ hissed Steve, as he was led away into the darkness.
‘Nothing! I’ll do the talking. Just make sure you don’t blow your entrance by falling in the fire!’
The assembled clan-elders squatted in a semi-circle facing a large bonfire that had been lit near the edge of the surrounding forest. The entire clan, apart from those on guard, was ranged behind them. Rolling-Stone, the wiry chief elder who had survived yet another White Death, sat in the middle of the front row; the drummers and the players of wind and stick instruments were grouped on either flank. All of them listened spell-bound to Mr Snow, who strode up and down the front row pausing every now and then to fling his arms up into the sky.
Walking shoulder to shoulder, Kid-Creole and Doctor-Hook circled round through the trees with Steve tucked in close behind them. They stopped just beyond the leaping circle of orange light, their broad-shouldered bodies masking the cloaked figure of Steve from the view of those seated on the other side of the flames. Flurries of sparks spiralled upwards into the starry sky. The heat was tremendous. Steve remembered Good-Year’s dreadful death and felt suddenly uneasy. If these guys didn’t do it right… He tried to concentrate on what Mr Snow was saying but the drums and the equally thunderous responses from the clan drowned his words.
‘Heyy-YAHH!! Heyy-YAHH!!’ they roared, fists punching the air above their heads.
Mr Snow held up his arms then swept them round towards the fire in a gesture of supplication. Steve saw something leave his hand and fall into the flames. There was a dull ‘whoo-oompf!’. A dazzingly bright light flared briefly in the heart of the fire and was quickly swallowed up by billowing clouds of dense white smoke. Now completely hidden from the audience, Kid-Creole and Doctor-Hook moved closer to the bonfire and offered Steve a cupped hand.
Come on, Brickman. Nothing to it…
Steve placed a boot on each palm and laid his hand on their heads to steady himself. In one swift movement, they raised him level with their shoulders then straightened their arms like well-oiled pistons, punching him high into the air. Looking down, Steve saw tongues of orange fire shooting up towards him through the swirling clouds of smoke. A rising blast of heat slammed into him, searing his throat and lungs. For one brief moment, Steve’s nerved failed then, an instant later, he snapped back into action. He jack-knifed his body, turned head over heels then threw his arms out sideways, spreading the dark cloak like the wings of a giant bird of prey as he curved down to earth, landing on the balls of his feet by the side of Mr Snow.
The old wordsmith grabbed Steve’s wrist as he bounced back up and raised it above his head like an old-time boxing referee. ‘Well done,’ he muttered. He turned to address his wide-eyed audience. ‘You see how my words echo the will of the Thrice-Gifted One?!’ he cried. ‘First Talisman gives us a great victory and now the cloud-warrior he sent from the sky and took back through the earth is returned to us to perform a mighty deed in his name!’
The ground shook as the clan leapt to its feet and roared approvingly; the drums thundered. ‘HEYY-yahh! Heyy-yahh, heyy yahh, HEYY-YAAHHH!!’
Steve was filled with sudden foreboding. ‘What do they expect me to do?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mr Snow. ‘I’ll think of something.’
‘What about Kid-Creole and Doctor-Hook? If they talk, won’t it ruin everything?’
Mr Snow shook his head. ‘I put their minds to sleep and told them to forget what happened.’
Before Steve could react to the news that he had been given the heave-ho by two zombies he found himself surrounded by Mutes, laughing and shouting and leaping up and down. As they made their way back to Mr Snow’s hut, the clan formed two jostling lines on either side, those at the rear running round to the front to catch another glimpse of the newly-returned cloud-warrior. Men, women and children called out to him excitedly as he passed between the rows of bright-eyed, eager faces. Hands reached out to touch him. Steve could only presume that their owners hoped some of Talisman’s powers he was thought to possess would flow into them. Kid-Creole and Doctor-Hook, Mr Snow’s strong but silent bodyguards, thrust aside those who got in the way.
Steve tried to adjust to the new situation. The rapid changes in his fortunes has left him momentarily bewildered. How stupid. He, more than anyone, should have realised that the Mutes, with their faulty memory banks, might not remember him. But not even he, in his wildest dreams, could have imagined making such a triumphal return. As they entered Mr Snow’s hut, a small, still nagging voice warned him to be on his guard.
Something was wrong. Things were going far too well. Brickman had always considered himself to be lucky but he was not prone to self-deception. He had achieved his first objective but it should not have been this easy.
When the last group of celebrants had drifted away and some semblance of normality had returned, Night-Fever, the She-Wolf with the fearsome bucket-jaw, appeared with two clan-sisters and laid small dishes containing a variety of hot and cold food before them. Steve thanked them profusely. The three She-Wolves retreated on their knees – a sign of submissive devotion. As she lowered the door-flap, Night-Fever treated Steve to a hot-eyed glance. The message, which transcended the need for language, was unequivocal. Night-Fever may have ranked zero on a scale of one to ten in terms of attractiveness but she certainly deserved full marks for persistence.
Steve turned to Mr Snow and saw his amused smile. ‘I thought you said no one remembered me.’
Mr Snow began to eat. ‘Some people’s memories are better than others.’
Steve wondered if this was another allusion to Clearwater. He had a strong suspicion that Mr Snow was playing one of his devious games. They would have to talk about her sooner or later. Indeed, Steve had lost count of the times he had mentally rehearsed t
he conversation but now that they were face to face he did not know how to begin. He had been hoping to catch sight of Clearwater but so far, he had been disappointed. Cadillac should have been at Mr Snow’s side during the ceremony but he too had failed to appear. Perhaps the young wordsmith had discovered what had happened with Clearwater and was reluctant to meet him. Best not to rush it. Let everything happen in its own time. Let them do the talking. Steve selected one of the small dishes. Thin slivers of meat in a thick, spicy sauce. Memories flooded back as the aroma entered his nostrils. He ate hungrily.
Mr Snow sat cross-legged on the other end of the talking-mat and studied the cloud-warrior. Brickman was also making a great effort to appear relaxed but, in his case, it wasn’t working. His inner turmoil was reflected in his eyes; his perplexity was almost palpable. Mr Snow had spoken the truth when he has said that Cadillac had seen the cloud-warrior’s return in the stones. But he had not expected him to appear during the hunt for the red-skins; the sand-worms who had fled their underground burrows. Fortunately, Mr Snow had managed to hide his surprise. As a result, Brickman was under the impression that they were there to meet him. Since this enhanced Mr Snow’s reputation for omniscience, and put Brickman at a temporary disadvantage, why disillusion him? He would soon recover his natural guile.
Brickman was a born deceiver but then, that was only to be expected. He had been fashioned by others to live a lie. His true self could be reclaimed but not through the actions of someone on the outside. The layers of deception had to be stripped away by Brickman himself, from within. The process of self-discovery, in which Clearwater had such an important part to play, had begun. Mr Snow could sense the cloud-warrior’s mind was opening but, in many respects, he was still burdened by the blindness that afflicted all sand-burrowers.
One day, that darkness would lift from his inner eye and on that day, the powers that now lay dormant within the cloud-warrior would be awakened. This much, Mr Snow had learned from the Sky Voices; what they had not made clear was whether these powers were a gift from the Beings of Light or the Creatures of the Abyss. Cadillac had predicted that Brickman would return with death hiding in his shadow and would carry Clearwater away on a river of blood. So be it. The Wheel turned. The Great Dying had been foreseen long ago. In the wider destiny of the Plainfolk the fate of the clan M’Call was unimportant; his own demise – now only months away – of no account. If this was the will of Talisman these things would come to pass. His spirit and those of the clan would return. The struggle would continue.
First Family Page 27