Coyote

by Allen Steele

  Bernie pretended to study the rainwater dripping into a pan Lew had placed on the bar. Lew himself stood behind the counter, washing the mugs his wife, Carrie, had made in the community kiln. “No sense in wanting what you can’t have, Colonel,” he observed quietly. A few people in Liberty still addressed Reese by his former rank, if only for sake of politesse. “And as I recall, a K.C. prime rib was tough to come by even then.”

  Lew had a point, but Gill wasn’t about to be mollified. “You’re missing the point. I’m talking about real food, man. Something you can sink your teeth into.” He gestured toward the stewpot simmering in the fireplace on the far side the Cantina. “And I don’t mean creek crab…man, sometimes I think if I ever have another bowl of that stuff, I’m going to hurl.”

  “So don’t have any.” Lew turned away to put clean mugs on the shelf above the ale kegs. “I’m not going to clean up your mess.”

  Scattered chuckles from down the bar. Henry couldn’t blame Lew for being insulted; the stew was his wife’s recipe. “Give it a rest, Gill,” he said. “The nearest steak is forty-six light-years away. Like he said, no sense whining about something you can’t have.”

  Wrong choice of words. Reese turned to glare at him. “I wasn’t whining,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “I was giving my opinion. You got a problem with that?”

  Henry didn’t have a problem with his opinion, only with the bully who had expressed it. Yet Gill was a combat-trained soldier who outweighed him by at least thirty pounds, while Henry was an astrophysicist—an unemployed astrophysicist, rather—who hadn’t thrown a serious punch since childhood. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bernie and Jim carefully edging away. Gill was drunk and spoiling for a fight, and Henry had made the mistake of giving him a target of opportunity.

  “No problem here, Colonel,” he said. “I just…think you’re complaining about something we can’t do much about, that’s all.”

  Gill glowered at him, but didn’t respond. Like it or not, Henry had cold facts on his side. Although the Alabama had brought livestock from Earth—chickens, turkeys, goats, sheep, and pigs, along with dogs and cats—cattle had been deliberately left behind by the mission planners; they required too much feed and grazing land to be worth the effort. Moreover, most of the livestock were still embryos suspended in biostasis. Only a handful of chickens, pigs, and dogs had been successfully decanted so far; the rest remained in orbit aboard Alabama, where they would be safe until the Town Council determined it was safe for them to be brought down. Their decision turned out to be prudent; quite a few pigs had been lost to ring disease, and swoops and creek cats had killed most of the chickens until the colonists trained the dogs to guard their pens at night.

  Yet Gill wasn’t about to let it go. “You’re wrong there, Johnson,” he said, challenging him with his humorless brown eyes. “There is something we can do about it…we can go hunting.”

  “And what do you suggest we hunt?”

  Reese picked up his mug, slugged down the last of his ale. “Boid…we hunt boid.”

  An uncertain silence fell across the Cantina as every eye turned toward him. And in that moment, as fortuitous circumstance would have it, the front door creaked open and who should happen to walk in but Carlos Montero.

  Much later, after all was said and done, Henry would come to think that, had he only known what was going to happen next, he would have grabbed Carlos by the scruff of the neck and hauled him back out into the rainy night. Either that or, if he had the courage, he might picked up his beer mug and bashed it over Gill’s head; he would paid dearly for this once the colonel woke up—at the very least, he would spent a week in the stockade for assaulting a Prefect—but he would have also saved everyone a lot of grief. But Dr. Johnson was neither precognizant nor particularly brave, though, so he thought of doing neither.

  Carlos was tall for his fifteen Earth-years, loose-limbed and muscular, yet still possessing the gawky immaturity of youth. Downlike whiskers on his chin and upper lip, an uncertain swagger in his step: a nice, good-looking kid trying hard to be a man. So far, he was doing a good job; although Carlos had only been thirteen when his family joined the fifty political dissidents who fled Earth aboard the Alabama, during the colony’s first year he had not only survived the death of his father and mother but also become the man of his family, taking care of his younger sister while putting in time with the timber crew. Since the Council hadn’t established a minimum drinking age, Lew had recently started letting him into the Cantina. Like many in Liberty, he tended to think of young Mr. Montero as something of a surrogate son.

  In the stillness of the moment, everyone watched as he stamped his boots on the floor and removed his drenched cap. Carlos couldn’t help but notice the attention he was getting. “Am I missing something?” he asked as he pulled off his rain-slicked poncho and hung it next to the door. “Is there a problem?”

  “No problem.” Lew had already taken a mug off the shelf and was holding it beneath the keg. The colony eventually would get around to reinventing money; for now, though, your currency was the sweat of your brow. You got as good as you gave. “We were…”

  “Lew,” Henry said quietly, and Lew quickly shut up. Too late, he remembered how Jorge and Rita Montero died.

  “We were talking about hunting for game.” Gill half turned to face Carlos, one hand on his drink, the other tucked into his old uniform belt. “I was just saying that we don’t get enough meat in our diet, and it’s time we start living off the land.”

  “Seems to me we’re doing that already.” Jim pushed his mug across the bar and shook his head when Lew silently inquired whether he wanted a refill. “Robert Lee told us at the last Town Meeting that we’d be bringing down the rest of the livestock once we’ve figured out how to take care of the swoops.”

  “I’m just saying that we’ve got an islandful of game that we’ve barely touched.” Gill glanced over his shoulder at Lew to point to his mug and raise a finger. “They’re migrating back up here, but so far all we’ve done is trap creek crab…and I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a little tired of pulling bones out of my teeth.”

  Scattered chuckles from around the shack, and more than a few nods this time. Lew remained quiet as he finished filling Carlos’s mug. As he placed it on the bar, the colonel stepped aside to make room for him. “Here y’go, boy,” he said, pushing the mug a little closer. “Elbow up here and have one on the Service.”

  The Service. Hearing this, Henry winced. After all, the United Republic Service had rounded up left-wing intellectuals like Jorge Montero when they didn’t go along with the draconian measures of the National Reform Program. Yet Carlos had either forgotten what his parents had suffered through or had simply chosen to ignore it as a thing of the past; Henry had noticed how the kid had recently taken to treating Colonel Reese with more than a small measure of respect. His father would have sickened…but then, his folks had been on Coyote for less than three days before they had been killed.

  “Thank you, sir.” Carlos squeezed in between him and Gill. There wasn’t a vacant stool, so he had to lean against the counter. Carlos picked up the mug and took a tentative sip; noticing the colonel’s watchful eye, he drank more deeply, and Gill gave him an ever-so-slight nod of approval. “So what are you thinking about hunting? Creek cat?”

  Oh, no, Henry thought. Don’t go there…

  Reese shrugged. “Well, that’s a possibility, I guess. Might be good for fur, but they look a little too stringy for meat.” He paused, then looked Carlos straight in the eye. “I was thinking more about boid.”

  No one said anything, although everyone in the room seemed to be watching Carlos.

  Carlos stared at the colonel for a moment, then gazed down at the bar. “What makes you think they’re worth hunting? They’re nothing but feathers and claws.”

  “So’s a chicken, if you look at it the wrong way,” Gill said, “but there’s a lot of meat beneath those feathers, and there’s got t
o be some muscle behind those claws. I’ve taken a close look at one…”

  “The one who killed his parents?” Henry asked.

  Carlos stiffened, and Henry immediately regretted having spoken. But Reese didn’t. “The very same, yes, now that you ask, Dr. Johnson.” Although he was addressing Henry, he was also talking to Carlos. “If you don’t remember, I’m the guy who shot it. Take my word for it, they’re not bulletproof.”

  “So long as you’ve got enough bullets.”

  “Bullets, sure…but guts, too. We’ve set up perimeter guns around town, and that’s kept them away, but what do you hear late at night when you’re lying awake in bed? Why do we send no fewer than three people…three armed people…into the brush at any time?”

  “Because they’re the dominant species, that’s why.” Lew reluctantly pushed Reese’s mug across the bar. He had given him a refill, but it seemed that he done so only to avoid trouble; any other person who carried on a rant in his place usually got cut off.

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Gill gave Lew a patronizing smile. “We’re here to stay, and the sooner we get that across to those…those overgrown ostriches…the better off everyone’s going to be.” He picked up his drink, turned to Carlos. “And I think you’ve got some payback coming to you,” he added. “Are you in?”

  “Carlos…” Henry began.

  “Let him make up his own mind. He’s a man now.”

  Henry caught a flicker of fear in Carlos’s solemn brown eyes. He was being challenged, not only by someone whose respect he wished to earn, but also in front of everyone in the Cantina. Henry realized that, if Carlos said no, he’d never be able to walk into the place again…or at least not as a man. Gill silently awaited his reply.

  “I’m in.” Carlos met Reese’s forthright gaze and raised his mug. “Hell, yeah. I’m in.”

  Murmurs from around the room. A couple of men clapped their hands in approval. Gill grinned and tapped his mug against Carlos’s, then he turned to look at the others. “Anyone else who wants to join us, you’re welcome to tag along. The more the merrier.” Then he glanced over his shoulder. “So, Doc…are you coming or not?”

  Later, in retrospect, Henry still didn’t know for certain why Reese invited him to join him and Carlos. He didn’t like Gill, and Gill didn’t like him; there was no reason why he’d want Johnson in his expedition. Perhaps the colonel was just drunk, or perhaps he believed Henry would wimp out and thus humiliate himself. Nonetheless, he now had Henry cornered as well.

  “Yeah, I’m with you,” he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing a glimmer of surprise in Gill’s eyes. He told himself that it was only to shepherd Carlos, but the fact of the matter was that he had his own pride to keep. “When do we go?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” Gill turned to the others. “If you’re coming, we’ll meet at the grange hall. We’ll be heading south down Sand Creek, so bring overnight gear…bedrolls, lamps, and two days’ rations. We’ll check out guns and kayaks before we leave. Any questions?”

  “What happens if you find a boid?” Lew asked.

  “Are you coming?” Reese inquired, and chuckled as Lew shook his head. “Then whip up some barbecue sauce. We’re bringing home supper.”

  An hour or so later, Henry left the Cantina, began making his way home. He’d tapped the keg more than a few times; his boots sloshed through the mud as he staggered down Main Street, passing the darkened windows and bolted doors of log houses. At the far end of town he could make out the white drumlike shapes of the Alabama’s cargo cylinders, still resting where they had been dropped from orbit late last summer, since then turned into water tanks and grain elevators.

  He’d neglected to take his flashlight from the pocket of his slicker, but he didn’t need it to see where he was going. The rain had stopped, at least for a few hours, and the clouds had parted. Looming above the horizon was the vast hemisphere of 47 Ursae Majoris B, its ring plane jutting straight up into space.

  He stopped in the street to take in the view. He also badly needed to take a leak, and his house was a couple of hundred feet away. There weren’t any Prefects in sight, though, and with this much mud in the street a little piss would go unnoticed, so he unbuttoned his fly. The night sky was brilliant with alien constellations and new worlds. Bear’s ringed brother Wolf was rising to the east; he could make out three of Coyote’s companion moons, Dog, Hawk, and Eagle. If he waited a little while longer, he even might see the Alabama fly over. Henry was searching for the orbiting starship when his meditation was shattered by a scream.

  Think of a madman in a sanitarium. Think of a victim of the Spanish Inquisition being tortured in a prison dungeon. Think of an insane rooster crowing after midnight.

  That’s the mating cry of a boid.

  Henry froze, waiting for the scream to come again, praying that it wouldn’t be any closer. Somewhere down the dark street, someone hastily opened a window to close their storm shutters. The perimeter guns had always been able to detect boids when they approached Liberty, and the boids had quickly learned to keep their distance. Nonetheless, no one took chances.

  The boid screamed again. It sounded a little less near this time, a little farther away from town. Yet the night wasn’t quite so peaceful, the stars not quite so benign.

  Six men met in front of the grange hall early the following morning…or rather, five men and a boy wanting to become a man.

  Henry expected Jim and Bernie to show up. Despite his earlier skepticism, Jim had been one of the first to join the party, and wherever Jim went, Bernie wasn’t far behind. When Henry arrived they were already helping Carlos haul the catskin kayaks from the boathouse behind the grange; Gill was inside the hall, signing out six semiauto rifles from the armory. Yet he was surprised when he saw Lew come walking into town, backpack slung over his shoulder, bedroll beneath his arm. Carrie was with him, but she didn’t seem very happy about his last-minute change of mind; she scowled at Gill when Lew sheepishly explained that, if he was going to cook something in his cantina, he preferred to kill and dress it himself. Henry didn’t know if that was the full truth, or whether Lew simply wanted to take an adventure, but since the kayaks were two-seaters and there weren’t any other volunteers, they welcomed him to the party. Carrie gave Lew a farewell hug and kiss, then turned and silently walked off.

  They spent another half hour loading their gear aboard the beached kayaks. By then a small crowd had gathered on the dock. Jim’s and Bernie’s wives showed up to see their husbands off, and Carlos put his sister, Marie, in Sissy Levin’s care. Henry didn’t have a wife or family, so he stood off to the side, chatting with friends as he waited for the others to finish their goodbyes. Captain Lee showed up just as they were about to depart; apparently he had been among the last to hear about the hunting trip, and he wasn’t very pleased. He and Reese stepped into the grange; the others didn’t hear their argument, yet just as Henry was beginning to think—and secretly hope—that Robert would cancel the sortie, the two men emerged from the hall. Reese, a smug grin on his face, walked to his kayak, picked up a two-bladed paddle, and proclaimed to one and all that they were ready to go. The captain said nothing; arms folded across his chest, he silently watched as the men shoved the kayaks into the creek.

  The weather was on their side that morning. The rain clouds had parted, allowing the warm sun to beat down upon the narrow banks of Sand Creek. They’d removed their jackets and peeled back their shirtsleeves before casting off, but the day soon became hot, and before long they were taking off their shirts as well. When Henry looked back from stern of the boat he shared with Lew, the rooftops of Liberty had disappeared far behind them, and even the tall mast of the weather station was nowhere to be seen. Less than two miles downstream, it was impossible to tell that there was a human presence on Coyote.

  Sand Creek weaved its way through marshland thick with grass, brush, and trees. Henry’s shoulders and arms ached as the blades of his paddle dipped right and left, right and left,
into the tepid brown water, until his lungs became accustomed to working hard in the thin atmosphere and he settled into a regular rhythm. A pair of curious swoops circled the boats for a while, their harsh screeches echoing off the riverbanks, until they gradually lost interest and drifted away, and again the flat landscape was silent.

  Silent except for the sound of Gill Reese’s voice. He insisted on keeping in front of the others, telling Carlos to paddle a little harder whenever Jim and Bernie threatened to catch up with them, as if they were in some sort of race. Lew and Henry brought up the rear, in no particular hurry to get anywhere soon, yet even from thirty feet away they could hear Reese after everyone else had fallen silent, telling stories about basic training at the Academy (“…second in my class…”), about rowing a canoe down the entire length of the Suwannee River (“…from the Okefenokee Swamp clear down to the Gulf of Mexico…”) and rock climbing in the Utah badlands (“…and there I was, clinging to the side of Pistol Peak…”) and his first shuttle launch (“…and so I grabbed the stick and…”) and after a while it was just one long monologue. The life and times of Colonel Gilbert Reese, a man among men.

  “Hemingway would have loved this guy,” Lew muttered over his shoulder at one point.

  “Hemingway, hell,” Henry replied. “Let’s try Aesop.”