Coyote Rising

by Allen Steele

  “Certainly. Of course.” This was getting better all the time; she found herself dancing from one foot to another. “Your shuttle will bring you here?”

  “Yes. We can arrive at”—a few seconds passed—“1900 hours, by your time. We’ll touch down in the landing field just outside Liberty.”

  The center of Shuttlefield. Perfect. “Very good, Captain Lee. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  “Same here, Matriarch. I hope our talks will be fruitful. Alabama out.”

  She heard a buzz within her ear, signaling that the satphone link had been broken. Luisa heaved a deep sigh. “I got him,” she said quietly, unable to keep the smile from her face. “I finally got him.”

  “If you say so.” As always, the Savant registered no emotion. “But don’t you think—”

  “I think very well, thank you.” She turned away, allowing her bodyguard to open the front door of the community hall for her. In only a few hours, her enemy would walk into her hands, voluntarily and of his own free will. “Come now. We need to prepare for his arrival.”

  He must be desperate. All the better. The negotiations would be very short, and entirely on her terms.

  1214—URSS ALABAMA

  Lee switched off, then slowly let out his breath as he settled back in his chair. For a few moments he gazed out the window, watching Midland as it passed below once more. Alabama was in its third orbit since they had come aboard; the titanic column of ash rising from Mt. Bonestell was clearly visible, and, if anything, it had become larger since the last time he’d seen it. He hoped that Fred LaRoux was overstating the consequences of the eruption, but he didn’t think so; already the thin gauze of the upper atmosphere above the limb of the planet had subtly changed color from light blue to reddish brown.

  “You know what she’s going to do, don’t you?” Dana floated upside down above the engineering station, consulting a pad she’d clipped to a panel while she carefully entered a new program into the keypad. “She thinks you’re going to give up, and when she finds out you’re not, she’s going to take you hostage.”

  “That thought occurred to me, yes.” He tapped his headset mike. “Kim, how’s it going down there?”

  “I’ve got reentry plotted,” she replied, “but if we’re going to touch down by 1900, we’re going to have to depart by 1300 at the latest. Sorry to rush you, but we’ve got a tight window.”

  “Understood.” Lee glanced over Dana; she briefly nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. “Shovel some more coal into the engines, we’ll be there as soon as we can.” He clicked off, then unbuckled the seat belt and pushed himself toward the engineering station. “I have no doubt whatsoever that she’ll try to take full advantage of the situation. She’s the kind of person who sees everything in terms of power.”

  “And you think you can deal with someone like that.” Not a question, but a statement.

  “I think so.” He grasped a ceiling rail to brake himself. “I was once married to someone who thought that way.”

  Dana glanced away from the comp screen. “Sorry,” she murmured, embarrassed by what she’d said. “I forgot.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” It had been many years—almost 245, in fact—since the last time any of them had seen Elise Rochelle Lee, the daughter of a United Republic of America senator, once his wife before . . . Lee shook his head. He seldom thought of Elise anymore, and when he did his memories were bitter. “Let’s just say that I’ve had practice, and leave it at that.”

  Dana said nothing, but her eyes expressed sympathy before she returned to her work. Lee watched as she tapped a few more keys, double-checked what was on the screen against the datapad’s display, then loaded the program into the AI. “All right, we’re golden. Main engine’s back online and I’ve preset the ignition sequence for 1930 on the nose. All we have to do now is set the trajectory and engage the autopilot.”

  “I’ve already worked out the trajectory.” Lee reached for the pad. “Want me to insert the final numbers?”

  “Let me handle it. I’ve got ’em in my head. Excuse me. . . .” Dana unclipped the pad, then performed a graceful somersault that sent her in the direction of the helm station. “If you want to do something, you can disengage the command lock-out on the autopilot. I know your code, but it’ll save me a minute. Oh, and yeah, Kim might appreciate it if you opened the cradle.”

  “Got it.” Lee returned to his chair. Not bothering to seat himself again, he pulled up the lapboard while hovering overhead, then typed in the six-digit string that would allow Dana to enter a new course into the navigation subsystem. Once that was done, he pushed the buttons that would reopen the shuttle cradle and let Plymouth undock from the ship.

  The instruments made their discordant music of random beeps and boops, and for a moment it almost seemed as if the ship was alive again. Lee let his gaze roam across the command center. He had trouble remembering Elise’s face, but it was all too easy for him to recall when this place had been filled with his crew, shouting orders to one another in those last minutes before Alabama launched from Earth orbit. Now it was just him and his chief engineer, preparing their ship for one last journey. . . .

  “Done and done.” Dana turned away from the helm, pulled herself along the rails toward him. “We’re on the clock now. Better get below before Kim throws a fit.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Lee started to reach down, intending to close the porthole shutters, then realized that it was pointless. He withdrew his hand . . . then, on impulse, he hit the switch anyway.

  “Why did you do that?” Dana watched the shutters slowly descend upon the windows, blocking out the sunlight and casting the compartment into darkness once more. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does.” It was hard to explain, but he felt like it was the right thing to do. Like offering a blindfold to a man being marched before a firing squad. He turned toward the hatch. “Come on,” he said, feeling a dryness in his throat, “let’s go before I change my mind.”

  1301—WHSS SPIRIT OF SOCIAL COLLECTIVISM CARRIED TO THE STARS

  “There it is,” Baptiste said. “Increase magnification, please.”

  He watched as the image displayed on the ceiling changed. What had once been a tiny sliver of reflected light almost lost among the stars suddenly became a recognizable shape: the Alabama, picked up by the Spirit’s navigation telescope.

  The other ship was nearly two thousand miles away, gliding just above the limb of the planet. Over the last few months, his crew had become used to spotting the derelict every now and then; its equatorial orbit was higher than the Spirit’s, though, and on a slightly different plane, and so the vessel would disappear beyond the horizon after each brief encounter. Only once had anyone gone aboard the Alabama, and then just to disable its communication system. Baptiste always meant to pay it a visit, if only out of curiosity—after all, it was an historic artifact—but he had never found the time nor the opportunity, and after a while its presence faded to the back of his mind.

  Once again it occupied his full attention. As he watched, a tiny wedge-shaped form detached itself from its midsection. A brief flare of light, then it slowly fell away from the ship, beginning a long descent toward the planet below.

  “That must be the shuttle,” the com officer said unnecessarily. “I should be able to locate its radio frequency, sir. Do you wish me to hail it?”

  “Negative.” The last thing Baptiste wanted its crew to know was that it was being observed. “Reopen the channel to Liberty, please.” He waited until he heard the double beep within his ear, then prodded his jaw. “You’re correct, Matriarch. There was someone aboard the Alabama.”

  “Was, or is?”

  “Was. Past tense. We just saw a shuttle depart.” He peered more closely at the Alabama. No light within its portholes. “From what I can tell, its docking cradles are empty. I doubt there’s anyone aboard.”

  “I see.” A brief pause. “All the same. I’d like to be certain. Can you send someone ove
r there to check?”

  “Just a moment.” Baptiste glanced at the navigator. She tapped a couple of keys, then pointed at her screen. He punched up her console display on his private screen, quickly studied the orbital tracks of both ships. “I can do so, but it’ll take some time for a skiff to make rendezvous. Six hours at least, and only if we launch at once.”

  “Please do so, Captain. At the very least, I’d like to have their satphone capability taken down again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t like Luisa Hernandez very much; she was arrogant, her methods crude and imperialistic, and once already they’d crossed swords. Although he was in charge of military operations, she was the colonial governor, and in certain matters her authority superseded his. It was her original order to deny orbital communications to the resistance movement, and in that regard she had the final say. “I’ll send a team over right away. If that’s all—”

  “It isn’t, I want you to come down here and join me.”

  Several people looked up as she said this. They were patched in to their conversation, as normal for space-to-ground communications. It was no secret among the crew that the captain detested the Matriarch, and that he’d returned to the ship, on the pretext of maintaining command discipline in order to avoid having personal contact with her. Baptiste deliberately turned his back on them. “Do you think that’s necessary, ma’am?”

  “Captain, may I remind you that Robert Lee is aboard that shuttle, and that he himself has requested this meeting? If he’s planning to surrender—”

  “You said earlier that he requested an armistice.”

  “Only a choice of words. This situation obviously poses a threat that he can’t handle. Or perhaps he’s been considering this for a while, and just sees this as a way out. Either way, he wants to bring hostilities to an end. As commander of Union Guard operations, your presence here is crucial.”

  Baptiste bit his lower lip. She had him there. In breaking off her operation nearly three months earlier to capture Rigil Kent, he’d asserted his rank as the most senior Union Astronautica officer on Coyote. The role of being a commander of an occupational force wasn’t comfortable for him, though, and since then he’d been happy to let the Matriarch do as she would with the Union Guard reinforcements he’d brought from Earth.

  He knew he couldn’t wash his hands of the matter any longer. And, he had to admit to himself, he was curious as to why Lee would make such a sudden gesture toward peace. And the timing . . . there was something odd about the timing. . . .

  “Yes, Matriarch. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  “Very good, Captain. I’m looking forward to—”

  “Thank you, Matriarch. Spirit out.” He impatiently cut the comlink, then stood up from his chair. “Prepare a shuttle for me, please,” he said, turning to the senior watch officer standing nearby, “and tell the pilot I want a fast descent to Liberty.” With luck, he might be able to beat Lee’s shuttle to the ground. “And detail an inspection crew to the Alabama,” he added as he headed for the lift. “Tell them to burn extra fuel if they have to, but I want them aboard as soon as possible.”

  The watch officer was already issuing orders as the lift doors closed behind Baptiste. His hand wavered in front of the panel as he briefly considered stopping by his cabin to exchange his duty fatigues for a black dress uniform. If this was a disarmament conference, then perhaps he should be suitably attired for the occasion.

  Then he thought better of it, and pushed the button for the shuttle deck. Doing so would only waste time. Besides, he was reluctant to do anything that might make the Matriarch look good.

  And he doubted that Robert Lee would care very much about his appearance.

  1521—SAND CREEK, NEW FLORIDA

  Sand Creek split off from North Creek at the tip of a broad peninsula, where it took its own course to the southeast, passing grassy savannas dotted by isolated groves of faux birch and blackwood. One after another, the flotilla turned to the left, the keelboats and pirogues trimming their sails to catch the late-afternoon wind, the canoes keeping to the center of the narrow river in order to ride the current. The water level remained high, so no one ran aground on the narrow sandbars that lay submerged beneath the surface.

  Peering back over his shoulder, Carlos watched as the last of the boats made the turn, making sure that no one continued down North Creek by accident. He and Chris had switched places a few hours ago; now he sat in the stern, the better to keep track of everyone. They had long since given up trying to remain in the lead. The pirogues and keelboats had the advantage of speed, and it made little sense to try to outrace them, so they contented themselves with remaining near the rear of the flotilla; once they got closer to Liberty, he and Chris would paddle back to the front.

  For a while, though, the current was pulling them along. Carlos laid his paddle across the gunnels, giving his arms a moment to rest. His back ached and his biceps felt like coils of lead cable; arching his spine, he felt vertebrae gently crack, and he shook his arms in an effort to loosen his muscles. Never before in his life had he pushed himself so hard. Even when he’d made his solo journey down the Great Equatorial River, he hadn’t attempted to travel such a long distance in so short a time. And he didn’t want to think about how far they still had to go.

  “Got some water?” Chris was hunched in the bow seat. Like Carlos, he’d pulled off his shirt once the day had become warm; the sun had reddened his shoulders, and sweat plastered his hair against the back of his neck. He was just as tired, yet he continued to plunge the blade of his paddle into the brown water, mindless of the fact that Carlos had stopped paddling.

  “No problem.” Carlos reached forward, pulled aside his jacket to find the catskin flash. It was little more than a quarter full, and although he was tempted to take a drink himself, he tossed it forward. “Take a breather. Let the river do the work.”

  “I hear you.” Chris pulled up his paddle, then reached back to find the flask. Unstopping it, he tilted back his head and upended the flask, letting some of the water fall across his face. Carlos said nothing; they could always beg some more drinking water from one of the larger boats. “What a job, man. What a job.”

  “Just a few more miles to go. We’re halfway there. It’ll soon be over.”

  That was a half lie, and they both knew it. They had passed the halfway point shortly before they entered Sand Creek, but more than a few miles lay between them and Liberty. They had made good time, and the current was with them, but the journey was far from over. Soon enough, they’d have to put down paddles, pick up their guns, and face dozens of Union Guard soldiers who’d had little more to do all day than clean their weapons.

  Whatever Lee was planning, Carlos hoped it was the right thing, because Red Company was going to arrive dead on its feet. Alabama would be passing over again soon; he was tempted to pick up the satphone and bounce a signal to Blue Company, just to see how it was doing, but he and Clark Thompson had agreed to maintain radio silence unless absolutely necessary until the two teams were within sight of their respective targets.

  “Yeah, well, the sooner, the—” Chris’s voice abruptly dropped to a whisper. “Hey, look over there.”

  Carlos raised his head, peered toward the riverbank to their right. At first he didn’t see anything—sourgrass as high as his chest, spider bush snarled along the edge of the water, a few trees in the background—then something moved, and he saw a boid looking straight at him.

  No—not just one boid, but two . . . three . . . four. A hunting pack. Though dun-colored feathers rendered them nearly invisible against the tall grass that surrounded them, their enormous parrotlike beaks were easily discernible. Four avians, the smallest his own height, their murderous gazes locked upon them. They stood together on the creek bank, less than a dozen yards away. Carlos knew that the shallows wouldn’t stop them from attacking, not with prey so close at hand.

  It had been years since the last time he’d seen a boid at such c
lose range; they didn’t like the high country of Midland and had learned to avoid human settlements. Years ago one of these creatures had killed his parents, and another had come close to killing him as well; its skull used to hang from the wall of his tree house, until Susan complained that it gave her nightmares and Wendy had made him take it down.

  Keeping his eye on them, Carlos slowly bent forward, searching for his rifle. Yet the boids remained where they were. They stood still, silently watching as the canoe drifted past. It wasn’t until Chris picked up his paddle and carefully moved them farther away from shore that Carlos relaxed. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the boids disappear back into the tall grass.

  “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “They didn’t attack.” He looked at Chris. “That close, and they didn’t attack.”

  “No, they didn’t. And you know why?” He grinned. “They’re scared of us.”

  All at once, the exhaustion left him. There was no more doubt, no more need for rest. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his paddle once more.

  “We’re going to win,” Carlos said very quietly, more to himself than to Chris. “We’re going to win this thing.”

  1859—SHUTTLEFIELD, NEW FLORIDA

  Plymouth came out of the setting sun, making a low, sweeping turn to the west that shed the rest of its velocity. In the last few seconds before it descended upon the landing field, Lee caught a brief glimpse of the shantytown that surrounded the place where this same craft—once named the Jesse Helms before Tom Shapiro had rechristened it—had made the first landing upon Coyote.