Coyote

by Allen Steele

  Like the rest of the ship, Deck C7D is crowded, yet Jorge manages to spot Carlos as he climbs down the ladder into the wardroom. Accompanied by his new friends, the boy is at the far end of the circular compartment, gazing at something on the wall. Carlos doesn’t notice his father until Jorge touches him on the shoulder; looking around to see who’s come up behind him, the boy’s face turns red.

  “Umm…hi, Papa,” he quietly murmurs.

  “Hi, yourself.” Trying not to look relieved, Jorge gives his son a baleful glare. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

  “Well, uh…” Carlos glances helplessly at his friends. “I kinda met up with some guys, and we, y’know…”

  “Hi, Mr. Montero.” Jorge looks up to see Chris Levin grinning at him. The same age as Carlos yet a little taller, Chris has been Carlos’s playmate since they were both four-year-olds cavorting together in preschool day care. “Hope you’re not upset, but we wanted to see the rest of the ship, and…”

  He shrugs with studied shamefacedness, and Jorge bites the inside of his lip. Handsome and outgoing, Chris has always been the natural leader of whatever group he’s managed to gather around himself, and doesn’t have much trouble manipulating adults either. And utterly unlike his younger brother; shy, stoical to the point of brooding, David looks up at Jorge, gives him a brief nod and a fleeting smile that disappears.

  “I’m not upset,” Jorge says, speaking as much to Chris and David as to Carlos, “but your folks don’t like you guys running off any more than I do.” He turns his attention to his son. “If you want to go somewhere, tell Mama or me first…just don’t take off like that, okay? This is a big ship, and it’s hard to find someone with all these people around.”

  Carlos nods. He knows his father’s upset, and he’s grateful that he isn’t punishing him in front of his friends. From the corner of his eye, Jorge spots a couple of other kids he doesn’t recognize: another teenage boy, perhaps a year or two older than Carlos and Chris, and a girl who seems to be about their age. “You want to introduce me to your buddies?” he murmurs softly.

  “Uhh…yeah, sure.” Carlos turns to the older boy, who shuffles uneasily from one foot to another. “This is…uhh…I forgot…”

  “I’m Barry…Barry Dreyfus.” He steps forward to extend his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Montero. I’m the one who got Carlos to follow me. Didn’t think it’d get him in trouble.”

  “Glad to meet you, Barry.” As Jorge grasps the teenager’s hand, he’s surprised by the strength in his grip. Yet, upon closer inspection, it occurs to him that Barry may not be all that much older after all, just big for his age. He seems like a nice enough kid, though. “Carlos isn’t in trouble,” he adds, giving his son a sidelong look, “if he doesn’t do it again.”

  “I’m Wendy.” The girl steps past Barry. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Montero.”

  “Pleased to meet you, too, Wendy.” As Jorge shakes her hand, Wendy can’t help but notice that Carlos’s face turns red once more. So his son has noticed her. No wonder; Wendy is a nice-looking young lady: slender build, pleasant face. She’s found an Alabama mission cap somewhere, pulled it over her shaved head. She may only be thirteen or fourteen, but in a few years the boys will be fighting over her. Perhaps they already are. Although Carlos quickly looks away, Jorge can tell that he has his eye on her…and so does Chris, Jorge observes, noticing how the other boy immediately steps closer to insert himself between the girl and Carlos.

  Jorge wants to ask Barry and Wendy who their parents are, yet his gaze follows Carlos’s to the wall and suddenly his questions are forgotten. Painted across the bulkhead, stretching from the wallscreen to the rectangular porthole, is a long mural. A life-size portrait of a young man, apparently only a little older than the teenagers studying it, dominates the scene; he stands in a field of high yellow grass, his right hand clasped upon the pommel of a sheathed sword. In the background, looming above a range of snowcapped mountains, is an enormous ringed planet, and in the near distance can be seen what looks like a city: silver arches and towers and low, domelike structures, eerily familiar, alien nonetheless.

  Jorge finds himself mesmerized by the unexpected artwork. He had visited this deck only once before, shortly after the Alabama had escaped from Highgate. His memory might still be a bit fuzzy, but if this mural had been here then, he surely would have remembered it. “What…where did this come from?”

  “There’s another one like it in the ring,” Chris says. “You didn’t see it?”

  Jorge shakes his head; in his single-minded determination to locate Carlos, he must have missed something he should have seen. The kids give each other incredulous looks, and Carlos gives his father a patronizing look. “Smell the coffee, Papa,” he murmurs under his breath.

  More than anything else, Jorge wishes he had some right now. “Who did this?”

  “Someone was revived after we left Earth.” This from David; for the first time, Chris’s younger brother has chosen to make himself heard, even if his manner is as self-effacing as always. “It was an accident. One of the officers told us he spent thirty-two years all by himself.”

  “They found some books over there.” Wendy points at the game table behind them; Jorge notices a pair of rectangular dust-shadows upon its surface, as if some large objects had rested there for a long time and had only recently been removed. “A couple of guys took them away. They told us he had written something, but they wouldn’t say what it was.”

  Thirty-two years alone aboard the Alabama. Jorge’s mind reels at the thought; he suppresses a shudder. No wonder he had painted the walls; he must have gone mad with loneliness. Yet he finds himself wondering who the young man is supposed to be. A self-portrait, perhaps? “I’m sure they’ll tell us eventually,” he replies.

  “I can ask my dad,” Wendy says. “He’s a member of the flight crew…works in life support.” Then she looks down at the floor. “Although he may not want to tell you guys anything,” she quietly adds. “He’s still pretty angry about what happened.”

  Barry also looks away as she speaks. Their parents weren’t members of the conspiracy that had hijacked the ship, Jorge suddenly realizes. He recalls hearing that a small group of crewmen tried to take control of the life-support deck just before the Alabama launched from Highgate and had to be subdued by force. Their fathers must have been two of them. An uncomfortable silence. Carlos, Chris, and David are from D.I. families; they don’t know what to say, and Wendy herself appears sorry she raised the issue.

  Time to change the subject. Jorge glances away from the mural, notices a three-dimensional chart displayed on the wallscreen: a holo diagram of the 47 Ursae Majoris system, with a small luminous blip moving through the orbit of its outermost planet. “Hey, is that our present position?” he asks, pointing to the blip.

  Barry glances at it. “Yes, sir, that’s us.” He steps closer to the screen. “That’s Wolf, the fourth planet,” he says, gesturing to round dot nearly halfway to aphelion from the Alabama’s position. “Another gas giant, but smaller than Bear. It’s about 3.7 A.U.s from its primary…”

  “What’s an A.U.?” Wendy shrugs as the boys gape at her. “Hey, bust me…I don’t know this sci stuff.”

  She doesn’t? This is as much a surprise to Jorge as it is for the boys. Most of the D.I.s are scientists who had worked on Project Starflight before they were blacklisted by the Internal Security Agency. They usually tutored their children in the most rudimentary principles of the astronautical sciences at a young age; Carlos had memorized the major constellations before he was able to read, and the Levin children could recite the names of moons, planets, and nearby stars. Judging from the expression on Barry’s face, Jorge has little doubt he can do the same. So why doesn’t Wendy, whose father is an FSA-trained astronaut, recognize a commonplace astronomy term?

  And what’s her last name, anyway? Jorge doesn’t recall her mentioning it.

  “Astronomical unit,” Chris says. “The mean distance of Earth from the Sun. It
’s…”

  “A measure of distance.” Now Carlos has slid up next to Wendy, diverting her attention from Chris. “The primary is the star…47 Uma, to be exact.” He points to the planets closest to the star. “That’s Fox…it’s .4 A.U.s from Uma…and the next one out is Raven, which is .9 A.U.s…”

  “Within the habitable zone.” Not to be outdone, Chris gestures to Raven. “Not that anyone thinks it’s habitable…”

  “And we’re not sure whether Fox is really a planet,” Carlos says quickly. “It’s pretty small, so it may only be a large asteroid…”

  “Whatever.” Chris gives Carlos a stern look, which Carlos accepts with a smug grin as he points to the third planet in the system. “Anyway, that’s Bear…”

  “47 Ursae Majoris B.” Wendy suddenly asserts herself. “That’s where we’re going…or at least to its fourth moon. Coyote, right?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s about 1.7 million miles from Bear.” David speaks so quietly it seems as if no one except Jorge has heard him, yet Wendy favors him with a dazzling smile, and David sheepishly looks down at the floor once more.

  “That’s Coyote, right,” Carlos says. “They’re all named after Native American deities. Dog, Hare, Eagle, Coyote, Goat…”

  “You forgot Snake,” Chris mutters.

  “Not until you reminded me,” Carlos replies, and the others laugh as Chris glares at him.

  Realizing that his presence is unwanted, Jorge quietly steps aside. Secretly, he’s pleased that Carlos has made new friends as well as finding old ones; he only hopes there are more girls aboard besides Wendy, or the boys will murder each other for her smile. Better have that birds-and-bees talk pretty soon…

  He moves across the wardroom to the porthole. The shutter has been raised, and several adults are clustered in front of the broad window, peering out into space. There’s not much to see from this angle; 47 Ursae Majoris is still a distant object, brighter than any other star yet tens of billions of miles away, nonetheless everyone is captivated by the sight of the new sun. Bear lies directly in front of the ship, and therefore can’t be seen from any of its ports; not until the Alabama draws closer will any of its satellites become visible to the naked eye.

  Twelve days. In less than two weeks, the ship will have decelerated sufficiently so that it can successfully enter Bear’s system, and then they’ll find out whether their information was correct. 47 Uma B has six major moons, this much is known for a fact, yet analysis of the spectroscopic data gathered by the Sagan Terrestrial Planet Finder led the JPL scientists to believe that only Coyote has conditions suitable for human settlement.

  And if their estimates turn out to be in error…?

  “Papa? You okay?”

  Now it’s Jorge’s turn to be surprised. Carlos has left his friends to come over to stand beside him. “I’m really sorry I ditched Mama and Marie,” he says quietly. “I hope you’re not still mad at me.”

  “No…no, I’m not.” Peering over his shoulder, Jorge sees that the other kids have returned their attention to the mural. Once again, he notices that Wendy is the center of the circle, with Chris by her side. “Just don’t do it again, please. I don’t mind you hanging with your friends, but…well, things are different now. You understand?”

  Carlos nods. He doesn’t say anything, only stares out the window at 47 Ursae Majoris. Jorge follows his gaze, and for the first time he sees something he hadn’t noticed before: a thin brownish film that coats the inside of the thick glass, visible only when starlight touches it. Curious, he runs his finger across the porthole; it leaves behind a small trail, and now there’s a dark smudge on his fingertip. Fungal growth? But how…?

  “Papa?” Once again, Carlos interrupts his train of thought. “Can I ask you a straight question?”

  Jorge wipes off his hand on his trousers. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  Carlos hesitates. Then, almost in a whisper: “Are you scared?”

  He considers for a moment. “No, not at all,” he lies, shaking his head. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  A quiet rap on the door. Lee looks up from the handwritten text he’s been reading for the last hours, massages the corners of his eyes. “Come in,” he says, closing the ledger upon his fold-down desk.

  The pocket door slides open. Jud Tinsley stands just outside, with someone just behind him. “Colonel Reese here to see you, Captain,” the executive officer says.

  “Very good.” Lee pushes the desk aside as Tinsley steps away from the door; just outside, framed by the narrow doorway, Reese stands at attention, hands clasped behind his back. Lee rises from his bunk. “Come in, Colonel, please.”

  Reese steps into the cabin, instantly taking up all the room left in the closet-size compartment. Once again, Lee is reminded that having private quarters affords him little more than the luxury of a single bunk and a bulkhead wall; no more than three people can fit into this tiny space, and then only if they’re close friends…which, in this instance, doesn’t include Reese.

  “That’ll be all, Jud,” Lee says. “You can leave us now.” Tinsley nods reluctantly, slides the door shut. “Sorry I can’t offer you a seat, Colonel, but this bunk is all the furniture…”

  “I prefer to stand, sir.” Reese assumes a rigid stance—hands at his sides, feet placed together, back stiff, chin tucked in—as if he’s back on the parade grounds of the Academy. He wears a blue jumpsuit like everyone else’s, but it could just as well be a Service dress uniform; his gaze doesn’t meet Lee’s, but remains locked straight ahead, fixed on some point on the wall above the captain.

  Lee sighs. “At ease, Gill. This isn’t a review.” He reaches for the intercom panel. “I was just about to call down to the galley, ask someone to bring up some coffee. Would you like some?”

  Reese says nothing, and Lee takes his hand away from the panel. “However you want it, Colonel.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Reese doesn’t so much as bat an eye, yet any response is encouraging. Lee sits back on the bunk, folding his hands together across his stomach as he silently regards the colonel. Never once does Reese look in his direction; indeed, Lee imagines that, if he were to leave his quarters and go down below to fetch the coffee himself, the colonel would still be standing here when he returned.

  Or perhaps not. And it’s that uncertainty that needs to be addressed.

  “Gill, we go back a long way,” Lee begins. “We have much in common. Remember when I was a plebe at the Academy and you were an upperclassman?” No reaction. “You hazed me mercilessly, as I recall. Made my life miserable. But as much as I disliked the way you treated me, I never hated you. Truth is, I respected you highly, and I still do.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Lee nods. “I have little doubt that feeling isn’t reciprocated. You probably think of me as a traitor…and, quite frankly, you’re correct. By taking the Alabama, I’m guilty of high treason against the United Republic of America. However, as I told you shortly before we went into biostasis, my loyalty isn’t…or rather, wasn’t…to the government, but rather to a higher power. The ideals of democracy, which I consider to have been stolen from the American people by the Liberty Party. Because of this, I…”

  “Permission to speak candidly, sir.”

  “Granted. I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “The reasons why you hijacked this ship aren’t of any interest to me. The fact remains that, by your own admission, you’re a traitor to the Republic. As an officer of the United Republic Service, it’s my sworn duty to remain loyal to my country. Therefore, we have nothing in common…sir.”

  “I disagree.” Lee sits up straight once more. “We’re both aboard this ship.”

  “That means nothing, sir.”

  “No, Colonel, it means everything.” Lee gestures to the comp panel above his bunk. “See the date? By Greenwich Mean Time, it’s August 27, 2300…although, by the ship’s calendar, it’s December 7, 2296. Either way you look at it, we left Earth over two a
nd a quarter centuries ago. If the Alabama had been launched on the day the Declaration of Independence was signed, it wouldn’t have arrived here until 2006…”

  “And your point is?”

  Lee lets out his breath. “Gill, we’re forty-six light-years from home…or at least what we used to call home. Since it’s often difficult to realize just how far that is, let me put it to you in less abstract terms. Yesterday I asked my com officer to transmit a message back to Earth, informing whoever might receive it that the Alabama has safely arrived at 47 Uma. No one will hear that message for another forty-six years…and if they decide to call back, we won’t receive their response for nearly a hundred years from now.”

  For the first time, Reese blinks. Lee presses on. “Colonel, the Republic to which you’ve pledged allegiance is 230 years in the past and over fourteen parsecs away. Whether it still even exists is a matter of conjecture. Subjectively speaking, it may seem to us that the Alabama left home only a few days ago, but so far as everyone on Earth is concerned, we’re history.”

  Although Reese stubbornly maintains his poise, Lee notices that his hands have curled into fists. “However, you may still consider it your duty to retake control of the Alabama. If I were you, the thought might cross my mind. You’ve got four of your men aboard, after all, and there may be a few crew members who also remain loyal to Republic.” Judging from the expression on Reese’s face, Lee can tell this notion has occurred to him. “Yet even if you were successful in inciting a mutiny…which is unlikely…and you were able to turn this ship around and return home…which we can’t, because Alabama was designed for one-way travel only…it would mean that nearly five hundred years would have gone by since the day we left Earth.” He shrugs. “I hope you’re not expecting a medal, because it’s going to be a long time before you get it.”