Coyote - A Novel of Interstellar Exploration Part 2

She lets out her breath. One more task completed. There will be more over the course of the next twenty-four hours, some even more difficult than this, but for now...

A sharp double beep in her headset; someone's trying to page her. She switches the comlink back on.

"Charlie Eagle, we copy."

"Charlie Eagle, Lima Cherokee Ten. Where are you right now?"

"Charlie Three Baker. Is there a problem?"

An uncertain pause. "Ahh... yeah, there is. We've detected a glitch in Charlie Two's backup computer.

You know anything about it?"

merritt islhnd 7.5.70 / T-20.31.

"Name, please?"

At first, Wendy doesn't hear the man who's come up beside her. She's staring at the row of flatscreens along the wall of the ready room. Most display long bars of coded text-the major events of the prelaunch countdown, slowly scrolling upward one by one-yet the screen in the center, the largest one, depicts something different: an overhead shot of the Alabama, hovering within its...o...b..tal dry dock. Every now and then, the screen changes, showing a different view of the giant vessel from another angle, yet never once has it looked like anything except a plastic model cobbled together by a somewhat talented child.

Hard to believe that she's about to board the thing...

"Miss? Excuse me? Your name, please?"

She looks around, finds the white-suited technician standing next to her. She can barely see his face through the plastic visor of his hood, but he doesn't seem very much older than she. There's a small mustache on his upper lip, which makes her dislike him almost immediately; she's always distrusted men who have mustaches. Probably because the first counselor at Camp Schaefly who tried to rape her wore a mustache. And this guy is almost the same age.

"Gunther, Wendy." She picks up her I.D. badge from the bench where she put it, holds it up. "See? It'sright here."

The tech barely glances at the badge. He tries to hold the rigid smile, yet when their eyes meet for a moment, she can see the irritation in his face. "Thanks," he says, then he studies the pad in his right hand.

"Sorry to bother you, but there are just a few things I need to ask..."

And again, the list of questions. Have you ever had tuberculosis, diphtheria, rheumatism, chicken pox, gonorrhea, herpes, AIDS, or any untreatable form of cancer? Have you been inoculated within the last twelve months for the following, et cetera. Have you eaten any food or consumed any liquids within the last seven hours? Have you had a bowel movement within the last hour? Have you urinated within the last hour?

So forth and so on; she answers no, yes, no, yes, no, while her gaze wanders around the crowded room.

All around her, nearly two dozen men and women, along with a small handful of children, are seated on hard plastic benches. Like her, everyone wears one-piece isolation suits with the Alabama mission patch and the Republic flag sewn on the shoulders. One of the kids, apparently eager to become a s.p.a.cer, has already put on his hood, but no one else wears theirs yet. They're not due to board the Jesse Helms for another five hours; until then, it's going to be a long wait in the isolation ward of the Crew Training Facility while the docs give them their final inoculations.

Wendy knows almost none of these people. She's met them all, of course, over the course of the last few weeks, while she's undergone crew training both here and in Texas, but she can't truly say that she knows any of them. With the exception of Barry Dreyfus-there he is, across the room, sitting with his mother-none is her age. Spouses and children of Alabama's flight crew, loyal members of the Party, ready to carry the flag across the galaxy for love of G.o.d and...

"Have you had any s.e.xual contact within the last forty-eight hours?"

Wendy glances up at the tech. "What? What did you say?"

"Have you... pardon me, have you had any... ?"

"You have my background, right?" she asks. He glances at the pad's screen, nods. "Then you know I'm fourteen years old. What do you think?"

Nearby, a couple of other crewmen turn their heads, listening in on the conversation.

"It's just a... sorry. Never mind." His gloved finger hastily stabs at his pad; Wendy's faintly amused to see a white fog of perspiration appear within his faceplate. Poor guy's fl.u.s.tered, she thinks. Good.

Serves him right. "Umm... I think we can skip the rest," he mutters, his voice nearly inaudible through the hood's grill. "Just one more thing... who are you traveling with?"

Now it's her turn to look away. "No one," she murmurs.

"Pardon me?"

"I'm not with anyone. My father's already aboard the ship."

"I'm sorry, but I don't..."

"My father is Eric Gunther," she says impatiently. "Gunther, Eric, ensign, FSA, life support. He's already aboard the Alabama. I'm flying up to meet him.What else do you need to know?"

And please don't ask the obvious questions, she silently adds. Like why I was added to the crew roster at the last possible minute, or why I was trained independently from my father, or even why I practically haven't seen him three months in the last eight years, after he abandoned me after Mom died and left me to rot in a government youth hostel. Because, swear to G.o.d, I don't know the answers either.

Long silence while the tech studies his pad. From the corner of her eye, Wendy can see Barry watching her. Nice guy; quiet, reserved, keeps his hands to himself. Maybe they'll get to be friends once they get to wherever they're going. But Wendy has kept everyone at arm's length during training, because the last thing she wanted was to screw up somehow; that would have meant being shipped back to Camp Schaefly, the humid dorms packed with all the other cast-off and unwanted kids, where you spent your days in paramilitary drills and slept with one eye open. Because whatever waits for her forty-six light-years away, it can't be anything worse than Missouri...

"Yeah, okay. It's all here." The tech snaps the pad shut, steps back. "Shuttle launch is in about five hours, and you'll get your final briefing before then. When your name is called, you need to report to the front of the room for final medical inspection and your shots. Until then, you can take a nap, read a book, anything else. Understand?" She nods. "Any questions?"

"Can I..." She hesitates. "I'd like to step out. Just to... y'know. One last look around. Catch some air.

That sort of thing."

"Sorry." His head shakes within his hood. "You know the rules. You're in quarantine." He hesitates, then offers his hand. "Good luck, Wendy. I envy you."

If you knew anything about me, she says silently, you wouldn't be saying that.

"Thanks," she says, and takes his hand. "I'll send you a postcard."

Hope you're patient, she adds without saying so. You won't get it for another 460 years.

southern gedrgir 7.5.70 / T-20.M2.M Gliding a couple of inches above its elevated track, the maglev pa.s.senger train races through the forested hill country south of Macon, its spotlight piercing the thin haze above the superconductive monorail. As it rushes past one of the innumerable shantytowns sprawled across the countryside, a squatter warming himself by a trash can fire notices that the train has only two cars and that they have steel slats bolted against their windows. He stares at the train long after it has vanished, silently reflecting on the fact that, as hard as his life has become, it could be much worse.

A sudden vibration awakens Jorge from his restless slumber. Raising his head from where he had propped it between the edge of the seat and the window, he studies the compartment with weary eyes.

Crammed together in every available seat are men, women, and children. Most are asleep-wives huddled against husbands, kids dozing in their parents' laps-but some are awake. Staring through the window slats, they watch the occasional lights that swiftly pa.s.s by, their faces taut with anxiety, exhaustion, hopelessness. Precious little baggage in the overhead racks; only a handful managed to take anything when the Prefects came for them. Judging from what little conversation Jorge has overheard, some of these people were taken off the street, arrested while leaving restaurants, shops, even their own homes.

D.I.s, each and every one. Scientists, for the most part-Jorge knows most of these people by face if not by reputation-although scattered among them are also a few writers, artists,- students, and various other individuals who present "a clear and present danger to national security," to use the ISA's favored term.There must be a couple of hundred people packed into the train; the Prefects were busy this Fourth of July.

Marie's head lies cradled in Jorge's lap, her jacket wadded around her shoulders as a makeshift blanket. He tries not to disturb her as he raises his arm to glance at his watch. Almost 3:45 a.m.; they've been on the train for nearly five hours now, ever since they left Huntsville along with a few dozen other D.I.s and their kin. No trial, no hearing; only a ride in the back of a government midi to the maglev station, where they were ushered aboard by armed soldiers. The train wasn't crowded until it reached Atlanta, then it made a long stop while more than a hundred additional detainees were herded aboard, the grey-coated Prefects on the platform carefully checking off each name on their pads. Now a soldier stands guard at each end of the compartment, rifle in hand, forbidding anyone to speak aloud. Nothing to do except sleep and be afraid.

Just north of the Florida state line in Valdosta is their destination: the Patrick J. Buchanan Education Center. Jorge has seen the Govnet propaganda for Camp Buchanan: clean, well-lighted dormitories where D.I.s are allowed to live while they take cla.s.ses intended to broaden their political awareness.

Happy, well-nourished children playing tag while their parents sit at benches, eagerly asking questions of patient teachers. People in blue paper pajamas standing in line in the mess hall, waiting for healthy food served up by smiling cooks. Heartfelt testimonials by former D.I.s proclaiming the worthiness of the reeducation program, repeatedly stating they were well treated during their stay. But Jorge knows three former colleagues who were sent to Camp Buchanan, and he hasn't seen any of them since.

Across the aisle, Rita stirs, opens her eyes. Carlos is curled up next to her, his head on her shoulder. His wife looks around, sees Jorge, gives him a wan smile that he knows she doesn't feel. He wants to whisper something to her-an apology? a little late for that now!-but the last thing they need is to have one of the soldiers shouting at him, so all he can is give her what he hopes is a comforting nod. Everything will be all right, everything's going to work out just fine...

But it isn't. He knows that now. The ISA must have tumbled to the conspiracy. Why else would they have been arrested?

The train lurches again, a little harder this time, and now there's a gradual sense of deceleration. Are we already coming into Valdosta? Jorge peers through the window slats. Nothing except darkness, yet Valdosta is a large enough city that he should be able to see its lights. Nonetheless the train is slowing down...

Other pa.s.sengers are waking up. Jorge catches the eye of an old friend seated two rows up: Henry Johnson, an astrophysicist who also used to work at Marshall s.p.a.ce Flight Center. He's known Henry since they were postgrad students at MIT, long before the Second Revolution; after that they worked together on Project Starflight, or at least until they signed a pet.i.tion protesting the National Reform Program. The new government let them keep their jobs until the Alabama was finished, then they were publicly denounced as D.I.s and cast out of the Federal s.p.a.ce Agency. Shortly after that their citizenship was suspended, their voting rights revoked. They became noncitizens, left to fend for themselves as best they could.

Now Henry's on the train to Camp Buchanan, along with everyone else from Marshall who stood up to the Liberty Party and its social agenda. Six rows back are Bernie Cayle and his wife Vonda, and Jorge spotted Jim Levin on the platform at Huntsville just before he and his family were marched into the next car down. Henry silently gazes back at him, and as the train makes another lurch he slowly nods. Henry is more closely involved in the conspiracy than Jorge; the whole thing has been kept compartmentalized, so that if one person was arrested and interrogated by the Prefects, he wouldn't be able to reveal all the details. Jorge isn't sure, but he believes Henry may be the leader. If he is, then..."Papa? Are we stopping?" Marie has woken up; she raises her head from his lap, knuckles her sleep-wizened eyes.

"Shh. It's all right, sweetie. Just be quiet." Jorge strokes her hair, glances over his shoulder to see if the guard has heard them. Not that it matters; although pa.s.sengers softly murmur to one another as they stare through the windows, for the moment the soldiers aren't paying attention. The one in the back of the train, a kid not very much older than Carlos, grabs a seat back to steady himself as he bends over to the nearest window. The soldier up front spreads his feet a little farther apart; he yells at everyone to be quiet, but there's a baffled expression on his face.

The train slows to a crawl, coasts down an incline. A series of metronomic b.u.mps against the undercarriage as its wheels engage the track; now Jorge can see a spa.r.s.e handful of lights from directly ahead. Warehouses trundle past the windows; they're coming into an industrial park somewhere north of Valdosta, a rail yard meant for freight trains. Perhaps they're taking aboard more D.I.s. Yet when he glances at Henry again, his friend's face is carefully neutral.

Jorge has seen that secretive look before. He knows something...

The train comes to a halt. "Shut up!" the soldier up front yells. "Stay where you are! Don't move!" He gestures for the other soldier to come forward; the kid walks to the center of the compartment, rifle at the ready, as his sergeant retreats into the accessway. A faint thump, then a blast of cool air from outside.

The pa.s.sengers on the other side of the compartment watch through the windows as the sergeant steps off the train.

Marie looks at Jorge, her eyes wide with fear. What's going on? she silently mouths. Carlos is awake now, his gaze flitting between the window and the soldier standing only a few feet away. The soldier turns his back to him, and for an instant Jorge sees a wild impulse dart through his son's eyes. He urgently shakes his head, and the boy reluctantly settles down.

A minute pa.s.ses, then another. Three, four... Footsteps on the stairs, and the sergeant steps back into the compartment, followed by a Prefect. Young, tall, fit; callous eyes in a handsome face. The ISA officer studies the pa.s.sengers with much the same sort of loathing a chef would feel toward c.o.c.kroaches he's found in his kitchen, then he pulls out a pad and flips it open.

"The following individuals and their families will accompany me," he says. "Exit from the rear, and no talking. Abbott, Francis K... Arnold, Alice C.

... Burstein, David C..."

One by one, people rise and stagger down the center aisle, their legs cramped and numb. Bernie and Vonda Cayle leave the train; a minute later, Henry Johnson follows them. Everyone on the list is a former Marshall scientist, so it's no surprise when, just a few seconds after the Levins have been called, Jorge hears his own name.

"Papa, where are we going?" Marie's hand is tiny within his own, terribly vulnerable.

"Shh. I'll tell you later." Jorge lets Marie and Carlos get in front of them, then he reaches up to pull his heavy bag down from the overhead rack. The young soldier sneers at him as he picks Marie up and carries her down the aisle.

The night is colder than he expected, dark save for the lights above the warehouses. An unmarked government maxvee is parked next to the train, a loading ramp lowered from its rear cargo door. Two soldiers stand near the vehicle, silently watching the D.I.s as they line up to board the vehicle. Still holdingMarie in his arms, Jorge nervously looks around, spots Jim and Sissy Levin standing a few yards behind them, their children between them.

The Prefect who called their names steps down off the train. He walks over to the max, glances at the D.I.s already inside, then does a quick head count.

Jorge estimates that about forty-five people have been taken off the maglev, including spouses and children. Just about everyone who had boarded in Huntsville, plus a few from Atlanta. The remaining hundred or so pa.s.sengers stare at them through the windows. They're destined to continue south to Camp Buchanan; it's impossible to tell whether they envy the ones who've been pulled from the train or pity them.

Another Prefect disembarks from the second car. He walks over to his companion; they compare their lists, murmuring quietly to one another. The line shuffles slowly forward, the people in front ducking their heads as they march up the ramp into the max.

The vehicle is even more cramped than the train; everyone squeezes together on its hard plastic benches.

No outside windows. Through a grate-covered window in the front of the compartment they can see the back of the driver's head; he glances around once to watch the people coming aboard, then looks away again.

Rita puts Marie in her lap to make a little more room.

When the last D.I. has finally come aboard, the Prefect who called their names from the train marches into the vehicle. Pulling a stunner from within his coat, he regards everyone with cold scrutiny, as if challenging them to attack him. When no one says anything, he takes an empty seat at the back, then motions for the soldiers to close the rear hatch. They hesitate, then pick up the ramp and shove it into its slot. The hatch slams shut.

Long silence, then the maxvee whines to life. Everyone is jostled against one another as the vehicle picks itself off the ground. Jorge can't see the rail yard as the max coasts away "All right," the Prefect says quietly. "I think we're safe."

Everyone stares at him. What did he just say? Then Henry Johnson clears his throat. "Did it work?" he asks quietly.

Jorge looks first at him, then at the Prefect. Incredibly, he's putting away his gun. Rita's mouth is wide-open; she doesn't know what to make of this any more than anyone else in the max... all save Henry, who briefly favors Jorge with a broad grin. flllen M. Steele "Well done, everyone," he says. "Especially you. Nice performance." The Prefect nods, trying not to smile, then Henry sharply claps his hands to break through the cacophony of voices all around them.

"Okay, everyone calm down, take it easy. Sorry we had to put you through this..."

"What the h.e.l.l are you trying to do?" This from Bernie Cayle, sitting near the front of the vehicle.

"G.o.ddammit, Hank, you scared the s.h.i.t out of..."

"Bernie, please," Henry says. "Watch your language. There are children present."

Laughter, relieved and out of place, ripples through the max. Oddly enough, only the handful of kids seem unruffled. Maybe they're still half-asleep, or perhaps they figured out this was a hoax long before the adults did."Like Dr. Johnson says, I'm sorry we... I had to do this." Everyone quiets down as the Prefect stands up in the back of the vehicle. "If more of you had known about this in advance, it wouldn't have worked.

We had to find a way to collect everyone on short notice, and this was the best way we could manage.

This way, we're perfectly legit."

"What do you mean, legit?" someone in the rear demands. "What are you... ?"

"Right now, y'all are being taken to Little Rock, where you're scheduled for ISA interrogation. That's our pretext for taking you off the train." The Prefect raises a hand. "It's complicated, I know. Just bear with us."

Silence now, as everyone takes in his words, yet Jorge is beginning to understand. There are aspects of the plot of which he hasn't been informed, but now it's all coming together...

"So where are we going?" Marie looks first at the Prefect, then Henry, then finally Jorge. "If it's not Camp Buchanan or Little Rock..."

"A lot farther than you think," Jorge says quietly.

merritt island 7.5.70 / T-17.10.

The rising sun has painted the sky with shades of magenta and burnt orange, lent a silver tint to the blue-grey surf rushing against the beaches of Merritt Island. Closer, the Alabama's shuttles await takeoff on their concrete launch pads; fuel trucks are parked nearby, while the ground crew makes final inspections on the twin delta-winged s.p.a.ce- planes.

Captain Lee takes in the view from a wallscreen in a briefing room within the Crew Training Facility, wishing he could be out there right now, if only for one last taste of salt air. But that's clearly out of the question; the sea breeze is filthy with microorganisms, and he's already undergone decontamination procedures. The world is now beyond his reach, behind the hermetically sealed doors of the quarantine area. In a few minutes he's to join the rest of his crew; right now, though, he has one last duty to perform on Earth.

A soft click from behind him, then the faint whoosh of pressurized air as the door glides open. Lee reluctantly turns from the wallscreen as two men enter: Ben Aldrich, closely followed by Roland Shaw. They're wearing white paper coveralls and caps, their hands covered with latex gloves; both men had to be decontaminated before they were allowed to pa.s.s through two sets of airlocks leading to this bare, unfurnished room. His last face-to-face contact with anyone from Earth who doesn't wear a helmet.

"Morning, Robert," Aldrich says. "Ready for the big day?"

Lee gives the Launch Supervisor a tight smile. "That's not for another 226 years. Ask me again when I get to 47 Uma B."

Aldrich grins back at him. "Maybe it'll be only 226 years for you, but it'll feel like 230 for me." He turns to the Republic's Director of Internal Security.

"Not that it makes much difference, but if he'd made that sort of mistake during training, I would've found someone else for the job."

Rilen M. Steele Shaw barely acknowledges the jest; indeed, Lee wonders if he fully appreciates theeffects of time dilation. Once the Alabama achieves its maximum cruise velocity of .2c, time aboard the starship will slow relative to the rest of the universe. Add three months for acceleration to 20 percent light-speed after leaving Earth and another three months for magsail deceleration into the 47 Ursae Majoris system, and the ship's internal chronometers will record a pa.s.sage of a little more than 226 years, while back home the voyage will have lasted nearly four years longer. The Lorentz factor will matter very little to him or anyone else aboard the Alabama, since they'll be in biostasis during most of the journey, but it's highly doubtful that Shaw will still be alive by then, even with the benefit of life-extension treatments.

"I don't think you could have found anyone better." Once again, Shaw's manner is as stiff as it had been last night when Lee saw him with the President.

"I'm sure the captain wants to be with his people right now. Perhaps we should get on with our business."

"Yes, of course." Aldrich is clearly nervous in the presence of the Director of Internal Security. He reaches into a pocket of his coveralls, pulls out his pad, flips open the cover. "Okay, then..."