Coyote

by Allen Steele

  Shapiro swears beneath his breath. If there was a security alert at the Cape, then Lee was lucky to get the Wallace off the ground. Feet dangling in midair, he leans across Gillis to type a response:

  5 URS ABOARD WAITING FOR YOU—WEAR SUITS W/ HOODS

  A long pause. Shapiro glances over his shoulder, spots Dana Monroe watching him from the engineering station. He cocks his head toward the screen; she nods, then pushes off to glide toward them. When he looks back, Lee’s response has already appeared:

  WILL DO—1ST OPTION OUT—GO TO OPT. 2

  Gillis hisses between his teeth. “He can’t be serious,” he whispers, so low Shapiro can barely hear him.

  Tom feels a soft hand grip his shoulder. Looking around, he finds Dana behind him. Her eyes widen as she reads the screen. “Oh, God…”

  Shapiro twists around to examine the status board. All systems are in the green, and the final stage of the fuel load-up is almost complete. Through the windows on the other side of the deck, he can see the aft end of the fuel barge parked beneath the main tank. At 1400, forty-four minutes from now, the last few tons of the helium-3 and deuterium necessary for the primary boost phase will have been pumped aboard. Thirty minutes later, at 1430, the Wallace is scheduled to dock with the Alabama. After that…

  “Can we do this?” Tom whispers. Dana hesitates, gives a reluctant nod. “Okay,” he murmurs, then he taps his headset again. “We’ve got your numbers, Wallace, and they look good to us. Concur with your projected ETA.”

  “We copy, Alabama,” Lee replies. “Wallace out.”

  Shapiro sighs, then he looks at Gillis. “Tell the others to get ready…and for God’s sake, do it quietly.” The com officer is ashen, but he nods. Shapiro gives him a gentle pat on the back, then turns again to Monroe. “Can you get us ready for a quick-start?”

  “I…sure, no problem. We’ll be there.” Shapiro starts to push away, but she stops him. “One thing…what about the lock-out?”

  “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Better just hope the right man made it aboard.”

  URSS WALLACE 7.5.70 / T-9:32:14

  Gazing up through the canopy, Lee watches as the Alabama fills the cockpit windows. The shuttle cradle is only a few yards away; with deft movements of the hand controller, occasionally glancing down at the instrument panel to make sure the upper fuselage hatch is properly aligned with the docking collar, he gently coaxes the Wallace closer to the enormous ship as the spaceplane’s blunt shadow falls across its hull. The shrill beep of the contact probe, and he relaxes his grip on the stick. Another moment passes, then the hard thump of the hatch mating with the collar.

  “Alabama, we’re in,” he says. “Secure shuttle, please.”

  “Roger that, Wallace.” Tom Shapiro’s voice. “The XO’s waiting for you. He’ll help you bring your party aboard.”

  “Very good, Alabama, thank you.” As he switches off the main systems he feels a soft jar pass through the shuttle as the cradle closes around the Wallace and locks it in place. Another quick look across the board to make sure the engines are safed and the wings have been properly folded, then Lee shrugs out of his harness, picks up his helmet, and pushes himself out of his seat and moves from the narrow cockpit into the aft passenger compartment.

  A few of the hardier ones are already unbuckling their straps, but many remain in their seats, their faces queasy and pale. The air is rank with the odor of vomit; quite a few of them got sick as soon as the Wallace entered orbit, and some didn’t find the puke bags in time. Globular flecks of bile float through the compartment, but there’s nothing that can be done about that now. Lee whistles sharply between his fingers, and everyone looks up him.

  “Okay, listen up,” he says loudly once he has their attention. “You know what the situation is, so make sure your hoods are on when you leave the shuttle. Don’t stop for anyone, just head straight for the hatch…we’ve got someone there to show you the way. Go straight up the ladder until you reach Deck H1, and follow First Officer Shapiro to your bunks. Is that clear?”

  Murmurs of assent, a few wary nods. Lee scans the compartment, sees dozens of nervous faces. “Everyone just relax,” he adds, doing his best to calm them. “You did fine on the ground. Play it the same way here, and we’re home free. Now…is there a Jorge Montero aboard?”

  A pause, then a hand rises from three rows back on the right: a middle-aged man, seated with a woman, a young girl, and a teenage boy. Lee tries not to show his relief; he wasn’t one of those who was apprehended by the Prefects. “Jorge, please follow me. We need you right away.”

  Jorge nods, then hastens to unbuckle his daughter’s harness. Judging from her pale expression, she was one of those who got spacesick. His son stares back at Lee with incredulity, wide-eyed with the notion that they’ve been singled out. “Just you, sir,” Lee quickly adds. “I’m sorry, but your family has to leave with everyone else.”

  Jorge hesitates. “Yes, sir. Of course.” He looks at his wife and kids, murmurs something to them, then struggles with a canvas duffel bag he has stuffed beneath his seat. Lee moves forward to catch it before it hits another passenger in the back of the head.

  “You brought it?” he quietly asks. Jorge nods again, and Lee looks past him toward his children. “I’m going to need your father for a while, so I want you to follow your mother. She’ll take you where you’re supposed to go, okay?”

  His wife gives her husband an uncertain glance, but his son has a broad grin. The little girl, though, has a frightened look on her face. “Is my papa in trouble?” she asks uncertainly.

  “Not at all, sweetie.” Jorge gives her a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back quick as a flash.” He takes the bag from Lee, pulls its strap across his shoulders. “Ready. Let’s go.”

  Behind them, the rest of the passengers are opening their harnesses, pulling on their helmets. They have been through a lot in the last eighteen hours; he can only pray they can keep it up just a little while longer.

  “Good luck, everyone,” he says, then he pushes himself to the ceiling hatch.

  URSS ALABAMA 7.5.70 / T-9.28.04

  The inner hatch hisses as it irises open, then Captain Lee pushes himself through it, the soles of his shoes nearly touching the faceplate of Jorge’s helmet. Jorge tries to follow him through the manhole, but something pulls at him from behind. Looking back, he sees that his duffel bag has snagged on the edge of the hatch.

  Cursing under his breath, Jorge yanks the bag free, hauls it over his shoulder as he scrambles the rest of the way through the hatch. A moment of disorientation—everyone seems to be standing on the walls—eclipsed by fear as he spots URS soldiers within the narrow compartment.

  Say nothing, do nothing. Jorge pretends not to notice the troopers as Lee salutes a senior officer wearing a colonel’s insignia. Past them, on the other side of the deck only a few yards away, a young man in an FSA jumpsuit floats near a ceiling hatch. He gives Jorge an impatient gesture, and he obediently moves toward him…

  “Hold it.” Someone grabs at his bag, nearly pulling it off his shoulder. Jorge turns, sees one of the soldiers, his hand wrapped around its strap. His name strip reads CARRUTHERS, and his eyes are suspicious. “What d’ya got in there?”

  Jorge feels his heart pounding in his mouth. Past Carruthers, Captain Lee and the colonel—Reese, from the name on his uniform—turn to stare at him. “Nothing…I mean, it’s just…”

  “Open it.” Carruthers releases the bag, but his hands fall upon his rifle.

  Lee turns toward Reese. “Gill, this is unnecessary. We’re already behind…”

  “Let my people do their job.” Reese gives Carruthers a brief nod. “Open it for him.”

  One hand still on his weapon, Carruthers takes the bag from Jorge, lets it dangle in midair while he unzips its flap. He peers at its contents, then he looks up at Jorge. “Lemme guess…scientist, right?”

  Jorge nods, unable to speak. “Yeah, okay…” Carruthers zips the bag shut, looks back at hi
s superior officer. “Safe.”

  Reese acknowledges his man with a small nod, and Carruthers returns the bag to Jorge. His pulse still hammering, Jorge pulls the bag back over his shoulder, moves toward the hatch. When he glances back, he sees that Captain Lee is behind him, and more passengers are emerging from the shuttle hatch. No one else is getting harassed.

  Yet the third soldier…his right hand is raised, his index finger wagging a little. Jorge realizes that he’s counting everyone who leaves the Wallace. Four, five, six…

  What happens when he gets to forty-six, and discovers that the crew roster is short by five?

  The crewman near the access hatch silently urges him toward the ladder. Jorge grasps the bottom rung, pushes himself upward into the shaft. He looks back, sees Captain Lee coming up the ladder. “Get to the command deck,” he whispers. “Next deck up. C’mon, move!”

  Two crew members float unconscious on Deck H4, a man and a women, their arms limp at their sides, their heads thrown back. A young woman hovering near the hatch aims a stunner straight at Jorge; he raises his hands, then Lee appears behind him. “Stand down, Dana,” he says calmly. “He’s with us.” Dana lowers the weapon as the captain glances at the crewmen. “Is this everyone?”

  “On this deck, yes, sir. Our people are taking care of the rest now. Some resistance in H3. A couple of junior officers…Gunther and Dreyfus…tried to shut down the life-support system, but they’ve been taken down. No casualties reported.”

  “Well done, Chief.” Lee turns to another officer, points to the unconscious crewmen. “Put them where they won’t cause any trouble when they wake up. The nearest head should do.” Then he looks back at Dana. “Here’s our man. He knows what needs to be done.”

  “Aye, skipper.” She tucks the stunner in her belt, gestures to Jorge. “This way…what’s your name?”

  “Jorge. Jorge Montero.” He grabs the ceiling rail, follows Dana across the deck to the main control console. “Electrical systems engineer…I designed the wiring for this place, when I was with…”

  “Right. The service panel you want is down here.” She lowers herself to the floor, thrusts her head and shoulders beneath the console. “You know where you’re supposed to go?”

  Jorge quickly scans the complex array of buttons, toggles, switches, and digital readouts until he finds a key slot covered with a transparent plastic cover. “Uh-huh. Main engine ignition system’s here, which means the lock-out should be just beneath…”

  “Don’t explain it to me. Just do it.” Dana unlatches the service panel, impatiently shoves the cover aside. She pulls herself out from beneath the console, nods toward the open bay. “Whatever it is, make it quick.”

  “I know. Hold this.” Jorge thrusts the duffel bag into Dana’s arms. He opens the zipper, then begins pulling out its contents. Her eyes widen as books, many of them dating from the last century, spill forth from the bag: Skills for Taming the Wilderness, The Foxfire Book, Survival with Style, Bartlett’s Famous Quotations…

  “What did you do, bring a library?” Dana snatches a frayed oversize paperback before it floats away, glances at the title: The Boy Scout Handbook.

  Jorge grins despite himself. “Sort of. I picked some things I thought we’d need when we…here we are!” The hardcover copy of J. Bronowski’s The Ascent of Man is nearly a century old; it took years of searching before he discovered a copy in an antiquarian bookstore outside Atlanta. Jorge opens the book to the back cover. “Got a knife? Something sharp?”

  Dana reaches into a thigh pocket, pulls out a small penknife. Jorge takes it from her, opens its small blade, carefully slices the endpaper straight down the center of the inside binding. She watches in fascination as Jorge slowly peels back the false endpaper glued over the back cover, revealing a hidden pocket. Concealed within the book is a paper-thin plastic sheet: a fiber-optic circuit board. Dana smiles at Jorge with newfound respect. “Sneaky. Very sneaky.”

  “Figured someone might search me. It never came to that, but…” Withdrawing the circuit board from the pocket, Jorge gingerly holds it by its edges as he bends down to the open service panel. “Okay, look in there and find the electronics bay marked 2-304.”

  Dana pulls out a penlight, squeezes in past Jorge. After a few moments, she slides out a slender metal case. “Take out the board that’s in there,” Jorge says, and she removes the thin sheet contained within the drawer. As Jorge delicately places the substitute board within the drawer, he hears voices from across the compartment:

  “Captain! Chief Tinsley reports Reese’s men have discovered we’re short!”

  “Where’s Tinsley now?”

  “Access shaft just outside H5!” A pause. “He’s shut the hatch, sir. The last of the passengers are aboard.”

  “Good. Tell the XO to stand by. Chief Monroe, where are we?”

  Jorge slides the drawer shut, twists around within the cramped space to give Dana a thumbs-up. She raises her head above the console. “We’re clear, skipper!” Then she looks back down at Jorge. “I hope this works,” she whispers.

  “You and me both.” Ten months of effort went into devising a bypass for the main engine ignition system that would not require code authorization from the ground, yet there had been no certain way of testing it before now. Jorge barely has time to climb out from the console before Captain Lee pushes him out of the way. He’s already removed his isolation suit, and now he yanks the chrome launch key from around his neck. Without any hesitation, Lee flips open the cover above the ignition system, shoves the key into the slot, gives it a one-quarter turn.

  For a half second, nothing happens; Jorge feels his heart skip a beat. Then diodes across the console flash from red to green, and a flatscreen in the center of the console lightens to display bars of alphanumeric code. Dana glances at the screen, then quickly types an instruction into a nearby keyboard. The screen changes, displaying a schematic of Alabama’s fusion reactor.

  “Lock-out is down!” she shouts. “We’ve got the ship!”

  Everyone in the command center yells at once, and Jorge feels the strength leave his body; gasping for breath, he lets his head fall back. It worked…oh, God, it worked…then, through the laughter and applause, he hears a voice from the other side of the command deck:

  “Skipper! Message from Launch Operations…!”

  7.5.70 / T-9.10.32

  “They’ve ordered us to open the hatch!”

  Holding on to a ceiling rail, Lee stares at the launch key half-turned in its slot. For a few seconds, everything seems frozen in time, Gillis’s voice a distant echo from across a vast distance. At the edge of his vision he sees Dana just beginning to react; next to her, Jorge Montero turns toward them, fear beginning to register on his face…

  It’s got to be now, he realizes. Now, or never.

  “Inform Ops we’ve got a ship emergency.” Lee snaps back to full awareness. “Tell ’em…whatever. An electrical fire somewhere in the hub. Buy us some time.” He glances at the chronometer above the console, then turns to Dana. “Put everything on-line, Chief. We launch in five.”

  Dana’s expression changes to astonishment. For a moment it seems she’s about to protest, then she quickly nods. “Right away, sir,” she says, then pitches herself across the deck to the engineering station. “Paine! Jessup! Pressurize liquid fuel tanks, initiate primary ignition sequence! We’re restarting the clock at minus-oh-five!”

  The bridge crew stares at them, not quite believing what they’ve just heard. “Let’s go, people!” Lee yells. “You know what to do!” That’s all it takes; suddenly, everyone is motion, nearly colliding with each other as they rush for their stations. The only person who seems confused is Jorge Montero; still holding on to the console, he stares about the compartment in confusion, not knowing what to do.

  “Mr. Montero, get out of here.” Lee points to the hatch as he pushes himself toward the command chair. “Find your family and tell them to get ready.” Montero nods dumbly, then heads for the
access shaft. Lee taps his headset. “Mr. Shapiro, where are you?”

  “Deck C3B, skipper.” Lee can hear voices in the background. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re moving up the countdown. Zero-five and counting. Get those people strapped down, then get back here.” Without waiting for a response, Lee turns toward Gillis. “Les! Put me through to Colonel Reese!”

  The com officer slaps buttons on his board; a moment later, Reese’s angry voice comes through Lee’s headset. “Captain, what are you…?”

  “Ship emergency, Colonel.” Lee tries to keep an even tone. “A fire has broken loose in Deck H3, and we’re working to contain it, but I have to ask that you and your men leave the Alabama at once. Use the EVA suits in the lockers…”

  “Lee, there’s no fire. The master alarm hasn’t gone off.” Reese isn’t buying it; Lee can tell from the sound of his voice. “Your exec lit out of here when we informed him that the head count was short by five persons, and now he’s sealed the hatch. Either you let us in, or we’re going to have to shoot our way through.”

  Reese is bluffing. The access shaft hatch on Deck H5 is built to withstand a full-scale decompression accident, and the rounds from a URS fléchette rifle are specifically designed not to penetrate bulkheads. There’s no way the soldiers can enter the shaft. “Colonel Reese,” Lee says calmly, “please take your men off the ship within four minutes. That’s an order.”

  “I’ve already got my orders.” A long pause. “Lee…I know what you’re planning to do. We can’t allow this. Surrender yourselves now, and you might get out of this without…”

  “Sorry, Colonel, we’re way beyond that.” No sense in keeping up the pretense; Reese has figured out the truth. “Four minutes, then you’re stowaways. Your choice.”

  Lee has just clicked off when he hears Gillis again. “Skipper, I’ve got Houston. They…”

  “Mr. Gillis…” He takes a deep breath. “You have my permission to tell them to go straight to hell.”