Coyote Rising (25 page)

Lars’s voice came to him as a whisper, carried by the subcutaneous implant within his left ear. Clark Thompson looked away from the windswept waters of the channel to peer up at the Eastern Divide. The limestone bluffs were slick with the rain that fell from the lead sky; he couldn’t see his nephew, but he knew Lars was hiding somewhere up there, watching the entrance to the Monroe Pass, the narrow river gorge that led through the Divide. Good. If he couldn’t see him, then no one else would either.

Thompson touched the side of his jaw. “On foot?”

“Skimmer. Too large to get through the pass, so they’re hiking the rest of the way in.”

“How many?”

“Ten . . . no, twelve. Wait a sec . . . make that fifteen.”
A pause, marred by a thin ripple of carrier-wave static.
“We’ve got a clear shot. Want us to drop ’em?”

Fifteen Union Guard soldiers, arriving on an armored skimmer from Liberty. From their vantage point on the ridgeline, Lars and the four men with him could easily pick them off, no doubt about that. But the skimmer was doubtless equipped with a 30mm artillery gun, and the patrol was still on the other side of the Divide, well within radio range of Liberty; if Lars attacked too soon, the squad would have enough time to call for reinforcements while they turned the gun upon the ridge. Better to let them feel safe, at least until they made their way through the pass.

“Hold your fire,” Thompson murmured, “but keep ’em in sight. Whatever you do, don’t let ’em see you.”

“Got it. Out.”
A thin beep as Lars disconnected.

Cold rain pattered against the wide brim of his hat and seeped into his thick beard; it pelted the waters of the East Channel, raising a thin mist that obscured the figures standing on the pier next to the anchored ferry. It seemed as if everything had been cast in monochrome hues of black and grey: the colors of early Hanael, with summer a distant memory and winter only a few weeks away.

Pulling his catskin poncho closer around himself, Thompson walked away from the town lodge, his boots crunching against sand and pebbles. The people gathered on the pier looked up as he marched down the wet planks toward them: four men and three women, with his younger nephew Garth standing nearby. Everyone looked wet and miserable, yet it wasn’t discomfort that he saw in their eyes, but fear.

A tall young woman turned to him. “They’re after us, aren’t they?”

Thompson nodded. “There’s a squad on the other side of the Divide. Guess the Matriarch doesn’t want to be deprived of her dinner music.”

A couple of wan smiles. This wasn’t just another group of refugees from Shuttlefield, but the Coyote Wood Ensemble. Until a few days ago, they had been eight woodwind musicians, practicing their art together in peace, sometimes performing in public at the behest of the colonial governor. Then one of their group had made the mistake of composing a ribald song about Luisa Hernandez; someone had overheard the ensemble rehearsing it, with him singing the lyrics, and the following day he disappeared.

So now the remaining members were on the run, and when you’re wanted by the Union Guard, there’s only one place to go, and only one way to get there. Many people had come before them, yet the moment they arrived in town and told him their story, Clark knew that this time would be different.

Allegra DiSilvio shook her head within the hood of her waterlogged serape. “It’s not us they want,” the ensemble’s leader said quietly. “It’s her.”

The older woman beside her didn’t seem to hear. Frail and grey-haired, her thin arms crossed tightly against her patched secondhand parka, she stared at the channel with blank eyes. A bamboo flute was clutched within her left hand; it seemed to Thompson that she was holding it for comfort, a shield against a cold and threatening world.

“Sissy is . . .” Allegra hesitated, uncertain of herself. “Her son is Chris Levin, the Chief Proctor. If it weren’t for her, they probably wouldn’t care less, but . . .”

Thompson held up a hand. “We don’t have time for this. My lookout says they’re on the way. It won’t take ’em long to get through the pass.”

A small pile of duffel bags were bundled together on the raft next to the rotary winch. A canvas tarp had been laid across them; he stepped onto the ferry, knelt to tug at the rope that lashed them together. This was everything the group had with them when had they arrived in town early that morning, the sum total of their possessions. Stepping back onto the pier, Thompson looked at Garth. “Better get moving,” he said, then pointed to the biggest man in the group. “You got a strong back?” He nodded. “Good. Then help my boy with the winch. Four arms are better than two. Everyone else, climb aboard. Stay close to the middle and don’t rock the boat. Anyone who falls overboard is on their own . . . once you get going, he won’t have time to stop and pick up anyone.”

The passengers glanced nervously at one another, but no one objected; one by one, they stepped off the pier onto the raft, finding seats upon the wet stack of duffel bags, with the man Thompson had picked as copilot taking a position next to the upright wheel of the winch. Allegra was the next-to-last person aboard; she helped Sissy step onto the raft, then she paused to look back at Thompson.

“You still haven’t told us what the fare is,” she said.

For the last two years, Thompson had charged everyone who used his ferry. Colonial scrip was useless because no one ever went back to Liberty or Shuttlefield; you paid with whatever you brought with you that could be spared, whether it be hand tools or guns, sleeping bags or spare clothes. The barter trade of outcasts.

This time, though, Thompson shook his head. “Free ride,” he said quietly. “Next time I see you, we’ll work something out.”

Allegra gazed back at him. “Is because we don’t have anything you want,” she replied, “or is it because we don’t have anything you need?”

Thompson didn’t answer that question. He impatiently cocked his thumb toward the raft; without another word, she climbed aboard, settling in next to Sissy Levin.

Garth was astonished. He’d never seen his uncle refuse payment. Before he could say anything, though, Thompson pulled his nephew aside, put his face next to the teenager’s ear. “Whatever you see or hear,” he whispered, “don’t turn back. Just keep going, and don’t turn back unless I tell you to.”

The boy’s eyes went wide. “But what if they . . . ?”

“You heard me. Rigil Kent will meet up with you on the other side. They know you’re coming. Leave the raft and go with them.”

“But what about you and . . . ?”

“We’ll be along soon enough. Don’t worry, we’ll find you.” Thompson clasped Garth’s elbow. “We always knew it would eventually come down to this. Now get along, and don’t come back unless you hear from me.”

Garth’s mouth trembled; there was wetness against his face that might have been tears or only rain. He knew better than to argue, though, so he nodded once, then stepped onto the raft, taking his place on the other side of the wheel. Thompson slipped the loops of the mooring lines off the pier cleats, then planted the sole of his right foot against the raft and kicked it off. Garth and the other man grabbed the wheel handle and began to turn it hand over hand.

Rainwater sluiced off the cable suspended six feet above the surface as it fed through the winch. A few seconds later, the raft was clear of the pier, slowly making its way across the channel toward the distant bluffs of the Midland Rise, half-seen through the rain and mist. The distance between New Florida and Midland was little more than two miles; with luck, the ferry would get across before the soldiers arrived.

Thompson didn’t watch it go. Instead, he quickly walked down the pier, then broke into a run once he reached the beach.

He jogged up the back stairs of the lodge and pushed open the
door. The main room was warm, a fire crackling within the stone hearth. It could have been lunchtime, with bowls of Molly’s redfish chowder laid out across the long blackwood table that ran down the center of the room.

Yet there was no food today, only guns. On either side of the table,
men and women were loading rifles they had taken from the hidden closet behind the bedroom where he and Molly slept. A few of the townspeople looked up as he came in, then they went back to fitting cartridges into the stocks and checking the sights of their scopes. No one said anything to him as he strode over to the storeroom that he’d made into his office.

As he expected, Molly was there. Calm as ever, she was selecting ceramic jars of pickled fish from the shelves, packing them into crates. “I don’t know about these,” she said, as her husband came in. “I mean, they’re marked last April, but I opened one and it smells like it might have spoiled.” She picked up a jar, held it out to him. “What do you think . . . good or bad?”

Molly. Good old Aunt Molly. She had never quite become accustomed to the LeMarean calendar, preferring to use the old Gregorian system. Yet nothing had ever spoiled while she was in charge of the community food supply, although she kept records only on strips of tape and within her own head.

Thompson took the jar from her, took a perfunctory sniff. “Okay to me. Now, look—”

“Oh, what would you know?” Molly took the jar away from him, sniffed it herself, then put it back on the shelf. “I swear, you’ll eat anything. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sick as—”

“Will you just shut up a second?” Molly lifted her head, stared at him in shock; in all the years they had been married, there were very few times he’d ever told her to shut up. “The fish is fine,” he continued, “We’ll eat whatever you give us. Right now, I just want one thing from you. . . .”

“Clark . . .”

“Stay in here.” He lowered his voice. “Bolt the door, lie down on the floor, and don’t come out until I tell you to.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Clark . . .”

“Honey, you’re a great cook, but you can’t shoot for squat, and I don’t want to have to worry about you.” He let out his breath. “I just told Garth to make himself scarce, and Lars can hold his own. Right now, what I need you to do is become invisible. Can you do that for me? Please?”

Molly’s face betrayed no emotion, yet her hand trembled as she selected another jar from the shelf. “I’ll stay here,” she murmured, not looking at him. “Just be careful, all right?”

“I will. I . . .” He stopped himself. He had more to say, not the least of which was
I love you
, but the others needed him just then, so instead he gently lifted her chin and gave her a quick kiss. It was something, he realized, that he hadn’t done enough lately; he felt her hand touch his arm, as if she was trying to hold him back, but he hastily withdrew from her. “Just stay out of sight,” he added. “This’ll be over soon enough.” Then he left the storeroom, shutting the door behind him.

Thompson spent a few minutes with the militia, making sure everyone knew where they were supposed to be, what signals they would use. Only a few had implants, with the others relying on headsets, yet he warned them to keep radio communications to a bare minimum, to reduce the chances of being overheard by Guardsmen who might be scanning the same frequencies. Firepower, though, was the major concern; although everyone was armed, the seven who had semiauto carbines—Union Guard firearms, stolen or bartered over the last two years—only had one or two spare cartridges of ten rounds each, while the remaining twelve carried bolt-action rifles—crude arms bartered to them by Rigil Kent, handmade somewhere over on Midland—which carried only four rounds, plus whatever they had in their pockets. Thompson placed the ones with the carbines closer to the center of town, where they would have the minimum range and maximum efficiency, and posted the ones with the bolt-actions farther away to back them up.

“Don’t waste a shot,” he finished, “and don’t fire until you get my signal.” He paused. “And one more thing . . . let me handle the leader.”

Everyone nodded, except for Lonnie Dielman. “Why not him? If you’re pinned down, then . . .”

“If I’m pinned down, then take care of it. If the leader’s who I think he is, though, then I want him alive.” Thompson looked the younger man straight in the eye. “Just do as I say, okay?” Dielman shrugged, then nodded, and Thompson glanced at the others. “All right, then. Take your places . . . and good luck. Remember what you’re fighting for.”

Everyone nodded. They took a moment to shake hands with one
another, knowing all too well that this might be the last time they saw each other alive, then they put on their jackets, pulled on their hats, picked up their guns, and stepped out into the rain.

Thompson was the last to leave the lodge. The rain was lightening up a little as he stepped out onto the front porch, but it was still coming down hard. From where he stood, he could see townspeople moving into position: behind the stilts supporting the blackwood cabins six feet above the ground, behind stone chimneys, behind chicken shacks and goat pens. The children had already been taken over to the other side of the channel, along with a couple of adults to shepherd them; the livestock remained where they were, if only to give the town some semblance of normality. He hoped none of them would be caught in the cross fire.

He checked his carbine, making sure that a round was chambered and the safety was off, then he opened the front door, propping it with a large geode one of the kids had given him as a First Landing Day present, and concealed the rifle behind it.