Iron master, p.26
Iron Master, page 26
Jodi caught up with Simons as he passed through an archway in the back wall of the compound, opposite the main gate. There were more buildings beyond. Simons paused expectantly.
‘Listen,’ said Jodi. ‘Before this goes any further I just want to say that Dave is okay – y’know what I mean? I know things got a little out of hand back there, but the truth is, uhh… neither of us expected to run into Brickman again so soon.’ Jodi shook her head in wonderment. ‘I don’t know how the guy does it, but he certainly gets around.’ She fell into step beside Simons. ‘Are you sure his name’s Steve Brickman?’
‘That’s what he calls himself. I can’t see why he would want to lie about something like that, but what difference does it make? He’s giving the orders and he seems to know what he’s doing. It’s only you guys who seem to have a problem.’
Simons led her down an alleyway between two long single-storey structures. The facing walls had matching sets of sliding doors at regular intervals and they were all wide open, giving Jodi a clear view of their interiors. They were both large, airy workshops. The one on the left contained stacks of sawn timber and rows of benches for making sub-components; the one to her right contained several trestle jigs on which ribs and spars were assembled into wings, while on the others, formers and stringers were turned into fuselages.
Running down the centre was a primitive production line on which the various pieces were mated together. In all, Jodi counted a dozen airplanes at various stages of completion. Several Trackers in blue outfits were putting tools back into racks and tidying up workbenches; others were sweeping the floor. The job looked as though it demanded skill and intelligence, the whole environment looked clean and healthy and, above all, the atmosphere appeared relaxed – with not a white-stripe or a whipping-cane in sight. Jodi could understand why Simons and his co-workers didn’t want anyone spoiling things.
But there was something that didn’t add up. Simons had been drafted to the Heron Pool in March and had implied that Brickman had already set up the operation. But she and Kelso had first run into Brickman when still part of Malone’s renegade band back in the early part of April, and they had last seen him at the end of May, hob-nobbing with their Mute captors at the trading post. Jodi was not sure of the exact dates; her standard-issue calendar watch had been ripped from her wrist when she was washed downstream in the tangled wreckage of her Skyhawk. But a day or two either way didn’t matter, the questions remained: if Brickman was in Plainfolk territory during April and May, what in Columbus’s name was he doing there when he was supposed to be running the Heron Pool – and how the eff-eff had he gotten back here so fast?
Before she could ask Simons, her attention was drawn to a swept-wing glider taking off from the big field beyond the workshops. Another, of the same type, was being pushed towards them aboard a wheeled trolley. The craft now airborne rose steeply on a line attached under the nose. The other end ran down to a lump of machinery on the far right-hand corner of the field.
A faint tuff-tuff-tuff reached Jodi’s ears.
‘Steam-driven winch,’ said Simons.
Jodi watched the ascent with interest. She was conversant with the principles of thermals and soaring flight of which Skyhawks were designed to take advantage, but purpose-built gliders didn’t exist in the Federation. You learned to fly with the aid of a propeller and battery-power from Day One.
When the glider was about a thousand feet up, the pilot released the cable. The falling end was marked by a fluttering blue pennant. The glider banked gently to the right, nosed down to gather speed, then went up into a stall turn. It stood on its tail for a brief moment, then cartwheeled over its port wingtip into another dive and swept back over their heads towards the perimeter of the field.
‘Neat,’ said Jodi. ‘But why gliders?’
‘The dinks don’t have electricity,’ replied Simons.
‘They didn’t have airplanes before you guys started building them. How come nobody’s told them what they’re missing?’
‘No need to. The dinks have known about it from way back. They call it the Dark Light and, as far as they’re concerned, it’s bad news. According to Brickman, Iron Masters are forbidden by law to mess around with any kind of electrical equipment. On top of which, the subject is absolutely taboo.’ He shrugged. ‘I know. It sounds crazy, but there it is.’
Jodi looked up at the glider. ‘May be a good thing in the long run. These things aren’t going to be much of a threat to anybody.’
‘Don’t be too sure. Brickman’s working on the power problem. He’s developing a lightweight steam engine.’
‘Steam engine…?’ The idea made Jodi laugh.
‘Don’t knock it. We’re running bench tests right now. Just having problems developing enough power.’
‘What are you using for fuel?’
‘Oil. But we’re trying to find something that burns faster and generates more heat.’
Jodi sniffed dismissively. ‘It’ll never get off the ground.’
‘It hasn’t so far,’ admitted Simons. ‘But we’re working on it.’
The six Trackers wheeling the grounded glider back to the right-hand workshop passed by close to where they were standing. While Simons asked them how the test flight had gone, Jodi cast a professional eye over their handiwork.
The silk-covered wings were not swept back as far as the Skyhawk’s and were of rigid construction instead of being inflated to the correct shape by helium gas. The slim fuselage pod, lacking the rear-mounted engine and pusher-prop of the original, was attached directly to the underside of the wing, with the cockpit just ahead of the leading edge.
The Skyhawk was a pure-delta wing design, with no tailplane or rudder; Brickman’s craft had a boom running back from the centre section with a cruciform tail assembly mounted on the end. That was not the only departure from the original; on the Skyhawk, banking to left and right was affected by means of control wires that warped the outer trailing edge of the wings. On Brickman’s glider, there were inset panels that pivoted up and down: ailerons – as used on the two-seat Skyrider and the Mark-2 Skyhawk.
But Jodi didn’t know about those yet. The Skyrider was used exclusively by AMEXICO, whose existence was a closely guarded secret, and she’d been lost overboard, presumed killed before the Mark-2 had been issued to Big Red One – the Red River wagon-train, flagship of the Amtrak Federation overground forces.
There was one other obvious difference – the tricycle undercart had been replaced by a central wooden skid. Two small runners had been fitted at an angle on either side to prevent the glider from angling over and snagging its wingtips on landing. But it didn’t eliminate the problem. A rookie pilot could still rip those beautifully crafted wings apart every time he made an iffy landing.
‘No undercarriage,’ said Jodi, as Simons returned.
‘No. The dinks don’t have any rubber to make the tyres with. And without electricity there’s no chance of making aluminium, or any other of the lightweight alloys. We have to make do with iron, steel, copper and brass. For take-offs we use a launching trolley. It’s kinda primitive – like lots of things around here – but it works.’
‘Provided you land back at the same field.’
‘You got a point there,’ conceded Simons. ‘If you’ve got any bright ideas, don’t be shy about speaking up. Brickman runs a tight ship, but he’s always open to suggestions. And as wingmen, you guys know a lot more about this stuff than we do.’
‘Yeah
‘What’s the connection?’
‘With Brickman? Oh… we shipped out together on the same wagon-train. The Lady from Louisiana. I was his section leader. We ran into all kinds of trouble – that’s when I went over the side. From what he told me when we met up, he was shot down the next day. But he’s a survivor. Smart too. Doesn’t miss a trick.’
‘You can say that again.’
Jodi watched the glider now under test drift gracefully across the evening sky. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t taught any of you to fly.’
Simons laughed. ‘Are you kidding? You wouldn’t catch me going up in one of those things. Took me long enough to get used to standing out here on the ground all by myself without getting the shakes.’
The glider, now way over on the right, swept southwards across the road running past the compound, then circled back towards the field. As he drew near the road, Brickman dropped the starboard wing and applied top rudder, making the same steep approach they had watched first time round. It seemed like he was going to slide right into the workshops, but when he was down to about fifty feet, he levelled out and kicked the nose straight, swishing over their heads to land a short distance away.
Kelso walked down the alleyway in time to see the touchdown. Positioning himself between them with folded arms, he rocked gently back and forth on his heels and pointedly ignored their presence. Simons glanced up at him, then aimed a questioning look behind his back at Jodi. She raised her eyebrows and shoulders in reply.
The glider slid to a halt about a hundred and fifty yards away, then tilted gently over on to its starboard runner as the Tracker ground crew ran a trolley out on to the field. A figure dressed in an all-white outfit climbed out of the cockpit and stood, hands on hips, as the sleek craft was lifted gently on to its carrying frame, then walked behind the six-man crew as they wheeled it back towards the workshops.
‘Is that it for today?’ enquired Kelso. ‘Or is this where we start hanging out lanterns?’ His voice carried no hint of rancour.
‘No. We don’t start night flying till next week.’
The joke was lost on Kelso. ‘Good. How about introducing us?’
‘I thought you already knew each other.’
‘We do. But since he isn’t expecting us it might be better if you break the ice. Don’t want him to get the wrong idea.’
Simons looked at Jodi. ‘Is he always this difficult?’
‘Only when his feet hurt.’
The ground party pushing the glider drew closer. Brickman was now walking level with the tailplane, his face partially obscured by the starboard wing. He wore a white headband bearing the brown petal motif of the Min-Orota and looked thinner than the last time Jodi had seen him. His crewcut hair looked darker too.
Simons set off towards the plane. Jodi and Kelso let him get ten yards ahead, then followed.
‘Steve! Got the new boys here. They’d like to meet you.’
The white-clad figure gave an answering wave then motioned to the ground crew to take the glider back inside the workshop. The intervening wing moved out of the way, enabling Jodi and Kelso to get a clear view of their fellow alumnus. He was slimmer. His hair was not just darker, it was jet black.
And the guy it belonged to wasn’t Brickman.
Kelso faltered in mid-stride. ‘Wait a minute–’
‘Keep going,’ whispered Jodi. ‘Just play it by ear.’
They approached to within arm’s length in time to hear Simons identify them by name, adding. ‘They tell me they’re old friends of yours.’
Cadillac found himself in something of a quandary. In ‘borrowing’ Steve’s acquired memory, and later assuming his identity, he had not considered the possibility that he might encounter Trackers who actually knew the real Steve Brickman. There was no danger of them guessing he was a Mute, but they would know he was an impostor – and that might prove awkward.
If they had not been wingmen, he would have arranged for their removal on some trumped-up charge of sloppy workmanship or insolent behaviour. But that was not possible. He was in urgent need of people with flight experience to help move the project along, and these two new arrivals were the only ones available in the whole of Ne-Issan.
Cadillac squared up to the new recruits and cast his eyes over each of them in turn. He was sure that Steve would have known exactly how to turn a situation like this to his advantage. He had to try and do likewise. But knowing everything that Steve knew was not the same thing as knowing how Steve would act in any given set of circumstances. Not the same thing at all…
And there was another problem he hadn’t foreseen. The transfer of information had ceased the moment that Steve had finished teaching him to fly. Cadillac had then gone on a long journey with Mr Snow, arriving back at the settlement in time to witness Steve’s flight to freedom. He only knew at second hand the events leading up to Steve’s escape, and was unaware of what had happened since. He was thus able to recall everything Steve knew about Jodi up to the moment of her dramatic disappearance: Kelso, on the other hand, was a total stranger.
‘Jodi Kazan… Yeah, the name’s familiar. She was the flight section leader aboard The Lady from Louisiana. But she was killed trying to land during a thunderstorm.’
‘Uh-uh,’ said Jodi. ‘Almost.’ She motioned to the disfiguring sheet of livid scar tissue that covered the left side of her face and neck. ‘I got the marks to prove it.’
‘So I see…’ ‘Brickman’ eyed her keenly. ‘You still look a lot different to the Kazan I remember.’
‘I am a lot different. You’ve changed quite a bit too.’
‘You must have me mixed up with someone else,’ said ‘Brickman’. ‘I heard about what happened to Kazan and The Lady, but I wasn’t on board at the time. I’m not saying you aren’t who you claim to be, but I joined Hartmann’s crew after the refit. The Plainfolk gave The Lady a real pounding.’
‘True. Yeah, well… that explains everything,’ said Jodi.
‘Brickman’ suppressed a smile and turned his attention to Dave Kelso. ‘Are you sure we’ve met? I’ve been trying to place you but your name doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Kelso. ‘When Simons here mentioned your name, I thought I knew you but, uhh… like Jodi… I’ve obviously got you confused with some other guy.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘All the time,’ said ‘Brickman’. Never mind. We’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted in the next few weeks. Welcome aboard.’ He shook hands with both of them. ‘Ray Simons will put you in the picture. We’ve got a good little team here, but now that you two have arrived we can really start moving.’ He signed off with a snappy parade-ground salute and strode away. It had all gone much better than he expected. He hadn’t fooled either of them, but they both had enough savvy not to make waves.
Simons eyed Kelso. ‘Well, I’m glad that’s over. What d’you say – start with a clean slate?’
Kelso grasped the offered hand. ‘Sure. No hard feelings?’
‘None whatsoever.’ Simons began walking backwards. ‘See you back at the hut – okay?’ He turned and hurried after ‘Brickman’.
Jodi and Kelso watched them disappear round the corner of the far workshop building, then exchanged blank stares. Jodi was the first to find her tongue.
‘Well, well, well…’
‘Exactly,’ said Kelso. ‘Just what the fuck is going on?’
*
Precisely the same question – phrased somewhat more elegantly in Japanese – was being posed with equal urgency by Consul-General Nakane Toh-Shiba, Lord Min-Orota and, with the aid of fleet-winged courier pigeons, by Lord Hiro Yama-Shita. But they too found themselves obliged to draw speculative conclusions from the few facts available.
The Consul-General, concerned by reports that the road convoy had been twice delayed before arriving at Firi, asked the two house-women to explain exactly what had happened. Su-Shan and Nan-Khe, who had been living in terror of this moment, recounted their part of the story in a shrill falsetto, fluttering their hands and twittering like panic-stricken canaries.
Listening to them was like having his head pierced with long needles, but Toh-Shiba bore it stoically, then sought out Clearwater, whose luminous presence once again graced the bedroom of the lake-house. Now bathed and freshly clothed in a gossamer-light kimono bearing a design of wild flowers and dew-soaked summer grasses, she was invited to soothe her master’s troubled spirit by renewing her acquaintance with his pleasure-machine. Only then, when the weeks of pent-up passion had been spent and he was left lying on his back with the deliciously painful feeling that his balls were about to catch fire, did the Consul-General ask for her version of the same event.
Called to account for each moment of captivity, Clearwater admitted to being unmasked and subjected to a physical examination but swore on her life that the ronin had asked no questions and she had volunteered no information of any kind. She said nothing about her midnight encounter at the post-house with Noburo, Steve and the Herald, Toshiro Hase-Gawa. To have spoken of this would have placed the cloud warrior in mortal danger. But the subject never came up. Nakane Toh-Shiba’s questions were based on what the house-women had told him – and they had slept throughout the entire episode.
During one of his regular official visits to Lord Min-Orota’s fortress at Ba-satana, the Consul-General recounted the details of the kidnapping and volunteered the opinion that it was an ill-fated enterprise based on faulty intelligence. Anxious to put the best gloss on things, Toh-Shiba plumped for the simplest and most obvious explanation: a group of ronin, alerted to the presence in the convoy of a sealed carriage-box, had made off with its occupant in the hope of extracting a hefty ransom then, finding the mask hid a worthless long-dog, had promptly abandoned her and the two house-women by the roadside.
Kiyo Min-Orota listened carefully, nodding in agreement as the Consul-General concluded that, while all such acts of criminality were regrettable, this particular incident was, essentially, a minor upset that need not worry any of them.
‘It is, without doubt, a convenient theory which I would be happy to embrace were it not for one, small, irksome detail.’ Kiyo paused to let his opening shot sink in, drawing a certain satisfaction from watching Nakane Toh-Shiba’s bullish confidence become tinged with fear, uncertainty and doubt. The Consul-General might be a well-connected fellow-nobleman, but he engendered scant respect and Kiyo always enjoyed taking the over-fleshed cocksman down a peg or two.
