Coyote Destiny (15 page)

Jon ignored Vargas’s remark as he walked over to the Savant. “Hello, Manny,” he said, extending a hand. “Thanks for coming.”

A rasping burr from the grille of his mouth that might have been laughter. “The pleasure is all mine,” Manny replied. A four-fingered claw appeared from the folds of his robe, grasped Jon’s hand. “Any opportunity to visit the
Talus qua’spah
is one I’ll gladly accept.”

“I see you finally got your left eye fixed.”

“Left eye, and much more.” The Savant opened his robe, exposing a robotlike body that dully reflected the winter sun. “Seems that the
danui
have a lot of experience with cyborgs. The last time I was there, I managed to talk some of their representatives into upgrading my . . .”

“Wait a damn minute!” McAlister was staring at Manny with undisguised loathing. “You’re not telling me . . . you didn’t say . . . !” He pointed at the liaison as if he was a monster. “He’s a Savant!”

Manny let his robe fall back in place. “You’re the pilot, correct? I hope your skills match your keen grasp of the obvious.”

His immobile face and strange eyes displayed no emotion, yet Jorge thought he detected the slightest twinge of sarcasm in Manny’s voice. From behind him, he heard a stifled laugh; peering over his shoulder, he saw Inez clasping a hand across her mouth.

“As you’ve so wisely pointed out . . . yes, he is.” Jon glared at McAlister and Vargas as he stepped aside. “Allow me to introduce you to Manuel Castro, the Federation representative to the Talus. I hope you’ll afford him the same respect and courtesy as you would any government official . . . particularly one who’s a senior diplomat.”

“But . . .” McAlister shook his head, both bewildered and irate. “Hell’s bells, Colonel, how can you expect us to trust someone . . . something . . . like . . .”

“Captain, you’re out of line. Savant Castro . . .”

“Captain, with all due respect, my loyalty and trustworthiness are not at issue here.” Apparently unwilling to let Jon defend him, Manny approached the pilot, the bottom of his robe whisking softly against the concrete. “The last four presidents have entrusted me with the task of speaking on behalf of the Federation . . . and indeed, not just the Federation, but all humans on Coyote. No one has ever complained about my service, although I’ll admit that my role has been circumspect. I’m sure, however, small-minded individuals might object.”

Jorge understood McAlister’s and Vargas’s feelings about Manny, even if he didn’t share them himself. Long ago, when the Savants had shared power with the Patriarchs and Matriarchs in the Western Hemisphere Union, their inner circle had secretly plotted to ease Earth’s population crisis by eliminating one-third of the population. The conspiracy had ultimately been exposed, but not before tens of thousands of persons were killed; those Savants who weren’t captured and destroyed fled from Earth, eventually taking up residence in the farthest reaches of the solar system. Manny had never been involved in the plans; nevertheless, those who remembered the Savant genocide automatically despised his kind.

“Goddamn right I object.” McAlister started to take a step back, but not before he found himself staring Manny straight in the eye. “I can’t believe the president would allow something like you to . . .”

“If you don’t believe it, then you’re welcome to take this up with President Edgar. I can link directly to Government House . . . would you like for me to do so?” Manny waited. When McAlister didn’t reply, he went on. “Your objection has been noted. However, I’ll remind you that your job is not to pass judgment on me but to transport us to
Talus qua’spah
, where I’m to carry out my official duties, as mandated by the president. Are you clear on that?”

“Yeah.” McAlister was still simmering, but he reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, I . . .”

“‘Yes, sir’ is the proper response to a senior official, Captain.” Manny paused. “Furthermore, in the future, I’ll thank you to refer to me as ‘someone’ and not ‘something.’ Are we clear on that as well?”

“Yes, sir.” The pilot’s face had gone red, and he seemed to be having trouble keeping his upper lip from curling. “I understand, Savant Castro.”

“‘Mr. Castro’ will do. My friends call me ‘Manny.’ Either one is acceptable, since I no longer use my former term of address.” Manny turned toward Vargas. “Do you have anything you’d like to add, Mr. Vargas?”

Vargas appeared to be shocked that the Savant would know his name. Unwilling to challenge a senior diplomat the way McAlister had, though, he shook his head. A dismissive nod, then Manny strolled over to Jorge.

“Lieutenant Montero, I presume?” Again, the clawlike hand appeared from within his robe. When Jorge grasped it, he found Manny’s touch to be cold, yet surprisingly gentle. “Very pleased to meet you after all these years. Your grandfather and I were on opposite sides during the war, but later we became friends.”

“So I’ve been told.” Jorge glanced at his father, who nodded but said nothing. For an instant, he considered telling the Savant about his attempt to find him, then decided against it; perhaps later. “I’ve heard a lot of stories. My grandfather always spoke well of you.”

The staccato buzz that sounded somewhat like a laugh. “Happy to hear this . . . even though, as I said, we’d had our differences. In any case, I’m proud to have assumed his old position as diplomatic liaison. I only hope that I’ll be able to serve you as well as he would have.”

“Thank you.” Jorge began to say something else, but before he could, Manny turned to Inez. This time, though, he didn’t offer his hand, but instead bowed slightly, his hands clasped before his chest.

“
Sa’Tong qo
, Corporal,” he said, his voice now low and oddly reverent. “It’s an honor to meet you. Your father’s teachings have meant a great deal to me.”

Oh, my god,
Jorge thought,
he’s a
Sa’Tong
ian!
The expression Manny had just used was
hjadd
in origin. Literally translated, it meant “Follow the wisdom of
Sa’Tong
,” but it could also have different meanings, depending on the circumstances: “hello,” “good-bye,” and “good luck” were but a few. Nonetheless, it was something only a devout
Sa’Tong
ian would be likely to say. Inez seemed to be surprised as well, because her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. Yet she recovered quickly and reciprocated with the same bow and formal clasping of the hands. “
Sa’Tong qo
, Savant . . . that is, Mr. Castro. I’m pleased to learn that you’ve received the wisdom of the
chaaz’maha
.”

Jorge thought they’d go further, but apparently that was all that needed to be said. Manny briefly introduced himself to Greg, who accepted the Savant’s handshake despite a moment of obvious reluctance, then Castro turned to McAlister again. “Captain, I believe the time has come for us to leave. If you will . . . ?”

“Right.” The pilot bent over to pick up his bag. “If you’ll follow me, please . . . ?”

Hoisting his own bag across his shoulder, Jorge started to join the others, but then his father stopped him. “Just a moment, son. If I could have a word with you . . .”

Knowing what was coming, Jorge halted. Jon waited until the rest of the expedition members were out of earshot, then he went on. “Look,” he said quietly, “I know you don’t want a speech from the old man, but . . . well, I just want to tell you how proud I am of you. If I could’ve come along . . .”

“I know.” Jorge was aware of the fact that his father had tried to pressure Sawyer into adding him to the expedition, arguing that he was a more experienced pilot than McAlister. Sawyer had turned him down, though, saying that Jon was too old for this sort of thing; besides, he was uncomfortable with the notion of sending both father and son on such a hazardous mission. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’ll get us there and back again.”

Jon nodded, and Jorge was surprised to see a trace of redness in his father’s eyes. Jon was trying to force back tears; in all the times they’d seen each other off, for one Corps expedition or another, never before had his father been so emotional. “Give Mama my love,” he added. “Tell her I’ll see you both as soon as I get back.”

“Sure. I’ll do that.” For a second, Jorge thought his father would embrace him. But they both knew that would be embarrassing—as expedition leader, it wouldn’t do for him to be seen being given a farewell hug by his father—so instead they formally shook hands. “Good luck, boy,” Jon said. “Take care of yourself . . . and the others, too.”

“Thanks. I will.” Then Jorge turned and followed the others to the
Mercator
.

The shuttle’s interior wasn’t spacious, but it was suitable for their purposes. The belly hatch led to the middeck passenger cabin, where four couches were arranged on either side of a center aisle and their supplies tucked into cargo nets behind them. Inez, Vargas, Manny, and Greg were buckling themselves into their seats when Jorge came aboard. He raised the ladder and closed the hatch, making sure that it was dogged tight before moving forward. Apparently Inez sensed his emotions, because she turned to give him a sympathetic smile; Jorge patted her fondly upon the shoulder, then went up a short flight of steps to the flight deck.

The cockpit was even smaller than the cabin, with two couches crammed nearly shoulder to shoulder within a wraparound array of control panels. Although Jorge knew nothing about flying a spacecraft, as expedition leader he’d nonetheless been assigned to the right-hand copilot seat. McAlister was already going through the prelaunch checklist, his hands roaming across the various toggle switches and buttons as he activated the shuttle’s major systems. The pilot grunted as Jorge straddled the center console to fall clumsily into his couch, and Jorge felt McAlister’s eyes upon him as he struggled to untangle the harness straps and attach them to the six-point buckle at the center of his chest.

“Ever been up in space before, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Yes, I have.” Jorge wasn’t about to admit that his previous experience was limited to two suborbital training sorties. “Just . . . remembering how to do all this, that’s all.”

“Hmm . . . well, fortunately, I’ve done this a few times. Sir.”

Jorge glanced at McAlister. Although there was a hint of irony in his voice, the pilot’s expression remained neutral. Jorge only hoped that his attitude wasn’t a permanent fixture, or there would be problems.

Instead of responding, he gazed through the cockpit windows. As the ramjets took on the low moan of its warm-up procedure, he saw the ground crew moving away, dragging the fuel lines behind them. He spotted his father standing just beyond the edge of the flight line. Jorge briefly raised a hand, but apparently Colonel Parson didn’t see him because he didn’t respond in kind.

McAlister finished the checklist. He slipped the datapad into a web above his console, then took a deep breath as he laid his right hand upon the center-mounted bars for the VTOL thrusters. “All set back there?” he called over his shoulder. Hearing affirmative responses from the passenger cabin, he grunted, then touched his headset mike. “Flight Seven Six Zulu Tango to tower, requesting permission for takeoff.” He waited a moment. “Affirmative, tower, thank you,” he added, then he looked over at Jorge. “Want a countdown, Lieutenant, or . . . ?”

“Ready when you are, Captain.” Jorge pulled on his own headset, too late to hear the other half of the exchange.

“Very well, then.” McAlister slowly pushed the bars forward, and as the moan rose to a deep-throated snarl, he pulled back on the yoke. A shudder passed through the shuttle, and Jorge felt something push him back in his seat as the
Mercator
rose upon its VTOL thrusters. Once the small craft was five hundred feet above the runway, the pilot tilted the prow upward, then pushed the throttle bar forward. An immense roar, then the
Mercator
lunged toward the cloudless sky.

They were on their way.

 

 

 

McAlister might have had a less-than-soothing temperament, but
he was an excellent pilot; the ride to orbit was smooth, with hardly any jarring along the way. Nevertheless, shortly after the blue skies of Coyote were replaced with the star-flecked blackness of space, Jorge unbuckled his harness and pushed himself out of his seat. Now that the main engine had been engaged, the trip to the starbridge would take ten hours; the less time he spent in the cockpit, the better he’d get along with McAlister.

Everyone had endured the launch and ascent well, save for Greg, who’d become violently ill almost as soon as the
Mercator
reached space. The shuttle was too small to contain a Millis-Clement field generator, so weightlessness was a fact of life they’d have to deal with. Fortunately, the sergeant had managed to restrain his urge to vomit until he reached the small zero-g toilet in the rear of the passenger compartment, leaving the others to gaze out the portholes at Coyote.

Seen from above, the world was a vast hemisphere, its snow-covered plains and mountains broken by the deep blue of its myriad rivers and channels. Leaning forward to peer through the small window above Greg’s vacant seat, Jorge watched as the
Mercator
crossed the daylight terminator east of Narragansett. A last glimpse of the tiny lights from coastal settlements along the Great Equatorial River, then there was a brief surge as the shuttle’s main engine fired again. Coyote began to drift away as the shuttle headed out for the starbridge in trojan orbit around Bear.

“Too bad we couldn’t have stayed longer,” Inez murmured. “I was enjoying the view.”

Jorge looked around at her. She was seated in her couch, calmly gazing through another porthole. She seemed a little pale, but otherwise was holding up. “We’ll be back soon enough,” he replied. “Besides, we’ll be seeing more interesting things than this before then.”

“Your opinion.” Vargas was seated behind her, across the aisle from Manny. He didn’t look very happy to be there. “Personally, I’d rather stay behind.”