by Allen Steele
“Relax. I don’t mean nothing.” Behind him, a few people glanced in our direction, but no one did anything. The front door had just opened, and the line was shuffling toward it. “Look, I’m sorry,” he continued, his voice a near whisper. “My fault. I shouldn’t have started it.”
“Yeah, sure. Okay . . .”
“Look, can I give you some advice? Between you and me?” I nodded. “Get out of there. Fold your tent, pack up your gear, and scram. We’ll take you back.”
“Who will?”
“Your friends, man. The people who care for you . . .”
“I know who they are,” I said. And then I turned my back on him and walked away.
Later that evening, after dinner was over and everyone was still seated around the fire, I told them what had happened. Several weeks earlier, when they had still believed that no one would do them any harm, they might have been willing to turn the other cheek. The incident with the New Frontiers gang had put them on their guard, though, and when I got to the part about the not-so-veiled threat Jaime had made, they weren’t so complacent.
Greer was sitting next to me. As I spoke, she put an arm around my shoulder; after a few minutes, it traveled down to my waist. She might have only meant to offer comfort, but somehow it didn’t seem that way. Greer and I had become close after I’d moved in with the Universalists, but I’d come to accept the fact that, while she clearly liked me, there was little chance that our relationship would ever become more than friendship. While sex wasn’t absolutely forbidden among his disciples, abstinence was one of the virtues Zoltan preached, and after a while I’d given up on the idea of sleeping with her. Yet she was snuggling up with me, and it was hard not to become aroused by her touch.
If Zoltan noticed, though, he was too distracted to care. He sat quietly while I spoke, hunched forward with his hands clasped together between his knees, wings folded against his back, gazing into the fire. When I was done, an uneasy silence fell upon the circle. Everyone waited for him to respond, but he remained silent for a few moments.
“Thank you, Ben,” he said at last. “I’m glad that you’ve brought this to our attention . . . and I’m pleased that you were able to escape without harm. It must have been difficult, standing up to a friend like that.”
“He’s not my friend.” My throat felt dry as I spoke. “I thought he was, but . . . well, that’s changed.”
Zoltan nodded sadly. “Much has changed now.” He raised his eyes to look at the others. “Make no mistake . . . if Ben’s warning is correct, and I believe it is, then we’re no longer safe here. We can post more guards at night, and try to keep everyone out of town unless it’s absolutely necessary, but in the long run it will be pointless.”
“I don’t agree, Reverend.” Standing behind Zoltan, Ian leaned against his staff, the hood of his robe pulled up against the cold wind that snapped at the fire. “If someone tries to attack us, I’m sure we can defend ourselves. We’ve got thirty men and women. . . .”
“Against how many?” This from Boris; sitting on the other side of the fire, his face pensive. “There are almost three thousand people in Shuttlefield. If even a small fraction of them decided to come down on us, we’d be overrun. And if Ben’s right, we can’t expect any help from the Proctors or the Union.”
“But they’re supposed to be protecting us.” Clarice was usually the quietest member of the group, but that day she wore the black sash of someone who had taken communion with Zoltan; perhaps that status gave her the courage to speak her mind. “Why wouldn’t they step in if they saw . . . ?”
“You weren’t here for the last First Landing Day.” When I spoke up again, everyone went quiet. “That’s the annual holiday to commemorate the arrival of the Alabama . . . happens on Uriel 47, at the end of summer. Last year, while the big feast was going on at the community hall, some Rigil Kent guerrillas snuck into Shuttlefield and blew up a shuttle.”
“I don’t understand.” Ian looked confused. “Who—I mean, what—is Rigil Kent? And why would they want to blow up a shuttle?”
“A group from the Alabama. They’ve staged sneak attacks on Liberty. They come across the East Channel from Midland, mainly to steal guns. The last time they were here, someone named Rigil Kent left a note on the boathouse door, claiming responsibility for the bombing and saying that they would continue until the WHU returned Liberty to its rightful owners. There was a small riot when that happened . . . everyone was dancing around the shuttle, watching it burn. The Guard couldn’t do a thing about it, neither could the Proctors. So if they can’t stop something like that, how could . . . ?”
“Interesting.” Zoltan was intrigued. “And you say they’re coming over from Midland?”
“That’s where they went after Glorious Destiny arrived.” I shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, though, no one’s been able to figure out exactly where they are. It’s a big island, four times larger than New Florida. Plenty of places for people to hide. So the Guard hasn’t been able to—”
“That’s good to know,” Renaldo said, “but it doesn’t get us any closer to fighting off—”
“You’re missing the point.” Zoltan raised a hand. “First, there’s no way we can defend ourselves . . . not against a lynch mob, at least, and that’s the inevitable outcome if we stay here much longer. And second, even if we managed to remain here, it would only be because we’ve decided to lie low.”
He gazed at the others. “But that’s not our mission. The Lord has ordained us to spread the word of universal transformation. This is why we’re here. It’s clear to me, though, that our efforts have become futile.”
Several people gasped. Others stared in disbelief at their leader. Feeling Greer tremble, I wrapped my arm around her; she sank closer against me, and I could tell that she was afraid.
“Yes . . . futile.” Zoltan’s voice became solemn. “Liberty and Shuttlefield are lost to God’s word, just as Sodom and Gomorrah once were. Destruction awaits this place, and there’s nothing we can do. Therefore, like Lot and his family, we must move on.”
“Where?” Renaldo demanded.
“You need ask?” Zoltan looked up at him. “You haven’t been listening to our brother Benjamin. He has shown us the way.”
At this moment, I saw what was coming. “Oh, no, wait a minute. . . .”
“Be quiet!” he snapped.
It was the first time I’d heard him raise his voice; like the others, I was stunned into silence. Zoltan rose from his seat, his wings unfurling like great brown sails that caught the night wind. In that instant, he became a bat-winged messiah, standing tall against the giant planet looming behind him. If anything else remains with me, it’s this single moment.
“The path is evident,” he said. “Our destiny is clear. We shall go to Midland.”
A range of expressions passed across the faces of his congregation: disbelief, uncertainty, dread. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, acceptance descended upon them. The prophet had spoken. He had received a vision, one that would lead them from peril to the destiny he’d foretold. They had followed him across forty-six light-years to this world; they would happily let him lead them just a few miles more.
Only it wasn’t just a few miles, or even a few hundred. And they had no idea what they were getting themselves into. “You don’t . . .” My voice faltered. “I’m sorry, but . . . Reverend, but I don’t think you understand. . . .”
“Understand what?”
“You don’t . . . I mean, Midland is uncharted territory. The only maps we have of it were made from orbit. The only people who’ve explored the interior are the Alabama colonists who’ve gone there. . . .”
“Then we’ll find them.”
“How? No one knows where they are.”
He sadly shook his head, as if that were only a minor detail, and I was a child asking foolish questions. “Always the unbeliever. You’ve been among us for all this time, and still you haven’t learned the truth.” Knowing chuckles rose from a
round the fire as he regarded me with fondness. “God will show us the way, Benjamin. He will lead us, and He will protect us.”
Then he turned to the rest of his flock. “Rest tonight. We’ll begin making our preparations tomorrow. Be discreet, though . . . don’t let anyone outside this camp know of our plans. With luck, we’ll make our exodus within the next few days, before anyone knows we’re gone.”
He looked back at me again. “Benjamin, you’re welcome to come with us. In fact, we would appreciate your guidance. But you’re under no obligation.” He paused. “Will you join us?”
“I . . . I’m going to have to think about this.”
“By all means, please do.”
He bowed his head and led his followers in a brief prayer. Then the meeting broke up; people got up, began going about the usual chores they did before bed. There was nothing for me to do, so I headed for the tent I shared with Ernst and Renaldo when Greer caught me by the arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.
“Well, it’s not my turn to do the dishes or stand watch, so I . . .”
“How lucky. It’s not my turn either.” She leaned a little closer. “And you know what else? Juanita and Mary have decided that they’d rather spend the night with Clarice and Bethany. So guess what that gives me?”
“Umm . . . a tent by yourself, I think.”
Her eyes were bright as she shook her head. “No. A tent with you.”
Then she led me away, taking me to a place where, for a few long and memorable hours, we were alone together. By the time the sun rose the next morning, my decision was made. There was no going back.
We left Shuttlefield three days later, in the early morning just before sunrise. No one saw us as we set out on foot, a procession of men and women quietly walking through the silent town, duffel bags strapped to our backs. We took as much as we could carry, but there was much we had to leave behind; once our campsite was found abandoned, no doubt the townspeople would fight over discarded tent heaters, electrical tools, and generators. As it was, we were happy just to leave Shuttlefield in peace.
We took the road into Liberty, then cut across a potato field toward Sand Creek. The creek was still frozen over, so we didn’t anticipate any trouble crossing it. A thick ice-fog lay over the field, making it seem as if we were walking through a mist of pearl; we couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead, so it came as a surprise when, just before we reached the creek, we came upon a lone figure standing near its banks, wearing a dark cloak with its hood raised.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice an electronic purr from the grilled mouth of his metallic head. “I take it you’re leaving.”
In all the time that I’d been on Coyote, I’d seen Manuel Castro only a few times, and then only from a distance. One of the Savants who’d been aboard the Glorious Destiny, he was the colony’s lieutenant governor, Matriarch Hernandez’s right-hand man . . . if one could consider a mechanistic posthuman still a man.
Zoltan was at the head of the line. He wore his robe over his folded wings, and as the rest of us came to a halt, he stepped forward, pulling down his hood so that Castro could see him face-to-face. They made an odd pair: black and white, the cyborg and the gargoyle. “With all due respect, yes, we are. I hope you don’t take it as an insult.”
A strange rattle from the Savant: an approximation of a laugh. “I should, but I won’t. The Reverend Zoltan Shirow, isn’t it? I’m sorry we haven’t met until now. I’ve been told that your presence in Shuttlefield has been . . . troublesome, shall we say?”
“If there’s been any trouble, it hasn’t been our fault.” Zoltan paused. “I hope you’re not here to stop us.”
“Not at all. I’m only here to enjoy the sunrise.” Castro raised a clawlike hand from beneath his cloak, gestured toward the wan yellow sun burning through the mist. “Beautiful, isn’t it? This is the time of day I enjoy the most.”
I glanced around, half-expecting to see Guard soldiers emerging from the fog. If Castro had brought any soldiers with him, our exodus would have been short-lived; we were unarmed save for the quarterstaves a few of us carried. But the Savant was alone.
“Then you don’t mind?” Zoltan asked.
“Not at all.” Castro shook his head. “From time to time, various individuals make an effort to leave the colony. If they’re people whose talents we value, then we endeavor to keep them here. More often than not we allow potential subversives the option of going away. We let them think that they’ve escaped, but believe me, there’s little that happens that the Central Committee doesn’t know about.”
Greer and I gave each other an uncertain look. How could they have known what we were planning? There were rumors that the Proctors had informants among the colonists, yet we had taken pains not to speak to anyone about our plans. On the other hand, perhaps the Savant was merely pretending to know something that he really didn’t.
“We aren’t subversives.” Zoltan’s voice took on a defensive edge. “All we ever wanted to do was settle here in peace.”
“I won’t argue your intentions. Nonetheless, if you’d decided to stay, there would have been trouble, and we would have been forced to take measures against those who might have harmed you, or even you yourselves. So it’s just as well that you leave before it comes to that. No one will stop you, Reverend. You’re free to do as you will.”
“Thank you.” Zoltan bowed slightly. “You’re quite generous.”
“Only looking out for the colony’s best interests.” Again, the strange laugh. “I assume you’re heading to Midland. That’s where most people go when they leave here.”
The Universalists stirred uneasily, glancing at one another. We’d already decided that, if we were stopped by the Guard, we would claim that we were going to establish a small settlement on the northern tip of New Florida. Yet Zoltan decided to be truthful. “That’s our intent, yes. After we’re across the creek, we plan to hike downstream until we reach the Shapiro Pass. There we’ll build rafts and use them to cross the Eastern Divide until we reach the East Channel.”
“Oh, no . . . no. That’s the worst way possible. The Shapiro Pass is treacherous. Believe me, your rafts will be destroyed in the rapids.”
“You know another way?” I asked, stepping forward so that the Savant could see me.
Castro briefly regarded me with his glass eyes, then he looked at Zoltan once more. “Your guide?” he asked. Zoltan nodded, and the Savant shook his head again. “Once you’ve crossed Sand Creek, go due east until you reach North Bend. Follow it southeast until you reach the Divide. You should be able to reach it by tomorrow afternoon. There you’ll find the Monroe Pass. It’s marked on your map, if you’re carrying one. That’s where you’ll find another way to cross the East Channel.”
He was right. The Monroe Pass was much closer; I’d decided to use the Shapiro Pass because that was how the Montero Expedition had left New Florida three years ago. “What do you mean, we’ll find another way to cross?”
“As I said, others have gone before you. You’ll find them. Trust me.”
I wasn’t quite ready to trust Savant Castro, but if what he said was true, it would cut a couple of days off our journey. And I had to admit, any way off New Florida that didn’t entail braving the Shapiro Pass sounded good to me. I looked at Zoltan and reluctantly nodded; he said nothing to me, but turned to Castro once more. “Thank you. We’re in your debt.”
“Not at all. But tell me one thing . . . what do you expect to find out there? Surely not the original colonists. They’ve made it clear that they don’t want anything to do with us . . . except for whatever they can steal in the middle of the night.”
“We’re hoping we may be able to change their minds.” Zoltan smiled. “Since you’re being helpful, perhaps you can tell us where we might find them.”
If the Savant could have grinned, he probably would have. “If I knew that . . . well, things would be different. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to see
k them out yourselves. In any event, good luck to you. Farewell.”
And with that, he stepped back into the mist, drifting away like a black wraith. We heard the crunch of his metal feet against the icy ground, then he was gone.
Zoltan waited a few moments, before turning to the rest of us. “If Pharaoh had let the Children of Israel leave Egypt so easily, then a lot of trouble could have been avoided. I take this as a good sign.”
Or an omen, I thought. Moses and his people spent forty years in the wilderness not because of anything the Egyptians did to them, but because of what they did to themselves . . . including the worship of false idols.
But I didn’t voice my thoughts, and perhaps that was the first act of my betrayal.
We crossed Sand Creek without incident; the ice was still strong, and we safely made it to the other side. Instead of going downstream, though, we took the Savant’s advice and went due east, following the orbital map and electronic compass Ian had bartered from a kiosk for one of our generators. As the group’s guide, I was the one entrusted with the map and compass, but it wasn’t long before we found that they were unnecessary; a trail had already been cut through the high grass and spider bush on the other side of the creek, marked here and there with strips of blue cloth tied around trunks of faux birch. As Castro said, someone else had gone before us.
We marched all day, stopping now and then to rest. By early evening we’d reached North Bend, a broad stream that ran parallel to Sand Creek. Beyond it we could make out the great limestone wall of the Eastern Divide, only about fifteen miles to the southeast. It was tempting to press onward, but we were footsore and tired, so Zoltan called a halt. We pitched our tents and gathered wood, and by the time Uma went down and Bear was rising to the east, we were gathered around a warm campfire, eating beans and gazing up at the stars. After dinner Zoltan led his followers in prayer, asking for His help in the long journey ahead.