‘You already have.’
She nestled her face against his then said: ‘Min-Orota’s men are still outside. Don’t you think we ought to put our masks back on, in case one of them comes in?
‘Can’t you handle that?’
‘I could but the effort of concentration required to grab someone’s mind really drains you after a while. I’d just like to be able to relax.’ She picked up their face masks and offered Cadillac his.
‘I hate wearing these things. I like to be able to see what you’re thinking.’
‘Does not knowing what I’m thinking worry you?’ Roz planted a light kiss on his mouth. ‘Relax. I don’t have real power, like Clearwater. I can’t make people do things the way she can, or move chunks of the landscape around. I can only manipulate people’s perception of reality – a lot depends on what I can find inside their heads. Or mine.…’
‘I wouldn’t call that a limitation.’
‘No. Perhaps it’s a restriction I’ve imposed upon myself. My classes at school were slanted towards the practical aspects of medicine. The first time I heard people mention psychology and the subconscious mind was after I’d passed my intermed exams and went on to take my doctorate at Inner State U! I suppose if I started to dig really deep, there is no limit to what I might come up with.’
‘Does the prospect frighten you?’
‘Yes.’ Roz smiled. ‘I’d much rather have your amazing ability to absorb an alien culture and master their language practically overnight.’
It was Cadillac’s turn to laugh. ‘It takes little longer than that.’
‘Maybe. The point is, you know what’s going on, and I don’t – at least not until you get a chance to tell me. It makes me feel so helpless. And what’s more, I’m sick of you doing all the talking!’
He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Don’t underestimate yourself. You’ve scared the hell out of these guys. They wouldn’t dare make a move against us. As for Mishiko, I thought we laid on a really great blend of fact and fiction. It’s clear she went for it. The question is – will she still feel the same way tomorrow?’
‘Oh, yes. That’s the one thing you can be sure about.’
‘Good. We’ve got everything she needs to finish the job. That leaves just two more hurdles to clear – getting her into place, and getting away.’
‘Yes.’ Roz turned towards the window with a sigh.
Cadillac watched her peer vacantly through the shutters. ‘What’s the matter?’
She kept her back towards him and ran a forefinger slowly back and forth along one of the wooden slats. ‘I just … find this all a bit upsetting. The fact that so many people are going to die. Is that why she insisted on taking her children with her?’
‘Yes. Try not to think about it. The Iron Masters know how to handle things like this. When they purge their top guys, the whole family usually gets taken out. That’s the down-side of belonging to the nobility. It’s something they’re taught to accept from the moment they’re old enough to understand.’
‘But we are the ones who are killing them!’ cried Roz. Her eyes were still riveted on her moving finger which was now pressed down so hard, it had begun to turn white.
‘Only indirectly. And if she arranges it, they probably won’t feel a thing.’ Cadillac could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was close to tears. ‘Listen. I know it’s a tough thing to have to cope with, but it’s better for these japs to be killing each other than to have them cutting down the Plainfolk.’
He took hold of her shoulders and turned her around.
‘You sound just like Steve.’ Roz wiped her eyes, drew the back of her hand across her snuffly nose, then poked him in the ribs. ‘And what’s more, you look ridiculous in that wig!’
‘I can always take it off – if you’re willing to cover me.’
‘No, don’t–’
It was too late. Cadillac was already lifting it carefully off his head. He put it on one of the shaped wooden blocks that had come as part of their wardrobe and shook his own hair free. ‘Have you heard from him lately?’
‘Steve? No. Not a peep. But something tells me I will.’
‘Yeah. And knowing him, it’ll probably be bad news.’
Roz sensed the hint of jealousy in his voice. ‘It doesn’t have to be.’
‘That’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? The only time he gets in touch is when he’s in a jam. I can only think of one reason why you haven’t heard from him in months – and that’s because he’s worked himself an easy ticket. It’s like I said. He’s sold out.’
‘That’s not fair, it’s not true, and that’s the one thing I hate about you! He saved Clearwater’s life and he’ll do whatever has to be done to keep her from being harmed until they can both escape! And that’s not made any easier by the fact that she’s having a baby. Why won’t you trust him?!’
‘Because I have no cause to!’ Cadillac circled Roz angrily. ‘If he comes back into our lives, he’s going to come between us!’
‘I won’t let him,’ said Roz, firmly.
Cadillac halted in front of her. ‘But the prospect scares you, doesn’t it? Because he still has a hold on you.’
‘Not in the way you think. He’s worried by this power that’s been given to me. He knows I’m no longer the little sister who was raised in his shadow and was content to remain there. But our minds are still linked. Even though he hasn’t made contact, part of him still lives in here.’
Roz touched the sides of her forehead. ‘That’s what scares me. Knowing that if something bad happened to him, it could happen to me too. I want everything to go right – for all of us.’ She ran her hands along his shoulders and linked them behind his neck. ‘Especially now.…’
‘It will.’ Cadillac put his arms around her waist and closed the gap between them. ‘But whether Steve is with us or not, you and I are going to win through. You’ve got to believe that.’
‘I do – but you know how it is. The more you have, the more you have to lose.’ She shrugged. ‘I – I… just feel that he and I have been too lucky for too long.’
‘Your run of luck has just started,’ said Cadillac. He sealed her lips with a. kiss. It wasn’t long before they sank onto the straw matting and began exploring some now familiar territory.
‘Do you really think this is a good idea?’ whispered Roz.
‘Can you think of a better one?’
Chapter Eight
In the pre-Holocaust era, there used to be an old saying: ‘Dream of the devil and you wake in fright.’ Roz’s premonition about her brother was not all that far off the mark. For as she and Cadillac lay in each other’s arms, Steve was preparing to fly to Ne-Issan with his bed-mate, Commander Franklynne Delano Jefferson.
In the hour before midnight, Eastern Time, just after Lady Mishiko had slipped back into the Winter Palace undetected, Steve and Fran changed out of their pale grey uniforms into the familiar red, orange, black and brown fatigues, said goodbye to Karlstrom and were driven out in an eight-wheeled Bobcat to the air-base attached to Cloudlands – the First Family’s private estate.
Two AMEXICO SkyRiders fitted with underwing long-range fuel-tanks stood waiting on the hangar apron. Steve and Fran were logged through Flight Operations with the minimum of ceremony. The orders and clearances required for the trip had come down the line ahead of them, and the pilots had been fully briefed. By the time they reached the apron, their baggage had been stowed away in the cargo hatches. All that remained was to strap themselves into the passenger seats and sit back while the monosyllabic pilots alongside them got on with their job.
Four and a half hours later, after travelling some twelve hundred miles, the two planes broke formation and landed in semi-darkness on a flat, endless stretch of beach bordering a limitless expanse of water.
The beach was about thirty miles south of the point where the Cape Fear River, which marked the southern border of Ne-Issan, cut through the sands of North Carolina; the water w
as the Atlantic Ocean, a vast grey blanket gently rising and falling in the pre-dawn twilight. What pre-H sailors called an oily swell. With scarcely a breath of wind in the air, the normally thunderous breakers were reduced to token waves which reared half-heartedly then tumbled feebly onto the shelving beach.
Painted in low-visibility grey, the two SkyRiders were like insubstantial phantoms swelling and fading in the drifting banks of sea-mist. Steve and Fran climbed out of the passenger seats of their respective planes, pulled their trail bags and other luggage from the cargo holds, gave the cockpit canopy a flat-handed ‘All set/Goodbye’ thump then ran clear of the port wing tips. The SkyRiders moved off one behind the other in the same straight line, gathering speed before lifting off with flaps extended to climb steeply out over the sea.
The sound of their engines and their grey silhouettes were quickly lost in the gloom, leaving only the red wink lights above and below their fuselages to mark their position in the sky. And then they too vanished. Touchdown to take-off had been completed in under three minutes. In half an hour, the advancing tide would wipe the tell-tale tyretracks from the beach, long before the first of the nearby Southern Mutes came to ready their beached cat-boats for another day’s fishing.
Steve nudged Fran’s arm and pointed out to sea. Half-concealed in the shifting banks of mist was the angular dark grey shape of an ocean-going junk. A point of light on the raised stern winked on and off. Steve turned and scanned the dunes for the recipient of that message – the person who had made radio contact with the SkyRiders before switching on the lights that marked the beginning and the direction of the landing strip.
Five diminutive figures rose into view and made their way down through the wind-hollows between the tufted tops of the dunes. As they drew closer, Steve recognised their leader. It was Skull-Face, a pint-sized undercover agent of the ruling Toh-Yota family. At their first meeting, Steve had been forced to kneel naked in front of him, tightly trussed with rope and twine like a rolled joint of buffalo meat. It had been question and answer time, and two of Skull-Face’s friends had stood behind him, ready to refresh his memory with the aid of whipping-canes. It was an unpromising start to a working relationship, but his tormentor soon revealed himself to be an ally who later set up the travel arrangements which enabled Steve, Cadillac, Clearwater, Jodi Kazan and Kelso to get out of Ne-Issan.
This time it was Skull-Face’s turn to bow, first to Fran and then to Steve. ‘Commander Franklynne Delano Jefferson, it is a great honour for me to be the first to welcome you and Captain Brickman to Ne-Issan. Allow me to introduce myself – Samurai-Major Iseko Fujiwara. It will be my pleasure to guide you to rendezvous with Lord Chamberlain Ieyasu.’
Apart from the sibilant pronunciation and a tendency to swallow certain consonants like d and I, Fujiwara spoke almost perfect Basic.
Steve, who had been given the running order before take-off, replied on behalf of Fran. In Ne-Issan, it was the custom for high-ranking nobles to speak through intermediaries when speaking to inferior beings. ‘We thank you for receiving us and look forward to our journey together. Where are you taking us?’
Fujiwara responded with an even lower bow. ‘Sorry, Captain. That is something I am unable to reveal. The final decision on the choice of meeting place has not been taken. Please follow me.’
These japs, thought Steve. They really loved concealment and intrigue.
Fujiwara’s silent companions picked up the baggage and tagged on behind as he led Steve and Fran to the water’s edge. A large row-boat manned by two sailors appeared out of a bank of mist. Two of the baggage handlers ran into the shallows and turned the boat’s bow to seaward then ran the stern end of the keel aground amid the fitful breaking waves.
Steve helped Fran climb over the backboard, then followed her into the bow of the boat. The luggage was quickly stowed away, Fujiwara took charge of the tiller, and his four colleagues ran the boat back into the water. Scrambling aboard, they fitted oars into the wooden rowlocks and helped the sailors pull away against the incoming tide.
Fifteen minutes later, they reached the heavy timbered side of a large steam-powered junk with two tapering four-sided sails and a rear jib-sheet on the raised stern. There was no sign of any crew on deck. A rope ladder with wooden rungs hung down over the side, but it turned out that this was only for the lower orders.
One of the baggage handlers climbed nimbly onto the deck then, shortly afterwards, a wooden boom with a pulley block and rope tackle swung into view, and a carriage box was lowered into the rowboat. With a respectful bow, Fujiwara invited Fran to seat herself in the box then closed the door and rode up with it, hanging onto one of the rope slings. A couple of minutes later, the box came back down over the side for Steve.
When it touched down on the deck and the door was opened, Steve found himself facing an open passageway. Portable side-screens closed off any view of the main deck. Fujiwara led him down a short flight of stairs and into a cabin where Fran stood waiting by a window in what was obviously the stern of the boat.
Fujiwara took them through the accommodation set aside for them; two mirror-image cabins separated by a wide corridor which together occupied the full width of the stern. Fran chose the port side whose windows offered a view of the distant shore. One of Fujiwara’s men carried Steve’s share of the luggage into the other cabin.
Steve followed him through the two sets of sliding doors. In the rear half of the intervening corridor was a small bath-house whose party-sized tub drained out through a stern chute when the plug was pulled. Each cabin had a closet with a jugged supply of water, and in the rear half a similar pipe for evacuating what the Federation’s A-Level electronic maintenance manual referred to as ‘solid waste’.
The cabins were furnished in the usual sparse Iron Master fashion, with a minimum of furniture. The raised sleeping area was covered in straw mats, the rest of the floor was bare polished wood. Sliding paper wall-screens opened to reveal shelves and storage space to hang clothes. Beside the folded cotton mattresses and bed linen, their hosts had provided a number of loose kimonos in black and white. The cuffs and hems were trimmed with bright patterned material, and bore a lozenge-shaped decorative device on the back and breast.
After withdrawing to allow them to settle in, Fujiwara returned with four Vietnamese women in tow. Introducing them, the agent apologised in advance for any difficulties arising from the women’s modest grasp of Basic and explained that the quartet would act as their body-slaves throughout their stay in Ne-Issan. They would serve all meals, clean and carry water, and perform any other tasks required of them. The bells provided would summon them from their quarters nearby, a minimum of two would be on duty at any hour of the day or night, and should they fail to give satisfaction, then he, Iseko Fujiwara, should be informed without delay.
Steve thanked him, with the usual exchange of bows.
When the four Vietnamese women had shuffled backwards out of the room, with their bodies bent forward as if suffering from severe stomach cramps, Fujiwara explained the remaining ground rules. As they had noticed by the manner of their arrival, the vessel’s crew – apart from the two ensigns in the rowboat – had been confined below decks to prevent them from discovering the identity of their illustrious passengers.
In return, Fujiwara asked Steve and Fran to remain below deck. They could use the roofed balcony that ran across the flat, sloping stern outside their cabins but they could not – except in the case of an unforeseen emergency – come up on the main deck during the voyage.
Speaking for Fran, Steve said he understood completely. It was disappointing not to be able to see where they were going, but it was better to arrive safely, without the knowledge of the Shogun’s enemies.
Fujiwara bowed and expressed his immeasurable appreciation of such deep understanding. ‘These are troubled times.’
‘They are indeed,’ replied Steve. Ten-Four. Over and out.…
Listening at the window to the shouted exchanges as the
junk got underway, Fran quickly established that the junk was officered by Japanese, and had a mainly Chinese crew. Fran did not intend to reveal her knowledge of Japanese in order to eavesdrop on unguarded conversations that might put them ahead in their forthcoming negotiations. It also avoided potentially embarrassing problems of protocol. The Iron Masters didn’t like outlanders speaking their sacred tongue, and it wasn’t necessary to do so. As Steve had discovered on his last visit, a surprising number of japs had a good working knowledge of Basic. Their pronunciation and syntax might be a little rocky – even comical – but they had ways of getting their message across, especially to people who made the mistake of laughing at them.
As the sun rose, the mist banks quickly disappeared. The wind freshened, deepening the troughs between the waves and carving the crests into serrated lines of white foam. With the sun now riding high over slow-moving heaps of cumulus, the swelling grey blanket of water had been transformed into a sparkling expanse of blue and green.
The broad-beamed junk ploughed northwards at a steady twelve knots, pitching slowly fore and aft. Within an hour, the wind became a lot fiercer. The tranquil heaps of cumulus were quickly overshadowed by threatening grey storm clouds and the junk began to roll alarmingly as the mounting waves crashed against its starboard side.
Steve had never travelled on any kind of water-borne vessel up to the age of eighteen, when he’d stowed away on the Great Lakes wheel-boat to Ne-Issan, but he’d emerged in reasonably good shape, and had fared better than Cadillac when crossing Lake Michigan in a frail, narrow outrigger. And he was now quietly pleased to discover he had better sea-legs than Fran who he found clutching the stern balcony rail, white-knuckled and green around the gills.
She raised her voice above the background drumming of the steam-driven screw that churned the blue water beneath them into a broad swirling ribbon of green and white foam. ‘Did you know it was going to be like this?!’
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