Coyote - A Novel of Interstellar Exploration Part 28

"That stew you made was pretty good. What'd you put in it?"

"My secret ingredient." She notices the annoyed expression on his face. "Okay, it's what I didn't put in.

You told me you don't like garlic, so I left it out this time. Better?"

"Much. Thank you." Dana had been a better chief engineer than she was a cook; when she moved in with him last summer, one of the things she had to learn was that her new mate was surprisingly temperamental about what he ate. Otherwise, they have an-easy relationship; although Lee has officiated at nearly a dozen civil ceremonies and Dana's helped Dr. Okada deliver four babies, neither of them were in any rush to get married and start a family. Let someone else be fruitful and multiply; their job is managing the colony. "So what's the forecast?"

"Hmm... not good." There's a close-up image of the storm on the screen; the time stamp shows that itwas captured by Alabama's cameras as it pa.s.sed over Coyote's eastern hemisphere an hour and a half ago. She taps the keypad, and now there's a more distant view: a dense swirl of white clouds, shrouding the Equatorial River about five hundred miles east of the Meridian Sea. "Looks like it's picking up moisture off the river," she murmurs. "Still a long way off, but it's growing. Unless something changes in the next day or two, it's coming our way."

Lee nods. For the most part, the Alabama colonists made the right decision by establishing a settlement close to the equator. Winter on New Florida is as brutal as it is in the northern and southernmost lat.i.tudes, and they have the advantage of longer growing seasons, from early spring through late autumn.

Nonetheless, Coyote's global climate is cooler than Earth's, and Bear's tidal pull frequently plays havoc with wind patterns. Their first winter was relatively mild; it only figured that the colony would eventually have to deal with a major snowstorm.

"There are still a couple of large mountains in the way," Dana says. She points to the major range that straddles Great Dakota, the continent west of New Florida. "Probably won't stop it, but they may blunt the worst of it."

"So we can hope," Lee says. "At least we've got some advance warning. If we can..."

The comp chimes just then, as a small window opens in the center of the screen: .12.2304 / 1512 GMT SAT TRANSMISSION / ALABAMA / PRIORITY 1A.

CODE 1893: PROTOCOL ETW-1B.

CLa.s.sIFIED / COMMANDING OFFICER'S EYES ONLY.

AUTHENTICATION: Pa.s.sWORD____.

"What the... ?" Dana's eyes narrow. "That's from the ship." She looks over her shoulder at Lee. "And what's this protocol? I don't remember anything like that."

A chill sensation runs down Lee's back. It's been so long since he programmed the subroutine into the Alabama AI, he's nearly forgotten it existed. Now it's suddenly become active. But why... ?

Then he remembers the comet. Gabriel's Trumpet, as Jack Dreyfus called it just a few minutes ago.

"Robert? What's going on?" Dana searches his face. "Do you want me to leave?" she adds, her voice low as she starts to rise.

"No... no, stay with me, Chief," he says quietly. "You ought to know about this... but let's keep it between us. At least right now, okay?"

"Sure. Okay." Dana settles back into her seat. She knows this is serious, not only from the tone of his voice, but also because this is first time he's addressed her as Chief in a long time. They may be partners now, but once again he's the captain of the Alabama and she's one of his senior officers. Old habits die hard.

Lee turns the comp toward him, picks up the keyboard, types in the pa.s.sword: helix. A few moments pa.s.s while the uplink is established, then the window disappears and a new image appears on the screen.

Now they're peering into the heart of the comet, as seen by Alabama'?, onboard navigational telescope.

The shape is hazy and ill defined, yet it's obviously not a natural object: a long, cylindrical form, with awhite-hot flare erupting from its aft end.

"That's a starship." Dana's voice is nearly a whisper.

"Uh-huh. I know." Lee hesitates. "Go find the Council members. Don't tell them what you saw, just get 'em here. We've got a situation."

Zamael / Carlos Montero expects to find a crowd at Lew's Cantina, and he is right; it's Zamday night, the middle of the three-day weekend, and Lew Geary's place is the best (and only) watering hole in Liberty. He hasn't come there to drink, though, as much as he is tempted to do so; he's had a long day at the boathouse, finishing the longboats he and his crew have been building for the last few months, yet there's one quick errand that needs to be done before he goes home to Wendy and Susan. The moment he spots Chris Levin, though, he knows it's not going to work out that way.

Not that he isn't welcome at the Cantina. For the first few weeks after he returned from his solo journey down the Great Equatorial, he was shunned by quite a few people in town. Although most realized that David's death was accidental, nonetheless they blamed him for persuading him and the others to steal a couple of canoes and run away from Liberty. Before they left, they'd pilfered supplies from all over the colony, including irreplaceable items like rifles and a satphone. Almost everything they had stolen was eventually returned, yet Carlos soon discovered restoring someone's flashlight was much easier than restoring their trust. Yet over the course of the last four months-a solid year, by Gregorian reckoning-he had gone out of his way to make amends with everyone whom he'd offended or wronged, until by the end of C.Y. 2 he was back in good graces with everyone.

Nearly everyone...

Chris is seated on a stool at the far end of the blackwood bar, a mug of sourgra.s.s ale parked in front of him. Carlos ignores his sullen gaze as he moves through the packed room, greeting friends he encounters along the way. Bernie and Vonda Cayle are sitting by the fireplace; they're old friends of his late mother and father, and never gave up on him even in his darkest hour, yet although Bernie tries to wave him over for a drink, Carlos shakes his head.

He'd made a promise to Wendy before he left home this morning, and he doesn't want beer on his breath when she comes back from the grange.

There's an amused expression on Lew's face as Carlos approaches the bar. "Ah, so. Mr. Montero, the famous explorer," he says, looking up from the ceramic mug he's washing. "What brings you here this evening? Your usual?"

"If you've got it, please." Carlos hasn't taken off his parka; he props his elbows on the bar and nods politely to Jean Swenson and Ellery Balis standing nearby. Jean gives him a smile, but Ellery scowls and looks away. Little wonder; as the colony's quartermaster, Ellery is responsible for the safekeeping of all the firearms, and he's still irritated at Carlos for having stolen the key to the armory. Carlos tried to make it up by stocking the armory with the bows he learned to make while fending for himself on the river; they've helped the blueshirts fend off the creek cats and swampers without wasting any more rifle bullets, yet he knows Mr. Balis is one of those who will never completely forgive or forget.

Lew walks to the door behind the bar, pushes aside the curtain. "Car rie! A jug of your best for Carlos!"

He glances back at him. "One'11 do it, or you want more?" Carlos shakes his head and Lew holds up a finger to his wife before returning to the bar. "Sure you don't want anything else? It's a cold night, son...""I'm sure. Thanks anyway." Carlos digs into the pocket of his parka, pulls out a dollar. He drops the wooden coin on the bar, but Lew shakes his head and quietly slides it back across the counter to him.

No words are spoken between them; Carlos nods gratefully as he picks up the dollar, but the gesture hasn't gone unnoticed.

"Yeah, hey... heroes drink for free, don't they?"

Chris's voice is loud enough to carry across the room. From the corner of his eye, Carlos sees people glancing up from their conversations. Everyone knows there's bad blood between them. Not only that, but ever since the Town Council formally introduced the currency system a couple of months ago, no one has managed to cadge a drink from Lew... or at least not without scrubbing the kitchen, repairing the roof, or cleaning out the goat pen out back.

"It's not what you think," Lew says quietly. "Let it go."

"Okay, sure. None of my business." Chris raises his hands in mock apology. He picks up his mug, looks at Carlos. "Hey, c'mon over and have a drink."

"No thanks." Carlos gives him a wary smile. "Just dropping by for a minute."

"A minute? Just for a minute?" Chris's face expresses bafflement. "You can't do better than that? Come on, we're of' fishing buddies..."

The last thing Carlos wants to do is have a drink with Chris, no matter how many times they used to pull redfish out of Sand Creek. Not that he hasn't already tried to patch things up with him. Twice before, they've sat together at this same bar, two young men barely eighteen, putting away one mug of sourgra.s.s ale after another. Each time, it was a disaster; the first occasion, Chris got p.i.s.sed off and tried to throw a punch at Carlos before Lew grabbed him and threw him out the door; the second time, Chris became a maudlin drunk, inconsolably sobbing about his lost brother before attacking Carlos again, managing to put a mouse under his eye before a blueshirt hauled him away to the stockade for the night. Lew barred Chris from the Cantina after that, and let him back in only after he promised never again to pick a fight in his establishment.

Perhaps this isn't a prelude to another incident, yet there's no warmth in Chris's invitation. His hostility toward Carlos goes beyond his brother's death. His mother suffered a severe breakdown a few weeks after Chris returned to the colony; first she lost her husband, then her younger son; she eventually recovered, but she's battled depression ever since, often staying in their house for weeks at a time. Then Chris proposed to Wendy shortly before Susan was born, yet she turned him down. Carlos moved in with her not long after he returned, and although she hasn't agreed to marry him either, if only because she's is still uncertain of their relationship-indeed, their home is just a two-room addition their friends built onto Kuniko Okada's house-Chris had never gotten over that either.

Once again, Carlos observes how much Chris has changed. His face has become swollen from drinking; his blond hair hangs lank around his face, and there's a suggestion of a beer gut at his midriff. He knows that Chris has fallen to holding down odd jobs around Liberty, keeping them only until he screws up again and gets shunted off to a new duty generously supplied by another foreman. At age eighteen, Chris is well on his way to becoming the town drunk.

"Sorry, man." Carlos tries to keep things as cordial as possible. "Got something else going on. Maybe another time." He turns away, hoping Chris will take the hint, yet he can still hear him muttering about how his oldest friend doesn't want to be seen with him anymore. Which isn't far from the truth....

Hearing the front door open, Carlos looks around, sees Dana Monroe come in. Pulling back the hood of her catskin cape, she glances around the room as if searching for someone. Spotting Bernie and Vonda Cayle, she begins to ease through the crowd. Odd to see her here; she almost never visits the Cantina.

Carrie Geary picks that moment to emerge from the back room. "Here you go," she says, holding up a large brown jug. "From our private stock. Want me to put it on the tab?"

"Already got it covered." Her husband takes the jug from her, starts to pa.s.s it to Carlos. "Tell Wendy..."

"Oh, yeah, hey! Check this out!" Chris points to the jug. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h won't drink with an of' buddy, but he can always carry home some of their private stock!" A few more people pay attention now; Colony Law clearly states that all liquor produced at Lew's Cantina must be consumed on the premises.

"Guess there's a double... double standard for famous explorers, right?"

Carlos closes his eyes, embarra.s.sed not so much for himself as for Chris. Yet if Lew's angered by the accusation, he hides it well. "Uh-huh, you're right.

Caught us in the act, that you did." He steps closer to Chris. "Tell you what," he murmurs, his tone conspiratorial. "If you promise to drop it, I'll let you try some. On the house."

Chris stares greedily at the jug, not noticing that some of the patrons are chuckling behind his back.

"Umm... all right, sure. Bring it on."

Lew picks up Chris's half-empty mug. He uncorks the jug, but briefly turns his back to him as he pours.

"Here y'go," he says, handing the mug back to Chris.

"Our best stuff."

"Thanks, Lew. You're a gentleman." Chris gives Carlos a smug wink as he raises his drink. "To your wife," he adds. "A real fine lady."

Silence falls across the room. There's no mistaking what he means by that remark. Carlos says nothing as he watches Chris takes a deep slug. A moment pa.s.ses, then Chris's face screws up in disgust. For a second, it seems as if he's going to spit it out.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Carrie snaps. "Puke in my place, and you're mopping the floor!"

"She's right!" Lew yells. "You drink it, you swallow it! Rules of the house!"

Everyone's cracking up, but Carlos doesn't laugh. He catches a glimpse of the anger and humiliation in Chris's eyes as he lurches from his stool and quickly staggers across the room, his hand clasped over his mouth. He nearly collides with Dana as he stumbles through the front door; she stares after him, then reaches over to escort Vonda through the uproar.

"Here you go," Lew says, slapping the cork back in the jug before he hands it across the bar to Carlos.

"Two quarts of fresh goat's milk. Tell Susan there's plenty more where that came from... unless Chris wants another round, of course."

You didn't have to do that, Carlos thinks, yet he doesn't say this aloud. Ever since Wendy stopped breast-feeding, the Gearys have provided Susan with pasteurized milk from their goats. It's clear that Lew doesn't care much for Chris, though, and there's no worse contempt than that of a bartender for a drunkard."Thanks, I'll do that." Carlos tucks the jug beneath his arm, turns toward the door. With any luck, Chris will be so sick that he won't be able to start any trouble as Carlos leaves.

He's halfway across the room, though, when Dana stops him. "Are you going home?" she asks softly, and shakes her head when he nods. "No. Follow me back to the grange and pick up Sue. Wendy needs you to baby-sit for a while."

After this, taking care of their daughter would be a pleasure. Nonetheless, Carlos is surprised by the request. "Why, what's going on?"

Dana glances over her shoulder, making sure they're not being overheard. "Emergency Council meeting.

Everyone's being called in." Before he can ask, she shakes her head again. "Can't tell you more than that. Just come with me."

Outside the Cantina, the wind has picked up again. Thin clouds scud across the sky, shrouding the comet. Carlos joins the two older women for the short walk back to the center of town, their boots crunching softly against the packed snow. They've barely gone a few steps, though, when he hears someone behind them.

He turns to see Chris slumped against the Cantina. He'd left his parka behind; shivering in the cold, he holds his arms together as he leans unsteadily against the log wall. There's a small puddle of vomit at his feet, already freezing solid.

"Chris..." Carlos hesitates; behind him, Dana and Vonda have stopped. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to..."

"Get lost," Chris mutters, not looking up at him.

"Do you want me to get your coat? I can go back in, get your..."

"Just go away." Chris's voice is as chill as the wind; masked by shadows, his face is unreadable.

"Lemme alone."

Carlos turns back to Dana and Vonda. Nothing more is said as they continue walking toward town, but after a while Vonda slips her hand through his elbow.

There's little comfort she can give him, though, for now he knows the truth.

He's lost his oldest friend. Chris is now his enemy.

"No question about it... that'sthe plume of a fusion engine."Henry Johnson examines the image on the Council room's wall screen. "Given the size of the ship, I'd say it's firing at about one gee, sufficient to decelerate from relativistic velocity."

"And how... ?" Sharon Ullman involuntarily yawns. " 'Cuse me... how far away do you say it is?"

Lee consults his pad. "According to Alabama, its current position is just within the orbit of S"nake, about three hundred thousand miles from us." Before Sharon can ask, he answers the obvious next question.

"And, yes, it's on an intercept trajectory with Coyote. It should arrive within the next twenty-seven hours. I think we can safely a.s.sume that it'll make orbit at that time."

Seated around the blackwood table, the members of the Town Council glance at one another.

Fortunately, it didn't take long to gather them for an emergency session; Tom, Paul, Wendy, and Henry were already at the grange, and Dana found Vonda at the Cantina. Only Sharon had to be woken out ofbed; she still looks half-asleep, but Dana brought in a pot of coffee before she left the room, shutting the door behind her. She's not a Council member, so she's not privy to their discussions.

"It doesn't give us much time," Lee continues, "but at least we've got some advance warning. If we work quickly, we can figure out an appropriate course of..."

"Pardon me." Like a shy student interrupting her teacher, Wendy raises her hand; Lee nods in her direction. "I'm sorry, but there's just one thing I don't.

. . what I mean is... how did the AI figure out this was a ship and know to contact us?"

"Good question." Tom Shapiro looks from her to Lee. "I don't remember anything like an early-warning system being written into the AI."

Across the table, Sharon nods in agreement. As the Alabama's former senior navigator, she's familiar with the AFs major subroutines, particularly those controlling the navigation telescope. Nothing like that was programmed into the AI before Alabama left Earth.

Lee drums his fingers on the table. He knew this question would eventually be raised: better now than later. "I've got something to show you," he says at last. "n.o.body here has seen it before now, so I'm going to have to ask that it not leave this room... or at least until we're ready to divulge it to the rest of the colony. Understood?"

Reluctant murmurs of a.s.sent. Lee picks up an Alabama operations manual he's brought over from his office, opens it. From the back pocket of the three-ring binder, he produces two sheets of paper: brittle and yellow with age, with ragged tears down one side. Carefully unfolding them to reveal faded handscript, he hands them across the table to Tom.

"You know what happened to Les Gillis, of course," Lee says. "Awakened from biostasis three months after we left Earth, spent the next thirty-two years alone aboard the ship. Wrote fantasy stories to pa.s.s the time..."

"The Chronicles of Prince Rupurt." Wendy nods. "I've read it twice."

"Yes, well..." He takes a deep breath. "Before Les did that, he wrote something else... sort of an unofficial log entry, in the first ledger book he used for his stories. The time he spent aboard the Alabama wasn't completely uneventful. Not too long after he woke up..."

"Oh, my G.o.d." Tom stares at the pages he's been reading. "He spotted another ship."

"He saw a light... a moving star, as he describes it... from the wardroom window. He interpreted it as another starship pa.s.sing the Alabama, heading in the opposite direction. He attempted to make contact but failed, then the ship vanished. Never saw it again." Lee looks at Wendy. "I've read the Prince Rupurt story, too. I think that's what gave him the idea. Whether it really was another ship, though, I have my doubts. At any rate, he noted the sighting in his ledger, just before he began work on his book."

"But that's not in..." Wendy says, then Tom hands her the pages and she notices their tattered edges.

"You tore these out of the ledger?"

"Robert... why?" Tom looks bewildered. "Didn't you trust us?"