by Allen Steele
Four days after he left Barren Isle, the winds shifted to come from the east, in the direction toward which he was traveling. Carlos reluctantly folded his sail and lowered the mast. Now he had to depend solely upon his paddle; the current was mild, but it, too, was going in the wrong direction. It was hard work; the canoe, that had once glided effortlessly across the water, had to be pushed along one foot at a time.
As the day wore on, he mechanically pumped the oar, staring down at his knees. His thoughts kept returning to Wendy, that moment with her on the beach just before he left. I love you, he’d said; why hadn’t she responded in kind? Good luck, she said, I’ll be waiting for you. No, that wasn’t right; what she’d really said was, We’ll be waiting for you. Meaning who? Her and the baby? That was what he thought she meant, but maybe she was really thinking about Chris?
How had their relationship gone wrong? She’d accused him of being self-centered; the more he thought about it, the more he realized that she was right. When they’d left Liberty, all he could think about was having sex with her; when she refused—and of course she would; she’d just learned she was pregnant by him—he’d become cold toward her. No wonder she had fallen out of love with him. Perhaps he’d seen himself as an adult, but the fact of the matter was that he’d acted childishly.
And then he’d abandoned her. Not just Wendy…everyone else as well. When he was sure everyone was asleep, he’d taken the rest of their supplies and the remaining canoe. The only reason why he’d said goodbye to her was because she woke up early and caught him. Was it really because he wanted to see the world, as he’d told her, or was there another reason?
Of course there was. David was dead, and he couldn’t deal with his responsibility for his death. There had been a certain look in Chris’s eyes, one he’d never seen before, and he couldn’t bear to see it again. So he’d split before he had to face his friend again.
Realizing these things, he winced with self-loathing. Why had it taken so long for him to see things so clearly? For weeks he’d sailed on the Great Equatorial, putting as much distance between him and everyone else as he possibly could. Now he was thousands of miles from Liberty, nearly half a world away from everyone he knew…
And yet, no matter how far he traveled, he couldn’t escape from himself.
Was it too late for him to go home? Should he even bother?
The harsh cries of river-swoops broke his train of thought. For the first time in hours, he raised his eyes. And suddenly, he discovered that he had reached the end of his journey.
The Meridian Archipelago lay before him as an endless string of tiny isles, stretching away across the horizon. Yet they were islands unlike any he’d seen before: enormous massifs hundreds of feet tall, slender towers of rock looming above the water like the columns of some vast temple whose roof had long since collapsed. Thick blankets of vegetation covered their summits, from which long vines dangled. Countless years of tides and storms had gradually eroded them, leaving behind these uninhabited stone pillars.
No…not quite uninhabited. Swoops orbited the islands, their raucous voices echoing off the sheer rock walls. Above the nearest massif, dozens of birds, perhaps even hundreds, weaved around each other in a complex gyre. Sometimes they came down to rest, but more often than not they launched themselves in angry, seemingly random attacks upon other swoops. The water lapping against the base of the island was filthy with feathers, and sky about it was filled with the shriek of constant, unending warfare.
Carlos gradually began to comprehend what he was seeing. This one island was only a few hundred feet wide; the swoops must be fighting for space upon which to build their nests. And since there were hundreds of thousands of birds living upon the islands, territory would be at a premium. Not only that, but they’d have to range farther and farther away in order to gather food for their nestlings. At one time they might have preyed upon the inhabitants of Barren Isle, yet the sandthieves had evolved into intelligent tool-users, capable of building shelters, who only roamed at night. So now the swoops ruled the archipelago; they had chased off everything else and had only each other as enemies.
A cycle of life, as ancient as time itself. He’d reached the center of the world, yet he couldn’t remain there. There was no beach upon which to land, no place he could set up camp. Even if there was, the swoops would never let him stay; this was a society of predators, and they wouldn’t tolerate the presence of a stranger. He’d either have to raise sail, turn around, and go home…or continue southeast past the archipelago, and never see home again.
There were no other options. Go forward, or go back.
Putting down his oar, he crawled forward along the canoe until he found his pack. Opening it, he dug through his clothes until he found the satphone. He didn’t know what time it was, but it was midafternoon; if he was lucky, the Alabama should be somewhere overhead. Unfolding the antenna, he squatted on the sailboard and pushed the RETURN button.
The unit clicked a few of times as it sought to achieve uplink, then he heard a familiar buzz. He waited patiently, watching the swoops as they wheeled around the island. After a minute, someone picked up.
“Yes? Who’s calling?”
Carlos recognized the voice: Captain Lee. “Carlos. I’d like to talk to Wendy.”
“Carlos! Where are you?”
Why tell him? “Could I speak to Wendy? It’s really important.”
Pause. “I can’t do that. She’s gone into labor.”
Carlos sat up. She wasn’t due until sometime in Uriel. How long had he been gone? “What…I mean, how…? Is she…?”
“She’s doing fine. Don’t worry. Kuniko’s with her, and so far…look, where are you?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“She wants you here. I’ve been standing by the satphone, just in case you called.” Another pause. “Carlos, listen to me. Don’t hang up again. She broke water last night, and since then you’re the only thing she’s asked for. She needs you to be here.”
As he listened, Carlos gazed at his boat. Fourteen feet long, made of faux birch and catskin, with a boid skull lashed to its bow. A small craft that had served him well. It would be easy to raise the mast and unfurl the sail once more; a good breeze was coming from the west, and he still had enough food and water to last a while longer. He’d learned how to live with this planet. He could take his time returning home. If he returned home…
“Carlos, listen.” The captain’s voice had become urgent. “Just leave your antenna open and the phone switched on. We can find your current position from your uplink and send a shuttle out to get you. Two hours, and you’ll be home…”
There was still much left to be learned. Yet, hadn’t he learned enough already? And what’s the point of knowledge if you don’t use it?
“Do you copy? Carlos, answer me, please.”
“I copy.” He let out his breath. “Will do. Tell Wendy I’m on my way.”
Being careful not to switch off, he placed the satphone on top of his pack, then reached forward to pick up a flask. He took a long drink of tepid water, spit it out, then splashed some on his face. No more need to conserve. He’d have to abandon the Orion once the shuttle arrived, along with everything else he couldn’t carry. A shame, but it couldn’t be helped.
Carlos crawled to the bow. He untied the boid skull and put it aside, gathered up his map and stuck it in his bag. Then, taking off his shirt and wadding it behind his head, he lay back against the sailboard and idly studied the birds as he watched for the shuttle.
His family was waiting for him. It was a good day to go home.
Part Eight
GLORIOUS DESTINY
Liberty: Zamael, Gabriel 16, C.Y. 3 / 1906
The comet had appeared a couple of weeks earlier, in the last few days of Hanael before the winter solstice that marked the end of the Coyote year. At first it was little more than a hazy white splotch that hovered just above the southeastern horizon after sundown, and no one in Liberty
paid much attention to it until its nimbus grew brighter and a distinct tail began to form. Eighteen nights later, its luminescence was rivaled only by Bear, until the superjovian rose high enough to eclipse the comet that it couldn’t be seen again until it made a brief reappearance in the northwestern sky a couple of hours before dawn.
Like everyone else in Liberty, Robert Lee noticed the comet; lately, though, he’s given it little more than a passing glance. As chairman of the Town Council, other matters rank higher on his list of priorities. The last of the autumn crops are in, and although the colony won’t have to worry about food shortages this winter, swampers discovered the corn stored in one of the silos shortly before they went into hibernation; the tunnels they’d dug beneath the refurbished Alabama cargo module threaten to undermine its foundation and eventually topple it. Two more colonists have come down with ring disease; it isn’t contagious and easily treated with antibiotics, but Kuniko Okada has privately warned him that the drug supply is running dangerously low. One of the aerostats was toppled two weeks ago by a severe windstorm; if it’s not rebuilt soon, the Council will have to start rationing electrical power.
And then there’s the storm that’s been forming a few hundred miles east of the Meridian Sea, slowly gathering force as it creeps eastward along the Great Equatorial River. It’s still on the other side of the planet, so it’s possible that it might die off, but if it doesn’t, it’ll soon circle the globe until it rips across the southern plains of Great Dakota and slams straight into New Florida.
Tonight, though, the sky is clear: no clouds, no wind, the stars serene in their crystalline beauty. As Lee marches across the light snow covering the frozen mud of Main Street, he spots a small group of people gathered outside the grange. They’ve built a small fire within a garbage barrel and clustered around it to keep warm, yet their eyes are turned upward. It’s not hard to figure out what they’re watching.
“Evening, folks,” he says. “Comet keeping you busy?”
Everyone looks around. Smiles, murmured greetings: “Evening, Mr. Mayor,” “Hi, Captain,” “Hello, Robert,” and so forth. Now he can make out individual faces, shadowed by the parka hoods and downturned cap bills: Jack Dreyfus, Henry Johnson, Kim Newell, and Tom Shapiro. Tom, Jack, and Kim are former Alabama crew members, of course, while Henry was once a civilian scientist, yet people seldom make such distinctions anymore. Lee’s the only person anyone still addresses by his former rank, and then only out of habit.
There’s a child among them: Marie Montero, almost nine. No doubt there are other kids inside, but she’s always been shy, preferring the company of Tom and Kim, her adoptive parents. It seems as if ages have passed since Tom was Alabama’s first officer and Kim was a Liberty Party loyalist who had to be held at gunpoint while the ship was being stolen from Highgate; now they’re married, and the bulge beneath Kim’s parka shows that it won’t be much longer before they add another member to their family.
“Looked at it lately, Mr. Mayor?” This from Jack Dreyfus, standing on the other side of the barrel. “We’re trying to figure it out.”
“Looks like a horn!” Marie proclaims. “A big friggin’ horn!”
“Marie! Language!” Kim gives the child an admonishing glare, then looks at Tom. “She’s spending too much time with grown-ups. Look what she’s picking up.”
“Yup,” Tom mutters, “helluva shame.” Chuckles from all around, but Lee barely hears this as he gazes up at the sky.
The comet’s tail is very long now, stretching almost halfway to the edge of Bear’s rings as the giant planet slowly rises above the horizon. Yet it doesn’t taper down to a point, the way a comet’s tail normally would, but fans outward instead, forming an elongated cone as seen from profile. Beautiful, yet discomforting in its strangeness.
“Y’know, she’s right,” Jack says. “Kind of looks like a trumpet.” He grins. “Gabriel’s Trumpet. Good name, kid.”
Marie blushes, hides behind Tom. “Beats hell out of me.” Henry murmurs. “Sorry, guys, but I can’t figure this one out.”
“What do you mean?” Lee asks. Before he turned to farming, Henry Johnson was an astrophysicist. If anyone should be an expert on comets, it would be he.
“Well, for one thing, the tail’s going in the wrong direction.” He points to the comet. “Shouldn’t be doing that. Solar wind from Uma would be blowing dust off the nucleus, sure, but away from the sun, not toward it. And spreading it out like that…?” He shakes his head. “Might happen it the dust is being deflected by Bear’s magnetosphere…but if that’s the case, then it’s a lot closer than we think.”
“It’s not going to hit us, is it?” Kim’s voice is low, concerned.
“Oh, I doubt that. Bear’s gravity will probably pull it in long before it comes close enough to be any sort of threat. One of the benefits of having a gas giant for a neighbor…sort of a huge vacuum sweeper for comets and rogue asteroids.” Henry gives the others a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. We’re just going to have a light show for another week or so.”
The group laughs, albeit nervously, and shuffles their feet in the snow. “Well, have fun,” Lee says, and ruffles Marie’s hair as he walks past. “Don’t stay out too long, or you’ll catch cold.”
The little girl favors him with the salute she’s seen her guardians and other former crewmen give him on occasion. Lee dutifully responds in kind; even after nearly four Earth-years on Coyote, he’s still regarded as captain by most people. He supposes he should be honored, although he prefers to think of himself as an elected public official rather than a commanding officer.
He opens the heavy front door, steps into the foyer, takes a minute to remove his parka and hang it next to the other coats and jackets. Warm air rushes across his face as he opens the inside door; someone has stoked a fire in the woodstove, and the meeting hall is nice and toasty. The grange has become the center of Liberty’s social life, particularly during the long months of winter. There are probably a dozen or so people hanging out at Lew’s Cantina; every so often Lee will spend an evening there himself, but generally he prefers the more placid ambiance of the grange.
Chairs have been pushed aside to make room for card tables; there are a couple of bridge games going on, but a few people are also playing chess or backgammon, and some of the younger children are huddled around a Parcheesi board. Dogs lounge on the blackwood floor, showing only slight interest in the mama cat nursing her kittens in a nearby box. A platter of home-fried potato chips and onion dip has been laid out on the side table beneath a watercolor painting of the Alabama; a pot of coffee stays warm on the stove in the center of the room, itself fashioned from an old oxygen cell salvaged from one of the habitat modules.
And there’s music. A three-man jug band—the Crab Suckers, a private joke no one else understands—is on the raised platform at the front of the room, where the Council usually sits when the monthly town meeting is in session. With the exception of Ted LeMare’s antique Hammond harmonica, brought with him from Earth, their instruments were handmade by Paul Dwyer, the bassist, and their repertoire mainly consists of twentieth-century blues and country standards. But they’ve been working out some original material lately; as Lee walks in, Barry Dreyfus, Jack’s boy, is singing:
Catwhale, stay away from me.
Catwhale, stay away from me.
Just lost in your river, can’t you see?
Catwhale, stay away from me…
Not quite up the standards of Barry’s idol Robert Johnson, but for homespun music it isn’t bad. Lee helps himself to a mug of black coffee and reflects upon the circumstances that inspired the song. Barry had been one of the members of the ill-fated Montero Expedition; that considering the fact that one of his friends was killed by a catwhale, the lyrics are strangely lighthearted. Perhaps black humor is Barry’s way of dealing with David Levin’s death.
Catwhale, don’t eat me.
Catwhale, don’t eat me.
There’s a lot of other fish you
can have for free.
Mr. Catwhale, don’t eat me…puh-lease!
Morbid, yes, yet then Lee notices Wendy Gunther sitting nearby. Her legs crossed, her left toe tapping the floor beneath her long catskin skirt, as she bounces baby Susan on her knee. Wendy’s another member of the expedition; the last line of Barry’s song refers to her near-death experience, but if she thinks it’s in bad taste, there’s no indication. Susan smiles in delight, babbles something that might be a compliment.
We’ve raised a tough generation, Lee thinks. Almost four Earth-years here, and the kids are hard as nails.
He can’t decide whether he likes that notion or not. Wendy’s just turned eighteen, yet not only is she now a mother, but in the last election she managed to get herself voted onto the Town Council, replacing Sissy Levin when she unexpectedly resigned. Wendy ran for office on the platform that Liberty’s younger generation needed a voice in the colony government, and since then she’s carried out her responsibilities well. Lee can’t complain about her performance, yet whenever he sees her, he feels a twinge of long-suppressed guilt. Her father…
Enough. There’s another reason why he’s ventured out into the cold Gabriel night. Taking his coffee mug with him, he crosses the hall, briefly nodding or waving to everyone whose eye he meets, until he reaches a door off to one side of the room.
A narrow corridor takes him past the Council meeting room, the armory, and the records room. His office door’s shut, but there’s light under the crack; he hears Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata from within. He quietly opens the door, steps inside. Dana Monroe is seated at his blackwood desk, studying the screen of his comp; she doesn’t look up as he comes up behind her, but smiles as he leans over to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Wondering when you’d get here,” she murmurs. “What took you so long?”