Coyote Rising

by Allen Steele

  The Matriarch looked different from the pictures of her he’d seen: auburn hair longer, now reaching her shoulders and showing streaks of grey, her stout figure was no longer as full as it had once been. She wore the gold-trimmed blue robe of her office, yet its colors were faded; beneath it was a brown outfit of some sort of animal skin. Like her escorts, she showed signs of having spent the last several years in an untamed environment.

  “Captain Baptiste?” she asked. “I’m Luisa Hernandez, governor of New Florida.”

  “A pleasure, Matriarch Hernandez.” As Baptiste stepped forward to extend his hand, he noticed the holster on her belt. Why did she feel it was necessary to carry a weapon, or be accompanied by armed men? “I must confess, I’m surprised to see you so soon. I thought . . .”

  “We’d meet once you landed?” A quick smile that quickly vanished. “I’m afraid we can’t afford the luxury of time, Captain. We’re in the middle of a major military operation. In fact, I’ve been counting on your arrival.”

  “I take it that you’ve been waiting for us.” Until then, Hull had been quietly standing off to the side. The Matriarch’s eyes widened a bit as she saw him; Baptiste guessed that, for an instant, she thought he was Savant Castro.

  “Oh, yes.” She recovered quickly, returning her attention to Baptiste. “Quite so. The fact of the matter is that we have a situation down there. With your assistance, though, we may be able to bring it to a swift conclusion.”

  “Really?” Baptiste pulled a chair back from the table. “Please, tell me all about it.”

  Matriarch Hernandez ignored the offered seat. Instead, she reached into her robe, pulled out a datafiche. “This will supply most of the background,” she said, holding it out to him, “but I’ll make it simple. We’re engaged in a manhunt for one of the original Alabama colonists. He now goes by the name of Rigil Kent, but his true name is Carlos Montero.”

  GABRIEL 75/1038—PIONEER VALLEY

  “C’mon, give us a break.” Lars stood up from the hole he’d been digging for the last hour, rested his arms against the handle of the entrenching tool he’d taken off the skimmer. “We don’t need to do this.”

  “You’re right. We don’t need to do this . . . but you do.” Carlos didn’t look up from the portable stove he’d set up a few yards away; the chunk of river ice he’d placed within the pot had melted, and he squatted next to the stove, patiently waiting for the water to boil. “If you’re going to murder someone, then you’re going to have to dig a grave for him.”

  “It’s not murder if it’s . . .” Marie caught the look in her brother’s eye and stopped. The hole she excavated was barely deep enough for the body wrapped in a sleeping bag that lay nearby, but the ground was frozen, and she had brought up almost as much rock as soil. “Never mind,” she muttered, and went back to work.

  Garth had completed his task a few minutes ago. He stood next to the open grave, his hands thrust in the pockets of his parka. Another soldier lay nearby, also cocooned in a sleeping bag. “Go ahead,” Carlos said. “Put him in. Then you’re . . .”

  “You put him in.” The kid sullenly glared at him. “I’m done taking orders from . . .”

  “Do as he says.” Lars shoved the shovel blade back into the hard ground. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we’re out of here.” Carlos watched as Garth bent over, grasped the toe of the sleeping bag, and dragged it into the shallow grave. Stepping out of the hole, the kid hocked up a mouthful of saliva. For a moment it seemed as if he was ready to spit on the body, then he looked at Carlos, thought better of it, and swallowed. He picked up his entrenching tool and began to cover the corpse.

  So much like David. Carlos thought. Same attitude . . .

  That was an uncomfortable thought, and he pushed it aside. The water was boiling. Carlos picked up the pot, poured water into two metal cups he’d found in the mess kit. When Barry recovered the canvas bag the skimmer pilot had dropped in the water, they discovered that its rations included a small supply of freeze-dried coffee. Neither he nor Marie or Barry had seen instant coffee in many years . . . at least not since the last of the Alabama’s food supply had been used up, what seemed a lifetime ago. It was a luxury they had forgotten; no beans to grow, roast, and grind. No sense in letting it go to waste, yet Carlos couldn’t help but feel another surge of guilt. The skimmer pilot had been doing nothing more offensive than fetching breakfast when Marie had shot him down.

  Picking up the cups, he walked over to where the two prisoners were seated on a driftwood log. Kneeling in front of Constanza, he offered coffee to him. “Here you go,” he said quietly. “Might warm you up a little.”

  Constanza remained silent. He stared at the ground between his boots, his arms wrapped tightly together against his chest, his hands bunched beneath his armpits. The fur-lined collar of his catskin jacket was pulled up around his face; his eyes gazed into some abyss only he could see.

  “He’s gone.” Chris was sitting next to him, his ankles crossed, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I’ve tried talking to him, but he’s zeroed. Shock, I guess.”

  It was the first thing he’d said in nearly an hour. A sign of progress. Carlos silently offered the other cup of coffee to him. Chris hesitated, then reached up to take it from him. “Thanks. You’re a real pal.”

  “You’re welcome.” Carlos walked over to the other end of the log, sat down next to him. For the moment, at least, the others ignored them. Lars, Garth, and Marie continued burial detail; Barry was aboard the skimmer, trying to figure out how to operate it. Carlos sipped the hot coffee, stared at the half-frozen waters of Goat Kill Creek. “Ready to talk?”

  “What are you going to do to me if I don’t? Sic your girlfriend on me?”

  Carlos almost spit out a mouthful of coffee. For an instant, he felt an impulse to backhand the guy seated next to him, until he remembered just how long it had been since the last time Chris saw Marie. “That’s not my girlfriend,” he said. “That’s my sister.”

  Now it was Chris’s turn to sputter. He clapped a hand against his mouth as his eyes went wide in astonishment. “Holy . . . that’s Marie? I didn’t . . .”

  “You thought she was going to remain nine forever?” Carlos shook his head. “She’s eighteen, almost nineteen. Call her my girlfriend again, and we’re going to have a problem.” As if they didn’t already.

  “Sorry, man. I didn’t . . .” Then Chris seemed to remember where he was. “What did you do to her? She shot our pilot down like it was a skeet shoot.”

  “I didn’t . . .” Carlos let out his breath. He couldn’t explain Marie’s actions either; like Chris, he remembered when his little sister had been someone other than a sniper. Letting her join Rigil Kent had been a mistake; he saw that now. “Let’s talk about something else, okay? Why are you here?”

  For a moment, it seemed as if Chris was going to clam up again. He sipped coffee as he watched Marie and Lars dig graves; now that Garth had buried the third soldier, he was rummaging through the mess kit for something to eat. “I was their guide,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Sort of their native sherpa.”

  “Don’t lie.” Carlos shook his head. “You’ve never been here before. Last time I heard, the Matriarch made you Chief Proctor of Shuttlefield. What are you doing with a Union Guard patrol in Midland?”

  “Last time I heard, you were going by the handle of Rigil Kent.” He smiled. “I looked it up, by the way. An old European name for Alpha Centauri, the closest star to Earth, besides Sol. Good name . . .”

  “Don’t change the subject. What are you doing here?”

  Chris shrugged. “Sure, why not? Might as well tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “We’re looking for you. Your little club, I mean.” He gestured toward the tripod-mounted instrument, lying upended upon the ground near the bullet-pocked equipment cases. “See that? It’s called a SIMS . . . schematic information mapping system. Your dad would have loved it. It’s right up his all
ey.”

  “Forget about my family.” Carlos felt his face growing warm; whether Chris meant to or not, he was scratching an old wound. “What does it do?”

  “It’s a full-suite sensory package . . . infrared, motion detection, body heat, the works. It’s linked via satellite to a dozen or so like it they’ve been setting up all over Midland. The idea is to collect information on your people’s movements. Once the data is collated, then they’ll be able to predict where you’re likely to be at any given time.” He looked at Constanza. “It’s his baby, so he might be able to explain it better. If you can get him to talk, that is.”

  A remote surveillance system. Carlos felt a chill that didn’t come from the weather. If he and the others had been any slower coming down the hillside, then the SIMS would have picked them up as soon as they were within range. The odds would have been reversed; he might have become Chris’s prisoner, and the soldiers would have been digging graves for Marie, Lars, and Garth.

  Yet that was only conjecture. Reality wasn’t much more kind. Goat Kill Creek led northwest into the Pioneer Valley until it reached the southern slopes of Mt. Shaw, where Defiance was located. If Chris was telling the truth, then his people were in danger of being found by the Union.

  And Defiance wasn’t the only settlement at risk. During the last few months, following the sabotage of the Garcia Narrows Bridge, several hundred immigrants who had been involved in its construction had managed to establish tiny villages here and there across Midland; most were scattered along the Gillis Range, with a few as far north as the Medsylvania Channel. It had become clear that the Union wasn’t going to be content with New Florida; assuming control of the vast resources of Midland remained vital to its long-range plans, and the bloody events at Thompson’s Ferry had demonstrated that Luisa Hernandez wouldn’t tolerate any interference. The newcomers had already experienced the Matriarch’s iron hand while living in the squatter camps of Shuttlefield, and they had no desire to do so again. Although Carlos had taken the name Rigil Kent for himself, it had since been adopted as the name of the resistance movement so many of them had joined.

  Until recently, all they had to worry about were the Union Guard garrison on New Florida. Only a couple of days ago, another Union starship had arrived in orbit above Coyote; it could be seen from the ground at night, a bright star moving across the sky. There would be even more Guardsmen aboard that ship, more soldiers to be sent into Midland in search of Rigil Kent and his followers. The rebellion was still young, and it could easily be crushed.

  Carlos glanced at the scientist seated nearby. Constanza might be persuaded to reveal where the other SIMS were located, but this was neither the time nor place. And Carlos didn’t trust Chris. Even if he wasn’t lying, there was something about his story that didn’t quite fit. . . .

  “So why are you here?” His coffee had gone lukewarm, and he made a face as he took a another sip. “Don’t tell me you just wanted exercise and fresh air.”

  “Hey, I love the great outdoors just as much as you.” Chris’s expression became serious. “My mother disappeared last month. Where I come from, when people go missing, there’s usually one place they go.” He pointed to the ground. “You know where she is?”

  “If I told you, would you help me?”

  “Oh, c’mon. Get real.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Carlos stood up, tossed the rest of the coffee into the snow. “We’ll take the skimmer. Your friend, too . . . he needs medical attention. I’ll leave you with some rations and a compass. The East Channel’s about two hundred miles from here. You should be able to find your way back.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “You just said you love the great outdoors. Here’s your chance to get as much of it as you want.” Carlos started to walk away. “Nice to see you again. I’ll tell your mom you said hi.”

  He was halfway to where the others were waiting when Chris called after him. “Okay, you win. What do you want me to do?”

  Carlos turned around. “I want you to take a hike with me.”

  “A hike?” Overhearing this, Marie looked up from shoveling the last spadeful of dirt over Gondolfo’s grave. “What do you . . . where are you taking him?”

  “Back where we came from, of course.” Before she could reply, Carlos stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Barry emerged from the top hatch of the Armadillo. Carlos gestured for him to come over, then looked at his sister again. “You guys take Mr. Constanza here—”

  “It’s Dr. Constanza,” Chris said quietly. “Enrique Constanza.”

  “Dr. Constanza, I mean, and take the skimmer back. Chris and I will ride the shags.”

  “That’ll take two days, at least.” Lars put down his shovel. “Why can’t you. . . ?”

  “The skimmer only has room for six. Counting these two, we’ve got seven.” Carlos glanced back at their two prisoners. “Kuniko should take a look at Dr. Constanza as soon as possible, so he’ll go with you. Besides, we need to return the shags . . . hey, you think you can drive that thing?”

  Barry had joined them by then. He shrugged. “Looks easy enough. Sort of like a maxvee, just a little different”

  “I’m sure you can handle it,” Carlos said. With his back turned toward Chris, he gave his friend a wink. “If we get lost, I can always call in and ask for help. Know what I mean?”

  Rigil Kent avoided using satphones because they were dependent upon the Alabama for uplink; the Union might be able to triangulate their position by using RDF receivers to search for the point of origin. They carried short-range transceivers instead, but observed radio silence except in case of emergency. Barry understood his meaning; he gave a brief nod. “This is stupid,” Marie said. “Someone can just hang on to the hatch, ride outside. We can be home in just a few—”

  “Don’t argue with me.” Carlos dropped his voice. “Do as I say, and I won’t tell anyone who fired the first shot.” Marie turned red, looked away. “Just leave us with food and another pack for him. Or do you have one aboard, Chris?”

  “It’s in the skimmer. Of course, we could use another gun, just in case we run into any boids.”

  “The boids are wintering south of here. You know that.” Carlos turned toward the Thompson brothers. “One more thing. Dr. Constanza is your responsibility. When I get back, I expect to find him in good health. If he has any accidents on the way . . .”

  “That’s not going to happen. Count on it.” Barry gave Lars and Garth a dark look. “Are you sure you want to . . . ?”

  “I know what I’m doing.” Kneeling next to the camp stove, Carlos snuffed it out, then began to fold it. “Lars, Marie, load the SIMS and bring it with you. Barry, help Dr. Constanza aboard. Garth, pack some snow on top of those graves. I want this place to look just the way we found it.”

  As the others went about their tasks, Carlos shoved the collapsed stove into his backpack, then dug some rations out of the mess kit. “They follow orders well, don’t they?” Chris murmured with just a trace of sarcasm.

  “Sometimes.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the entrenching tool Marie had dropped. It lay on the ground just a couple of feet away. For the moment, no one was paying any attention to them. Chris could easily snatch it up, bash him over the head. If he was lucky, he could then grab his rifle, shoot everyone while their backs were still turned. “When we’re out here on our own,” he added, “we learn to count on each other to stay alive. Know what I mean?”

  Chris reached down, picked up the shovel. Carlos swiveled on his hips, watched as he folded the blade, collapsed the handle, and held it out to him. “Yeah, I know,” Chris said quietly. “The only thing I don’t get is why you’re doing this.”

  “Haven’t seen you in a long time.” Carlos took the entrenching tool from him, shoved it into a loop on the side of his pack. “Think it’s time we had a talk.”

  GABRIEL 75/1422—FORT LOPEZ, HAMMERHEAD

  Like an immense swoop descending upon its nest, the he
avy lifter came in for touchdown, its VTOL jets blasting snow away from the ring of flashing red beacons that marked the landing field. The ground crew watched as the spacecraft settled upon its tricycle landing gear; they waited until the engines cut off, then trotted over to the aft cargo hatch, while an honor guard of six soldiers took up position, three on each side of the forward crew hatch. As the hatch swung open and the gangway ramp lowered, an officer standing nearby shouted a command. The soldiers came to attention, swinging their rifles to their left shoulders and snapping their bootheels together.

  It wasn’t the reception Captain Baptiste had anticipated; in fact, he was quietly appalled by the formality. But he said nothing as Matriarch Hernandez led the way down the ramp, Savant Hull bringing up the rear. She pointedly ignored the honor guard as she walked past them, pulling up the cowl of her cloak. “Many apologies for not giving you a proper welcome,” she murmured once they were past the soldiers. “It’s the best we can do under the circumstances.”

  “Think nothing of it.” And indeed, the absence of whatever the Matriarch considered “a proper welcome”—a military parade, perhaps, with full colors—was the least of his concerns. A cold wind whipped across the plateau, stinging his face and causing him to shiver despite the thick parka he wore. He felt light-headed—the lower atmospheric pressure, of course; he had been warned about it—but when he took a deep breath, the frigid air caused his teeth to chatter. He pulled down the bill of his cap before the wind could snatch it away. All things considered, he reflected, he would have preferred New Florida; even the name sounded warmer.

  By then, the officer in charge of the honor guard had dismissed his troops and come over to join them. “Captain, Savant Hull, may I present First Lieutenant Bon Cortez,” Hernandez said. “Lieutenant, Captain Fernando Baptiste, commanding officer of the Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars.”