Coyote Horizon (3 page)

“Our original house still stands in Liberty, if you care to visit it. Built shortly after he and I married. My daughter and her family live there now, but there’s talk about having it turned into a historical monument. I’d sooner have it razed first, but”—an offhand shrug—“sometimes places are like people. They become legendary whether they want to or not.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Lynn leaned a little closer, resting her elbows on her knees. “You and President Montero . . .”

“Carlos.” Wendy smiled. “If he were here, he’d insist.”

“Oh . . . yes, of course.” Lynn struggled to keep the conversation on track. “You and Carlos have been here since you were teenagers . . . children, really. You were among the first to step foot on Coyote. You witnessed the establishment of the Liberty colony. Fought in the Revolution. Explored the planet. Became leaders of the Federation, then led the first delegation to the United Nations. You participated in the first contact between humankind and the
hjadd
. . .”

“No.” Wendy briefly closed her eyes and wagged a finger. “Give credit where credit is due. That was the
Galileo
expedition . . . We only greeted the survivors after they returned from Rho Coronae Borealis.”

“My apologies . . . but, as president, you did welcome the first
hjadd
ambassador, and saw to it that land was set aside in Liberty for them to build an embassy.” She paused. “Just as Carlos later volunteered to become their Federation liaison.”

“What else should I have done? Tell them to mind their own business and go home?” A quiet smile as Wendy sipped her ice tea. “No doubt there are some on Earth who wished I’d done just that. The Dominionists, for one . . . not to mention the Living Earth fanatics.”

More than ever, Lynn wished that she had her pad, if only to catch such remarks on the record. But perhaps that was why Wendy had spoken so freely in the first place; she knew that this was a private chat and no more. “So what is it that you want from me?” Wendy went on, absently letting the ice rattle around her glass. “A few pithy remarks from a former president to spruce up your article? A few pictures?” She nodded toward the easel. “I can pose over there. Former President Gunther in retirement, beginning a new career as an artist. ‘I like to paint,’ she says. ‘It makes me feel good . . .’ ”

She was getting nowhere, and Lynn was tired of being patronized. “Thank you for sparing a few minutes of your time, Madam President,” she said, putting down her glass and standing up. “If you’d be gracious enough to have your assistant call me a cab, I’ll be on my—”

“Your objection has been noted, Ms. Hu. Now sit down.” When Lynn remained on her feet, Wendy lowered her voice. “No, really . . . sit with me, please. If you want that interview, you may have it. Only don’t ask me to reiterate everything you’ve already read in my memoirs, or talk about me and Carlos as if we’re relics who have nothing more to offer. Give us our dignity, and I’ll tell you anything you want.” She favored her with a sly wink. “And then some . . . provided you ask the right questions.”

Lynn hesitated, then resumed her seat. As she sat down again, she felt something prod her shoulder: her pad, silently offered to her by Tomas. She took it from him, flipped it open, and placed it on the table between her and Wendy. The former president crossed her legs and nodded, and Lynn posed the question she wanted most to have answered:

“Where do we go from here?”

Wendy blinked. “Pardon me?”

Lynn tried not to smile. “You wanted a hard question. Well, here it is. Where do we go from here?” While her words were still sinking in, she went on. “Nearly three-quarters of Coyote is still unsettled, let alone explored, and yet the Coyote Federation continues to restrict immigration from Earth. This despite the fact that Earth’s environment has collapsed and the solar system colonies are overpopulated.”

“Well, I can’t speak for . . .”

“In the meantime, the
hjadd
have established an embassy on Coyote while refusing to deal directly with Earth. And even then, there is very little that we know about them. Although they’ve recently opened trade negotiations with us, none of our ships has been allowed to travel to their world through the starbridge. Indeed, very few people have even seen what they look like inside the environment suits they wear when they go outside their compound . . . which is seldom, at best.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Just a moment, please.” Lynn glanced at the pad’s screen to check her notes. “And, as you mentioned earlier, there has also been resistance from various groups, notably the Dominionist Christians and Living Earth, whom you described earlier as fanatics—”

“That was off the record.”

“Of course.” Lynn placed a finger across her lips to hide her smile. “Where was I? Oh, yes . . . certain organizations have objected to humankind’s contact with alien races. Or, indeed, to the very idea of Coyote’s becoming a refuge for the human race, when they believe our efforts should be devoted to saving what’s left of Earth itself.” She lifted her eyes to gaze at Wendy. “So . . .”

She stopped. The former president of the Coyote Federation stared back at her. “So?”

“So . . . where do we go from here?” Lynn crossed her legs as she settled back in her chair. “Or would you rather let me take pictures of you at your easel? I’m sure my readers would be interested in your hobby, as a sidebar.”

The question hung in midair, an invisible wall between them. Wendy said nothing for a moment, then eased herself out of her chair. “I wish I could tell you,” she said, walking over to the railing to gaze out at the channel, “but one thing that I’ve learned is that life seldom takes the turns you expect it to take. The future is unknowable, and any attempt to divine the shapes of things to come from studying the present is doomed to failure. And I, for one, do not believe in predestination.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“It’s the best I can give. But see here . . .”

Stepping over to the easel, Wendy laid a hand upon the canvas’s frame. “This is a work in progress. I’ve rendered a pencil sketch of what I wish to depict, then used my oils and brushes in an attempt to bring that vision to life. But my skills are limited, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be. Although I could avail myself of gene therapy to recover some of my youth, both my husband and I have decided that we’d rather let nature take its course and grow old gracefully. So I have to make do with what I have.”

She picked up a dry brush. “In art, as in life, every action carries consequences. If my hand falters, if I select the wrong pigment”—she made a careless slash across the canvas, not touching the painting—“then the work is ruined and I have to start again.” She dropped the brush on the table. “But life isn’t so simple, is it? There’s no fresh canvas, nor can it be discarded.”

Wendy turned away from the painting. “Coyote is a work in progress. At first, we were only a handful of people, trying to survive on a world where every day had the potential to kill us. But those who came here first aboard the
Alabama
are in the winter of their lives, and even the youngest . . . Carlos and his sister, me, a few of our friends . . . are seeing autumn closing in. Even those who arrived aboard the Union Astronautica ships are getting old.” She glanced at her aide. “Tomas was only a boy when he came here with his family . . . aboard the
Spirit
, wasn’t it, Tom?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tomas nodded. “
The Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars
. . . the last starship built by the Union.”

“And he’s already an adult.” Wendy smiled at him. “Carlos and I are trying to groom him for political life, but he doesn’t seem to have that ambition.” Tomas gave a noncommittal shrug, and she went on. “So the future of this world belongs to those who came after us, the ones who’ve taken advantage of the starbridge to make the journey here from Earth.”

“So you do believe that your generation’s time has come and gone?”

Wendy shrugged. “I’m painting that bridge because it was built by people who are already old. Those who’ve come after them take it for granted as something that existed before they set foot on this world. One day, someone may decide that it’s hopelessly antiquated and, therefore, see the necessity of tearing it down and replacing it with something more modern.”

“Or it could stand for another hundred years.” Lynn stood up, walked over to the railing. “I rather hope so.”

“So do I . . . but that won’t be my decision to make, nor will it be yours.” Wendy gazed at her painting. “Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I’m doing this . . . to preserve, in some small way, what it looked like, so that my grandson will have something to show his children.”

She looked at Lynn again. “I think you’ve answered your own question. Where do we go from here? We’ve made contact with an alien race, but they’re still reluctant to let us visit their world. We’ve settled a new world, yet most of it remains unexplored . . . although my good friend Morgan Goldstein has some ideas about that.” Wendy pointed toward the distant wharf. “Down there . . . see that ship being built?”

Lynn peered in the direction she indicated. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but an enormous sailship was under construction within a dry dock. It was still little more than a skeleton; the keel had been laid, and carpenters were working on the outer hull. “The
Ted LeMare
,” Wendy said. “Once it’s finished next year, the Colonial University will use it to make the first circumnavigation of the Great Equatorial River.”

“I’ve heard something about this, yes. And Morgan is paying for it?”

“Yes, he is . . . although I should mention that, unlike Carlos and me, he doesn’t like to be called by his first name. Something to remember if you have a chance to interview him.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Lynn hadn’t planned to interview Goldstein, but now that Wendy had mentioned it, she realized that it might be a good idea. “That’s awfully generous of him.”

Wendy frowned. “Generosity has little to do with it. Earth looks to Coyote as its salvation. Sure, the Western Hemisphere Union still refuses to recognize our sovereignty, but despite that and our own efforts to control immigration, every ship that comes here brings more settlers. Sooner or later, the colonies are going to run out of room. Morgan knows this. He may pretend to be interested in exploration for its own sake, but the fact of the matter is that he wants to locate new real estate.”

Lynn looked at her askance. “Sounds like you disapprove.”

A wry smile. “At one time, my biggest worry in life was whether I’d be killed by a boid . . . but it’s been years since I last saw one.” The smile disappeared. “Now my greatest concern is whether someone will come up the road and ask me or my husband to do something we’d regret, because I know we’d have trouble turning them down. Like this damned expedition. Carlos . . .”

Wendy stopped herself, making Lynn wonder what she was about to say. “That’s enough,” the president murmured, lifting a weathered hand to her face. “I’m sorry, but I think that’s all I want to say for now.”

Startled by the abrupt termination of the interview, Lynn stared at her and was surprised to see tears at the corners of her eyes. “Madam President, did I . . . ?”

“No, no. I’m just . . .” Wendy hastily turned away, but not before Lynn saw her wipe the tears from her face. “Thank you for coming by. My apologies for not being able to answer all your questions. Maybe we can continue this another time. Tomas . . . ?”

“Here, Madam President.” He walked over to the door, opened it for her. Without another word, Wendy strolled down the porch and disappeared into the house.

Lynn watched her go, then sighed as she walked over to the table and picked up her pad. The readout told her that her interview had lasted little more than ten minutes. Out of that, she’d probably get no more than two or three usable quotes. Hardly worth the effort.

Or was it? Wendy Gunther was right. Despite the fact that Coyote was home to nearly a hundred thousand people, it was still an alien world. Not only that, but the presence of the
hjadd
had added another catalyst whose effect was still unknown. And she’d seen Dominionist missionaries aboard the ship that had carried her here; what would they have to say about all this?

Once again, her gaze wandered to the unfinished painting. A work in progress, Wendy had called it. One errant brushstroke, and it would all be ruined.

Where do we go from here?
A good question, indeed. Lynn had a feeling that it would be answered only in the fullness of time.

We are the end products of countless throws of genetic dice; never in the whole of time and space would that exact evolutionary sequence be repeated. From the engineering viewpoint, men and apes are virtually identical, yet we seldom confuse them. Even humanoid ETs would look far more—well, alien—than a gorilla. And most ETs may well be stranger in appearance than an octopus, a mantis, or a dinosaur.

This may be the reason that many people are opposed to SETI, because they realize that it is ticking like a time bomb at the foundations of our pride—and of many of our religions. They would applaud the old B-movie cliché “Such knowledge is not meant for man.”