Coyote Rising (26 page)

Thompson touched his jaw again. “Lars, where are they?”

“Coming through now.”
A pause.
“Castro’s with ’em.”

Good. Just as he expected. “Stand by,” he said, then he walked down the front steps and sauntered across the wet sand toward the center of town.

Company was coming. Might as well greet them.

The soldiers came out of the mist in triangular formation, fifteen
men spread out across the rocky beach, marching into town with carbines in hand. Their rain-soaked fatigues were caked with mud up to the knees where they had waded across the North Bend after making their way single file through the pass; rain pattered off their helmets, and they slumped beneath the weight of their packs. A long time ago, he’d been one of them: just another grunt, sent out on yet another thankless task. Any merciful impulses he might have had, though, disappeared when he discerned the black shape among them.

Manuel Castro walked without the encumbrance of a pack; his
mechanical body needed no rest or nourishment, so it wasn’t necessary for him to carry a sleeping bag or food. Beneath his black cloak, his ceramic-alloy feet clicked softly against the pebbles, leaving deep impressions in the sand behind him. Although the squad surrounded him, none of the soldiers walked alongside the Savant; it might have been in deference to his position as lieutenant governor, but Thompson suspected that it was out of loathing, and not a little bit of fear.

The soldiers were uneasy; Thompson could see it in their faces as they surveyed the tiny settlement with quick, nervous glances, taking in the dark and silent cabins, the absence of motion upon the wharf where kayaks lay upended near the empty pier. In sudden hindsight, Thompson realized it might have been better to have a few townspeople visible, in order to help preserve the illusion that the soldiers’ arrival was unexpected. Too late for that, he could only hope they didn’t spot any of the snipers hiding beneath the cabins and on the rooftops.

The squad leader saw him, raised a hand; his men came to a halt, and he stepped forward, raising the carbine so that its barrel pointed toward the sky. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I take it that you’re in charge here?”

“Yes, I am.” Thompson carefully kept his arms at his sides. “And you are. . . ?”

“Captain Ramon Lopez, Thirty-third Infantry, Western Hemisphere Union Guard.” He hesitated. “If you say you’re in charge, then you must be . . .”

“Clark Thompson, mayor of Thompson’s Ferry.”

Lopez raised an eyebrow. “Not Colonel Thompson? I was told you were . . .”

“Not anymore. I resigned my commission a long time ago.” Long before he decided to immigrate to Coyote, in fact, bringing his wife and two adopted nephews with him. He’d tried to put the past behind him, but when they discovered that the Union was just as omnipresent as it had been on Earth, they and a handful of friends fled Shuttlefield, journeying on foot across the Eastern Divide to establish a small fishing village.

It wasn’t long before others joined them, the lucky few who had managed to leave the inland colonies without being stopped by soldiers or Proctors. With fewer than forty people living there,
Thompson’s Ferry was more like a commune than a town. Thompson called himself mayor only when newcomers showed up. Most of them stayed just long enough to barter safe passage across the channel. They’d had a lot of passengers lately; the Matriarch was cracking down on dissidents.

“Sorry you’ve had to come so far, Captain,” Thompson said. “In any other instance, I’d invite you and your men to stay for lunch. As it stands, I hope you won’t consider me rude if I ask you to leave.”

A soldier nearest the squad leader shifted from one leg to another, his left hand moving an inch closer to the trigger of his rifle. A faint smile danced at the corners of Lopez’s mouth. “I appreciate your hospitality, Colonel . . . pardon me, Mr. Thompson. We don’t want to cause any trouble.” The smile faded. “But we believe that you’ve received some other visitors lately. We’re here to take them home.”

“Sorry, Captain, but that’s not possible.” Thompson pretended not to notice the restless corporal. “Again, I have to ask you to leave . . . please.”

“Mr. Thompson, I don’t think you understand. This isn’t a . . .”

“Captain, if I may . . . ?” The Savant’s voice was a modulated tonality from the grille-like mouth of his metallic skull, devoid of accent or even, Thompson imagined, a soul. “Perhaps I should explain matters to the mayor.”

Lopez hesitated, then stepped aside, allowing Manuel Castro to step forward. “Mr. Thompson . . . or may I call you Clark . . . ?”

“No, you may not.”

A discordant rasp, like coarse sandpaper rubbing across tinfoil; it might have been laughter. “Very well. In any case, the situation is simple. For the last two years, the Matriarch has graciously permitted your settlement to exist out here, even though it operates a ferry that regularly carries Union citizens over to Midland.”

“No law against that.” Thompson shrugged. “It’s a new world. A lot of room here for people to come and go as they will. If some folks want to leave New Florida and set out on their own, I see no problem with that. Do you?”

“So long as they’re not valuable assets to the Union, no.” A softer
rasp, one that might have been a sigh. “Until recently, we’ve allowed various . . . shall we say, undesirable individuals . . . to leave the colony, so long as they weren’t necessary to our growth. Indeed, we even went so far as to construct a bridge across the channel earlier this year, which would have served much the same purpose until it was sabotaged by anticollectivist elements. . . .”

“Interesting way to describe the guy who built it.” Thompson felt his throat go tight; he’d met James Alonzo Garcia, the architect of the Matriarch Hernandez Bridge, and had nothing but respect for him. “I understand he was executed.”

“You have the facts wrong. He hanged himself.” A moment lapsed, as if Castro was awaiting a rebuttal; when he didn’t get it, he went on. “Even after the bridge was rendered impassable, we allowed your ferry to continue to siphon away those who didn’t want to stay. . . .”

“Unless you stopped them first.”

“Unless they were essential to New Florida’s continued growth and stability . . .”

“That’s not the way I’ve heard it. From what I’ve been told, Luisa’s got her panties in a bunch over the bridge. Now she’s looking for . . . what did you call them, anticollectivist elements? . . . under every bed. In fact, I hear you can’t even sing a naughty little song about her without risking arrest.”

“Oh, so you’ve heard about this already? Then someone who’s visited here lately must have told you.”

Thompson felt his face grow warm. He’d let slip more than he intended. Castro half turned away from him, raising a hand from beneath his robes to indicate the nearby pier. “A small group left Shuttlefield on foot yesterday, and we have good reason to believe they were headed here. They would have arrived either late last night or, more likely, early this morning. Musicians, mainly . . . and honestly, their departure is of no real concern to us, except that one of them is Cecelia Levin, the mother of the Chief Proctor of Shuttlefield. Mr. Levin is a close personal friend of the Matriarch. He’s concerned about his mother’s safety.”

“If he’s so concerned, then why isn’t he here?”

“The Matriarch decided that this was a matter more suited for military intervention. As a former Union officer, I’m sure you understand.”

Oh, indeed he did. “And you’re here because . . . ?”

“As I just said, we’ve tolerated this settlement until now because it was harmless. Now, by your own actions, you’ve violated the terms of that understanding. I’ve come here in an attempt to . . . well, establish a better relationship.”

Thompson knew what Castro was saying. Stop carrying refugees over to Midland, and the Matriarch would allow Thompson’s Ferry to continue as a remote settlement. Otherwise, it would be placed under Union control. The Savant was her voice, the soldiers her fist.

“Yes, they came through here,” he said. “They arrived early this morning.”

“Ah. Very good. And where are they?”

“I imagine they’re almost across the channel by now.” Thompson couldn’t help but smile. “Sorry, but you’re too late.”

Castro said nothing, yet his right hand made a small motion. Lopez said something beneath his breath; hearing his voice through their implants, the soldiers raised their guns ever so slightly. “Don’t make this difficult,” Castro said. “Contact the ferry, tell it to turn around and come back.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll suffer the consequences.” Castro hesitated. “Colonel, there’s no reason to ruin everything. Give us what we want, and we’ll go away.”

“Simple as that, huh?” Thompson sighed, looked down at the ground. Then, as if he was mulling it over, he reached up with his left hand to tip back his hat.

That was how the revolution began.

In years to come, historians would argue over who fired the first shot at Thompson’s Ferry. Some would say that it was the Union Guard, while others would contend that it was the local militia. Culpability was
the issue, yet the fact was that a misunderstanding was at the heart of the matter.

Thompson thought he’d made his signals clear to everyone. If he touched his hat with his left hand, it meant that negotiations had broken down, yet they weren’t supposed to fire until they saw him reach up with his right hand and take off his hat. It was a good plan, one that allowed for a last-minute cease-fire; in retrospect, though, he realized that he hadn’t counted on someone with an itchy trigger finger getting it wrong.

The first shot came from the right, from beneath the cabin where Lonnie Dielman was crouched behind the front porch stairs. The bullet went wild, striking no one; nonetheless, its effect was deadly. In the next moment, the soldiers raised their guns and locked their sights on the cabin. Lonnie never stood a chance; heat seekers ripped through the blackwood steps as if they were plaster, and Thompson caught a brief glimpse of the young man as he went down.

A half second later, the very air around him seem to explode. He threw himself to the ground as townspeople opened fire upon the soldiers. The Guardsmen, caught by surprise by gunshots from all sides, crouched on the beach and returned fire in every direction.

Lying on his stomach, stunned by what had just happened, Thompson heard a
ziiiing!
The sand a few inches from his face made a tiny implosion. That shook him out of his paralysis; he scrambled to his hands and knees, bolted toward the lodge. Within his ear he heard Lars yelling his name, but he didn’t stop running until he was up the front stairs.

He’d just managed to grab his carbine when a fireball erupted a few dozen yards away. He whipped around, saw a cabin go up in flames. One of the soldiers had produced a mortar, launched an incendiary grenade through the window. He caught a glimpse of Todd Bishop on the rooftop, about leap to safety, only to be cut down before he could jump. Thompson raised his gun to his shoulder; he aimed in the general direction of the nearest Union soldier, pulled the trigger. Three shots and the Guardsman went down, slumping to the sand next to another corpse.

From somewhere behind him, he heard Molly scream. “Stay down!” Thompson shouted as he kicked the lodge door shut, then he kept firing,
aiming at anyone who was wearing Union colors. Time itself seemed to expand, with seconds becoming minutes and everything collapsing into a surreal montage.

Two soldiers sprinted for the goat pen, only to be killed before they made it. One of the goats brayed as it caught a stray bullet, then toppled back on its hind legs and sprawled against a trough.

Another cabin exploded, scattering glass across the backs of two men standing on the front porch. The guardsman wielding the mortar lobbed another grenade at a third cabin. By a small miracle, it missed the target, careening between its stilts to explode harmlessly on the beach behind it. The soldier who fired it barely had time to curse before blood spurted from his neck and he fell to the ground.

Juanita Morales, who had refused to leave along with her two children, died while defending her home. She managed to take down two soldiers before a third put a bullet through her heart.

A lone Guardsman, finding himself separated from his fellows and with nowhere to run, abruptly dropped his rifle, flung up his hands. He might have been screaming for mercy, but it didn’t matter, because his attempt to surrender was ignored. The back of his skull exploded and he fell backward, his hands still outstretched.

Captain Lopez, flanked by the three remaining soldiers, attempted to retreat to the safety of the Eastern Divide. One by one, they were cut down by the men standing upon the ridge high above. Lopez was the last to go; in the last moment of his life, he seemed to stare straight at Thompson, as if asking how a former Union officer could do this to another. Then a bullet caught him in the back and he keeled over facefirst.

Just as suddenly as it began, it was all over. Fourteen Union Guard soldiers lay dead within the town center, crumpled brown forms whose blood seeped into the sand, diluted by the cold rain. Through the crackling roar of the burning cabins, Thompson could hear distant reverberations, gunshots echoing off the bluffs of the Midland Rise. Within his ear, he heard Lars give a rebel yell, repeated a half second later from on top of the Eastern Divide. In town, though, everything was quiet, everything was still.