Coyote

by Allen Steele

  “That’s absurd!” Naomi snaps.

  “I know…but try explaining that to them.” Lee holds up a hand before he can be interrupted again. “Even if she’s willing to keep her crew in biostasis for another few months, that only forestalls the situation. Liberty will have ten times as many people as we do now…”

  “So let ’em build their own colony,” Ted LeMare calls out. “We’ve spent three and half Earth-years learning how to live here…why can’t they?”

  Lee’s about to answer, but then Dana stands up from the first row. “For the record, I agree. Apparently they’re expecting happy natives throwing out the red carpet. The Matriarch doesn’t know what we’ve been through to get to where we are now…”

  “Then tell ’em to go somewhere else!” someone shouts from the back of the room.

  “You don’t understand.” Dana shakes her head. “Their ship…I mean, it’s nearly three times the size of the Alabama. By sheer force of numbers alone, they can overwhelm us. Not only that, but their level of technology is over two hundred years in advance of ours. If…when…they start coming down, I don’t know how we’re going to be able to resist them.”

  From the first row, Jean Swenson raises her. Grateful that someone is abiding by parliamentary procedure, Lee points to her, and she stands. “I thought the Council decided to keep our location a secret,” she says. “When did that change?”

  “It was indeed the Council’s decision to keep secret Liberty’s whereabouts for as long as possible.” Lee hesitates. “Unfortunately, that’s no longer an option. Last night, an unauthorized radio transmission was made to the Glorious Destiny by a certain individual, during which he revealed our latitude and longitude…”

  Angry whispers. “Who the hell…?” Patrick starts.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t wish to discuss that.” Lee looks pained. “That person has been detained, and once this meeting is adjourned the Council will decide what measures should be taken.”

  Carlos glances toward where Sissy Levin is seated near the back of the room. He’d already heard about Chris. His mother sits alone, her hands folded together in her lap; her face is neutral, expressing no shame or remorse. Perhaps she believes that what Chris did was right…

  “At this point,” Lee continues, “casting blame serves no real purpose. I don’t think we could have kept our location secret for very much longer. Inevitably, they would have found us. The more important issue is what do we do when they arrive.”

  “When do you think they’re coming?” Kim Newell says. Carlos sees that his sister Marie is sitting in her lap. “If we can expect them at any minute…”

  “Fortunately, it won’t be that soon.” Lee forces a grim smile. “For one thing, the Matriarch told me that most of her crew is still in biostasis. Only herself and the…um, Savants, whom I’ve told you about…are presently awake. I think we can reasonably expect that it’ll take some time for them to revive a sufficient number of their passengers to form a landing party. For another, the winter storm we’ve been tracking over the past few days is definitely headed our way. Once it hits…probably two nights from now…it’ll be impossible for any of their shuttles to land, or at least until it blows over. So I guess this will give us a lead time of…”

  He pauses. “Three, maybe four days. Then I think they’ll start arriving.”

  An uneasy silence falls across the room. No one says anything, and Carlos can tell that it’s all beginning to sink in. Lee waits a moment, then goes on. “So far as I can tell,” he says, “we’ve only got two choices. First, we attempt to negotiate with the Matriarch. Try to make her understand that we’re unable to feed and shelter a thousand more settlers, or at least until springtime when we’re able to plant crops…”

  “Okay, so what then?” Paul Dwyer says. “These people probably don’t have any more of a clue as to how to support themselves than we did when we first got here. Which means that they’re going to be dependent upon us…”

  “And so we’re supposed to feed and provide shelter for a bunch of unwelcome guests?” someone else asks.

  “Hell with that.” Lew Geary crosses his arms. “If I wanted to live that way, I would’ve stayed home. At least with the Liberty Party I knew where I stood.” Scattered laughter from around the room, and he nods. “This…what d’ya call it?…social collectivism sounds like the same crap we left behind, just with a different name.”

  Applause, even from those who were once Party members. Gazing around the room, Carlos marvels at how much these people have changed. Less than a year and a half ago by Coyote reckoning, the colony had been divided between those who had once sworn allegiance to the URA and those who’d fled from the Republic. Yet together they’d endured the extremes of climate, suffered through deprivation and loss, overcome hardships that might have broken lesser men and women. Any differences they once had were now forgotten, or at least rendered trivial; deep down, they’d found something within themselves that many of them probably didn’t know was there: a spirit unwilling to surrender to anyone or anything.

  Freedom does that to people, he realizes. Once you’ve tasted it, you never want to let go. But how much would they be willing to sacrifice to remain free?

  “All right then,” Lee says, “then that leaves us with our second option…we resist. Fight back. Don’t let them set foot in Liberty.”

  Again, the room becomes quiet. Ron Schmidt, the chief of the blueshirts, clears his throat as he raises his hand. Lee acknowledges him, and the former URS sergeant stands up. “The armory contains two long-range mortars, twenty-five carbines, and twelve sidearms, along with the twelve automatic machine guns that comprise our periphery defense system,” he drawls. “During our last inventory, my people counted forty mortar shells, 362 rounds of .38-caliber parabellum ammo, 202 fléchettes…and, before I forget, ten longbows and eighty-two arrows.”

  The last might have been intended as a joke, but no one laughs. Carlos winces a bit; he fashioned those bows and arrows himself, and has trained the blueshirts in their usage. But never to be used against other people. “Mr. Mayor,” Schmidt continues, “in my opinion, we have sufficient materiel to deal with boids and creek cats, but not a determined and well-armed expeditionary force. If someone seriously wants to take Liberty, they could do so within two or three days, even if we were determined to fight to the last man.” He hesitates. “That is, if anyone cares to open fire on another human being. That’s a matter you’d have to decide for yourselves.”

  There’s an uncertain rumble through the room as Schmidt sits down. “Thanks, Ron, for your report,” Lee says. “I appreciate your assessment.” He glances at the rest of the Council members, who’ve become ashen. “The chief has a point. Are we willing to go to war to protect ourselves? Is that a step we’re ready to take?”

  Voices are already rising—argument, counterargument—yet Carlos suddenly doesn’t hear them, for in that instant, something flashes through his mind.

  Not so much an idea as a memory: a mural painted upon the walls of the Alabama’s ring corridor…Prince Rupurt, leading a procession of friends and allies across a mountain valley, taking them away from the forces that threatened to destroy them.

  Without fully knowing what he’s doing, Carlos turns to Naomi. “Would you hold Susan for a minute?”

  Surprised, Naomi nods, gently takes Susan from his arms. Carlos hesitates, then raises a hand. “Pardon me…Mr. Mayor?” he calls out. “Mr. Mayor, may I speak, please?”

  For a few moments, it doesn’t seem as if Lee has heard him. Then he spots Carlos from across the room and points his way, formally acknowledging him. Wendy stares at Carlos in astonishment as he rises to his feet. Townspeople turn to gaze at him, and suddenly Carlos finds himself the center of attention. For a second, he wants to sit down again, remain silent.

  “Mr. Montero,” Lee says, “you have something to say?”

  “Yes, sir,” Carlos says. “I think…I believe there’s another alternative.”


  Raphael, Gabriel 18 / 2310

  The town stockade resembles one in name only; it’s really a windowless one-room cabin next to the Prefect barracks, originally intended to be a storehouse until it eventually became necessary to have a place that would function as a jail. Even so, it’s seldom used; very rarely does anyone cause enough trouble for the blueshirts to place them under arrest, and punishment has usually been in the form of community service rather than incarceration.

  Tony Lucchesi unlocks the front door, reaches in to turn on the light. “Levin? Wake up. You’ve got a visitor.” A moment passes, then he steps aside to let Wendy pass. “Want me to hang around?”

  “No thanks. I’ll be okay.” Chris is sitting up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He gives her a reassuring nod; whatever else happens, the last thing he’ll do is attack her. Wendy looks back at Tony, and he reluctantly shuts the door behind her. A rattle as the dead bolt is thrown.

  “Well, hello,” Chris says once they’re alone. “This is a surprise.” He gazes at the carafe in her hand. “Is that for me?”

  “Uh-huh. Thought you might be cold out here.” Wendy hands the carafe to him; he nods in gratitude, unscrews its cap. The stockade is sparsely furnished—a narrow cot, a chair, a wood-burning stove, a chamber pot in the corner—but at least it’s reasonably warm. She watches as he pours black coffee into the cap. “Also thought you might want to talk.”

  “What’s there to talk about? Caught red-handed. Guilty as charged. End of story.” He shrugs, takes a tentative sip. “Thanks for the coffee. Does the condemned man get a last meal, too?”

  “That’s not going to happen…I mean, if you think you’re going to be executed.” Wendy pulls off her shawl, takes a seat in the chair. “The Council just met in executive session. We haven’t quite decided what to do with you yet, but…well, that’s why I’m here. They want to know why you did what you did.”

  “They want to know…?”

  “I want to know.” Wendy shakes her head. “Chris, why? Why do something you knew would put everyone at risk?”

  “Oh, c’mon.” He shakes his head. “What do you think this is, high treason? If anything, I’ve saved everyone’s lives. We’re barely managed to scratch by down here. If that ship hadn’t arrived, we’d probably all be dead in another two or three years. You guys want to hide in the swamp, go ahead. Me, I think we could use whatever goodies they’ve got aboard that ship. That’s why I told ’em where we are.”

  “That sounds like self-justification.”

  He puts down the coffee, pulls the blanket off the bed, and wraps it around his shoulders. “Yeah, maybe so. Maybe I don’t know why myself.” He hesitates. “You still haven’t told me whether you think I’m a traitor.”

  She doesn’t reply. Outside, the wind has picked up once more. On the other side of the door, she can hear muffled voices: men and women moving through town. Even though it’s close to the middle of the night, there’s little time to lose. Soon the storm will be upon them, and the colony has to be ready before then.

  “I know a little about betrayal,” she says after a moment. “I learned something about my father today…something I didn’t know before. He tried to play both sides, too…his personal interests against his loyalty to the Republic. In the end, when he had to choose between one or another, he made the wrong choice, and he paid for his mistake with his life.”

  Chris peers at her. “I don’t understand. What are you…?”

  “Never mind. It’s a long story.” She shakes her head. “What I’m trying to say is, nobody ever thinks of themselves as being a traitor. Deep inside, they always believe they’re doing the right thing, even when it hurts someone else. That’s what I think my father was doing…and I think that’s why you did it, too.”

  “Sounds about right to me.”

  “You think so? You really mean it?”

  “Uh-huh.” Then he smiles. “And given a chance, I’d do it again…just the same way.”

  Again, Wendy doesn’t answer immediately. She gazes at the man—the boy, really—for whom she once felt an attraction, who might have been her partner if things had worked out differently, and feels only a certain cold pity. He sits slumped on the bed, drinking the coffee she brought him—no regret, no guilt, only misplaced contempt.

  “That’s all I wanted to hear.” She stands up. “Goodbye, Chris. I hope…I dunno. Maybe you’ll finally work things out.”

  “Goodbye?” Chris gapes at her as she turns toward the door, raps on it. “What do you mean, goodbye? Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes, I am,” Wendy says. “And where I’m going, you can’t follow.”

  Liberty: Kafziel, Gabriel 22 / 1038

  The storm has passed, the sky has cleared. Now the town lies buried beneath fourteen inches of fresh snow that has drifted high against the log walls of cabins and glazed over their windows. Icicles like slender crystal daggers drape from roof eaves, the bright morning sun causing them to drip slowly into rain barrels below. A low breeze, cold and lonesome, murmurs through the snow-covered street, rattling closed shutters, whistling past chimneys from which no woodsmoke rises.

  Wrapped in a thick blue cloak, hood raised over her head, Matriarch Hernandez stands in front of the grange hall and studies the still and silent town. Except for the handful of Union Guard soldiers making a house-to-house search, nothing moves; the snow lies thick and undisturbed save for their footprints.

  The Matriarch shudders, pulls her cloak tighter around herself. This world is much colder than she expected, its thin air difficult to breathe. Hearing a muted rumble from far above, she glances up, watches a shuttle as it races across the cloudless blue sky. Anticipating some form of resistance from the Alabama colonists, she’d instructed the second shuttle to land an hour after her own craft touched down on the outskirts of town. There are twenty armed soldiers aboard, ready to quell any rebellion, yet they aren’t necessary now.

  The town is abandoned, without life. In little more than three days, more than a hundred men, women, and children have vanished.

  “Matriarch,” a voice says from behind her. She turns, sees Savant Castro marching toward her, a stark black shadow against the whiteness. He can’t feel the wind, of course, yet somehow she imagines it biting at him through his monkish cloak.

  “What have you found?” she asks, speaking in Anglo. “Is there anyone left?”

  “Only two. A young man and his mother.” The Savant stops before her, his spindly legs almost knee deep in the snow. “We found them down the street, in what seems to be a jail. They were locked inside, although with sufficient food and water to last a few days.”

  “Locked in?” The Matriarch is puzzled. “Why would they…?”

  “He identifies himself as the one who sent us the coordinates. He says the others don’t trust him anymore and decided to leave him behind. His mother elected to stay behind on her own.”

  “I see.” The Matriarch frowns. “So they would know where the others have gone.”

  “Unfortunately, they do not. They were put in jail two days ago. No one told them anything until then.” Savant Castro points in the opposite direction. “I’ve just visited their landing pad. One of their shuttles is still here…the Mayflower, what used to be called the Wallace…but it’s little more than an empty hull. They’ve cannibalized it of every usable component…”

  “What about the other craft? Any indication of when it lifted off?”

  “The snow has covered its blast marks. That leads me to conclude that it probably departed before the storm arrived—at least two days ago.”

  Luisa Hernandez looks away, murmurs an obscenity beneath her fogged breath. Once her crew learned the location of the colony from the radio transmission they had received—apparently from the young colonist they’ve just found—shortly before Lee and his party had visited them, she tried to keep Glorious Destiny within sight of New Florida. Yet the planet rotated out of synch with her ship’s orbit, and so there were
many opportunities for a shuttle to lift off without being observed.

  “Near the river, we’ve discovered what appears to be a shed meant for watercraft,” Castro continues. “Three large boats were once stored there, along with a number of smaller ones.” When she looks at him again, he shakes his head. “They’re all gone now.”

  And then the storm hit, and for the next two days several hundred miles of Coyote’s western hemisphere had been shrouded by dense clouds. Sufficient time for the colonists to make their escape beneath the cover of the storm…

  “And their homes?” She gestures to the primitive log cabins neatly arranged along the colony’s major avenue. “Is there anything here that…?”

  “No, Matriarch,” he says, and she nods. As her scouts have already discovered, the dwellings have been stripped down to bare walls, with only window glass and the heaviest pieces of furniture left behind. Everything that couldn’t be replaced, the colonists took with them. Even electrical fixtures are gone, the wiring carefully removed from the walls and ceilings.

  “We’ve found livestock pens,” the Savant says, “but the animals are missing. The grain silos are bare as well. There’s nothing left in them.”

  Hearing this, Hernandez scowls. She’d been counting on the colony’s food supply to get her advance team through the winter, until spring arrived and the colonists could cultivate sufficient crops to support the rest of Glorious Destiny’s crew. She gazes at the ground, absently running the toe of her left boot through the snow. Her plans have been dealt a severe setback; she wonders what she might have said or done that gave Captain Lee some warning of her ambitions.