Coyote Rising (54 page)

“I’ve learned to be careful,” he said. “Especially when dealing with the Matriarch.”

“Yes . . . of course.” Turning aside, Baptiste beckoned in the direction of Liberty. “If you’ll follow me, please?”

They set out on foot, marching side by side along the long, muddy road that led from the edge of Shuttlefield across fallow farm fields
toward Liberty. Despite the Guardsmen who formed a protective ring around them, the crowd continued to follow them, peering through the soldiers, occasionally shouting Lee’s name. At one point his left foot found a pothole in the road; he tripped, started to fall forward, only to find Baptiste reaching out to catch him.

Lee regained his balance, but this small incident told him that, at least for a few minutes, his safety was assured. The Matriarch might have plans for him, but Baptiste meant him no harm. The reception he’d received so far was cordial, but that could easily change. Yet if there was a possibility, however remote it might be, that he might be sympathetic to his cause . . .

The last light of day was waning, and the first stars were appearing in the night sky. He turned his head to peer toward the west, searching the heavens for one particular point of light that should be rising there. “Looking for your ship?” Baptiste stopped, allowing Lee to do so as well. “I think it should be coming over around now.”

“Yes, it should.” There were low clouds in the western skies, obscuring his view. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes . . . “Captain Baptiste,” he murmured, deliberately keeping his voice low, “have you been able to reach your people on Hammerhead?”

He nodded meaningfully toward Baptiste’s satphone. “That way, no,” Baptiste replied, speaking quietly as well. The soldiers, distracted by the crowd around them, weren’t paying too much attention to the two men. “Too much atmospheric interference. But we’ve been able to communicate with them via short-range radio.” He peered at Lee through the gloom. “Why do you ask?”

Lee hesitated. It was an enormous gamble, and he was all too aware that he was putting many lives at risk, his own included. But if it paid off . . .

“Listen to me,” he whispered. “We don’t have much time. . . .”

1928—URSS
A
LABAMA

Once again, the starship was dark and silent, its passageways
deserted, its compartments cold and lightless. The only movement aboard were those of the maintenance ’bots as they patrolled the corridors and cabins, making minor repairs here and there, making sure that the vessel remained clean.

In the ring corridor on Deck H1, a ’bot stopped to vacuum a clump of dust it had found beneath a hand-painted mural: a young man, leading a procession of figures across a hilltop, a giant ringed planet looming in the background. It had just completed this minor chore when the floor trembled ever so slightly beneath the adhesive soles of its six legs. Registering the disturbance, the ’bot sent an electronic query to its mother system. A fraction of a second later, the AI instructed the machine to return to its niche; the ship was about to engage in a major course maneuver. The ’bot quickly scurried away, its diodes briefly illuminating a work of art that no one would ever see again.

Three hundred yards from the
Alabama
, a skiff from the
Spirit
was closing in upon the ship when the ship’s reaction-control rockets suddenly flared. As the pilot watched, its bow pitched downward until it was pointed at the planet far below. He barely had time to report his observation before
Alabama
’s secondary thrusters ignited, and the giant vessel began to move away from him.

Grabbing his yoke, the skiff pilot fired his RCRs to take his tiny craft to a safe distance. His precaution was wise, for few seconds later
Alabama
’s main engine came to life, its white-hot flare silently lancing out in space.
Through his cockpit window, he watched in awe as the mammoth spacecraft began to fall toward Coyote.

With its main engine burning at full thrust, it took only a few minutes for
Alabama
to reach the troposphere. The ship wasn’t designed to land upon a planet, yet the deorbit maneuver its captain had programmed into its autopilot guaranteed that it would take a long, shallow dive through the planet’s atmosphere. And even though
Alabama
wasn’t streamlined, it was still over five hundred feet long, with a dry weight of nearly forty thousand tons.

Even as the massive cone of its Bussard ramscoop disintegrated, bow shock formed an orange-red corona around its spherical fuel tank, until the intense heat of atmospheric friction ignited the last remaining fuel. In the last few seconds, the ’bots shut down for good before the explosion ripped apart the forward decks, and Leslie Gillis’ mural of Prince Rupurt was lost for all time.

Yet the
Alabama
survived, if only for a little while longer. Just long enough for it to complete one final mission.

1932—L
IBERTY
, N
EW
F
LORIDA

Robert Lee found Luisa Hernandez waiting for him within the community
hall, the place he and the others who’d built it with their bare hands had once called the grange hall. He was pleased to see that the mural of the
Alabama
that graced one its walls hadn’t been taken down; long benches ran down the length of the floor, and the wood-burning stove that they’d installed to heat the room had been removed, but otherwise it was much the way he’d left it.

The hall was vacant, except for several soldiers positioned near the windows. The Matriarch stood near the middle of the room, another Union Guard soldier close behind her, a Savant standing nearby. As Lee entered, a Guardsmen stepped in front of him; with no preamble or apologies, he quickly patted Lee down, searching for any hidden weapons. Lee submitted to the search, taking the moment to size up the woman standing before him.

She’d aged quite a bit since the last time he’d seen her; her hair had grown longer, and it was thin and tinged with grey. The lines of her face had become sharper, her stout figure less fulsome. Even so, Lee reflected, there had seldom been any days in which she’d had to skip a meal or nights in which she’d slept in the cold. Others might have starved while she tried to sustain a cocoon of comfort around herself, but no one survives Coyote without feeling the hardships of the frontier.

The soldier completed his task, turned to the Matriarch, and nodded. “Captain Lee,” she said, as if none of this had happened. “Good to see you again.”

“Matriarch.” Behind him, he heard the front doors close, shutting out the crowd that had followed him from the landing field. Only Baptiste had accompanied him inside, and he stood off to one side, his hands behind his back. “You’re well, I take it.”

“It’s been a long winter.” An offhand shrug beneath her robe; the same one she’d worn the first time they had met, Lee observed, yet noticeably faded, patched in several places with swamper hide. “Care to sit?” she asked, gesturing to the nearest table; as her hand rose, he caught a glimpse of the pistol holstered beneath her robe. “Perhaps some coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Lee remained standing. “Matriarch, about the eruption . . .”

“Yes, of course.” Still maintaining a pose of amicability, she took a seat, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. “You’re concerned about the long-term effects, and nor can I blame you. Defiance and the other settlements on Midland will undoubtedly suffer quite a bit from it.”

“No question about it, but so will you. New Florida’s distance from
Mt. Bonestell matters little. This may be the last warm day we’ll experience for quite a while. And you know as well as I do how much we depend upon regular crop rotations to keep everyone fed.”

“Oh, come now.” She gave him a condescending smirk. “I doubt it’ll be as serious as you believe. And even if it is, we’re not entirely at the mercy of nature. Greenhouses can be built, hydroponics can be implemented.”

“I agree. If we act now, the worst of this can be mitigated. But we can only do so if we’re not having to fight each other at the same time. The first thing we must do is bring an end to this conflict.”

“Absolutely. No question about it.” She was having a hard time keeping a straight face. “I’m more than willing to negotiate terms of surrender.”

Lee nodded. “Thank you. I’m pleased to hear this. Our first condition is that the Union Guard must lay down its weapons at once, and—”

“Captain! I must . . . come now, be serious! We’re discussing your surrender, not mine!” Even as she laughed at his expense, Lee watched Baptiste move closer to the Savant. Behind her back, there was a whispered consultation. He tried to remain calm, even though he knew what was being said.

“I’m quite serious,” he continued. “Your forces must surrender at once, beginning with giving up their firearms. If they do so, I promise that no harm will come to any of them, and they’ll be treated fairly by—”

“Enough.” The smile faded from her face as she raised an indulgent hand. “Captain Lee, you’ve got a good sense of humor, but the joke’s gone far enough. Rigil Kent has inflicted some damage upon us, I’ll grant you that, yet the fact remains that your people are outnumbered by at least ten to one. Not only that, but we have more weapons at our disposal than—”

“No, ma’am,” Lee said, “you don’t. Or at least not for very much longer.” And then he turned to Baptiste. “Captain . . . ?”

Hearing his name, he looked away from his private discussion with the Savant. “Matriarch,” he said, “a few minutes ago Captain Lee advised me to order the emergency evacuation of all personnel from Fort Lopez. I’ve done so, but I’m not sure if there’s been enough time to—”

“You’ve . . .
what?
” Standing up, Hernandez turned to stare at him. “What are you . . . ?”

At that instant, from somewhere not far away, they heard the distant sound of gunfire.

For a few seconds, everyone in the room froze, then one of the soldiers rushed to the door. He flung it open, and now they could hear small-arms fire from not far away, along with shouts from the crowd outside. The Matriarch’s bodyguard immediately moved to protect her, while Baptiste sought cover behind a table.

Only the Savant and Lee remained where they were. The posthuman was almost placid, his only visible reaction a slight lowering of his head within his hood, as if he was listening to distant voices no one else could hear. Then his metallic face turned toward Lee, his ruby eyes seeking his own.

“Very good, sir,” he said. “Very well played.”