Coyote

by Allen Steele

  “Probably to boost the ship to sufficient velocity so that the field would take effect, and to slow it down again once it reaches…”

  “That’s all very interesting,” Lee interrupts, impatient with the discussion, “but you haven’t told me one thing…how fast would it go?”

  “I don’t know. How fast do you want it to go?” Henry shrugs. “I don’t mean to sound facetious, but in theory a diametric drive could accelerate a ship to within a few percentiles of light-speed.”

  “If that’s the case…” Jud doesn’t finish the thought, nor does he have to. If Glorious Destiny traveled to 47 Ursae Majoris at velocities approaching the speed of light, then it could have been launched from Earth within the last fifty years.

  By now the starship fills the cockpit windows. Jud has matched velocity with the giant vessel; now he’s carefully moving in. “There’s our docking port,” he murmurs, not taking his hands off the yoke as he gently maneuvers the shuttle upside down toward a rectangular superstructure rising between a couple of flanges; a red beacon strobes next to a docking collar. “Looks easy enough.”

  “Sure.” For the moment, Lee’s distracted by something else: halfway down the cylindrical hull, just below the rows of portholes, he’s noticed what appears to be closed pair of double doors, large enough for a shuttle to fly through. A quarter of the way around the hull, he spots an identical hatch.

  Shuttle hangars? More than likely…and if there are more than just these two, then Glorious Destiny must be carrying at least four landing craft, each possibly the size of the Plymouth.

  How many people are aboard this thing? He snatches his mind away from this thought, focuses on the task of helping Jud guide the shuttle in for docking. Shifting his eyes between the radar screen and the windows, he calls out numbers while Jud moves the yoke a few fractions of an inch at a time, easing the shuttle toward the docking collar. At last there’s a hard thump as Plymouth’s dorsal hatch mates with the ship.

  “We’re here.” Jud’s hands move across the instrument panel, putting the engines on standby. He checks a screen, gives Lee a nod. “Docking probe shows equal pressure on both sides. You should be able to go right in.”

  Lee unlatches his shoulder harness while Jud remains in his seat; the pilot’s remaining behind to prevent anyone from coming aboard during their absence. Lee turns to the others. “We can get out of our flight gear now. Ellery put some old Alabama jumpsuits aboard before we left…they’re stowed in the lockers in the back of the passenger compartment. We’ll take a few minutes to change before we pop the hatch.”

  Henry and Wendy sigh with relief; they’re not used to wearing space suits, and leaving them behind would be a blessing. Before they turn to leave the cockpit, though, Lee holds up a hand. “Just a second…let’s get one thing clear before we go in. We don’t know who we’re dealing with, so let me do the talking. Is that all right with you?”

  Henry nods reluctantly, but Wendy is less sanguine. “How are we supposed to learn anything if we can’t ask questions?”

  “Ask all the questions you want,” Lee replies. “I hope you do, in fact. But these people are going to have some questions of their own, and for the time being I’d prefer to be the only one who gives them answers. Understood?”

  She slowly nods, and Lee gives her a reassuring smile. “All right, then. Let’s go meet the new neighbors.”

  Liberty: Raphael, Gabriel 18 / 0052

  The night is colder than it has any right to be. Heavy clouds hide Bear from sight; a brutal wind moans through town, blowing newfallen snow off rooftops, causing shutters to clatter softly against window frames. The town is dark; everyone has gone to bed.

  Almost everyone. Hood pulled up around his head, scarf tied across his nose and mouth, Tony Lucchesi stamps through the snow, gloved hand griping the shoulder strap of his rifle. Tough luck to have drawn the graveyard shift; it was originally Boone’s turn, but since he came down with a bad cold earlier today, Chief Schmidt picked Tony to take his place on the night watch.

  Not that it’s necessary to have anyone on patrol after midnight this time of year. The boids migrated south months ago, the swampers have gone into hibernation within the ball plants, and even the creek cats know better than to come out on a night like this. But the Town Council, in its infinite wisdom, has ordained that the blueshirts keep someone on duty twenty-seven hours a day, nine days a week. Like it’s really necessary.

  Tony’s tempted to return to the Prefect barracks, curl up in a chair beside the stove, and steal a few hours of shut-eye before the sun comes up. A former URS soldier, though, he’s one of Gill Reese’s men; the colonel may be long dead, but his ghost still haunts the grunts who once served under him, and Gill would have kicked the ass of anyone caught sleeping on guard duty. So Tony staggers down Main Street and hopes the barracks coffee is still warm by the time he completes his hourly swing through town.

  Tony reaches the grange and is about to turn and head back the other way when he notices something odd: a faint blue light, glowing between the cracks of the shutters of one of the rear windows. That would be the comp in the mayor’s office; he’s seen it before, when either Lee or Monroe were working late. Both of them are gone, though, so no one should be in there, least of all at this ungodly hour.

  Damn. One of them must have left the comp switched on. A minor thing, really, but since the aerostat went down last month, everyone’s been urged to conserve electricity. So Tony mutters an obscenity into his scarf as he tramps up the front steps of the grange…

  And finds something else unusual: the front door, normally shut by this time, is slightly ajar, as if the wind has blown it open. With the exception of the armory and the mess hall kitchen, there are no locks on any of doors of Liberty’s public places, simply because there’s no need for them. Theft is almost nonexistent within the colony—why steal anything when you can have it merely by asking?—and locks themselves are a valuable commodity. And the last person to leave the grange at night always shuts the door behind them…

  Tony’s training takes over; he’s no longer a blueshirt performing a thankless task, but a URS soldier making a sweep. Pulling his rifle from his shoulder, he flicks off the safety and switches on the infrared range finder, then lowers the monocle from his head strap. Carefully pushing open the door, he steps into the foyer, quietly closing the door behind him. Noting the empty coathooks, he unlatches the inside door and tiptoes into the meeting hall.

  He raises the rifle to eye level, uses its infrared beam to guide him through the dark hall. The door leading to the offices in the back of the building is open; he peers around the corner, sees the blue glow coming from beneath the door of Captain Lee’s office. The door is shut, but he can make out a soft clatter of someone typing at a keyboard.

  One step at a time, Tony inches down the corridor, back pressed against the wall, rifle at waist level. As he reaches the door, a floorboard creaks beneath his boot. He stops, holds his breath. Unseen hands pause at the keyboard; for a few seconds all Tony can hear is the hollow groan of the wind. Then once again the typing resumes.

  Tony lays his left hand on the doorknob. He counts to three, then throws open the door. “Freeze!” he yells, bringing the rifle up into firing position. “Don’t move!”

  Startled, the figure silhouetted against the comp screen whips around. “I said don’t move!” Tony snaps. “Stay right there!”

  “Okay, okay! Don’t shoot!” The voice is young, male, badly frightened; he raises his hands slightly, and now Tony sees he’s still wearing a parka. “I give up, all right?”

  “Good. Keep it that way.” Switching his grip on the rifle, Tony fumbles along the wall next to the door until he locates the light switch. The ceiling panel flashes on, and Tony tries not to wince in the sudden glare.

  Chris Levin is seated at the mayor’s desk, his eyes wide with fear. Tony dislikes Levin; a couple of months ago he hauled the kid down to the stockade after he took a poke at Carlos Montero
, and he’s been on the perp list for one thing or another ever since, usually drunk and disorderly. Breaking and entering is a new low, though.

  “What are you doing here?” Tony doesn’t lower the rifle even though it’s clear that Chris is unarmed.

  “Tony, man, take it easy. I just wanted to use the comp, that’s all. My pad fried out, and I just…”

  Chris starts to rise, and as he does so his right hand drifts to the keyboard. “I told you to freeze,” Tony says, “and I meant it. Now put on your hands on your head.” Chris obediently folds them atop his skull. “Now step away from the desk…easy does it.”

  “C’mon.” Chris assays a smile that trembles at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry if I…I mean, y’know, it’s a mistake. Nothing to get worked up about.”

  For a moment, Tony’s inclined to agree. The kid sneaks into the mayor’s office after midnight to steal some comp time. No reason to put him under arrest; just send him home and enter the incident in the logbook once he returns to the barracks. Tony’s almost ready to lower his rifle when he happens to glance at the comp.

  On the upper half of the screen is a schematic image of Coyote, with spots depicting the positions of the three spacecraft orbiting around it: Alabama on one side of the planet, Plymouth and Glorious Destiny on the other. A real-time display of the positions of all three ships. Glorious Destiny and Plymouth are nearly on top of one another, and both are almost directly above New Florida.

  A dotted line leads from Liberty to Glorious Destiny. As Tony watches, it moves to track the Earth ship across the sky. And now he sees the highlighted bar separating the upper and lower halves of the screen—GROUND TELEMETRY LINK—and below it, several lines of script. From this distance, he can’t make out the print, yet he can discern what looks like latitude and longitude numbers.

  Tony feels a cold pulse at his temples. He’s heard the standing order: no further radio contact with the Earth ship until Plymouth returns. Oh, Christ! He couldn’t have…!

  “On the floor, Levin! Now!”

  “I’m telling you, it’s…!”

  “Shut up and do what I say! On the deck!”

  Chris throws himself to the floor, his hands still locked together on his head. Tony kicks aside the chair, keeps the gun barrel centered on his back. He reaches into his parka, pulls out the com unit, presses the pound key and the digit two, raises it to his ear.

  “Chief, it’s night watch. Tony. I’m at the grange, in the mayor’s office. Get down here, we’ve got a problem.” Tony looks again at the screen. “Better wake up Tom Shapiro, too. It’s serious.”

  WHSS GLORIOUS DESTINY: Raphael, Gabriel 18 / 0102

  The inner airlock hatch cycles open, revealing a compartment not much different from the ready room of the Alabama. Someone’s waiting for them: six feet tall, wearing a long black cloak with a raised cowl, standing on what first appears to be the room’s far wall until Lee reorients himself and sees that it’s actually the floor.

  “Welcome aboard.” The voice has a slight electronic burr to it, but it’s not until the figure raises a skeletal metal hand from beneath its cloak that Lee realizes it belongs to a robot. Glass eyes the color of rubies peer at him from a skull-like face; it motions toward elastic foot restraints arranged along the floor. “We’ll soon be rephasing the ship’s local field,” it continues. “The transition will be gradual, of course, but we don’t wish you to be harmed in the meantime.”

  Now Lee recognizes the voice as same one they heard during the original radio transmission. “Thank you,” he says, pushing himself over to the nearest stirrups; behind him, Dana, Henry, and Wendy have floated into the compartment. “I take it your ship has…ah, artificial gravity of some sort.”

  “Artificial gravity?” Unexpectedly, dry laughter emerges from its mouth grill. “I suppose you could call it that. We refer to it as a Millis-Clement Field, but artificial gravity will do. We dephased it to facilitate docking procedures.” The figure’s other hand appears, holding a plastic bag. “Put these on, please. You’ll be subjected to a brief period of ultraviolet radiation, for purposes of decontamination.”

  Lee takes the bag, opens it, pulls out a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Obviously meant to protect their eyes. “I assure you, we’re not carrying any dangerous microorganisms.”

  “You’re probably not. I apologize if you’re offended. Merely a precaution.” Again, the eerie laugh. “Besides, it’ll give us a chance to talk before you meet Matriarch Hernandez.”

  “No offense taken. We understand.” Lee puts on the glasses, passes the bag to Dana. She and the others have already fitted their feet into the stirrups; now it looks as if everyone is standing on the wall. “I’m Robert E. Lee, commanding officer of the…”

  “Of course I recognize you, Captain Lee. I’ve thoroughly studied the Alabama incident…something of an interest of mine. It’s quite an honor to meet you, sir.” Its right hand comes up, palm open. “I’m Savant Manuel Castro…please, call me Manny.”

  Lee clasps the steel hand, finds its grasp remarkably gentle. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Doesn’t sound much like a ’bot,” Wendy murmurs.

  Manny’s head makes an audible click as it turns in her direction. “What makes you think I’m a robot?”

  Her eyes widen, but before she can say anything a loud gong reverberates through the compartment. “That’s the thirty-second warning,” Manny says. “Everyone, please put on your glasses and make sure your feet are secure. There are handrails behind you if you need them. This won’t last long, I promise.”

  The ceiling panels grow brighter, emitting a bright blue hue. Lee feels the soles of his shoes gradually settle against the floor. “You said…” Henry begins, then stops to grab the railing behind him. “You mean you’re not a ’bot?”

  “Strictly speaking, no. Old English terms for my condition would be android or perhaps cyborg, but even those are inadequate. Technically speaking, I’m a posthuman…a human intelligence transferred into a mechanistic form. A Savant. Until seventy-eight years ago, my body was flesh and blood, but then…” A pause. “Let’s just say that I opted for a longer lifespan.”

  “Is…uh, everyone aboard ship like you?” An expression of horror on Dana’s face.

  “Forgive me. This must be a shock to you. No, not everyone aboard is mechanistic. In fact, only ten of us are Savants. The rest are baseline homo sapiens, just like you, although most are still in biostasis. My fellow Savants and I remained awake during the voyage.”

  “Tell us about your ship, please,” Lee says. “It’s quite impressive.”

  “Thank you.” Manny nods, an oddly human gesture. “We’re quite proud of it. The full name is Seeking Glorious Destiny among the Stars for the Greater Good of Social Collectivism…Glorious Destiny, for short. It was constructed in lunar orbit by the Western Hemisphere Union, a federation of twenty-one provinces in North and South America formed in 2096 by the Treaty of Havana, and it was launched from lunar orbit on June 16, 2256.”

  “That’s…” Dana mentally calculates. “Forty-eight years ago.”

  “Forty-eight years, nine months, two weeks, and three days, including the three weeks it took for the ship to accelerate to cruise velocity and three more weeks for deceleration. Of course, since we traveled here at 95 percent light-speed, according to the ship’s internal clock it seems as if only fifteen years, six months, and three days, have gone by, which means that by our reckoning it’s April 2, 2272…which means we’ve arrived about twenty-nine years before the Alabama. Makes sense, yes?”

  Lee manages a wan smile. “We threw out the Gregorian calendar a long time ago. I take it your…ah, field…is what allowed you to achieve sublight velocity.”

  “The Millis-Clement Field is a manifestation of our diametric drive, yes,” Manny replies, and Lee notes the smug look on Henry’s face; his deduction turned out to be correct. “The Matriarch will give you a detailed synopsis of our means of propulsion, if you wish.”


  Lee feels heavier; the sensation of weight, denied while aboard Plymouth, is slowly returning to him. “I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable,” Manny says. “Sit down if it makes you feel better…you shouldn’t need the foot restraints now. Captain Lee, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the rest of your party. Is it too late for introductions?”

  “Not at all.” Lee turns to the others. “This is Dana Monroe…”

  “Ah, yes…Alabama’s chief engineer. History records that you were one of those who instigated the takeover. A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  If Dana is flattered, she keeps it to herself; she gives Manny a distrustful nod. “And this is Dr. Henry Johnson,” Lee continues. “Astrophysicist, a civilian passenger…”

  “I believe you were one of the so-called dissident intellectuals involved in the conspiracy. An honor to meet you, too, sir.” Clearly pleased by the notoriety, Henry grins, takes a short bow.

  “And finally, Wendy Gunther, a member of our colony’s Town Council…”

  “Wendy Gunther.” A slight pause as Manny regards her with his strange eyes. “Oh, but of course…one of the children who was aboard. You’re a bit older now.”

  “You could say that.” Wendy has pulled out her pad, set it to voice-record mode; she scarcely glances up at him. “Last time I checked, I was 249 years old.”

  Again, the weird laugh. “I must say, you don’t look a day over eighteen.”

  “Nineteen, actually, but who’s counting?” Wendy smiles.

  “A pleasure to meet you, particularly considering your father’s role in the hijacking.”

  Oh my God, Lee thinks, he knows…

  “What do you mean?” Wendy looks up sharply, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “My father wasn’t part of the conspiracy. He was a Party loyalist…a life-support engineer.”

  “You speak of him in past tense. I take it he’s no longer alive.”

  “He was killed in an accident, just after Alabama arrived. What do you…?”