by Allen Steele
The reason for the second, though, was largely due to tradition. Since the time of the original Alabama colonists, it had been a long-standing practice not to name a place until someone actually set foot there. There were exceptions, of course: the subcontinents of Great Dakota, Medsylvania, Hammerhead, Highland, and Vulcan were christened before anyone visited them, but that was because of their proximity to New Florida and Midland. Likewise, the four major volcanoes—Mt. Bonestell, Mt. Pesek, Mt. Hardy, and Mt. Eggleton—had been named after astronomical artists of the twentieth century, although it had been forgotten who had done this. For the most part, though, the rest of Coyote was a blank slate in terms of nomenclature; the only means of identifying most of the world’s surface features was a system of alphanumeric codes based on their map location. SW2, for example, designated a landmass somewhere southwest of the meridian.
Now that preparations were being made for the first circumnavigation of the Great Equatorial River, though, it was decided that the global map needed to be updated, with the remaining territories finally given proper names. One proposal was to continue the practice of honoring the original colonists or their benefactors by naming places after them. That was immediately rejected by the commission; while no one argued that people like Robert Lee or Tom Shapiro shouldn’t have been memorialized, how many more places should be christened after Coyote’s first human inhabitants before it became absurd? By much the same token, nor did the commission wish to allow expedition members the opportunity to bestow their own names upon newly discovered subcontinents or islands; as a compromise, they’d be given the right to name rivers or channels, so long as it wasn’t after themselves. Likewise—although it went unsaid except in private meetings—no one wanted to give the ExEx’s major benefactor the privilege of having Morganland or Janus Island added to the map; Morgan Goldstein might be underwriting the expedition, but his ego didn’t need to be assuaged in such a crass way.
After considerable debate, the group eventually decided that the most appropriate course of action would be to follow the pattern established by the original discoverers of the 47 Ursae Majoris system, way back in the twenty-first century, and use names derived from Native American culture. Just as Uma’s planets and satellites had been given the names of Southwest Indian deities, the remaining major continents and subcontinents of Coyote would be christened after tribes and nations of both North and South America, with individual islands and major channels given the names of prominent historical figures.
And so, on Gabriel 1, c.y. 17, a revised map of Coyote was unveiled. East of Vulcan lay major landmasses with names like Cherokee, Pequot, Mohawk, and Huron, along with smaller islands such as Massasoit, Pocahontas, and Squanto, while to the west of Great Dakota were places such as Navajo, Apache, Sioux, and Comanche, with islands bearing names like Narabo, Geronimo, and Sacagawea. In the northernmost regions were lands like Aleut, Inuit, and Snohomish; south of the equator lay places such as Aztec, Maya, and Pueblo, with the south polar cap located on the massive continent of Inca. There were a few objections, of course—many European immigrants argued that English, French, and Spanish explorers of the Americas should have been honored as well—but most of Coyote’s inhabitants accepted the new map without complaint.
This is a roundabout way of explaining why, as the LeMare sailed eastward along the Great Equatorial River, many of us aboard became fond of saying that we were heading into Indian country. For the first week of the journey, we saw only the southern coast of Midland and, just past the Midland Channel, Barren Isle. Both places had already been explored, though, so few specimens were collected; we went ashore only to replenish our freshwater supplies from streams and rivers. Yet as we entered the Meridian Sea, we came to realize that we were getting close to the real beginning of our expedition; once past the Archipelago, the LeMare would be entering uncharted waters.
The Meridian Sea is the broadest part of the Great Equatorial River, so wide that its nearest southern shore, on Iroquois, is over a hundred miles from Barren Isle. As we approached the archipelago, we saw catwhales breaching the surface, mammoth creatures that could have rammed and even capsized the LeMare if they’d had a mind to do so. Yet they kept their distance, and everyone breathed a little easier when we couldn’t see them any longer.
The LeMare anchored off the southeast coast of Barren Isle as, over the course of the next two days, Carlos led a couple of zoologists to the archipelago, where they studied the migrational nesting grounds of sea-swoops. I joined them on the first of the sorties as a boat pilot; from the back of the tender, I carefully steered between the enormous, pillar-like massifs that make up the string of islets, ready to pick up the rifle resting between my knees to ward off the birds in case they decided to defend their nests. But Carlos had been there before, many years ago when he was a young man, and he knew better than to get too close to any of the massifs. He asked me to throttle down the engine and told everyone to keep their voices low. Thus we remained unmolested as we observed great flocks of broad-winged birds pinwheeling around the massifs in endless gyrations, their ragged cries echoing among the stone columns.
On the second day in the Meridian Sea, a bird of a different feather came to visit us: a gyro from Ft. Lopez, carrying in last-minute supplies. The Colonial Militia base on Hammerhead, just northeast of Barren Isle, was the Federation’s most remote outpost. Established on the site of a Union Guard fortress that had been destroyed during the Revolution, it served the settlements along the northern coast of Midland.
The gyro touched down on Barren Isle, careful to land on the beach, where it wouldn’t disturb the chirreep colonies farther inland. Once it landed, we lowered a tender and sent it over to collect the crates of food that had been sent earlier from New Boston. It was only a brief rendezvous, but everyone was all too aware that it would be our last contact with civilization for some time to come. Still, if the ExEx ran into any serious trouble, it was comforting to know that Ft. Lopez would be able to dispatch a rescue mission…or at least until we reached Pocahontas, at which point we would be beyond range of their aircraft.
The following morning, Jon ordered the sails to be set, and by midday, the LeMare was sailing north of the Archipelago, a steady ten-knot wind taking us toward the confluence of Short River and the Highland Channel. It wasn’t long before we began to make out, rising above the horizon, the immense cone of Mt. Pesek, the vast shield volcano that comprised the continent of Vulcan. By the time we dropped anchor off the southern tip of Hammerhead, the volcano was towering before us, its snowcapped summit so high above sea level that it was hidden by low clouds; if anyone ever dared to climb it, they’d have to bring their own oxygen.
Nonetheless, something lived up there. As we approached Vulcan, we occasionally spotted birds circling the volcano just below the tree line. The zoologists attempted to study them through binoculars, yet except for only fleeting glimpses of an avian much larger than a swoop, they remained mysterious, vanishing almost as soon as they were seen. Someone called them thunderbirds, after a creature from Native American mythology, and the name stuck.
The LeMare spent the next two days traveling along Vulcan’s rocky southern coast until we reached the Squanto River, a short channel separating the continent from the nearby island of Squanto. Sonar soundings from the bridge indicated that the river had a maximum depth of only four to six fathoms, and there was the hazard of shoals just beneath the surface. But the science team had reasons to investigate this part of the world—the geologists wanted to collect samples of igneous rock formations on Vulcan’s river bluffs, while the botanists and zoologists were anxious to see whether Squanto harbored any unique habitats—so the centerboards were raised and, for the first time since our departure from New Florida, the LeMare left the Great Equatorial River.
Since the current was against us, we had to lower the tenders to tow the LeMare upstream. Although the Squanto River turned a little deeper than expected, Vulcan’s southeast coast was largely i
naccessible, its inland guarded by sheer cliffs. The geologists eventually found a small cove shallow enough for them to collect rock samples, but exploration of anything past that was prevented by the overhanging bluffs. However, the western side of Squanto was a low, sandy shoreline, giving the life-science guys plenty of opportunity to visit the dense rain forest beyond. At the northern tip of Squanto was a small sound where the Vulcan Channel forked west and east to form the Squanto and Pequot rivers, and it was here that Carlos and Jon decided to make anchorage.
We remained there for the next several days while the scientists took turns exploring Squanto and nearby Pequot. As the naturalists had predicted, Squanto’s ecosystem was unique. Much of the island was covered by dense rain forest, its canopy principally comprised of parasol trees much taller than those found on Midland, within which nested species of birds unlike any yet seen elsewhere on Coyote. Scarlet grak, so-called because of their harsh cries, flitted from branch to branch, following us as we hiked into the jungle. Earsplitters, small birds whose high-pitched song could give you a headache if you got too close. And near the beach, a ground-nesting bird that came to be called the tufted crabbreaker, for its ability to pluck crustaceans from the shallows and bash them against rocks until their shells broke open.
But they were clearly not the dominant species. More than once, while walking through the forest, we noticed that all the birds suddenly went silent. Moments later, a shadow would swiftly travel past above the treetops, as if something menacing was gliding overhead. No one ever got a good look at it, but we had little doubt of what it was. A thunderbird, stalking the lesser creatures of the lowlands.
It was on Pequot that the scientists found the most interesting plants and animals. Like Squanto, the subcontinent was largely covered by rain forest; a medium-size tree was found within its understory that, at first glimpse, appeared to resemble a mountain briar, except that its broad, spadelike leaves were coated with some gummy substance. The naturalists who discovered it were still puzzling over it when they spotted a small arboreal mammal—later called glidemunks, because of their ability to soar from tree to tree upon thin membranes stretched between their limbs—alight upon one of the leaves. The tiny animal quickly found itself unable to struggle free before the leaf slowly closed around it, gradually suffocating the hapless creature. When one of the scientists used a knife to prize open a closed leaf, they discovered the desiccated remains of a glidemunk, its small body apparently dissolved by organic acids.
Judas trees weren’t the only carnivorous plants they found. Both Squanto and Pequot also contained tall bushes whose six-leaved flower tops bore an uncomfortable resemblance to claws. And for good reason; like Judas trees, they attracted flying insects by the sickly sweet scent from their petals, only to trap them. Yet earsplitters were able to safely land upon the petals, where they’d insert their narrow bills within the stamens to drink the nectar. Further investigation showed that the nectar contained tiny seeds that, presumably, the earsplitters would later excrete, thus allowing the red snatchers to propagate elsewhere.
Even the waters of the Pequot Channel turned out to harbor aquatic species that hadn’t been seen before. One afternoon, as I followed a group of naturalists I’d just escorted back from Squanto down to the greenhouse with their latest plant specimens, I found Susan and a couple of her students gathered in front of one of the tanks. At first, I couldn’t see what they were looking at; it appeared as if the tank was empty. Then the fish they’d just captured turned sideways to us, and I saw then it was nearly as large as a redfish, but so thin that, in the water, it practically vanished from sight. The razorfish was superbly adapted to its environment; it possessed the ability to become nearly invisible to predators.
Yet the most intriguing discovery was on Pequot itself, where a zoologist found, in a freshwater pool fed by one of the streams that meandered through the forest, what appeared at first to be a salamander. Until then, no reptiles or amphibians had been discovered on Coyote; it was assumed that the world’s long winters prohibited the existence of cold-blooded land animals. Once the creature was brought back to the LeMare, though, Susan and her team realized that it was, indeed, a fish…but one that was growing legs, and which could breathe fresh air through its mouth as well as use its gills. Clear evidence that life on Coyote was evolving in unexpected ways, with some species making the transition from living in the water to existing on land, despite the limitations imposed by the climate.
In only a few days, we learned that, in this small part of Coyote, lay an environment unlike any on the other side of the world. If the scientists could’ve had their way, the ExEx would have stayed there for the rest of the summer. But Jon and Carlos eventually decided that we needed to push on. There was more that still needed to be seen, and besides, another expedition could always return to Pequot. So on the morning of the sixth day, the anchors were raised, the sails set, and the LeMare turned in the direction of the Great Equatorial River.
No one knew it then, but that would be a fateful decision.
After the LeMare left the sound and sailed down the Pequot River, we stopped for the night just off Pequot’s southwest coast. The crew gathered in the lounge after dinner, where Susan led a review of the data they’d collected from our stay in the delta. I decided to skip it, though. I’d been run ragged over the last week, sometimes making up to three sorties a day; although I’d never had occasion to use my gun, having to shepherd the science teams had become exhausting. All I really wished to do just then was have a drink and watch Bear as it rose above the horizon.
Nonetheless, as I made my way along the bulwark rail to the bow, I reflected that the trip wasn’t so bad after all. Once the scientists figured out that I wasn’t some bloodthirsty maniac looking for something to kill, they’d stopped being so standoffish, and I’d even made friends with a few of them. Although Jorge was almost always with either Jon or Susan, they’d allowed him to go ashore with me a few times, once I’d ascertained that there was nothing on Pequot or Squanto that could harm him. I still wished that I could have an adult as my cabinmate, but the fact of the matter was that I had come to like the kid; once he was out of his shell, Jorge had a curiosity nearly as intense as the scientists’. And although Lynn and I hadn’t much of a chance to pursue our relationship—there was little privacy aboard ship, and besides, she was always writing stories for her readers back on Earth—we were still able to see each other now and then, usually at night after everyone else had gone to bed, when we’d curl up together in one of the tenders and share a drink. There was an unspoken agreement between us that, once the expedition was over, we owed ourselves a romp in bed.
Indeed, I expected to meet Lynn on the forward deck that evening. I’d brought my flask with me when I left my cabin, and given her a hint during dinner that, just for a change, perhaps we could watch Bear come up from the bow instead. She’d told me that she would come along after a while, but first she wanted to sit in on the review session, to see if something came up that she needed to put in her next dispatch.
As I walked out on the bow, though, I saw that it was unlikely that I’d find a place where we might be alone. Lights were on in the wheelhouse, and through its half-open windows I could hear voices: Carlos, Jon, and Barry, engaged in conversation. I was about to turn and leave when Carlos said something that caught my attention:
“Turning back is out of the question. You’re going to need to find some place to ride this thing out.”
My first thought was that what they were discussing was none of my business. On the other hand, I was the expedition guide. If there was going to be any talk of turning back, for whatever reason, I should be in on it. So I found the hatch leading to the wheelhouse and climbed up the ladder to the bridge, politely knocking on the door just before I walked in.
The LeMare’s bridge was a narrow, semicircular compartment, with wood-paneled consoles arranged beneath the windows and a couple of swivel-mounted armchairs anchored to the deck
. Although an old-fashioned captain’s wheel was mounted below the center window, most of the ship was comp-controlled, its masts and stays manipulated by a touch-screen system that automatically rotated the sails to catch the wind. The ship had a full complement of experienced sailors, but I’d been told that, in a pinch, one person could operate the entire vessel.
The three men were gathered around the communications console, apparently studying something on its main screen. They looked up as I entered the bridge, and for a moment I thought they’d tell me to go away. But then Carlos waved me over. “Come on in, Sawyer,” he said. “Maybe you ought to take a look at this. We could use another opinion.”
Jon stepped aside to make room for me. As I came closer, I saw that the screen displayed a real-time satellite image of the western hemisphere. Or at least that was what I presumed; although it was still daytime on the other side of the world, most of the terrain was lost beneath a dense swirl of clouds. It appeared to be the southern half of Midland, but I had to look hard to recognize it.
“Oh, hell,” I muttered. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Afraid so,” Jon said. “Tropical depression, becoming a major storm. Coming out of the west, with wind speeds already up to forty knots.” He hesitated, then added, “And before you ask…yes, it’s developing into a hurricane.”
Hurricanes are rare upon Coyote, but they do occur, with midsummer as their most likely season. Although Coyote doesn’t have any major oceans, the Great Equatorial River becomes wide enough off the coast of Midland that, under certain conditions, a low-pressure system can produce a tropical cyclone that starts moving down the river, picking up moisture as it rolls along. Yet Coyote hurricanes are different from those on Earth. Because Coyote has a lower atmospheric density, the storms are generally less severe, and Bear’s gravitational influence, combined with the close proximity of the westerly and easterly trade winds near the equator, causes them to follow an eastward track instead of westward.