Coyote Frontier

by Allen Steele

  “Cooties?”

  “Extraterrestrial microorganisms.” Carlos grinned. “My wife has a fine grasp of scientific terminology.” He gazed out the portside window at the giant spacecraft docked nearby, whistled under his breath. “Will you get a load of that thing?”

  I leaned over to gaze past him and Chris. The ship was nearly six hundred feet long: shaped somewhat like a pumpkin seed, its sleek hull gradually expanded back from its narrow bow to where a pair of nacelles on its flanks contained what appeared to be diametric-drive engines. Aft of the nacelles were blunt wings, with vertical stabilizers above and below the wingtips; on the topside of the hull between the wings was what appeared to be a shuttle bay, its hatch doors yawning wide open. At the front of the ship, rising from the upper fuselage just above the bow, was a small bulge that I assumed to be the bridge.

  The ship was obviously capable of making atmospheric entry—that alone was a radical departure from every other large space vessel I’d ever seen before—yet its graceful lines weren’t the only thing I noticed. Just forward of the starboard engine nacelle, I spotted a pair of horizontal hatches, recessed slightly into the hull. They were in the wrong place for landing gear, and the wrong shape for gangway doors. It took me a moment to recognize them for what they were…

  Torpedo tubes.

  Maybe they housed energy weapons instead, like particle-beam guns. I couldn’t tell for sure, but nonetheless this was an armed ship. The fact that the vessel bore the insignia of the European Alliance upon its aft hull didn’t assuage my feelings. Until now, every starship I’d ever seen had been unarmed. This one was, though, and that sent a chill down my back. Why would anyone want to put weapons aboard a…?

  There was another abrupt jolt, this time from the top of the Isabella. The gangway had been moved into position. Ana listened for another second to her headset, then pulled it off. “We’re free to disembark,” she said, unclasping her harness. “Bring your belongings…no one’s coming aboard until the skiff’s been thoroughly decontaminated.”

  “They’ll probably open the hatches after we’re gone,” Gabriel muttered as he shut down all systems. “Void the entire ship, just to make sure.” Unexpectedly, he fondly patted the yoke. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s hauled away to a museum…or maybe to the junkyard.”

  “Why do you say that?” Chris asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder at him, then cocked his head toward the nearby ship. “Take a look at that thing. You really think the Isabella isn’t obsolete?” He sighed as he unfastened his harness. “I’ll be lucky if my next job is piloting a tugboat.”

  The next couple of hours were humiliating.

  We were met at the end of the gangway by two men in isolation suits, who silently led us down a sealed-off corridor to a windowless room that had no furniture, only several cardboard bins stacked along a wall. By now we’d entered that part of the station that had artificial gravity, thanks to a localized Millis-Clement field. Our escorts gave us each a pair of dark glasses, then they left, shutting the door behind them.

  A few minutes later, a voice from a speaker grill instructed us—in both Anglo and English—to put our bags in the bins, then undress completely and place our clothes on top of them. This was an uncomfortable moment. Carlos, Chris, and I had seen one another naked before, of course—although it had been quite a long while since the last time I’d seen Chris in the buff—and I had a sense that Ana and Gabriel weren’t unaccustomed to each other’s bodies. Nudity is a cultural taboo that’s hard to break, though, and there was no telling how many other eyes might be observing us through hidden cameras. But we stripped, carefully keeping our backs to one another, and once we put our clothes in the bins with our baggage, the guys in the white suits came back in to take them away.

  The voice instructed us to put on our dark glasses, then extend our arms and stand still with our legs apart. Panels within the ceiling and floor slid open, and for the next couple of minutes we were subjected to ultraviolet radiation, designed to kill any cooties we may have carried with us from Coyote. Can’t blame anyone for being careful, although I could have done without having deeper shade added to my tan.

  Once this was over, our escorts came back, this time to give each of us a robe and a pair of slippers. We were taken farther down the corridor to a row of examination rooms, where for the next hour or so physicians in isolation suits worked each of us over. My doctor, a humorless young woman about Susan’s age, submitted me to a complete physical; I was poked and prodded and scanned, asked a long series of questions, forced to submit blood and urine samples, and finally given a purple liquid to drink that soon gave me a reason to make a frantic dash to the adjacent toilet.

  After she was done, I was taken to yet another room—a little more comfortable than the first; at least this one had chairs—where the others were already waiting for me. We were left alone for awhile. I was beginning to regret leaving the bed unmade this morning—if I’d stayed home, I’d probably be asleep by now—when the door opened once more and our doctors reappeared, no longer dressed in isolation gear. As politely as they could, they administered injections to each of us, then attached adhesive drug patches to our biceps.

  They’d just finished when a new person appeared, a thin gent with a chin beard that had begun to go grey and the kindly expression of someone who commiserated with all the indignities we’d suffered. He ducked his head and shoulders in a respectful bow, an oddly Asian gesture for a European, then introduced himself as Angelo Margulis, Highgate’s chief administrator.

  “I’m very sorry we’ve had to put you through this,” he began, speaking in Anglo once Carlos, Chris, and I let him know that we were fluent with the language. “Please, understand that these precautions are not unusual. They’re normal procedure for anyone arriving here from anywhere else than the lunar and orbital colonies, and those coming from Earth have to undergo complete sterilization.” A slight smile. “Although, in your case, we’ve decided to waive the usual ten-day quarantine.”

  Ana glared at him. “Since when did that apply to—?”

  “Much has changed since you’ve been away, Captain.” Margulis held up a patient hand. “In short, though, problems with disease control on Earth have given us reason to enact health procedures to protect our residents. In your case, much of this was unnecessary, since you’re headed to Earth…but we had to make sure that none of you brought anything contagious from 47 Ursae Majoris.”

  No point in telling him about ring disease or the effects of pseudowasp stings, or any of the other minor illnesses that Coyote colonists had learned to deal with over the years. Kuniko had given each of us a physical only a couple of days earlier, just to make sure we weren’t going to bring any unwanted souvenirs from home. After what we’d just been through, though, I sincerely doubted that even a single E. coli cell still resided within my lower intestines.

  “So I take it we’re free to go?” Carlos asked.

  “Of course. Your belongings will be returned to you shortly, once they’ve been decontaminated as well. However, since I understand you’re guests of the European Alliance, you’ll probably be taken to their sector as soon as you’re released. In fact, I believe one of their representatives is waiting for you outside.”

  “You’re not from the EA?” Pacino appeared confused. “I thought you were—”

  “Sorry, no. I was born and raised in Florence, but my family left Earth many years ago.” Another quick smile, almost apologetic this time, then he went on. “Highgate is neutral territory, established as an interplanetary port for the major spacefaring powers…the Western Hemisphere Union, the European Alliance, and the Pacific Coalition, as well as their off-world colonies.” He raised his head slightly. “Arthur? Display station chart, please.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Margulis.” The same disembodied voice we’d heard earlier; I now realized that it belonged to the station AI. An instant later, a holographic image of Highgate appeared above our heads, rendered
transparent to reveal a complex hive of docking bays, passageways, and interior decks.

  As Margulis pointed to one of the three spheres, it lit up in red. “This is Alpha Dock, where we are now. It’s leased to the European Alliance, so everything…well, almost everything…that goes on here is within their jurisdiction.” When he pointed to the bottom three levels of the station’s upper cylinder, they were likewise illuminated. “That’s North Hab. The levels here are also leased by the EA as its consulate…I imagine you’ll be taken to VIP quarters there. The decks above it belong to the Pacific Coalition, but I doubt you’ll hear much from them. They’re…well, they tend to keep to themselves.”

  “And the Western Hemisphere Union?” Tereshkova asked. “Where are they located?”

  “Beta Dock, with its consulate located on these levels on South Hab.” Another sphere lit up, this time in blue; the bottom three decks of the lower cylinder were similarly illuminated. “You’re free to visit them as well, although I wouldn’t recommend it. Relations between the Union and the Alliance have been rather strained since the destruction of the New Guinea beanstalk.”

  The fact that the Western Hemisphere Union and the European Alliance were rivals wasn’t news to us; we’d learned this shortly after the Columbus arrived at Coyote. We were also aware that the Union had a space elevator in Ecuador and the Alliance had one in New Guinea. Yet the revelation that the New Guinea beanstalk no longer existed was just as much a shock to Ana and Gabriel as it was to the rest of us. They burst forth with questions, but Margulis shook his head as he raised a hand again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but perhaps it’s better that your government brief you. That way you’ll receive an honest appraisal of the situation.” Meaning, he was tactfully washing his hands of the matter. Margulis touched the side of his jaw, murmured something that I didn’t quite catch. “As soon as you’re dressed, you’ll be released to the custody of the Alliance.”

  The door opened and a couple of orderlies walked in, carrying plastic bags containing the clothes we’d worn aboard the Isabella. I almost laughed; it was as if they’d just been brought over from the dry cleaner. Margulis stepped aside to allow another man to push a cart into the room; it held our bags, almost wrapped in plastic. The chief administrator waited until they left, then he turned to Carlos, Chris, and me. “On behalf of Highgate,” he continued, assuming a more formal tone, “it’s an honor to receive the first delegation from Coyote. I hope your stay here will be pleasant and that you’ll think well of us during your negotiations.”

  “I’m sure we will.” Carlos stepped forward to offer his hand. Margulis hesitated, then he gingerly grasped his palm. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Carlos added. “We greatly appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. President.” Margulis hastily withdrew his hand, then assayed another bow, which Carlos clumsily returned. Then he turned and left the room…just a little too quickly, I thought.

  “Lesson one,” I murmured, as soon the door shut behind the chief administrator. “Handshakes are no longer popular.” I glanced at my husband. “Sorry, dear, but I think you committed a social faux pas there.”

  “How was I to know?” He glanced at Ana, but she only shrugged; this was new to her, too. “Bows, no handshakes. Gotcha. I’ll try to—”

  “Aw, dammit to hell,” Chris muttered, and as we turned toward him he looked up from his clothing. “They took away my gun. My knife, too.”

  Until now, I was unaware that Chris had been carrying weapons. It made sense that he would; after all, it was his job to look out for Carlos and me. I was about to respond when Arthur’s voice came from the ceiling. “Personal weapons are not allowed aboard Highgate. Your pistol and knife, along with your ammunition, will be returned to you by station security before you leave.”

  Another surprise. I was beginning to lose count. Yet I was beginning to detect a certain pattern. Rival powers sharing the same space station, while being carefully kept apart from one another. Quarantine and sterilization procedures for those coming from Earth, with bows replacing handshakes as the socially accepted form of contact. Routine disarmament of visitors. The as-yet unexplained loss of the Alliance space elevator, while the Union’s remained intact. And now, an AI that routinely monitored everyone’s conversations.

  Carlos must have been thinking the same things, for he bent closer to me. “Lesson two,” he whispered. “Trust no one…because they don’t trust each other.”

  As Margulis promised, we were met outside the quarantine area by an aide to the chief consul, a rather effete young man who seemed to believe that we’d just arrived from the Stone Age. He raised a disapproving eyebrow at my shagswool cloak and seemed repelled by the catskin jackets Carlos and Chris wore, although he treated Ana and Gabriel with a little more respect, probably because he recognized their ESA jumpsuits.

  Yet he was polite enough: more bows, then he escorted us down a corridor to a tram station. A small cab whisked us down a long tunnel to a transit center at the station’s core; a brief glimpse of a vast central atrium, with tier upon tier of balconies overlooking gardens surrounded by shops and cafes, before we were hastened aboard a lift that carried us up to North Hab.

  It was here that we parted company with Ana and Gabriel. As soon as the lift doors opened and we stepped out into a circular corridor, the young man informed them that their presence had been requested by ESA senior officers for a mission debriefing. Ana showed a moment of reluctance—I sensed that neither she nor Gabriel were looking forward to this, particularly since one of the things they’d have to report was the disappearance of Jonathan Parson, the Columbus’s second officer—but she nodded anyway, and we took a few moments to say farewell. Despite my distrust of her, I gave Ana a hug; after all, she and Gabriel brought us safely through hyperspace, and right now they were the closest thing we had to friends. Besides, it was amusing to observe the disgust on our escort’s face as he observed two people getting so close to one another that their bodies actually touched. How barbaric…

  Our quarters in the EA consulate were spacious: a three-room suite, carpeted and comfortably furnished, with a small lounge separating the bedroom Carlos and I would share from the one Chris occupied. Broad oval windows looked out upon Alpha Dock; from the sitting room, we could watch spacecraft moving around the station. A small fridge was well stocked with bottles of water, soft drinks, and wine, along with packets of some sort of junk food that I wasn’t eager to sample, and there was also a wallscreen activated by a miniature remote. Only one bathroom, though; when our escort showed us the shower stall, an ever-so-slight crinkling of his precious little nose told us that he wished we’d avail ourselves of it as soon as possible. I wanted to swat him just then—if he doubted that we were clean, all he had to do was talk to Margulis or the doctors who’d examined us—but I kept my mouth shut and contented myself with thoughts about how long he’d last on Coyote.

  Finally, he informed us that Dieter Vogel, the senior consul, had invited us to join him for a late dinner at 2100, about four hours from now. Until then, we’d be left alone to rest, have a snack, perhaps even take a bath; Carlos gently squeezed my arm, preventing a diplomatic incident. If we needed anything, all we had to do was ask Arthur for assistance. Carlos bowed and thanked him, and the young man made his leave, not a second too soon.

  We bumbled about the suite for a few minutes, unsure of what to do with ourselves. Chris opened one of the soft drinks from the fridge, took a sip, and made a face; he said it tasted like raspberry-flavored piss. Carlos tried the wallscreen, clicked a few channels: a sporting event that looked like four men in zero-g chasing a ball around a court no larger than our living room; comedies and dramas utterly meaningless to us; an early-twenty-first-century action movie frequently interrupted by a panel discussion among three academics disapprovingly obsessed with its sexual innuendos. I sat on the couch and watched spacecraft moving around the station until I realized just how exhausted I was. Excusing myself, I
went into the bedroom and, without taking off my clothes, lay down in bed. It took a long time for me to remember how to switch off the lights.

  “Arthur, turn off the lights,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the AI replied. “Sleep well.” The room went dark, and that’s when it occurred to me how many years it had been since the last time I’d done it that way. No oil lamps to be extinguished, no candles to be blown out. Just a verbal command, and the deed was done.

  Good heavens. Perhaps I had become a barbarian…

  A few minutes later, Carlos came in. He lay down beside me, and I curled up next to him, and for no reason I began to cry. He stroked my hair and told me that everything would be all right, and after a while I fell asleep.

  Dinner was served down the corridor from our suite, in a large dining room whose windows offered a magnificent view of the Moon. Other than that, though, we could have been in a country estate somewhere in western Europe; framed lithographs of foxhunting scenes hung upon wood-paneled walls, and the table and chairs were either genuine nineteenth-century antiques or clever reproductions. White linen drapes, Indian carpets, a crystal chandelier, fresh-cut roses in China vases—no expense had been spared to make the room as elegant as possible.

  By comparison, though, the chief consul was rather unremarkable. Dieter Vogel had dressed for the occasion, but even his dovetail morning coat and white cravat couldn’t disguise the fact that he was a doughy, bland-faced man who was losing his hair; I pegged him as a mid-level bureaucrat who’d somehow parlayed his way into a comfortable diplomatic position. Or at least that was my first impression; although both Carlos and Chris offered bows as his aide introduced us, Vogel extended his right hand without a trace of reluctance. Apparently he’d done a little homework and knew that handshakes had been the customary form of greeting back in the twenty-first century.