by Allen Steele
“Suspicious, aren’t you?” During all this, Gregor Hull had glided up behind him; now he stood between him and the Matriarch, a black-robed specter, aloof yet omnipresent. “You don’t trust our man anymore?”
Baptiste gnawed his lower lip, refrained from making a comment. No, he did not. Ten minutes ago, Flight One had received a radio message on a coded frequency from Chief Proctor Levin. Everyone else involved in the operation had been lost so far, and Levin’s tracer had failed almost two and a half hours ago. Suddenly, Levin had made contact, claiming that he’d escaped from his captors and requesting rescue, with pickup in the gorge below the falls.
Baptiste shot a glance at the Matriarch from the corner of his eye. Her face remained stoical, registering no emotion. The moment the Diablo teams had hit the ground, she’d written off Levin as expendable; he’d been little more than bait for Rigil Kent, not worth saving if he got in the way. Now that he was known to be alive, she wanted him back. All well and good. The mission had been a failure; they might be able to salvage something from it yet.
Nonetheless, before Diablo Alpha had been brought down, the team leader’s camera had captured two men on the bridge. The camera had moved away before their blurred features could be discerned. One of them had opened fire upon the hunter-killer team just moments before it was wiped out.
He could have been Carlos Montero. That was what the Matriarch believed. Yet he might have been someone else . . .
“Visual acquisition.” The pilot’s fuzzed voice jerked him from his reverie. “We got someone, Gold Ops. Two down, dead ahead . . .”
Baptiste rested his hands upon the back of Cartman’s chair, leaned close to study the screen. Yes, there he was: a small figure, standing on a boulder near the creek’s edge, waving both hands above his head. The camera zoomed in, caught a face: a young man, in his late twenties, with long blond hair and a short beard.
“That’s him.” The Matriarch smiled. “Flight One, go down and take him aboard.”
“I don’t think that’s . . .”
“We need him,” she said, barely glancing his way. “He’s been in close contact with Rigil Kent. He may know something we . . .”
“Gold Ops! We’re . . . !”
A sharp bang, followed by a high-pitched screech. In the same instant, the screen went dark. “Flight One down!” Acosta shouted. “Flight One is down!”
Hernandez’s mouth dropped open. “What? I . . . what did you . . . ?”
Baptiste shoved her aside, bolted toward the next carrel. Acosta stared at her screen, watching in openmouthed horror as a flaming mass plummeted into the creek, rotors still spinning as it disintegrated against the rocks. “It just . . . sir, it just . . .”
“Get them out of there!” Baptiste yelled. The warrant officer was in shock, unable to perform her duty; he shoved her aside, stabbed at the console. “Flight Two, this is Gold Ops! Get out of there! Return to base at—”
“No!” The Matriarch rushed forward, tried to pull Baptiste away from the console “He’s down there! Rigil Kent is down there! We’ve almost got. . . !”
Baptiste turned around, shoved her away with both hands. Staggering back, she tripped over the feet of the sergeant. She would have fallen to the floor if one of bodyguards hadn’t been there to catch her. “Hold her!” Baptiste yelled, snapping his finger at the Guardsman. “Detain the Matriarch! That’s an order!”
The soldier hesitated, caught in a moment of uncertainty about whose authority was greater. Baptiste was a Union Astronautica senior officer, though, while Hernandez was a civilian, so his duty was clear. He gently grasped Hernandez’s arm, murmured something to her. For a moment it seemed as if she would resist, then she surrendered.
“We copy, Gold Ops. Returning to base.” Baptiste looked at the screen again, saw the gorge disappear as the gyro peeled away. The pilot was probably grateful to receive the order to withdraw. Someone down there had an RPG; the next heat seeker would have his name on it.
“You’re out of line, Captain.” Hernandez glowered at him, still held back by the Guardsman. “I can have you placed under arrest for this.”
“No, ma’am, you can’t.” Before Baptiste could respond, Savant Hull stepped forward. “This is a military operation, and Captain Baptiste is the commanding officer. In this instance, his authority supersedes yours.”
She stared first at him, then at Baptiste. “You can’t . . .”
“It’s done.” Baptiste let out his breath. “This mission is over. I’m not going to put anyone else at risk just so that—”
“Matriarch?” Acosta looked over at her. “Flight Two says they’re receiving another ground transmission. The person sending it says he wants to talk to you . . . personally.”
For a second, no one said anything. “Put it on so that we can all hear,” Baptiste said quietly. “And tell Flight Two to remain on station.”
A few moments passed while the orders were carried out. Then the fuzzed tones of a low-frequency radio signal filled the situation room, and they heard a young man’s voice:
“Matriarch Hernandez, do you hear me?”
Acosta nodded, indicating that she was patched into the comlink. The Matriarch prodded her jaw. “I hear you, Chief . . . Chris, I mean. Good to know you’re alive and well.”
“Yeah, I’m still here.” A short, rancorous laugh. “How nice of you to be concerned, considering that one of your men put a hole in me. Know what a laser feels like when it’s going through your shoulder? Hurts like hell, lemme tell you.”
“I’m sure it was a mistake.” The left corner of the Matriarch’s mouth twitched upward. “We tried to pick you up, but we came under enemy fire. If you’ll tell us where you are, we can make another attempt.”
A low hiss from behind Baptiste. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cortez standing nearby. Like everyone else in the room, he was silently listening to this exchange. The Matriarch’s calm self-assurance had returned; she cast a smug look at Baptiste. This wasn’t over yet. She’d get her man back, then they’d hunt down Rigil Kent.
“No, I don’t think so, but thanks anyway. Before I go though, a friend of mine would like to talk to you.”
The Matriarch’s eyes widened. She was about to reply when another voice came over. “Matriarch Hernandez, this is Rigil Kent. . . .”
Murmurs swept through the room; Baptiste heard someone mutter something obscene. Acosta reached to her console, trying to get a lock on the source of the signal. “I’m going to make this quick,” the voice continued. “You’ve succeeded in getting a lot of your people killed today, I’m sorry for that, but you picked the fight, not us. We appreciate one thing, though . . . convincing Chris that he was on the wrong side. He’s back with us now. Thanks for that, at least.”
Hernandez’s face had gone pale. “You . . . you’re holding him prisoner,” she stammered. “I demand that you . . . that you release him immediately before we . . .”
“You’re in no position to demand anything, Matriarch. Now go away. This is our home, and you’re not wanted here.”
The transmission ceased suddenly, as if someone at the other end had flipped a switch. Baptiste looked down at Acosta, and she shook her head; she’d failed to pinpoint its source. “Tell Flight Two to return to base,” he murmured, then he turned to speak to the Matriarch.
Luisa Hernandez was no longer listening. Without another word, she turned her back on him and walked away. No one dared to speak or even look at her as she strode through the operations center, followed a few steps behind by her reluctant bodyguard. The Guardsman stationed at the exit saluted as she marched past him; his stiff gesture went unacknowledged. Winter sunlight briefly streamed through the door, followed by a cold draft before it slammed shut again.
It had been a bad morning for the colonial governor of Coyote.
GABRIEL 76/1803—DEFIANCE, MIDLAND
Twilight came as a gradual lengthening of shadows upon the snow-covered ground, cast by Uma as it sank behind th
e summit of Mt. Shaw. A cool wind drifted through the blackwoods, curling the woodsmoke that rose from fieldstone ovens sheltered by the forest canopy, causing bamboo chimes to rattle and clank gently in random melody. As darkness closed upon the village, fish-oil lamps flickered to life within tree house windows. Dogs barked as they helped their masters herd goats and sheep into their pens; within work sheds on the ground, glassblowers and potters extinguished their kilns, put away their tools. The evening air was filled with the aroma of cooking food; here and there were the creaking of rope ladders, the muted buzz of conversation, an occasional laugh. The day was done; Defiance was settling down for the night.
“I can see why they never found you.” Chris walked alongside Carlos as they strolled along a path leading through the center of town. All around them, small wood-frame cabins were suspended within the boughs of enormous trees, with rope ladders that led to floor hatches and porches dangling to the ground below. “A hundred people here . . .”
“A hundred and fifty-two. Like you said, we’ve been having a population explosion lately.” Chris glanced at him, and he shrugged. “We’ve had a few more babies, and we’ve picked up some people from your side of the river.”
“All these people in one place, and the Union never figured out where you were.” Chris winced as he shook his head. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon in the clinic, letting Dr. Okada tend to his shoulder wound, yet every move he made hurt a little. “But the farms, the grazing land. How did you . . . ?
“See all those poles over there?” Carlos pointed toward a broad meadow near the edge of the forest. “That’s where we hang camouflage nets. From above, it looks like just another empty field. Can’t tell we’ve got crops there unless you approach them from the ground.” He had already shown him the water tanks, the grain sheds, the privies and communal bathhouses, all concealed by the blackwoods surrounding them. “We’re careful about how we do things,” he added. “There’s some rules you’re going to have to learn.”
“Like what?”
As he spoke, a figure came toward them: Ron Schmidt, who long ago had worn the uniform of the United Republic Service. Now he wore a catskin serape over his patched URS parka, a carbine slung on its strap from his shoulder. “Ten minutes,” he murmured. Carlos raised a hand and he went on, pausing to shine a flashlight beam upon a couple of children playing on a catwalk between two tree houses.
“That’s one of ’em,” Carlos said. “No one outdoors after sundown except the night watch. Keeps down on thermal emissions . . . especially important during winter. The chimneys have caps on them, and all the windows have shutters. In ten minutes, it’ll be dark as hell around here. Unless you know where to look, you’d never know there was someone living here.”
“You’ve got it all figured out.”
Carlos shook his head. “No, not really. We’ve been lucky so far. The Union hasn’t found us because they didn’t know where to look. But now they know we’re somewhere in this valley, so they’re going to come searching for us. I don’t think trees and camouflage nets are going to hide us much longer.”
“And you’re going to blame me, right?”
“Uh-uh.” Carlos stopped, turned toward him. He couldn’t see Chris’s face, but he could hear the accusation in his voice. “So far as I’m concerned, our bills are paid. You’re going to have to work things out with everyone else, but . . .”
He stopped. They weren’t friends again; there were still many things that had to be settled between them. On the other hand, neither were they enemies anymore. They would just have to see how things would come out, one day at a time. “When push came to shove, you did the right thing,” he finished. “That’ll get around.”
“Yeah, well, maybe.” Chris didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve been away a while. I’m going to have to . . .”
From a tree house not far away, someone played a bamboo flute. An old tune, “Soldier’s Pay,” dating back to nineteenth-century America. A few seconds later, a second flute joined in, a little more hesitantly, as if the second person was still learning the melody.
Chris listened, turning his head to focus upon the music. “Is that her?” he asked quietly.
“That’s her. She’s been getting better. Allegra’s been a great help.”
“I thought she’d be. That’s why I encouraged her to look after my mom.” Chris started to walk toward the tree house, then stopped. “Look, there’s one thing I’ve got to know.”
“Sure.” Carlos shoved his hands in his pockets. “What is it?”
“When you found me, you had a feeling that this was all a setup, but you didn’t shoot me. Then you found out for sure that it was a trap, and you didn’t shoot me. And then I tried to give you away to the guys who were chasing us, and still you didn’t shoot me.”
“Yeah? And . . . ?”
Neither of them said anything for a few moments. “Nothing,” Chris said at last. “Just checking.”
“Go on home,” Carlos said quietly. “I think your mother’s calling you.”
An old line, remembered from a shared childhood, long ago and far away. Chris laughed softly, understanding something that didn’t need to be said, then turned to walk toward the light gleaming through the cracks of a shuttered tree house window.
Carlos watched him go. It was late, and he was tired. His wife and child were waiting for him. He turned around, began making his way through the night. For the moment, at least, all was well. Now it was time to go home.
Part 6
SHADY GROVE
(from the memoirs of Wendy Gunther)
The revolution against the Western Hemisphere Union occupation of Coyote was the turning point of our lives. We’d come to the new world to escape one form of tyranny, only to have another take its place; we tried to run away, but found that doing so was little more than a temporary solution. Sooner or later, we had to stand and fight.
No one wanted a war, but we got one anyway. Yet there are worse things than war. I discovered that in the winter of C.Y. 06, when the Union Guard attacked Defiance.
They appeared shortly after sunrise on the morning of Anael, Barchiel 29. Bill Boone was just ending his shift on overnight watch when he spotted two aircraft coming in over Mt. Aldrich from the east. He ran to the bell post and sounded the alarm, but it was early and most of us were still in bed, so only a few people managed to grab their guns before the gyros touched down in a farm field about three hundred yards from town.
Carlos and I were awakened by the bell, but we thought it was only another drill until the shooting began. He threw on his clothes, pulled his rifle off its hooks, and was down the ladder before I was even dressed. We’d discussed what we would do if something like this happened, so my duty was clear; I yanked Susan out of her bed, shoved her beneath it, then pulled off the mattress and stuffed it in after her to catch any stray bullets that might come our way. She screamed like hell—little girls don’t like rough treatment, least of all before breakfast—and I tried to calm her as best I could, but by then I knew we were in trouble.
I was supposed to stay in the tree house and protect Susan, but that’s not what happened. This may sound negligent, but when your home is under attack, you’ve got a choice: either bolt the door and hide, or pick up a gun and go out to face the enemy. I’d long since made up my mind, without telling Carlos, that if the Union ever attacked Defiance, I wasn’t going to play the role of defenseless female. When I was a kid back on Earth, I had the benefit of paramilitary training in Republic youth hostels; if anything, I was a better shot than my husband. So I told Susie to stay put and that Mama would be back soon, then I took down my own rifle, jammed in a cartridge, opened the floor hatch and jumped, not bothering to use the ladder.
I like to think I was brave. Perhaps, but I was also stupid. I was wearing nothing more than a thin nightshirt and a pair of drawstring pants, and in my haste I’d forgotten to pull on moccasins or a jacket; when my bare feet hit the ground, they sank into th
ree inches of snow. If I wasn’t fully awake by then, that did the trick. I hardly noticed, though, because all around me were my neighbors, coming down rope ladders and running across catwalks from one blackwood tree to another. An ice-fog lay thick above fields where only last autumn corn had grown high beneath camouflage nets; I couldn’t see Carlos, but from the mist I could hear the popcorn sound of guns in full-auto mode, interspersed with the more distant noise of enemy fire.
The snow numbed my feet as a chill wind ripped through my clothes. I was useless as far as leading any sort of cavalry charge, so I headed for the nearest dry spot I could find, a well about a dozen yards away. The low stone wall that surrounded it had been swept clear of snow; I jumped on top, taking cover behind the wooden yoke supporting the bucket.
It was an absurd moment—Wendy Gunther, wife of the legendary Rigil Kent, crouched in her pajamas on top of a well—but there wasn’t much else I could do. Leaving the cabin was a bad move; I had realized that by then. Yet there I was, all the same, so I held my rifle against my chest and waited for something to come close enough for me to shoot.
But the Union wasn’t fighting fair that day. A sudden boom from out in the fields, then a high-pitched whistle as something hurtled through the air. I barely had time to realize what it was before a tree house only a few dozen feet away exploded. Wood flew in all directions; I instinctively ducked, falling off the wall just in time to avoid having my skull fractured by a broken post that went sailing past my head.
“They’ve brought in a missile carrier!” someone yelled, and I raised my head to peer over the wall. I couldn’t see anything save for vague forms firing into the fog, yet somewhere out there was a Union Guard skimmer. Doubtless it had come up Goat Kill Creek in a coordinated attack with the gyros. Another shriek, then a patch of ground about sixty feet away went up in a fireball. Men were thrown in all directions, hitting the ground as if they were little more than broken toys.