Coyote Destiny (2 page)

If Starbridge Earth was receiving no hyperlink transmissions from 47 Ursae Majoris, forty-six light-years away, then it meant that something had happened to Starbridge Coyote itself. And if that were the case . . .

Vargas did his best to remain calm. For the last several months, following the political meltdown of the Western Hemisphere Union, inhabitants of North and South America had joined the mobs of Europeans and Asians fleeing Earth in the aftermath of global environmental collapse. Although the WHU had extensive settlements on the Moon, Mars, and the satellites of the outer planets, they were already overcrowded; however, it wasn’t until only recently that its citizens had been able to travel to Coyote. The Union’s stubborn refusal to ratify the United Nations treaty recognizing Coyote’s independence had prevented free trade or immigration, let alone the establishment of Union colonies. But when the Proletariat was overthrown, its Patriarchs and Matriarchs either executed or sent into hiding, those sanctions effectively became null and void. The cities of the Western Hemisphere Union were in flames, their individual governments struggling to contain the anarchy that had replaced social collectivism.

An interim agreement between the Coyote Federation and what remained of the Union had allowed for refugees to make their way to 47 Uma. When that happened, every person able to do so crowded aboard any space vessel capable of making the trip to Starbridge Earth.
The Legend of Simon Bolivar
was just one of dozens of Union Astronautica vessels that had been hastily refitted to carry immigrants to Coyote. Although the freighter had been designed to do little more than haul cargo from Earth to Highgate, the international space colony at Lagrange Five, it was capable of making hyperspace jumps once its navigation system was retrofitted with a starbridge key. So far, the
Bolivar
had transported nearly 70 people to Coyote; once this round-trip was completed, the total would be 102, almost as many as had been aboard the URSS
Alabama
, the first starship to reach the new world.

To be sure, this represented only the tiniest fraction of the multitudes seeking sanctuary. Nonetheless, Vargas took considerable pride in the fact that he’d saved so many lives. Only a couple of days ago, though, he’d promised his crew that this would be the last time that they’d return to Earth. On their next flight out, their own families would be aboard as well, then the
Bolivar
would remain at 47 Ursae Majoris once and for all.

But now it appeared that he might have waited too long.

“
Bolivar
, this is Gatehouse Command.”
A new voice came through Sergio’s headset, interrupting his thoughts.
“With whom am I speaking, please?”

Vargas prodded his mike. “Command, this is Captain Sergio Vargas. I’m trying to get confirmation that . . .”

“Captain, I have bad news.”
Something in the way the CO spoke made Vargas brace for the worst.
“For reasons unknown, we’ve lost communications with Starbridge Coyote. We have reason to believe that the starbridge itself has been destroyed.”

From beside him, Vargas heard a sharp intake of breath. He shot Dom a stern look, silently warning him to shut up, then he leaned forward in his seat. “We copy, Command. I . . .” He hesitated, not quite knowing what to say. “I understand. That means the jump is aborted, doesn’t it?”

This was obvious, of course, but he had to hear the words from the CO himself, just to make sure there was no mistake.
“Affirmative, Captain,”
the CO replied.
“We are requesting that all outbound vessels return to Highgate, where their passengers and crew will be asked to disembark. We will inform you if the situation changes, but for the time being, Starbridge Earth is no longer operational. Please acknowledge.”

“We copy, gatehouse.” Vargas let out his breath, fell back in his seat. From the corner of his eye, he saw his copilot slam a fist against his armrest. “Thank you for telling us. I appreciate . . .”

“I’m not finished yet. We have a request to make of you.”
A slight pause.
“According to our instruments, something came through the starbridge just a few moments before the wormhole collapsed. It’s transmitting a wireless signal identical to that of an emergency transponder, and we have reason to believe that it may be a lifeboat.”

Vargas sat up straight again. He glanced at Treece; the copilot was already bending closer to the console between their seats to examine the lidar screen. “Have you made contact with it yet?”

“Negative. There’s been no verbal response to our hails. However, our remote imaging leads us to believe that it may be a lifeboat launched from the
Lee
.”

“I have it,” Treece murmured. “Bearing X-ray 42.1, Yankee -11.5, Zulu 01.1. Distance 51.4 kilometers and drifting . . .”

“Copy that, gatehouse. We confirm acquisition.” As he spoke, Vargas reached up to the communications console above his seat. He flipped a couple of toggles, studied the screen: there it was, the steady and repetitious spike of something being received on the K
u
band. “We’re receiving the transponder signal, too.”

“Trafco reports that
Bolivar
is the closest available vessel. We request that you undertake the rescue effort before returning to Highgate and bring in the lifeboat and any persons who may be aboard to the colony. Are you able to do so?”

“Affirmative.” As if they had any choice in the matter. The
Bolivar
was the nearest ship, and international space treaties mandated that it render assistance; the thirty-four would-be immigrants in the passenger module would just have to wait a little while longer. “We’re on our way.”

“We copy,
Bolivar
. Keep us informed. Gatehouse over.”

“Wilco.
Bolivar
over and out.” Vargas switched off the mike, then let out his breath. “Damn,” he muttered. “Damn, damn, damn . . .”

“I can’t believe it.” Treece was staring straight ahead; he was still stunned by what they’d just heard. “First the
Lee
, then the starbridge . . . what the hell happened over there? They said there was an explosion, but . . . I mean, what . . . ?”

“Never mind that now.” Vargas shook his head, then reached over to the nav console. Switching off the autopilot, he fed the lifeboat’s present coordinates into the flight comp; once the
Bolivar
was close enough, they’d home in on the transponder signal. “Get Romas on the com, let him know what’s going on, then tell him to get into the pod.”

“Okay.” The freighter was equipped with a small cargo pod. Normally used to load payload canisters into the cargo bay, it would serve as a salvage vehicle. As
Bolivar
’s cargo master, it was Caesar Romas’s job to fly the thing. Treece started to tap his mike, then hesitated. “What about the passengers? Shouldn’t we tell them . . . ?”

“Just give me a minute, all right?” Vargas tried to keep the irritation from his voice, but Treece winced all the same. “Sorry,” he added. “I’m just . . . trying to get over this myself.”

“I understand, Captain.” The copilot was quiet for a moment. “Did you know anyone aboard the
Lee
?”

“No. Did you?” Treece shook his head, nor was Vargas surprised. Like most South American spacers, they were both Union Astronautica officers—or at least had been, until the Union collapsed; neither of them still wore UA insignia on his uniform—and thus had little interaction with their colleagues in the ESA, which was where most of the Coyote Federation’s spacers originally came from. Not that it mattered, really. Regardless of which flag was painted on the hull of one’s ship, everyone who worked in space belonged to a brotherhood. They all shared the same risks; whenever the dark claimed a life, everyone shared a bit of the pain.

And there would be no shortage of pain today.

“It’s a black day,” Vargas murmured as he finished entering the coordinates into the comp. “I’m afraid we’ll remember it for years to come.”

The lifeboat was a small, conical spacecraft, resembling an antique child’s top that had somehow spun out into space. Slowly tumbling end over end by the time the
Bolivar
arrived, it took all of Romas’s skill as a pod jockey for him to rendezvous with the tiny craft and use the pod’s thrusters to stop its spin. Once this was achieved, though, it was relatively easy for the cargo master to maneuver the lifeboat into the freighter’s cargo bay.

Treece took over from there. Leaving the cockpit to assist Romas, he stood at the rear-facing porthole of
Bolivar
’s lower deck and carefully used the freighter’s remote manipulators to grasp the rungs on either side of the lifeboat’s docking collar and guide it the rest of the way into the bay. Once the lifeboat was in place, grapples within the bay secured it to the other end of the passenger module. There was no way to reach the lifeboat from the
Bolivar
’s lower deck, but since the passenger module had an emergency airlock located at its rear, Treece was able to link the lifeboat directly to the module. Once this was done, it meant that they would be able to enter the small craft.

By then, Vargas had gone on the intercom to inform the passengers of the disaster. He’d kept his remarks brief and to the point, avoiding any speculation of what might have caused the loss of either Starbridge Coyote or the
Lee
. Nonetheless, as soon as he opened the module’s forward hatch and pushed himself inside, he found himself surrounded by frightened, confused, and angry people, all of whom had questions he couldn’t answer. The captain did his best to calm everyone as he used the ceiling handrail to pull himself through the module, yet he couldn’t help but be relieved by the fact that they were all strapped down in their seats. It was easy to avoid the hands that reached up to grasp at his arms and legs, and by the time he reached the rear hatch, he’d stopped talking to anyone.

With one exception. Along the way, Vargas had checked the passenger manifest and discovered that there was a physician aboard: Dr. Kim Jewel, late of Massachusetts. The fact that Dr. Jewel was a veterinarian more accustomed to treating dogs was a minor detail; she had more medical experience than anyone else on the
Bolivar
, including the crew, who’d only had Union Astronautica first-aid training. Sergio found her seated about three-quarters of the way back from the front of the cabin; Dr. Jewel immediately agreed to give Captain Vargas any assistance she could, then unbuckled her harness and followed him to the emergency airlock.

Twisting the hatch’s lockwheel counterclockwise, Sergio pushed it open, revealing a closet-sized compartment with another hatch on the opposite side. Pulling himself into the airlock, he took a moment to check the pressure gauge; satisfied that there was an airtight seal on the other side, he undogged it as well. A faint hiss of escaping overpressure, then the hatch popped open.

Beyond the open hatch was the narrow crawl space of the docking collar. Vargas pulled a penlight from his jumpsuit pocket and shined it down the tunnel; the lifeboat’s dorsal hatch was only a couple of meters away. The crawl space was frigid, the tiger-striped hatch crusted with ice, but there didn’t appear to be any damage to the lifeboat’s hull or its lockwheel.

Whatever fate had befallen the
Lee
, the lifeboat had somehow managed to escape unscratched. All the same, Vargas took no chances. Pulling a camera from his pocket, he snapped a couple of pictures of the lifeboat hatch before venturing any farther into the tunnel.

“What are you doing?” Floating in the airlock behind him, Jewel impatiently waited for Sergio to enter the lifeboat. “There may be wounded passengers over there.”

“Covering the bases, that’s all.” There would eventually be an official inquiry into the disaster, and the review board would want all the physical evidence they could get. Not only that, but Vargas didn’t want himself or his crew to be held culpable in any way for their role in the rescue effort; photos would prove the condition of the lifeboat when they found it. Putting the camera back in his pocket, the captain pulled himself into the crawl space. “Wait until I get this thing open before following me,” he added. “I want to make sure . . .”

He winced and swore under his breath as his bare hands touched the ice-cold lockwheel. Nothing he could do about that, though, except rub his palms together to warm them, then try again. The lockwheel rasped as he yanked at it, and tiny bits of frost broke away, but the hatch yielded to his pressure and swung inward.

The lifeboat was dark, save for the faint glow of the red and blue diodes on its instrument panels. Pushing himself into the small craft, Vargas cast the beam around the interior. He’d expected to find it crowded with passengers, perhaps even a crewman or two; instead, he was stunned to find it nearly empty. All but one of its hammock seats were folded against the concave bulkheads; even the control console was still locked down. The lifeboat had been jettisoned with almost no one aboard.