《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》16

'What's wrong with the rest of me?asked Steve, as the old Mute
completed his skilled inspection of Steve's injuries.

'You've got a simple fracture of the left shin-bone, a badly sprained
ankle, at least three cracked ribs, severe bruising of the left
shoulder and a slight dent in your skull.  You may have what used to be
called a hairline fracture.  In the Old Time, there were things for
looking through bones but they don't exist anymore."

'X-ray machines,' said Steve.

The old Mute nodded.  'Is that what they were called?"

'They still are,' replied Steve.  'All the medical centres of the
Federation have them.  We've got all kinds of electronic scanning
equipment."

'I see, well, you're going to have to get by without all that,' said Mr
Snow.  'Not to worry.  Your brain's still in one piece."

Steve lay on the furs, his body limp, unresisting.  'Feels like it's
leaking out of my ears."

'That's the Dream Cap,' said Mr Snow.  'It's good stuff.

Helps you to loosen up."

Steve nodded.  'We have pain killers too.  Small pills called Cloud
Nines."

Cadillac looked surprised.  'You have clouds in your burrows?"

'No, of course not.  Clouds are part of the blue-sky world.

And let's get one thing straight.  We don't live in burrows.

Those are for animals.  We live on bases - like big cities.  In clean
quarters with plenty of room, light, fresh air."  Steve waved his left
hand limply.  'A heck of a lot better than this lousy dump."

Mr Snow had never heard the words 'lousy dump' before but he guessed
their meaning from the tone of the cloud warrior's voice.  'Tell me,'
he said affably.  'Do you have a name?"

'I've got a name and a number,' answered Steve.

'29028902 Brickman, S.R. or, if you prefer to be less formal, Steven
Roosevelt Brickman."

Cadillac repeated the number with awe.  '29028902...

Talisman!  That is a powerful number!  More than all the raindrops in
the sky.  More than all the stars in Mo-Town's cio.  ak."  He looked at
Mr Snow.  'Did you know there were so many people under the earth?"

Mr Snow did not answer.  He turned to Steve.  'This number, and the
names you bear.  What do they mean?"

'I don't know what you're getting at,' said Steve.  'They're just
names."

'No name is just a name,' replied Mr Snow quietly.  'Every word has
meaning.  There must be a reason why you were given this number and
these names."

'Ahh, I get it,' said Steve.  He continued to gaze up at the flickering
light on the roof of the hut.  '29028902 is my personal identification
number.  The number on my ID Card -' His hand went automatically to the
appropriate chest pocket then he remembered that he'd been stripped of
everything except his underpants.

'ID Card?"  queried Cadillac.

'My identity card,' explained Steve.  'It's to let people know who I
am."

'Do you not know who you are?"

'Yes, of course I do.  The card is to prove I am who I say I am."

Cadillac's puzzlement increased.  'But - why would you say you were
someone else?  Are you not known to your clan-brothers and sisters?"

I'm talking to an idiot, thought Steve.  'Look -' he began, then gave
up.  'Forget that.  The real reason we have a card is so that we can
access the services controlled by Columbus.

It's a big computer ' 'Computer?"

'A word from the Old Time,' observed Mr Snow.

'A machine that runs things,' explained Steve.  'With thousands of
access points all over the Federation.  That's why you need a number.

You feed your card into a slot and the number and other magnetic data
on it is passed to Columbus.  That's how it knows who you are.  With
the help of the computer you can - depending on your credit rating
access all kinds of services: food, databanks, transit systems,
video-communications.  Your number allows you to establish an
interface.  You can't exist without it."

Cadillac nodded thoughtfully.  'So many strange words, strange ideas.

I cannot get my mind round them."

'His world is not ours,' said Mr Snow.  'It will take time to
understand these things."  He turned to Steve.  'Tell us about your
names."

'Steve - Steven is my Family name, given to me when I was born by the
President-General; Roosevelt is the name of the base where I live
"Roosevelt Field".  Brickman is my kin-folk name.  The name of my
guardians."

'Guardians?"  Mr Snow raised his eyebrows.  'Were you kept as a
prisoner on this - base?"

Steve replied with a wry laugh.  'No.  My guardians were the two people
assigned to look after me when I was born."

'Do you not have an earth-mother and father?"  asked Cadillac.

Steve did not fully understand the question.  'My guard-mother carried
me for the first nine months of my life.  My father was the
President-General.  Head of the First Family.

The father of all life within the Federation."

'President-General - is this the name you give to your chief elder?"

asked Cadillac.

'No, that's his title.  His name is George Washington Jefferson the
31st."

'If he is more powerful, why does he have less numbers than you?"

Steve smiled.  'It's a different kind of number.  He doesn't need an ID
Card.  He is the thirty-first Jefferson to head the Amtrak
Federation.

The Jeffersons have run things from the very beginning.  They were the
beginning.  That's why they're called the First Family."  The words
tripped off Steve's tongue.  'They gave us the light, and the air we
breathe, they invent things, they design our cities, they can do
anything.  They taught Columbus everything it knows.

They are our leaders, our teachers, our counsellors, our guides on the
path to the Blue-Sky World."  End of lesson.

'The President-General is their chief elder.  The top man."

'The capo th capi,' murmured Mr Snow.

'The what?"

'Capo th capi,' said Mr Snow.  'Chief of the chiefs.  The godfather.

The top man.  Do you not know all the words from the Old Time."

'Not that one,' said Steve.

Mr Snow smiled.  'Then perhaps you may learn something from us.  As we
hope to -' Cadillac, impressed by the catalogue of the Jefferson's
gifts forgot his usual deference and cut in impatiently.  'This great
chief you speak of.  You say he is - your father?"

Steve dropped his head back on the furs.  'I already told you.  He's
everybody's father."

Cadillac gave Mr Snow a questioning look.  Mr Snow raised his
eyebrows.

'Must be a busy man..."

Cadillac looked down at Steve.  'Which of your three names is your Name
of Power?"

'I don't know what you're talking about,' murmured Steve.  His eyes
wandered over the roof of the hut.  He was finding it increasingly
difficult to answer the pointless questions these two oddballs kept
coming up with.

'You are a cloud warrior,' explained Cadillac.  'Do you not have a name
which gives you the strength to fight?"

'I don't need one,' replied Steve.  'I've been trained to fight.  Names
have nothing to do with it."

'But you have just told us of your great chief.  Is Jefferson not a
name of power?"

'Not in the way you mean,' replied Steve.  'I could be called Pete,
Dick, Jim, Larry, anything.  It's just a handle.

Whatever I was called I'd still be me.  And so would the
President-General."

Cadillac was perplexed by Steve's answer/He looked at Mr Snow for
guidance.  Mr Snow said nothing.  Cadillac looked down at their
prisoner.  'But your name is the essence of your being.  A name of
power enables your spirit to draw strength from the earth and sky."

'Maybe for you,' replied Steve amiably.  'We don't need any of that
garbage."

Cadillac raised his eyes to Mr Snow.  'Garbage...?"

'It must be another word from the Old Time,' said his mentor.  He
whispered it to himself.  'Garbage...mmm, not bad..."  He made a mental
note to ask the cloud warrior to explain its meaning.

Cadillac tried another question.  'Do you not believe that there are
powers in the earth and sky.>' 'There are forces,' admitted Steve.

'Gravitational forces, geomagnetic forces, static electricity, wind and
water power.  The way it all works is very simple.  We know how the
world functions.  But when you talk about "essence, spirit, names of
power", I don't know what words like that mean.

Ideas about there being something else, some invisible power, are a
waste of time.  It's all nonsense - like the magic you people are
supposed to have.  If you can't see it through a microscope or prove
something works by the laws of physics, or whatever, then it doesn't
exist."

'That's an interesting point of view,' mused Mr Snow.

'It's the only point of view,' muttered Steve.  He felt burned out by
the effort needed to maintain a coherent conversation.  He gazed up at
the roof of the hut again.  His captors squatted silently on either
side of him.  Steve got the impression that they were waiting for him
to say something enlightening.  He made an effort to focus on their
previous conversation.  'Roosevelt was a very powerful man,' he
ventured helpfully.  'He was President of America.  A great warrior who
ruled the blue-sky world for a long time."

'Ahhh,' said Cadillac.  'Now I understand.  Roosevelt is your name of
power."

'If you say so,' replied Steve.  'It doesn't make any difference to
me."  He raised his head.  'What are you called?"

'My name is Cadillac of the clan M'CalI, First-born of Sky-Walker out
of Black-Wing."

'cadillac... is that a name of power?"

'Yes."

'Cadillac..."  repeated Steve.  'I never heard that word before.

Interesting."  He turned to the old, white-haired lumphead.  'How about
you?"

'My name is Mr Snow."  ' 'Is that on account of your hair?  Or is that
a name of power too?"

Mr Snow shook his head.  'I am not a warrior.  My name was taken from
the words of an ancient song."

'From the Old Time,' added Cadillac proudly.  'Before the War of a
Thousand Suns."

'I guess you must be talking of what we call the Holocaust.  Nearly a
thousand years ago..."

Mr Snow nodded.

'-So what are you - the doctor for these people?"

Mr Snow smiled.  'Among other things."

'Like what?"

'He is a wordsmith,' said Cadillac with a proud sweep of his hand.

'The greatest and wisest of them all."

Mr Snow shrugged modestly and motioned his pupil to be silent.

Cadillac, intent on extolling his teacher's virtues, pressed on
regardless.  'His tongue reaches back beyond the beginning of the
Plainfolk to the world that was lost in the fire-clouds.  He knows of
ice-huts piled one upon the other until they touched the clouds, giant
beetles with men in their bellies, square baskets of frozen water full
of music and pictures ' 'You mean television sets ' 'And jewels!"

cried Cadillac, flaunting his newly acquired knowledge.  'All these
things and more.  Much more than even your President-General!"  'I
doubt it,' countered Steve.  'Can he read?  Can he type?"

Mr Snow smiled.  'You already know the answer.  It is true that my eye
does not know the signs for the words I speak, and that my hand cannot
draw them in the earth.  But we of the Plainfolk have other gifts.  The
wisdom of the Sky Voices is greater than the all words that lie buried
in your dark cities.  We pass on knowledge in other ways."  He reached
out to touch Cadillac's head.  'This is the book on which I have made
my mark.  It has more leaves than the greatest forest."

'It's a book that can be destroyed,' observed Steve.

'If Talisman wills it,' admitted Mr Snow.  'Man, and the works of man
pass away like flowers before the White Death.  This Columbus of which
you speak and which knows so much is also the work of men.  It too can
be ground to dust ' 'I doubt it,' said Steve.  'Columbus survived the
Holocaust.  It was built in what you call the Old Time and it's
constantly being rebuilt - bigger and better than before.

It will last for ever."

Mr Snow shook his head.  'Nothing lasts forever.  And when the day
comes for it to return to the earth, the power you draw from it will
pass through your fingers like the wind.  But consider this: your iron
snake sent many of our warriors to the High Ground.  It may return with
others and succeed in killing us all.  Our past may perish with us, but
you will never destroy true knowledge.  That is the gift of the Sky
Voices -and they are beyond the reach ofevenyour long sharp iron."

Steve felt a pang of remorse.  He had been party to the killing the old
Mute spoke of.  Whatever his final fate might be, these so-called
savages had not left him to burn.  'Listen, before we go any further, I
just want to say thanks for straightening out my leg and everything.

After what happened back there in the cropfields..."

'Mo-Town thirsts, Mo-Town drinks,' said Mr Snow quietly.

'Well, I guess you both know what I mean."  Steve looked at each of
them in turn then dropped his head back with a resigned sigh.  'Are you
guys going to kill me?"  In his present mood of sedate euphoria, the
prospect did not concern him unduly.

'Not unless there's a change of plan,' said Mr Snow.

'Great,' replied Steve, He yawned sleepily.  'Keep me posted."

The will to live is the crucial factor which enables certain
individuals to survive in situations where others, in some cases their
companions, quite literally 'give up the ghost'; surrender without a
fight.  Jodi Kazan had that will; a tenacious, unquenchable spark of
life that continued to glow feebly, against all odds, inside her burned
and broken body.

When her Skyhawk had been blown off the flight-deck, Jodi had smashed
her fist against the quick release plate of the safety harness which
held her in her seat.  But when the cockpit pod crunched against the
side of the wagon train, she found herself trapped by bent struts and
crumpled metal.  Despite this, and contrary to Buck McDonnell's belief,
Jodi had not been incinerated by the exploding napalm.  The shrieking
wind that tore her Skyhawk out of the hands of Steve and the
ground-crew was also her unintended saviour.  The spectacular blast
that appeared to engulf her had, in the same instant, been whipped away
by the falling pod into a long fiery plume; a giant blowtorch whose
searing heat blistered the painted flanks of the rear cars.

Badly but not fatally burned, Jodi only just escaped being drowned as
the cockpit pod plunged into the raging current and sank under the
weight of the rear-mounted motor.  The mangled pod, with Jodi inside,
was carried along the river bed by the force of the waters, rolling and
tumbling end over end until it finally tore itself to pieces.

Only then did Jodi finally surface, to be washed up some three miles
down river from where The Lady had been trapped by the flash-flood.

Jodi lay, half-dead, half-buried in mud and debris on the bed of the
Now and Then River for two whole days, unable to move.  Her legs were
trapped under a pile of debris, both arms were broken, her neck and
chest severely burned; the Mute crossbow bolt was' still lodged under
her right collarbone.  The visor of her helmet had protected her face
against the flames and subsequent injury, just as the tangle of
branches under which she lay now protected her from the circling birds
of prey.  The coat of mud that covered most of her body dried out in
the sun.  She became part of the landscape.  Insects swarmed over her,
flies hovered, drawn by the smell of her charred flesh.  When they
began to feed on her Jodi thought she would go mad.  She fainted - from
the heat, from thirst, from the pain and the screaming, itching horror
of the bugs that threatened to devour her.

The hours passed.  Jodi hovered on the edge of consciousness, now and
then sinking back into merciful oblivion.

On the second night, a prowling coyote found her.  He sniffed her
mud-covered body cautiously then nosed with obvious relish the raw
flesh where the flies had feasted.

When he began tugging at her camouflaged fatigues, Jodi set her teeth
against the pain, reached down with the fingers of her right hand and
teased her air pistol out of its holster.

Her fingers closed round the butt.  In her weakened state she found the
pistol incredibly heavy.  To move it even an inch sent stabbing shafts
of pain zigzagging from wrist to shoulder, across her chest, and up
into the base of her skull.

Jodi persisted, pushing and pulling the pistol onto her belly as the
coyote siezed her broken left arm in its jaws and tried to pull her
from under the sheltering tangle of branches.

Jodi almost fainted with the pain.  A scream broke from her throat; a
harsh, raw, animal cry.  With one last desperate effort, she willed
herself to remain conscious and took a firm grip on the butt of the
pistol.  Her fingers felt as if they were on fire.  She pushed the
pistol across her chest in the general direction of the coyote,
summoned up her last ounce of strength to raise the barrel and pulled
the trigger.  One, two, three.  she lost count...

When she woke at half-light, Jodi found the coyote lying with its neck
across her left arm.  One of her shots had entered its skull just above
the right eye.  The socket had already been picked clean.  Two huge
black crows were tearing at the coyote's exposed entrails.  A third sat
patiently on the broken branch above Jodi's head.  She became conscious
of the weight of the pistol that lay on her chest, her fingers still
curled round it.  It was like being trapped under a rock.  She found it
difficult to breathe.  She could no longer move her right arm.  The
left lay under the dead coyote.

When the sun came up, the insects returned; flies settled on her
swollen blistered neck and crawled over her visor, trying to find a way
in.

On the third day, in one of her brief moments of lucidity, Jodi
realised that her chances of being found by a search party from The
Lady were fast approaching zero.  She had been written off.  Given the
circumstances of her disappearance, it was not an unreasonable
supposition.  When the waves of pain built up to yet another unbearable
peak Jodi began to seriously consider the idea of killing herself
before the rest of the coyote pack came looking for their missing
brother.  She had the means even if, at that moment, she did not have
the strength to turn the pistol on herself.

She knew that if the decision was delayed too long she would be too
weak to act upon it.  Yet, in spite of the hopelessness of her
situation, she hesitated.  She simply refused to admit that death was
the only option open to her.

Towards sundown, when Jodi was trying to focus her fading energy into
the fingers lying limply across the pistol, she heard stealthy
movements around her.  The protective scrien of broken branches was
pulled away from her head and chest and she found herself looking up
into the craggy, weather-beaten face of a Tracker.  But this was no
TrailBlazer.

tie wore a battered wide-brimmed straw stetson with a ragged brim, his
lean square jaw was fringed by an untidy beard.  The sleeves were
missing from his faded red, black and brown camouflaged fatigues, and
they were covered in patches.  A home-made bandolier of the same
material with pockets shaped to hold magazines and air bottles were
slung over each shoulder.  The only thing about him that did not look
worn and shabby was his three-barrelled air rifle.  Its pristine
condition told Jodi that this raggedy-ass was still a soldier; someone
she could relate to.

The bearded Tracker laid down his rifle and knelt beside Jodi.  His
first move was to relieve her of her air pistol.  When this was safely
stuffed in his breast pocket he raised the visor of her helmet and
studied her face.  'How's it going, soldier-boy?"

Jodi tried to speak but the words died half-formed in her throat.  She
rolled her head from side to side.

The Tracker carefully peeled back the charred collar of her tunic,
lifted out her dog tags and read off her name.

'Ohh-kayyy, friend..."  He straightened up on his knees and cupped his
hands round his mouth.  'Hey, Ben!  Roy!  Come take a look-see!"  The
Tracker dropped back on his haunches, fingered the protruding tail of
the bolt then began to examine Jodi's arms and torso, whistling
tunelessly under his breath.  His touch was sure but gentle.  He sat
back and pushed up the battered brim of his stetson.  'Mmmhmmph.  you
off that wagon train that got its ass kicked three days ago?"

Jodi signalled silently with her eyes and mouth that she was.

'Well, they took off, good buddy.  Last we saw 'em they was headed
Kansas way."  He sighed and scratched his beard.  'So unless you want
to wait here for the Mutes or the coyotes, I guess that makes you one
of us, Jodi."

'What you got, Beaver?"

Jodi could not see the owner of the voice.

Her bearded saviour spoke across her.  'We got us a woman, that's what
we got."

'No shit..."

Two other raggedy-asses peered down at her.  One to her left, the other
over Beaver's shoulder.  Jodi guessed that they were Ben and Roy though
she didn't know which was which.  The one on the left was wearing a
wingman's bone dome.  It had been smeared with mud to hide the bright
blue and green stripes but Jodi could see enough of the pattern to
recognise it as once belonging to a crewman aboard the wagon train
called King of the Pecos.  The guy looking over Beaver's shoulder wore
a crumpled yellow command cap.

The long peak was frayed and the woven badge was missing.

'Are you sure?"  asked Yellow-Hat.