Coyote Destiny (30 page)

Jorge moved upon the mattress until his back was against the wall; he noted that Black watched him carefully, wary for any surprises on his part. Instead, Jorge crossed his feet together and folded his arms across his chest. “I figured that he was mixed up in this somehow. He’s been one of your people all along, hasn’t he?”

“Umm . . . no. Not really.” Black shook his head. “Fact is, he didn’t even know that he was working on behalf of the Provisional Army, or even the United Republic of America. So you shouldn’t blame him too much, Lieutenant. In his own way, he’s just as much part of the bait as you are.”

Jorge started to open his mouth, but Black held up a hand. “Let me explain. When the Provisional Army decided that we wanted to . . . shall we say, arrange a meeting with Thompson . . . we knew that we’d have to find a way to lure him to a place and time that would be of our choosing. When he’s visited Boston in the past, it’s always been where his followers have been able to protect him. We wanted to change that, and it occurred to us that the best way of doing so was to provide him with a reason to come here that he couldn’t easily ignore. And the answer to that was . . .”

“Getting someone from Coyote to return to Earth, with the purpose of finding him as well.”

“Excellent.” An enthusiastic nod. “Well done, Lieutenant. Yes, Thompson wouldn’t have done this if we’d captured or intimidated any of his followers here. We’ve tried that already, but they’re remarkably loyal to their messiah, and vice versa. But while we knew that luring someone from Coyote wouldn’t be easy, nevertheless there was a remote possibility that it could be done . . . we just knew that having someone from his homeworld return to Earth was something that he couldn’t ignore.”

Jorge gave a noncommittal shrug, and Black went on. “Using Starbridge Earth was out of the question, of course. Nothing has come through it in years. But we also knew that there was another functional starbridge out in the Kuiper Belt, so it was just a matter of finding someone who’d know how to activate it and would be willing and able to pilot a ship through hyperspace to 47 Uma. We didn’t have anyone like that in our own ranks, unfortunately, but after a long search by our people, we found Captain Vargas.”

“And so you recruited him,” Inez said.

“Again . . . no, not exactly.” A wry smile. “‘Recruited’ implies that Vargas was a volunteer, or at least that he knowingly went along with this. But we were careful not to let him know that the Provisional Army was involved, or that he was serving the goals of the URA. And can you guess why?”

Black waited for a response. When neither Jorge nor Inez replied, he continued. “Not long after Thompson came here and set himself up to be the savior of mankind”—his tone was heavy with sarcasm—“he revealed that he was a telepath and that there were others like him back home. So it was not unreasonable to expect that whoever went to Coyote would have their minds read, and if so, that our plans would be discovered. So it was important that whoever went there didn’t know that he was working for us, but instead truly believed that he was acting on his own. Do you understand?”

“Yes . . .” Then Jorge shook his head. “No, I don’t. When he arrived on Coyote, Sergio told us that he’d stolen the freighter himself and that no one else had helped him.”

“Good.” Black grinned. “That was exactly what we wanted him to think. But the truth of the matter is that it had all been carefully arranged. Our agents located a decommissioned freighter in the lunar shipyard and made sure that it was in good operating condition, with a working biostasis cell, even that its fuel tanks were refilled . . .”

“And then made sure Sergio would have no trouble stealing it,” Jorge finished. “So you manipulated him from the beginning.”

“It wasn’t hard.” Black shrugged. “Sergio wasn’t very fond of Thompson. I don’t think he’d liked the man the moment he first laid eyes on him, when he rescued him from that lifeboat. Certainly, we lucked out by finding a former UA pilot with a starbridge key, but we didn’t need to motivate him. He did that himself. A little nudge in the right direction was all that was required.”

Black laced his fingers together. “Once Sergio was on his way, we instructed our loyalists to remain on the lookout for anyone coming into Boston who didn’t look like they belonged here, and to alert the Provisional Army if and when they saw someone like that. We’ve also had people watching Port Logan for a couple of months now, figuring that it would be the most likely place a spacecraft might try to land.” Again, the self-satisfied smile. “All we had to do after that, really, was sit back and wait. It took a while, but we were patient. We knew someone would show up . . . eventually.”

“Very cunning.” Inez slowly nodded. “I’ll have to give you that.” She paused. “I hope you’re planning to reward Sergio for his efforts. It’s the least you can do.”

The smile flickered, and it seemed to Jorge that, for the first time since Black walked into the room, he didn’t have a ready answer. “He will be, yes,” he replied. “We haven’t seen him since . . . well, doesn’t matter. His role in this is done, and we have no use for him anymore. If he comes to us, that’s fine. If not . . . well, he has the gratitude of the United Republic of America.”

“I’ve been wondering about that.” Jorge glanced up at the flag above his head. “Your people . . . the Provisional Army, I mean . . . they’re really trying to put this together again? No offense, but the URA has been dead and gone for . . . how long? Almost three hundred years?”

Black’s expression darkened, and his hands fell to his sides. “The URA was America’s finest moment. When the Liberty Party was in control, our great nation enjoyed a time of peace and prosperity unlike any before or since. Now that the Western Hemisphere Union is gone, we’re returning to take back our country.”

Oh, my god,
Jorge thought.
The man’s a fanatic.
Not only that, but delusional as well. Like everyone else born and raised on Coyote, Jorge had learned in school about the events leading up to Captain Lee’s hijacking of the URSS
Alabama
. The Liberty Party had presided over one of the ugliest periods in American history, with nearly one-third of the population living in squalor and political dissidents being sent to government reeducation camps. Any peace and prosperity there might have been during that time had been enjoyed only by a few, and was enforced at the barrel of a gun. Apparently Black hadn’t realized that one of his prisoners had the same name as one of the key figures in the
Alabama
conspiracy; if he learned that Jorge was the great-grandson of a D.I., though . . .

Jorge decided to change the subject, fast. “So I take it that the
chaaz’maha
. . . Thompson, I mean . . . represents a threat to your new order. Is that what the TC is?”

Black raised an eyebrow. “Who told you about the TC? Vargas?”

“No,” Inez said. “Sam’s son asked us if we belonged to it, when we met them at the dock. Does it stand for something?”

“Terra Concorde . . . and that’s all I’m going to say about them.” Abruptly, Black stood up from his chair. “That’s enough. You’ve learned everything you need to know. Time for you to do a little favor for us.”

He walked over to the door, banged a fist against it. The door opened, and Black said something to the guard standing outside. The door closed again, and Black stood beside it, saying nothing to either Jorge or Inez. A couple of minutes later, the door reopened, and another Provisional Army soldier walked in, carrying a folded metal tripod with a small vidcam mounted on it.

“We intend to send a message to the
chaaz’maha
,” Black explained, as the soldier set up the tripod in front of the mattresses, “telling him that you’re here and that you’ll be given to him once he agrees to a meeting on our terms. That means, of course, that we need to supply proof that we actually have you in our custody. So I’d appreciate it if you’d state your names and say where you’re from.” He paused, then added, “And that’s all you’re going to say. If you make an attempt to pass any messages of your own . . . cryptic slogans, hand signals . . . I assure you that your stay here will be less comfortable.”

Jorge suddenly realized why the crude URA flag had been hung from the wall behind them. It was to serve as a backdrop for the vid the
chaaz’maha
would see. He glanced at Inez, and she slowly nodded. “We understand,” he said. “Just one more thing . . . where are you planning to have this meeting of yours?”

Black shook his head. “You don’t need to know that,” he replied. “Just do your part, and everything will work out fine.” He looked at the soldier. “Ready?”

The other man nodded as he bent over the vidcam. He touched a stud on top, and a small red light glimmered next to its lens. “All right, now,” Black said. “Talk.”

Jorge faced the lens. “I’m Jorge Montero, of the Coyote Federation Corps of Exploration.”

Obeying Black’s order to say nothing else, he looked over at Inez. She remained quiet for a couple of seconds, just long enough to earn a scowl from Black, before she finally opened her mouth. “I’m . . . Inez,” she said slowly, looking straight at the vidcam. “I’m also from Coyote.”

She fell silent again, continuing to stare at the lens until Black finally nodded. “That’ll do,” he said. He tapped the cam operator on the shoulder, and the other man shut off the unit. “Thank you,” Black went on, as the soldier refolded the tripod and carried it out of the room. “You’ll be brought food and water soon. If you need to relieve yourselves, all you have to do is knock on the door and someone will escort you to the facilities. Until then”—a shrug and a smile—“just rest and wait. This should not take long. And after that, you’ll be free to go.”

Without another word, Black picked up the chair. Carrying it under his arm, he turned and walked out the door. It slammed shut behind him, leaving Jorge and Inez alone in the room.

Inez let out her breath in a long, shuddering sigh, then raised her knees to her chest and closed her arms around them. “Don’t be frightened,” Jorge said. “I’m sure everything’s going to be all right.”

Inez shook her head, not looking up at him. “No,” she said, so softly that he could barely hear her. “No, it’s not.”

Seeing that she was trembling, he moved over to her mattress, draping his blanket around her shoulders. “We’ll get out of this,” he said, trying to comfort her. “They’re not going to . . .”

“Everything he said was true,” she went on, “except one thing.” When she turned her face to him, Jorge saw tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. “He was lying when he said that we’ll be let go. I could feel it. When my father comes to them, they’ll kill him . . . and then us, too.”

 

 

Black did keep his word about their treatment, though. Shortly
after he left, the same soldier who’d operated the vidcam brought them a couple of liters of water and two bowls of chicken broth. When Inez asked for more blankets, those were brought as well, although Jorge’s request to have their boots returned was ignored; apparently someone believed that depriving them of their footwear would interfere with any escape attempts. And at no time were they physically or verbally abused; it appeared that Black had instructed the guards to treat them as war prisoners, not criminals.

Yet without their watches or pads, they had almost no way of judging the passage of time. It was only when Jorge knocked on the door and told the guard that he needed to relieve himself that he had a clue as to when and where they were. Outside their room was a long, concrete-walled corridor; at one end was a stairwell, guarded by another soldier, and at the other end a narrow window at shoulder height. Sunlight streamed through its dusty panes, but Jorge’s guard didn’t let him get close enough to look out. Halfway down the corridor, past several closed doors, was a pair of restrooms, their doors marked with faded gender symbols; inside the men’s room were several urinals and toilets, each of them as dry and waterless as the sinks. The guard waited patiently while Jorge visited one of the stalls, then marched him back to his room. From the looks of things, Jorge determined that he and Inez were in the basement of an abandoned office building. Yet it could be anywhere in Boston; without access to the window, he had no idea exactly where they were. When Inez made the same trip a little while later, she learned no more than he had.

Time passed slowly, marked only by another meal they were brought several hours later: again, chicken broth and water. The room gradually became colder; the wall vent supplied no heat, and the extra blankets did little to keep them warm. They pushed the mattresses together and huddled beside each other; Inez suggested pulling down the flag and using it as a bedspread, but Jorge immediately rejected this. Their captors would doubtless be offended, and he didn’t want to do anything that might put him and Inez further at risk.

In whispered tones, they discussed trying to escape, yet none of the schemes they concocted seemed viable. Even if they were able to trick the guard into opening the door for both of them—unlikely, since he always checked to make sure that one of them was still on the other side of the room before opening the door more than a crack—there was nothing that could be used as a weapon except the lantern, which wasn’t heavy enough to serve as a bludgeon. When they were brought dinner, one person stood watch with gun in hand while the other delivered the meal. And even if they were able to overpower two armed men, they had no idea how many others were in the building. Besides, they’d also have to rescue McAlister; they didn’t know where he was, though, or even if he was in any condition to make a run for it.

After a while, the topic of conversation shifted to what Black had told them about the Provisional Army of the United Republic of America. “You know,” Jorge murmured, “I’ve got a feeling that these people aren’t quite the force he made them out to be.”

Inez nodded. She’d calmed down a little, but Jorge knew that she was still afraid; he could see it in her eyes every time she looked at him. He figured that, so long as he kept her talking, she wouldn’t slide into depression.