by Allen Steele
“Guard…?” Jack Dreyfus stared at the colonel. “I thought you were going to help us?”
Reese shook his head. “Our job was to get you here and look after you. Your job is salvaging whatever you can find. That was what Captain Lee ordered.” He unshouldered his fléchette rifle, cradled it in his arms. “You have an objection?”
Jack said nothing. He and Beth gave each other a look, then they trudged over to where Boone had dropped the parachute. Jorge didn’t move.
“If you think this is the way it’s going to be,” he said quietly, “you’re dead wrong.”
Reese didn’t reply. The two men regarded each other with mutual contempt for a few moments, then Jorge took Rita’s hand. “C’mon…let’s see what we can find.”
Jack was right; there was little here that was usable. The hab module had virtually disintegrated when it hit the ground; very little of what had remained inside survived the crash, and that which did was usable only as scrap material. But it was enough to be able to get away from Reese for a little while, so they began picking their way through the swamp, Jorge fetching odds and ends out of the mud and tossing them into the plastic bag Rita carried. As they worked, Rita chatted about things that needed to be done—building a cabin for their family, how to continue Marie’s and Carlos’s education, digging a latrine for just themselves—while Jorge only half listened, still privately fuming about his run-in with Reese. Once they returned to camp, he’d have a word with Captain Lee, tell him what…
Just a few yards away, something stirred in the tall grass.
Half-bent over to pick up a wire, Jorge froze. It could have been the wind…yet the midafternoon air was still, with barely a light breeze. And it occurred to him that the swamp was silent, save for the voices of the others some distance away.
Suddenly, he realized that they had strayed too far from the rest of the party. Yet they were no longer alone.
The boids were nocturnal. At least that was what Jim Levin believed, and that was what he had told Jorge just the previous day. Yet save for a few tracks found outside the camp’s defense perimeter—large, three-clawed prints, like those of an enormous avian—no one had yet laid eyes upon one of the creatures. And Jim could be wrong…
“And that’s why I think we will find we ought to…” Rita stopped, gazed at him. “What? You see something?”
“Honey,” he said, very quietly, “just stay still. Don’t say a…”
That was when the boid attacked. The last thing Jorge heard was his wife’s scream.
They brought Jorge and Rita back to Liberty, then I followed Reese and Boone back to where they shot the boid. It was already covered with creek crabs, but Reese kicked them off and let me examine the creature. It looks like something from a nightmare—the beak alone is two feet long, with a sharp hook at its end, and since its feathers are the same color as the grass, it’s perfectly camouflaged.
Blood everywhere, most of it belonging to Jorge and Rita. I went off into the grass and got sick. Then I remembered why I was there, so I made notes and took pictures. Guess there was bound to be something like this: a tiger in the jungle, a wolf in the woods.
I’m forced to consider the fact that the fault may be my own. Since we’ve heard the boids only at night and spotted them early in the morning or late in the afternoon, I assumed that they’re nocturnal. I told Jorge that just yesterday. As Liberty’s resident exobiologist, these people are accepting my judgments at face value. I should know better than to jump to conclusions without more evidence.
They’re digging graves for the Monteros now, by torchlight out by the edge of the camp. Sissy’s taking care of Carlos and Marie, and Chris and David are with them. Haven’t seen Wendy Gunther—she and Carlos are friends, but she lost her father only three days ago, when her dad was killed while helping Capt. Lee close down the Alabama. Maybe she’s not ready for this yet. Can’t blame her. Neither am I.
We’ve been on Coyote for only four days, and already we’ve got three orphans on our hands. What the hell are we doing here?
From the diary of Wendy Gunther: December 25, 2296
Today’s Christmas. Hip-hip-hooray. I’m miserable.
That’s a pretty lousy way to begin a diary. Dr. Okada—she wants me to call her Kuniko now that she’s taken me in—suggested that I start keeping one. She gave me a spare pad from her supplies, even tied a little bow of surgical tape around it to make it look like a Christmas present. None of the other kids received any presents—nothing to give—so I guess I should be grateful. But Dad’s dead, and it’s Christmas, and I hate this place…
Seated cross-legged within the tent she shared with Dr. Okada, Wendy looked up from her pad. Through the open flap, she could see a couple of colonists stacking wood next to the nearby fire pit; a little farther away, the hum of a portable generator, powering electrical tools someone was using to build something. Murmured conversations, the hard bang of something hitting the ground. It was late afternoon; the air was already getting colder. She zipped up her parka, went back to her writing.
Could have been worse. Carlos and Marie lost both their parents yesterday—killed out in the swamp by a boid. At first we thought it was cute, naming these things after the giant birds in the Prince Rupurt book, but it’s not anymore. I guess I should spend more time with Carlos’s sister, since he’s my friend and all that, but how can I help a little girl when I can hardly stop crying myself…
“Oh, cut it out,” she mutters under her breath. You haven’t cried in two days, and you know it. You barely knew your father; he was almost a stranger. If you’re going to write a diary, then at least be honest with yourself.
What were our parents thinking when they brought us out here?
Maybe I can understand why Dad did it. After Mom died and he was recruited by the Party to join the Service, I spent eight years in a government youth hostel. When he asked if I wanted to join the expedition, I was only too happy to go along with him. But it never really occurred to me that I was heading to another planet; all I wanted to do was get out of Schaefly. I mean, you can either go into biostasis for 230 years and wake up 46 light-years from Earth, or spend the rest of your life in a dorm with a baseball bat under your blanket in case another counselor tries to rape you. Talk about a tough choice.
But Carlos’s folks, and Chris and David’s…were they out of their minds? From what Carlos tells me, they were all about to be shipped off to Camp Buchanan, where they’d be interned along with all the other “dissident intellectuals”—God, I hate that term—the government was busy rounding up. But what made them thinking stealing the Alabama was any kind of solution? Yeah, so maybe the borders were sealed and there was the European shipping blockade. People still managed to escape to New England or Pacifica. And most of these guys have no survival training, none at all. Maybe I had it rough at Schaefly, but at least I learned how to pitch a tent and start a campfire. Until a few days ago, I don’t think many of these people ever spent a night out in the open…
From somewhere in camp, not far away, she heard laughter, then a ragged cheer. Wendy looked up, gazed out of the tent. She couldn’t see the cause of the commotion, but suddenly she heard a new sound: voices raised in harmony, singing “The First Noel.” As if anyone had the right to be singing Christmas carols at a time like this. She shook her head, bent over her pad once more.
I think I know why they did this. It wasn’t enough just to escape from the United Republic of America—they wanted to stick it right in their face. The government spent a hundred billion dollars, completely ruined the economy, and sent the bottom one-third of the population to live in shacks just to erect a monument to itself: the first starship. Dad bought into that crap, but he was a card-carrying member of the Liberty Party, so that figures. But Capt. Lee and the other officers who organized the conspiracy…they had a vendetta.
So here we are, the land of milk and honey, and we’ve paid our ticket with four people’s lives, including my father’s. Now I�
��m squatting in a tent that leaks when it rains. Haven’t bathed in a week, and there are bug bites all over my neck and arms—they call them skeeters: they’ve got huge wings and they hurt like hell when they take a chomp out of you—and tomorrow we’ve got to start clearing land to raise crops…
“Wendy?” Footsteps outside, then the tent flap parted; Kuniko Okada bent down to peer inside. “What’s up?”
“Writing. Working on my diary.” Wendy barely glanced up from the pad. “Kinda busy right now.”
“Good…okay. Glad to see you’re doing that.” Kuniko hesitated. “Hey, we’re having a sort of Christmas party out here. Some of your friends are over there. Maybe you’d like to…?”
“Sure. Be there in a minute.” Wendy continued to stare at the pad, and Kuniko gave up and went away. Wendy let out her breath; her train of thought had been interrupted, though, and there was little more to be said anyway.
Sure doesn’t feel much like Christmas.
I hate Coyote. I miss my Dad. I want to go home.
Wendy saved the text in an encrypted file, shut down the pad, folded it, and stuck it under her sleeping bag. She let out her breath, shook her head. Then she reluctantly crawled out of the tent, stretched her back, and ambled over to where a small group was attempting to remember the words to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
Colony Log: December 29, 2296 (Tom Shapiro, First Officer, URSS Alabama).
(1.) Three more acres cleared today for farmland. Controlled fires set five hundred yards NE of town, approx. fifty yards from Sand Creek in order to facilitate irrigation if necessary. Fifteen acres cleared so far, with ten more slated for agricultural use. Soil tests conducted by Dr. Cayle and Dr. Berlant continue to indicate that the ground is suitable for farming. Have put twenty people to work raking the first three acres; others tasked with setting up seed germination trays under guidance of Lew and Carrie Geary. Should be ready to begin planting within a few days if the weather remains dry.
(2.) Nearby woods inspected by ten-man timber crew led by Ensign Dwyer. Two major species of trees identified and named: blackwood, which resemble very large bonsai except with a deep root structure much like a cypress, and faux birch, a smaller tree closely resembling its namesake in that it has the same sort of flaky bark. Blackwood hard to cut—Paul reports that it took two men almost an hour just to saw through a low branch—but appears suitable for building permanent shelters. Faux birch is easier to cut, but its wood is soft, unsuitable for construction purposes; its fallen branches are good as firewood, Paul believes that it may be useful for making paper, furniture, utensils, etc.
Faux birch is plentiful, but Bernie and Lew believe that the blackwood may be old-growth, perhaps hundreds of years old, and have voiced concern that harvesting them damages the local ecosystem. I’ve reminded them that our first priority is establishing a self-sufficient colony; tents and prefabs won’t get us through winter, and we’re already in late summer. If we don’t erect warm shelter before the cold weather sets in, then we may pay for our environmental concern with our lives.
(3.) Ensign LeMare surprised Capt. Lee and me by showing us a side project he’s been working on—a Coyote calendar. Apparently he’s been doing this on his own initiative ever since Alabama entered the 47 Uma system, basing his computations upon local astronomical data. It’s not quite finished yet, and it’s more complex than an Earth calendar, but Ted claims that it will reliably predict the passage of seasons.
Robert has temporarily relieved Ted from well-digging chores to complete his work; he’d like to have the new calendar ready within the next two days, so that it can replace the old one by Jan. 1, 2297 [Oct. 7, 2300, Earth-time].
(4.) Capt. Lee has placed Carlos and Marie Montero under temporary custody of Newell. They were staying with the Levin family, who were close friends of Jorge and Rita Montero, but Jim and Sissy already have two sons of their own; even after they moved the Montero tent closer to their own, having to mind three teenage boys and a little girl soon proved impossible. Wendy Gunther remains under custody of Dr. Okada, and they seem happy together, yet Robert agrees that a more permanent solution is needed in regard to caring for our orphaned children.
Once again, we’re reminded that Alabama’s military command structure is ill suited for running a civilian colony. We need to devise some form of democratic government, as soon as possible.
From the notes of Ensign Theodore LeMare: Uriel 59, C.Y. 1 (December 30, 2296).
The Coyote calendar is determined by Bear’s sidereal year, i.e. the time it takes the primary to complete a full orbit around 47 Ursae Majoris. This takes 1,096 days, with each day approximately 27 hours (Earth standard) in length.
Although Coyote’s orbit around Bear is circular, Bear’s orbit around 47 Uma is slightly elliptical. Furthermore, Coyote doesn’t have an axial tilt. Therefore, we can expect an Earth-like seasonal cycle, with both northern and southern hemispheres experiencing the same seasons at the same time. As a result, the Gregorian calendar is useless for accurate timekeeping and predicting the change of seasons.
The Coyote calendar is divided into twelve months, with ten weeks in each month and nine days in each week. The months are ninety-one days long, except for every third month, which is ninety-two days long; these third months roughly correspond with the end of the seasons, which are approximately 274 days in length.
I’ve decided to name the months and days after archangels in the gnostic Christian pantheon, with Coyote’s months named after the twelve governing angels of Earth’s months. Commencing with the new year, the calendar is as follows:
The winter months are Gabriel (91 days), Barchiel (91 days), and Machidiel (92 days).
The spring months are Asmodel (91 days), Ambriel (91 days), and Muriel (92 days).
The summer months are Verchiel (91 days), Hamaliel (91 days), and Uriel (92 days).
The autumn months are Adnachiel (91 days), Barbiel (91 days), and Hanael (92 days).
The nine days of the week have likewise been named after the angelic governors of the seven planets in Earth’s solar system (according to Aristotle’s cosmology). They are, in order: Raphael, Anael, Michael, Zaphael, Kafziel, Sammael, Camael, Zamael, and Orifiel. This is a mouthful, of course, so they could be referred to as Rap, Ann, Mike, Zap, Kit, Sammy, Cam, Zam, and Oz.
The calendar would begin with the year in which humans first landed on Coyote; this would be known as C.Y. 1, or Coyote Year 1 (2300 Earth-time; 2296 relativistic time). The date of First Landing would be Ann, Uriel 47, 01 (Dec. 19, 2296 relativistic; Sept. 7, 2300 Earth). The algorithms necessary to convert one calendar to another can be easily entered into a pad; comps may likewise be reprogrammed.
Personal note: I’m not fooling myself—many people won’t want to use this, at least not at first. So much of the way we’ve come to regard the passage of time is based upon the Gregorian calendar that it’s become a fundamental part of our consensus reality. If today’s date is December 30, then tomorrow is New Year’s Eve; time to break out a bottle and sing that German song no one can remember. By my calendar, it’s just another Zaphael (or Zap, maybe Zapday) in the middle of the week sometime in late summer.
The captain is interested, though, so I’ll see what he thinks of it. Maybe it’ll eventually be called the LeMarean Calendar…that would be a hoot!
From the journal of Dr. James Levin: Uriel 63, 01
Still trying to get used to this damn calendar. I know it’s more appropriate to use it than the old one, but I still think this is January 4, 2297. Ted’s working out the bugs with the program, and once he’s done we can install it in our pads, but until then I’m relying on handwritten notes from yesterday’s camp meeting.
The new calendar reminds us that we’re two-thirds of the way through the last month of summer. We don’t have much time left to cultivate sufficient food to get us through winter, and we don’t know how much longer it’ll be before the first frost sets in. We’ve already planted the first seven acres;
the seeds are genetically tailored to produce hardier strains, and we’ve had a couple of days of rain, so that should help, too. But the nights have been cool, and even in the last week the average daytime temperature has dropped a few degrees. Capt. Lee has directed the construction crew to build a greenhouse ASAP—Dana Monroe says her people may be able to salvage enough glass from the module windows to erect a small one—and he’s asked Bernie and me to see if any of the native flora are edible.
We’ve tested the tall grass (i.e. “sourgrass”) that grows in abundance throughout the marshes. Indeed, it’s surprising to find grass here at all; on Earth, grass was a relatively recent development. One more piece of evidence to suggest that life repeats the same evolutionary steps on other worlds. Not much nutritional content—probably better for grazing once we get around to decanting the livestock embryos aboard Alabama (next summer, probably—too late now, or we’d have to worry about feeding them through winter). Roots may be useful, though; properly fermented, they could be made into something we can drink. Maybe even beer!
Large patches of a round-leafed ground vine (i.e. “cloverweed”) infest large parts of the marshy areas. It competes with sourgrass [and] frequently chokes it out. Inedible, but durable and water-resistant. Have recommended it to Dana as a possible source of roofing material.
And then there are the ball plants…
“I thought you’d want to see this,” Sissy Levin said as she pushed through the sourgrass at the edge of the north cornfield. “I mean, it’s been bothering you so much.”
“It doesn’t bother me at all,” Jim replied. “I’m just…”
“Curious. Right.” Sissy favored her husband with one of her rare smiles. “C’mon, I know you better than that.” Then she continued her way through the marsh, impatiently shoving aside the tall grass as if it was a curtain. “It’s right over…okay, here we are.”