《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》19

'I'm a wingman,' replied Steve.  'We're different.  The pick of the
bunch.  We're trained to operate alone."

Mr Snow nodded gravely.  'I see.  well, just remember that Cadillac
and I can't protect you once you step off the edge of our turf.

Capeesh?"

'Don't worry,' said Steve lightly.  'I'll let you know when I'm
planning to leave."

'Good..."  The old wordsmith's eyes twinkled mischievously.

'Let's get one thing straight, Brickman.  I never worry."  He turned on
his heel and walked away, followed by Cadillac.

When they were out of earshot, Cadillac asked, 'Was it wise to reveal
that you know what he is thinking?"

Mr Snow smiled.  'In this case, yes.  Our devious young friend is one
of those people who thrives on a challenge."

When his leg felt strong enough, Steve added jogging to his exercise
routine.  Day after day, he gradually extended the length of his run,
varying his route over the M'Call's turf to build up his knowledge of
the surrounding terrain.  One particular day, while resting at a
vantage point that gave him a good view over the slopes below, Steve
saw a posse of Bears leave the main settlement on some errand.  They
set offwith an easy, loping stride, running nimbly down the slope - and
kept on running, for mile after mile across the plain below until they
were lost from sight.  Steve completed his planned circuit, returned to
the same spot and waited patiently.  Five hours later, his vigil was
rewarded.  The posse of Bears reappeared, covering the ground with the
same robot-like stride, running back up the slope with the same ease as
they had run down.

Steve raced back to the settlement in time to see the Bears arrive.  He
expected them to collapse, red-faced and exhausted, but they weren't
even gasping for breath.  The runners strolled about, chatting
unconcernedly with their families and other clan members who had been
on hand to welcome their return.  Some even ran to join in a strange
game in which two teams punched an inflated skin ball back and forth
across a high strip of net strung between two poles.

It looked like it might be fun to play.

Steve realised now why he had not been closely guarded.

If he planned to make a break for it on foot he would not only have to
be in top condition, he would also need at least a week's start on his
pursuers.  The discovery of the Mute's amazing stamina necessitated a
drastic revision of his escape plan.  There was only one surefire way
to evade his captors and that was to fly out.

The notion had first occurred to him when he had been flat on his back,
daydreaming about his triumphal return to the Federation.  He had
dismissed the idea then as totally impractical but now, he began to
consider it as a serious possibility.  The M'Calls had, after all,
brought down at least three Skyhawks near their original settlement
above Route 88.out of Cheyenne.  His own in the cropfield; Fazetti and
Naylor over the forest - the claws presumed hiding place.  In the
several weeks he had lived amongst them, Steve had seen dozens of Mutes
wearing strips of the blue solar cell fabric and plaited lengths of
cable.  He had even seen instrument dials sewn onto some of the
warriof's leather helmets and some of the kids had been rolling one of
the small landing wheels around.

Steve had neither the hope nor the means of reconstructing a full-blown
Skyhawk but - if the clan had hoarded enough bits of one or more of the
basic airframes there might be sufficient material to build a
hang-glider.

Through his concentrated studies at the Academy, Steve had the
knowledge and the technical skill to build something that would fly.

But not without tools - and there was no way such an enterprise could
be carried out in secret.  He would need to make friends and influence
people.  That was no problem.  If enough materials could be salvaged,
he would offer Cadillac the chance of learning how to fly.  The young
wordsmith took himself very seriously and was obsessed with his status
- what the lumpheads called 'standing'.  He would jump at the
opportunity.  Through him, Steve would be able to get the help of
M'Call craftsmen like Three Degrees.  Maybe there were others with
abilities unknown to the Federation.  Building the glider would provide
an opportunity for discovering just how bright the Plainfolk really
were.

Steve sauntered along one of the settlement trails, putting the final
details together in his head.  He could see it clearly just like a
videotape.  A craft would be constructed to his design; would need to
be tested before instruction of his eager pupil could begin.  His
helpers would marvel at the faultless take-off, would cheer as he
swooped sleek-winged over their heads, would swell with pride as he
gained height like a soaring eagle - blissfully unaware that his
test-flight would end a couple of hundred miles away at the nearest
way-station.  He'd leave 'em standing, open-mouthed, like the idiots
they were.  Best of all, the two wordsmiths, who thought they were such
wise guys, would be totally shafted.

It was a good plan.  It had style.  And it was a hell of a lot better
than trying to outrun a bunch of screaming lumpheads.

When Cadillac joined him for supper that evening, Steve used the
opportunity to talk about his three years at the Flight Academy in New
Mexico, culminating with an eloquent account of his first overground
solo.  Cadillac listened attentively.  Afterwards, when Steve had gone
to sleep, he went to Mr Snow's hut.  They sat crosslegged on the
talking mat and shared a pipe of rainbow grass.

'He wishes to build an arrowhead so that he may teach me to ride the
sky like a cloud warrior."

'I know..."  The old wordsmith's voice floated through the smoke that
curled lazily between them.

'Is there any reason why this should not be?"

'None at all."  Mr Snow pulled deeply on his pipe, inhaling the
smoke.

His face froze in a half-smile for several minutes while his vocal
chords waited for the air to clear.  'He follows the path laid down for
you by the Sky Voices."

Cadillac took the offered pipe and drew more smoke into his body.  His
head began to take wing.  As a consequence, there was some delay before
his brain managed to make contact with his mouth.  'To help build an
arrowhead will give me knowledge of the High Craft, and to fly like an
eagle will bring me great standing.  You are my teacher."  He passed
the pipe over.  'It is not fitting that I should receive these gifts
without them first being given to you."

'You go ahead,' replied Mr Snow.  He waved the pipe in the air.  'This
is the only way I'm leaving the ground."

Steve was right in thinking that the clan had moved further to the west
but he was not entirely correct about the reason for their retreat to
the relative safety of the high ground.

While the clan elders were anxious to avoid further attacks from the
arrowheads until they had learned to resist the fire from the sky and
the long sharp iron wielded by the sand-burrowers they had a second,
equally pressing, reason for moving westwards: the elders wanted to
avoid having to answer any challenge over the M'Call's turf until the
Bears had regained their standing.  By running from the battle with the
iron snake they had - like the Japanese samurai of old - 'lost face'.

Without 'standing', they were - by the unwritten laws of the Plainfolk
- unworthy to bear sharp iron and engage other warriors in single
combat.  Since the M'Call's turf was now threatened with incursions by
the D'Vine - the clan to which the dead Shakatak and his three
companions had belonged - Roiling-Stone had given the order to withdraw
westwards into the great mountains until the shamed Bears were ready to
'bite the arrow' - the traditional proof of courage by which they
regained their warrior status.

Steve was invited by Mr Snow and Cadillac to sit in on the ceremony.

Seeing the flames leaping from the big bonfire and hearing a rumbling
background beat of drums, he thought he was finally going to hear one
of the long-awaited fire song sessions.  Instead, he found himself
watching a macabre ceremony of self-mutilation.  Mr Snow explained to
Steve the reason why, since his capture, he had only heard solo voices
singing a keening lament, sometimes accompanied by a haunting melody
played on reed pipes; the rousing fire songs, which recalled the epic
deeds of the M'call's, could not be sung in honour of warriors who had
lost their standing; they had first to bite the arrow.

Sitting beside Cadillac, Steve watched with morbid fascination as the
first of the M'Call braves knelt before Rolling-Stone, the clan elder,
and presented him with an arrow.  Each brave was required to make his
own, whittling the straight shaft and honing the four blades of the
iron head to razor sharpness.  Rolling-Stone held the arrow above his
head, flexing the shaft as he displayed it to the watching clan.  This,
Cadillac explained, was to prove that the shaft had not been
weakened.

The warrior then stretched out his arms towards two clan elders who
knelt facing him on either side and laid the palms of his hands on
theirs, fingers stretched out and closed lightly together at shoulder
height.

'Watch his hands,' whispered Cadillac.

Steve fixed his attention upon them.  The drumbeats and the clicking
from wooden percussive instruments became sharper, more insistent,
assuming an almost hypnotic intensity.  They were joined by an unseen
chorus in the darkness beyond the fire.

The kneeling brave filled his chest with air and let out a great
shout.

'Hey-YAHH!"  With one swift movement, Rolling-Stone drove the arrow
point through the left cheek of the brave and out through the right."

Steve shuddered at the thought of how it must feel.

He expected the brave's hands to ball into fists but he bore the pain
stoically.  His outstretched fingers quivered a little but his palms
did not lift from those of the elders.  The brave rose and turned to
face the clan, arms still outstretched, his teeth clamped firmly on the
shaft of the arrow.  Keeping his elbows at shoulder height, he swept
his outstretched palms slowly forward then inwards and gripped the head
and tail of the arrow.  With a sharp downward jerk, he broke it between
his teeth, pulled the two ends of the shaft out of his face, held them
aloft with a showman's flourish, then stepped forward and spat the
remaining piece into the bonfire.

'HEYY-YAHH!!"  roared the clan.  Their chorus of approval merged
harmoniously with the sonorous background chant.

Steve sat there, silently appalled.

One by one, the M'Call warriors who had been at the Battle of the Now
and Then River stepped forward to bite the' arrow.  Motor-Head,
Black-Top and Steel-Eye, Cadillac's surviving clan-brothers, then
Hershey-Bar, Henry-K, Average-White, Curved-Air, Osi-Bisa, Seven-Up,
Burger-King, Gulf-Oil, Camp-David, and the rest whose names of power
Steve did not yet know.

After fifty or so braves had had their faces skewered, just as Steve
had overcome his initial revulsion, he witnessed a new horror.

Good-Year, a warrior who Steve guessed was in his mid-twenties - with
Mutes it was hard to tell - crapped out.  As Rolling-Stone plunged the
arrow through his cheek, Good-Year balled his fists and half-closed his
outstretched arms with a convulsive jerk.  The kneeling clan elders on
either side of him grabbed hold of his wrists, stood up and pulled his
arms behind his back, forcing his head down.

Almost before Steve had time to realise what was happening, another
clan-elder stepped out of the darkness behind Rolling-Stone, lifted a
hefty stone hammer and brought it down with tremendous force on the
back of Good-Year's skull.

'Christopher Columbus!"  breathed Steve.  He grabbed Cadillac's arm.

'Don't any of these guys get a second chance?"

Cadillac didn't answer.  Four warriors who had passed the test with
flying colours leapt up, grabbed Good-Year's body by the arms and legs
and threw it onto the fire.  There was a shower of sparks and a hideous
crackling noise.  The flames leapt higher.  The drumming, the clicking
and the chanting rose to fever pitch.

They are all mad, thought Steve.  Or they are all so brain-damaged they
feel no pain.  But then he cast his mind back to the river battle: to
Trail Boss Buck McDonnell standing up behind Barber, the engineering
exec, on the bulldozer with crossbow bolts zipping round his ears: to
Caulfield in his Skyhawk on the flight-deck, a crossbow bolt through
his temples and his eyeballs hanging down by his nostrils, yelling as
they hauled him out of his cockpit, 'Leave me alone!  I'm okay, I'm
okay.  Let's go!  Let's get at these bastards!"  The M'Calls had
summarily executed GoodYear for failing the test of a warrior - but
Grand Central put guys up against a wall and shot them in front of the
video cameras for crapping out on operations.  It could even be
happening to Hartmann, commander of The Lady, right now.  The smell of
roasting human flesh assailed his nostrils.

It was a salutary reminder that he himself had committed the same act
in reverse.  He had dropped bonfires on people; made of napalm and
aimed at the children of the people he was sitting with.  We are all,
thought Steve, as mad as each other.

Good-Year's body, blackened and charred, merged with the blazing embers
as more wood was heaped on the fire and slowly crumbled into
oblivion.

The ceremony continued far into the night, with the clan roaring its
approval as each Mute presenting himself for reinstatement as a
warrior, broke the blood-stained arrow held between his clenched teeth
and spat the third piece contemptuously into the flames.  The other two
pieces, Cadillac explained, would be attached to a necklace; a badge of
courage to be worn with pride.

Steve lost track of time.  He was becoming tired.  The incessant
drumming and chanting had become, to his ear, monotonous,
overwhelming.

He longed to get up and stretch, to creep into the fur-skin bed he had
been given and go to sleep but he felt constrained to stay where he
was.  With the whole clan in a hyped-up state there was no knowing what
might happen.  Steve had an odd sense of foreboding.

All it needed was for some of those Bears who'd been giving him
mean-eyed looks to decide to have a little fun and...

He decided it would be safer to stick close to Cadillac and Mr Snow.

Cadillac leaned into him and pressed something in his hand.  'Take
this,' he muttered.  'Just in case ..."

Steve glanced at his neighbours but nobody appeared to have noticed the
transaction.  He brought his right hand casually up to his face, rubbed
his nose with his thumb and forefinger and glanced down at what
Cadillac had put into his palm.  It was shredded Dream Cap. Steve
slowly rubbed his hand over his mouth and chin, scooped the drug up
with his tongue and chewed it discreetly.  Something about the way
Cadillac had passed over the Dream Cap suggested it was the best thing
to do.  But what did he mean by 'Just in case' ?

Another roar of approval.  Another M'Call knelt to have his cheeks
pierced.  The line of waitifig warriors seemed endless.  Steve let his
eyes roam over the closely-packed rows of lumpheads on either side of
him.  Male and female warriors, den-mothers, young Mutes.  What, Steve
wondered, did they make of all this?  On the far side of the huge fire,
partly masked by the rows in front, Steve unexpectedly caught sight of
the most beautifully formed face he had ever seen.  It came as a shock
to realise that it belonged to a female Mute.  It was hard to be sure
in the flickering light but she looked smooth skinned - like
Cadillac.

Her face was patterned with light and dark pigments but otherwise even
at this distance - Steve could see it was flawless.

And her eyes!  Like two points of blue fire...

When they connected with Steve's he felt an inexplicable surge of
excitement.  A shiver ran down his spine.  He felt an insane urge to
get up and make his way round to where she sat but did not dare move
from his allotted place.  As he had to look past Cadillac to see her,
he averted his gaze so as not to reveal the true focus of his
attentions.  He watched the next warrior break and wrench the arrow out
of his cheeks then slowly let his gaze drift round to where she sat.

Her face was turned towards him; her eyes waiting to meet his.

This is crazy I thought Steve.  Come on, get a grip on yourself!

She's a lumphead.  She's probably got a body like a sack of rocks.  And
even if she hasn't what you are thinking is unthinkable.  He tore his
eyes away and silently berated himself.  You're imagining things,
Brickman.  It's the Dream Cap. You've been a prisoner of these lumps
so long, you're beginning to think of them as real people.  Just keep
cool.

Hang loose.

Impossible.  His body was tingling.  He was in the grip of a sensation
he had never experienced before and lacked the words to describe.  He
stole another look past Cadillac.

Several Mutes blocked his view as they got up to take their place in
the queue.  When they had passed, Steve's heart sank.  She had gone.

Motor-Head, Cadillac's fearsome clan-brother, had taken her place.  He
glared at Steve with undisguised belligerence.  Steve avoided his gaze
and searched the rows of firelit faces in front and behind but the Mute
girl was nowhere to be seen.

Without warning, Cadillac got up and walked over to where Mr Snow sat
in the semi-circle of clan eiders.  Steve saw him squat crosslegged
behind the old wordsmith's right shoulder.  He laid his hands on his
kneecaps, closed his eyes and appeared to compose himself.

Once again, Steve was not prepared for what happened next.  When the
last disgraced Mute had bitten the arrow and regained his standing as a
warrior, Rolling-Stone spread his arms wide and addressed the
gathering.  'The blood of our warriors flows hot and strong!  They have
proved themselves worthy to bear sharp iron in battle.  The M'Calls are
once again the greatest of the Plainfolk!"  'Heyy-YAHH!!"  roared the
seated clan.

Mr Snow and Cadillac stood up and moved to stand on either side of
Rolling-Stone.  The clan elder spread his hands again.  'Now let us
bite the arrow to show we are worthy to lead the bravest of the brave
I' 'YAHH!  YAHH!  Y^HH!"  chanted the clan.  The musical accompaniment
which had faded during the clan elder's speech, picked up its former
pace and volume.

I was right the first time, thought Steve.  They are all fruitcakes.

He understood why Cadillac had closed his eyes.

He had been preparing himself mentally for the ordeal ahead.

Interesting.  Did that mean the Mutes had some way to switch off
pain?

That could be a trick that might be worth learning.  No wonder they
kept coming in spite of everything that the crew of The Lady threw at
them.  Too dumb to be frightened, and too numb to know they'd been
hit.

Fort-Knox, a warrior whose own cheeks were streaked with blood, took
the arrow proffered by Rolling-Stone and flexed it above his head for
all to see.  The old Mute knelt before him, his outstretched hands
resting on the raised palms of two warriors.  Just behind Fort-Knox,
Steve could see Motor-Head curling his thick fingers round the shaft of
the heavy stone hammer.  Not that he needed it.  He looked the kind of
guy who could stave your head in with his bare fist.

'Hey-YAH!"  cried Rolling-Stone.

Fort-Knox punched the arrow through the old lump-head's face.

Rolling-Stone's hands.never moved.  Now one step removed from reality
through the Dream Cap, Steve didn't even wince inwardly.  The clan
elder rose, turned, displayed his transfixed jaws to the assembled clan
then broke the arrow.

'Hey-YAHH!"  roared the M'Calls.

Well done, old man, thought Steve.  I'm glad it's you and not me.  It
was no joke being head-man if you had to go through the same
performance every time the clan crapped OUt.

Mr Snow and Cadillac both passed the test with flying colours.  Their
participation surprised Steve.  They were too intelligent to get mixed
up in such a primitive display of machismo.  With a little thought they
should have been smart enough to figure a way out - or to have invented
some new.  rules.

Cadillac broke the arrow out of his face and spat the last piece into
the fire.  The clan roared its approval.  Great, thought Steve,
stifling a yawn.  Now we can all go home.  He began to get up then saw
that everyone else was sitting tight.

He sat back and crossed his legs and felt a chill ripple of fear run
down his spine as Motor-Head fixed his glittering black eyes upon
him.

Grasping the stone hammer under its head, the square, heavily-muscled
Mute strode across the wavering circle of firelight and planted himself
in front of where Steve sat in the fourth row.

Motor-Head flung out his right arm, pointing the hammer at Steve.  'Now
brothers, what shall be done with this carrion crow?!"  Steve could
feel everyone's eyes upon him.  BlackTop and Steel-Eye moved through
the crowd and stood behind him.  Oh boy, thought Steve dreamily.  This
looks like big trouble.  Keep cool.  Let Mr Snow handle it...

Motor-Head appealed to the assembled clan.  'Did not this crow, before
its wings were broken, destroy our cropfields and kill our cubs?  Why
is this carrion allowed to live in our midst?  He takes the food from
our mouths yet is allowed to fill his own.  This wingless worm has no
standing.

I say he should taste the fire he let fall on others -' 'Heyy-yahh...

I' The response came as an angry growl.

Not everybody answered but it was clear a sizeable number greed with
Motor-Head's proposition.

Black-Top and Steel-Eye grabbed Steve by the arms and hauled him to
his feet.  His head woozy from the Dream Cap, Steve struggled drunkenly
in their grip.  'Hey, come on, you guys, what is this?!"  Mr Snow took
a step forward.  Like Motor-Head, his speech was slurred and wooden
because of the fresh wounds in his cheeks.  'Free him!  He has
standing.  The Sky Voices spoke to me of this cloud warrior.  The
shadow of Talisman is upon him!"  Black-Top and Steel-Eye began to
release their grip on Steve.  Motor-Head stopped them with an imperious
gesture.  'The shadow of Talisman does not fall on the unworthy."

Motor-Head turned to the clan for support.

'Does a warrior lay waste to the fruits of the earth?  This carrion
kills those that have not chewed bone yet when Cadillac brought him
tumbling from the sky he begged to be saved from death -' 'Shee-ehhh
..."  hissed the clan.

Motor-Head flung an accusing finger at Cadillac.  'Is that not so,
wordsmith?"

Cadillac hesitated, looked at Steve, then nodded gravely.

'My brother speaks the truth."

Oh, terrific, thought Steve.  Thanks a bunch...

Black-Top and Steel-Eye dragged Steve out in front of the clan, twisted
his arms behind his back and forced him to his knees.  Out of the
corner of his eye, Steve saw Motor-Head heft the big stone hammer.  His
brain was fast losing its capacity to react.  I don't believe this, he
thought.  He let his head hang down limply and slowly realised that it
was becoming weightless.

Mr Snow held up his hands.  'Stay!  His life was spared because
Talisman willed it!"  Motor-Head paused with the hammer resting on his
right shoulder.  'I too have dreamed dreams, Old One."  He pointed down
at Steve.  'This is the Death-Bringer.  If it is Talisman's will that
he treads the earth, let him take the spirit from this crow and put it
in a braver body!"  He gripped the gnarled shaft tightly and swung the
hammer back over his head.  As it arced forwards on the killing stroke
the stone head exploded with a terrifying boom.  It was as if the
hammer had collided head on with an invisible bolt of lightning.  The
mysterious force that struck the hammer .  lifted Motor-Head off his
feet and hurled him backwards.

Mr Snow, Cadillac, Black-Top and Steel-Eye reeled away, trying vainly
to shield their faces from the shower of sharp splinters.  Steve hit
the ground nose first.  By some metaphysical quirk, most of the
splinters were seen to follow the line of the explosion, going behind
Motor-Head and upwards at an angle.  Shocked and momentarily deafened
but otherwise uninjured, they were helped up by the nearest of the
startled spectators.

Mr Snow walked over to where Motor-Head lay on his back, dazed and
winded.  'Perhaps that will teach you not to speak out of turn.  You're
lucky that didn't blow your head off."  Motor-Head sat up groggily.  Mr
Snow turned away to check that Steve was all right, then addressed the
gathering.