Coyote Horizon (45 page)

The driver didn’t say anything, but her muscular legs pumped a bit harder as she stood up on the pedals. The rickshaw bounced again as it found another pothole; they’d left the town behind, and now were traveling down the unpaved dirt road leading to the spaceport, weaving in and out between the seemingly endless procession of newly arrived immigrants making their way into the refugee camp. It was hard to look at them.

“Look, you’re going to get there on time. Don’t worry about it.” Sawyer glanced over his shoulder to make sure her suitcase was still tied down. “I’m sorry, but it’s not—”

A sudden boom from somewhere far above. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of a pair of contrails. An incoming shuttle, bringing in another boatload of refugees. When was it ever going to end . . . ?

“When is what ever going to end?” Lynn peered at him, and Sawyer suddenly realized that he’d spoken aloud.

“I dunno.” He shrugged, reluctant to say more. “All these people, I guess.”

“Yeah, well . . . can’t blame them, you know.” She gazed at the vast collection of shacks, tents, and sheds that sprawled around them. “You’re lucky,” she added, and there was no mistaking the edge in her voice. “You came here years ago, by your own choice. These people . . . most of them have left behind everything they had. And they’re just the ones fortunate enough to be able to afford to.”

“I know, I know . . . sorry.” Sawyer let out his breath. He didn’t want their time together to end this way. In fact, he didn’t want it to end, period, but least of all with a one-night stand in a hotel room, followed the next morning by an argument.

When Lynn had called to tell him that she was leaving for Earth, he’d caught an airship from Liberty. He hadn’t seen her since the ExEx, and his only intention had been to say good-bye, or at least bon voyage. But one thing led to another; one too many bottles of waterfruit wine, and they’d wound up in bed together, doing what they’d meant to do but couldn’t when they were on the
LeMare
. It was hard to admit, even to himself, but he’d missed her. And now that she was going home, he knew that he’d miss her even more.

“So . . .” He hesitated, reluctant to ask again the same question he’d asked last night over dinner. “Do you think you’re coming back?”

Lynn didn’t respond, but instead stared straight ahead. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I’ve been here longer than I thought I would be. It’s been quite an experience, but there’s not much reason for me to stay. At least not after I write about Carlos’s trip . . .”

“You’re not curious about the
chaaz’maha
?” He gave her a sidelong look. “I thought you were interested in him.”

“Oh, I am. I’ve filed at least a dozen stories about him. I wish I could have gotten an interview, but . . .” She shrugged. “I’m not sure that’s sufficient cause for my editors to let me come back here.” A wry grin. “Besides, you’ve seen one messiah, you’ve seen ’em all . . . even if that’s not what he claims to be.”

“We’ve got a newspaper . . .”

“The
Liberty Post
?” The grin became a grimace. “That rag isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Hell, I can’t believe you people even use paper.”

“No shortage of wood pulp here. And it recycles just fine.”

“Yes, well . . . look, I’m a writer. Pretty good one, too, if I say so myself. Working for Pan, I’ve got a global readership of nearly 500 million, plus a possible book contract once I rewrite the series. If I move here, I’d be covering . . .” She shrugged. “I dunno. Town council meetings, Farmer Brown losing all his pigs to ring disease . . . sort of a step down, if y’know what I mean.”

“Maybe. At least you’d be alive.”

Again, Lynn fell silent. “I can’t believe . . . I won’t believe . . . that the situation will get to that point,” she said after a moment. “I know times are tough back home, but sooner or later they’re going to get better. And I don’t want to be one of the guys who jumps ship when it needs every able-bodied seaman it can get in order to stay afloat.”

“But . . .”

“I’m going back, Sawyer. Case closed.” She seemed to regret the harshness of her words, because she took his hand. “Look, I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid. If things really do get bad, I’ll grab the first ship back here I can, job or no job. You can live with that, can’t you?”

He reluctantly nodded, then put his arm around her and pulled her close. The spaceport was in sight; it was impossible to ignore the refugees lined up outside. “If you do, you won’t have to go through all that,” he said softly. “You’ve got a place to stay.”

Her smile reappeared. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a proposal.”

Sawyer didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t help but grin. Perhaps it was . . .

The rickshaw came to a stop in front of the entrance, and the driver got off her bike to unfasten Lynn’s bag from the back. Sawyer pulled out a money roll and peeled off ten colonials; the driver tucked them in her pocket, then waited while he followed Lynn to the door. “You don’t have to see me off,” she said. “In fact, I’d just as soon you didn’t. Let’s just say good-bye right here, okay?”

She didn’t want to be sentimental, nor could he blame her. Nonetheless, he took her in his arms one last time. Their kiss lasted longer than he expected, but not as long as he wanted. “Come back soon,” he whispered in her ear, and she nodded without saying whether she would or not. Then she picked up her luggage and, with a parting glance and a smile over her shoulder, walked through the door into the terminal.

As Sawyer climbed back aboard the rickshaw, he saw another cab pull up behind them. A Dominionist minister, sour-faced and dressed in black, sat in the rear; Sawyer guessed that he was another homeward-bound passenger, arriving to catch the shuttle to the
Lee
. Remembering that Lynn had interviewed a church deacon the day the
chaaz’maha
was released from jail, he wondered if it was the same person.

His own driver had just begun to pedal away when Sawyer noticed something peculiar. The minister insisted upon unloading his suitcase by himself, impatiently swatting the driver’s hands away from its handle. But when he picked it up, his shoulders visibly sagged beneath its weight.

Souvenirs, Sawyer decided. Either that, or perhaps even a Dominionist minister wasn’t above smuggling.

 

 

 

When Alberto Cosenza learned that Hawk Thompson had already departed from New Brighton, he almost canceled his reservation. He’d counted on being aboard the same shuttle as the false prophet; in fact, his entire plan depended upon it. But when he checked in at the spaceport, a casual inquiry to the ticket agent revealed the unexpected truth: Thompson, along with President Montero, had been aboard a private skiff that had lifted off over an hour earlier.

Cosenza cared little for the fact that the former Federation president was on the same flight. He had nothing against Montero, except, perhaps, that he was taking the heretic to Earth. Yet that alone was unforgivable.
Sa’Tong
was worse than sacrilegious; in its denial of the very existence of God, it was profoundly blasphemous. Cosenza had seen how its teachings had poisoned one mind already; Grey Rice was a lost soul, and the deacon was terrified by the notion that countless others back home might be swayed by this godless doctrine.

That simply could not be allowed to happen. The so-called
chaaz’maha
simply could not be allowed to set foot on Earth . . . even if Cosenza had to give up his own life, along with those of everyone aboard, to prevent it.

It was a regrettable sacrifice, but necessary.

And yet, as he rode the tram that carried him across the spaceport to the waiting shuttle, the deacon found himself forced to weigh his options. When he’d thought Thompson would be aboard the same spacecraft, the plan had been rather easy. Wait until the shuttle was about to lift off, then set the detonator’s timer for sixty seconds. That would prohibit him from chickening out at the last second, and would also ensure that the bomb would go off when the shuttle was high enough off the ground. Although his suitcase would be in the shuttle’s cargo hold, the explosion would doubtless destroy the spacecraft, and its altitude would preclude any survivors. With luck, the wreckage would have come down in the Great Equatorial River, where salvage would have been unlikely; no one would have seriously suspected that the cause was anything but the most unfortunate of accidents. An act of God.

But with Thompson no longer aboard the same shuttle . . . well, that changed everything, didn’t it? Cosenza absently gazed at the spacecraft closely parked together on the landing field. He could wait until the
Lee
reached Highgate, then retrieve his suitcase and try to get close enough to Thompson that the explosion would kill him . . . but there were too many risks involved. Thompson might disembark just the same way as he’d been brought aboard, his contact with other passengers minimized as much as possible. Or a customs inspector might open the suitcase when the false prophet was nowhere in sight; Cosenza would immediately be arrested, and Thompson would escape once and for all. Either way, the odds of success would be diminished as soon as the
Lee
reached the station.

That left only one alternative: set off the bomb aboard the starship itself. But even that option—with its added cost of the lives of the
Lee
’s crew—had its uncertainties. Cosenza regretted not letting Laird tell him how he’d constructed the bomb; he could only guess that it was comprised of some sort of material that would detonate once an electrical charge was introduced. Whatever it was, though, it was probably only powerful enough to mortally wound a relatively small spacecraft. But the
Lee
was a much larger ship, and the bomb would be in its cargo bay, away from the passenger compartments. The explosion would undoubtedly cripple the vessel, maybe even cause a temporary loss of control . . . but it wouldn’t destroy it.

Cosenza frowned. There had to be another way. The Lord wouldn’t have let him come that far, only to . . .

“Something wrong, Reverend?”

In the seat in front of him, a young woman had turned to regard him with curious eyes. It took a second for Cosenza to recognize her: the journalist who’d interviewed him a couple of weeks ago, outside the New Brighton jail the day Thompson was released. He couldn’t remember her name; indeed, he’d forgotten almost everything else about that afternoon, except his final encounter with Grey and his first meeting with David.

“No . . . no, nothing at all.” He forced a smile. “I’m just . . .”

Not knowing what else to say, his voice trailed off. “Nervous?” she finished, giving him a sympathetic grin. “Can’t blame you. I hate this whole hyperspace thing. Almost makes me wish I could take the slow boat instead.”

“No, you don’t.” This from another passenger sitting nearby: well dressed, middle-aged, probably business traveler on his way home. “Those old ships took fifty-six years to get here. Hell, there’s one that left after the Revolution that still hasn’t made it back.” Smug in his wisdom, he grinned. “Five minutes from here to Earth . . . that’s fine with me.”

“Yeah, well . . .” The woman shook her head. “Maybe so, but it’s those five minutes that get me. Especially the one when we actually make the jump.”

It was at that moment when the Lord presented a solution to Cosenza’s problem.

There was a narrow window of opportunity. It would take careful timing, of course; he couldn’t be off by more than a few seconds. Nor could he rely upon the timer. But if the
Lee
returned to Earth exactly the same way as it had come, then there was a chance . . .

“Yes,” Cosenza murmured. “It’s that one minute.”

Carlos had been aboard the
Robert E. Lee
, but several years ago. Formerly the EASS
Francis Drake
, the starship belonged to the European Alliance until it was ceded to the Coyote Federation in the aftermath of Parson’s Rebellion. He’d briefly toured the ship just prior to its rechristening ceremony, but he had never been a passenger during one of its voyages to Earth. His only previous journey to the planet of his birth had been aboard a smaller craft that, while adequate for hyperspace travel, was nowhere near as impressive.

So he’d forgotten just how large the
Lee
was. As the skiff came in on primary approach, he gazed at it through the porthole beside his seat. Nearly six hundred feet long, its sleek hull was gracefully streamlined from its tapered bow to the twin nacelles of its diametric-drive engines. Although primarily intended to be a military vessel, it had since been refitted to carry passengers and cargo as well, and now served as the flagship of the Federation Navy . . . which itself was as modest as an understatement could be, since the rest of the fleet consisted of only a small handful of freighters and shuttles. Nonetheless, Carlos couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride when he saw the Federation flag against one of the ship’s vertical stabilizers. The
Lee
might be a spoil of war, but all the same, it belonged to Coyote.

“Never thought I’d ever see this,” the
chaaz’maha
said, and Carlos looked over to see him regarding the
Lee
with unabashed awe. “Just . . . amazing, isn’t it?”

Carlos smiled. He’d all but forgotten that his nephew had never been in space. Indeed, he was surprised that the
chaaz’maha
hadn’t become ill on the way up, as most first-time space travelers usually did. But the young man had remained calm the entire time, although at one point he’d briefly closed his eyes and chanted something under his breath that sounded somewhat like a mantra. After that, he’d stared through the porthole on his side of the cabin, obviously fascinated by the sight of Coyote from orbit.

“Yes, it is.” Carlos hesitated. “Beats just watching it land and take off, doesn’t it?”

The
chaaz’maha
shrugged, not taking his eyes away from the porthole. “Yes, but that was pretty amazing, too. Didn’t happen very often, though. And this is the first time I’ve seen it . . . well, up here. Where it belongs.”