by Allen Steele
“Why are you here?” Sissy asked.
The question was abrupt, without preamble . . . and, Allegra realized, it was the very same one she’d posed the night they first met. But they were no longer strangers, rather two friends enjoying a quiet dinner together. How much had changed since then.
“You mean, why did I come here?” Allegra shrugged. “Like I told you . . . I couldn’t find anywhere else in town, so I pitched my . . .”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Allegra didn’t say anything for a moment. She put her knife and fork together on her plate, folded her hands, to and turned her gaze toward the window. Far away across the fields, she could see the house lights of Liberty; in that instant, they resembled the lights of cities she had left behind, the places she had visited. Atlanta, Dallas, Brasilia, Mexico City . . .
“A long time ago,” she began, “I was . . . well, I wasn’t rich, nor was I famous, but I had a lot of money and I was quite well known. For what I do, I mean.”
“For making music.”
“For making music, yes.” She absently played with her fork, stirring some gravy left on her plate. “I traveled a great deal and was constantly in demand as a composer. All the people I knew were artists who were also rich and famous.” As rich as social collectivism would allow, at least; she’d learned how to stash her overseas royalties quietly in trust funds maintained by European banks, as many people did to avoid the domestic salary caps imposed by the Union. But it was complicated, and there was no reason why Sissy should have to know that. “And for a while I was satisfied with my life, but then . . . I don’t know. At some point, I stopped enjoying life. It seemed as if everyone I knew was a stranger, that the only things they wanted were more fame, more money, and all I wanted was to practice my art. And then one day, I found that I couldn’t even do that anymore. . . .”
“You couldn’t make music?”
Allegra didn’t look up. “No. Oh, I could still play”—she picked up her flute from where she had placed it on the table—“but nothing new came to me, just variations of things I’d done before. And when it became obvious to everyone that I was blocked, all the people I thought were my friends went away, and I was alone.”
“What about your family?”
She felt wetness at the corners of her eyes. “No family. I never made time for that. Too busy. There was once someone I loved, but . . .” She took a deep breath that rattled in her throat. “Well, it wasn’t long before he was gone, too.”
Allegra picked up the napkin from her lap, daubed her eyes. “So I decided to leave everything behind, go as far away as I could. The Union Astronautica had started the public lottery for people who wanted to come here. The selection was supposed to be totally random, but I met someone who knew how to rig the system. I gave him everything I owned so that I’d get a winning number, then took only what I could carry in my bag. And . . . well, anyway, here I am.”
“So why are you here?”
Allegra gazed across the table at Sissy. Hadn’t she heard anything she had just said? Just as on Earth, everything she did was pointless—another exercise in self-indulgence. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to scold her neighbor. It wasn’t Sissy’s fault that she was disturbed. Someone had hurt her a long time ago, and now . . .
“Excuse me. I think I need to visit the privy.” Allegra pushed back her chair, stood up. “If you’d gather the dishes and put ’em over there, I’ll wash them tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Sissy continued to stare at her. “If there’s any food left, can I give it to my chickens?”
“Sure. Why not?” She tried not to laugh. Her best friend was a lunatic who cared more about her damn birds than anything else. “I’ll be back,” she said, then opened the door and stepped outside.
The night was darker than she’d expected; a thick blanket of clouds had moved across the sky, obscuring the wan light cast by Bear. She regretted not having carried a lamp with her, yet the privy was located only a couple of dozen feet behind her house, and she knew the way even in the dark.
She was halfway across the backyard, though, when she heard the soft crackle of a foot stepping upon dry grass, somewhere close behind her.
Allegra stopped, slowly turned . . . and a rod was thrust against her chest. “Hold it,” a voice said, very quietly. “Don’t move.”
Against the darkness, she detected a vague form. The rod was a rifle barrel; of that she was certain, although she couldn’t see anything else. “Sure, all right,” she whispered, even as she realized that the voice had spoken in English. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“We won’t, if you cooperate.” We won’t? That meant there were others nearby. “Where’s Cecelia?”
“I don’t . . .” It took Allegra a moment to realize that he meant Sissy. “She’s gone. I don’t know where she is . . . maybe at the fiesta.”
By then her eyes had become dark-adapted, and she could make out the figure a little better: a bearded young man, probably in his early twenties, wearing a catskin serape, his eyes shaded by a broad hat. She carefully kept her hands in sight, and although he didn’t turn it away from her, at least he stepped back a little when he saw that she wasn’t armed.
“I rather doubt that,” he murmured. “She doesn’t go into town much.”
“How would you know?”
A pause. “Then you know who I am.”
“I’ve got a good idea. . . .”
“Get this over, man,” a voice whispered from behind her. “We’re running out of—”
“Calm down.” The intruder hesitated, his head briefly turning toward her cabin. “Is she in there?” She didn’t answer. “Call her out.”
“No. Sorry, but I won’t.”
He let out his breath. “Look, I’m not going to hurt her, or you either. I just want to talk to—”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you.” Allegra remembered the com Chris had given her. It was on her bedside table, where she had put it before she had taken her afternoon nap. Even if she could get to it, she wasn’t sure how much difference it would make. The Proctors were a long way off, and these men sounded as if they were anxious to leave. “If you want to speak to her, you’re going to have to go in there yourself.”
He took a step toward the cabin. “Carlos, damn it!” the one behind her snapped. “We don’t have time for this! Let’s go!”
Carlos. Now she knew who he was, even if she had only suspected it before: Carlos Montero, one of the original settlers. The teenager who had sailed alone down the Great Equatorial River, charting the southern coast of Midland the year after the Alabama arrived. Like the other colonists, he’d vanished into the wilderness when the Glorious Destiny showed up. Now he was back.
“So you’re Rigil Kent,” she whispered. “Glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Guess they found my note.” He chuckled softly. “I imagine Chris doesn’t have much good to say about me.”
“Neither does his mother. Please, just leave her alone.”
“Look, I don’t want to push this.” He lowered his gun. “Would you just deliver a message . . . ?”
“Damn it!” Now the second figure came in sight; Allegra wasn’t surprised to see that he wasn’t much older than Carlos, also wearing a poncho and carrying a rifle. He grasped his friend’s arm, pulling him away. “Time’s up, man! Move or lose it!”
“Cut it out, Barry.” Carlos shook off his hand, looked at Allegra again. “Tell her Susan’s all right, that she’s doing well, and so’s Wendy. Tell her that we miss her, and if she ever changes her mind, all she has to do is . . .”
A brilliant flash from the direction of the landing field. For a moment Allegra thought someone was shooting off fireworks, then the hollow thud of an explosion rippled across the Shuttlefield as a ball of fire rose above the settlement. She suddenly knew what it was: one of the Long Journey shuttles blowing up.
“That’s it! We’re out of here!” Barry turned to run, sprinting away into
the dark marshland behind the shacks. “Go!”
Yet Carlos lingered for another moment. Now Allegra could see him clearly; there was a ruthless grin on his face as he looked at her one last time. “And one more thing,” he said, no longer bothering to keep his voice low, “and you can pass this along to Chris or whoever else . . . Coyote belongs to us!” He jabbed a finger toward the explosion. “Rigil Kent was here!”
And then he was gone, loping off into the swamp. In another moment he had vanished, leaving behind the shouts of angry and frightened men, the rank odor of burning fuel.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Allegra walked back to the cabin. As she turned the corner, she was surprised to find Sissy standing outside the door. She watched the distant conflagration, her face without emotion. Allegra saw that she clutched her flute.
“He returned.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I knew he would.”
“I . . . I saw him.” Allegra came closer, intending to comfort her. “He was outside. He told me to tell you . . .”
“I know. I heard everything . . . every word.”
And then she raised the flute, put it to her mouth, and began to play the opening bars of “Jerusalem.” Flawlessly, without a single missed note.
The shuttle burned all night; by morning it was a blackened skeleton that lay in the center of the landing field. Fortunately, the blaze didn’t spread to the rest of Shuttlefield; Allegra would later learn that the townspeople, upon realizing that their homes weren’t in danger, abandoned all efforts at forming a bucket brigade and spent the rest of the night dancing around the burning spacecraft, throwing empty ale jugs into the pyre. It was the highlight of First Landing Day, one people would talk about for a long time to come.
Later that day, Chris Levin came out to check on his mother. She was through feeding the chickens, though, and didn’t want to talk to him. The door of her shack remained shut even after he pounded on it, and after a while he gave up and walked over to visit Allegra. She told him that they’d spent a quiet evening in her house and were unaware of any trouble until they heard the explosion. No, they hadn’t seen anyone; did he know who was responsible? Chris didn’t seem entirely satisfied by her answer, but he didn’t challenge it, either. Allegra returned the com he’d lent her, and he left once again.
In the months to come, as the last warm days faded away and the long autumn set in, she continued to make flutes. Once she had enough, she began selling them to shops and kiosks. Most of those who purchased them didn’t know how to play them, so she began giving lessons, at first in Shuttlefield, then in Liberty. By midwinter she was holding weekly seminars in the community center, and earning enough that she was eventually able to quit her job as a dishwasher. Some of her students turned out to have talent, and it wasn’t long before she had trained enough musicians to form the Coyote Wood Ensemble.
One morning, she awoke to see the first flakes of snow falling upon the marshes. Winter was coming, and yet she didn’t feel the cold. Instead, for the first time in many years, she perceived a muse whose voice she hadn’t heard in many years. She picked up her flute, put it to her lips, and without thinking about what she was doing, began to play an unfamiliar melody; for her, it sounded like a song of redemption. When she was done, there were tears in her eyes. Two days later, she taught it to her students. She called the piece “Cecelia.”
Despite invitations to move to Liberty, she remained in Shuttlefield, living in the small one-room cabin on the outskirts of town. Every morning, just after sunrise, she sat outside and waited for her neighbor to finish feeding the chickens. Then, regardless of whether the days were warm or if there was snow on the ground, they would practice together. Two women, playing the flute, watching the sun come up over Shuttlefield.
And waiting. Waiting for the return of Rigil Kent.
Part 2
BENJAMIN THE UNBELIEVER
(from the memoirs of Benjamin Harlan)
Three days after I betrayed the prophet, the hunting party from Defiance found me at the base of Mt. Shaw: starving, barely conscious, more dead than alive. At least so I’m told; that part of my memory is a blank spot. The hunters fashioned a litter from tree branches, then tied me to it and dragged me back to their hidden settlement. I slept for the next two days, waking up only now and then, often screaming from nightmares that I don’t remember.
I went into the wilderness of Midland along with thirty-one people, including their leader, the Reverend Zoltan Shirow. I was the only one who came back out. So far as I know, the rest are dead, including the woman I loved. I tried to save them, but I couldn’t. Indeed, perhaps only God could have saved them . . . and if Zoltan is to be believed, then God had His own plans for him.
I begin my story here so you’ll know, from the beginning, that it ends in tragedy. This is a dark tale, no two ways about it. Zoltan’s disciples were in search of spiritual transformation; I wish I could believe that they achieved their goal, yet there’s no way of knowing, for when the time came for me to stand with them, I fled for my life. Though my motives were base and self-serving, I’m the only one who survived.
A lot of time has passed since then, but I’ve never spoken about what happened until now. Not just because what I endured has been too painful to recall, but also because I’ve had to give myself time to understand what happened. Guilt is a terrible burden, and no one who considers himself to be a decent person should ever have to shoulder the blame for abandoning someone he loved.
This is my testament: the final days of Zoltan Shirow, God’s messenger to Coyote, as told by Ben Harlan, his last remaining follower. Or, as Zoltan liked to call me, Benjamin the Unbeliever.
The prophet fell from the sun on a cold winter morning, his coming heralded not by the trumpets of angels but by the sonic boom of an orbital shuttle. I was standing at the edge of the snow-covered landing field as the spacecraft gently touched down, waiting to unload freight from the starship that had arrived a couple of days earlier. I like to think that, if I had known who was aboard, I might have called in sick, but the truth is that it wouldn’t have mattered, because Zoltan probably would have found me anyway. Just as Jesus needed Judas to fulfill his destiny, Zoltan needed me . . . and I needed the job.
Good-paying jobs were tough to find in Shuttlefield. I’d been on Coyote for nearly seven months, a little more than a year and a half by Earth reckoning. My ship, the Long Journey—full name, the WHSS Long Journey to the Galaxy in the Spirit of Social Collectivism—was the third Union Astronautica ship to reach 47 Ursae Majoris. On the strength of a winning number on a lottery ticket and promises of a better life on the new world, I’d spent forty-eight years in biostasis to get away from the Western Hemisphere Union, only to find that the same people who ran the show back there were also in charge out here. And that’s how I found myself huddled in a leaky tent, eating creek crab stew and wondering how a smart guy like me had been rooked so badly, when the fact of the matter is that I’m not very smart and the system is rigged to take advantage of losers. So screw social collectivism and the horse it rode in on. On second thought, let’s eat the horse—if we had one to eat, that is—and let the guys who came up with collectivist theory go screw themselves.
When it was announced, in the first week of Barchiel, C. Y. 05, that the fourth Union ship from Earth—the WHSS Magnificent Voyage to the Stars in Search of Social Collectivism, or the Magnificent Voyage for short—had entered the system and would soon be making orbit around Coyote, I was the first person in line at the community hall in Liberty for the job of unloading freight from its shuttles. Literally the first; there were nearly three hundred guys behind me, waiting for a Union Guard soldier to open the door and let us in. During the warm seasons, we would have been working on the collective farms, but it was the middle of Coyote’s 274-day winter and jobs were scarce, so I was willing to stand in the cold for three hours just for the chance to schlep cargo containers.
And that’s why I was at the landing field in Shuttlefiel
d that morning, stamping my feet in the snow and blowing in my hands as I watched the gangway come down from the shuttle’s belly. The first people off were the pilot and copilot; perhaps they were expecting a brass band, because they stopped and stared at the dozen or so guys in patched-up parkas who looked as if they hadn’t eaten a decent meal in six months. A Guard officer emerged from the crowd, saluted them, murmured a few words, then led them away. Poor bastards—nearly a half century in space, only to find starving peasants. I felt sorry for them, but envied them even more. As members of Magnificent Voyage’s flight crew, they’d have the benefit of warm houses and good food before they reboarded the starship to make the long return flight to Earth. They were just passing through; the rest of us were stuck here.
The passengers came next, a steady parade of men, women, and children, every one of them with the shaved heads and shuffling gait of those who’ve recently emerged from the dreamless coma of biostasis. Their duffel bags were stuffed with the few belongings they’d been allowed to bring from Earth, their parkas and caps were clean and new, and not one of them had any clue as to where they were or what they’d gotten themselves into. One by one, they stepped off the ramp, squinted against the bright sunlight, looked around in confusion, then followed the person in front of them, who didn’t have a clue as to where he or she was going either. Fresh meat for Coyote. I found myself wondering how many of them would make it through their first year. We’d already lost more than forty colonists to hunger, cold, disease, and predators. The cemetery outside Liberty had room for plenty more.
About thirty people had come down the gangway when there was a pause in the procession. At first I thought everyone had disembarked, until I remembered that the shuttles had a passenger load of sixty. There had to be more; the shuttles wouldn’t fly down half-full. I had just turned to the guy next to me—Jaime Hodge, one of my camp buddies—and was about to say something like What’s the holdup? when his eyes widened.