《The Amtrak Wars I : Cloud_Warrior》26

But above all, you must try to understand!

Come on - help me wake the others."

'But - Old One - what is the point of going?  If we can change
nothing..."

A mischievous look crept into Mr Snow's eyes.  He chuckled and thrust a
finger under Cadillac's nose.  'We are going to teach you a lesson.

Which I hope won't be wasted, because the run from here is probably
going to kill me."

Clearwater found the small, square package of folded red leaves lying
on the talking mat outside her hut after Death-Wish had chased her two
clan-sisters round the screen of yellow leaves and into the
rock-pool.

Taking it into the hut, she opened it and found the pouch.  With her
hunting knife, she cut the sealed knot and peeked inside.  The musty
odour told her it contained Dream Cap. Pulling out the necklace, she
studied the tag bearing the silent speech-signs of the sahd-burrowers
and recognised it as something that had been taken from Steve.  And
when she held it to her forehead, she knew immediately who it was from
and what she was required to do.  Clearwater's heart alternately leapt
and quailed at the thought of going to the cloud-warrior and the dread
of what might happen if they were found together.

She knew that Mr Snow would not have asked her to risk death and
dishonour unless it was necessary.  She also knew that if she did what
was required without the rest of the clan knowing, the cloud-warrior
would go, leaving her to face Cadillac weighed down by the shameful
knowledge that she had betrayed him.  And that would be like dying
too.

But she was a child of the Plainfolk; of the clan M'CalI, from the
bloodline of the She-Kargo.  And as Mr Snow had said to Steve, the
M'Calls had the courage to accept their destiny.

Death-Wish left to return to the main settlement as Clearwater prepared
the evening meal she was to share with her clan-sisters.  Both sisters
were unaware that their portions contained a liberal dose of Dream Cap.
Cooked with food, it acted as a strong sedative and within an hour both
slipped away gently into a deep sleep.

Confident that neither would wake until the sun was at the head of the
sky on the following day, Clearwater went to the rock-pool where her
clan-sisters had provided Death-Wish with a frolicsome combination of
sex and hygiene and carefully washed her newly-patterned body.

Returning to the hut, she knelt before it on the woven mats and sang to
herself as she braided fresh flowers into her hair and rubbed a
fragrant oil onto her arms, breasts, belly and thighs.  The song she
sang was about a She-Wolf who lay with her young warrior-love through
the time of the New Earth only to lose him at Summer-Dawn when he fell
under the knives of a marauding clan.  A sad, keening lament that
brought tears to her eyes.

And so it was that, on the last night before Cadillac and Mr Snow
returned, Steve stirred sleepily and discovered Clearwater snuggling
down beside him under his wolf-skins.

As his eyes snapped wide open, she laid a warning finger on his lips
and then embraced him.  The touch of her lips on his, the electric
shock that ran through him as her supple body slid sinuously against
his own, nearly blew the top of his head off.  It was unbelievable.

Out of this world.

Putting the bomb in the barrel with Lundkwist was nothing compared with
this.  Steve might not know what the word love meant but he knew how it
felt.  It made his heart leap; made him feel he would suffocate with
sheer joy.  It was all coming true; it was happening; she was here;
lithe, eager, vibrant, sensual, demanding, yet, at the same time, it
seemed totally unreal.

As they lay together in the darkness, tenderly locked in each other's
arms, their love-making had a gentle dream-like quality, far removed
from the sweaty clash of lamp-tanned muscled limbs, the mechanical
thrust and counterthrust, the feeling of disassociation that
accompanied his previous sexual encounters.  They were borne aloft on a
wave of emotion, transported to another plane, another timeless
dimension beyond the bounds of physical reality.

This isn't really happening, thought Steve.  My imagination's working
overtime.  But no.  When he woke again in the first grey light of dawn
he found Clearwater nestled sleepily against him, her legs interlocked
with his.  It took a few seconds to collect his thoughts then the
reality of the situation hit Steve like a sledgehammer between the
eyes.

'Christopher Columbus .  . I' he whispered to himself.

What they had done was the height of folly: if discovered it would
destroy the relationships he had carefully built up, demonstrate his
total disregard of the clan's social values and bring death to them
both.

Clearwater was also full of regrets.  Not for what they had done, but
because her desire for Steve had placed his life in jeopardy.  She took
his face in her hands and told him that there was only one solution to
the jam they had landed themselves in.  He must escape on the arrowhead
he had built.

Steve gathered her into his arms.  'I'm not leaving here unless you
promise to come with me."

Clearwater put her hands on his chest.  'That is madness.

There is no place on the arrowhead for me!"  Steve knew she was
right.

There was no way that BlueBird could carry both of them.  The wing
area, which had been limited by the fabric he'd been able to salvage,
simply would not generate enough lift.  The only other alternative was
suicidal, but he brushed aside all thoughts of failure and seized her
firmly by the arms.  'Okay, then - we'll go on foot."

Clearwater shook her head sadly, her eyes filled with tears.  'Oh,
golden one - think with your head not your heart.

You ask the impossible!  Where could we run to?  Look at me!  I am a
Mute?

Steve ran his hands along the black and brown jigsaw pattern on her
forearms.  'You're not!  Not like the others I' !Yes, I know,
underneath this my skin is like yours, but your people would never
accept me.  And even if they did, I could not live in your dark world
beneath the desert."

'It's not dark!"  hissed Steve.  'There is no night!  Even in the
deepest place the light is as bright as when the sun is at the head of
the sky!  There is no White Death, no rain.

Thousands of us spend our whole lives within the earth-shield.

Happily,' he added, with less than total conviction.

'I could not live in your bright burrows for a day,' whispered
Clearwater.  'Is that what you wish to do with me - take me down there
to die?"

'No, no,' muttered Steve.  He searched his mind desperately for a more
practical solution to their predicament; a more persuasive argument.

Clearwater caressed his cheek.  'Even if I agreed to come with you, we
are doomed from the start.  You would not be able to outrun the
Bears.

They would hunt us relentlessly night and day, even in their sleep."

Steve knew she was referring to the Mutes' ability to run
continuously, with their characteristic loping stride, for twenty-four
hours or more, sleeping on their feet like birds on the wing.  He
thought hard and suddenly had a brilliant idea.  'What about your
magic?  You made that rock fly, didn't you?  You can use that to
protect us!"  Clearwater shook her head again.  'No.  It would be too
dangerous.  I am no match for Mr Snow."

Steve looked at her with a surprised frown.

Clearwater looked equally surprised.  'Did he not tell you he was a
summoner when he spoke of the Talisman Prophecy?"

'No,' said Steve.  'He forgot to mention it."

'There are nine Great Rings of Power,' explained Clearwater.  'I have
barely grasped the first two.  Mr Snow has absolute mastery over the
first seven."

'What about the other two?"

'Only Talisman is strong enough to wield the Nine,' replied
Clearwater.

'But no one among the Plainfolk has the power of Mr Snow.  The Seventh
Ring is called the Storm-Bringer.

Were you not there, aboard the iron snake, when he blinded it with mist
then brought lightning, thunder and the flood waters down upon it?"

'Are you telling me that old man..."  Steve stared at her with stunned
disbelief.  'He did that?  Mr Snow ... made that river flood?  Almost
wrecked the train?"

'Yes!"  Steve tried to cope with this revelation.  Incredible though it
was, he did not doubt a word of it.  He pictured the rock plummeting
from the sky and then he thought about the spiked heads of Fazetti and
Naylor outside her hut in the forest.  'And what did you do?"

Clearwater looked deep into his eyes and read the question in his mind
before answering.  'I did what had to be done.  And I also saved you
from Motor-Head's hammer."

She sealed his lips as he went to reply then took hold of his hands and
kissed them lovingly, holding them against her face.  'You must go!  I
beg you - go now!  Don't wait until Cadillac and Mr Snow return!"  It
was against all Steve's instincts to break and run when the going was
tough but this time he knew it was the smart thing to do.  There was no
way he could hide what had happened - especially from Mr Snow, who had
shown himself expert at piercing the layers of guile that had hidden
Steve's true intentions so well in the past.  He had to go.  Not only
to protect Clearwater and himself, but also for the sake of the
Federation.  He had to find some way to tell them about the Talisman
Prophecy.  They knew about wordsmiths, but not about summoners and
seers.  Or that Mute magic was not a defeatist rumour but a deadly fact
that could no longer be ignored.  It could prove tricky to be the
bearer of news no one wanted to hear.  If he did it right, he could
maybe earn ten promotional grades at one jump; if he did it wrong, he
could find himself getting shot on the Public Service Channel for
spreading alarm and despondency.

And there was also the little matter of him getting even with
Lundkwist, Gus White and the others involved in the conspiracy to elbow
him out of the top spot at the Centenary Graduation.  Yeah...

'It's getting light.  You must go,' she whispered.

'You too..."  They held each other tightly in one last desperate
embrace then he began to dress with swift, practised movements.

Something he'd learned during his three years at the Academy.

'The arrowhead - can you prepare it by yourself?."

'Yeah, don't worry,' he murmured, savouring for one last brief moment
the lingering fragrance of her oiled skin, the softness of her hair and
the warmth of her body as she cradled his head between her cheek and
shoulder.  He pulled away, took her hands from around his neck, stole a
last quick kiss then pushed her out of reach.  'Go on, get going."

Clearwater shook her head.  'No.  It will be safer if you leave
first.

Once you have gone, no one will see me."

Steve was curious to know what she meant, but this was no time for
awkward questions.  He peeked through the doorflap.  Nothing moved
outside.  The place was as quiet as New Deal Plaza during a First
Family Inspirational.  He looked back at Clearwater and saw her
rummaging through the pockets of her walking skins.

'I was given something that belongs to you..."  She held up the
necklace bearing Steve's dog tag.  'May I keep it?"

'Of course.  Here - let me put it on for you."  He took hold of the tag
and showed it to her.  'You see these marks?  This .one here is my
name.  "Steven Roosevelt Brickman"."

'That is good,' said Clearwater.  'It means part of you will always be
with me."  She swept her long hair forward over one shoulder and
inclined her head in a quasi-ceremonial gesture.

Steve slipped the chain around her slim neck, adjusted the hang of it
so that the tag bearing his name nestled in the cleft between her
breasts, then smoothed her hair back into place and took her face in
his hands.  'I'll come back.  I don't know when, or how, but I'll find
a way.  I promise."  And he meant it, too.  'Think of me."

'Always,' whispered Clearwater.  One half of her could not bear to let
him go; the other, more sensible, half did not believe she would ever
see him again; knew it would be better to wipe out what had happened,
to erase him from her mind.  Impossible...

'Ciao,' said Steve, using one of the Mute words for saying 'goodbye'.

Come on, Brickman, he urged himself.  Move!

Hit the road!  He ducked out under the door flap and turned to pick up
his quarterstaff that he'd left lying alongside the hut.  Out of the
corner of his eye he saw something leaning against the left-hand
head-pole.  Steve stared at it, then reached out and touched it
gingerly, as if he was afraid it might vanish.  It was his air rifle!

The one that Cadillac had torn from the Skyhawk!  Seizing it, he ran
his hands over it sensuously, savouring the hard, cold feel of the
barrel cluster, then wiped off the thin film of condensation with his
sleeve and quickly checked the contents of the magazine.

Only three triple volleys.  Shit... still, better than nothing.

He looked at the air pressure gauge.  More than enough.  Oh, you sweet
mother I He toyed briefly with the idea of saying thank you and decided
it wasn't necessary.  If she'd wanted a big speech she'd have brought
the rifle inside.  He started to get up, then, on a sudden impulse, he
stopped and knelt down again.  Pulling a straw mat towards him, he
roiled it lengthwise around the rifle.  Satisfied that it was safely
hidden, he rose to his feet, tucked the mat under his arm, slung the
quarterstaff over his shoulder, and strode off towards the bluff
without a backward glance.

Inside the hut, Clearwater sat on her heels and bit her lip in an
effort to stem the bitter tears that clouded her eyes.  She fingered
the dog tag and thought of the all too brief moment she had spent in
the cloud-warrior's arms then, with a sigh, she drew on her walking
skins.  When she stepped outside she was relieved to see there was
still only the faintest glimmer of light at the eastern door.  Soon
Steve would be winging his way towards the dawn.

Clearwater walked through the sleeping settlement to Mr Snow's hut,
laid down the talking mat she had brought with her, wrapped herself up
warmly in her night fur and squatted down to await the arrival of the
two wordsmiths.

She tried hard to think of Cadillac, but the power within that had made
her a summoner sent her mind's eye soaring towards the bluff.  And
there it circled, like a wide-winged death bird.  Below her she could
see the arrowhead resting on its poles and further away, her beloved
cloud-warrior making his way towards it.

But wait!  What was that?

Eyes closed, Clearwater raised her head clear of the enveloping furs,
her nostrils flared like a fast-foot doe scenting danger.

Reaching the top of the slope above the settlement, Steve was relieved
to see that Blue-Bird was still there, lashed to its supporting
trestles some fifty feet back from the edge of the bluff.  It was also
unguarded.  For some peculiar reason for which Steve had never sought
an explanation, Mutes did not raid rival settlements or go out looking
for trouble at night.  Once the sun went down, they put their knives
away.

The lookouts around the perimeter of the clan's tuff remained in
position but usually slept till dawn with only a nominal guard against
four-footed predators such as wolves, or mountain lions.  Since the
departure of Mr Snow's party, two Mute warriors had been posted to
guard Blue-Bird, but only during the day.  The thought that Steve might
cut and run in the middle of the night had obviously not occurred to
anyone.

As he approached the craft, he saw that someone had made him a present
of a red and white wingman's helmet.  It swung gently from one of the
harness straps.  How odd, thought Steve.  He peered into the
surrounding greyness but could see nothing.  Probably a stray gust of
wind, eddying up over the bluff.  He looked at the name on the
helmet.

It was Fazetti's, one of his Eagle Squadron buddies.

Tough luck, Lou.  Too bad you didn't make it...

Steve laid down the quarterstaff and the rolled straw mat with the
rifle inside and put the helmet on.  He raised the visor and fixed the
neck strap so that it was a good tight fit on his head, then he
loosened the ropes holding the swept back wings onto the head-high
trestles and moved the support out from under the rear-mounted motor.

Drawing his combat knife, he cut one of the ropes in half and dropped
the two pieces onto the rolled mat.  His plan was to tie them round
each end of the roll then fasten it to the bottom section of the
triangular control bar on which his hands would rest.  But the same
impulse that had prompted him to conceal the rifle in the mat told him
to leave that particular job until the very last moment.  If someone
blew the whistle on him he might need to be able to get at that rifle
fast...

All he had to do now was run his eye over the wing fabric to make sure
there were no tears or loose stitching, check the tension and anchorage
of the rigging wires, the fixings and condition of the webbing straps
from which his body would hang horizontally, and the leads carrying the
electric current from the wings to the motor.  With the pre-flight
checks completed, it only remained to buckle himself into the body
harness, stagger forward taking care to keep the propeller clear of the
ground, and throw himself off the edge of the bluff.  Nothing to it.

Steve was conscious that he didn't have a moment to waste but he found
himself in something of a quandary.  Up to now, all his flights had
been in broad daylight and although it was late in the year, the
weather had been warm and sunny - just what was needed to charge the
solar ceils that delivered power from the wings to the motor.  It had
proved to be a fluctuating supply but it provided a useful backup.  And
now here he was, in semi-darkness, surrounded by cold damp air.  Even
if he'd been able to salvage a static charge unit, the weight would
have made its installation impractical.  But no sun meant no power and
that meant, instead of a motor, he was loading himself down with a
useless heap of junk for maybe four to six hours.  More if the weather
was bad.  Should he take a chance and go for it with the complete
rig?

Or should he strip the motor off the airframe?  He had the tools.  It
was half a dozen nuts and bolts and a few leads.  It would mean kissing
goodbye to all those hours of painful circuit mending and testing - but
what the heck...

Steve walked round Blue-Bird a couple of times, weighing up the pros
and cons, squared up to it with his hands on his hips, appealed
silently to the sky, and decided to pull the motor.  Now that his mind
was made up, he worked quickly disconnecting the power leads before
loosening the retaining bolts.  One... two.  three...

four.  two left to go, one on either side of the motor.  It was
ironic.

Dumping the motor had increased the potential payload of the glider.

If he had considered that option before, and if Clearwater had been
willing to leave, he would, with a few last minute adjustments to the
harness, have been able to take her with him.

Steve moved the rear trestle back in to take the weight of the motor
while he pulled the last two bolts.  As he reached up to fit the crude
wrench onto one of the remaining nuts, he felt the skin on the back of
his neck go cold.  He looked over his shoulder and almost had heart
failure.  Motor-Head was standing right behind him, leaning casually on
his quarterstaff.

'Jack me!  Wow!"  exlaimed Steve.  'You know, for a big guy, you're
awful quiet on your feet."

Motor-Head bared his teeth in a grim smile.

Steve had a feeling he was in trouble.  'Where are Mr Snow and Cadillac
- down in the settlement?"

'No, they're not back yet,' said Motor-Head.  'We came on ahead."

'Oh..."  Glancing round, Steve saw two shadowy figures positioned
between Blue-Bird and the bluff.  It didn't look good.  Play it cool,
Brickman.

Motor-Head looked Blue-Bird over.  'Going somewhere?"

The?  Oh, no.  I was just.  fixing a few things.  Couldn't sleep so I,
uh, came up to do some work on the motor."

'In the dark?"

Steve shrugged.  'Just got here.  It'll be light soon."

'Yes... Tell me - why the helmet?"

'It's to keep my ears warm,' said Steve.

'Got it..."  The big Mute aimed a finger over Steve's shoulder.  'Is
that what you call "the motor"?"

Steve eyed him warily.  'Yeah..."

Motor-Head put an arm through the sling of his quarterstaff, then eased
Steve aside and stood with his legs astride facing the hand-carved
propeller.  He placed his fingers on the propeller hub then ran them
out along the blades.  'Why does it have my name?"

What a dummy!  thought Steve.  Still, better kid him along.  'Ah,
that's because, like you, it is strong and powerful,' he said.  'It
makes the arrowhead fly like an eagle."

Motor-Head nodded thoughtfully.  'Ahhahh... interesting..."

Grasping the tips of the propeller he snapped both blades off at the
hub with one swift jerk of his huge hands, examined the two pieces
briefly then dropped them at Steve's feet.  'Now it flies like a lump
of crow-shit."

Steve looked down at the broken blades and knew that there was no
chance of walking away from this one.  He had one good chance.  If
Motor-Head didn't know what was rolled up inside the mat, he could get
to his rifle and drop all three of them.  He raised his head and met
the Mute warrior's challenging gaze.  'Well, you should know.  You're
full of it."

Motor-Head bared his fang-like teeth in a tight smile.

How he regretted his promise not to cut open this carrion!

He spat on the ground.  'You have a quarterstaff.  Beat it out of me!'
This could work out just fine, thought Steve.  'I might just do that,'
he said coolly.  He took a couple of steps backwards then edged
sideways under the wing towards the spot where his quarterstaff lay
next to the rolled straw mat.

Motor-Head pulled his staff out of its carrying sling and whirled it
around in a brief, flashy display.

That's right.  Come on, sucker...

Steve took another couple of steps towards the hidden rifle.  He looked
towards the edge of the bluffand was able to recognise the two shadowy
figures as Black-Top and Steel-Eye.

Black-Top was' holding a loaded crossbow.  Steve considered his chances
of grabbing his rifle and blowing them away before Black-Top nailed him
with a bolt.  Not good.  Not good at all.

And it got worse.  As if reading his mind, Motor-Head tossed his own
quarterstaff towards Steve.  'Take mine.

Your little arms will need a big stick."

Steve caught it across his chest, conscious that the odds against him
getting out alive were lengthening by the second.  Motor-Head fixed him
with his beady eyes then bent down and scooped up Steve's
quarterstaff.

Up to now, everything had gone so wrong, he was half-expecting
Motor-Head to pull open the matting roll, but the big Mute ignored
it.

Steve knew that, provided the fight was limited to quarterstaffs, he
had a hope of winning.  He had already beaten Motor-Head seven times in
a row, and he had the ribboned plaits to prove it.  Motor-Head could
have despatched him easily with a knife but his reputation as a warrior
was at stake.  He had to win with Steve's chosen weapon to regain his
position as paramount Bear.  Steve now realised that, for Motor-Head,
swapping staffs was a symbolic act through which he took some of
Steve's 'power' into himself.  If he could hold him off long enough,
the Mute's psychological need to win might make him angry.  It was this
aggression that Steve had exploited in the past.