Iron master, p.25
Iron Master, page 25
As they covered the last mile down the dusty road, under the curious gaze of people working in the nearby fields, Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso were totally unaware of the deal between Mr Snow and Yama-Shita over the delivery of a flying-horse, and the plots and counterplots which were now afoot. And apart from the realisation that they had been singled out from the other breakers because they knew how to fly, no one had told them where they were going, or why.
It was only when they both looked up almost simultaneously and caught sight of a glider whose shape was clearly inspired by the Federation Skyhawk that they got the first glimmering of what they were getting into. The glider, covered in white silk tinted rose-pink by the rays of the setting sun and bearing a solid red disc under each wing, circled almost directly overhead, then dropped its right wing, making a deep, sideways descent before straightening out to land beyond the cluster of buildings that were now in sight to the left of the road.
Kelso looked across at Jodi with raised eyebrows. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘I doubt it – but they sure as heck didn’t bring us all this way just to sweep the yard.’
‘Right. All that thing needs is an engine and you and I could be on our way out of here.’
Jodi smiled. ‘Don’t get too excited, Dave. If they’re aiming to let us near those things then you can bet your sweet ass they’ve already got that angle covered. These guys aren’t idiots, y’know.’
‘Neither are we,’ said Kelso. ‘Neither are we…’
By one of those coincidences with which both life and fiction abound, Steve had also been watching the glider’s descent. Approaching from the west with a sack of mail on his back, he had picked up the old Highway 20 at Awo-seisa and was, at that very moment, about three-quarters of a mile behind Jodi and Kelso. Steve’s heart quickened as he saw the swept-wing craft drift lazily across the cloudless sky, then dip towards the ground. This was it. The Heron Pool. He was within reach of his first objective.
Steve saw a small party ahead of him on the road. By the time he passed the compound, the marchers had turned in through the open gates. Shortening his stride to a slow jog, he took a look at the courtyard beyond. There were a number of buildings, some people moving round, but nothing of any interest and no clue, apart from the fact that the glider had landed close by, to indicate what was going on there. Never mind, he’d be back…
In the meantime, he had mail to deliver to Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba, whose official residence lay a few miles down the road. This was to be his new base until the Man in Black came out from behind the woodwork and fixed him up with the promised job at the Heron Pool. At that point he would cease to be a roadrunner. With the aid of the precious bundle of pink leaves he would lose his stripes and become the newest recruit to the small team of Tracker renegades led by Cadillac.
And then things would start to happen…
Passing beneath a tile-roofed timber lintel that kept the rain off the ten-foot-high gates, Jodi and Kelso found themselves in a walled compound containing two brand-spanking-new single-storey accommodation units. Like most Iron Master dwellings, they were built clear of the ground and used a modular system of rectangular frames, lattice screens and paper panels. The roof was made of overlapping wooden shingles, suggesting that they might not be intended as permanent structures. There were also the usual support facilities they’d observed at the various post-house inns along the way: bathhouse, cookhouse, laundry, et cetera, plus several older structures.
The two new arrivals were relieved of their ‘yellow cards’ and booked in with the usual flurry of paperwork. The ink and paper had a pleasing odour, and from the wide-eyed way the dinks went to work it was clear they got a big buzz out of handling the material. Once they were officially ‘on strength’, the armlets which the Trackers had been fitted with at the trading post were prised loose and replaced by a metal identity disc, fastened round their neck with a loop of thin wire. The pint-sized chief clerk, faced with the choice of looking up their noses or remaining on his perch behind the high desk, stayed put and wagged a warning finger. ‘You wear a-disc all-uh time. Remove this an’ we-uh remove head. Hoh-kay?’
Jodi and Kelso swallowed hard and hung their heads meekly.
A female Mute was summoned to take them to the bathhouse, where the sight of hot water triggered a yell of delight. Casting aside the straw cape, bedding roll and bag of eating utensils issued to them at Pi-saba, they peeled off the threadbare remnants of their Tracker uniforms and leaped into the steaming tub. After the cold water sluices they had had to make do with since Columbus knew when, it was an undreamt-of luxury.
Wallowing up to their ears, they ducked each other playfully, then got down to the serious business of scrubbing the accumulated grime off their bodies and off each other’s backs. The sand-glass which measured the time they were allowed emptied all too quickly. Just as well: had they been left to soak much longer, the all-embracing warmth would have lulled them off to sleep. To make sure they stayed alert, the Mute – who remained silent and detached throughout – gave them the standard cold-water treatment, then handed over big, sweet-smelling towels. Oh, boy! The pain and discomfort they had suffered during the past weeks was temporarily obliterated by the sheer joy of being squeaky clean again.
At the adjacent clothing store – also staffed by female Mutes – they were issued with two sets of clean clothes of the type worn by the lower orders: draw-string bikini-type briefs, loose V-neck work shirt and baggy trousers, a padded jacket fastened with toggles and loops, and rope-soled canvas sandals to cover their bare feet.
The sandals were dark brown, everything else was a smoky blue. An eight-petalled flower symbol enclosed in a circle was printed in the same dark brown on the back of the padded jacket and the shirt. The white-stripes who had collected them from the boat had carried the same design on their headbands, likewise the brush-boys in the admin block. Jodi guessed it was the equivalent of a divisional sign, and she was not far wrong. The brown flower was the emblem of the Min-Orota family, their new masters.
The next stop was the bedding store. Armed with a mattress and a new padded quilt, Jodi and Kelso followed their guide across the compound and into one of the accommodation units, where she gestured towards a couple of empty places to the right of the entrance.
‘Thanks,’ said Jodi. ‘What happens next?’
The Mute eyed her with a mixture of resentment and resignation and left without saying a word.
Jodi and Kelso exchanged a raised-eyebrow look, then folded and positioned their mattress and quilt to match the others ranged at regular intervals down the length of the room, and placed the spare set of clothes and their eating utensils on the shelves above their bed space.
In essence, it was the same procedure they had followed during their years of training in the Federation. No matter how tired you were you didn’t just breeze into a new base, toss your gear in a corner, then take it easy on the mess desk until the guy in charge of your section came and winkled you out. If he wasn’t on your back already, you stowed everything shipshape and went looking for him.
A Tracker wearing the same blue work clothes appeared in the doorway. He had a lean, haggard look and the eyes of a man who had seen hard times. ‘Hi. Are you all there is?’
‘As far as we know,’ said Jodi.
The Tracker stretched out a hand. ‘Welcome to the Heron Pool. I’m Ray Simons. Reagan/Lubbock.’
‘Jodi Kazan. Nixon/Fort Worth. This here is Dave Kelso.’
‘Houston/G.C.’ The two men shook hands. ‘You the honcho?’
Simons gave a dry laugh. ‘Some chance. One of the hired hands. You just get off the boat?’
‘Yeah, how about you?’
Simons grimaced. ‘Into my third year.’
‘At this place?’
The Tracker responded with a bitter laugh. ‘No… I was drafted here in March. Before that it was the Pits.’
‘Pits?’ queried Jodi.
‘The Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem.’ Simons shook his head. ‘Acre upon acre of brick blast furnaces. It’s where they melt down ore to make iron and steel. For the first year I was a stoker, then they put me in charge of a gang of Mutes tapping the molten metal. We’d run it out into shallow ditches cut in beds of wet sand – arranged like a tree with a thin trunk and short fat branches.
‘When it solidifies you have to cut off the branches – which are still red hot – and tong ’em over to the rolling mill. Making sure you don’t bump into the guys doing the same thing on each side of you – and for as far as you can see. Twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
‘The heat blisters your skin and the smoke rips out the inside of your lungs. Run the melt out too fast and she’ll jump the mould and torch your feet off. Dump her in sand that’s too wet and the steam’ll blow half of it up in the air like golden rain. Looks real pretty but it can burn a hole right through you–’
Kelso cut across the well-rehearsed tale. ‘No shit. You must tell us about it sometime.’
‘Is that where most breakers end up?’ asked Jodi, trying to compensate for her companion’s withering disinterest.
‘Either there or in the mines.’
‘Sounds like you were lucky to get here,’ said Kelso.
‘Not as lucky as you.’ Simons sounded a mite aggrieved.
Jodi let it pass. ‘So what’s going on, Ray?’
‘We’re building airplanes. Well – just starting to.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘Couple of dozen guys like you and me. They pulled us in from all over.’
‘You from Big Blue?’ asked Kelso.
Simons shook his head. ‘Lineman. Tech-4. None of us have been near a flight-deck, but we’ve all got Tech grades of one kind or another. It’s the only reason I can think of for drafting us here. What are you – ground-crew?’
It was Jodi’s turn to shake her head. ‘Wingmen. I went over the side last year after five up the line.’ She pointed to Kelso. ‘He’s been off the hook for longer but… I never did get the whole story.’
‘Who cares?’ said Simons. ‘It’s past history. Waste of breath. When you step off the boat the tapes are wiped clean. The dinks don’t give a shit who you are or where you’re from – and neither do we. It’s what you do from here on in that counts. And Rule One is to keep faith with your fellow-breakers.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Kelso.
‘What’s Rule Two?’ asked Jodi.
‘Do as you’re told, keep your head down, don’t try to buck the system.’ Simons’s grin had a bitter twist to it. ‘That’s optional – depending on how long you can stand the heat. If you want out, the dinks will be only too happy to oblige. Just remember Rule One. Whichever way you choose to go, don’t screw it for everyone else.’
‘Gotcha.’
Simons gave them a second appraising glance. ‘So… wing men, huh? They must have drafted you in to help the other guy with the flight-testing.’
‘Could be,’ admitted Kelso. ‘We saw some kind of a glider fly over as we came down the road. Was that him?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Brought her in real neat,’ said Jodi. ‘Is he another drop-out from Big Blue?’
Simons nodded. ‘Yeah. He runs the project.’
Kelso exchanged a puzzled glance with Jodi, then said, ‘Did I hear you right? I thought the Iron Masters gave the orders round here.’
‘They do. It’s… a… kind of interesting arrangement.’
Jodi’s throat tightened. ‘What’s this guy’s name?’
‘Brickman.’
Kelso opened his mouth to speak, but his lips couldn’t decide which way to go.
Jodi asked the question for him. ‘Steve Brickman? From Roosevelt-Santa Fe?’
‘Yeah,’ said Simons. ‘D’you know him?’
‘Do we ever,’ growled Kelso. ‘Jack me! That lump-sucker’s the reason we’re standin’ here! Last time we saw him he was struttin’ around with a bunch of Mutes, dressed up like a monkey’s uncle – and now he’s got his nose right up the ass of these meatballs!’
‘Cool it, Dave.’
‘Yeah, I’d listen to your friend,’ said Simons, grabbing the opportunity to score a few points off Kelso. ‘I don’t know what happened out there and I care even less, but it sounds like good ol’ Stevie’s a lot smarter than you–’
Kelso made a lunge towards Simons, but Jodi blocked him with her shoulder. ‘I said cool it, Dave! This won’t get us anywhere!’
‘That’s right,’ said Simons. ‘Brickman’s carved himself out a sweet little number. I don’t know how long it’s going to last, but every day spent working here is one day less in the Pits, or doing some other lousy, backbreaking job. Me and the rest of the guys earned this free ride and we’re not about to let some wet-behind-the-ears shithead mess it up for us.’
Kelso saw red again. ‘That does it! I ain’t takin’ any more of this!’
Simons stood his ground as Jodi wrestled Kelso to a standstill. He was bigger and heavier, but she was fast and wiry.
‘Kaz! Get the hell offa me, will you!’
She turned to Simons. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll straighten him out.’
‘You’d better,’ said Simons, turning towards the door. ‘Otherwise he’s going to be late down for breakfast.’
‘Oh yeah!’ roared Kelso. ‘We’ll see about that. Don’t worry, I got your number!’
Simons paused on his way out. ‘And as of now, me and twenty-three other guys have got yours.’ He underscored the threat with a jabbing finger. ‘Think about that before you go to sleep tonight.’
Kelso shoved Jodi aside and went over to the window. They both saw Simons walk across the compound.
‘That wasn’t very smart, Dave.’
‘Yeah? A good smack in the mouth would have done him the world of good. Would’ve made me feel better too. Fuckin’ Brickman… ’ He eyed her sullenly. ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’
‘Yours. But this is not the time or place to try to get even. These dinks’ll come down on us like a ton of bricks. Promise me you won’t rock the boat.’
‘Maybe.’ Kelso stared moodily out of the window, then shrugged as his anger subsided. ‘We’ll see how it goes.’ He watched her cross over to the door. ‘Where’re you off to?’
‘To mend a few bridges.’
‘Nehh, screw ’em. I don’t need you brown-nosing for me. If you’re not prepared to back me up, just stay out of it. Okay?’
Jodi clamped her jaw shut and counted to five before replying. ‘You’re fucking impossible – you know that?’
Kelso treated it as a compliment. ‘Part of my fatal charm. Nobody ever got to the top by being Mr Nice Guy.’
‘No shit,’ said Jodi, mimicking his delivery. ‘You must tell me what it’s like up there sometime.’
*
In terms of its physical components – acreage, installations and personnel – the Heron Pool did not give the impression of being a major enterprise. Despite Cadillac’s industry, it was still very much in the embryonic stage; an experimental project, no more.
This was due, in part, to the caution exercised by Lord Kiyo Min-Orota. His estimation of Cadillac’s potential had not changed in the slightest, but he knew that developments at the Heron Pool were being closely monitored by the Herald, Hase-Gawa. From the reported use made of such craft by the long-dogs it was clear that just a few regiments of flying-horses could dramatically alter the present balance of power – a possibility that could not have escaped the attention of the Shogun.
The Sons of Ne-Issan did not yet possess the rapid-fire guns and explosive devices that made the flying-horse such a deadly weapon, but that day would come. Meanwhile, their speed meant that a strong force of samurai could rapidly reach any part of the country regardless of the intervening terrain. They would, literally, drop out of the sky like swooping falcons. The ability to execute such manoeuvres would demand a complete revision of military tactics.
Lord Kiyo Min-Orota was aware of the delicate line he had to tread. The task of building these craft had been given to his family because they were regarded as fudai – trusted allies of the Shogunate. But success had its dangers. If the Heron Pool expanded too rapidly and its importance was inflated by loose talk and wild speculation, it might cause the young Shogun to think twice, and perhaps withdraw the licence in favour of his own family – a situation to be avoided at all costs. If the Toh-Yota became the sole possessors of such a weapon they would use it to hold their opponents in check, thus ending all hopes for a new age of progress.
As a key participant in the ‘modernist’ conspiracy, Min-Orota had therefore been at pains to create the impression that, whilst he was prepared to back the flying-horse project, it did not have his unqualified support. To this end he had slowed down the pace of development by trimming back Cadillac’s constant requests for more manpower and resources, and he had let it be known in court circles that even if a craft capable of sustained powered flight was eventually constructed, he feared that, in the long term, its impact on Iron Master society would be more adverse than beneficial.
All lies, of course, but it bore the appearance of a face-saving exercise whilst expressing his support for traditional values. And it also provided him with an escape hatch if Yama-Shita’s plan to recapture the Dark Light backfired – an enterprise which certainly did not have his wholehearted support.
Translated into Basic, the message he was beaming towards the Shogun read thus: ‘I’m only going along with this because you guys twisted my arm.’
It was a neat ploy. The whole deal had, of course, been put together on the back-stairs by Yama-Shita, but the records would show Kiyo Min-Orota hadn’t pitched for the business. It was Ieyasu, the wily old Court Chamberlain, who had advised the Shogun to grant the manufacturing licence to the Min-Orota family without going through the usual process of soliciting the highest bid from other interested parties. All that remained now was to find some way, short of death, to prevent Nakane Toh-Shiba, the Consul-General, from screwing things up – both literally and figuratively – and everything would fall into their hands.
