Coyote Horizon (25 page)

Walking Star paused, then looked straight at Hawk. “I believe that person may be you.”

Hawk stared at him. “Me? You’ve got to be joking. Do I look like some sort of . . . ?”

Reluctant to say the rest, his voice trailed off. “Messiah?” Walking Star finished. “Didn’t need to read your mind to know what you’re thinking. ‘Teacher’ is a more apt term, really, but . . . yeah, ‘messiah’ would probably be what they’d call you if you were successful.” He paused. “Of course, there’s a lot of risk involved with being a messiah. They tend to come to rather messy ends.”

“Not for me, thanks.” Hawk started to reach for the
Sa’Tong-tas
. “Look, sorry to bother you with this, but maybe it’s time for me to go . . .”

“Go where?” Walking Star bent forward to clasp the back of his wrist. “What else do you intend to do with your life? You can’t go back to where you were before the
hjadd
found you. You can’t even get back your job as a carpenter. And someone needs to be the
chaaz’maha
for the human race . . .”

“Then you do it!” Hawk wrenched his hand free, then stood up. “You’re already a spiritual leader! I’m just . . . I’m just . . .”

“Yes. You’re just you. An outcast.” A solemn nod, followed by a smile. “But you’ve learned something that no one else knows, and that makes you perfectly suited to teach others what you know. It’ll probably take a long time for you to discover the way to do this. After all, you still don’t know for yourself all there is about
Sa’Tong
. But if you’ll let me, I may be able to show you how.”

Hawk’s first impulse was to head for the door. Find Melissa and grab their stuff, then hurry back to the camp and beg Jerry to rehire him for the construction crew. Or at least ask for a return trip to New Boston. Yet he knew that Cassidy was right. There was nowhere left for him to go . . . not if his life was to have any meaning.

“What do you have in mind?”

Walking Star rose from his chair. Hands clasped behind his back, he strolled over to the window. The sun hung low upon the horizon, casting long shadows from the forest upon the nearby field. “When night comes,” he said at last, “I’ll take you to a sacred place . . . a hogan we’ve built out there. That’s when we’ll begin.”

“Begin?” A chill ran down Hawk’s spine. “Begin what?”

Walking Star turned to gaze at him. “I think you might call it a baptism.”

Arthur Clarke has said that Christian orthodoxy is too narrow and timid for what is likely to be found in the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. He has said that the doctrine of man made in the image of God is ticking like a time bomb at Christianity’s base, set to explode if other intelligent creatures are discovered. I don’t in the least agree. I think that the only sense that can be put on the phrase “made in God’s image” is that there is a sense of intellectual affinity between us and higher organisms, if such there be.

 

The first time I laid eyes on the CSS
Ted LeMare,
it was Hamaliel 1, c.y. 17, the day the Exploratory Expedition set sail for the far side of the world. Considering that I was an expedition member, you’d have thought that I would’ve familiarized myself with the ship before I set foot aboard it. But my invitation to join the ExEx was something of an afterthought, and although I jumped at the chance to visit territories beyond the Meridian Sea, I’d soon have reasons to regret my decision.

As it was, my first sight of the
LeMare
came as I was walking down the New Bridgeton pier, knapsack over my shoulder and carbine beneath my right arm. No one noticed my arrival; the pier was crowded with crew members, while dockworkers labored to unload the last few dozen crates and barrels of supplies from wagons parked alongside the ship. I knew that I was supposed to see the captain, but since I didn’t know where he was, I stopped for a moment to put down my pack and give the ship a quick once-over.

Of course, I’d known that the
LeMare
was under construction and that it was intended to make the first circumnavigation of the Great Equatorial River. No one on Coyote was unaware of these things, or at least not if they read the
Liberty Post
. Yet I’d enjoyed steady work as a guide throughout the spring of c.y. 17, so I kept up with the news only when I was back in Leeport, which hadn’t been very often. Although I wasn’t surprised to learn that the ship was finally finished, my recent travels hadn’t taken me to Bridgeton. As a result, I hadn’t realized just how big the vessel really was.

And it
was
big: 210 feet from stern to bow and 43 feet abeam, its twin masts topping out over 110 feet above its waterline, the
LeMare
dwarfed everything else in the harbor, taking up one entire side of the pier. Even the tugboats tied up beside it were little more than bath toys by comparison. Nor did it look like any other ship in Bridgeton . . . or anywhere else on Coyote, for that matter. Its long, sleek hull, constructed of whitewashed blackwood, lay close to the water, while sunlight reflected brightly from the glass panes of the greenhouse nestled amidships between the fo’c’sle and aft cabin. Even its masts, oval and constructed of carbon fiber, were unusual, with five yardarms apiece supporting square-rigged mainsails that were still retracted into the yards themselves. Satellite and radar antennae rose from the wheelhouse roof, while two small tenders rested beneath davits on the poop deck, one on each side of the aft cabin.

Overall, the
LeMare
vaguely resembled a Chinese junk as reimagined by an architect who’d previously designed racing yachts. I had no doubt that it was seaworthy—the best shipwrights on Coyote had worked on it, and Morgan Goldstein had opened his pocketbook wide for its construction—even so, I had a bit of last-minute reluctance. For the next month or two, the
LeMare
would be my second home. We were going places in the world where no one else had ever gone; if it sprang a leak because Morgan had decided to trim the budget here or there, then . . .

Well. Too late for second thoughts. I’d just bent over to pick up my knapsack when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“You’re not bringing that, are you?”

As soon as I heard this, I knew I was in trouble. But I forced a grin as I turned to see Susan Gunther walking toward me. I didn’t have to ask what she meant. “Of course,” I said, laying my rifle barrel across my shoulder. “You’re not suggesting that I leave it behind, are you?”

There was a scowl on her face as she stared at my gun. “This is a scientific expedition, Sawyer, not one of your big-game hunts. If you think you’re going to be bringing home any trophies . . .”

“Nope. Only for protection . . . which is why Morgan Goldstein hired me. A little extra insurance for his investment.” I hoped that would trump her objections. “If it makes you feel any better, though, I’ll keep it unloaded. Until we go ashore, that is.”

Susan opened her mouth as if to argue when I heard another voice call down from the ship. “Any problems, dear?”

Jonathan Parson was standing on the poop deck, leaning forward against the bulwark rail. The ship’s captain had become a tad thick around the middle since the last time I’d seen him; married life had apparently domesticated him a bit. I’d never thought of Susan as being the wifely type, and once again I wondered what Jon saw in her. Perhaps their mutual fascination with the natural sciences was enough; I shared the same interests, too, although I had a different way of collecting specimens.

Susan, Jon, and I had known each other for a while now, ever since I began hiring myself out as a wilderness guide. By then, she’d taken a leave of absence from the Colonial University to start up Coyote Expeditions with Jon, who’d met her not long after he’d jumped ship as second officer of the
Columbus
, the first European Alliance starship to reach 47 Uma. As I said, we had a certain difference of opinion when it came to the native fauna. Not that I minded the fact that they wanted to preserve endangered species; I had no interest in bagging
chirreep
or creek cats. But boids were another matter entirely, and until the day came that they succeeded in persuading the Colonial Council to pass laws protecting them from people like me—fat chance; they’d tried already—I reserved the right to show my clients the proper way to add boid skulls to their living-room walls.

“He’s brought a gun, Jon.” Susan raised a hand against the morning sun as she peered up at her husband. “I’ve told him that this is a . . .”

“Scientific expedition, right. I understood that soon as Goldstein gave me a call.” Lowering my carbine, I reached down to pick up my knapsack again. “Look, I’m not going to waste time with this. Tell me my gun goes, and I’ll go with it . . . then you’ll have to explain things to Morgan.” I shrugged. “Either way is fine with me. I’ve already been paid. But I don’t think he’s going to be very pleased, if y’know what I mean.”

By then, we’d begun to attract an audience. Around us, dockhands stopped hauling cargo up the gangway to listen in, while aboard the
LeMare
itself, several people quietly murmured to one another. Truth was, I’d told a little white lie; Goldstein had only paid me a retainer, with most of my fee held in escrow until the ExEx returned home. If I walked away, I’d be giving up enough money to pay rent for the rest of the year. But they didn’t have to know that, and I was counting on the fact that they were too beholden to the expedition’s principal backer to risk his ire.

Jon was still mulling this over—I had to feel sorry for him, being forced to choose between his wife and his patron—when someone came up from behind to tap him on the shoulder. I couldn’t see who it was, but Jon turned his head to listen to him. He frowned, nodded, and looked back at us.

“All right, Sawyer,” he said, his voice almost too low for me to hear. “C’mon aboard . . . and bring your gun with you.”

Susan’s expression alone was worth the hassle. She’d not only lost the argument, but it was her own husband who’d settled it in my favor. Yet it wasn’t until I stepped away from her that I saw that it wasn’t Jon who’d had the final say, but someone else. And when I saw who that was, I damn near dropped my gun in the water.

Morgan Goldstein might be the wealthiest man on Coyote, but ask anyone who they thought was the most famous person in the world, and chances were that they’d name Susan’s father. I’d been told that Carlos Montero would be leading the ExEx, of course, but until that moment it had been little more than an abstraction, no more or less important than the dimensions of the ship.

In recent years, the former president had become a remote figure, seldom seen except when he came into Liberty on official business. He and his wife, Wendy—another pivotal person in Coyote history, not to mention being Susan’s mother—had retreated to a manor built on top of the Eastern Divide; if I turned my head, I would’ve been able to make it out, an eyrie overlooking the East Channel from atop the granite bluffs. I’d spotted President Montero only two or three times since I’d been living here, but always from a distance. Certainly never so close.

For a second, he regarded me with aloof appraisal, much as if I was a bum who’d managed to hitch a ride aboard his fine new ship. I nodded back at him, silently thanking him for interceding on my behalf. He didn’t appear to notice, though, but instead turned toward Jon. I couldn’t hear what they were discussing, but it probably wasn’t me; so far as they were concerned, I was little more than a minor distraction.

Susan, on the other hand, was still sore about being overruled; that much was obvious from the look in her eyes. I didn’t want to make an enemy of her, so I sought to appease her. “Look,” I said quietly, “I meant it when I said I’m bringing this along only for protection. I’ve worked for Morgan before . . . I was his guide on a trip up to Medsylvania last year . . . and he knows I’m handy with this thing.” I paused. “If it makes you feel any better, you can keep it in your cabin. That way you’ll know I won’t go charging off into the woods first chance I get, shooting everything in sight.”

Susan’s expression softened. “No . . . no, that won’t be necessary. If Papa’s willing to trust you, I guess I should, too.” She let out a sigh. “Although if Morgan were here, I’d have words with him.”

I could imagine what they’d be, but I didn’t say anything. Besides, she was probably relieved that Goldstein wasn’t joining the expedition. Last summer, while the ExEx was still in its planning stages, he’d accompanied the first expedition to Rho Coronae Borealis, where he’d reached a trade agreement with the
hjadd
. Since then, he’d been working to establish commerce with the other races of the Talus; he was probably there again, doing his best to get his hands on more alien goodies. Just as well. From my own experience with him, I knew that Goldstein could be a handful.

“You can trust me.” I offered my hand. “Promise . . . no hunting, no trophies. Fair enough?”

Susan hesitated, then nodded. “Fair enough,” she said, and briefly grasped my hand before turning to walk away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed aboard ship.”

“All right . . . but just one more thing.” She stopped to look back at me. “Not to be a pest, but where should I go? I mean, where am I staying?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know? You’re sleeping on deck, beneath one of the boats.” When I gaped at her, her mouth spread into a broad grin. “Gotcha. No, you’ve got a cabin, same as everyone else . . . although you may not be crazy about whom you’re sharing it with.”

“Who’s that?”

“C’mon. I’ll introduce you. It’s on my way.” Without another word, she started toward the gangway. I slung my knapsack across my shoulder and followed her up the ramp. And that was how I came aboard the
LeMare
.