《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》18

'It may not have come to your notice but the Federation has had
way-stations on the overground for nearly two hundred years.  And the
way things are going, in another hundred, the whole of America will be
ours once again."

Cadillac shook his head.  'It will not happen.  The Sky Voices have
spoken to Mr Snow.  The iron snakes will be defeated.  You will be
driven back into your burrows, and

your dark cities will be crushed beneath the desert."

'Really,' said Steve.  'And when is this supposed to 'happen?"

'When the Earth gives the sign,' replied Cadillac.  'The Plainfolk
shall be as a bright sword in the hand of Talisman, their Saviour."

Steve frowned.  It was the second time this name had come into their
conversation.  'Talisman?  Who's he?"

'The Thrice-Gifted One,' said Cadillac.

Steve's curiosity was aroused but his young benefactor ignored his
questions and left without offering any further explanation.

In the days that followed, Steve had a series of conversations with
Cadillac and Mr Snow.  They questioned him endlessly about the
Federation, how it was organised, what it was like to live in an
underground city, what people did, what they wore and what they ate.

Steve, in turn, asked them about the history of the Plainfolk and how
the M'Calls had come to be regarded as one of, if not the greatest of
the She-Kargo warrior clans, along with more practical questions about
food supplies and how they survived the long months of winter; the
period the Mutes referred to as the White Death.

Sometimes, three or four, or as many as half-a-dozen Mutes, clan elders
or Bears and She-Wolves would gather round them and sit silently
listening to their conversation.

Now and then one of them would rise abruptly in mid-sentence to be
replaced by a new listener.  Steve got the impression that their
audience did not fully understand what was being said; they were just
listening to the sound of his voice and that of the two wordsmiths;
letting the flow of conversation wash over them as one might sit
listening to the rippling murmur of a mountain stream.

Mr Snow was particularly interested in what the Federation termed its
'pacification programme' for the New Territories.  Steve described in
detail how the early TrailBlazers had reconquered the overground above
the Inner and Outer States.  The resistance offered by the Southern
Mutes had been sporadic.  The clans that had fought had been wiped out;
those who had opted to surrender had been reduced to serfdom.  The
majority of the surviving clans had been relocated in work-camps built
around the semi-subterranean way-stations; where this was impractical,
they had accepted to pay annual tribute in the form of work gangs, or
fixed quotas of metallic or chemical ores, timber, or other raw
materials.  These were ferried by wagon train to overground sawmills,
smelting and processing plants crewed by Mutes with Tracker overseers
from the way-stations then hauled down to manufacturing plants within
the earthshield.  Mining operations located near Tracker bases were
accessed directly from the underground levels by groups of Young
Pioneers as they had been in the past before the Break-Out; the
historic moment in 2464 when the Trackers opened up their first
permanent interface with the blue-sky world.

Steve also told Mr Snow about 'yearlings'.  Following the Break-Out it
had been discovered that now and then, Mute females sometimes gave
birth to a 'straight' - a Mute child free from genetic malformation and
with a uniform skin colour.  For some unexplained reason straight Mutes
were, without exception, males.  Since any clan found harbouring an
undeclared straight faced immediate annihilation, all such children
were handed over to the Trackers at birth.

In return, the fortunate clan was released from its obligation to
supply its quota of ore, timber or work gangs for a period of twelve
months.  Hence the name 'yearling'.

The new-born Mutes were taken to a special centre known as The Farm
where, as far as Steve knew, they were subjected to various tests in
connection with the Life Research Programme and then disposed of.

'Have you ever talked with any of our Southern brothers?"  asked Mr
Snow.

Steve shook his head.  'You can't talk to them.  It's hard enough
getting them to understand what work they're supposed to do.  As a
wingman on a wagon train I was never close enough to 'em.  But I must
admit I never tried.  First because, if it's not your job, it's not
encouraged; second, because it's, well, uhh - not healthy to hang
around them too long; third because it just wouldn't enter my head to
talk to a lump -' He broke off with an embarrassed smile.  'I mean,
they're not like you and Cadillac.  They're..."

'Stupid...?"  volunteered Mr Snow.

Steve shrugged.  'If you want me to be honest, yes, most of them
probably are.  They don't know anything and they can't learn
anything."

Steve hesitated then concluded lamely, 'Well - that's what we were
told."

Mr Snow nodded with an understanding smill.  'How do you think they
feel?"

'Feel...?"  Steve looked puzzled - as if he couldn't quite grasp the
idea that a Mute could feel anything; could have expectations of
anything other than the life to which history had condemned him.

'Yes,' said Mr Snow.  'How do you think they feel about working in
slave-camps?"

Steve pursed his lips and pondered the question.  'I don't know.

They're alive aren't they?  They get regular meals.

They don't have to fight other clans."

'They are also bound with iron ropes."

'Iron...?  Oh you mean chains,' said Steve.  'Yeah, that's true.  But
not everybody.  Only the troublemakers."

Mr Snow nodded then said quietly, 'Why do you think they make
trouble?"

Steve responded with a quick laugh.  'I guess they don't like work."

'Maybe they have a different way of looking at the world."

'Maybe they have,' said Steve.  'What they have to learn to do is look
at it our way."  He smiled to take the hard edge off his words.  'This
is our world.  This country belongs to us.  The Mutes in those work
camps are there because they lost out.  They had a choice - and they
chose not to die."

'Are those the only two options we have?"  asked Mr Snow.  'Slavery or
death?  We think, we feel, we draw breath.

Don't we have a right to exist?"

Steve chewed over his reply.  'I don't know quite how to put it."

'Put it anyway you like.  Shoot to kill."

'Then the official answer is "No".  Not in the eyes of the
Federation.

We've been raised to think of you as lower than animals; that it is our
duty to Wipe you off the face of the earth.  But..."

'But what...?"

'Now that I've met you and Cadillac I'm not so sure.  I'm - well, kind
of- confused.  I mean you talk like a - real person."

Mr Snow chuckled.  'Thank you."

'And Cadillac - if you ignore the colour of his skin ' '- looks like a
real person.  Yes, I can see the problem.

Never mind."  Mr Snow patted Steve's shoulder.  'I'm sure you'll work
it out."  He uncrossed his legs and stood up.  He began to walk away,
then turned back.  'What would you say if I told you that the ancestors
of the Plainfolk were people from the Old Time - straight-limbed
people, many of them with skins the same colour as yours?"

Steve decided it was time to be diplomatic.  'After meeting you I'd
have to say that anything is possible."

Mr Snow chuckled heartily.  'You're a smart cookie, Brickman.  You'll
go far,' As he watched Mr Snow walk away he had the distinct feeling
that the old wordsmith and his heir apparent were stringing him
along.

Steve had always prided himself on staying one step ahead of the game
and it annoyed him to be kept in the dark.  It was Mr Snow who was the
smart cookie.

It occurred to Steve that, just as he had been able to 'predict'
certain minor events a few seconds before they occurred, his two
principal captors might also possess some means of knowing what was
passing through his mind - such as his firm intention to escape at the
earliest possible moment.

Maybe that would account for the amused expression with which Mr Snow
listened to what he had to say.  On the other hand, it was just
possible that they actually enjoyed his company despite the fact that
he had made no attempt to curry favour.  Steve was a survivor but he
was not, by nature, a groveller.  So far, his robust approach seemed to
be working.  They did not seem to mind his outspokenness, in fact, they
seemed to encourage it.

As a consequence, and totally against his better judgement, Steve found
himself looking forward to his daily conversations - what the Mutes
called 'rapping'.  He could hardly bear to admit it to himself but, in
an odd sort of way, he was beginning to warm to his hosts.  This was
not, as so often in the past, a calculated act of deception; the
feeling was quite genuine.  He still viewed them as little more than
primitive misshapen savages who stank like an A-Level garbage line but
they had a relaxed life-style that was in marked contrast to the
tightly-structured Developmental Activity Programme which had ordered
his life within the Federation from Day One.  His Tracker psyche was
being torn in two.  One part chafing at the lack of discipline and
vigorous organisation, repelled by an alien way of life; the other part
succumbing to the insidious attractions of overground existence.

Despite years of indoctrination some long-buried instinct had been
aroused; was responding - as on his first solo flight - to the blue-sky
world.  It had, admittedly, been a privileged kind of existence thus
far.  He hadn't yet been obliged to hunt for food, or cook over open
fires in pouring rain or a snow storm.  He had enjoyed room-service and
the attentions of a string of nurses, and the clan had not had to
defend its turf since he crash-landed amongst them.  That said,
compared to the Federation, it was still like living on a five-star
dung heap.

But there was something else.

The one great discovery Steve had made as a captive of the M'Calls was
the quality of stillness.  An almost narcotic calmness had crept into
his mind.  There was noise but it came from natural sources; the sound
of wind through the trees, running water; the human voice in speech and
song; living sounds; children laughing, crying, being comforted with
soothing murmurs; the haunting music made by blowing through wooden
pipes, vibrant notes that hung on the air, created a disturbing
resonance within him.

Such a simple device yet something quite unknown within the Federation
where all music was produced electronically and - except for blackjack
- under the total control of the First Family.  But, above all, up
among the Plainfolk there was no hassle; there was no one riding herd
on your ass; the eye and ear was not being constantly battered by
inspirational videocasts yet, in spite of the complete absence of
exhortation from some central ruling body, there was a unity of
purpose; a cooperation in time of need without any overt sign of
discipline.

A kind of togetherness.  An unspoken kinship.  An...

Awareness.

The word-concept came fully into Steve's mind, catching him by
surprise.

FOURTEEN

The day after Steve's conversation with Mr Snow, Cadillac appeared with
an elderly lumphead called Three Degrees.

Both Mutes carried several freshly cut saplings and the lumphead was
equipped with a machete, paring knife and awl, a bone needle and coarse
handmade binding thread.

Cadillac got Steve to draw the design of Federation-issue crutches in
the dirt outside the hut.  As these were made in metal, certain
modifications were inevitable and after some discussion Steve made a
revised sketch which - although he could not know it - resembled the
old wooden frame model that had supported the wounded in the first half
of the twentieth century.  Steve watched with undisguised admiration as
Three Degrees wielded his primitive tools with skilled precision.

Prompted now and then by Cadillac he quickly fashioned a pair of
crutches with firm neat-fitting joints and arm rests padded with
fast-foot skin.

Cadillac helped Steve to his feet and stood by him as he took the first
few halting steps with the aid of the crutches.

His left leg could not yet bear any weight, his left shoulder and
wounded right arm were still painfully stiff but the pleasure of
regaining a measure of mobility more than outweighed any discomfort.

Three Degrees watched with a delighted grin as Steve got the hang of
one-legged walking and began to move more rhythmically.  'Is good?"

Steve nodded approvingly.  'Terrific."

Three Degrees looked at Cadillac uncertainly.

'A word from the Old Time,' said Steve.  'It means very good."

'Numero Uno,' explained Cadillac.  'Prima."

'Ahh, dig.  Right on."  Three Degrees smiled broadly as he gathered up
his tools.  'Have a nice one."  He patted Steve on the arm and ambled
away.

One of the female Mutes who had brought Steve food on several occasions
approached carrying his camouflaged flight fatigues rolled up under her
arm.  They had been washed and inexpertly sewn together where they had
been torn in the crash.  Cadillac helped Steve back into them.  All the
pockets that held his survival equipment were depressingly empty.  It
made Steve feel half-naked.

'How far am I allowed to go?"

'As far as you want,' said Cadillac.  'But for your own safety it might
be better if you stayed within the bounds of the-settlement."  He
smiled.  'The overground can be a dangerous place."

Steve nodded.  'Is that all?"

'No.  Don't go into any huts without being invited, don't pick up any
sharp iron or tools you might find lying around, don't take any food
unless it is offered to you."  He smiled again.  'There are people here
who would dearly like an excuse to put your head on a pole.

Capeesh?"

'Terrific,' said Steve, mentally filing 'capeesh', 'dig' and the other
new words he had just heard from Three Degrees.

He had discovered that the Mutes had two distinct speech modes.  The
first was a kind of ceremonial language with a curious elliptical
syntax in which the words were full of imagery.  Mute songs were
written in this style - probably the reason why it was known as
fire-speech.  It was the favoured speech mode of warriors when greeting
people, in formal discussions and in encounter situations.  Cadillac,
who seemed very concerned with status and protocol, had used it a lot
in the beginning but now he and the old wordsmith were conversing in a
mixture of Mute and Basic - the language of the Federation they had
picked up from Steve.  The second, more informal, speech mode known as
'sweet-talk' was closer to Basic, and possessed the raw juicy
directness that characterised Trail-Blazer jargon.  Sweet-talk also
embraced a fascinating sub-set known as 'jive'.  A semi-secret warrior
tongue which was almost impossible for a stranger to understand without
an interpreter.

Steve adjusted the crutches comfortably under his armpit

and set off on his first walk through the settlement.  The M'Call huts
were scattered across a high wooded plateau where the days dawned crisp
and clear.  The adjacent slopes were thinly covered with the same dark
red-needled trees; to the west, a further range of hills rose even
higher.  Steve remembered being moved at least four times.  From his
general knowledge of the area gleaned from study of the maps aboard the
wagon train he reckoned that the clan had moved in a westerly
direction.  The trouble was that, without a map, he had no idea how far
they had travelled but the fact that many of the huts had been set up
on open ground without any attempt to conceal them from the air implied
that the clan now judged themselves to be beyond the range of the
patrolling Skyhawks.

As he hobbled around the M'Call settlement, Steve began to discern the
daily pattern of Mute activity.  Each morning, posses of Bears and
She-Wolves went out on hunting expeditions, returning soon after
sundown with game of various kinds - mountain deer with thick curving
horns, and, once, a buffalo.  The She-Wolves specialised in snaring
birds and fish.  Other mixed groups of warriors chosen for guard duty
squatted motionless on high ground around the settlement or patrolled
the limits of what the clan deemed to be their turf.  Evading these
sharp-eyed sentinels when he made his planned escape was yet another
problem he had to overcome.

In between his exploratory walks, Steve sat in on several of Mr Snow's
classes for the young Mutes and admired the patience with which he
dispensed the rudiments of knowledge.  After a few sessions he realised
that many of the lessons and stories were repeats of previous
material.

The long question and answer sessions with the two wordsmiths who, up
to that point, had been his principal interlocutors had caused Steve to
overlook this basic flaw in the Mute make-up.  He was reminded again of
their congenital forgetfulness when he ran into Three Degrees on one of
his walks.  The old lumphead failed to recognise his handiwork and it
was obvious that he only had a hazy recollection of who Steve was.

The young M'Call Cubs continued to regard Steve as an object of
curiosity and source of innocent amusement.  Like Three Degrees, they
seemed to have forgotten his role in the fire-bombing of the
cropfields.  Steve found that a lot harder to forget, especially when
the bodies of the children who trailed behind him on his walks were
indelibly scarred by the napalm he had dropped with reluctant
precision.

Some of the older children behaved more aggressively, jostling him as
they ran past; dancing round him, pulling faces and jeering.  Others
played a boisterous game of tag wherever he happened to be walking,
running into him at full tilt while attempting to evade their
pursuer.

Steve was 'accidentally' knocked to the ground several times and once,
as .he was sent sprawling, two thirteen-year-olds grabbed his crutches
and swung them wildly round their heads, smashing them together like
quarter-staves.  It was just another game, of course, but the intention
was clear: they hoped to break the crutches and send Steve crawling
back to his hut on his hands and knees.

Fortunately, Mr Snow happened by.  He restored order and helped Steve
back onto his feet.  'Just high spirits..."

'Yes, sure,' said Steve.  There was no point in complaining.

He altered his exercise schedule so that his walks coincided with Mr
Snow's classes for the young Mutes and kept close to the hut he shared
with Cadillac when they were out of school.

The majority of the adult Mutes - and that included everybody from
fourteen up - treated him with a mixture of courtesy and
circumspection.  They didn't go out of their way to avoid him but
neither did they seek out his company unless it was to eavesdrop
silently on his conversations with Mr Snow or Cadillac.  A number of
male and female warriors showed their hostility more openly by turning
their backs on him whenever he approached.  If they were sitting
talking in a group, they fell silent until he was out of earshot.

The classic cold shoulder.  He was like a stray dog whose presence is
tolerated but not actively encouraged; who is given odd scraps to eat
but never becomes one of the family with his own bowl and a place by
the fire.

His talks with the two wordsmiths continued on a more or less regular
basis but Steve found he was left to his own devices for the greater
part of each day with very little opportunity to do anything except
think and exercise his body.  He concocted his own programme of
physiotherapy, spending up to six hours each day in strenuous physical
workouts.  As he sweated to build up his stamina and strength Steve
continued to plan his escape, modifying various details as he gradually
built up his knowledge of the claws activities and the layout of the
settlement.

As time passed, Steve became increasingly certain that the M'Calls had
no particular fate reserved for him.  Roast cloud warrior was not on
the menu.  There was no Plan X.

They were just waiting for something to happen.  As a child of the
Federation, Steve was totally baffled by the clan's attitude towards
him.  He could accept the undercurrent of hostility but he could not
understand the almost total freedom he was accorded.  He was, after
all, their prisoner, yet he was not shackled or guarded; he had no
escort, no one asked him where he was going or where he had been, and
the restraints upon him were minimal.  On the face of it, if he wanted
to escape, all he had to do was to walk out of the settlement.  But how
far could he get?  It was this very lack of overt surveillance that led
Steve to conclude that escape on foot would not be that easy.  If there
were no bars to his cage it was because the M'Calls were confident that
they could hunt him down as quickly and efficiently as they did the
fast-foot and the buffalo.

Steve applied himself to his programme of exercises with his usual
diligence and was finally rewarded by being able to stand on his own
two feet.  Cadillac and Mr Snow were on hand to applaud the moment when
he cast aside his crutches and walked around the hut with a confident
stride.

Returning to where they stood by the head-poles bearing the decaying
skulls of Shakatak and Torpedo, he punched the air exultantly with his
right fist.  As his arm snapped straight in the traditional
Trail-Blazer salute, a stab of pain shot through the still tender
muscle, punishing him for such an arrogant gesture.

Steve concealed the pain beneath a tight-lipped grin and found the
grace to thank his benefactors.  'I'd like you both to know that I
really appreciate what you've done for me."

He paused and took a deep breath.  'I may regret this but, uh, I have
to ask - why have you gone to so much trouble to keep me alive?"

'I don't have time to get into that,' replied Mr Snow.  He cut Steve
off with a wave of the hand.  'Don't worry about it.

You'll find out soon enough."

Steve refused to let it go.  'That sounds ominous."

Mr Snow laughed quickly.  'What can I tell you?  Right now, the word is
you're going to live.  Okay?"

'But - if you know what's going to happen,' persisted Steve.

Mr Snow sighed patiently.  'Look, young man, if I told you, you
wouldn't believe me.  You have a good mind.  It has a great deal of
potential but it is not open to the things of this world.  You do not
see it as it is, but as you think it should be."

'You've lived under the ground too long,' said Cadillac.

'Your eyes and your ears are full of sand."

Mr Snow squatted in front of Steve and ran his hands gently up and down
his left trouser leg between the knee and ankle, barely touching the
fabric.  'Mmmm, feels good..."

He stood up, took hold of Steve's wrist and flexed his right arm,
checking the movement of the muscles as he did so.  'I wish all my
patients healed as well as this."  Mr Snow gave Stove's arm a friendly
pat.  'Keep on with those workouts.

Another haLf-moon or so and you'll be ready to make the big break."

The old wordsmith chuckled at Steve's confused expression.  He looked
like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  It was
a saying from the Old Time that Mr Snow had treasured ever since he had
first heard it fifty-two winters ago.  'Relax.  It's only natural for
you to want to get back to your burrow."

'The overground doesn't frighten me,' snapped Steve, annoyed at being
caught off guard.

'No, it doesn't,' agreed Mr Snow.  'It should.  The word from the South
was that you people like to stay close to one another.  Like a herd of
fast-foot.  But it doesn't seem to affect you.  I wonder why?"