Coyote Horizon (40 page)

Carlos seemed to realize that, for he glanced over his shoulder at Lynn. “That’s off the record,” he quietly added. “I don’t want that showing up in your next story.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. President.” Lynn held up her pad, letting him see that it wasn’t in vox mode and that the only thing she was entering into it were handwritten notes. She knew that she was allowed to accompany Carlos because she’d agreed to his stipulation that nothing he said would be quoted for direct attribution. In fact, she’d described him so often already as “a senior government official” that her editors back home had lately asked her whether he’d ever say anything on the record.

Carlos nodded, then turned to the man walking beside him. “This is bad,” he went on. “I mean, really bad. I haven’t seen anything like this since Shuttlefield during the Union occupation . . . and even then, it was only a few thousand people. But this . . .”

He raised a hand toward the vast camp that sprawled around them. Mile upon mile of tents, sheds, shacks, and lean-to shelters, arranged in uneven rows along narrow paths that crisscrossed the settlement like a maze. The ground was littered with paper wrappers from the rations that had been airlifted in—what little there was, that is—while people stood in line before bamboo water tanks, all of them holding whatever they could find to carry freshwater back to where they were living. Even then, there was just enough for people to drink, and little else. A handful of children ran past; they looked happy enough, but it wasn’t hard to miss the fact they looked like they hadn’t bathed in days

Not far away, soldiers and volunteers labored to build barracks from pallets of cheap faux birch donated by the Thompson Wood Company. A dozen or more longhouses had been slapped together, but they were already overcrowded; the lucky few hundred or so who’d moved into them were hot-bunking, sleeping in shifts so that they could share their beds with others, while still more curled up on the floors. Marie Thompson had told her older brother that the company would send more timber as soon as it could, but its warehouses on Great Dakota were depleted; no one had anticipated such demand in so short a time, and the stockpiles of faux birch, mountain briar, and blackwood were nearly exhausted.

“They’re doing the best they can, but there are too many people and too little material.” Dieter Vogel, the European Alliance ambassador to Coyote, surveyed the scene as well. “I’ve requested that my government send relief, and they’ve said that they’ll do what they can, but . . .”

“That’s too many ‘buts’ here for my liking,” Carlos growled.

“Mr. President, please remember we have our own problems back home . . .”

“I know that. But the fact remains that your government has also sent us people without giving us the means to support them. Now that we’ve relaxed the quotas, they’re loading refugees on whatever ships can carry them. I don’t know what it’s going to take to make them listen to us, but . . .” Carlos stopped, shook his head. “We can’t be your dumping ground. At least not without the Alliance contributing their fair share.”

Vogel said nothing, but instead gazed at the distant rooftops of New Brighton, rising above the bamboo fence that had been hastily erected between the city and the camp. “I’ve asked people in New Brighton to render assistance. A few have, but”—Carlos gave Vogel an annoyed look, which he ignored—“I’m afraid there’s a certain amount of animosity toward the immigrants. You know what they’re called, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh. ‘Gringos’ . . . Americans who don’t know what they’re doing and can’t fend for themselves.” Carlos’s mouth tightened into a distasteful frown. “Sort of overlooks the fact that Coyote was first settled by Americans, me included.” Vogel started to say something, but Carlos shook his head. “Nothing you can do about that, I know. It’s an old story . . . earlier waves of immigrants resenting the ones who came after them, while conveniently forgetting that they were once in the same situation.”

“Yes, well . . . that’s why they insisted on putting up the fence.” As they strolled through the camp, their eyes were drawn toward a blueshirt who walked past. “There’s been no trouble so far . . . well, with one exception . . . but nonetheless we’ve got . . .”

“What sort of trouble?” Carlos glanced at him. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“A minor incident, really . . . but rather unfortunate, since it happened with someone who’s been trying to help.” Vogel stopped to point toward a large canvas tent a few hundred feet away; cook-fire smoke rose from behind it, and several dozen people were lined up nearby, waiting to go inside. “See that? It was set up a couple of weeks ago by a group from Midland.” An ironic smile. “From Carlos’s Pizza, in fact . . .”

Carlos rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Lynn had noticed that he always seemed mildly embarrassed that a town had been named after him. “Glad to hear that someone has stepped in, but I don’t see how they’ve been causing . . .”

“It’s not them. They’ve been bringing in food on a regular basis and using to it feed as many as possible. They’ve also pitched in with some of the other jobs . . . building longhouses. digging latrines, taking care of the sick, and so forth. But their leader . . . well, I’m afraid that he was placed under arrest yesterday evening by the local authorities.”

“Arrested?” Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Why? Who is he?”

“No name . . . or at least none that I’ve heard. But he calls himself the
chaaz’maha
, and claims that he’s a teacher of something called
Sa’Tong
. According to him, it’s the principal religion of . . .”

“The
hjadd
, yes. And also the Talus.” Carlos became more interested. “I’ve heard about it before. The Prime Emissary says that it’s not a religion, per se, but rather sort of a spiritual philosophy.” He regarded the tent with curiosity. “I wonder how he could’ve . . . ?”

“From what I’ve heard, he claims to have been given some sort of holy book by one of the
hjadd
.” A crooked smile appeared on Vogel’s face. “Sounds far-fetched, but apparently he’s managed to attract quite a following in Carlos’s Pizza. And now he’s getting people here to listen to . . .”

“What does he look like?” Carlos looked at him sharply. “A young man, in his twenties?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Vogel was obviously taken aback by the urgency of Carlos’s question. Lynn quietly moved closer to listen in. “I haven’t seen him myself, but I was told that a proctor recognized him as someone who’s apparently wanted by the law. In any case, a couple of officers came into the camp yesterday to take him away . . .”

“Where is he now?”

“The local jail, probably.” Vogel peered at him. “Why are you so . . . ?”

“Take me to him. Now.” Without another word, Carlos turned to march back the way they’d come, toward the sedan that had brought his group in from the field where their airship had landed. Vogel glanced at the other officials. Everyone else was just as surprised as he was; no one had a clue as to why the former president wanted to see this person. Vogel hesitated, then hurried to catch up with Carlos, leaving the rest of their party behind . . . save for Lynn, who fell in with them.

She had a feeling that the New Brighton story had just taken an interesting twist.

 

 

 

“I always knew I’d see you again,” Joe Bairns said. “I just didn’t think it’d be this way.”

The parole officer stood outside the jail cell, gazing at the
chaaz’maha
through the bars. The
chaaz’maha
noted that Joe had aged a bit since the last time they’d seen each other; his grey hair had become thinner, and he appeared to have lost some weight. Yet there was nothing smug in his attitude, and when the
chaaz’maha
searched his old friend, he found only bitter disappointment,

“In jail, you mean?” The
chaaz’maha
sat cross-legged on the cell bunk, hands folded together in his lap. The proctors had taken away his robe and boots, leaving him with only the homespun tunic and trousers he wore underneath. “If you were expecting to see me again, where else would I be?”

“No. I mean . . .” Bairns gestured toward his forehead. “What the hell is that, anyway? And what have you done with your hair? If you thought doing that would’ve kept anyone from recognizing you . . .”

“Not at all.” The
chaaz’maha
smiled. “In fact, I’m surprised it took so long. My people and I were in the camp two weeks before a proctor spotted me . . . and even then, he had to come by our tent twice before he was sure,” He shook his head. “So, no, I wasn’t trying to hide from anyone. As you said, this was inevitable.”

“Hawk . . .”

“
Chaaz’maha
, please.” He pointed to the tattoo on his brow. “That’s what this means. It’s the
hjadd
symbol for a teacher of
Sa’Tong
, which is what I’ve become. Hawk Thompson is no more or less who I am now than is the shadow on the wall behind me.”

Resting a shoulder against the bars, Joe closed his eyes. “Oh, man . . . you’ve really lost it, haven’t you?”

“Joe . . .” The
chaaz’maha
sighed. “Joe, I haven’t lost anything. When you knew me . . . when you knew Hawk Thompson, that is . . . he had nothing left to lose. He . . .”

“Knock if off. We both know who you are.”

“As you wish . . . I was simply putting in time, waiting until the day I died. That’s how hopeless I’d become.” He uncrossed his legs, stood up from the bunk. “Since I left this place, I’ve found something new. A purpose to life, a direction that gives meaning to my existence. I couldn’t have done that here, which is why I had to go. I apologize for disappointing you, and for the worry that I’ve caused, but please believe me when I say that I’m much happier now.”

“I bet you are. Once you’ve got your own cult . . .”

“
Sa’Tong
is not a cult. It’s . . .”

“Look, I really don’t care. All I know is that I trusted you . . . hell, I even kept you out of jail, when I could have easily put you away . . . and this is how you’ve repaid me. I . . .”

They were interrupted by the creak of a door opening at the end of the cell block. Hearing this, other prisoners began to yell for attention, demanding food, attorneys, or extra blankets, yet the person who’d come in ignored them as he walked down the row to where Joe was standing. And the moment he appeared, the
chaaz’maha
recognized him.

“Mr. Bairns?” David Laird was properly deferential to the parole officer. “There’s someone here to see the prisoner.” He paused, then added, “I think it’s President Montero.”

Joe’s eyes widened, and he glanced at the
chaaz’maha
. “Were you expecting him?”

“Not at all,” he replied, as calmly as before. “I’m just as surprised as you are. But, yes, I’d like to see my uncle, if that’s all right with you.”

Joe seemed to think it over. “I want to talk to him first,” he said at last. “Have you eaten yet today? I don’t want you to say that we’ve been starving you.”

“I haven’t, no. Otherwise, the proctors have been quite hospitable.”

“Get him some lunch,” Joe said to Laird, then he looked back at the
chaaz’maha
again. “I’ll bring him in, but not until he and I have had some words.” Then he walked away, leaving Laird behind.

Laird watched him go, but it wasn’t until the door shut behind Joe that he spoke to the
chaaz’maha
. “Hello, there,” he said, his voice low. “Remember me?”

“Of course. I assisted in your arrest last year.” The
chaaz’maha
noticed the control bracelet on Laird’s left wrist. “Appears that you’ve done well with yourself since then . . . or at least as well as you could, under the circumstances. I take it you’re wearing an inhibitor patch as well.”