Coyote Frontier

by Allen Steele

  “Precious?” Carlos looked at him. “You didn’t—”

  “Forgive me. I wanted it to be a surprise.” A sly smile. “Although this shouldn’t be one, really. After all, you already knew it was coming.”

  Carlos was still taking this in when he heard the clomp of hooves against bare metal. Turning around, he looked up to see someone leading a chestnut mare to the open hatch of the Drake’s cargo bay. The horse had blinders attached on either side of its bridle and a thick wool blanket; as the man holding the reins gently coaxed the animal toward the ramp, Carlos recognized him as Joe Cassidy, the equerry from Morgan Goldstein’s estate in Massachusetts.

  And then Goldstein himself suddenly appeared, with his bodyguard, Mike Kennedy, close behind. Spotting Carlos, the entrepreneur raised a hand in greeting, then the two men stepped around Cassidy and the horse to make their way down the ramp. About halfway down, Morgan suddenly stopped, apparently savoring his first look at Coyote. Then, mindful that important people were waiting for him, he continued the rest of the way down the ramp to the ground.

  “My God,” he murmured, his eyes wide with unabashed delight, “I can’t believe how fresh the air is. And how beautiful…”

  “Glad you approve,” Carlos said evenly. “We had it made just for you.”

  The others chuckled, and even Kennedy briefly smiled. Morgan turned red for a moment, but then grinned at the joke made at his expense. “Thank you very much. Nice planet you’ve got here. Care to sell?”

  Vogel laughed at this, but Carlos felt a touch of irritation. From the corner of his eye, he noted a frown on Ana’s face; apparently she didn’t appreciate Morgan’s attempt at humor any more than he did. Yet if his term as president had taught him anything, it was the art of diplomacy. “Not really,” he said dryly, then he glanced up at the cargo hatch, where Cassidy was still trying to lead the reluctant mare to the ramp. “I knew you were coming soon, but this—”

  “We decided it was better to bring them sooner than later.” Zipping up the front of his parka, Morgan pulled gloves from his pockets. “Seems that the Proletariat isn’t very pleased with me just now. In fact, they’ve taken it upon themselves to annex my farm…for the welfare of the people, of course.” He let out his breath in disgust, its steam rising from his mouth. “They can take my land, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give ’em my horses, too.”

  “But how…?”

  “I signed papers bequeathing the entire herd to the Federation. Once I did that, the Union couldn’t touch them. At least not without a legal fight, and I didn’t give their magistrates time to find a loophole.”

  “Two of our heavy-lift shuttles landed at his estate three days ago,” Ana explained. “By then we’d outfitted the Drake with temporary stalls. Once the horses were sedated and blindered, my people loaded them onto the shuttles and transported them directly to the ship.” She gazed at the mare Cassidy was carefully leading down the ramp. “I was worried how they’d handle the trip, but they managed to do better than I expected. A few of them are pretty skittish, but—”

  “You’ve got forty-eight horses aboard?” Carlos felt his face lose color. He turned to stare at Morgan. “Have you lost your mind? It’s the middle of winter. How do you expect to feed them until—”

  “We brought as much hay as we could,” Morgan said. “Three hundred bales. Should last them another month or two. By then, I expect you’ll have found good homes for them within the colonies. A few here, a few there.”

  “But we’re not prepared for—”

  “You’d rather that we left ’em behind?” By then, Joe Cassidy had managed to lead the horse down the ramp. Stroking her mane to sooth her, he brought the mare over to them. “They’ve been very brave, Mr. President. Just as courageous as your own people have been. The least you can do is welcome them to their new home.”

  Carlos was about to object when he took a closer look at the mare. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the same one Wendy had befriended while they were on Earth. “Is that…?”

  “Uh-huh. Lady Jane.” Morgan took the reins from Cassidy, led the horse a little closer. “Lord Jim’s aboard, too. They’re yours now. My gift to your family.” He paused. “If you’ll accept them, of course.”

  The horse was still glassy-eyed from dope and the transition through hyperspace, and each step she took was tentative, as if trying to cope with the lighter gravity, the more rarified air. Yet she demurely allowed Carlos to pet her nose and didn’t protest when Cassidy handed the reins to him. Another refugee, just as he’d been many years ago.

  “Yeah, all right.” How could he refuse? “Thank you. We’ll find a way.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Morgan took the reins back from Carlos and handed them to Cassidy. “And thank you, sir, for your hospitality,” he added quietly. “I’m certain that we’ll find our arrangement to be mutually beneficial.”

  It took Carlos a moment to realize what Morgan was saying. “You’re immigrating? Now?”

  “Do I have much choice? But I think you’ll find that the Union’s loss will be your gain.” Taking Carlos by the arm, Morgan began to lead him away. “Now, if you don’t mind, we have some other affairs that need to be discussed.”

  2. SPRING ENCOUNTERS (AMBRIEL 62, C.Y. 14)

  How far they’d traveled, or in which direction, he didn’t know. From the moment he was captured, he’d been at their mercy; he’d managed to put up a good fight, and the knuckles of his right hand were still sore from the punch he’d delivered to the jaw of the biggest one, but they outnumbered him by four to one, and in the end they’d won. They’d lashed his wrists together behind his back and thrown a burlap sack that smelled of old potatoes over his head, and then two of them had picked him up and thrown him belly-down over the back of a shag. Then the long ride into the night had begun.

  At least the boy got away. The knowledge that whatever these men had in store for him—and he had little doubt that it would be unpleasant—wouldn’t be inflicted upon the boy as well gave him some small comfort. It was just luck that he’d managed to escape when the ambush occurred. Yet he was still trying to figure out how the men would’ve known where they’d be when he heard his rider give a low whistle, then pull back on the reins.

  The shag snorted, then came to a halt. Around him, he heard the soft creak of leather as his abductors dismounted from their own animals. The bag over his head had robbed him of most of his sight, yet through the coarse fabric he could make out the flickering glow of firelight, and his nose picked up the faint odor of woodsmoke. A bonfire.

  Someone grabbed him by the back of his belt, hauled him off the shag. Ugly laughter as he fell to the ground; he tried not to yelp as his right knee struck a rock. Then someone nearby said something he could barely make out—“Get him up, bring him over here”—and two pairs of hands grasped his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Stumbling, his boots shuffling through dry leaves and twigs, he was pushed and pulled a dozen feet or so until he felt the dry heat of the bonfire against his clothes.

  “Stop,” one of the men said, and he halted. “Now sit.”

  Not knowing where or how, he hesitated. A fist rammed into his stomach. He gasped as his knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed into the wicker chair that magically appeared behind him.

  “Dumbass,” the same man said. “I told you to sit.”

  More laughter, even more cruel than before. Pain lanced through his wrists as the rope sliced into his skin; although he was seated, his posture forced him to bend slightly forward. Taking deep breaths, trying not to retch, he fought to remain calm, yet there was a low roar in his ears as his heart hammered against his chest.

  “All right,” said the first voice, “take off his hood.”

  Someone behind him grabbed the top of the sack, ripped it from his head. He blinked a few times, blinded by the fire that snapped and burned only a few feet away. A half dozen men—loggers from the looks of them, big and tough-looking—stood in a semicircle around
a stone-ringed fire pit. And on the other side of the fire, seated in a worn-out wicker chair with a jug of bearshine on a rickety wooden table beside him, was Lars Thompson.

  “Howdy, Mr. Parson,” he said. “Nice night for a cookout, ain’t it?”

  A couple of men chuckled at this. Although he was tempted to remain quiet, Parson knew that silence wouldn’t get him anywhere. “At least it isn’t raining,” he replied. “Think the sun will come out tomorrow, or—?”

  A sudden impact against the left side of his skull, as the man standing beside him slapped him across his head. “Just answer the question.”

  Parson tasted something like warm copper; he’d bitten his tongue. He spit out blood. “Yeah, sure…it’ll do.”

  “Uh-huh.” Thompson picked up the jug and pulled out its cork. “Mighty nice night for a fire. And for a little talk, too, wouldn’t you say?”

  “If you insist.”

  Another slap, this one almost hard enough to knock Parson from his chair. “Cut it out, James,” Thompson said. “I think our friend gets the idea. Just a straight talk, man-to-man, y’know what I mean?” He was looking straight at Parson as he said this, and Parson reluctantly nodded. “Outstanding. I think we’ve opened the way to a deep and meaningful dialogue.”

  Parson didn’t reply. He’d come to realize that anything he said was grounds for another beating. Not that it mattered very much; this place was somewhere deep in the woods of Mt. Shapiro, several miles from the logging camp, and he was among men who had no pity for him. Begging for mercy was out of the question, for they obviously had none to spare. They could cut his throat and bury him in an unmarked grave, and no one would ever know.

  “Parson,” Thompson said. “Jonathan Parson. First officer…no, wait, second officer of the Columbus. At least until you decided to go native.” He tilted back the jug, chugged some bearshine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bet you’d love to know how I know this, don’cha?”

  Parson remained silent. Thompson stared at him, waiting for a response; getting none, he handed the jug to the nearest man. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear. We know who you are, and we know what you’re trying to do. We caught you down by the dam tonight, on your way to try to knock it down again. You had someone with you, but they got away. You didn’t, though, and that’s what counts.”

  There was no sense in trying to deny any of this. They knew who he was, just as they knew that he’d been responsible for an earlier attempt to sabotage the spill-dam used to flood the log flume. How they’d arrived at such information was of little consequence just now. The only thing that mattered right now was getting out of here alive.

  Parson was still trying to figure out how to talk his way out of this—or, failing that, somehow make an escape—when he heard a faint rustle from the trees behind them. It could have only been an errant breeze stirring the limbs of the mountain rough bark, yet James apparently heard it, too, for he nervously stepped away from him. Now was his chance; Parson cast a wary glance to the right. No one standing there. If he lunged straight for the trees, running as fast as he could, he might be able to…

  “Keep an eye on him, now.” Thompson’s voice was calm yet mildly amused. “Our boy’s thinking about making a break for it.” He idly picked up a stick, used it to stir the fire. “Not that it’ll do you much good. We use this camp for huntin’, so trust me when I tell you we’re miles and miles from anywhere else. No witnesses, no one to hear us.” He grinned. “Just you and us, son. You and us.”

  James returned to Parson’s side. He laid a rough hand on his shoulder, pulled him back against the chair. The jug finished making its way around the circle, returned to Thompson; he took another swig, put it back on the table again. “Now, just as I know you’re thinking about running away, I also know you think we’re planning to kill you. And believe me, we could, and no one would be the wiser. Hell, so far as your own crew’s concerned, you’re probably just a skeleton, rotting away God knows where.”

  He shook his head. “But that wouldn’t serve no good purpose, now would it? Besides, the way I figure it, all you need is a good lesson. Some proper instruction about trespassing on other people’s private property. ’Cause, y’see, this whole mountain belongs to the family business, and I’ll be damned if—”

  “You don’t own this mountain,” Parson said.

  “Say what?” Thompson cocked his head. “Come again? I don’t think I heard you quite right.”

  Too late, Parson realized that he shouldn’t have spoken. Until now, his silence had been his only defense. Yet he’d let his anger get the better of him, and he’d unwisely blurted out his thoughts. But he couldn’t take back what he’d said, so he might as well make a stand. “This mountain doesn’t belong to you,” he went on. “You’re just visitors. You’ve no right to ruin—”

  “Aw, dammit, Lars, do we have to listen to this crap?” The logger standing next to Thompson impatiently stamped his boots against the ground. “It’s cold. I don’t want to spend all night out here.”

  “Yup. Time’s a-wasting. But lemme just make one more point before we get down to brass tacks.” Lars picked up the jug, took another sip. “Mr. Parson, I don’t give a swamper’s ass who you think this mountain belongs to. Last week my family cut a deal with some people back home…Earth, that is…for the purchase of as much timber as we can cut and carry. That means we stand to make a lot of money, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you or anyone else get in the way.”

  He picked up the cork, inserted it into the neck of the jug, slapped it down firmly with the heel of his hand. “Now, I bet you’ve been wondering all this time how we knew where to find you, and what your story is. And I’d hate to leave you with any lingering questions, so before we get started, I just want to show you that blood runs thicker than water.”

  He looked past Parson. “Hawk? Come on out now.”

  Parson felt something grow cold in his chest. He turned his head, saw the boy step out of the darkness behind him, another logger beside him. Hawk was clearly frightened, but the fact that the boy couldn’t meet his eye was worse than anything these men had planned for him.

  “I’m sorry,” Hawk whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Hawk had led him into the ambush. He’d told his father everything he knew about Jonathan Parson; the reasons he’d done so didn’t matter, except perhaps that Lars Thompson was right. Blood was thicker than water, and in the end he’d been forced to make a choice.

  “It’s all right,” Parson murmured. “You did what you—”

  “That’s enough,” Thompson said. “James?”

  James grabbed the back of Parson’s jacket, wrenched him to his feet, then kicked the chair out of the way. Parson had only a second to steel himself before the nearest logger came forward and, pulling back his arm, drove his fist deep into his stomach. Parson’s breath exploded from his lungs, but he’d barely doubled over when another fist came straight at his mouth.

  “Stop!” Hawk yelled. “You promised you wouldn’t!”

  Yet it didn’t stop, for now the men had begun to take turns—two men holding him while the others worked him over—and soon Hawk’s voice came to him from a vast distance, like a fuzzed-out radio signal from a faraway world. Somewhere along the line, he lost his right front tooth; not long after that, his left eye swelled up and closed. By then, though, his pain had become a symphony; he was incapable of distinguishing which part of his body hurt more than the other. Soon they were no longer bothering to try to hold him up, but simply kicked at him as he lay upon the cold ground.

  In his last moments of consciousness, before the darkness closed in upon him, he caught a glimpse of something through the blood that seeped down in front of his face. There, among the high branches of a nearby tree, tiny eyes reflected the firelight as they silently bore witness to his ordeal.

  He wasn’t alone…

  3. SUMMER FIRES (HAMALIEL 12, C.Y. 14)

  The smoke could be seen from many
miles away, a thick brown column that billowed up from the burning grasslands, rising high into the blue morning sky before the wind caused it to flatten out like the anvil-head of a thundercloud. From the distance, it vaguely resembled a tornado, except that the destruction below was more widespread than even a twister could cause.

  Susan bit the inside of her lip as the gyro came closer, its pilot bringing in the aircraft for a low sweep over Albion’s coastal savannah. Through the thick haze, she could make out tiny figures moving along the periphery of the fire zone, using flamethrowers to put high grass to the torch. New Brighton was protected by the long trench that had been dug as a firebreak; otherwise, the rest of the savannah was being set ablaze. The fires would continue, day in and day out, until everything that lay within their path would be consumed. Acres upon acres of sourgrass, spider bush, ball plants, stands of faux birch and blackwood…all wiped out, with methodical indiscrimination.

  “Some people down there,” the pilot said, his voice in her headset breaking her train of thought. He pointed through the cockpit’s glass canopy. “See ’em?”

  Susan looked in the direction he indicated. Not far from the trench, a half mile upwind of the fire, she spotted a handful of figures standing beside a tent. A couple of skimmers were parked nearby, including one cargo flatbed, yet that wasn’t their sole means of transportation; a few hundred yards in either direction of the camp, men on horseback patrolled the edge of the fire, maintaining a careful distance from the inferno.

  “Set me down there,” Susan said, pointing to the camp. “I’m going to have some words with these clowns.”

  The pilot gave her a dubious look, but didn’t say a word as he pushed the yoke forward. The aircraft yawed to the left, then glided downward, its nacelles tilting upward as the props shifted to descent mode. Dust and scorched grass tapped lightly against the canopy, then there was a slight bump as the gyro’s wheels made contact with the ground.