Iron master, p.23
Iron Master, page 23
Responding to a single hammer-stroke on an iron bell, the diminutive Iron Master in charge of the depot and his two principal clerks appeared and went through the usual jut-jawed, mean-eyed routine, swaggering slowly down the line and back up the rear, making sure that everyone was properly and cleanly attired, and comporting themselves with the required degree of deference.
Once the inspection and roll-call was completed, the roadrunners were allowed to sit on a long bench made out of a single sawn log placed on the veranda next to the post-house door. From there, the roadrunners were called in four at a time to receive the sealed black satchels of mail they were to deliver.
Deer-Hunter was in the first quartet. After a short while he emerged carrying the bulging leather bag on his back. He drew the hooks on the shoulder straps together, fastening them across his chest, and walked back to bid farewell to Steve.
‘Where are you headed?’
‘Uti-ka,’ said Deer-Hunter. ‘Regular run of mine. Know it like the back of my hand.’ They slapped palms, warrior-fashion. ‘See you around, blood-brother.’
‘Maybe. Mind how you go.’
Deer-Hunter grinned, then vaulted over the rail of the veranda and ran off down the road.
Steve was among the third group to be called inside. Aside from the fact that his job as a roadrunner was bringing him ever closer to the Heron Pool, being part of the postal service gave him access to detailed maps of Ne-Issan. Hanging on an inside wall of every post-house was a large panel bearing a hand-painted map of the territory served by that particular depot. On the facing wall was another equally large map of the Iron Masters’ world, showing the domains, the major highways and the network of post-houses. Not only that, the family names of the domain-lords and the names of places, mountain ranges and rivers had been carefully recorded in Japanese and Basic.
Since Mutes had no written language, Steve had been obliged, at the start of his journey, to pretend he could not read, allowing himself to be taught how to pronounce and recognise the name of his given destination and any places en route. He had then repeated them for the benefit of the clerk, hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence until the dink was satisfied and sent him on his way. He had gone through the same routine at each post-house, gradually improving his ‘reading skill’, but taking care to make a mistake now and then so as not to give the game away.
With the help of his photographic memory, Steve now possessed a clear picture of the country and knew precisely to which part and in which direction he was heading. He had also grasped the relative size and disposition of each domain.
Instead of the arbitrary straight-line divisions between the states of pre-Holocaust America, the domains of the Iron Masters tended to follow the more natural boundary lines of rivers from their source to their confluence with other, larger waterways or to where they met the sea. Yama-Shita’s domain was the only one which ran from the Great Lakes in the west to the Eastern Sea at the mouth of the Uda-sona River. It was here that the lands of the Toh-Yota was split in two, and the northern half – a narrow strip which ran up the west bank of the Uda-sona to the Sanoransa River – was sandwiched between the Yama-Shita and the Min-Orota.
The maps gave no hint as to who would back whom if it came to a fire-fight, but from the strategic point of view the Yama-Shita were well placed. They could not be encircled, and the rivers and lakes which formed the greater part of their borders severely limited the number of points where a frontal attack could be launched against them. It was not surprising that the mystery ‘colleague’ of the man in black had opted for a covert operation which, if it went wrong, could be blamed on renegade Trackers and Mutes.
One of the clerks beckoned Steve over to the district map and pointed to a location west of the Uda-sona. ‘Today a-you go this-a place. Sapirina-fida. Unna-stan’?’
Steve bowed. ‘Sapirina-fida.’
The clerk then pointed to a third map showing the street layout of Ari-bani. ‘Go a-river this a-way. Take ferry to uh-thah side. We give a-you spe-shawl pa-pah to make car-rossinah. Now a-you show me way a-you mus’ goh.’
After pretending to think hard, Steve swiftly traced the route from the post-house to the ferry, then switched to the larger map and ran his finger over the road from Albany to the pre-Holocaust urban centre of Springfield, Massachusetts.
With a grunt of satisfaction the clerk went back behind the counter and wrote the word-signs stamped on Steve’s gorget on to a ferry pass which he handed over with the satchel of mail.
Steve accepted both with a grateful bow and, keeping his eyes on the floor, took five backwards steps towards the door, bowed again, turned left and made his exit.
Slimy little worms…
Steve adjusted the sit of the mailbag so that it lay snugly across his shoulder-blades, giving the remaining roadrunners a farewell wave and set off towards the ferry.
Although traditionally regarded as the lowest form of life, Mutes serving as roadrunners were, nevertheless, servants of the Shogunate. Acting on the dictum ‘the mails must go through’, the bakufu had decreed that roadrunners were not required to kowtow to anyone en route except mounted samurai and palanquins carrying nobles or high court officials. Since these were always escorted by samurai they were easy to spot. It was a sensible arrangement: if roadrunners had been obliged to prostrate themselves every time they encountered a social superior, the whole postal system would have ground to a halt.
As it reached the river, the road came out on to a long wooden wharf. Several vessels of varying shapes and sizes were moored alongside. Upstream to his left was a two-funnelled wheelboat. Steve glanced at it casually as he turned towards the boarding point for the ferry which lay at the far right-hand end.
After he had gone a few yards it suddenly dawned on him that the wheelboat was decorated in the same colour scheme as the one which had carried him to Ne-Issan. He turned back and ran towards it. It was the same one! The same pennants and banners fluttered from the masts and gallery posts. Side-Winder had said, in parting, that the boats went to all parts of Ne-Issan. And here it was! It was an incredible stroke of luck. All he needed now was to find Side-Winder and his day would be made.
And lo and behold, there he was – standing with his back to Steve, talking to a group of Mute stevedores, his red bandanna knotted round his shaven head. Approaching to within a few yards of the group, Steve turned his attention to the wheelboat. As he ran his eyes along its bulk from stem to stern he slid his left forefinger up behind his left ear, located the tiny dime-sized transceiver that had been implanted under the skin just below the line of his skull, and pressed down on it, activating the transmitter. The second touch switched it off. He pressed it on and off again, sending his call-sign in Morse code: H-G-F-R. Hang-Fire…
To anyone watching, Steve appeared to be scratching his neck. Side-Winder glanced casually over his shoulder as he heard the faint but unmistakable mosquito-like hum in his ear, and caught sight of Steve. He rubbed his neck, sending out the letters M-X to acknowledge the message had been received and understood.
Steve sauntered slowly back down the wharf. Now that he was ‘legal’ he was in no danger of falling foul of the authorities, but he couldn’t afford to hang around for ever. He felt a tap on the shoulder as Side-Winder caught up with him.
‘You’re the last person I expected to run into.’
‘Same here,’ said Steve. They slapped palms.
Side-Winder looked him over. ‘You wanna know something? When you left the boat at Pi-saba, I wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass for your chances. In fact, I told Mother I figured you’d last a week at the most. But I gotta hand it to you, amigo. For a guy who came on like he didn’t know from shit you’ve wired yourself in real good.’
‘Just happened to be in the right place at the right time…’
‘Maybe.’ Side-Winder gave him a shrewd glance. ‘I have a feeling there’s more to you than meets the eye.’
‘Listen,’ said Steve. ‘I don’t have time to tell you how and why but I lost my radio-knife. You still in touch with Mike-X-Ray One?’
MX-1 was the code-name for Commander Karlstrom, Operational Director of AMEXICO. ‘Mother’ was a sobriquet used by mexicans.
‘Yeah, what d’you want me to tell him?’
‘Tell him I’m still on the case. I’ve located my targets near Bosona and I’m on my way there now.’
‘To the Heron Pool?’
‘That’s right. You did me a big favour by picking up on that.’
‘All part of the service. Need any help now?’
Steve grimaced. ‘I might, but – the trouble is, I won’t know until I get there.’
‘Yeah.’ Side-Winder sucked on his teeth. ‘It’s a tough one.’
‘There is one problem you can help me with.’
‘Okay, let’s hear it.’
Steve wondered how much he could tell the mexican without compromising himself. He decided he had to take a chance. ‘Here’s how it plays. I’ve got to pull two people out of here. The Heron Pool is at a place called Mara-bara – west of Ba-satana. Without going into details, I think I can handle that end of it. The problem is how to get out of this place. I’ve been taking a long hard look at the post-house maps and the distances are gi-normous!’ He threw up his hands, ‘I just don’t know how I’m gonna do it!’
‘Where d’you wanna get to?’
‘Back to the Federation but – here’s the killer – 1 have to go via Wyoming.’
Side-Winder responded with a low whistle.
‘Wyoming…?’
‘I have no choice. That’s where my third target is.’
‘You’re right, you do have a problem. They sure gave you one hell of an assignment for your first time out.’
Steve let it pass. ‘By my reckoning it must be what – about five hundred miles from Ba-satana to the shores of Lake Iri?’
‘Something like that. And from there, you got another fifteen hundred miles to Wyoming. At least.’
‘I figured twelve hundred but – what the heck… another three hundred more or less… ’ Steve raised his eyes skywards. After a moment’s silence he eyed the boat and turned back to Side-Winder. ‘How did this thing get here?’
‘Through the canal.’
‘The same one that took us to Pi-saba?’
‘No. This one runs across Yama-Shita’s domain. Used to be the border between the Yama-Ha and the Matsu-Shita before the families linked up. It starts at Bu-faro on Lake Iri runs through Uti-ka and comes out at Taro-ya a few miles upriver from here.’
Steve’s eyes followed his pointing arm, then swung back on to Side-Winder. ‘Supposing I managed to get my two targets from the Heron Pool to here, what are the chances of getting a boat ride?’
‘To Lake Iri?’ The mexican pursed his lips. ‘Are these guys going to be kicking and screaming?’
‘No. If everything goes as planned, they’re going to be in a hurry to leave. That goes for me too. Is it possible?’
‘In theory, yes, but – I may not be here. But even if I was, I couldn’t handle three stowaways. I was able to help you get a free ride, but you’d already managed to get on board by yourself.’
‘I realise that. The thing is, there might be four of us. Do the Iron Masters ship Mutes and Trackers along that waterway?’
‘Yes, now and then. But you’d need papers. A travel pass and a document certifying you’ve been purchased by someone in Bu-faro. A slave-dealer would be best.’
‘Shee-iit. This is more complicated than I thought.’
‘It always is.’
Steve chewed it over and had the germ of an idea. ‘Okay, let’s assume I can get the papers we need. What do they have to say?’
Side-Winder gave him the standard wording and the name of a slave-dealer in Bu-faro. ‘I don’t see what use this is. You can’t even speak Japanese, let alone write it.’
‘Let me worry about that.’
‘Okay, suppose you do get to Bu-faro. What are you gonna do then?’
Steve grinned. ‘Ahh, that’s where you come in. I’m hoping you’re going to be able to set up a skyhook.’
‘Jack me! You don’t stop, do you?’
‘I know it’s asking a lot but – you’re my only contact with the Federation.’
‘Yeah, okay… when’s this likely to be?’
Steve threw up his hands again. ‘Can’t say. How long are you going to be working this route?’
‘Barring earthquake, flood, shipwreck, acts of war and civil disorder, we should be on this run for the next four months. The turnround point is 150 miles south of here. A place called Nyo-yoko. That’s where this river meets the Eastern Sea.’
‘Yeah, I saw it on the map. There’s a bunch of islands down there.’
Side-Winder nodded. ‘The Shogun has a palace on one of them. Did you know that, before the Holocaust, over twenty-five million people lived there? Twenty-five million jammed into a few square miles. Can you imagine that?’
Steve shook his head. ‘That’s probably why they ended up killing each other.’
‘Maybe… Anyway, for what it’s worth, we sail at midday for Nyo-yoko, two days later we call back here, then go all the way to Bu-faro. There and back takes about three weeks. Bear that in mind. If you can time it right, you can hitch a ride with us and I’ll do whatever I can to help. These dinks can be unpredictable. The trip might be easier if you have a friend on board.’
‘You’re right.’ Steve fisted Side-Winder’s shoulder. ‘Gotta go, but – 1 really appreciate this. If it hadn’t been for your help on the way in–’
Side-Winder waved away his thanks. ‘If we ever meet up back home when I’ve got these lumps out of my face we’ll split a Korn-Gold and swap case notes. Buena suerte!’
‘You too, amigo. Hasta la vista!’ Steve set off towards the ferry.
‘Hey! I forgot something!’
Steve halted as Side-Winder ran to catch up with him.
‘You’ll have to pay for the boat ride.’
‘What with?’
‘Money. Didn’t anyone tell you about that?’
Steve stared at him, uncomprehending.
Side-Winder grinned. ‘Obviously not. It’s like the credit ratings on our ID cards, only different. Never mind. Looks like you got a steep learning curve ahead of you. Find out about all that and get your hands on some. The trip’ll cost you five dollars a head.’ He began to back away. ‘Plus the extras! Bring another twenty dollars, just to be on the safe side!’
‘Sure! No sweat!’ Steve signed off with a confident wave and ran down the wharf past the line of moored boats. Money… dollars… Columbus! As if he didn’t have enough to worry about!
Side-Winder stood watching until Steve reached the ramp that led down to the ferry. The small twin-paddleboat had just left the far side of the river and was chugging its way back to the west bank. In a few minutes Brickman would begin the next stage in his journey – though in view of the distances involved, ‘odyssey’ might be a better word. Meeting him had been a lucky break, but it was not entirely unexpected. AMEXICO had alerted him to the fact that Steve had secured a job as a roadrunner and might be heading in his direction.
How Mother had managed to figure that out remained a mystery, and how Brickman had managed to get on board the system so fast was an even bigger one. Side-Winder had been forced to endure two years of hard labour and brutal treatment, before being selected to work on the wheelboats, and it had taken him a further twelve months to claw his way up to head overseer. And he had only achieved that distinction by being the meanest mother on board. No… Brickman’s rapid advancement had to be an inside job. Clearly a man to watch.
As he walked back towards the stevedores, Side-Winder realised he had forgotten to tell Brickman that Mutes and Trackers were not allowed to possess money. Slaves didn’t own anything and couldn’t earn anything: food, clothing and housing came with the job but the rice in your belly, the shirt on your back and the roof over your head belonged to your master – and so did you.
Whilst it was less serious than carrying a weapon, to possess money was still a punishable offence – as Brickman would soon discover if he did his homework. The boat tickets would have to be paid for, but they could only be purchased by an Iron Master.
Side-Winder was not unduly worried. Anyone smart enough to get himself promoted from illegal immigrant to roadrunner in less than six weeks should be able to figure his way round a little problem like that.
CHAPTER TEN
While Steve was heading north for his unexpected meeting with Side-Winder, the much-delayed road convoy to which Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso had been assigned finally reached Firi on the banks of the Delaware. The bricks used to build Firi came from the ashes of Philadelphia, city of brotherly love, incinerated in AD 2015 – the year that marked the end of what the Mutes called The Old Time.
For many of the travellers who had joined the convoy in the latter stages of its journey this little riverside town – now awash with merchants and traders drawn in by the forthcoming slave-market – was the end of the line, and as soon as their presence had been registered by the officials at the western toll-gate, they hurried away in search of lodgings in one of the already overcrowded inns.
For Jodi and Kelso the long march, which had begun with their capture by the M’Calls in Western Nebraska, was not yet over. The two Tracker renegades were collected from the toll-gate by a pair of sturdy Korean clerks working for a shipping agent who enjoyed the trust and commercial patronage of the Min-Orota family. The clerks, their eyes compressed into slits by prominent slanting cheekbones, conducted them through the crowded streets to the agent’s office for yet another round of paperwork.
Through an opened screen which served as a door and window, Jodi could see a bustling food market crowded with buyers and vendors. The stalls had a staggering variety of food stacked on counters and hanging from their roof frames. Some were selling raw items, others were cooking portions to be consumed on the spot. A delicious stew of odours drifting on the summer breeze reached Jodi’s nostrils and made her feel faint with hunger.
