Coyote

by Allen Steele

  Jim stopped, gazed at the ball plant standing alone in the middle of the grass. Like the others they’ve seen growing near Liberty, it was a large sphere, somewhat resembling a wild onion growing upside down, a little more than two feet in diameter, with a long stalk growing upward from its center. From the top of its stalk grew a violet flower petal that, in some people’s minds, looked a little like a vagina. Most of the ball plants they’d found grew in clusters, but this one had taken root all by itself, isolated from the others.

  “That’s close enough.” Indeed, they were much too close already. The ball plants were usually surrounded by pseudowasps—the colonists’ name for the hornetlike insects that tended to swarm the plants, building mud nests in the ground nearby and pollenizing the flower tops. The pseudowasps attacked anyone who came too close to their nests or the plants; it was bad enough that their sting was very painful, but even worse, the venom they carried was mildly intoxicating.

  David had been stung a couple of days ago after coming too close to one of the plants. A blueshirt found their younger son a short while later, listlessly wandering around camp, singing to himself and giggling at nothing in particular. At first Tony Lucchesi thought the boy had stolen a bottle of vodka left over from the First Landing party, but when he noticed the boil on the back of his neck, he took him straight to Dr. Okada. Kuniko inspected him, administered a local antibiotic to the wound, and a half hour later David was sober once more. The pseudowasp sting was apparently meant to incapacitate its prey; in larger mammals, the effect was less pronounced, and fortunately not lethal. After that, everyone was warned to give the ball plants a wide berth.

  “It’s all right,” Sissy said. “No, really…there’s nothing to worry about.” Before Jim could stop her, she walked over to the plant, gave it a gentle kick. It made a soft rustle, its stalk swaying slightly. “See? It’s dead. That’s why there are no wasps around it.”

  Still cautious, Jim emerged from the tall grass, walked over to the ball plant. Now that he was closer, he saw that the plant had a shrunken appearance; its leaves were brown and dry, the iris of its stem wilted. As Sissy said, the plant was dead. Now was the perfect opportunity to examine one close-up.

  He pulled out his jackknife and knelt beside the plant. Its leaves were coarse and leathery; it took an effort to cut through the ball, and as he pulled aside the part he’d incised, a foul odor escaped the sphere. He gagged and moved back, covering his mouth and nose with his hand; behind him, Sissy made a disgusted sound. Jim waited a moment for the air to clear. Then, putting away his knife and pinching his nostrils shut, he parted the leaves and peered into the plant.

  The interior was hollow, as he suspected, and for a moment he thought it was completely empty. Then he saw, at its bottom, a small, lifeless form: the carcass of a swamper, desiccated and curled into a fetal position, mummified within tiny, hairlike tendrils growing from the bottom of the plant. It took him a few moments to realize what he was seeing.

  “It’s a carnivorous plant,” he said. “It draws sustenance from the swampers, sucks them dry. Sort of like a pitcher plant back on Earth.” Then he sat back on his haunches, gazed up at Sissy. “But I still don’t understand.”

  I’ve been observing ball plants for the last couple of days, and noted that swampers tend to give them a wide berth. Indeed, they avoid contact with the balls, even those whose flower tops are in full blossom. And the plants remain shut, with pseudowasps warding off anything that gets close to them. So what lures the swampers inside?

  Doesn’t make sense…or at least by terrestrial standards. Once again, I’m reminded of the fact that I’m dealing with an alien ecosystem. Just when it seems as if I’ve found something that seems to mimic life on Earth, I find something else that is utterly unfamiliar.

  Charles Darwin would have loved this world. Or it would have driven him nuts.

  From the diary of Wendy Gunther: Uriel 69, C.Y. 01

  Spending most of my time on the farm. Hard work. Calluses on my hands, back sore from all the raking and shoveling. Kuniko bitches about how much sunburn lotion I use and how it can’t be replaced once it’s gone. Always enjoyed gardening, though, and it helps me get my mind off Dad.

  Some of the adults think I shouldn’t be doing this. Not appropriate for a fourteen-year-old girl to be doing hard labor. Maybe I ought to wear black and cry my eyes out, if that’s what they want. But even though I miss Dad, in the last couple of weeks I’ve come to realize that I really didn’t know him all that well. Something I’m just going to have to work out, and that’s going to take time.

  Being out here also helps me stay away from Carlos. Like him a lot—really, I do!—but he’s just lost his rents, and he’s taking it a lot harder than I am. Have enough problems dealing with my own loss, don’t need the hassle of trying to help him as well. Since he’s with the timber crew and Marie helps out in the kitchen tent, I don’t see either of them more than a couple of times a day.

  Talked about this with Kuniko last night, when we were alone in our tent (Kuni—if you’ve managed to crack my encryption, go away! This isn’t for you!). Told her about Carlos; she agrees that now isn’t the right time for a boyfriend. Told her he keeps coming over to me at dinner, and she laughed. “There’s nothing more pathetic than a fourteen-year-old boy,” she said. So true…

  (And besides, there’s also Chris Levin. Is he cute or what?)

  Also been studying the swoops…

  She had never paid much attention to birds back on Earth. Most of those she’d seen were the robins and wrens that nested in the trees at Camp Schaefly. Swoops were different, though: a little larger than hawks, with the same hooked beaks and long-taloned feet, but whose wings were twice as long, making them look sort of like pterodactyls when they were in flight. They came out early in the morning, taking off from their nests in the blackwoods just after dawn to spend the day circling the marshes around Liberty. Dr. Levin said they were “riding the thermals,” staying aloft on warm air rising from the ground, yet Wendy knew without being told that they weren’t up there for show. They were hunting, and that’s why she found them fascinating.

  Wendy was out by herself in a newly cleared field on the outskirts of town, using a hoe to break ground, when she spotted a swamper sneak out of the grass about fifteen feet away. She stood perfectly still and watched as the swamper came closer to a ball plant she had been trying to avoid. It stopped and sniffed around its base—interesting, since Dr. Levin thought the swampers stayed clear of the balls; he had told her about the mummified swamper he’d found in one of them. Wendy waited, wanting to see what would happen if the ball plant would somehow grab the swamper, when a shadow flitted across the ground.

  She looked up just in time to see a swoop dive out of the sky.

  Its wings remained folded against its body until the last moment, then it spread them to brake itself. The swamper never saw the attack coming; the swoop snagged it within its claws—a sharp, dismal squeek! an instant before the rodent’s neck was broken—then the raptor flapped its massive wings and took off again, never once having touched the ground.

  Wendy dropped her hoe. Breathless, she watched the swoop soar away, the dead swamper clutched beneath it, for the blackwoods a couple of miles from camp.

  It was a bright and cloudless afternoon, the sky as blue and pure as the innocence of youth, and suddenly she felt something she had never known before: an awakening of the senses, a feeling of direct connection with the world around her. The realization that she wasn’t distanced from nature, but rather an integral part of it.

  In that instant, Wendy arrived on Coyote.

  People bitch about how hard it is to live here, and they’re right—we’re already on limited rations, and we may starve if we don’t bring up a decent crop before winter. We’ve got plenty of tools, but once they’re broken or worn-out, we’ll either have to make new ones or do without. There’re boids in the marshes—come to think of it, I was really stupid to be out there all b
y myself—and any one of us could all die tomorrow.

  But you know what? I love this place. I’ve never felt more alive in my life.

  Minutes of Liberty monthly town meeting: Adnachiel 2, C.Y. 01; recorded by Tom Shapiro, Acting Secretary

  (1.) Meeting called to order at 8:00 P.M. by R.E. Lee, Acting Chairman. Head count shows eighty-two members present, eighteen absent.

  (2.) First order of business was formal introduction and ratification by majority vote of Colony Charter, based upon copies of the draft charter issued to all citizens two weeks earlier.

  Mr. Reese went on record to oppose Paragraph 2, which calls for the establishment of a democratically elected government, and Paragraph 3, which annuls all former United Republic Service military ranks. He stated that the colony should continue to operate under military jurisdiction indefinitely, and that all URS officers should be allowed to retain their ranks.

  Mr. Shapiro (speaking on behalf of the Charter Committee) countered by stating that an elected government will allow all colonists to have a representative voice in running the colony. The Town Council will be comprised of seven members selected by popular vote, with terms of no longer than one year (Coyote calendar).

  Ms. Newell agreed in principle, but stated that she and other URS officers objected to losing their ranks and privileges. Mr. Dreyfus stated that he saw no problem with having URS officers retain their former ranks on an informal basis, but he pointed out that if the purpose of an elected government was to put all members of the colony on an equal basis, formally retaining military rank would mean that “some citizens would be more equal than others.”

  After an hour of debate, Mr. Lee called for a motion to vote upon the Charter. Motion passed 71-11. Mr. Lee then called for a vote to ratify formally the Colony Charter. Vote was fifty-nine in favor, twenty-three opposed, two abstaining.

  Colony Charter was thereby passed by majority vote.

  (3.) Mr. Lee called for nomination of members of the Town Council. Under Paragraph 5(a) of the Colony Charter, any person above the age of eighteen (before Gregorian calendar 2300, or C.Y. 01) is eligible for election. All candidates must publicly announce their intent to run for office or be nominated by others, and all nominations must be seconded by at least one other adult. Eleven members were nominated for Town Council; ten were seconded.

  Mr. Lee then called for formal election of Town Council members. Vote was conducted by show of hands, with Mr. Tinsley and Ms. Geary counting. Elected were: Mr. R.E. Lee, Mr. Tom Shapiro, Ms. Sharon Ullman, Mr. Paul Dwyer, Ms. Cecelia “Sissy” Levin, Dr. Henry Johnson, Ms. Vonda Cayle.

  Mr. Dwyer and Mr. Reese tied in their votes. Mr. Lee called for a second round of voting, in which Mr. Dwyer defeated Mr. Reese by two votes.

  Mr. Lee then called for election of Town Council chairman. Elected was Mr. Lee, with Ms. Cayle as vice chairman.

  (4.) Mr. Lee called for nomination members of the Prefect Office, which would be charged with enforcing Colony Law as passed by the Town Council under Colony Charter. Eight nominations received, seven seconded.

  Mr. Lee called for formal election of Prefect Office members. Vote was conducted by show of hands, with Mr. Shapiro and Ms. Cayle counting. Elected were: Mr. Gilbert “Gill” Reese, Mr. Ron Schmidt, Mr. William Boone, Mr. Antonio “Tony” Lucchesi, Mr. John Carruthers, Mr. Michael Geissal, Mr. Ellery Balis.

  (5.) Mr. Lee requested reports from standing committees.

  Mr. Dwyer (Timber Group) reported that his team had finished its assessment of the available timber within a three-mile radius of Liberty and were working to cut nearby stands of blackwood and faux birch. First priority is harvesting enough wood to finish construction of the agricultural greenhouse.

  Ms. Jacobs asked when permanent shelters will be built, and Mr. Dwyer responded that work on them will commence once the greenhouse is finished.

  Ms. Monroe (Construction Group) noted that, while log cabins can be built well into winter, the greenhouse has to be finished as soon as possible. She also pointed out that her team is presently undermanned and overworked, and requested additional volunteers for the logging crews.

  Mr. Geary (Agriculture Group) reported that twenty-five acres have been cleared and planted. However, he voiced concern that harvests may fall below anticipated totals. Cooler weather is not the only problem; swampers have recently discovered the seedlings, and although swoops take out many of those foraging in the farms, the swampers still manage to devour much of the crop. Since no traps have yet been devised, he requested that Prefects patrol the fields and shoot any swampers they see. Mr. Reese agreed to this request for assistance.

  (6.) Mr. Lee opened the floor to further business.

  Dr. Okada reported that medical supplies are still available, but no longer in large supply. In anticipation of a long winter, she is keeping most of the antibiotics and antivirals in reserve. She cautioned everyone to avoid contact with pseudowasps, whose sting has a toxic effect, and swampers, whose bite carries a viral infection that leaves the victim with high temperatures, temporary paralysis, and ring-shaped splotches on their skin.

  Mr. Shapiro warned people to exercise caution when visiting the outhouses and compost pits after dark. A species of nocturnal animal—“creek cats,” faintly resembling Siamese cats but much larger, about the size of Border collies—has been spotted lurking around them at night. Although they tend to flee when someone approaches, some of the children have been caught trying to feed them scraps of food.

  Ms. Dreyfus asked when school may resume for the colony children. Mr. Lee said that the Town Council will take this into consideration during its first formal session, but also noted that primary education for the younger children may have to wait a couple of months longer. At this time, every hand is needed to get the colony self-sufficient by winter.

  The date for the next town meeting was set for Barbiel 3. Meeting adjourned at 11:26 P.M.

  From the journal of Dr. James Levin: Adnachiel 38, C.Y. 01

  Beth Orr complained about a foul stench coming from the compost pit; she said it smelled like rotting meat. I couldn’t imagine anyone throwing away food; we’re under tight rations, and everyone cleans their plate at dinnertime. Since Capt. Lee—I still use his rank, but so does everyone—asked me to become the health and sanitation officer, I went to the pit to check it out.

  Found a dozen or so creek cats: shot at close range, skinned head to toe. No one else has access to firearms except the Prefects, so I knew where to go…

  Gill Reese stood in the doorway of the half-finished cabin, arm outstretched to block Jim Levin’s way. “You want to know about what?” he said in mock astonishment. “Dead cats?”

  Sullen laughter from within the cabin; sunlight slanted in through the open spaces in the roof that hadn’t yet been patched with cloverweed, revealing a couple of blueshirts seated at a rough-hewn table inside. They were doing something Jim couldn’t quite see.

  “That’s right,” he replied. “Creek cats. Found their carcasses in the compost pit, missing their skins.” Reese gave a noncommittal shrug. “They had bullet holes in them. Your men are the only ones who carry firearms. My guess is that they’ve been shooting them late at night, skinning them, then tossing their bodies in the pit.”

  Another shrug. “So?”

  “Want to tell me about it?” Jim paused. “Or I can tell my wife and have her take it up with the rest of the Council, on grounds that you’re contributing to a public health hazard?”

  The laughter died off; Reese glowered at him. He let his arm fall from the door, stepped away to let Levin come in. “Sure, c’mon and take a look. Nothing illegal about what we’re doing.”

  The cabin smelled of dead animal. On the floor next to the table was a bucket, and in the bucket is a creek cat, its bare flesh pink and scarred by knife marks. Another cat lay on the table; Boone and Lucchesi had been carefully stripping it of its hide. Behind them were several more hides, stretched taut and nailed to the log walls. The tw
o blueshirts stared at Levin like grave robbers caught dividing up the take.

  Levin took in the scene, slowly nodded. “So how do you do it? They haven’t fallen for any traps we’ve set.”

  “No traps,” Gill said. “We do it the old-fashioned way. We take the swampers we’ve shot and lay them out in the fields, then wait for the cats to come to snag their corpses. You can’t eat either swampers or cats—we’ve tried that already, and they’re awful even after they’ve been cooked—but the skin’s pretty useful.”

  “The fur’s soft,” Boone said, eager to justify himself, “and the skin’s sort of like soft leather. And it’s water-resistant. Schmidt’s already made a good pair of moccasins from the skin of one cat. I’m halfway through sewing together a fur jacket for winter.”

  Jim nodded as he regarded the tacked-up hides. “That’s good to hear. Nice work.” Then he looked back at Reese. “Once you’re done here, why don’t you and your men take some of your hides over to Captain Lee. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know that you’ve found something that will be beneficial to the rest of the colony.”

  Reese said nothing; the other men remained quiet. Since there was little else that needed to be said, Jim turned to leave. Then he spotted another figure in the cabin he hadn’t noticed before: Carlos Montero, seated on a stool in the corner, silently watching everything.

  Carlos stared back at Levin; neither of them said a word. After a moment, Jim left the cabin.

  It doesn’t bother me that they’re shooting creek cats for their hide. What disturbs me is that Reese’s men would do this without telling anyone. They intended to keep this their own little secret, even though it’s something that could help everyone in Liberty.

  Reese still wants to be boss, I think. He’s going to give us trouble as time goes on.

  From the diary of Wendy Gunther: Adnachiel 72, C.Y. 01

  Autumn is here. It’s no longer as warm as it was earlier this month, and some days have been downright cold. We had a lot of rain this week, and the winds have shifted, with cool air coming in from the northwest. We’ve already started wearing sweaters during the day, and at night we’ve had to bundle up in our parkas.