Coyote - A Novel of Interstellar Exploration Part 3

The briefing is a routine rundown of the major events of the next seventeen hours. At 1000 EDT, the URSS Jesse Helms, piloted by First Officer Shapiro and carrying the forty-five members of the Alabama's flight team not already aboard the starship, is scheduled to lift off from Pad 10, with an ETA of at the Alabama. Pending successful rendezvous and docking of the Helms, the George Wallace will launch at 1300 from Pad 11, carrying the fifty-one members of the Alabama's colonization team, with Captain Lee himself as pilot. Its antic.i.p.ated rendezvous and docking is scheduled for 1430; by then fuel load-up will have been completed. At 1500 the main hatches will be sealed, and the crew will go through prelaunch procedures until 2345, when the President will publicly address the nation via netv from Atlanta. Following the President's speech, final countdown will commence at 2350; if all goes well, primary booster ignition will be at 2400.

"We had a small problem early this morning." Aldrich studies his pad. "Launch Control detected an error in the backup computer system in Module C2 shortly after 2400 last night..." Lee feels his heart skip a beat. "... But the chief engineer checked it out and found that it was just a faulty program alarm.

It's been fixed, and countdown was resumed at 0014."

"Good. Glad to hear it." Lee pretends a calmness he doesn't feel. Something must have gone wrong, but it sounds as if Dana managed to take care of it without tipping her hand. "Anything else?"

"Nothing. We're right on schedule." Aldrich closes his pad, looks at Shaw. "Your turn, Mr. Shaw."

"Thank you." The DIS has remained quiet through all this; now he unzips the black plastic pouch he carried into the room, pulls out a small object wrapped in clear cellophane. "Captain Lee, I don't think I have to tell you what this is."

"No, sir." Lee takes the packet, opens it, pulls out a large chrome- plated key on a neck chain: the launch key for the Alabama's primary ignition system.

Without it, the ship's main engines cannot be fired. A security precaution to prevent the Alabama from being launched without direct authorization from the President.

"Thank you, sir." Lee clips the chain around his neck, lets the key slide down the front of his jumpsuit.

It's only now that the ISA has seen fit to entrust it to the mission commander; during dress rehearsals in orbit, a Prefect has always been in the Alabama's command deck to insert the key and turn it, eventhough the main engines were never started. Yet this is supposed to be a symbolic moment, so Lee snaps to attention and salutes Shaw.

Shaw responds with a salute of his own, then offers his hand. "Good luck, Captain. All our prayers go with you."

Lee looks straight at Shaw as he clasps his hand, yet there's nothing in his expression that the captain can read. Shaw simply nods, ever so slightly, then he turns to Aldrich. "I believe you have something to add..."

"Yes, sir, there is." As Aldrich steps forward again, he pulls from beneath his arm a large parcel sealed in plastic. Through the transparent wrapping, Lee can see a single white star embroidered on a field of dark blue canvas, bordered by red and white horizontal stripes. The flag of the United Republic of America.

Aldrich handles it reverently, almost as if reluctant to give it up; when he looks up at Lee, his eyes are moist. "I know you've already got one of these aboard," the Launch Supervisor says quietly, his voice raw at the edges, "but this one comes from all of us here at the Cape. If you wouldn't mind, Captain, we'd like for you to raise it on the new world once you get there... in our honor, please." flllen M. Steele Lee feels a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. Ben means well, and Lee has nothing against him, yet the last thing he ever wants to see again is this flag: a symbol of a totalitarian government that has taken everything America once stood for and twisted it beyond recognition. One star to signify one people, or so it has been stated; what it really stands for is one party, one political ideology. The purpose of this mission isn't exploration, as originally intended before the Second Revolution, but conquest. He's being sent to 47 Ursae Majoris not to expand the horizons of humankind, but to establish an interstellar colony that will ensure the immortality of the Republic. Millions of people are living in shacks made of discarded junk and cooking squirrel stew over manure fires because so much of his country's resources have been diverted to the construction of a starship. One of humankind's most n.o.ble dreams, terribly perverted...

"Robert?" Aldrich stares at him. "Is there something wrong?" "Sorry." Lee takes a deep breath. "Just thinking about this moment, that's all." He accepts the wrapped flag from Aldrich, bows slightly, gives him what he hopes the other man will interpret as a modest smile. "Thank you. I'll put this in a place of honor."

Aldrich bows formally. "Thank you, Captain. May G.o.d be with you." Lee gives the Launch Supervisor a farewell handshake, lets him enjoy this last moment of pride. And all the while, he feels Roland Shaw's eyes upon him. t.i.tusville 7.5.70 / T-1M.00.

Three seconds before the countdown reaches zero, reddish orange flames erupt from the shuttle's ascent engines, followed by billowing brown plumes that quickly envelop the s.p.a.cecraft. For a second the s.p.a.ce-plane can barely be seen, then the Jesse Helms slowly rises from the thick ha/e. Microphones pick up the sound of people cheering, then the crackling thunder ripples across the VIP viewing area three miles from the launchpad, drowning out their voices as the camera pans upward, tracking the white glare.

A thousand feet above the ground, the shuttle's nose tilts upward, then its NIP main engines kick in, and the s.p.a.cecraft suddenly vaults into the blue heavens above the Atlantic.

"The g's will still be nominal at this point." Henry Johnson nods toward the dusty old flatscreen above the bar. "There'll be some discomfort once they reach seven g's, but that lasts for only about a minute or so."

"You don't think the kids will be hurt?" Jim Levin glances uncertainly across the closed-down restaurant.

His two children, David and Chris, are sitting on the floor with Carlos and Marie Montero; they'replaying scissors-rock-paper, from the looks of it. "My youngest gets motion- sickness when he's on a plane."

"I'm sure a lot of us are going to be throwing up." Jorge is still watching the screen. The Helms itself is now visible only as a tiny white spot at the head of a long contrail. He's tempted to step outside to see if he can spot it with the naked eye, but the rules are firm; no one leaves the restaurant until they're ready to go. "Don't worry about it. I've been up before. It's an easy ride."

The screen switches to a young woman standing at the press site: a Govnet correspondent, delivering an account of what they've just seen, the liftoff of the shuttle carrying the members of the Alabama's flight team. The volume is turned down low, so only a handful of the people gathered in the abandoned restaurant on the outskirts of t.i.tusville can hear her. "Just as long as we've got a vomit bag for my boy,"

Jim murmurs. "Otherwise, we're going to have a h.e.l.l of a..."

"Hush," Henry says, as the image changes once more. "Here it comes..."

A video replay from an hour ago: the walkout from the Crew Training Facility within the Gingrich s.p.a.ce Center. A door opens, then the flight team walks out. Striding single file past the journalists and cameramen gathered behind a rope, they wear one-piece isolation suits, their features barely visible through the faceplates of their fabric helmets. Among the adults are several children of various ages, distinguishable as minors only because of their shorter stature. They wave to the bystanders as they stroll past the camera toward the white FSA maxvee parked less than thirty feet away.

"See?" Henry murmurs. "No questions, no interviews..."

"No I.D. checks." Jorge glances over his shoulder at him, sees Bernie Cayle gnawing at a fingernail. Of all the people gathered in what used to be called the Lamplighter Grill, he's the most nervous. As if any of them could be described as calm. "But what if someone recognizes... I mean, if they don't recognize...

"Look how they're dressed." Jim gestures to the screen. "You can barely see their faces."

"Uh-huh. So long as everyone stays in motion, it'll be over and done in just a few seconds." And just as Henry says that, the last crew member boards the maxvee less than a minute after the first one emerged from the building. A soldier shuts the door behind him, and a moment later the vehicle rises from the ground, turns away from the camera, and skims down the road leading to the launchpad. "See? Easy."

"So why can't we... ?" Bernie hesitates, trying to articulate his thoughts. "I mean, can't we just head straight for the pad? We've got our own suits, so why do we have to go through... ?"

"Bernie..." Jim lets out an impatient breath. He's already explained everything to everyone, but for some reason Bernie still doesn't get it. "Look... for one thing, if we don't do the walkout, everyone will wonder why the colonists haven't appeared. Second, we have to ride that particular max out to the pad.

We can't take the one we have, because..."

Jorge has heard this before. He excuses himself to check on his family. The restaurant smells of mildew and rotting wood; the windows have long since been boarded up, so the only light comes from the camp lanterns scattered around the dining room where locals used to enjoy Friday night all-you-can-eat buffet dinners. He wonders again how the underground managed to gain access to this condemned highway inn, but decides it's one more question better left unasked.

Even now, no one wants to divulge secrets. Further evidence that more people are involved in the conspiracy than he realized.He finds Rita seated at the folding table at the far end of the room, her face scrunched up as she receives one of the antiviral injections everyone has to take. Jorge recognizes the doctor giving the shots: a senior s.p.a.ce medicine researcher at Marshall before he, too, signed the pet.i.tion that got him labeled as a D.I.

Jorge can't remember his name, and he's surprised to see him here, but his presence makes sense.

There's no way a clean-room facility can be set up here, but at least they can make sure no one carries any viruses aboard the Alabama.

"Okay, you're done," the doctor says, and Rita sighs as she pulls down the sleeve of her shirt. "Bring your children over, and I'll do them next." Then he looks up and sees Jorge. "Wait a minute... I haven't taken care of you yet, have I?" When Jorge shakes his head, the doctor turns back to Rita. "On second thought, let Jorge go first. If your kids see their dad doing this, maybe they'll take it a little easier."

"Good idea." Carlos won't mind a few shots, but Marie has always been a problem at the pediatrician's office. Jorge sits down in the chair Rita has just left and rolls up his right sleeve. "Of course, it might help if you've got a sucker. My daughter expects one when she goes to the doctor."

The physician shakes his head as he fits a clean needle and another cartridge into his syringe gun. "Sorry.

No food for anyone from here on out. I don't like it either... I could use a cup of coffee right now." He checks Jorge's name on his list. "After this, you can help your wife get the kids in their isolation suits."

Jorge nods. The crowd in the dining room has gradually thinned over the last hour; after they received their shots, everyone had gone into the kitchen nearby.

When he peered through the swinging doors a few minutes ago, he saw that shower curtains had been draped from the ceiling pipes, forming makeshift changing rooms. One by one, people took folded garments behind the part.i.tions and emerged a few minutes later wearing one-piece coveralls. Whoever made the isolation suits had done their job well; they're identical to those he had just seen the flight crew wearing during walkout, right down to the Republic shoulder flag and the Alabama mission patch.

"You managed to send the medical data, didn't you?" the doctor asks quietly as he dabs alcohol on his biceps.

"Just before we left." The voxcard sent to Houston from his desk contained encrypted medical records for everyone gathered in this room; they would be needed to reprogram the Alabama's biostasis cells. "It should have been received and downloaded by now."

"Should be." The doctor sighs, ma.s.sages his eyelids. "Just one more thing that could go wrong between..."

"Look! Papa's getting his shots!" Jorge turns around, sees Rita shepherding their children to the end of the table. Carlos looks bored, but Marie's eyes are wide with terror. "See how easy it is?"

"Sure, there's nothing to..." Jorge starts to say, then the doctor takes MB flllen M. Steele that moment to jab the barrel of the syringe-gun against his arm and squeeze the trigger. Jorge tries not to wince as he feels the sting of the needle, and he forces a smile as he looks back at the physician. "Hey, did you just do something? I didn't feel anything."

The doctor gives him a faint smile as he changes needles and cartridges again. "As painless as can be."

Marie hides her face against her mother's side, and Jorge decides not to press the issue. Marie will just have to suffer through this, that's all...

The Prefect who had taken them off the train outside Valdosta emerges from the kitchen. He's no longer wearing his grey overcoat, and his tie is askew around the collar of his shirt. He whistles sharply betweenhis fingers, then claps his hands for attention. "Listen up!" he yells, and the room goes quiet as everyone looks toward him. "We've only got twenty minutes before we've got to be out of here, and we still haven't taken care of half of you. If you haven't had your shots, form a line behind the table, then proceed to the kitchen for suit-up. We're running out of time, so let's get going here, okay?"

Rita gives the Prefect a cold glare. "He could be a little more..."

"Honey," Jorge murmurs, then clenches his teeth as the doctor hits him with another shot. Marie seems a little less afraid; now she watches with morbid fascination as the doctor exchanges needles and cartridges one more time. The Prefect crosses the room to where Henry, Bernie, and Jim are gathered in front of the screen. He says something to them, and Jim and Bernie leave the bar to join the line forming behind Rita, yet Henry stays behind. As Jorge watches, his friend pulls out his pad and opens it. The Prefect steps around behind him to peer over his shoulder. Something's going on...

Another swift jab, and he's done. "Boy, that was great!" he exclaims as he stands up. "Thanks, Doc! I feel better already!" He bends over to Marie, slaps his hands against his thighs. "C'mon, you gotta try this!"

The dubious expression on his daughter's face tells him that she isn't buying any of it, but she allows Rita to escort her to the chair. Jorge waits until the doctor swabs her arm, then asks her if she can spell her mother's name backward. Marie is still working on the second letter when the doctor gives her the first shot. She yelps, but more out of surprise than from actual pain; Jorge decides that Rita can handle things from here, and he quietly slides away and heads over to the bar.

"If they're coming, they'd be here by now," Henry says to the Prefect, as Jorge draws closer. "But we've still got twenty minutes..."

"We've got twenty minutes, but you know as well as I do that..." The Prefect looks up, sees Jorge approaching. "Can I help you?"

"Who's corning?" Jorge asks, keeping his voice low. "Is there someone else?"

Henry hesitates, then shows the pad to Jorge: a long list of names, nearly every one highlighted, yet a few remain unlit. "We've got forty- five," he says quietly. "There's supposed to be fifty. Five remain unaccounted for. They were supposed to be on the train, but it doesn't look like they were picked up."

"Or they were picked up, but weren't taken to the train. And that's what worries me." The Prefect absently rubs the beard stubble on his chin. "Not good.

Not good at all..."

"They wouldn't break..."

"Anyone can be broken. Trust me on that one." The Prefect glances at the line of people standing in front of the table. From behind him, Jorge hears Marie's high-pitched scream as she's given another injection.

"Never mind. Let's just get these people out of here."

"You don't think... ?"

"Just hope no one does a head count during the walkout." The Prefect shakes his head, turns away.

"C'mon. The clock's running out."

"He shouldn't mind," Jorge murmurs once he's out of earshot. "He's getting a seat, after all."Henry doesn't look up from his pad. "He's not coming with us," he says very quietly. "We gave him a chance, but he opted to stay behind... he has to, the way all this is planned." Then his eyes meet Jorge's.

"When... if his people find out what he's done, they'll put him on trial for treason."

Jorge stares at him. "But why would he... ?"

"Asked him that once myself. He wouldn't tell me." Henry slaps the pad shut, turns to join the line at the table. "Don't say anything about it, though, to him or anyone else. It's something personal."

Rita has already escorted the kids into the kitchen; Jorge can hear her behind one of the curtains, coaxing Marie into one of the child-size isolation suits.

Almost everyone has had their shots and donned their garments; now they're crowded together in the pantry, gazing through the restaurant's rear door. Just outside is the government maxvee that had picked them up in southern Georgia. The driver stands next to the vehicle, and Jorge notices that he's changed clothes; now he's wearing the lib Hllen M. Steels uniform of a URS lieutenant. Another nameless man facing death for what he's doing today...

Sissy Levin hands Jorge a folded suit, motions him toward the nearest changing room. Just as he's about to enter, Carlos comes out from behind the curtain.

He's put on his isolation suit and carries his helmet under his arm. "How do I look?"

"Fine. Just great." Jorge gives his son a quick inspection. "How're you holding up there, muchacho?"

"Okay, I guess." Yet his face is pale, his shoulders visibly shaking beneath the coveralls. "I don't know about this..."

"I know. I'm not crazy about it either." Jorge bends down on one knee, looks Carlos straight in the eye.

He's never lied to his boy before, and he isn't going to start now. "It sounded like a good idea when we were putting it together, but that was kind of in the abstract. Now we're here, and... well, it's going to be tougher than I thought."

"Then..." Carlos glances at the people waiting by the delivery entrance. For a moment, they're alone; no one is paying attention to them. "We don't have to do this, do we? I mean, we don't have to get to go..."

"You know of another way out?" Carlos's mouth trembles, but he doesn't say anything. "Son, we're escaped criminals now. The government's undoubtedly frozen my credit account, so we've got no money, and we can't go home even if we could. If we turn ourselves in..."

"I know that!" Carlos's voice rises, and several people standing nearby turn to look their way. Jorge hastily shushes him. "Papa... it's forty-six light-years away..."

"I know, I know..." Jorge shakes his head, then grasps his son by the shoulders. "But it's either this, or we spend the rest of our lives in a D.I. camp.

You, me, your mother, your little sister... you want to see Marie in Camp Buchanan?" Carlos snuffles back tears, looks down at the floor. "Believe me, there's no other way. If there were, I'd..."

A sharp whistle from behind them. "Hey, someone leave something behind?"

Jorge glances over his shoulder, sees the Prefect standing in the doorway of the dining room. He's holding aloft Jorge's duffel bag. "Someone dropped this," he calls out. "Who does it belong to?"d.a.m.n. He had almost forgotten it. Jorge raises his hand. The Prefect sees him, then marches across the kitchen to where he's crouched with Carlos. "If its yours, you can't bring it with you," he says, still swinging the bag by its strap. "Sorry, no personal belongings."

"Those aren't personal belongings. It's something we need."

Surprised at having his authority challenged, the Prefect stares back at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rita and Marie coming out from behind the curtain. Marie's suit is a size too large for her; its leggings rumple down around the tops of her boots, and it seems as if she could crawl out from within the loose collar.

"Something you need. Man, everyone has something they need." The Prefect drops the bag on the floor.

"Okay, open 'er up, let's see what you've got."

Jorge hesitates, then unzips the bag and pulls it open, revealing its contents.

The Prefect bends down, studying what's inside. He frowns, looks up at Jorge. "You really thought about this, didn't you?" he asks, his voice now so low only Jorge and Carlos can hear him. Jorge doesn't say anything, and the Prefect reluctantly nods. "Okay, you can take it," he says quietly. "When we do the walkout, sling it over your right shoulder, so that it's away from the people standing behind the rope. If someone notices and asks you what you've got, pretend you didn't hear. Just keep walking. Got it?"

Jorge nods, and the Prefect checks his watch. "Hurry up and get dressed. We leave in six minutes." Then he turns away, clapping his hands once more. "C'mon, people, hustle... I"

Carlos stares at his father as he zips the bag shut again. "Papa, what did you... ?"

"Never mind. Just go help your mother and sister." Jorge hands the bag to his son. "Keep an eye on this, will you? It's important... but don't show it to anyone."

Carlos takes the bag by its strap, pulls it over his shoulder. He slumps a little beneath its weight, and his expression changes from fear to puzzlement.

For a moment Jorge wonders whether he's going to open it, but the boy obeys him. Jorge gives him a smile, then steps behind the curtain.

Alone for the moment, he sags against the cinder-block wall. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, tries to will his heart to stop pounding. This is the first time since he received the phone call at his apartment that he's been out of sight of his family; until now, he hasn't allowed himself to show fear, let alone feel it.

Yet deep down inside, he's just as terrified as Carlos. How can Rita accept all this so calmly, when she didn't know what was happening until... ?