by Allen Steele
Mr. Geary says we’re probably going to have to pull up the crops pretty soon. We haven’t had our first frost yet, but he’s afraid the cold might kill everything if we don’t get them out of the ground. The potatoes and carrots are ready to come up, even though they’re a little small—I’d like to give them another couple of weeks, but we may not have a chance. The tomatoes were a total loss, though—the first cold snap killed all but a few bushels—and even though the corn’s ready to be harvested, the stalks are only as tall as I am. Glad we got that greenhouse finished; it may be small, but at least we’ll be able to have fresh vegetables throughout the winter.
Another reason for early harvest: the swoops are beginning to migrate. You’d think Liberty is far enough south that they’d want to winter here, but they seem to have their own ideas. I’ve seen flocks of them flying southeast, heading in the general direction of the Great Equatorial River. I’d love to know where they’re going, but the orbital photos we download from Alabama haven’t given us a clue.
Anyway, with the swoops going on vacation, the swampers are running amok on the farm. No natural predators left, winter’s coming in—party time for the little monsters. They’re eating everything they can find, and they really love the carrots. Dana devised live traps for them—an open-ended box made from old shipping containers, with a small carrot inside; when a swamper goes inside, it trips a lever on the floor and the hatch springs shut—and they’re dumb enough to fall for it every time. But they go berserk as soon as they realize they’re caught, and the only thing you can do is go find a blueshirt, get him to come over and shoot it. At first I couldn’t bear to watch, but I’ve become used to it. It’s cruel, but what can you do?
Yesterday was my fifteenth birthday—or at least it’s my birthday back home (Earth, I mean). Still haven’t figured out how to convert Gregorian to LeMarean without using my pad, and I don’t even want to think how old that makes me back home (15 plus 230 equals no way!!). I didn’t mention it to anyone except Kuniko, and I begged her not to tell anyone else, but…
She was out on the farm, down on her hands and knees to pull up cloverweed from the turnip patch, when someone tapped her shoulder. “Wendy? You got a minute?”
Lew Geary. Probably checking up on her. “Oh, hi, Mr. Geary. What do you…?”
Then she glanced over her shoulder and found a small crowd standing behind her. Indeed, it seemed like half the colony had suddenly appeared: Kuniko, Dr. Levin and his wife, Sissy, Mr. and Ms. Geary, Ted LeMare, Ms. Newell, Colonel Reese and a couple of his blueshirts, even Captain Lee. In the middle of the group were Chris, David, Barry, and Carlos; her friends were trying to hold it in, but the look on her face caused them to lose it completely.
“Oh, my God,” Wendy whispered, and a moment later she was serenaded by a ragged chorus of “Happy Birthday” while she squatted there in the dirt, feeling both humbled and idiotic at the same time.
That evening, at the fire pit after dinner was over, a party was thrown for her. The first birthday party on Coyote, everyone said, although she’d later learn that a couple of the adults had birthdays during the last couple of months; yet apparently birthdays weren’t so special once people get older, and everyone seemed to think that she deserved this. Ms. Geary gave her a little cupcake she’d baked in the community kitchen: chocolate, which always made Wendy break out although she was careful not to tell anyone this, and since chocolate was a scarce item, she knew she’d better be grateful. Someone opened the next-to-last bottle of champagne, of which she was allowed to have a small cup (which she almost threw up; why did grown-ups make such a big deal about booze?). Captain Lee made a short speech, talking about how wonderful she was, how much work she’d done on the farm and so forth, and it was all very nice. Wendy didn’t know until then that all these people really liked her, that she wasn’t just some poor orphan they have to take care of.
Yet she noticed that no one mentioned her father. Not even Captain Lee. It was as if everyone avoided talking about him. Didn’t anyone know him? Or was there something else?
The hour got late, and things started getting quiet. Bear was coming up over the horizon, which was when people usually started heading for their tents. Wendy was tired herself; it had been a long day, and she was ready to crawl into her tent, when Carlos approached her.
“Um, Wendy…you got a sec?”
“Yeah…okay, sure.” She hadn’t spoken to Carlos in a couple of weeks; the last time they had been alone together, it was down by Sand Creek. He’d tried to kiss her, and she’d let him; it had felt good, but then he tried to put a hand under her shirt, and although she somewhat wanted him to do so, her memories of Camp Schaefly were still fresh, and so she’d knocked him away, then stood up and fled. She’d avoided him since then, and still wasn’t sure whether she wanted to talk to him. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just…” Carlos seemed to be having trouble looking her in the eye. His right hand was behind his back, as if he was holding something he didn’t want her to see. “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened,” he said very quietly. “That was wrong, and I…I mean, I shouldn’t have, y’know…and I still want to be friends, if you…”
“That’s okay. I forgive you.” She smiled at him, and when he finally raised his head she saw that his face was bright red. His hand was still behind his back. “So…what don’t you want to show me?”
He glanced around, as if to see if anyone was watching. No one was paying attention, although past his shoulder Wendy could see Chris Levin sitting on the other side of the fire pit. He seemed to be engrossed in the flames, but Wendy knew he was catching every minute of this. “It’s just something I made for you,” Carlos said, then he pulled the object from behind his back. “I knew your birthday was coming up, so…”
A small parcel wrapped in paper, which no one was supposed to be wasting. Taking it from him, Wendy tried not to tear the paper as she opened it. Then she saw what was inside…
A pair of gloves. Handmade gloves, stitched together from swamper hide, lined with creek cat fur. I thought they were a little large, but then I tried them on and they fit beautifully, comfortable and warm. And I knew, even without asking, that he had made them himself; the stitches are a little ragged, and there’s a loose thread at the base of the thumb on the left one, which Kuniko had to tie off.
I didn’t know what to say, so I tugged him behind the Dreyfus tent, and when we were alone I kissed him. This time it was only a kiss—he didn’t do anything with his hands this time—but it was a really good kiss. He said I tasted like champagne.
I’m still not ready for a boyfriend, but if Chris Levin wants to compete with Carlos, he’s going to have to give me a whole damn rug before I’ll let him so much as smooch my hand!
Colony Log: Barbiel 05, C.Y. 01 (Tom Shapiro, Secretary, Liberty Town Council)
(1.) Frost on the ground this morning, which didn’t melt until an hour after sunrise. Weather station recorded local overnight low of 27° F, with winds from the N-NE at 10-15 MPH. Orbital photos from Alabama reveal snowstorms in latitudes above 40° N, with ice forming on the banks of the Northern Equatorial River. Snow also falling in latitudes below 50° S, with ice along river channels within the tundra surrounding the southern glacial region.
(2.) Wildlife rapidly disappearing within New Florida. Swoops continue to migrate to the southeast, and daytime sightings of boids have become less frequent; tracks along the Sand Creek indicate they’re heading south, following the creek toward the West River. Although creek cats are still spotted near town, swampers are rarely seen, and it’s assumed that they’re going into hibernation.
(3.) Monroe suggests that the silo walls should be insulated to prevent spoilage of farm produce by extreme cold. Capt. Lee inspected the silos, decided that this is prudent advice; although the silos were former Alabama cargo modules, cracks caused by entry and landing stress allow cold air to penetrate the hulls. Cloverweed mixed with sand makes good sealing material.
/>
(4.) Principal activity has become erecting permanent shelter. “House-raising parties” held almost every day: twenty-plus people working together to erect a cabin from blackwood logs. Takes approx. two days to build a one-room cabin with a fieldstone fireplace, four days to throw up a three-room family house. Eighteen cabins have been built on either side of Main Street, each with its own privy, and land has been set aside for eventual construction of a grange hall.
(5.) Plymouth and Mayflower have been mothballed. Although onboard nuclear cells are still being used to generate electrical power, propellant has been drained from the fuel tanks and tents have been lashed together as tarps to protect the fuselages against the weather. Many people favor cannibalizing one of the shuttles for electronic parts and furnishings—we’ve received requests for passenger couches—but Capt. Lee insists that we keep both craft in flightworthy condition in the event of an emergency. Yet it’s doubtful that they’ll fly again anytime soon.
From the journal of Dr. James Levin: Barbiel 23, C.Y. 01
Today, a mystery was solved. Two, in fact—we learned where the swampers have gone, and also the biological function of the ball plants.
In all fairness, I must give credit where credit is due: it was Wendy Gunther who made the discovery, not I. She and Carlos Montero were out in the fields—they say they were gathering corn stalks for roofing material, but I suspect otherwise—when Wendy noticed a family of swampers near the vicinity of a ball plant. Since so few swampers have been sighted lately, this aroused her curiosity, so she and Carlos watched from a discreet distance as the swampers climbed on top of the ball. One at a time, they squirmed through a narrow opening within its leaves until all of them had disappeared from view.
Wendy rushed to my house and told me what she had seen, and I followed her and Carlos back to the plant. The pseudowasps have died off, so there was no risk in approaching it, and the ball hadn’t completely sealed, so I gently peeled aside one of the leaves and peered inside.
I counted eight swampers within the plant, curled up against each other, already half-asleep. I let the plant close itself and stepped away, and made Wendy and Carlos promise not to tell anyone what we had found. I don’t want anyone—the blueshirts, namely—poaching the hibernating swampers for fur. For the time being, at least, it’s our secret.
My hypothesis: this may be a form of plant-animal symbiosis. The balls provide shelter for the swampers while they hibernate during Coyote’s long winter. However, since one or two of the swampers inevitably perish during hibernation—the old and the sick, most likely—their corpses remain within the balls. In spring, the swampers emerge from the ball, leaving their dead behind to provide food for the plants.
There may be certain superficial similarities to life on Earth—the close resemblance between swampers and ferrets, for example—but that’s because nature tends to select perfect (i.e. adaptive) designs and duplicate them. Yet Coyote isn’t Earth; although it’s Earth-like, nonetheless it’s a different world—younger, colder, with longer seasons, a less dense atmosphere, and lighter gravity. So there are bound to be significant differences.
One mystery solved…yet so many more remain.
In time, through continued observation of this world, we may be able to prove (or disprove) the Gaia hypothesis: that planets aren’t mere rocks upon which life evolves by circumstance of nature, but rather self-sustaining life-forms themselves, their ecosystems sustaining one another in an interlocked pattern of life and death. We came to Coyote in order to escape from political tyranny, but perhaps our future is something greater.
I’m not a religious man—Sissy and I seldom went to temple, and Chris went through bar mitzvah only because his grandparents insisted (David was just shy of his thirteenth birthday when we left)—yet nonetheless I’ve always considered myself to be a spiritual person. Sitting here within my log cabin, writing by lanternlight as a fire crackles within the hearth, my wife and sons asleep within beds we’ve cobbled together from hab module pallets and discarded shipping containers, I have to wonder if there is a greater power in the universe, and perhaps our role is to delve into the complexity of creation.
Winter comes tonight. I can hear sleet skittering against the shutters of our windows, the northern wind rushing past our eaves. The hand of God falls upon us. May we be strong enough to endure His fury, and wise enough to understand His mind.
Book Two
We have found that where science has progressed the farthest, the mind has but regained from nature what the mind has put into nature.
We have found a strange footprint on the shores of the unknown. We have devised profound theories, one after another, to account for its origin. At last we have succeeded in constructing the creature that made the footprint. And lo! It is our own.
—SIR ARTHUR STANLEY EDDINGTON,
Space, Time, and Gravitation
Part Five
THE BOID HUNT
As so many things often do, the boid hunt began with an argument that gradually escalated into something far more serious. When it was all over, two men lay dead and a third forever changed.
It was the spring of C.Y. 2, or A.D. 2303 Gregorian; although humans had been on Coyote for less than one of its years, by then the colony was a little more than two Earth-years old. The town of Liberty had endured its first long winter; the snows that blanketed the grassy plains of New Florida had melted, and the ice had receded from its labyrinthine creeks and streams, and now it was rainy season. Grey clouds covered the azure skies above the island, sometimes shrouding Bear from sight for days on end; cold rain fell constantly upon Liberty and threatened to wash away newly planted crops in the fields near town. The incessant downpour was enough to drive men to drink and talk crazy, and that was how the whole sorry affair got started.
Late one evening several men were gathered in Lew’s Cantina, the small blackwood shack that Lew Geary had built at the end of town. According to Colony Law, there weren’t supposed to be any bars, only cafes that served liquor as part of their regular menu, but Lew got around this by offering chicken sandwiches and creek crab stew. Chicken was too scarce for anyone to eat more than once a week, though, and no one ever voluntarily dined on creek crab in any form unless they were truly ravenous. The menu was simply a front to keep the Prefects at arm’s length, but even so a blueshirt was often found at the bar, quietly putting away a pint or two after making his rounds. Indeed, Captain Lee himself was known to drop by, albeit on rare occasions; he’d order a bowl of that foul stew, if only for appearances’ sake, then ask Lew for a pint of sourgrass ale. Thus the Cantina was left unmolested; so long as its patrons behaved themselves, its presence was tolerated.
And so it was a rainy night in late spring, and about a dozen or so men and women were crowded together in the two-room shack, either seated at tables or leaning against the plank bar behind which Lew held court. The air was humid and just warm enough to make everything moist and sticky. The rain pattered upon the cloverweed-thatched roof and drooled down the eaves outside the door, where it formed a shallow puddle that everyone had to step across on their way in or out. No one was dry, either inside or out; even after someone hung up his poncho and slouch hat on the hooks near the door, his boots were caked with reddish brown mud and his hair and beard were ready to be wrung out, and if he wasn’t at the Cantina to do some serious drinking, then he should have stayed home.
Almost everyone there that night was a farmer. Few in Liberty had ever intended to be farmers; when they left Earth, they’d been scientists and engineers, doctors and life-control specialists, astrogators and biologists. Yet the colony’s survival depended upon agriculture, so men and women put down their computers and books and picked up hoes and shovels, and through trial and error managed to learn enough about Coyote’s ecosystem—or at least New Florida’s—to grow sufficient food to keep themselves alive during that first winter. Yet with a hundred mouths to feed, the autumn harvest had been severely stretched during the 270
-day cold season, and everyone eventually learned what it was like to tighten their belts. Spring brought warmer days and nights, but when they weren’t struggling to divert water from the flooded creeks away from their fields, they were fighting a war of attrition against the native insects and small animals that threatened to devour the crops. Farming is never an easy task, and it’s even more difficult when you’re still learning about the world you’ve settled. Coyote might be Earth-like, but it wasn’t Earth.
Henry Johnson was on his third pint of ale when Gill Reese started talking about food.
“I remember…” Gill gazed into the depths of his ceramic beer mug as if fondly recalling the face of a long-lost love. “I remember steak,” he finished. “Kansas City prime rib, an inch thick.” He held a thumb and forefinger an inch and a half apart. “Medium-well, with a little juice on top, grilled with sliced mushrooms and onions, with potatoes au gratin on the side.”
“When the potatoes come up, we’ll have plenty of that.” Jim Levin sat on the wooden stool next to Gill. “Tomatoes, too, if we can keep the swoops and grasshoarders off ’em.” He turned to Bernie Cayle. “How are you coming with the new pesticide, by the way? Find anything yet?”
Bernie gave a forlorn shrug. “I’m getting close, but I…”
“I wasn’t talking about potatoes. Jesus!” Gill slammed a hand down on the bar top, hard enough to make everyone’s mugs shudder. “I was talking about steak…meat, for the luvva Christ!”
Henry didn’t like Gill very much, even when the colonel was sober. Over the course of the long winter, Gill had grudgingly come to accept the fact that his loyalty to the United Republic of America had become a moot point. Although he was now the chief of the Prefects, he remained a URS officer at heart, but that wasn’t why Dr. Johnson disliked him. Gill was one of those hard-eyed men whom the Academy of the Republic had taken in as patriotic youngsters and gradually beaten into mean, self-centered bastards. R.E. Lee had been an Academy graduate, too, a first-year skinhead when Reese was an upperclassman, but somehow Robert had rejected the callousness Gill had come to embrace. Some colonists considered them two of the same kind, but Henry knew there was a difference: Lee searched for solutions, while Reese looked for problems.