Coyote - A Novel of Interstellar Exploration Part 26

When he was done, the next ch.o.r.e would be to scrub everything he'd used that night. At the moment, though, he couldn't resist the urge to brag. "Wasn't much of a fight. I don't think it was full- grown.

Didn't quite know how to sneak up on me." He chuckled. "And no, it doesn't taste like chicken. More like... I dunno. Corned beef, maybe."

"Carlos..." She hesitated. "Look, I'm glad you... y'know, that you got it, but you shouldn't be walking around out there on your own."

"Like I've got a choice?"

"Of course you do." Another pause. "Carlos, you don't have to do this. No one's being punished for what we did. Chris and Barry aren't in the stockade, and Kuniko told everyone that what happened to David was an accident."

He closed his eyes, said nothing. Memories. Stealing the canoes from the boathouse. Escaping from Liberty. Crossing the Eastern Divide. The long journey down East Channel to the Great Equatorial River.

The en counter with the catwhale. Losing David, and almost losing Wendy as well. Getting shipwrecked on the southern coast of New Florida. Leaving Wendy and the others behind to go off on his own, taking the only remaining canoe and what few supplies they had left. Errors of judgment leading to fatal mistakes, one on top of the next, with everything leading up to the death of a friend. Perhaps others might be willing to forgive him, yet it would be a long time before he'd be able to forgive himself.

"Carlos? You still there?"

"Sorry. Just thinking." His eyes felt moist as he opened them again. "I'm fine. Like I told you, there's a lot of stuff I've got to work out." He took a breath. "What about you? I mean, y'know... the other thing."

"The other thing. Right." Now there was chill quality to her voice. "I'm so glad to hear that you're concerned about the other thing."

"C'mon, I didn't mean...""The other thing is fine. Kuniko examined me after we got back and said that we're both in good shape.

And since the Town Council decided to let me make my own choice, I don't need to have an abortion.

So the other thing will be born right on schedule. Not that this is any of your concern..."

He stood up. "Wendy, I didn't mean to..."

"You want to know something else? Kuni performed a blood test on Chris and matched it against a uterine sample from the... the thing, as you call it.

Guess what she found out?"

A chill ran down his back. "What did she... ?"

"Sorry, pizza boy. I'm not going to tell you. If you're really interested, you can call me sometime. Right now, though... well, you've p.i.s.sed me off."

A breath rattled against his ear like a winter wind. "G.o.d, this was a mistake. Shouldn't have let them make me call you, but I was worried."

"Wendy, please... I "I'm glad you're alive, and that you've killed your first boid. Hope you finally got it out of your system."

"I didn't... I"

"Goodbye." A pause. "Take care of yourself."

The satphone went dead.

He had a sudden impulse to chuck it into the surf, but he'd done that once already: Kuniko's unit, the day they left Liberty. And he needed it to keep in touch with the colony, didn't he?

Carlos considered the question for a minute or so before he folded the antenna and carefully put the satphone back in his pack. Then he walked over to the fire pit.

Bear was beginning to rise above the horizon, its rings shrouded by clouds. It looked as if it might rain later that evening, and he had never gotten a chance to build a roof for his tree house. He'd have to rig the tarp above his platform before he went to bed.

But not just yet. He lifted the top of the pot; hot rancid steam rose from the churning, fat-soaked water.

He picked up a stick, stuck it into pot, fished around in its foul contents until he skewered the object he had been cooking all evening. He raised it from the pot, closely inspected it by firelight.

The boid skull was flensed clean to the bone, its flesh and feathers stripped away by boiling salt water. A trophy for the hunter.

Carles remained on the southwestern sh.o.r.e of Midland for another three weeks, longef than he had originally intended. He finished building his tree house, adding a ceiling and finally four walls, and hung the boid skull from the above the narrow door; it looked good there, and it also had the unexpected effect of scaring away the swoops who'd nested in the upper limbs. Within a few days, the birds ceded the blackwood to him, and he slept undisturbed. Although he continued to hear boids at night, for some reason he never saw any within a couple of miles of camp. Like the swoops, they seemed to be keeping their distance from Carlos's Pizza.

As a side project, he cut down a long, green branch of faux birch, and at night while squatting by the fireon the beach, he carved a hunting bow from it.

He was running low on ammo, and he needed to conserve what few rounds he had left to defend himself should the boids return. A couple of days earlier, he had shot a creek cat; once he skinned its hide and used its flesh for fishing bait, he boiled its upper intestines, allowed it to cure, then cut a long, slender bowstring from it. Once he'd fashioned a dozen slender shafts from faux birch, he gathered some flinty stones and sharpened them into arrowheads; some swoop feathers he found on the ground beneath his tree made good fletches. When he wasn't doing anything else, he practiced archery, shooting at a small target he'd made of a piece of catskin lashed to the side of a tree. After a time, he became proficient enough to take down a swamper he discovered scavenging in the garbage pit he'd dug near the beach.

He kept the satphone turned off. He didn't want to hear from Wendy, and after a while there were days when he seldom thought of her at all. Every now and then he'd switch on the unit, and it wouldn't be long before he'd hear it chirp, like a neglected pet trying to get his attention. Yet he never spoke to whoever was attempting to contact him; he'd pick up the satphone, click the receive switch a couple of times-yes, I'm still alive, thanks for asking, goodbye-then turn it off and put it away. Let 'em eat static: Carlos's Pizza was no longer accepting orders.

He stopped keeping track of the days. He knew that it was sometime in or early Hamaliel, by the LeMarean calendar, but whether it was Rap or Anna, Kaf or Sam, or any of the other nine days in the week, he hadn't the foggiest notion, nor really cared. Yet although Coyote's seasons were almost as long as a year back on Earth, the summer solstice was long past; already, he was beginning to notice that the days were getting a little shorter, and Bear was rising a bit earlier each evening. And he was getting restless. If he still wanted to continue his exploration of the Equatorial, he'd have to leave soon.

Carlos spent the next few days repairing the sail and waterproofing the canoe's seams with boiled fat from a creek cat he'd killed with his bow, then early one morning he packed up his belongings, took them down from his tree house, and loaded them aboard the Orion. He tied the boid skull to the bow as a sort of figurehead-if it frightened away the swoops and boids, maybe it would do the same for any catwhales he happened to encounter-and he made sure the tree house door was bolted shut, just in case he happened to come that way again. For all intents and purposes, though, Carlos's Pizza was closed for good.

By midday he was back on the river. Head west, with no particular destination in mind, no objective except to see how far he could go.

Day in and day out, over the course of the next four weeks, he paddled along the southern coast of Midland, always keeping within sight of the sh.o.r.e.

Since he was below Coyote's equator, the prevailing winds were almost always coming from the east; seldom was he able to raise his sails, so the progress was slow, which suited him well. Occasionally a rain storm would come upon him; usually he'd just ride it out, although if he heard thunder, he'd head for land as quickly as possible. When the sun was at his back, that meant the day was coming to an end, and he'd guide his canoe to the nearest available beach. He'd pull up his canoe, pitch his tarp, gather some wood for a fire, then cook whatever he'd managed to shoot with his bow or catch with his rod. Coyote was generous, though; he rarely went to bed hungry.

With each pa.s.sing day, Coyote revealed a little more of itself; he marveled at how much the world changed the farther he traveled from New Florida, which he now realized was a rather mundane island, a flat and innocuous bayou. The mountains he'd seen from the hilltop where he'd killed the boid gradually grew closer until he could make out flat-topped mesas only a few miles from the river. He marked them on his map as the Gillis Range. The faux birch growing in abundance along the sh.o.r.e gradually gave wayto what first appeared to be gigantic mushrooms, until he paddled closer and saw that they were actually tall, slender trees whose willowlike branches grew so close together that they formed an almost-solid canop'y. He called them parasol trees. Now and then, he spotted herds of large animals roaming through swamps along the river edge, great s.h.a.ggy beasts that faintly resembled bison save for their sloping heads and long, tusked snouts. He decided that s.h.a.gs was an appropriate name.

He also observed a different species of swoop. Unlike the ones that lived in the blackwoods on New Florida and on the western side of Midland, these swoops were aquatic. They cruised high above the river until they spotted their prey, at which point they'd fold their narrow wings against their bodies and dive headfirst into the water, emerging moments later with a channelmouth or weirdling wiggling from their elongated bills. The river swoops traveled in flocks, yet he could never figure out where they nested; when the sun started to go down, he'd see them turn and head not for the nearby coastline, but instead toward the eastern horizon.

Wendy would have been fascinated. But she wasn't with him.

He awoke alone and he traveled alone; there was no one to share his campfire at the end of the day, and when he went to bed he had only the stars for company.

After a time, he caught himself talking to absent friends, as if they were riding in the canoe with him.

Wendy was usually his invisible pa.s.senger, but sometimes it would be Chris whom he'd imagine sitting in the bow... Chris when he was still his best friend, always ready to share a laugh. At night, gazing up at Bear as he sat on some lonely beach, he'd hear Barry playing his guitar on the other side of his campfire, picking out an old blues song from the twentieth century.

Now and then, David would show up, too. He never spoke, but simply sat and stared at him, a silent ghost whose brief appearances Carlos dreaded.

This wasn't the only specter who paid him a visit. One night, while he was cooking the channelhead he'd hooked earlier that day, his father came to sit with him.

What do you think you're doing? Papa asked.

"Making dinner." Carlos stared at the filet he was spit-roasting over the fire he'd built. "I've got another plate if you want some."

He was perfectly aware that his father was dead, along with his mother. Mama never visited him, but Papa sometimes did, although usually in his dreams.

He felt a certain dullness against his back, which wasn't caused by the evening breeze.

That's not what I mean, Papa said. As always, he was stern but not unkind. You're only sixteen. What are you trying to prove? That you're now a man?

"Not trying to prove anything. And I know I'm a man. I couldn't have survived for long if I wasn't, could I?".

Animals survive, son. A coyote caught in a trap gnaws its own leg off to escape. A man doesn 't run away. He accepts responsibility for his own actions, even when he doesn't want to...

"Not running away from anything." Carlos pulled the spit from the fire, closely examined his dinner.

Nicely charred on one side, but still a little pink on the other. He turned the filet over and held it above the coals. "I'm exploring the world. Finding out what this place looks like. Someone has to be the first.

Might as well be me."That's what you tell yourself, but you're a liar.

"Go away. Leave me alone." Closing his eyes, he let his head fall on his folded arms. After a while, he no longer felt the presence of his father.

He heard a soft crackling sound. Looking up again, he saw that the spit had dropped from his hands, and the fish he was cooking for dinner lay among the burning driftwood, its flesh curling up and turning black.

Dinner was ruined, but it didn't matter. He was no longer hungry.

R meek later, Carlos reached the southeastern tip of Midland, and found he had to make a crucial decision.

A new channel opened before him, leading to the north. He was now above the equator again, and able to use his sails. According to his map, if he sailed all the way up the channel, he'd eventually reach the northeastern end of Midland, where it would connect with a major river running east and west across the thirty-fifth line of parallel. If he followed the river west across the northern coast of Midland and past the confluence of East Channel, eventually it would become the West Channel; all he had to do then was locate Sand Creek's northern inlet and make his way across New Florida until he reached Liberty.

The trip home would take at least four or five weeks, maybe longer. If the prevailing winds in the northern lat.i.tudes weren't in his favor, though, he would have to paddle the entire distance. In that case, he might not reach Liberty until the end of summer, perhaps even later, and Carlos was alf too aware that he was ill equipped to face the cold nights of Coyote's autumn.

His second choice was to cross the channel to a large island lying just above the equator, then sail along its southern coast as he continued east along the Great Equatorial River. In doing so, he'd cross the meridian into Coyote's eastern hemisphere; just off the island's southeastern coast, below the equator, lay a long string of tiny isles that stretched out into the Meridian Sea. If he could make it to the distant archipelago, he could then turn around and catch the easterlies in the southern hemisphere, which would eventually carry him home.

The first option was a relatively safe bet; if the winds were in his favor, he could be home before the end of summer. The second option meant that he'd be gone much longer; the risks would be greater, yet he would see things no one else had ever seen before. Tough choice, and not one to be made lightly.

Perhaps he should talk it over with someone.

He made camp that night on a rocky point overlooking Midland Channel; once he was through with dinner, he pulled out the satphone. Its memory retained the number of the last satphone that had been used to call him; he pushed the return b.u.t.ton and waited impatiently while it buzzed. Since the sun had gone down about an hour ago, Carlos fig flllen M. Steele ured it was probably late afternoon or early evening back in Liberty. Wendy would probably be home, helping Kuniko make dinner. If Dr. Okada picked up, he'd have a short chat with her, then ask to speak with Wendy. Shouldn't be a problem if...

He heard a click. "h.e.l.lo?"

The voice was male; familiar, but not one he immediately recognized. Yet this had to be Kuniko's satphone; the call-back feature guaranteed that.

"Is Wendy there?"

A pause. "Figured you'd call eventually. My luck I'd be the one to talk to you.""Who's... ?" Then he recognized the voice. "Chris? Is that you?"

"Uh-huh. Been a long time. Not since you ditched us and ran away."

Carlos winced. The last time he'd seen Chris, it was the night they made their way back to New Florida after the catwhale attack. Chris had lost his brother that afternoon; if his left arm hadn't been broken, Carlos had little doubt that he would have tried to kill him. There hadn't been a fight that evening, though, nor even any words that Carlos could remember; the last thing he remembered of his former best friend was the dark look in his eyes before he crawled into their remaining tent. Carlos didn't sleep that night; after he used the satphone, which until then he'd kept hidden in his pack, to call back to Liberty and request rescue for the rest of the expedition, he had gathered up the remaining supplies and set out on his own. When he left at dawn, the only person to see him go was Wendy.

"I didn't ditch you," Carlos said. "It was something I had to do..."

"Oh, yeah, I believe that. Couldn't bear to face me again in the morning, could you?"

"Chris, I didn't..." He sighed, shook his head. "Look, forget it. Just put Wendy on, will you?" What was Chris doing with the satphone, anyway?

"Not until you and I are done. You know, I'm actually glad you're gone. It's better you die out there by yourself. This way, none of us have to put up with your s.h.i.t anymore."

"Chris, I..." He closed his eyes. "What do you want from me? I'm not going to die, if that's what you really want, and I'm not going to let you..."

He stopped himself, but not soon enough; Chris knew him all too well.

"You're not going to let me do what?" he demanded. "Take your girl? Hey, man... why do you think I'm at her place?"

Something cold and malignant uncoiled deep within his chest, wrapped itself around his heart. "You really think she's been pining for you all this time?"

Now there was malicious glee in Chris's voice. "The only reason why she called before is because you wouldn't talk to the captain, and so he had her talk to you instead. She doesn't care about you any more than I do."

"That's not true..." Almost a whisper.

"What'd you say?" Chris didn't wait for him to repeat himself. "She's going to have a baby soon, and the kid's going to need a father who won't run off when things get tough. You've had your shot, and you blew it. I proposed to her last night..."

"You what?" Carlos was instantly on his feet.

"Oh-ho! Got your attention, didn't it? Yeah, man, I asked her to marry me. And you know what else?

She..."

A loud noise from somewhere in the background. m.u.f.fled voices, indistinct yet angry.'A slight scuffling sound as if someone's hand was being clasped over the unit. A minute went by. Then he heard Wendy.

"Carlos? Are you there?"

"I'm here. Look, I...""No, wait. I'm sorry. That shouldn't have happened. Chris got to the phone while we were out in the garden. Whatever he said, it's... I don't know, but..."

There was too much going through his mind; he could barely think straight. "Look, just tell me two things," he said, pacing back and forth before the fire.

"Just two things, and be honest with me."

Hesitation. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

"Are you going to marry Chris?"

Silence. "He's asked me, yes." Lower voice. "I don't know if I'm going to take him up on it. I'm thinking about it."

He nodded as if she could see him. Fair enough; a truthful answer, if not complete. "Okay. Second question... is the baby mine or his?"

Another pause, a little longer this time. "It's yours. Kuniko thinks it's going to be a girl."

He let out his breath, sat down heavily. It was a warm night, but he was glad to be near the fire; he felt himself beginning to tremble. "Do you want me to come home?" he asked.

"I thought you said..."

"I'm giving myself a bonus question. Do you want me to come home? To be there when the baby's born?"

Another minute went by before she spoke again. He heard crackles and static fuzz as Alabama began to slip over the horizon. "You can do whatever you want," she said at last. "That's what you always do anyway, don't you?"