by Allen Steele
Somewhere behind me, I could hear the buzz of one plasma ball striking another: Carlos and Chris killing time at the billiards table. The air inside the cabin suddenly felt cold, as if the flight engineer had decided to adjust the thermostat. “Do you realize now just how important you are?” Vogel said, his voice very quiet now. “Do you now see why Coyote has become our last, best hope?”
Through my window, I could see Earth, a wounded planet for which time was running out. Feeling sick at my stomach, I only nodded.
Night was still upon the west coast of North America as the Von Braun raced across the Pacific, rapidly shedding altitude as the darkened limb of the Earth filled the viewscreens. The pilot’s voice came over the speaker, informing us that we were on primary approach; by now we were buckled into our seats, gazing out the windows. There wasn’t much to see: fewer lights along the California coast, and a dark gap where Seattle once lay.
The first light of morning had just touched New England as the Von Braun began atmospheric entry. Just before a reddish-orange penumbra started to form around its hull, I caught sight of the ruined shores of our homeland. A brief glimpse of the Massachusetts coast: Cape Cod was no more, and all I could see of Boston were a few tiny silver pylons rising above dark blue water.
The yacht quaked and trembled as its wings bit air, and I deliberately shut my eyes and clutched the armrests. Then the turbulence ceased, and there was a sudden roar as air-breathing jets cut in. I looked out the window again, saw only the vast expanse of the Atlantic. Then a ragged green peninsula swept beneath us—southern Ireland, perhaps, although it was hard to tell—and disappeared again. More ocean, and then, suddenly, we were above England.
What had once been Wales was now an archipelago of tiny isles, the port cities of Cardiff and Newport long since drowned by St. George’s Channel, now extending inland as far as Gloucester. As we came in low, I could see where canals had been dredged in an attempt to alleviate the flooding. I saw deserted English towns, their roads abruptly disappearing beneath swollen creeks, with small lakes where there had once been pastures. The whiskery trail of a small boat moved past the spire of what might have once been a country church.
The others also gazed down upon the devastation, Carlos with his mouth hidden by his hand, Chris staring in stunned disbelief. Yes, we’d known that things were bad back on Earth, yet somehow it had seemed abstract, a matter of statistics. Seeing it firsthand, though, was another matter entirely.
And then, all of a sudden, we were above London.
The city itself had been spared the worst effects of the floods. Unlike that in my country, the British government hadn’t ignored scientists’ warnings about the long-term effects of global warming. I’d later see pictures of the vast row of seawalls erected along the southern coast of the English Channel; as we flew in, though, all I saw were the massive floodgates of the Thames Barrier, with fortress-like levees rising above either side of the river. Yet even these macroengineering projects hadn’t been enough; London now lay below sea level, and time and again the rising waters had breached the levees and barriers. The Waterloo and Hungerford bridges were gone, and a pair of half-collapsed towers were all that remained of the Westminster Bridge. Although Big Ben still rose above the Houses of Parliament, its windows were dark, its ancient walls overgrown with weeds and creeping vine; I’d later find out that the seat of British government had relocated to Buckingham Palace.
Despite its best efforts, London was losing the battle against the sea. Where countless foes had failed, nature was inexorably succeeding. Much of the city had been abandoned; streets once filled with vehicles and pedestrians were nearly empty, and as the Von Braun circled low over London, I looked down to see boarded-up shops and abandoned high-rises. Smoke from the fires of squatter camps rose from Charing Cross Road and the Strand; the stub of what had once been the Telecom Tower loomed above the wasteland of Oxford, and a rotting and overgrown hulk was all that remained of the British Museum.
Nonetheless, it became clear that a long row of dikes erected west of Oxford had effectively isolated much of the chaos caused by flooding, for this part of the city looked relatively undamaged. As the yacht’s descent jets kicked in, I caught sight of the New United Nations Plaza; the curved half-arch of the Secretariat rose above the enormous white geodome of the General Assembly Building, both built on the former site of the U.S. Embassy at the east end of Hyde Park.
This wasn’t new to me. The U.N. had left New York when I was still a child, after the URA had withdrawn from the General Assembly and unilaterally revoked the U.N.’s title to the site on the East River where its headquarters had once been located. The U.N. responded by relocating to London, where the first sessions of the General Assembly and the Security Council had been held in 1946. In the long run, perhaps this had been just as well; London may have been a shadow of its former regal self, yet at least its system of seawalls and levees had held back the waters long enough to save much of the city. Like Washington, D.C., and Boston, Manhattan now lay underwater, inundated after the seawalls the Union belatedly attempted to erect around the island collapsed due to slipshod design and construction.
The Von Braun had been given permission to land in Grosvenor Square, on a paved landing pad specifically built for diplomatic aircraft. There was a mild jar as its landing gear touched down, then a low rumble as the pilots throttled back the engines. Luminescent strips along the ceiling and aisle went from red to green; Dieter unclasped his harness and stood up.
“Gentlemen, lady, we’re here,” he said unnecessarily, as if we’d slept through the whole thing. “Don’t worry about your personal belongings. They’ll be brought to your quarters. Now, if you’ll follow me, please.”
I unbuckled my harness, started to stand up…then my knees collapsed, and I fell back into my seat. It felt as if someone had suddenly placed a fifty-pound bag of sand on my shoulders. I should have expected this; Coyote’s gravity was less than two-thirds that of Earth’s, and even the Millis-Clement field aboard Highgate had been adjusted to approximate lunar gravity for the benefit of those born and raised on the Moon. All well and good, yet although I’d spent my first fifteen years on Earth, for the last forty Gregorian years I’d become accustomed to living in .68-g. Sitting in an overstuffed seat during the ride from Highgate, I hadn’t noticed the subtle difference…but, oh boy, did I now.
And so did Carlos and Chris. Both were in excellent shape, at least for men in their mid-fifties, but my husband grunted as he heaved himself to his feet, and Chris swore beneath his breath as he clasped the back of his seat for support. I couldn’t see how Vogel could take the strain with so little effort; perhaps he worked out in a high-gravity gym aboard Highgate.
The steward came forward, offered each of us canes; apparently this was a common occurrence. Although it made me feel like an old lady, I accepted mine and found myself wishing that I’d dyed the grey in my hair before we’d left home. Carlos was even more reluctant; as President of the Coyote Federation, he didn’t want to be seen hobbling down the ramp. Yet it would have been even more humiliating if he’d fallen flat on his face, so he took his cane with a scowl. Chris would have nothing to do with it; he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stood erect. At first I thought he was just toughing it out…but then I noticed the bulge created beneath his jacket by the holstered flechette pistol, and recalled why he was with us. He couldn’t be a good bodyguard if he couldn’t reach for his gun.
With diplomatic stoicism, Vogel pretended not to notice our difficulties. He patiently waited until we caught our wind, then he led us through the cabin to the main hatch. It had already been opened, its ramp lowered. Vogel paused for a moment, as if to make sure that we weren’t going to have heart attacks, then we followed him as he exited the spacecraft.
At the bottom of the ramp, a dozen members of the Royal Palace Guard stood at stiff-necked attention on either side of a long red carpet, their black fur helmets giving them the resemblance of a
double row of exclamation points. Beyond the landing pad, a vast crowd surrounded the yacht; several thousand people had gathered in Grosvenor Square to witness our arrival, held back by portable barriers and dozens of British police officers in security armor. The afternoon sun was bright, and as we made our way down the stairs, I raised a hand against the glare. Someone in the crowd must have misinterpreted this as a wave, for suddenly a cacophony of sound rolled across us: shouts, yells, applause, whistles, like surf crashing upon a rocky shore…
I don’t know what sort of reception I’d anticipated, but it certainly wasn’t this. Startled, I stumbled on a riser. Chris was behind me; he managed to grab my arm before I made a fool of myself. As our feet touched ground, from somewhere nearby I heard a brass orchestra strike up “God Save the King.” Which was entirely appropriate, because His Royal Highness awaited us at the other end of the red carpet.
Henry XI was a bit shorter than I expected, yet nonetheless quite handsome. Dressed in a collarless black suit, with the Prime Minister at one side and his consort at another, His Majesty stepped forward to offer a bow to Carlos, then clasped my hand and gallantly passed his lips about two inches above it. A few short, noncommittal words of greeting—“Welcome to the City of London, and the United Kingdom of Great Britain” was all that I remembered—and then he and his entourage were ushered to a row of black hoverlimos that floated away before I had a chance to remember how to curtsy.
Yet even that royal reception, or the crowds or even the red-carpet treatment, didn’t make as much of an impression on me as something else far more subtle. Something that everyone there had learned to take for granted, but that instantly struck me as unusual.
The weather.
We landed in London on November 4, 2340. When we’d left Coyote on Hanael 62, C.Y. 13, we’d dressed for late autumn. Expecting much the same on Earth, we’d packed warm clothes—catskin jackets, shagswool sweaters and so forth—and although we put on our best outfits just before the Von Braun made ready to land, I figured that we’d probably peel off a layer or two shortly after we disembarked.
Yet London was cold as a midwinter day in the Midland Range. Oh, the Palace Guard was comfortable in their red dress jackets, and His Majesty had a red scarf loosely draped around his shoulders, but despite the bright afternoon sun, everyone standing behind the barricades was bundled up in heavy coats, wearing hats and gloves. A harsh wind nagged at us as we walked to the limo waiting to take us for a short ride down Knightsbridge Road to the European Alliance embassy; just before we climbed in, though, I observed patches of snow on the ground beneath the trees. Their branches were barren, without so much as a stray leaf clinging to them, and their bark was brown and lifeless.
Dead trees and snow. A new ice age was approaching. It wouldn’t be long before winter was permanent, with summer only a faint memory.
That evening, a reception in our honor was held at the embassy. Vogel had warned us that this had been scheduled, so once we were shown to our suite—larger than the one on Highgate, with windows that looked out upon Hyde Park—we took the opportunity to catch a few winks. We didn’t have long to rest, though, before an embassy staff member showed up at our door; pushing a cart laden with sandwiches and coffee, he informed us that, although there would be food at the reception, we’d probably have little chance to eat.
Thoughtful of our hosts to consider this, but our appetite wasn’t their only concern. We were still chowing down when a squad of tailors arrived, complete with a rack of formal apparel. It went without saying that Herr Vogel considered our homespun clothes a bit too rustic for the occasion. Just as well; none of us wanted to look like Daniel Boone. Carlos and Chris picked out identical tuxedos, while I selected a strapless black gown that trailed to the floor yet complimented my figure. Carlos’s eyes bugged out when he saw me in this—the cleavage was deep enough that you could have dropped a coin between my breasts—but he didn’t protest as a seamstress took my measurements. The clothiers disappeared, and by the time we’d showered and had a second cup of coffee they showed up again, this time with our outfits, each one perfectly fitted. Don’t ask me how they performed this minor miracle; I was still trying to figure it out when Dieter came to escort us downstairs.
The embassy ballroom was crowded to capacity, with several hundred men and women each as elegantly dressed as the next. They arrived two or three at a time, each briefly detained at the door to step through an arch that scanned them for weapons. Chris hesitated when he saw that, but since we’d been brought down to the ballroom via a private lift, no one thought to check to see if he was packing a gun. ’Bots circulated through the crowd, carrying platters of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, while a string quartet in the corner performed waltzes by Vivaldi and Strauss. Ambassadors and attachés and senior aides made their own dance steps, deftly moving from one conversation to the next. No handshakes, only slight bows and brief curtsies…and I noted how gloves had come back into style, along with face masks worn by several men and silk veils by a number of women.
No formal announcement was made of our arrival, yet our entrance didn’t go unnoticed. As soon as we walked into the room, it seemed as if every eye turned in our direction. And yet there was no rush, but instead the cool aloofness of diplomacy. Carlos and I sauntered into the crowd, with Dieter leading the way and Chris close behind, and before long various dignitaries began to make their way toward us, each carefully maintaining a certain savoir faire even though they were anxious to meet us. Vogel ran interference for us, and soon it fell into a pattern: a brief but formal introduction by Dieter, then we’d exchange bows and curtsies. A few polite words, then on to the next guest. Minor aides and attachés were acknowledged, but weren’t allowed to get too close: senior diplomats received a few more seconds of our time, and Dieter would intercept their cards and slip them into his pocket. Every now and then, someone had a floater hovering nearby; Carlos and I would pose on either side of them and let our picture be taken, and sometimes Carlos would sign the print. This amused me the most; even in high society, there were no shortage of autograph seekers.
No doubt about it: we were celebrities. Carlos Montero and Wendy Gunther, the President of the Coyote Federation and his wife. We needed canes to walk, and we may have worn finery that we’d put on for the first time less than an hour ago, yet nonetheless we were visitors from a star so far distant that its light hadn’t yet reached Earth. Our lives were the stuff of legend. We weren’t just part of history…we were history.
So we chatted, and we posed, and we enjoyed the limelight as we made our way through the ballroom. But after a while the bureaucrats and minor scoundrels fell away, and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves in more rarified company: ambassadors and senior consuls, the men and women who represented the governments of their respective countries and thus weren’t impressed by mere fame. Vogel didn’t put himself between us and them; a brief introduction, then he’d step out of the way. Most were polite, even charming; they didn’t wear gloves, masks, or veils, and some offered handshakes instead of bows. The Russian ambassador went so far as to bend down to kiss the back of my hand. No one had ever done that to me before—not counting His Majesty, who’d only made a polite pass at it—and it was utterly charming. I tried to stifle my laughter, but he must have caught the gleam in my eye, for he favored me with a seductive wink as he stood up, and his eyes never strayed far from my breasts.
Yet all encounters weren’t so pleasant.
Carlos and I were about halfway across the room when someone began making his way toward us: a tall, slender gentleman with a grey-tinged goatee, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. When Vogel spotted the newcomer, a stern look appeared on his face; he murmured something to Carlos, then attempted to guide us in the opposite direction. But the other man was too quick for that; he artfully stepped around a couple of women with whom Carlos had been speaking and, before Chris could intercede, planted himself directly in our path.
“Dieter, my f
riend,” he said, with a smile that didn’t have a trace of affection, “aren’t you going to introduce me?”
That was when I noticed what he wore: a long velvet robe, dark purple, with gold trim around its sleeves. I’d seen pictures of the patriarchs of the Western Hemisphere Union; this was how they dressed for formal occasions. I instinctively took my husband’s hand.
“Of course, Señor Amado.” Dieter tried not to show his reticence. “May I present to you the Honorable Carlos Montero, President of the Coyote Federation, and his wife Wendy Gunther, former member of the Colonial Council. Mr. President, this is—”
“Patriarch Marcos Amado, ambassador for the Western Hemisphere Union.” He offered a bow that was little more than the slightest nod of his head. “Very pleased to meet you, Señor Montero…although you’ll forgive me if I don’t address you as Mr. President.”
“You can call me anything except late to dinner,” Carlos replied. A few chuckles from those standing nearby. My husband had been using that line all evening; it was an old saw, but it helped break the ice, especially among all these stuffed shirts.
The loudest laugh, though, came from a rotund little man with a shaved head who hovered at the edge of the crowd. I hadn’t noticed him before; when I glanced his way, he favored me with a grin that was both knowing and warm. I needed all the friendly faces I could get just then, so I gave him a brief smile.
“Very good, sir.” A dry smirk appeared on Amado’s face. “I trust we’ll hear more of your…wit, shall we say?…when you address the General Assembly tomorrow.”
“And until then,” Vogel said, “I trust your government will afford the president and his party the courtesy to which they’re—”
“Patriarch, I take it the Union doesn’t recognize the Coyote Federation,” Carlos said. “May I ask why?”