Coyote

by Allen Steele

  The train comes to a halt. “Shut up!” the soldier up front yells. “Stay where you are! Don’t move!” He gestures for the other soldier to come forward; the kid walks to the center of the compartment, rifle at the ready, as his sergeant retreats into the accessway. A faint thump, then a blast of cool air from outside. The passengers on the other side of the compartment watch through the windows as the sergeant steps off the train.

  Marie looks at Jorge, her eyes wide with fear. What’s going on? she silently mouths. Carlos is awake now, his gaze flitting between the window and the soldier standing only a few feet away. The soldier turns his back to him, and for an instant Jorge sees a wild impulse dart through his son’s eyes. He urgently shakes his head, and the boy reluctantly settles down.

  A minute passes, then another. Three, four…Footsteps on the stairs, and the sergeant steps back into the compartment, followed by a Prefect. Young, tall, fit; callous eyes in a handsome face. The ISA officer studies the passengers with much the same sort of loathing a chef would feel toward cockroaches he’s found in his kitchen, then he pulls out a pad and flips it open.

  “The following individuals and their families will accompany me,” he says. “Exit from the rear, and no talking. Abbott, Francis K…Arnold, Alice C…Burstein, David C…”

  One by one, people rise and stagger down the center aisle, their legs cramped and numb. Bernie and Vonda Cayle leave the train; a minute later, Henry Johnson follows them. Everyone on the list is a former Marshall scientist, so it’s no surprise when, just a few seconds after the Levins have been called, Jorge hears his own name.

  “Papa, where are we going?” Marie’s hand is tiny within his own, terribly vulnerable.

  “Shh. I’ll tell you later.” Jorge lets Marie and Carlos get in front of them, then he reaches up to pull his heavy bag down from the overhead rack. The young soldier sneers at him as he picks Marie up and carries her down the aisle.

  The night is colder than he expected, dark save for the lights above the warehouses. An unmarked government maxvee is parked next to the train, a loading ramp lowered from its rear cargo door. Two soldiers stand near the vehicle, silently watching the D.I.s as they line up to board the vehicle. Still holding Marie in his arms, Jorge nervously looks around, spots Jim and Sissy Levin standing a few yards behind them, their children between them.

  The Prefect who called their names steps down off the train. He walks over to the max, glances at the D.I.s already inside, then does a quick head count. Jorge estimates that about forty-five people have been taken off the maglev, including spouses and children. Just about everyone who had boarded in Huntsville, plus a few from Atlanta. The remaining hundred or so passengers stare at them through the windows. They’re destined to continue south to Camp Buchanan; it’s impossible to tell whether they envy the ones who’ve been pulled from the train or pity them.

  Another Prefect disembarks from the second car. He walks over to his companion; they compare their lists, murmuring quietly to one another. The line shuffles slowly forward, the people in front ducking their heads as they march up the ramp into the max.

  The vehicle is even more cramped than the train; everyone squeezes together on its hard plastic benches. No outside windows. Through a grate-covered window in the front of the compartment they can see the back of the driver’s head; he glances around once to watch the people coming aboard, then looks away again. Rita puts Marie in her lap to make a little more room.

  When the last D.I. has finally come aboard, the Prefect who called their names from the train marches into the vehicle. Pulling a stunner from within his coat, he regards everyone with cold scrutiny, as if challenging them to attack him. When no one says anything, he takes an empty seat at the back, then motions for the soldiers to close the rear hatch. They hesitate, then pick up the ramp and shove it into its slot. The hatch slams shut.

  Long silence, then the maxvee whines to life. Everyone is jostled against one another as the vehicle picks itself off the ground. Jorge can’t see the rail yard as the max coasts away.

  “All right,” the Prefect says quietly. “I think we’re safe.”

  Everyone stares at him. What did he just say? Then Henry Johnson clears his throat. “Did it work?” he asks quietly.

  Jorge looks first at him, then at the Prefect. Incredibly, he’s putting away his gun. Rita’s mouth is wide-open; she doesn’t know what to make of this any more than anyone else in the max…all save Henry, who briefly favors Jorge with a broad grin.

  “Well done, everyone,” he says. “Especially you. Nice performance.” The Prefect nods, trying not to smile, then Henry sharply claps his hands to break through the cacophony of voices all around them. “Okay, everyone calm down, take it easy. Sorry we had to put you through this…”

  “What the hell are you trying to do?” This from Bernie Cayle, sitting near the front of the vehicle. “Goddammit, Hank, you scared the shit out of…”

  “Bernie, please,” Henry says. “Watch your language. There are children present.”

  Laughter, relieved and out of place, ripples through the max. Oddly enough, only the handful of kids seem unruffled. Maybe they’re still half-asleep, or perhaps they figured out this was a hoax long before the adults did.

  “Like Dr. Johnson says, I’m sorry we…I had to do this.” Everyone quiets down as the Prefect stands up in the back of the vehicle. “If more of you had known about this in advance, it wouldn’t have worked. We had to find a way to collect everyone on short notice, and this was the best way we could manage. This way, we’re perfectly legit.”

  “What do you mean, legit?” someone in the rear demands. “What are you…?”

  “Right now, y’all are being taken to Little Rock, where you’re scheduled for ISA interrogation. That’s our pretext for taking you off the train.” The Prefect raises a hand. “It’s complicated, I know. Just bear with us.”

  Silence now, as everyone takes in his words, yet Jorge is beginning to understand. There are aspects of the plot of which he hasn’t been informed, but now it’s all coming together…

  “So where are we going?” Marie looks first at the Prefect, then Henry, then finally Jorge. “If it’s not Camp Buchanan or Little Rock…”

  “A lot farther than you think,” Jorge says quietly.

  MERRITT ISLAND 7.5.70 / T-17.10.39

  The rising sun has painted the sky with shades of magenta and burnt orange, lent a silver tint to the blue-grey surf rushing against the beaches of Merritt Island. Closer, the Alabama’s shuttles await takeoff on their concrete launch pads; fuel trucks are parked nearby, while the ground crew makes final inspections on the twin delta-winged spaceplanes.

  Captain Lee takes in the view from a wallscreen in a briefing room within the Crew Training Facility, wishing he could be out there right now, if only for one last taste of salt air. But that’s clearly out of the question; the sea breeze is filthy with microorganisms, and he’s already undergone decontamination procedures. The world is now beyond his reach, behind the hermetically sealed doors of the quarantine area. In a few minutes he’s to join the rest of his crew; right now, though, he has one last duty to perform on Earth.

  A soft click from behind him, then the faint whoosh of pressurized air as the door glides open. Lee reluctantly turns from the wallscreen as two men enter: Ben Aldrich, closely followed by Roland Shaw. They’re wearing white paper coveralls and caps, their hands covered with latex gloves; both men had to be decontaminated before they were allowed to pass through two sets of airlocks leading to this bare, unfurnished room. His last face-to-face contact with anyone from Earth who doesn’t wear a helmet.

  “Morning, Robert,” Aldrich says. “Ready for the big day?”

  Lee gives the Launch Supervisor a tight smile. “That’s not for another 226 years. Ask me again when I get to 47 Uma B.”

  Aldrich grins back at him. “Maybe it’ll be only 226 years for you, but it’ll feel like 230 for me.” He turns to the Republic’s Director of Internal
Security. “Not that it makes much difference, but if he’d made that sort of mistake during training, I would’ve found someone else for the job.”

  Shaw barely acknowledges the jest; indeed, Lee wonders if he fully appreciates the effects of time dilation. Once the Alabama achieves its maximum cruise velocity of .2c, time aboard the starship will slow relative to the rest of the universe. Add three months for acceleration to 20 percent light-speed after leaving Earth and another three months for magsail deceleration into the 47 Ursae Majoris system, and the ship’s internal chronometers will record a passage of a little more than 226 years, while back home the voyage will have lasted nearly four years longer. The Lorentz factor will matter very little to him or anyone else aboard the Alabama, since they’ll be in biostasis during most of the journey, but it’s highly doubtful that Shaw will still be alive by then, even with the benefit of life-extension treatments.

  “I don’t think you could have found anyone better.” Once again, Shaw’s manner is as stiff as it had been last night when Lee saw him with the President. “I’m sure the captain wants to be with his people right now. Perhaps we should get on with our business.”

  “Yes, of course.” Aldrich is clearly nervous in the presence of the Director of Internal Security. He reaches into a pocket of his coveralls, pulls out his pad, flips open the cover. “Okay, then…”

  The briefing is a routine rundown of the major events of the next seventeen hours. At 1000 EDT, the URSS Jesse Helms, piloted by First Officer Shapiro and carrying the forty-five members of the Alabama’s flight team not already aboard the starship, is scheduled to lift off from Pad 10, with an ETA of 1230 at the Alabama. Pending successful rendezvous and docking of the Helms, the George Wallace will launch at 1300 from Pad 11, carrying the fifty-one members of the Alabama’s colonization team, with Captain Lee himself as pilot. Its anticipated rendezvous and docking is scheduled for 1430; by then fuel load-up will have been completed. At 1500 the main hatches will be sealed, and the crew will go through prelaunch procedures until 2345, when the President will publicly address the nation via netv from Atlanta. Following the President’s speech, final countdown will commence at 2350; if all goes well, primary booster ignition will be at 2400.

  “We had a small problem early this morning.” Aldrich studies his pad. “Launch Control detected an error in the backup computer system in Module C2 shortly after 2400 last night…” Lee feels his heart skip a beat. “…But the chief engineer checked it out and found that it was just a faulty program alarm. It’s been fixed, and countdown was resumed at 0014.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.” Lee pretends a calmness he doesn’t feel. Something must have gone wrong, but it sounds as if Dana managed to take care of it without tipping her hand. “Anything else?”

  “Nothing. We’re right on schedule.” Aldrich closes his pad, looks at Shaw. “Your turn, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Thank you.” The DIS has remained quiet through all this; now he unzips the black plastic pouch he carried into the room, pulls out a small object wrapped in clear cellophane. “Captain Lee, I don’t think I have to tell you what this is.”

  “No, sir.” Lee takes the packet, opens it, pulls out a large chrome-plated key on a neck chain: the launch key for the Alabama’s primary ignition system. Without it, the ship’s main engines cannot be fired. A security precaution to prevent the Alabama from being launched without direct authorization from the President.

  “Thank you, sir.” Lee clips the chain around his neck, lets the key slide down the front of his jumpsuit. It’s only now that the ISA has seen fit to entrust it to the mission commander; during dress rehearsals in orbit, a Prefect has always been in the Alabama’s command deck to insert the key and turn it, even though the main engines were never started. Yet this is supposed to be a symbolic moment, so Lee snaps to attention and salutes Shaw.

  Shaw responds with a salute of his own, then offers his hand. “Good luck, Captain. All our prayers go with you.”

  Lee looks straight at Shaw as he clasps his hand, yet there’s nothing in his expression that the captain can read. Shaw simply nods, ever so slightly, then he turns to Aldrich. “I believe you have something to add…”

  “Yes, sir, there is.” As Aldrich steps forward again, he pulls from beneath his arm a large parcel sealed in plastic. Through the transparent wrapping, Lee can see a single white star embroidered on a field of dark blue canvas, bordered by red and white horizontal stripes. The flag of the United Republic of America.

  Aldrich handles it reverently, almost as if reluctant to give it up; when he looks up at Lee, his eyes are moist. “I know you’ve already got one of these aboard,” the Launch Supervisor says quietly, his voice raw at the edges, “but this one comes from all of us here at the Cape. If you wouldn’t mind, Captain, we’d like for you to raise it on the new world once you get there…in our honor, please.”

  Lee feels a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Ben means well, and Lee has nothing against him, yet the last thing he ever wants to see again is this flag: a symbol of a totalitarian government that has taken everything America once stood for and twisted it beyond recognition. One star to signify one people, or so it has been stated; what it really stands for is one party, one political ideology. The purpose of this mission isn’t exploration, as originally intended before the Second Revolution, but conquest. He’s being sent to 47 Ursae Majoris not to expand the horizons of humankind, but to establish an interstellar colony that will ensure the immortality of the Republic. Millions of people are living in shacks made of discarded junk and cooking squirrel stew over manure fires because so much of his country’s resources have been diverted to the construction of a starship. One of humankind’s most noble dreams, terribly perverted…

  “Robert?” Aldrich stares at him. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Sorry.” Lee takes a deep breath. “Just thinking about this moment, that’s all.” He accepts the wrapped flag from Aldrich, bows slightly, gives him what he hopes the other man will interpret as a modest smile. “Thank you. I’ll put this in a place of honor.”

  Aldrich bows formally. “Thank you, Captain. May God be with you.”

  Lee gives the Launch Supervisor a farewell handshake, lets him enjoy this last moment of pride. And all the while, he feels Roland Shaw’s eyes upon him.

  TITUSVILLE 7.5.70 / T-14.00.05

  Three seconds before the countdown reaches zero, reddish orange flames erupt from the shuttle’s ascent engines, followed by billowing brown plumes that quickly envelop the spacecraft. For a second the space-plane can barely be seen, then the Jesse Helms slowly rises from the thick haze. Microphones pick up the sound of people cheering, then the crackling thunder ripples across the VIP viewing area three miles from the launchpad, drowning out their voices as the camera pans upward, tracking the white glare. A thousand feet above the ground, the shuttle’s nose tilts upward, then its NIF main engines kick in, and the spacecraft suddenly vaults into the blue heavens above the Atlantic.

  “The g’s will still be nominal at this point.” Henry Johnson nods toward the dusty old flatscreen above the bar. “There’ll be some discomfort once they reach seven g’s, but that lasts for only about a minute or so.”

  “You don’t think the kids will be hurt?” Jim Levin glances uncertainly across the closed-down restaurant. His two children, David and Chris, are sitting on the floor with Carlos and Marie Montero; they’re playing scissors-rock-paper, from the looks of it. “My youngest gets motion-sickness when he’s on a plane.”

  “I’m sure a lot of us are going to be throwing up.” Jorge is still watching the screen. The Helms itself is now visible only as a tiny white spot at the head of a long contrail. He’s tempted to step outside to see if he can spot it with the naked eye, but the rules are firm; no one leaves the restaurant until they’re ready to go. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been up before. It’s an easy ride.”

  The screen switches to a young woman standing at the press site: a Govnet
correspondent, delivering an account of what they’ve just seen, the liftoff of the shuttle carrying the members of the Alabama’s flight team. The volume is turned down low, so only a handful of the people gathered in the abandoned restaurant on the outskirts of Titusville can hear her. “Just as long as we’ve got a vomit bag for my boy,” Jim murmurs. “Otherwise, we’re going to have a hell of a…”

  “Hush,” Henry says, as the image changes once more. “Here it comes…”

  A video replay from an hour ago: the walkout from the Crew Training Facility within the Gingrich Space Center. A door opens, then the flight team walks out. Striding single file past the journalists and cameramen gathered behind a rope, they wear one-piece isolation suits, their features barely visible through the faceplates of their fabric helmets. Among the adults are several children of various ages, distinguishable as minors only because of their shorter stature. They wave to the bystanders as they stroll past the camera toward the white FSA maxvee parked less than thirty feet away.

  “See?” Henry murmurs. “No questions, no interviews…”

  “No I.D. checks.” Jorge glances over his shoulder at him, sees Bernie Cayle gnawing at a fingernail. Of all the people gathered in what used to be called the Lamplighter Grill, he’s the most nervous. As if any of them could be described as calm. “But what if someone recognizes…I mean, if they don’t recognize…?”

  “Look how they’re dressed.” Jim gestures to the screen. “You can barely see their faces.”

  “Uh-huh. So long as everyone stays in motion, it’ll be over and done in just a few seconds.” And just as Henry says that, the last crew member boards the maxvee less than a minute after the first one emerged from the building. A soldier shuts the door behind him, and a moment later the vehicle rises from the ground, turns away from the camera, and skims down the road leading to the launchpad. “See? Easy.”