Of the two, only the Se-Iko was in a position to menace the enemy's front line. Its domain b.u.t.ted onto the Traditionalist strongholds of the Mitsu-Bishi, SuZuki and Toh-Shiba. It was not strong enough to take on all three at once and, in any case, multiple forested ridges of the Appalachian Mountains barred a swift advance onto the coastal plain. The Se-Iko responded to the Yama-s.h.i.ta's appeal by moving its regular troops into defensive positions along the border, causing the three opposing domain-lords to rush troops to the same area, thus weakening the forces available to meet any further southward movement by the Yamas.h.i.ta.

The news from the far south was as disappointing as that from the north. The Dai-Hatsu, another so-called neutral domain in the traditionalist camp, was still wavering despite the lure of being allowed to expand its territory beyond the Western Hills.

The neighbouring Da-Tsuni - the smallest and least powerful domain neutered by marriage to Yoritomo's family - could have been easily overrun, but without the Dai-Hatsu, the noose could not be drawn tight around the Toh-Yota and its staunchest allies, the MitsuBishi, Su-Zuki and Toh-Shiba. Faced with the DaiHatsu's dithering, the San-Yo and Hi-Tashi, the two families whose domains were at the southern end of Ne-Issan, decided to sit on their hands.

The struggle for control of Ne-Issan had begun. With the help of Cadillac and Roz, the Yama-s.h.i.ta had dealt the Toh-Yota a major blow and had seized the military initiative, but a swift victory for the Progressive faction was far from a.s.sured.

Despite Fran's absence, Steve continued to use the same suite of rooms, commuting each day from the white colonnaded mansion to the Simulation Room and underground language lab, where Samurai-Major Fujiwara - now wearing a cut-down Trail-Blazer parade uniform with yellow rank stripes - was endeavouring to explain the mind-boggling complexities of the j.a.panese language.

To cite just one example: each of the simple personal p.r.o.nouns - the 'I, me, my, you' and 'your' in Federation Basic - could be expressed in several quite different ways in j.a.panese, and the correct choice of word depended on whether the speaker was of superior rank to the addressee - or vice versa - their social relationship and the degree of intimacy between them, the nature of conversation, and the age and s.e.x of the person doing the talking.

Cadillac had acquired his mastery of the language through the magical equivalent of a brain transplant, but how in the name of the Great Sky-Mother had Fran done it?

Steve's renewed respect for her linguistic abilities might have been tempered had he known that Fran's studies had begun at the age of three as part of a First Family programme to create a special cadre of potential administrators that could take control of Ne-Issan when it was finally subjugated by the armies of the Federation.

Whatever their faults, no one could accuse them of not thinking ahead.

The Federation-wide celebrations held to mark New Year's Day, 2992 AD, were matched on the overground by glittering receptions, dinner parties and dancing on the various colonial-style estates spread across the First Family's private enclave.

The twenty-four hour break from Fujiwara's language cla.s.s gave steve's brain a chance to come off the boil, but the rest of his body remained restless. As someone who had spent his life training for active duty and had loved every minute of it, he still found it difficult to adjust to the idea of 'spare time' - one of the many privileges enjoyed by members of the Family.

Ordinary Trackers were allowed R&R, but the normal priorities of an off-duty soldier were sleep, food and more sleep, and maybe- but not necessarily- jacking-up whatever came within reach. To be able to wallow in your bunk long after reveille had sounded and have a buddy bring you food down from the mess-hall was the dog-soldier's ultimate dream.

In the past, it had been Steve's too, but since his promotion and elevation to Cloudlands, he had been introduced to a more elegant life-style that offered a greater element of choice and a range of diversions that went far beyond the Shoot-A-Mute type arcade games-that was the major legal form of entertainment for those down under.

And on this New Year's Day he discovered another.

From midday onwards, the presidential cortege conducted a leisurely whistle-stop tour of the various estates, to meet, mingle and press flesh with the inhabitants of each mansion at a lavish outdoor or indoor reception.

The itinerary varied from year to year, and on this occasion, Savannah, the mansion to which Steve had been a.s.signed was the last call of the evening. Answering the summons to greet the P-G, he joined the other residents a.s.sembled on the front steps; the men in their ' Confederate grey uniforms and sword belts, or formal civilian attire, the women resplendent in their wide-skirted ball gowns, soft elbow-length gloves and silk or woollen shawls to protect them from the cold.

They did not have long to wait. These visits were always carefully timed. The horse-drawn presidential cortege drew up, two lines of ensigns from the honour guard formed on either side of the welcoming red carpet, and Jefferson the 31st was warmly cheered and applauded as he mounted the steps with his immediate entourage to be greeted by the Chief Estate-Holder then taken inside.

Steve glimpsed Karlstrom among the pack of top bra.s.s.

Steve himself was not on the short list of people due to be presented to the P-G, but as he mingled with the chattering throng sipping his third gla.s.s of white wine, he felt a hand grasp his elbow. It was Karlstrom.

'Good evening, sir. Happy New Year." They raised and touched their gla.s.ses.

'And to absent friends,' said Karlstrom.

'Have you heard any more about when the Yamas.h.i.ta are going to hand over Commander Franklynne?"

'.Not yet. But when I do I'll let you know. How's it going at school?"

Steve grimaced. 'My toughest a.s.signment yet. That language is a real b.i.t.c.h. Given the choice I'd rather be out doing damage to people and property."

'There'll be plenty of time for that later. If you put your back into it, you should be able to read and speak with reasonable fluency in six months."

'Six months...!" 'Six to eight. That's all it took me. And I was over thirty. Jeezuss, you're not even twenty yet! Stop complaining.

Just get in there and give it your best shot."

'Don't worry, sir. I will."

'You'd better - otherwise you could lose your star rating." Karlstrom eyed the surrounding throng of men and women then adopted a friendlier tone. 'Have you lined up anything for this evening?"

'uhh, no, sir? said Steve. If Karlstrom meant what he thought he meant, that would have been asking for trouble.

'Good." Karlstrom checked his watch and began to move away. 'We're due out of here in about fifteen minutes. Come back with us to Grand Palisades. We're going to be running a little item that may interest you .... ' Grand Palisades was the President-General's mansion - the place where the very top echelons of the Family congregated. As he dismounted from Karlstrom's carriage, his host pointed out a dark-haired powerful-looking man who had b.u.t.tonholed the P-G. 'That's Theodore "Bull" Jefferson. Member of the Supreme Council, and States-General of Texas. If you leave AMEXICO out of the picture, he's the second most powerful man in the Federation - and the father of your missing bed-mate." Karlstrom laughed. 'So keep well back because I don't intend to introduce you."

After entering the mansion - which was even more s.p.a.cious and splendid than Savannah - another round of drinks and refreshments was offered to the presidential party then a group of about thirty led by Jefferson split off and filed out. Karlstrom signalled Steve to follow.

Thickly carpeted stairs took them below ground level into a room with panelled walls, a stepped sloping floor and eight rows of five comfortable armchair-type seats like the one he'd seen in the apartment in Santanna Deep. Karlstrom signalled Steve to take a seat in the back row, then walked on to join Jefferson and Fran's father at the front.

The P-G took the centre seat, facing a high curtained wall about fifteen feet in front of them.

Turning round, Steve saw a line of four small square holes in the wall behind him. Weird. Everyone was clearly waiting for something to appear from behind the curtain - but what? He settled down in his seat as the lights dimmed. Stirring music - richer than the usual stuff piped through the Federation - issued from banks of speakers on the side walls. The curtains parted soundlessly to reveal a large white rectangle - several feet wider than the block of seats, then as the music swelled, a ray of light shot from the back wall and filled the screen with colour.

How strange! thought Steve. This is not a video-wall - this is some entirely different process. This picture's being projected onto some kind of special material. The colours are so bright! And the sound!

He watched openmouthed as the story unfolded. A story about a fight to the death by a small band of heroes facing overwhelming odds. Steve was watching his first cinemascope movie: The Alamo starring and directed by the First Family's favourite hero. John Wayne ....

Incredible. And of course Steve believed he was watching the real thing. He was still rooted in his seat while everyone else was heading for the exit.

'You planning to stay there all night?"

Karlstrom's voice brought Steve back to earth. He leapt up.

'What did you think of it?"

'Staggering. To have a visual record of something that happened over a thousand years ago."

."Yehh... 1836 - what's the problem?"

'Nothing, sir. It was kind of strange, y'know - the mexicans being the bad guys."

Karlstrom smiled. 'They were the old kind. Nothing to do with us."

Steve followed him to the door. 'D'you mind if I ask you something else? How did they make the cameras work?

There wasn't anything in that fort that used electricity.

And how did the guys who were taking the pictures get over to the enemy side without being shot?"

The question made Karlstrom laugh. 'That language course really has burnt your wires out! What you just saw was a recreation of an actual historical event. n.o.body got shot, n.o.body died. Those weren't real soldiers. It was staged for the cameras in 1960 - more than a hundred years after it happened!" Steve tried to take all this on board. He had discovered that the Iron Masters made up stories about nonexistent people and imaginary events, but for someone brought up on a diet of training videos and educational doc.u.mentaries, who had never held a book in his hands and who knew nothing about the creative or cinematic arts, the concept of fiction as entertainment was difficult to grasp.

Watching the story unfold on the screen had been a totally new experience that had held him spellbound from start to finish, but after learning from Karlstrom that everyone involved had been pretending, he could not help wondering why anyone should want to make a fake version of a real battle. Having only received a practical education which virtually excluded the imaginative process, the question was quite natural, but he didn't ask it for fear of making a fool of himself.