《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》03

With an involuntary movement, he hit the brake pedal, holding the
Skyhawk's nose on the double yellow line.  One, two, three, four, five
seconds.  Six, seven A warning klaxon blared harshly.  The controller's
voice spoke quietly into his ear.  'Clear the ramp, Easy X-Ray One."

The voice paused then added, 'Your data line is down but we have no
malfunction signal.  Check system, over."

Brickman moved his right arm back and glanced down at the data
transmitter to which his body was wired.  A chill shiver ran through
him.  It was switched off!  Somehow he must have unwittingly knocked it
with his elbow.  Oh, Christopher Columbus!  How could he have done such
a stupid thing?  And When?  I He quickly flipped the switch back into
the 'on' position and berated himself silently.  Oh, shit, shit, and
triple shit.  You bonehead!  You've blown it!

The bland, disembodied voice of Ground Control cut across his mental
confusion.  'Okay, we have your data.  Roll it in, Easy X-Ray One."

Willing an inner and outward calm upon his body, Brickman eased his
foot off the brakes and taxied in under the raised section of the outer
door.  As soon as he was inside, the lower section rose with a barely
audible hiss and the inner doors slid out of the walls.  As the bright
rectangle of daylight in his rearview mirror shrank rapidly and
disappeared behind the overlapping curtains of concrete, Brickman did
his best to bury the strange, troubling feelings that had assailed him
during the flight.  Dangerous, treacherous sensations that he could not
put into words; that would be better forgotten but which he knew would
haunt him for the rest of his life.

What Brickman had experienced was a sense of freedom.

His inability to perceive this, or to put a name to it, was perfectly
understandable.  The word 'freedom' did not appear in the Federation's
dictionary.  It was, of course, known to the highest ranks of the First
Family but officially, the concept did not exist.

CFI Carrol waved the senior classmen back into their seats and took his
place at the lectern.  The six assistant FI's led by Mr Triggs lined up
against the wall behind him.

'It's been a long haul,' said Carrol, 'but we've come to the end of the
line.  After home-base leave, you'll be shipping out on your first unit
assignments.  Between then and now you're going to be busy drilling for
the big anniversary parade so, as this is probably my last opportunity
to address you as a group, I thought I'd mark the occasion with a few
farewell words."

Carrol paused and let his eyes range slowly over the seated cadets.

'I've seen the results ' The senior year reacted with a rustle of
excitement.

Carrol held up a hand.  'Hold it.  The marks and places will be
screened as scheduled tomorrow.  However, what i can tell you is that
there are no wipeouts, and no retreads."

The news was received with total silence.

Carrol shook his head as if he couldn't quite believe it and turned to
the AFI's.  'Amazing.  None of them look at all surprised."

The three hundred cadets, over a third of them girls, broke into
laughter.  They all knew no one would be choked for airing their teeth
today.  Not by Carrol, anyway.

'I know what you're thinking,' continued Carrol.  ' "Here it comes.

The CFI's standard address to every graduation class."  Not so.  I have
to tell you that three years ago when you joined the Academy, we
thought we'd been landed with a bunch of red-heads but - you all did
well.  Some better than others."  His eyes rested briefly on
Brickman.

'In fact, all of you turned in such terrific grades, the average
pass-mark is the highest ever in the Academy's history."

The class of 2989 gave themselves a congratulatory cheer.

The six AFI's allowed themselves an impassive smile.

Carrol gestured soberly for silence.  'Yes, I suppose I should
congratulate you but, the truth is, you people have just made life more
difficult for the rest of us.  Because now, Grand Central are going to
expect us to do even better next year."  Carrol looked over both
shoulders at the AFI's.

'Which means, gentlemen, that, as from tomorrow, you and I are going to
have to kick ass."

The six AFI's responded with mock resignation.  'We could always put in
for promotion,' said Triggs.

Carrol cocked a finger at the senior All.  'Good thinking."

He turned back to the class, placed his hands purposefully on the upper
corners of the lectern and cleared his throat.

The class of 2989 straightened their backs and faces.

'Okay.  Hear this.  In a few days you'll have a badge pinned to your
chest.  You'll be wingmen.  The frontline force of the Amtrak
Federation.  It's a great moment.  Savour it.  But don't think that
life's going to get easier, that the hard work is over.  You have
another twelve months operational training ahead of you when you join
your wagon trains.  And if you're smart, it won't stop when you swap
your silver badge for a gold.  You'll go on learning.  Because it's the
only way to become a better flier.  Always remember that when the chips
are down and you're fresh out of luck, it's the hot pilots that make it
back to base."  Carrol paused and ran his eyes along the rows of
bright, eager young faces, his mouth tightening with a hint of
regret.

'Who knows?  If you don't power down, or pull a trick, some of you
could even end up making speeches to classes like this."

His audience greeted this with a dry, ragged laugh.  To 'power down'
was Trail-Blazer jargon for a crash in hostile territory - usually with
fatal results; like 'buying a farm' or 'going into the meat business',
for it was well known that Mutes ate any prisoners they caught alive.

To 'pull a trick' was another euphemism for death - from what the
Federation medical establishment had labelled a TRIC: a Terminal
Radiation-Induced Cancer.

Most of the wingmen on the Academy's Roll of Honour had powered down,
or pulled a trick.  Usually before they reached the ripe old age of
thirty.  Carrol knew that at least haft of the young faces now fixed on
his would never see the sun rise on their twenty-first birthday.  His
audience knew it too.  And didn't give a damn.  Every year, the Academy
was swamped with thousands of applications for the three hundred places
available for Squabs - the derisive name applied to first-year
cadets.

That - according to the Manual - was the great strength of the Amtrak
Federation.  The raw courage and dedication of the Trackers.  Two of
the Seven Great Qualities possessed by the founders of Amtrak.  The
Foragers and the Minutemen.  Qualities now enshrined in the First
Family and the members of the two lite companies that bore their
name.

'They died so that others might live."  The message was emblazoned on
wall surfaces throughout the Federation and every Tracker was
encouraged, from birth, to emulate their example.

Without question.

When the examination results were screened, Brickman found to his
amazement that, after three years of dedicated, relentless effort, he
had been placed fourth with 188 points, behind Pete Vandenberg, from
Condor Squadron, the cadet Brickman had judged most likely to come a
poor second to his brilliant first.  That was bad enough but there was
worse to come.  Gus White, a wingman in the same flight as Steve, who
had not even figured in his calculations had landed in the No.  2 slot,
ahead of Vandenberg by one point at 190; Donna Monroe Lundkwist,
another cadet from Eagle Squadron who Steve had thought might make the
first ten had come top of the heap with a score of 192, and had been
nominated as Honour Cadet; winner of the prized Minuteman Trophy.

Brushing aside the congratulations of other A-Flight cadets in the
crowd milling excitedly around the screens, Brickman retired to his
shack, wedged the door shut, and spent two silent, solitary hours
trying to come to terms with what had happened.  He went over every
move he had made in each of the tests and could find nothing that could
have cost him marks.  His one error had been that fatal hesitation on
the ramp after landing but he could simply not believe that those seven
seconds had cost him not only the first place he was convinced he
deserved but also second and third.

And to find himself trailing fourth behind a no-hoper like Gus White
who had not even been close in the monthly class tests!  It just didn't
add up ...

Admittedly there had been the additional problem of the three minute
break in the transmission of data from the sensors taped to his body
but he had talked this through exhaustively with the Adjudicators and
Ground Control after landing and they had accepted that the switch
could have been moved inadvertently.  The data transmitter was not
fitted to Skyhawks when used operationally and during his discussion
with the Adjudicators they had admitted that it was positioned
awkwardly.  But despite their apparent understanding he had been
savagely penalised.

No matter.  One day, he would even the score.  With Lundkwist, with Gus
White, Carrol, the Flight Adjudicators and the others - as yet unknown
- who had conspired to humiliate him.  They would all pay.  It might
take years but that would only make his revenge all the sweeter.

The decision did nothing to assuage his bitter disappointment but it
filled his breast with a harsh, cold joy.  It enabled him to think
clearly, to function.

Rising from his bunk, Brickman showered, put on a fresh, neatly pressed
jump-suit, then sought out Lundkwist and Gus White amidst the raucous
celebration party in the mess and offered his congratulations; hugging
each of them in turn with heart-warming sincerity.

Faced with the astonishing results, CFI Carrol felt obliged to
commiserate with his star pupil.  Brickman put on an outward show of
philosophical resignation but Carrol knew that he felt himself to be
the victim of a blatant injustice.

Inwardly, Brickman was suffering.  And would continue to suffer.

Which, in so far as Carrol could understand these things, was how those
who ordered the affairs of the Federation wished it to be.  For, in
addition to their luggage, the Adjudicators from Grand Central had
brought floppy-disc files on all the candidates.  No one at the Academy
had been allowed to see what they contained but, in an unguarded
moment, Carrol had glimpsed an enigmatic notation on the cover of
Brickman's electronic dossier.

It read: 'This candidate is to be marked down'.

THREE

Armed with a crossbow and a handful of the precious iron bolts
fashioned in the Fire-Pits of Beth-Leto, Cadillac and Clearwater made
their way down to the grassy plain below the settlement.  Clearwater
was the sixteen-year-old girl chosen by the clan elders to be his
soul-mate.  They had not yet crossed wrists or exchanged the blood kiss
but since the Yellowing of the Old Earth they had lain together, skin
against skin, under his furs at each black moon - what was known to the
Plainfolk as 'sleeping between the wolf and the bear'.

Underneath the swirling pattern of black, brown and dark cream pigment,
Clearwater's body was smooth skinned, like Cadillac's.  Her jaw was
small, her teeth evenly set and concealed by her lips; her long hair
was streaked with yellow and brown like the leaves blown from the trees
before the White Death; her eyes were a brilliant pale blue like the
morning sky that poured light into the lakes and streams, bringing them
to life and making them good to drink.  Hence her given name of
Clearwater, blood-daughter of Sun-dance and Thunderbird, a great
warrior who filled ten head-poles before falling at the battle of the
Black Hills.  She was tall and straight-limbed like Cadillac, swift as
an eagle, strong as a mountain-lion, and her heart was warm and filled
with goodness, like the Middle Earth at the time of the Gathering.

Cadillac and Clearwater journeyed eastwards through the shoulder-high
orange grass until the mountain which rose behind the M'Call settlement
was no wider than the fingers of their outstretched hand.  As the sun
reached the head of the sky, they drank from a shallow, swift-running
river and rested for a while in the cool shade of a large rock.  The
water rippled over worn pebble beds with a slapping noise like women
throwing flat-bread at a clanbake.

Cadillac climbed up onto the rock and cautiously scanned the ground
beyond the river.  The grass was shorter on the far side and in the
distance, he saw the tell-tale flash of white hindquarters that
indicated a herd of fast-foot; sharp-eyed reddish-brown deer that could
outrun a mountain lion.

They would require careful stalking but if he could bring down one of
the horned males it would be a highly prized catch that would give him
standing with the Bears - and might even earn him a fire song.

Cadillac slithered quickly down the rock to where Clearwater lay curled
in its shadow.  He touched her shoulder.  'Fast-foot."  He pointed
across the river then picked up his crossbow and cranked the lever that
drew the bowstring onto the half-trigger.

Clearwater sat up and smoothed her boned and ribboned rat-tail plaits
into place around her ears.  'How far?"

'Two bolts,' grunted Cadillac.  Even with the aid of the lever, it
required considerable strength to pull the bowstring back to the
half-way position.

A bolt was one of the methods used by Mutes to judge distances and was,
as the name suggests, the distance a bolt travelled when fired from a
fully-cocked crossbow.  Since the maximum range could vary considerably
it was a somewhat imprecise measurement but, on average, one bolt
equalled a little under four fifths of a mile.

Clearwater climbed swiftly up onto the overhanging rock and searched
the plain beyond the river.  'I see them."  She clambered halfway down
then jumped, landing gracefully at Cadillac's feet.  'Let us wait
here.

They will come to the river at sundown."

'Are we old ones?"  said Cadillac.  'Must we sit and wait until someone
puts meat in our lap?  She-ehh!"  He breathed out sharply, making a
short hissing sound - a sign, among Mutes, of annoyance.  He turned
away, and moved to the water's edge.

Clearwater caught hold of his wrist.  'We should not cross the river.

The water marks the edge of our turf.  If you would bring food, let us
take fish."

Cadillac jerked his arm free.  'Fish!?  Where is the standing in
that!

?"

'You have standing,' said Clearwater.  'You are the one who will speak
for us after Mr Snow has gone to the High Ground.  You have no need to
hunt, or run with the Bears.

That is the task of those born without pictures on their tongues."

'Need ... She-eeh!  What do you know of my needs?"  said Cadillac.  He
laid a fist on his heart.  'I would be as they are.

Oh, I know I cannot be like my brothers in the strength and shape of my
body.  Like you, I was made from a different clay.  But my heart is as
strong and as brave as theirs.  I paint pictures with my tongue, yes
but the colours are those of the brave.  The flashing silver of sharp
iron, the blood red of victory.  The history of the M'Call clan and the
Plainfolk is the history of its warriors.  The tales I tell are of
battles won by Bears with Names of Power ' 'You, too, have a Name of
Power ' 'It is empty.  I have no standing.  My tongue is full of brave
deeds but my knife-arm has never drawn blood.  How many fire songs will
bear my name when I go to the High Ground?"

Clearwater's eyes blazed with anger.  'Is that all that fills your
mind?  To be puffed up by praise - like a marsh frog with a throat full
of wind?  How many times must it be said?  You were born in the shadow
of the Talisman.  It fell upon you!  Not upon Motor-Head, Hawkwind,
Steel-Eye or Convoy or the other Bears you long to run with, but you!

When the Sky Voices call you to the service of Talisman, you will have
to be braver than the bravest of your clan-brothers.

More fearless than my father.  Mightier than the mightiest warriors who
have gone to the High Ground.

When that moment comes you will stand at the side of Talisman, and
there will be a thousand fire songs that bear your name?

'But when will that be?"  asked Cadillac.

'Who can tell when, or how, Talisman will enter the world?"  replied
Clearwater.  'You must wait as we all wait.

But you must prepare your heart and mind.  You must listen to the
sky."

'I listen.  But I hear nothing.  The Sky Voices do not speak through
me."

Clearwater tossed her head.  'She-ehh!  You anger me when you talk as
if you had nothing between your ears.  How many times has Mr Snow
spoken of these things?  You must hold yourself ready for whatever task
is to be given to you."

'I am ready,' said Cadillac.  'But I am sick of waiting."  He broke
away and splashed across the pebbled bed of the river.

Even at the deepest point, the rippling water barely covered his
knees.

Clearwater sighed, shook her head - and waded after him.

She caught up with him as he reached the far bank.

'Cadillac - stop.  This is not our turf.  You swore to Mr Snow to keep
within bounds - to never put the gift of words in danger."

Cadillac laughed.  'Where is the danger in a herd of fast-foot?

Did you not say I was born in the shadow of the Talisman?  If it is
true, then his shadow will protect us.

Come..."

The young fast-foot males were scattered around the edge of the herd on
picket duty, alternately grazing and nosing the air, their long necks
arched, white-rimmed eyes sweeping across the kne-high grass.  With the
sun beginning to descend towards the mountains, the fast-foot were
slowly moving closer to the river where they would gather in the cool
of the evening to drink at the water's edge - unless a careless
movement by Cadillac or Clearwater stampeded them in the opposite
direction.

Clearwater was tempted to make such a move but she knew that Cadillac
was determined to bring one down.

There was no point in making it more difficult.  She understood his
feelings.  'Standing', being able to 'cut it', was of paramount
importance within a Mute clan, and crucial to the self-respect of a
young male reaching the age of fourteen - the age when he became a
warrior.  But as the next wordsmith of the M'calls, Cadillac had no
need of standing.

The gift the Sky Voices had given him set him apart from the rest of
the clan, and when he took Mr Snow's place, even the clan elders would
seek his advice, would defer to his opinions and judgement.  Wordsmiths
did not need the raw, hot-blooded courage of Bears.  They needed to be
calm, resolute.  Cadillac could be both but, at other times, he burned
with a child-like impatience that made Clearwater doubt the wisdom of
the Sky-Voices that spoke through Mr Snow; the all-seeing, all-knowing
powers that guided the destiny of the Plainfolk.  When they had poured
her spirit into the belly of $undance, her mother, and shaped the
course of her life-stream to flow alongside that of Cadillac, did they
really know how difficult he could be ... ?

Moving downwind, Cadillac found a dry, shallow gully which snaked away
into the plain towards the centre of the herd where the capo - the
dominant male - grazed, surrounded by his retinue of a dozen or so
females.  Cadillac carefully parted the long grass and counted the
branches on the capo's horns.  Ten points.  No Bear in the M'Cail clan
had brought in a fast-foot with more points in the lifetime of Mr snow
now.  To bring down this capo would give him great standing in the eyes
of his clan-brothers.

Squatting in the bottom of the gully, Cadillac and Clearwater cut tufts
of the long orange grass and quickly wove them together to make a tall
crown for their heads and a cape to cover their shoulders and backs.

They tied the capes around their necks and waists with plaited ribbons
of grass and put the tight-fitting crowns with their waving plumes of
grass on their heads, arranging the strands that made up the deep
fringe around their faces.  Using their hunting knives, they unearthed
a layer of damp clay which they smeared over their bodies to mask the
smell of their flesh.  Thus prepared, they crawled along the gully,
working their way deeper into the heart of the plain, cautiously
raising their heads from time to time to check the position of the
capo.

He was still in the centre of the herd, but masked from attack by the
does in his mating group.  Twice, as they crept closer, young fast-foot
males leapt across the gully only yards ahead of them to continue
feeding on the other side.

Hardly daring to breathe, Cadillac and Clearwater inched along.  The
gully became shallower, forcing them to worm along on their bellies to
avoid showing themselves above the rim.  The carpet of knee-high grass
had broken up into scattered tufts, interspersed with short, sweeter,
red grass on which the fast-foot were grazing.

The gully angled sharply to the left around a large outcrop

of rock, taking them away from the capo.  Cadillac led the way round
the bend and froze.  A few yards away, the earth had been gouged out
from under a rock by the flood waters in the rainy season.  A big
rattle-tailed snake lay coiled in the shadow of the overhang.

Adopting the almost imperceptible movements of a stick insect, Cadillac
peered over the edge of the gully.  There was no long grass within
reach.  Three fast-foot were grazing some twenty to thirty yards away,
tails lazily flicking flies from the long heart-shaped white flash on
their hindquarters.

One of them raised her head and looked over her shoulder towards
Cadillac, her jaw moving from side to side in a casual, ruminative
manner.  As Cadillac held his breath, she tossed her head sharply in a
vain effort to drive away the flies hovering round her eyes then
stepped forward to crop a new stretch of grass.

Cadillac sank slowly back into the gully and saw that Clearwater had
been checking the other side.  She pointed towards the sleeping
rattler, indicating that Cadillac should go past him.

'What if he wakes?"  hissed Cadillac.

Clearwater smiled.  'You shall have a frae fire song telling how
bravely you died.  Go -' she whispered.  'He will not wake until we are
ready.  We will send him to the capo."

Brave as he believed himself to be, Cadillac had an unreasoning fear of
snakes.  But to have any standing at all, if it had to be killed, he
would have to kill it.  He regretted bringing Clearwater with him.  He
had done so to have an eyewitness of his hunting prowess.  Now he would
have to be brave.  He took out his hunting knife, placed it between his
teeth and, pushing the crossbow ahead of him, he edged forward gingerly
with his back pressed against the right-hand slope of the gully.

Taking the knife-sticks from her belt, Clearwater inserted the tapered
end of the first into the hollow handle of her knife and twisted the
second into the tube of rolled hide that was bound to the end of the
first - transforming her hunting knife into a spear with a strong
four-foot shaft.  She moved forward, knife-stick raised, poised on one
knee ready to skewer the rattler at the first sign of danger.

As Cadillac eased his chest past the snake he saw to his horror that
its black beady eyes were open.  He froze momentarily as the forked
tongue began darting in and out less than two feet from his stomach,
then willed himself forward, wriggling past with the minimum of
movement.

His heart was pounding as he drew clear and turned on his tormentor.

Hurriedly assembling his own knife-stick, he aimed the trembling blade
at the coiled bulk of the snake.

Clearwater reversed her knife-stick and gently prodded the rattler with
the butt of the shaft.  The rattler stirred, uncoiled the top half of
its body and hissed angrily.

Clearwater's eyes fixed on the snake with an unwavering, hypnotic
stare.  Cadillac jabbed the point of his knife-stick against the
rattler's throat as it flicked its head towards him, jaws open, then
both recoiled simultaneously.  The bones on its tailed rustled
ominously.  Uncoiling the rest of its six-foot length, the rattler
tried to slither up around the rock under which it had been sleeping.

Clearwater quickly drove it back.  Caught between the two prodding
knife-sticks the rattler took the Only avenue of escape, rig-ragging
out of the shadows onto the sunlit side of the gully and up over the
edge into the short grass.