Coyote Destiny (31 page)

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she replied, keeping her voice low. They had no idea whether anyone was listening at the door or if the room was bugged, but they didn’t want to risk speaking out loud. “We didn’t see any of their flags on the streets, and there was no one wearing those armbands.” She paused. “But when we were in the alley, Sam said that no one would come to help us, so . . .”

“That doesn’t mean much.” One of blankets they’d pulled up around them was falling off; he pulled it over their shoulders again and moved a little closer to her. “Maybe they’re sort of a street gang. Big enough to intimidate a neighborhood but not so much that they have any sort of real political power.”

“It’s hard to imagine that, yes.” Inez considered the thought for a moment. “Did you see the look on Black’s face when you said that the URA has been gone for three hundred years? That really got under his skin . . . and I can tell you, he came close to losing his temper just then.”

“Uh-huh.” Jorge sighed. “Any other time, I would’ve loved to give him a history lesson. Like about how Massachusetts belonged to the Commonwealth of New England, not the URA, and how the URA used bioweapons against Boston just before it collapsed.”

A wan smile crossed Inez’s face. “I would have liked to see him respond to that.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“But people like him have an answer to everything, and it usually doesn’t have much to do with facts. Only their beliefs matter . . . and he really seems to believe that the world would be a better place if only they could bring back something that ceased to exist long before he was born.”

“Maybe.” Jorge remembered something he’d once read. “A long time ago, here on Earth, there were groups of people who shared a hobby of re-creating historical times. They’d dress up in medieval clothes and fight with fake swords, or wear the uniforms of soldiers from past wars and stage mock battles. They did this just for fun, but now and then someone would take it too seriously and start wishing that they actually lived back then, and conveniently forget the more unpleasant aspects.” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s how Black and his people got started. They became interested in the URA, then . . . well, one day they decided that they wanted to
become
the URA.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. It would explain a lot, if it were . . .” Inez suddenly yawned, cupping her mouth as she did so. “Sorry. I guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

“It’s been a long day, yeah.” It occurred to Jorge that the last time either of them had slept was when they were on the
Mercator
. Although he had little idea of what time it was, it had been many hours since they’d been brought dinner. Probably the middle of the night, perhaps even later. “Want to get some sleep?”

“Uh-huh.” Inez hesitated. “Should one of us stand watch, or . . . ?”

“I don’t think it matters.” Now that she’d mentioned it, Jorge realized that he was exhausted, too. “If anyone comes in, I’m sure we’ll both wake up.”

“You’re probably right.” Inez lay back upon the mattresses, pulling the topmost blanket over herself. Jorge crawled on hands and knees to the lantern and switched it off, then he returned to the mattresses and curled up beside her, sharing body warmth as they’d learned during Corps winter survival training. She yawned again as he pulled the rest of the blankets around them, then mumbled, “G’night.”

“G’night. Sleep well.” Jorge stayed awake for a minute or two longer, feeling her breath against the side of his neck, until his eyes closed of their own accord.

 

 

He had no idea how long he slept, only that he was abruptly
awakened by the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. Jerked out of a dreamless slumber, thinking that he was being attacked by one of the guards, he grabbed at the hand . . . and heard Inez yelp in surprise.

“What . . . ?” Letting go of her, Jorge realized that she was very close to him, her body touching his own. “I’m . . . sorry, I . . .”

“Shh,” she whispered, her mouth near to his ear. “It’s okay.”

He couldn’t see her, but he was aware of her hands upon him. Before he could say anything more, he felt her lips close upon his, soft and warm in the cold night. “Don’t say anything,” she whispered again, lifting her face away. “Just . . . please . . . I don’t want to be alone right now.”

There were a dozen reasons why it was wrong for them to do what she wanted, but also one that mattered more than the others: she was frightened, and desperate for solace in any way that she could find it. Or so Jorge thought as he reached for her. Inez had already taken off her tunic and trousers, and the front zipper of her unitard opened with only the slightest sound. Beneath it was her body, her skin deliciously warm, the muscles beneath it tense with desire. He gently stroked her left breast, feeling its nipple become erect beneath his fingers, as her hands found the fastenings of his clothes and impatiently yanked them apart.

In the pitch darkness of the basement room, with the blankets keeping away the chill of night and an uncertain fate, their bodies came together, their hands and mouths exploring, searching, grasping. After a time, Inez gently pushed Jorge flat on his back, then straddled him between her sleek bare thighs. She sighed deeply as he entered her, and cried out ever so softly as, if only for a few seconds, they found a place where there was no fear, no loneliness, no thoughts of death.

And it was in that instant that Jorge remembered something that he’d tried to force from his mind: he loved her, and he always would.

 

 

They had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, having put on their
clothes again once their lovemaking was over, when Jorge was awakened a second time. Not by Inez, though, but by the rapid succession of gunshots just outside the room.

Inez’s head was tucked into the crook of his left arm. He didn’t need to rouse her, though, because she woke up on her own. “What . . . Jorge, did you hear . . . ?”

“Uh-huh.” He sat up, trying to listen harder. “But I . . .”

The door banged open, and someone charged into the room. The corridor outside was dark, so he couldn’t see who it was, but in the next instant a flashlight beam found them. “Are you Jorge and Inez?” demanded the vague silhouette backlit by its glow.

“Yes . . . yes, we are.” Squinting and confused, Jorge raised a hand against the sudden glare. “Who . . . ?”

“Never mind that now.” A young man’s voice, calm yet insistent. “Hustle. We’re getting you out of here.”

Jorge and Inez glanced at each other, bewildered by what was happening. “C’mon, move!” the young man snapped, then his voice lowered slightly. “Shadow Three to Shadow Leader . . . I’ve found Coyote One and Two, both unhurt.”

Throwing aside the blankets, Jorge staggered to his feet. He reached down to help Inez up from the mattress, but she was already out of bed. “Are you Terra Concorde?” she asked.

Shadow Three, whoever he was, ignored the question. Instead, he reached down to the floor to snatch up the lantern. Switching it on, he revealed himself as a figure dressed in black, a mask hiding his face save for a thin slit for his eyes. He wore a wireless headset over the mask; a pair of night goggles dangled around his neck, and a dark grey carbine nestled in his arms.

“Take this,” he said, as he handed the lantern to Jorge. “You’ll need it . . . we’ve knocked out their generator.” From somewhere nearby, more gunshots; Shadow Three whipped around, raising his weapon to his shoulder. He waited a moment, then spoke again. “Copy that, Shadow Two. We’re clear.” Then he looked over his shoulder at Jorge and Inez. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Just outside the door, one of the guards was sprawled facedown across the corridor floor, his pistol at his side. In the pale light of the lantern, Jorge saw that he appeared to still be breathing, and that there was no blood on his body. “Is he . . . ?” Jorge started to ask.

“No,” Shadow Three said. “We used darts.” Jorge started to reach down to pick up the guard’s weapon, but his rescuer kicked it away. “Don’t worry about that,” he added, stepping over the guard to lead the way down the hall. “He’s out of it for the next few hours.”

Another black-clad figure—apparently a woman, although it was hard to tell—emerged from an open doorway halfway to the stairs. She held a carbine in her right hand, and with her left arm she supported what appeared to be a wounded man. It wasn’t until Jorge got closer that he realized that it was Hugh McAlister.

“Fancy meeting you here.” McAlister’s face twisted into a wry grin. “Did you enjoy the accommodations, too?”

“Very nice, yes.” Jorge saw that his left leg was stiffly wrapped in bloodstained bandages from the thigh down. “What happened to . . . ?”

“Caught a bullet while trying to protect the shuttle.” The pilot winced as, held up by the woman at his side, he limped forward on his good leg. “Should’ve paid more attention to the guys on those boats. They . . .”

“Be quiet.” The woman stopped, glanced down the corridor. “Shadow Two to Shadow Leader. I’m with Shadow Three, and I’ve got Coyote Three. Gunshot wound to left thigh but otherwise unharmed and mobile.” Without waiting for a response, she turned to her colleague. “Ready?”

“Wait a sec,” Jorge said before Shadow Three could respond. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re barefoot. We can’t . . .”

“Your stuff’s upstairs.” Shadow Two turned to head down the corridor, McAlister’s arm still draped across her shoulders. “We’ll get it before we leave. Hurry, now . . .”

Another Provisional Army soldier lay at the foot of the stairs; Jorge recognized him as Sam. He was tempted to kick their former native guide in the ribs, but they were in too much of a rush for him to exact petty revenge. Instead, they hurried up the stairs, Inez taking over from Shadow Two to help McAlister manage the steps. They reached a landing, where Jorge saw an outside door that stood ajar. Dangling from its hinges, its outer panel was blackened and had been dented; the lingering, acrid scent of explosives testified that it had been blown open. It was night outside, and Jorge caught a glimpse of another figure in black running past; he thought they were going to leave that way, but Shadow Three continued the rest of the way up the stairs, beckoning for him and Inez to follow.

Another landing, then they went through a door into what appeared to be the building’s ground floor. Glowing lightsticks lay upon the black-marble floor of a long, wide hallway; more Provisional Army soldiers were scattered across the corridor, all apparently unconscious. Figures in black darted from room to room, kicking open battered oak doors to aim their rifle barrels inside before entering. The gunfire had largely stopped, but every few moments they heard another loud report from somewhere.

Shadow Three led the group to what appeared to be a conference room. Leather armchairs, their upholstery long since chewed up by rats and mice, were arranged around a long mahogany table. Jorge found their parkas, caps, and boots lying in a heap upon it, but that wasn’t the first thing he noticed. At the far end of the table, slumped back in a chair and staring up at the high ceiling with sightless eyes, was Major General Roland Black. The wet, gaping hole in the back of his skull told what had happened in this room.

“Shot himself when we came through the door,” another raider said as they walked in. “Crazy bastard.” Then he turned away. “Shadow Leader to all units,” he said quietly. “All hostages located. Shadows Two and Three commencing evac operation. All other units, continue sweep of premises. Detain any suspects, but don’t use fatal measures if it can be helped.”

Jorge stared at Black, wondering at the mind-set of a man who’d rather kill himself than be taken alive by adversaries carrying nonlethal weapons. “C’mon, hurry up,” Shadow Three growled. “We’re not out of this yet.”

Jorge needed no further urging. He pulled on his boots and yanked on his parka and cap, then helped Inez do the same for McAlister. There didn’t seem to be anything handy for the pilot to use as a crutch, so he and Inez supported McAlister between them. The rest of their equipment—datapads, weapons, watches, and headsets—were nowhere to be seen, but there was no time to search for them; Jorge figured that they must have been taken by the Provisional Army, with only their clothes left unclaimed. Probably because Black had decided that his prisoners would need to be wearing them when the
chaaz’maha
showed up.

“Just tell us one thing,” he asked Shadow Leader before they left the room. “You
are
with the Terra Concorde, aren’t you?”

Shadow Leader was distracted by reports coming in through the headset beneath his mask, but he managed to give Jorge a withering look. No answer was necessary. Jorge nodded, then extended his hand. “Thank you.”

Shadow Leader hesitated, then grasped his hand. “You’re welcome, Lieutenant.
Sa’Tong qo
.”

Jorge felt his jaw drop. He’d heard this
Sa’Tong
ian expression all his adult life, but the last thing he’d ever expected was to hear it said on Earth. He was still grappling with this when Inez came to his assistance.