Coyote Horizon (43 page)

Bairns stared at him. “Where? New Florida?”

“No.” Carlos found himself smiling. “Much farther than that, I think.”

 

 

 

David Laird watched as Thompson walked down the front steps of the jail, his uncle at his side. Although the protesters from the refugee camp hadn’t been permitted to come any closer than the
torii
, a large number of townspeople had gathered on the street in front of the jail, drawn there by word of mouth and curiosity. Joe Bairns and the chief proctor went with the
chaaz’maha
and the former president as far as the sidewalk, where a couple of sawhorses had been put up to keep the crowd at bay.

Laird was standing just outside the front door, so he’d been only a few feet away from the
chaaz’maha
as he strode past him. He’d tried to make eye contact with Thompson, intending to give him a parting word or two, yet the
chaaz’maha
was wearing his robe again, its hood raised to hide his face, and there were too many people around for Laird to say anything that wouldn’t have been overheard. So Laird could do little more than glare at him, but the
chaaz’maha
apparently didn’t notice the scowling figure who, for a brief instant, had been within arm’s reach.

Laird took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. He’d already learned that anger could trigger the inhibitor patch beneath his left armpit. But if he’d only had a gun, or a knife . . .

The moment Thompson left the building, a cry rose from the nearby demonstrators. For hours, they’d been chanting his name over and over again—
chaaz’maha! chaaz’maha! chaaz’maha!
—and now that it was clear that he was being released, they began to shout even louder, their voices mixed with applause and whistles. Their joy was infectious; it quickly spread to the townspeople standing outside the jail, and even if they didn’t know exactly who this person was, they picked up the chant as well. The
chaaz’maha
responded by briefly raising a hand, a gesture of both acknowledgment and benediction, and the tumult grew even louder.

Laird gnawed at his lower lip. Whoever Thompson was now, whatever he’d become, it was obvious that he was more popular than ever before. Laird didn’t believe for an instant that he was a spiritual leader; for him, Thompson was little more than someone lucky enough to have a powerful relative who was able to talk his nephew out of a jail cell. Rumor had it that President Montero had reached some sort of agreement with the maggies that would allow the
chaaz’maha
to be placed in his custody pending further review of his case.

Whatever the reason, it meant that Thompson was beyond Laird’s reach. Nonetheless, he still wanted revenge, however futile that desire might be. If it hadn’t been for some goddamn government stooge, no one on Coyote would have ever learned that Peter Desilitz had once been another person. No patch, no bracelet. A free man, able to do whatever he pleased. And now . . .

A sedan was parked just outside the jail fence, a couple of proctors waiting to escort President Montero and the
chaaz’maha
through the crowd. The
chaaz’maha
didn’t go straight to the vehicle, though, but paused for a moment to speak to his uncle. President Montero hesitated, then reluctantly nodded; he turned to say something to Bairns, who gave a helpless shrug but nodded as well. Then the three of them, with the proctors on either side, walked past the sawhorses and began to move through the crowd, heading toward the
torii
.

Apparently Thompson wished to address his supporters. No one was paying attention to Laird, so he fell in behind them, carefully maintaining his distance while keeping the
chaaz’maha’s
hooded head within sight. It was hard to do, for as soon as the
chaaz’maha
and President Montero entered the street, townspeople formed a solid knot around them, walking with them as they approached the
torii
. Beyond the ornamental gate, the noise of the demonstration rose to a fever pitch, as . . .

“Blasphemy!”

From the edge of the crowd, a harsh voice rang out. Several people turned to look, trying to see to whom it belonged.

“He is a false prophet!” A black-suited man, wearing the crucifix of a Dominionist minister, raised his hands above his head, a Bible clutched in one of them. “Remember the words of the Lord! Exodus 34:14 . . . ‘Do not worship any other god, for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is an angry . . . !’ ”

Whatever else he was about to say, it was lost beneath a groundswell of laughter. Ridicule rose around the elderly minister as those around him pushed him aside. He fell back; nonetheless, he refused to relent. “ ‘Break down their altars!’ ” he shouted, still quoting Biblical verse. “ ‘Smash their sacred stones, and cut down their . . . !’ ”

Then he was left behind, ignored by those who’d chosen instead to follow the
chaaz’maha
toward the
torii
. Thompson himself didn’t even seem to notice the interruption; he didn’t look back, or even pause for a second. Yet if he had, he might have seen that Laird had broken away from the others, heading instead for the angry clergyman, who stood alone in the street, stubbornly denouncing the false prophet who walked among the good people of New Brighton.

David Laird tried not to smile as he approached the Dominionist minister. The
chaaz’maha
appeared to have only two enemies, but perhaps two would be enough.

The
chaaz’maha
arrived at the spaceport, the first step of his journey to Earth.

As he climbed out of the sedan that had carried him and his uncle from the Federation consulate in New Brighton, he reflected that, although the terminal hadn’t changed since he’d worked there, it seemed smaller. Once it had occupied the center of his world, but now it was what it always had been: just another building, neither more nor less remarkable than any other. Another indication of how much he’d changed in the last year and a quarter.

“Bet you didn’t think you’d ever see this place again.” Uncle Carlos watched as the proctor who’d driven them to the spaceport removed their bags from the trunk.

“Not like this, no.” The
chaaz’maha
gazed at immigrants lined up outside the main entrance. Too many to fit inside the terminal, they shuffled toward the inspection tables where overworked customs inspectors would open the suitcases, knapsacks, and bags they carried with them. “That’s what I used to do,” he murmured. “Almost makes me want to give them a hand.”

“Does it really?” Carlos peered at him, then slowly nodded. “Yes, I think you really would.” Turning to the driver, he gestured toward a roped-off side door where another proctor was waiting for them. “But that’s not your job anymore. You’ve got a more important one now.”

The
chaaz’maha
gave a him sidelong look. “ ‘No task is menial so long as it helps another.’ Something else the
Sa’Tong
teaches us.”

“Yes, well . . . right now, our task is to get aboard the skiff before the pilot decides to leave without us.” But the
chaaz’maha
was no longer listening. The driver was already heading for the private entrance; the
chaaz’maha
hastened to relieve the overburdened officer of his duffel bag. “You don’t have to . . .” Carlos started to add, then shrugged. “Oh, never mind.”

The terminal was just as crowded inside as it was outside; indeed, the
chaaz’maha
had never seen it quite so packed. Then again, never before had so many people come to Coyote all at once. Through its high windows, he could see shuttles parked alongside each other on the reinforced concrete; he’d become accustomed to hearing the constant roar of their liftoffs and landings, but it wasn’t until then that he realized how much traffic had increased. It was as if floodgates had opened, permitting a river of men, women, and children to inundate the new world.

He didn’t get a chance to contemplate this, though, before his uncle led him to a kiosk cordoned off from the others. On the other side of the window, a passport control officer regarded them with an all-too-familiar expression of boredom. The
chaaz’maha
recognized him immediately as a former coworker, one who’d been fond of whispering behind his back whenever he entered the room. The
chaaz’maha
remained stoical as he waited to take his turn; after Carlos went through, the official impatiently gestured for him to come forward.

“Name?”

“I am the
chaaz’maha
.”

The official’s eyes widened with sudden recognition. “Hawk Thompson . . . it really
is
you, isn’t it?”

“Hello, Bill.” The
chaaz’maha
searched the other man’s mind while giving the pretense that he remembered his name. “Good to see you again.”

“I . . . ah . . . yeah, same here.” Bill’s face went red; he, too, remembered all the casual insults. “I’d heard that you . . . um . . .”

“Found a new line of work.” The
chaaz’maha
smiled, trying to ease the other man’s discomfiture. “Sorry to leave you guys shorthanded, but . . . well, something came up.”

The passport control officer didn’t seem to know what to say. It was obvious that he knew all about the
chaaz’maha
, including the fact that he was someone with whom he’d once worked. In the weeks since his release from jail, his reputation had only increased, even though he’d seldom been seen in public. Carlos had insisted upon that; as much as the
chaaz’maha
wanted to return to the refugee camp, the magistrates had stipulated that he remain in custody until it was time for them to depart for Earth. Although he’d been sequestered at the consulate, he was permitted to have visitors, and they’d told him that his stature had reached heroic proportions. So of course Bill would’ve heard all about that, even if he hadn’t recognized Hawk on sight.

“Yeah, sure . . . no problem. We just hired another . . .” Apparently remembering his duties, the official stopped himself. “Destination?” he asked, becoming formal again.

“Earth.”

Watching the interchange, Carlos restrained a smile. An obvious question, with an equally obvious answer. The
Liberty Post
had long since reported that the
chaaz’maha
would be accompanying President Montero to Earth, where they would meet with representatives from both the European Alliance and the provisional government of the Western Hemisphere Union. Having observed his nephew’s considerable powers of persuasion, Carlos hoped that, as someone with firsthand knowledge of Coyote’s refugee crisis, the
chaaz’maha
might be able to convince Earth’s major superpowers that they needed to assist in the relief effort, or at least stop sending Coyote every warm body they could pack aboard their spacecraft.

Taking his nephew to Earth was a long shot, but Carlos knew that he’d need all the help he could get. At least for time being, the only aid Coyote could hope to get would have to be from Earth. Morgan Goldstein had recently returned from Rho Coronae Borealis with news that, although the
hjadd
were sympathetic to their problems, there was little that the aliens were willing to do for them. And although the Talus had accepted humankind, at least on a provisional basis, Jasahajahd Taf Sa-Fhadda had reminded both Morgan and Carlos himself that the interstellar community customarily distanced itself from the internal affairs of its member races.

Ultimately, the solution to Coyote’s immigration crisis would have to come from the very source of the problem itself. As he watched his nephew give his travel documents to the flustered customs official, though, Carlos reflected that he could do worse than to have a spiritual leader at his side. Indeed, once the passport officer scanned the
chaaz’maha’s
passport and handed it back to him, he surprised Carlos by bowing.

“Sa’Tong qo, chaaz’maha.”
His tone was respectful, without a trace of irony.

“
Sa’Tong qo
, Bill.” The
chaaz’maha
reciprocated with a bow of his own. “Thank you. I hope to see you again soon.” Then he walked over to where his uncle was waiting for him

“What does that mean?” Carlos asked as they walked out of the terminal. “
Sa’Tong qo
, that is.”

“It’s difficult to translate,” the
chaaz’maha
replied. “Literally speaking, it means ‘Follow the wisdom of
Sa’Tong
’ . . . but it could also mean ‘good-bye,’ ‘good luck,’ ‘safe journey,’ or whatever else the occasion demands.”

Outside the building, they surrendered their bags to a cargo handler, who loaded them onto a cart to be taken directly to their waiting craft. For outbound flights, there was no customs inspection; their luggage wouldn’t be opened again until they reached Highgate, in Lagrangian orbit between Earth and the Moon. “So it’s an all-purpose phrase,” Carlos murmured as they watched the cart pull away. “I’m surprised your friend back there knows it.”

The
chaaz’maha
shrugged. “The
Sa’Tong-tas
has found its way into quite a few hands lately.” Then he smiled. “Bill may not know exactly what the expression means, but I’m sure he’ll learn soon enough.”