Coyote Destiny

by Allen Steele

  McAlister finished the checklist. He slipped the datapad into a web above his console, then took a deep breath as he laid his right hand upon the center-mounted bars for the VTOL thrusters. “All set back there?” he called over his shoulder. Hearing affirmative responses from the passenger cabin, he grunted, then touched his headset mike. “Flight Seven Six Zulu Tango to tower, requesting permission for takeoff.” He waited a moment. “Affirmative, tower, thank you,” he added, then he looked over at Jorge. “Want a countdown, Lieutenant, or…?”

  “Ready when you are, Captain.” Jorge pulled on his own headset, too late to hear the other half of the exchange.

  “Very well, then.” McAlister slowly pushed the bars forward, and as the moan rose to a deep-throated snarl, he pulled back on the yoke. A shudder passed through the shuttle, and Jorge felt something push him back in his seat as the Mercator rose upon its VTOL thrusters. Once the small craft was five hundred feet above the runway, the pilot tilted the prow upward, then pushed the throttle bar forward. An immense roar, then the Mercator lunged toward the cloudless sky.

  They were on their way.

  McAlister might have had a less-than-soothing temperament, but he was an excellent pilot; the ride to orbit was smooth, with hardly any jarring along the way. Nevertheless, shortly after the blue skies of Coyote were replaced with the star-flecked blackness of space, Jorge unbuckled his harness and pushed himself out of his seat. Now that the main engine had been engaged, the trip to the starbridge would take ten hours; the less time he spent in the cockpit, the better he’d get along with McAlister.

  Everyone had endured the launch and ascent well, save for Greg, who’d become violently ill almost as soon as the Mercator reached space. The shuttle was too small to contain a Millis-Clement field generator, so weightlessness was a fact of life they’d have to deal with. Fortunately, the sergeant had managed to restrain his urge to vomit until he reached the small zero-g toilet in the rear of the passenger compartment, leaving the others to gaze out the portholes at Coyote.

  Seen from above, the world was a vast hemisphere, its snow-covered plains and mountains broken by the deep blue of its myriad rivers and channels. Leaning forward to peer through the small window above Greg’s vacant seat, Jorge watched as the Mercator crossed the daylight terminator east of Narragansett. A last glimpse of the tiny lights from coastal settlements along the Great Equatorial River, then there was a brief surge as the shuttle’s main engine fired again. Coyote began to drift away as the shuttle headed out for the starbridge in trojan orbit around Bear.

  “Too bad we couldn’t have stayed longer,” Inez murmured. “I was enjoying the view.”

  Jorge looked around at her. She was seated in her couch, calmly gazing through another porthole. She seemed a little pale, but otherwise was holding up. “We’ll be back soon enough,” he replied. “Besides, we’ll be seeing more interesting things than this before then.”

  “Your opinion.” Vargas was seated behind her, across the aisle from Manny. He didn’t look very happy to be there. “Personally, I’d rather stay behind.”

  Jorge suppressed a sigh. He’d heard Vargas gripe enough already about his role in the expedition. Not that he could blame him; after all, the last thing the former Union Astronautica spacer had ever expected was to be returning to Earth, let alone so soon after making good his escape. But that was an argument he’d already lost, and Jorge was getting tired of hearing it again.

  “Oh, but then you’d have missed one of the most interesting sights in the galaxy.” Manny turned his glass eyes toward him. “Feel honored, my friend…you’ll be one of the few men from Earth to visit Talus qua’spah.”

  “I’m not your…”

  “What should we expect once we get there?” Jorge hastened to cut off an insult. “I mean, I know we’re supposed to be meeting with the Talus High Council, but other than that…”

  The toilet door slid open, and Greg floated out of the tiny compartment, grasping a ceiling rail for support. He was still a little queasy, but apparently he’d managed to empty his stomach without causing a mess, because he gave Jorge a wan smile.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Manny went on, as Jorge pulled himself aside to let Greg resume his seat. “I’ve visited the House of the Talus many times, and have met with the High Council twice before. Each occasion has been a bit different, though, and none have ever been quite like this. All I know for certain is that, before we’re allowed to make the jump to Starbridge Earth, we’ll have to make our case to the Council.”

  “Yes, well…that’s the part I still don’t get,” Vargas said. “I mean, you’ve got a nav key already programmed for Starbridge Earth, right? And I’ve told you the bridge itself is still functional, even if it hasn’t been used since the Lee blew up. So why do we have to ask anyone’s permission to go home?”

  “Your home,” Inez said quietly, without looking at him. “Not mine.”

  Jorge nodded but allowed Manny to continue. “When the hjadd stepped in to help us rebuild Coyote’s starbridge,” the Savant said, “they stipulated that it could be used to reach only Rho Coronae Borealis and other Talus systems. It was their opinion that Earth was a hostile planet, and that further contact with it would pose a hazard not only to the Federation but to the Talus as well. The High Council backed this decision, and since then our access to Earth has been denied.”

  “But you could have gone back…” Vargas began.

  “Not without disobeying the High Council, no. Technically speaking, it’s Coyote that’s become a member of the Talus, not humankind. Our trade and cultural ties to the other races of the galaxy are too valuable for us to risk losing. Like it or not, we have to get permission from the Council to do this.”

  “Christ…”

  “You needn’t worry, Mr. Vargas. In my communiqués with the Council, they’ve expressed no desire to speak with you…only Jorge, Inez, and me.”

  “They want to see Inez and me?” Jorge was surprised. This was the first time he’d heard that.

  “Yes.” Manny turned his head to look at him and Inez again. “You needn’t worry, though. I’m only going to be there as liaison, and you’re only attending as expedition leader. The person whom they really want to meet is Corporal Sanchez.”

  “Because I’m the chaaz’maha’s daughter,” Inez said, her voice low and reserved.

  “Correct.” A slight nod of Manny’s skull-like head. “They were unaware that the chaaz’maha left behind a child. Naturally, they’re curious about you…which means that, for better or worse, it may be up to you to persuade them to relax their prohibition against traveling to Earth.”

  Inez slowly let out her breath. “That’s a lot to ask.”

  “I know. But that’s the way it is.”

  The hours crawled by. They chatted, snacked from the freeze-dried rations stocked in the galley, took naps, gazed out the windows. Once Jorge returned to the cockpit, he finally found something to talk about with McAlister that was a little less incendiary: namely, the upcoming soccer playoffs between the Liberty Patriots and the Clarksburg Loggers. And in the meantime, Bear grew larger, its vast rings gradually gaining dimension, the superjovian’s swirling cloud bands more distinct.

  Finally, just as everyone was reaching the limits of their patience, they reached Starbridge Coyote. It was bigger than the one that had been destroyed on Black Anael; the first starbridge had been converted from the diametric-drive torus transported to 47 Ursae Majoris by the EASS Columbus in C.Y. 13, while its replacement—using materials mined from Bear’s closest satellite, Dog, and assembled with hjadd technology—was designed to allow larger vessels to pass through it. Even the gatehouse was new; the original station, converted from the Columbus’s primary hull, had been dismantled several years earlier, and in its place was a wheel-shaped collection of modules that also served as a port of call for the vessels of those aliens who found Coyote to be uninhabitable.

  “Gatehouse Traffic,” McAlister said, “this is C
FS Gerardus Mercator, on primary approach. Request permission to initiate hyperspace transit to Rho Coronae Borealis.” The pilot typed an eight-digit string into the nav comp. “Standing by to transmit key code, on your mark.”

  A short pause, then a voice came over their headsets. “We copy, Mercator. Ready to receive key code. Mark.”

  Without a word, McAlister took a small black cartridge from his vest pocket, slid it into a slot within the comp. This was the Mercator’s starbridge key, programmed with the hyperspace coordinates for the starbridges in both 47 Ursae Majoris and Rho Coronae Borealis. Without it, hyperspace travel would be impossible: the AIs that controlled access to the starbridges would not permit a wormhole to be opened, thus prohibiting a ship from passing through. In this way, the Talus was able to operate its galaxywide system of starbridges in peace.

  Another pause, then the gatehouse traffic controller spoke again. “Key code received and confirmed, Mercator. Please transfer navigation control to local AI.”

  “Roger, Trafco.” McAlister reached up to the communications panel, flipped a couple of toggles, then pushed a red button on his console marked PILOT AUTO. “Control transferred. Awaiting your signal.” Cupping his hand around his headset mike, the pilot glanced at Jorge. “This is the part I hate.”

  Jorge nodded. He understood what the pilot meant; the shuttle’s main comps were now slaved to the gatehouse AI, which in turn had been interfaced with the AI aboard the distant starbridge. From that point on, control of the Mercator was out of McAlister’s hands. The AIs would do the rest. No pilot liked to surrender his craft to a machine, but it had to be done; the calculations necessary for a successful hyperspace jump relied on split-second decisions too rapid for human reflexes.

  A few seconds went by, then they heard from the traffic controller again. “Mercator, you’re clear for transit. Final approach and insertion in T-minus sixty seconds. Abort window closes in T-minus fifty seconds. Good luck. Coyote gatehouse over.”

  “We copy, gatehouse, thank you. Mercator over and out.” McAlister muted the comlink, cocked his head toward the aft cabin. “One minute to go. Make sure you’re strapped down…and if you’re prone to vertigo, I’d suggest you shut your eyes.”

  Stretching his shoulders against his harness, Jorge peered back at the others. They were all in their seats, their straps holding them immobile. The only person who appeared calm—save for Manny, inscrutable as always—was Sergio, who’d been through this more than a half dozen times before. Both Greg and Inez were plainly nervous, though, with Greg clutching his armrests and Inez staring anxiously at the porthole above her seat. Jorge noticed that her lips were moving soundlessly; he guessed that she was reciting one of the Sa’Tong-tas’s many poems, probably the one meant to calm followers in times of peril.

  It was times like this when he envied her for her beliefs. Even though their training for this mission had included a ride in a Navy flight simulator, Jorge knew that it would do little to prepare them for the real thing.

  A few seconds later, there was another surge as the shuttle’s main engine automatically fired. Through the cockpit windows, he saw the starbridge gradually expand until there was nothing else in sight. As the Mercator hurtled toward the giant silver ring, there was a brilliant flash from within its cavity: white at first, then multispectral, as if all the colors of visible light had been split apart by an immense prism, swirling together to form a funnel-like kaleidoscope.

  Gravity tugged at him, pulling his body against his straps. “Hold on!” McAlister shouted. “We’re going in!” Then he looked at Jorge. “Shut your eyes, you fool.”

  Jorge did so, and an instant later the Mercator plunged into the wormhole.

  For the next five seconds, he felt as if he had been thrown into a maelstrom. No, worse than that: something indescribable by terms of any previous experience. As the spacecraft spun along its major axis, he had the sensation of being physically stretched, as if he’d become a string of saltwater taffy; there was no pain in this, yet reality itself seemed to have been warped. From behind him, he heard a scream—he barely recognized the voice as Inez’s—and yet the sound was distorted, coming to him from some great distance. He struggled to breathe, but even that seemed impossible.

  And then, just as he was wondering how much longer the ordeal would last, it was over. Like a rubber band being snapped, reality abruptly resumed its proper state. He could breathe again, although only as a ragged gasp that burned his lungs. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the cockpit was just the same as he’d last seen it.

  “Fun, huh?” Beside him, McAlister was grinning, albeit ruefully. Sweat stained his collar and underarms, formed tiny beads that broke free from his face and drifted away. “Maybe I should’ve said that this is the part I hate the most.”

  “Yeah…whatever.” Jorge felt a wave of nausea; fighting the urge to vomit, he closed his eyes again, took deep breaths.

  “Right.” The pilot cranked his seat back a few inches, then looked over his shoulder again. “Everyone okay back there? No casualties, I hope.”

  A few murmurs from the cabin prompted Jorge to open his eyes once more. The nausea was gone, and it didn’t appear as if anyone had become sick, although the others also looked as if they’d been pulled through a laundry wringer. Only Manny seemed unperturbed. For the first time, Jorge found himself wishing that he was a Savant.

  “Better get used to it,” McAlister muttered. “This won’t be the last time.” He nodded toward the cockpit windows. “Unless, of course, you’d like to make that your permanent residence.”

  At first, Jorge didn’t understand what he was saying. Then he followed McAlister’s gaze and saw the House of the Talus.

  At first sight, Talus qua’spah resembled an immense snowflake that had, in defiance of every natural law, formed in high orbit above an Earth-sized planet. Roughly circular in shape, a little more than two hundred miles in diameter, it was massive yet strangely delicate, its latticework giving it a fragile appearance despite its enormous size.

  As the Mercator came closer, Jorge perceived the reason for this illusion. Talus qua’spah wasn’t one single structure but rather a vast collection of habitats in different sizes and shapes—spheres, cylinders, hexagons—connected to one another by a complex web of cables, struts, and bars, with a central torus as its nucleus. Spacecraft of nearly every description moved around its outer fringes; a giant rhomboid, speckled with windows and larger than any vessel in the Federation fleet, glided past the Mercator, carefully avoiding the tiny shuttle as it headed for the nearby starbridge.

  “When the hjadd agreed to play host for the rest of the Talus,” Manny said, “their first challenge was designing a colony suitable for the requirements of many different races.” The Savant had left his seat in the aft cabin and floated up to the flight deck, where he clung to a ceiling rail. “Their solution was to build a support structure in geosynchronous orbit above their homeworld, then invite the other member races to bring their own habitats and attach them to it. This way, each race has its own hab…sometimes a few, in fact…containing native environments that they don’t have to adapt for the needs of others.”

  “Nice to know,” McAlister said, “but that doesn’t tell me where I’m to dock.”

  “Coyote has a hab. The hjadd converted a vacant sphere for our purposes shortly after humans made contact with them.” Manny paused. “However, I’m not sure we’ll be docking there. The Council may have other plans for us. We’re close enough…may I use the ship’s wireless, please?”

  McAlister hesitated, then started to remove his headset, apparently intending to pass it to the Savant. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Manny added. “I have my own comlink.” As if to demonstrate, he reached to his chest, slid open a recessed panel, and pulled out a small prong along a slender cord. “Lieutenant, if you’d be so kind as to insert this in the com panel…?”

  Jorge tried not to smile as he took the prong from Manny and pushed
it into an auxiliary port on the communications panel. McAlister didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “Do you also come with a can opener?” he murmured.

  “And a knife sharpener, too.” If Manny was insulted, he showed no indication. “Please adjust the frequency to 1,120 kilohertz, Lieutenant.”

  Manny waited until Jorge did this, then he spoke again, this time in the series of sibilant hisses, clicks, and croaks that Jorge recognized as the hjadd’s spoken language. For the first time, he realized why Manuel Castro had been asked to serve as Coyote’s liaison to the Talus. So far as he knew, no one else had mastered more than a few words of the hjadd’s native tongue. It was nearly unpronounceable by humans, but apparently the Savant vocoder was able to replicate it without effort. Indeed, Jorge wondered how many other languages Manny had learned over the past few years.

  There was a brief pause, then Jorge heard a response through his headset: the same language, apparently spoken by a hjadd. It lasted for a minute or so, then Manny made a brief reply before looking at McAlister again. “Just as I suspected…we won’t be docking at our own sphere but somewhere else. It seems that the High Council has chosen a different site for our meeting.”

  Jorge and McAlister exchanged a worried look. “Is this good or bad?” Jorge asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you because I don’t know. There is one bit of good news, though. Given the fact that we’ll be here for so short a time, the Council has allowed us to forgo the usual decontamination procedure, provided that we have our own air supply.”

  “Not a problem.” As a precaution, the Navy had furnished the expedition with five airpacks. Previous experience with the hjadd had shown humans the wisdom of being prepared to cope with the aliens’ native atmosphere, with its lower pressure and higher nitrogen content. “But that still doesn’t tell us where we should…”