Coyote Destiny (19 page)

Jorge didn’t know much about
Sa’Tong
, but he knew who the
chaaz’braan
was. The last surviving member of the
askanta
, an extinct race whose planet had been wiped out by the rogue black hole called Kasimasta, he had been sent to safety just before the end of his world. In doing so, the
askanta
had preserved that which they held most dear: their philosophy,
Sa’Tong
, as represented by its Great Teacher.

In the many years that followed, the
chaaz’braan
had brought
Sa’Tong
to the starfaring races of the galaxy. Race after race had come to embrace its teachings, with
chaaz’mahas
like Hawk Thompson learning the wisdom of the
Sa’Tong-tas
and passing it along to others of their kind. Although the Talus itself was largely established upon its principles, the
chaaz’braan
held no formal position within its government. Nonetheless, the last of the
askanta
was the most revered being in the Talus . . . and only a small handful of humans had ever seen him in person.

Noticing that Taf, Manny, and Inez had all bowed, Jorge quickly did the same. The
chaaz’braan
didn’t seem to notice his tardiness; indeed, he didn’t appear to notice Jorge’s presence at all, nor that of either Manny or Taf. Instead, he slowly walked toward Inez, not stopping until he was only a couple of feet away. When Inez raised her head again, Jorge could see that she was trembling.

The
chaaz’braan
solemnly regarded her in silence, not saying anything but instead appearing to study her closely. When his mouth finally opened, though, the others in the room heard nothing but a faint, almost subaudible burble. Yet his words became known as finely scripted, luminescent lines of Anglo text that were superimposed upon the walls around them, wrapping themselves around the circumference of the room.

Inez glanced at the walls, reading the transcript of what the
chaaz’braan
had to say, before returning her gaze to him. “
Sa’Tong qo, chaaz’braan
. It is an honor to meet you as well.”

A soft grunt, as if the
chaaz’braan
was satisfied by her response.
I have been listening to this exchange with great interest. Although it is not my custom to interfere with the Council’s deliberations, I have decided that I would like to question you personally. Is this acceptable to you?

“Yes . . . yes, please,” Inez stammered. “It would be my honor.”

“Yes, I am.”

A slow nod of the great head.
Very good. I would not have expected otherwise. Is the
Sa’Tong-tas
that Jasahajahd Taf Sa-Fhadda gave to your father still in your possession?

“It now belongs to the colony where I was raised, where it remains in safekeeping.” Inez paused, then added, “I have studied it myself.”

Very interesting.
Another nod.
And yet you did not follow your father’s example and become a
chaaz’maha
yourself. May I ask why?

“I . . .” Inez hesitated. “With all due respect for my father’s legacy, I decided that my path . . . my destiny . . . lay elsewhere. So I became an explorer instead.”

Again, Inez hesitated. “Not entirely. In the short time that my father was actively teaching . . . before his presumed death, I mean . . . he spoke with enough of my people that he subsequently became something of a legend. So when those among my kind turn to
Sa’Tong
, very often they do so because they’ve become fascinated with my father’s story, even though they never met him personally.

Inez’s face colored. “In some ways, yes.”

The
chaaz’braan
didn’t respond for a moment, but instead lowered his head and began to slowly walk around her, as if contemplating what she’d just said. After a few moments, his words scrolled across the walls again.
Sa’Tong
is philosophy and not a religion. Because of this, we try to discourage
chaaz’mahas
from being regarded as messiahs.

“I’m sorry,
chaaz’braan
.” Inez seemed to have trouble looking at him. “I . . . we never intended for that to happen.”

The
chaaz’braan
stopped, turned toward her.
No reason to apologize. I realize that this can sometimes occur, particularly with races such as yours that embraced theistic beliefs for so long. Nevertheless, it means that, although
Sa’Tong
has been accepted by many of your people, it may yet become a religion, and thus risks becoming misinterpreted. In order to avoid this, it still needs a
chaaz’maha
. . . a role which you yourself have refused to perform.

Inez took a deep breath. “Is this . . . what you’d like for me to do?”

The
chaaz’braan
didn’t reply for a moment, but instead gazed at the black-marble floor.
Tell me, please . . . what is the First Codicil of
Sa’Tong
?

“I am God, for God is a creation of the self.”

“Since I am God, then so is everyone else, and therefore I must treat all others as manifestations of God, with the same reverence and respect as I would give to myself.”

“In order to adhere to the Second Codicil, one must never take any actions that will harm myself or others.”

“One must never fail to take action that will prevent harm to myself or others.”

“Wrongful acts must be atoned for with righteous acts of equal or greater proportion.”

Inez opened her mouth to reply . . . and then stopped. A puzzled expression crossed her face as she weighed the question. For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she closed her eyes and slowly shook her head.

“My apologies,
chaaz’braan
,” she said, very quietly. “I don’t know the answer to this.”

The
chaaz’braan
peered at her with what seemed to be both sadness and sympathy.
No, I do not think you do. Which is all the more reason why you should undertake this mission.

He turned to Taf.
First Speaker, it is my opinion that these people should be permitted to return to their homeworld, in order to find their
chaaz’maha
and, if possible, return him to the place from which he came. There are risks to this endeavor, true, but I believe that they are outweighed by the potential benefits.

Taf’s fin rose, yet hisher head slowly moved back and forth. Glancing around the room, Jorge saw that the other Council members appeared to be reacting to what the
chaaz’braan
had just said, all in their own ways. Taf cocked hisher head, as if once again listening to the voices in hisher translation device. Several minutes went by, during which no one in the room spoke, then heshe turned toward the humans standing before himher.

“Upon the recommendation of the
chaaz’braan
,” Taf said, “the High Council has agreed to accept your request. Our starbridge will be opened to allow your spacecraft to journey to Earth. Furthermore, you will be permitted to return to Coyote via hyperspace once your mission is complete. Your ship’s starbridge key will be temporarily adjusted to allow for this one-time use. However, any future access to Earth will depend upon the outcome of your expedition.”

Jorge slowly let out his breath. Glancing at Inez, he saw relief upon her face as well. “Thank you, Taf Sa-Fhadda,” Manny said, bowing ever so slightly. “I appreciate the Council’s decision.”

The
hjadd’s
only response was to bow to the
chaaz’braan
. The ancient
askanta
started to leave, but then he paused to turn toward Inez again.

“Sa’Tong qo, chaaz’braan.”
She pressed the palms of her hands together. “You honor us with your actions, and I will tell my father of our meeting once I find him.”

A soft grunt, as if the
chaaz’braan
was amused by what she’d just said.
You misunderstand me. Your father is only your objective. What you’re looking for is something else entirely.

Then the Great Teacher slowly walked away, leaving Jorge to wonder what he’d meant by that.

Once we got to Defiance, it took less than a day for Chris Levin
and me to learn David Laird’s whereabouts. But that knowledge cost us dearly.

We came into town aboard the steam sledge that made twice-weekly trips up into the Pioneer Valley. That time of year, deep snow covered the Midland Highway as it led into Gillis Range, making it impassable to any ground vehicles that weren’t hovercraft or equipped with plowheads. Goat Kill Creek was frozen over, so a ferry was out of the question, and although I could have requisitioned a Corps skimmer, that wouldn’t have fit the low profile we were trying to maintain.

So we caught the twin-deck sledge when it stopped at Carlos’s Pizza, using cash instead of credit chits. It wasn’t the most comfortable of rides; the seats were little more than plastic benches crowded together in the lower-deck compartment, and we were crammed in there with a dozen other passengers, mostly farmers and stockmen returning from New Florida or Albion. The rumble of the steam engine made conversation nearly impossible; whenever someone stood up, they’d have to grasp handrails or risk being thrown to the floor by the sledge’s constant rocking upon its skids. I was just happy that Chris had had the foresight to buy box lunches before we left Carlos’s Pizza; otherwise, we would’ve been starving as well as sore by the time the sledge arrived in Defiance.

We had both been there before, of course, yet it had been many years since the last time Chris had set foot in the town. That was during the war; he was a young man then, reunited with his family after making peace with Carlos Montero. In those days, Defiance was a small mountain village where the original colonists had fled following the Union occupation of New Florida: little more than a collection of tree houses nestled within the boughs of a blackwood grove, hidden from the searching eyes of Union Guard satellites.

Chris hadn’t been back since the Revolution, so he was only vaguely aware that Defiance had become a large and prosperous agricultural community. The tree houses had vanished, replaced by wood-frame houses along tidy streets, with enormous greenhouses and livestock sheds on the outskirts of town allowing the locals to continue their livelihoods during the long winter months. When the sledge went west again, its hold would be packed with crates of corn, potatoes, sugar beets, tomatoes, and waterfruit, its refrigerator compartment stocked with beef, lamb, and chicken. The town proclaimed itself to be “the Breadbasket of the Provinces,” and the fact that it had once been the sanctuary of the
Alabama
colonists was a source of civic pride as well.

Chris and I disembarked from the sledge at the depot and, carrying our packs over our shoulders, went in search of a place to stay. We had plenty of choices; Defiance had a lot of visitors, many of them businessmen like those we were pretending to be, so accommodations ranged from a large and fairly luxurious hotel in the town center to third-rate boardinghouses that catered mainly to migrant workers. We settled for a small inn located on a side street: not so fancy that our arrival would draw attention, but neither so seedy that we’d stand out. The innkeeper booked us into two rooms with a connecting door and a shared bathroom; we stayed just long enough to put away our bags before going out again to get a decent bite to eat and, not incidentally, begin our search for David Laird.

Or rather, for Peter Desilitz. Laird had disappeared the moment he’d left New Brighton, but when Chris searched government census records for Peter Desilitz, it came up as belonging to someone who, up until at least three years ago, had an address in Defiance. That surprised me; Desilitz had been Laird’s alias when he was busted at the New Brighton spaceport, so I would have assumed that he’d have adopted a different pseudonym. When I mentioned this to Chris, though, he’d only grinned and shook his head.

“One of the things you learn when you’re a proctor,” he said, “is that there’s no such thing as a ‘criminal genius.’ People who make a career out of breaking the law are usually too dumb to make an honest living . . . and dumb people tend to do the same dumb things over and over again.”

“But still, using the same alias when you’re trying to go underground...”

He shrugged. “He probably had a whole set of phony IDs under that name which would’ve been good enough to establish his bona fides while renting an apartment or getting a job. Not everyone makes background checks, y’know. He probably figured that, so long as he didn’t do anything that would give a proctor a reason to search the provincial database, he could get away with it. In any case, the guy we’re looking for isn’t Laird, but Desilitz.”