Coyote Destiny (22 page)

“Put a clamp on it, willya?” Olson was unimpressed. He had my gun; in his mind, that was his trump card. “No one knows we’re here, and no one has to find out either.” His grin became repulsive. “We got some big ol’ sows in the next barn, and they’re not too picky about what they eat. Not when it’s all nice and chopped up for ’em.”

He might have only been bluffing, but I couldn’t take that chance. “Kyle, if anything happens to me, someone will find out. Count on it.” I kept my voice even, trying not to show that I was beginning to fear for my life. “So far, all you’ve done is knock out the kid and hold me at gunpoint. Let it go at that, and no one has to . . .”

Olson’s forefinger curled around the trigger again. “What you can count on, General whatever your name is, is becoming pigshit unless you tell me why you’re lookin’ for Pete.”

“You want the truth?” I stared back at him, ignoring the gun as much as possible. “All right, then . . . your friend Pete isn’t who he said he is. His real name is David Laird, and he’s responsible for the bomb that destroyed the
Robert E. Lee
nineteen years ago. It’s taken a long time for us to find out who built it, but now we know, and that’s why I’m searching for him.” I paused, then added, “And if you’ve got any sense, you’ll put that gun down and tell me what Laird asked you to do for him.”

Olson said nothing for a second or two. The gun didn’t move an inch, but it was clear that he was thinking it over. Gary was convinced, though, because he started to lower the fléchette pistol. “He’s not foolin’, Kyle. This is way over our heads. Maybe we should . . .”

“Point that goddamn gun at him!” Olson snapped, and Gary jerked to obey his order. “He’s lyin’! I knew Pete, and so did you, and if all he did was kill a proctor . . .”

“He was lying,” I said. “He killed a lot more people than that . . . everyone aboard the
Lee
, including the
chaaz’maha
. . .”

“Well, hell . . .” His expression became a smirk. “No loss there, so far as I’m concerned. I can’t stand those damn
Sa’Tong
ians.” He shook his head. “And even if what you say is true, no Olson ever rats out a pal. Me and Pete hoisted a few jugs together. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you nothin’ but a—”

“Drop the guns!”

I couldn’t see Chris, but his voice from somewhere in the darkness beyond the shed’s open door was the best thing I’d ever heard. Olson’s back was turned to the door, so someone yelling from behind him caused him to jump . . . and then Gary whipped around, raised his pistol, and fired blindly in Chris’s general direction.

Bad mistake. His fléchettes did little more than splinter some wood from the doorframe. An instant later, there were two soft
whufts!
from outside. Gary grabbed at his chest; a red blotch had already begun to spread beneath his fingers as he sagged and fell forward. He’d barely hit the floor when Chris called out again.

“Drop it! Or you get the next one!”

For a second, I thought Olson was going to take his chances. But apparently he thought better of it, because he slowly extended his right arm away from me and opened his hand, letting my gun fall from his grasp.

“Kick it away,” Chris demanded, and Olson obeyed by nudging the airpulse pistol with the toe of his right boot. That was enough for me; I reached down to retrieve my weapon, careful not to take my eyes off him. Olson had just enough common sense, though, to know better than to try to jump me. He’d seen how quickly his friend had been dropped, and whoever was outside the barn doubtless had a dead bead on the back of his neck.

Once I had Olson covered, Chris stepped into view. He cautiously entered the shed, his fléchette pistol gripped in both hands, carefully looking around to make sure no one else was waiting to ambush him. “Are they the only two?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. Just them and the kid over there.” I nodded toward Jake, who still lay on the floor near Gary. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“I spotted you leaving the bar, and I was about to catch up with you when I saw these two guys tailing you. Had a hunch they were up to no good, so I followed them here.” He frowned at me. “Next time, don’t take off on your own like that.”

“Sorry, but . . .” I let it go. We could argue about it later. Instead, I waited until I was sure that Chris had Olson under control, then I hurried over to Jake. Kneeling beside him, I took off my left glove, rested my fingertips against the side of his neck. His skin was warm, and I felt a pulse. Good. I was afraid that he might have broken his neck.

Gary, on the other hand, was all but dead. The razor-sharp barbs had ripped through the front of his field jacket and penetrated his chest. He was bleeding out from his lungs; his face had gone white, and bright pink bubbles foamed around his mouth with every ragged breath he took. Whatever life was left in him was fading fast. As I stood over him, I saw his eyelids flutter, then he coughed up some blood and was still.

“This one’s gone,” I murmured.

“Son of a bitch.” Kyle’s hands were raised above his head, and he trembled with fury as he watched his friend die. “He didn’t mean no...”

He didn’t get to finish whatever he was about to say, because Chris came forward to bring the butt of his pistol down against his forehead. Kyle cried out and staggered backward; reaching for the ugly welt that had opened above his right eye, he lost his balance and toppled to the floor, landing on his ass between Jake and Gary.

“Don’t worry about him.” Chris bent down to grab him by his jacket collar and throw him against a bench leg. “Worry about yourself, or so help me, I’ll . . .”

“Chief. Stop.” I saw what Olson saw: the murderous expression on the old man’s face, the utter lack of sympathy. One man was dead already; I was afraid there would soon be another. “He . . .”

“Take care of the kid,” Chris snarled, his eyes never leaving Olson’s as he squatted in front of him. “Let me handle this one.” The younger man was shaking; there was no ignoring the gun barrel that hovered only inches from his face. “Talk! Tell me what you did with David Laird!”

Olson hastily shook his head. “I don’t . . . I don’t . . . who’s . . . ?”

“You called him Pete, and you damn well know where he went!” Chris yanked him forward by his collar, slammed him against the bench again. “He didn’t tell you that stuff for no reason! He was looking for help! Now tell me what you did, or . . . !”

“I sent him away!” Olson’s voice became a terrified whine. Where there had once been a bully was now only a coward quivering. “I . . . he said he had money . . . money he’d stashed away, and all he needed was a way out of town. Some place where no one would find him. So I got him on a boat . . .”

As he spoke, I heard Jake groan. Looking around, I saw him begin to stir. The kid was coming to; no doubt he was in considerable pain. Turning away from Chris and his captive, I knelt beside him again. “Easy, boy,” I murmured, putting down my gun to help him roll over. “Relax. You’re going to be all right . . .”

“A boat to where?” Another thud from behind me; Chris had just slammed Olson against the bench again. “Where did you send him?”

“Nava . . . Navajo.” Olson was trying hard to remember something he’d done three years earlier. “Yeah, that’s it. Manuelito, I think. Some town in Navajo where we . . . my dad’s company, I mean . . . ship breeding stock. I took his money, got him a ride out there . . .”

Suddenly, what everyone who’d met Peter Desilitz had told us about him was beginning to make sense. All the unpaid debts, the rent he’d skipped: he wasn’t pissing it away on ale but was squirreling away money to buy passage aboard a freighter that would take him to the other side of the world. A frontier settlement on Navajo, as far from the central provinces as you could possibly get.

“What . . . ?” Jake opened his eyes, peered at me with bleary confusion. “Who’s . . . how did you . . . ?”

“It’s all right.” I reached around to the back his head. He had a lump the size of a grasshoarder egg, but I didn’t find any blood. He’d have a bad headache, but that was all. “We got help, that’s all. You’re going to be . . .”

“Manuelito?” Chris demanded. “Are you . . . ?”

He abruptly stopped, and in the next instant I heard a sudden, agonized gasp. Looking around, I saw him rear back on his haunches, his left hand reaching up to grab at something that Olson had shoved against his chest. There was an evil leer on the stockman’s face as he thrust his arm forward, but it wasn’t until Chris fell back that I saw what the object was: the shearing scissors, its long blades protruding from Chris’s heart.

Twisting away from Jake, I snatched at where I’d carelessly left my gun on the floor beside me. Olson saw me; kicking Chris aside, he made a grab for the old man’s fléchette pistol. This time, though, he didn’t have the advantage of surprise. I got off a shot before he was able to lay a hand on Chris’s weapon. The pulse knocked the gun away from him; another shot threw him headfirst against the wall and made him lie still.

I scrambled on my hands and knees over to Chris. He lay on his back, left hand loosely wrapped around the scissors. I knew better than to pull them out, but even if I had, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Blood, dark red in the wan light of the lantern, pumped from around the edges of its blades and seeped from the corners of his mouth, and when I crouched beside him, I saw the color fading from his face.

“Get . . . him . . .” he whispered. Then he closed his eyes.

That was the last thing he said.

 

 

 

I sent Jake to find a proctor, making sure that he’d tell him to bring
a doctor as well. Chris was beyond medical assistance, but I knew that someone would have to officially pronounce both him and Gary dead. Jake appeared reluctant—all he wanted to do was put as much distance between him and the stockyard as he could and never come back again—yet one look at my face, and he knew that he’d better do as he was told.

Once he was gone, I found an old blanket lying across one of the stalls and used it to cover Chris. Gary didn’t get the same courtesy. I removed the scissors from my friend’s chest, careful to wear my gloves as I did so, but otherwise left the scene undisturbed. The proctors would want to know everything that happened, and although I’d have Jake to back up my version of the events, I didn’t want there to be any lingering doubts whether I’d killed either of the two men.

Nonetheless, I found myself standing above Kyle Olson for a few minutes. There were two fléchette pistols within easy reach; either of them could put an end to his existence before he even woke up, and I doubted that anyone besides his family would mourn his death. But I didn’t have it in me to commit murder, so I found a roll of twine and used it to bind his hands and feet. He remained unconscious throughout, unaware of my deliberations.

I sat on the floor beside Chris for a while. He’d come with me to this place to find the man who’d killed his best friend, only to meet his own fate. A lousy way to die, stabbed to death by a punk in a foul-smelling sheep shed. He’d been a good man, one of the last of the original colonists. He deserved better than this.

It was hard to look at him, so I pushed myself to my feet and, for lack of anything else to do, walked over to the pens to see how the sheep were doing. Remarkably, they’d remained quiet during the entire thing. Most of them were asleep, and the few who’d witnessed the killing of two men had done so in silence, passive observers who cared little about what humans did to one another in their little world. I envied them.

With no one except the animals to keep me company, I walked over to the door and leaned against the frame. The stars were out, with Bear high in the night sky. As I waited for someone to show up, though, I found myself looking to the east. Toward Navajo, where David Laird had gone.

I remembered Chief Levin’s last words; I knew what he’d meant. And I also knew that I had one more death to avenge.

We won’t find anywhere as nice as Earth unless we go to another star system . . . It is important for the human race to spread out into space for the survival of the species. Life on Earth is at the ever-increasing risk of being wiped out by a disaster, such as sudden global warming, nuclear war, a genetically engineered virus, or other dangers we have not yet thought of.

Like a silver wedding band lost from the finger of some celestial
giant, Starbridge Earth hovered in its Lagrange-point orbit near the Moon. Infrequently visited by the maintenance crews who came out every so often to repair micrometeorite damage and check long-dormant electronic systems, the hyperspace portal hadn’t been opened in nineteen years. All but forgotten, it was a silent reminder of a brief time when people from Earth had traveled to the stars, only to have the door slammed in their faces.

A hundred miles away, the gatehouse was just as silent. A spindle-like collection of modules and solar vanes, its only sign of life were the blue and red navigational beacons that flashed at each end; its windows were dark, and the air inside was stale and cold. Yet the station was not entirely dead. Electricity trickled through its circuits, maintaining the low-power current necessary to keep the comps from decaying. Many years had passed since the last time the station had been occupied, though, and no one knew whether it would ever be used again.

There had been suggestions over the years that both the starbridge and its gatehouse should be dismantled, its components auctioned off as scrap metal. After all, the starbridge led in only one direction, and that way was now closed, for reasons unbeknownst to those who’d been left behind. Yet individuals with long memories and foresight had prevailed; there was always a chance, however remote, that Starbridge Coyote might become active and a ship might yet emerge from hyperspace. When that day came, the mystery would be solved; for that reason alone, they argued, the starbridge should remain operational, its gatehouse ready to accept and respond to a signal transmitted by an incoming vessel.