Coyote Horizon (27 page)

“I can guess how. They got in touch with Janus . . .”

Lynn nodded. “Uh-huh. You figured it out. Since Morgan Goldstein’s bankrolling this whole thing, he gets to decide who comes along for the ride. Guess he saw it as good PR.” A wan smile. “And . . . well, here I am. Not that I wanted to do this. To tell the truth, I’d just as soon have gone home. I’m beginning to feel sort of like a fifth wheel.” She winced. “Now there’s a lousy metaphor. Ships don’t have wheels.”

“Hey, if you’re a fifth wheel, then I’m a spare oar.” She looked at me askance and I went on. “Goldstein put me on at the last minute, too. Once we get past the meridian, I have no more idea of what’s out there than anyone else on board. But Morgan wants someone to ride shotgun, so . . .”

“So here you are.” Another smile, less cynical this time. I was beginning to realize that, if there was going to be another reluctant passenger aboard, we could do worse than to have one who was so attractive. Her smile faded as she glanced at her pad again. “Well, I hope your job is more appreciated than mine. The rest of my series will probably get pushed to the back of the blotter . . . if they’re published at all.”

“You don’t think you’ll find anything worth reporting?”

“Oh, I’m sure I will. It’s just that . . . well, who’s going to want to read my stuff, what with everything else that’s going on just now?” Seeing the look on my face, she peered at me. “You mean you haven’t heard? The Western Hemisphere Union is about to collapse.”

“What?” I stared at her. “No, I haven’t heard. What do you mean, it’s collapsing?”

“Just what I said. The whole thing is falling apart.” She nodded at her pad. “News came over the hyperlink early this morning. A mob stormed the Proletariat last night, led by a renegade Union Guard regiment. About sixty people were killed in Havana before they took over the capitol building.”

“Holy . . . What about the government?”

“What government? The Matriarchs and Patriarchs were forced to evacuate Cuba. No one seems to know where they’ve gone, but quite a few were killed before they managed to escape. Now there are reports of riots in major cities throughout the Union, with other Guard units either under siege or joining the uprising.” Lynn shook her head. “A lot of chickens coming home to roost.”

I tried to absorb the news and found that I couldn’t. Like everyone else on Coyote, I’d heard rumors that things were getting bad back on Earth. But even though the Western Hemisphere Union hadn’t been immune to the long-term effects of global climate change, I’d assumed—like everyone else, really—that the WHU would ride out the storm, if only because the Union Guard had clamped down on previous insurrections. But if the Guard itself had turned on the Proletariat and its leaders were on the lam, then . . .

The sharp clang of a ship’s bell interrupted my thoughts. Lynn looked up. “Sounds like we’re ready to leave,” she said as she folded up her flexboard and closed her pad. “Want to go topside, wave good-bye?”

I stood up from the bench. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I hesitated, then gallantly offered my arm. “Care for an escort?”

She hesitated, then grinned at me. “Sure. So long as it’s not a date or anything.”

“No. For that, I’ll bring you roses.”

She laughed as she stepped around the end of the table. “Skip the flowers,” she said, taking my arm. “I’ll settle for a jug of bearshine.”

Remembering what else I had stashed in my locker, I led her toward the companionway. “Perhaps that can be arranged.”

 

 

 

The crew had gathered on deck by the time we got there, and it appeared that the rest of our supplies had finally been loaded aboard. Shags had hauled the empty wagons back to the wharf, and a small crowd stood upon the pier, waiting for the
LeMare
to depart.

Yet not everyone was on board. I was wondering what was keeping us from leaving—the crew was obviously impatient, and a pair of tugboats floated at the bow and stern, ready to take us out into the channel—but it wasn’t until I looked toward the gangway that I saw the reason for our delay. Carlos Montero wasn’t on the ship; instead, he was still on the pier, involved in a quiet conversation with a plump, middle-aged man whose straw hat didn’t quite conceal his balding head. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.

“Well, now . . . that’s interesting.” Standing beside me at the bow mast, Lynn followed my gaze. “Know who that is?” I shook my head, and she went on. “Dieter Vogel. The European Alliance ambassador. Didn’t expect to see him here.”

“Maybe he came to see us off.”

“Hmm . . . no, I don’t think so.” Now that she mentioned it, I could see that the ambassador wasn’t very happy; nor was the president. Their shoulders hunched, their faces close together, the two men appeared to be making an effort not to be overheard by those around them. “What do you want to bet that he’s telling Carlos what I just told you?”

That seemed likely. Although it had been nearly four years since Carlos Montero was president, his most significant act while in office had been the negotiation of the United Nations treaty that had officially recognized the Coyote Federation as an independent entity. The Western Hemisphere Union had steadfastly refused to ratify the treaty, though, and so the WHU remained a major concern to our government. After all, the Union had once laid claim to Coyote, and no one here doubted that they hadn’t yet given up hope of doing so again.

Of course the president would be informed of the insurrection, even as he was about to lead a major expedition into parts unknown. For a moment, I wondered whether he’d back out at the last minute, perhaps putting his daughter in charge. Glancing up at the wheelhouse, I spotted Susan and Jon; worried expressions on their faces told me that the same thought had occurred to them.

But instead, Montero patted Vogel on the shoulder, then stepped away. Vogel seemed reluctant, but he nodded. A grim smile as the president shook the ambassador’s hand; a few parting words—
keep in touch, let me know what’s going on
—then Montero marched up the gangway. When I looked up at the bridge again, I no longer saw Susan. A few moments later, she emerged from the deck hatch but said nothing to anyone as she made her way to her father’s side. Pulling her close, he whispered something in her ear; whatever he said, it gave her reason for a relieved smile. Then, with his arm still around her shoulders, he turned to give his son-in-law a quick thumbs-up.

The ship’s bell rang four times, announcing to all that we were leaving. A cheer rose from the crowd as, at both ends of the ship, dockhands unfastened the thick ropes that held the
LeMare
against the pier. The tugboat nestled against the stern bellowed its foghorn, and was answered a moment later by its companion idling near the bow; working together, they began to gently push and pull the
LeMare
away from the pier.

As the crowd continued its applause, a sailor on the poop deck raised the Coyote flag upon its mast. Hearing what sounded like an echo of the crowd noise, I glanced up the nearby Garcia Narrows Bridge, and saw for the first time the railing lined with onlookers. That brought a smile to my face; along with everyone else on board, I raised my hand to wave farewell.

As soon as the ship had cleared the harbor, the tugboat at the bow bellowed again, then released its line, while the one pushing the stern answered its call before reversing prop to fall back. The
LeMare
was floating free. I half expected to hear Carlos shout a command—
set sail
or somesuch—but apparently he felt no need for dramatics; Jon was the captain, and he knew what to do. A few seconds later, white polymer sails descended upon their rigging from within the yardarms, gracefully coming down like giant window shades, while the masts themselves rotated, each section tacking at a slightly different angle to catch the westerly wind blowing through the narrows.

The sails caught the offshore breeze and billowed outward, and it was our turn to let out a cheer as the
LeMare
moved forward. Salt spray kicked up by the bow licked at our faces as the ship emerged from beneath the shadow of the Eastern Divide. From the harbor behind us, we could hear the boat horns of other vessels, but they were already growing faint; off to the starboard side, a small schooner sought to escort us, but it, too, was quickly left behind.

Ahead was the East Channel, already growing wider as it flowed southwest toward the Montero Delta. Beyond that lay the Great Equatorial River, and the rest of the world.

We were on our way.

 

 

 

It took the
LeMare
the better part of the day to reach the delta. By then, everyone had assumed their assigned roles, even if the science team had little to do but reinspect the nets and bait boxes with which they hoped to capture live specimens once the ship was in unexplored waters. I lingered on deck for a while, watching the channel gradually grow wider, with sea-swoops circling the ragged cliffs of the Midland Rise on the eastern shore, before going below again to see about lunch.

In the lounge, I found that a smorgasbord of cold cuts, bread, pickles, and onion soup had been laid out on the galley counter. I made myself a sandwich, then sat down at the dining table next to a couple of university botanists. Their conversation was mainly devoted to speculating on possible floral habitats east of the Meridian Sea. It was interesting until it digressed into the effects of cross-species pollination on hybridization, at which point I was unable to keep up. They barely noticed when I excused myself from the table; indeed, I don’t think they even noticed I’d been there at all.

With nothing else to do, I went back to my cabin. Much to my relief, Jorge was gone. I hadn’t seen him on deck during the launch, but it would have been easy for a small boy to be lost among adults; I assumed that he was tagging along with his mother or father. His absence gave me a chance to put away my ammo. There weren’t many hiding places in our quarters, so I had to settle on tucking it beneath my mattress. My rifle appeared to be untouched; this gave me hope that he’d respect my property. Satisfied that I’d done my best to keep my weapon safe for him, I lay down for an afternoon nap.

I must have been more tired than I thought, because when I finally woke up, it was to the sound of the anchor chain rattling down the other side of the forward bulkhead. Standing up, I saw Jorge curled up in his own bunk; the kid must have come in while I was asleep. Through the porthole above his bunk, I saw mellow twilight touching upon densely wooded shoreline a few hundred yards away. Careful not to disturb the sleeping boy, I pulled on my boots and went topside.

While I’d slept, the
LeMare
had sailed past the Montero Delta and turned east to enter the Great Equatorial River. We’d left New Florida behind, and were now just off the coast of Midland. With night beginning to fall, Jon had ordered the anchor lowered and the sails furled. One of the sailors told me our present position: fifty degrees west by two degrees south, just a few miles from the fishing village of Carlos’s Pizza. An ironic place for us to stop for the night: it was where President Montero had made camp during his first attempt to explore the river, many years ago when he’d been a teenager. I watched while the crew stowed away everything on deck, and shortly after the formation lights came to life atop the masts, the bell was rung, signaling everyone to come below for dinner.

To commemorate the end of the first day of the expedition, the cooks laid out a lavish spread: roast pork, grilled potatoes, asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, mixed greens, apple pie. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d thought to bring liquor aboard, because several bottles of waterfruit wine were placed on the table. This time, I didn’t have to dine with strangers; Lynn took a seat beside me, so we were able to keep each other company. She said little, though, but instead paid close attention to everything going on around us. A journalist at work.

We were having dessert, with a few people indulging in a second or third glass of wine, when Jon tapped a bread knife against his glass and stood up from his seat at the head of the table. After thanking us for being there this evening and expressing his appreciation for a successful start to our voyage, he asked everyone to introduce themselves, just so that we’d know each other if we weren’t already acquainted. One by one, we all rose from our seats to state our names and reasons for being here. There were eighteen people aboard—eleven men, six women, and one boy—and most were scientists, with eight members of our company serving as crew. The majority were about my own age, more or less, yet the first mate and pilot was a grey-haired older gent who sat with the Montero family. Although he didn’t say so at the time, I’d later discover that Barry Dreyfus was another one of the original
Alabama
colonists, and had been with President Montero during their ill-fated attempt to explore the Great Equatorial River.

When it came my turn to speak, I said little except my name and my profession as wilderness guide. Not much response to that, although I couldn’t help but notice a few dark looks from some of the scientists. Lynn was a little more forthcoming, telling everyone that she was a journalist covering the ExEx for her news service on Earth. Again, the same cool reception; clearly the thought had occurred to many of these people that our berths could have been used to pack a couple more researchers aboard.

Once we were through with introductions, President Montero took the floor. He kept his remarks brief: how this was a historic opportunity, the first major effort to explore parts of Coyote as yet untouched by humankind, and how we’d soon visit places that, until now, had only been seen from orbit. He added his expectation that our findings would greatly increase our knowledge of this world, and hoped that no harm would come to any of us during the weeks ahead.

And that was pretty much it. A few more announcements from Jon—duty rosters to be posted in the crew quarters in the morning, lectures to commence next evening—and then we were dismissed. A few people lingered over coffee, but I decided that I needed a little fresh air.