Coyote Horizon (49 page)

“Ana, please.” He shook his head. “You heard what Hawk said. Cosenza’s got his finger on the trigger. If he sees anyone come in, either from the front or the rear . . .”

“We’re just going to have to take that chance.” Tereshkova pointed toward the hatch Carlos had just come through, which still lay open. “Now do as you’re told. Go back where you belong.”

Through the open hatch behind him, Carlos heard the hollow clang of footsteps running up the ladder. Heflin had managed to escape from the lifeboat and was pursuing him topside. “Look,” he said, trying not to raise his voice, “there’s a better way. Let me go in there . . .”

“Out of the question.” Tereshkova gazed past him. “Mr. Heflin . . .”

“Listen!” Carlos pushed past one of the midshipmen until he was right in Tereshkova’s face. “I’m with you on this. There’s no way we can talk him out of it. We are just going to have to take him down . . . but let me do it.”

Tereshkova raised an eyebrow; this wasn’t what she expected to hear. She started to say something, but Carlos didn’t let her. “Look, he won’t suspect me . . . not if I go in to see someone else. There’s another woman back there . . . a reporter, Lynn Hu. That’s who Hawk was visiting in the first place. She’s sitting directly across the aisle from him. If I sit down beside her . . .”

Heflin’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, but Tereshkova surprised them both by shaking her head. Heflin reluctantly let go of him, and Carlos went on. “If you give me a stun gun, then I’ll have a close shot. Way closer than any of your men.” He paused, swallowing what felt like a dry lump in his throat. “And you know I can handle a gun. I’ve been doing this sort of thing all my life.”

That wasn’t exactly the truth, but Ana was fully aware of the years he’d spent as a guerrilla fighter. Long before he was President Montero, he’d been Rigil Kent, the man who’d led the fight to liberate the colonies. Yet Tereshkova still seemed uncertain. Her gaze flickered from him to the two midshipmen, then to the curtain, then back to Carlos again. “Time,” she whispered, glancing at Heflin.

“Three minutes, twenty seconds,” the chief petty officer replied.

Carlos understood. Hyperspace insertion would begin sixty seconds before the
Lee
entered the wormhole created by the giant ring of the starbridge. It would be at that one-minute mark when the Millis-Clement field would be deactivated and the ship would lose artificial gravity. He had to be seated by then.

“Commodore . . .” He held out his hand. “Please. I know what I’m—”

“All right.” Tereshkova made up her mind. She slapped her stunner into his palm. “Go. Do it.”

Carlos nodded, but said nothing as he tucked the small pistol in the waistband of his trousers, carefully positioning it on his right side where he could easily get to it with his right hand. He pulled the front of his jacket around the gun but didn’t button it, instead letting his jacket hang open. So long as he kept his arms at his sides, the stun gun would remain hidden.

Heflin patted his shoulder, a silent gesture of good luck. Tereshkova was quiet, but the look in her eyes spoke volumes. Carlos took a deep breath, then, as the officers slipped behind him so that they wouldn’t be spotted, he pushed aside the curtain and stepped out into the compartment.

The passengers were gazing out the portholes, trying to catch a glimpse of the starbridge that lay directly before them. A few of them looked up as Carlos walked down the aisle; their surprise at his sudden appearance was obvious from the way he heard his name being whispered. He ignored them as he sauntered toward the back of the compartment, trying to appear more relaxed than he actually was.

As he expected, Lynn was seated to his right, on the port side of the cabin. Across the aisle was Cosenza, seated on the starboard side. Although Lynn spotted him at once, the deacon barely seemed to notice him. Cosenza continued to stare straight ahead, his gaze fixed upon the seatback screen in front of him.

“Mr. President!” Lynn’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t . . . I’m sorry, but I wasn’t expecting . . .”

“I know, I know.” Carlos forced a congenial smile that he didn’t feel. “Getting a little tired of first class, so I thought I’d come back, ride the rest of the way with you.” He tried not to look at Cosenza. “Mind if I . . . ?”

“No . . . no, of course not.” Startled, she started to reach down to the vacant seat beside her, and it was then that Carlos noticed that she’d placed her shoulder bag upon it, even taking care to pull a lapstrap around it so that it wouldn’t float away when the Millis-Clement field was deactivated. “Just let me . . .”

“Oh, no. Don’t bother.” Carlos couldn’t believe his luck; Lynn’s bag in the seat next to her meant that he had an excuse to sit beside Cosenza, thereby putting him in arm’s reach. “I’ll just sit here.”

Not bothering to ask permission, Carlos settled in the vacant seat next to Cosenza’s. “Excuse me,” he murmured, keeping the rigid smile on his face even as he turned his head to glance at the deacon. For the first time, Cosenza became aware of him. Regarding Carlos with a gaze that was unnaturally intense, he shrank away, avoiding even the most casual contact.

Carlos spotted the datapad. It was on the right armrest, Cosenza’s hand lightly upon it. Close, so close . . .

A voice came over the ceiling speaker just then.
“Your attention, please. We are on final approach toward Starbridge Coyote, with hyperspace insertion in two minutes. In sixty seconds, the ship will disengage its Millis-Clement field. When this occurs, we will lose artificial gravity. Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened, and all loose objects are safely stowed . . .”

“I’m so glad you’ve decided to join me.” Lynn was paying little attention to the announcement; she’d turned around in her seat as much as its straps would allow. “I really hate this part of the trip. Making the jump . . .”

“Nothing to worry about. It’s perfectly safe, really.” Carlos buckled his waist strap. He pretended to tighten it, while in fact making sure that it was loose enough that it wouldn’t interfere with his movements. In that instant, he realized that he’d made a mistake; by sitting down next to Cosenza, he’d put himself in a position where he couldn’t easily reach the stunner concealed beneath his jacket. At least not without jostling the priest with his right elbow, therefore tipping his hand. He was close, yes . . . but
too
close.

Perhaps he should first try to grab the pad, then go for his weapon? No. Forget the gun. The crewmen waiting for him to make his move would take care of Cosenza. The first priority was getting his hands on that goddamn pad.

“Yes, well . . . you’re right, of course.” Lynn continued to blather on, oblivious to what was happening beside her. “Anyway, I just want to thank you for reading the message I sent you, and asking your nephew if he’d be willing to do an interview.”

“Forget it.” Carlos prayed that Cosenza hadn’t heard her words. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the minister was still watching his screen. Its image had changed from a course map to a real-time view of the starbridge, as seen from a camera in the ship’s bow.

“No, really. I just wish that he’d stayed longer, but he said that he had an upset stomach . . .”

Cosenza looked sharply at her, then his gaze shifted toward Carlos. The deacon had caught that remark. Finally realizing who was sitting beside him, he’d become suspicious.
Dammit!
Carlos thought.
Can’t that silly woman ever keep her mouth shut?

“He’ll be . . . he’ll be fine,” he said hastily, and found that he couldn’t keep from stammering. “I’m sure he’ll . . . I mean, that he . . .”

Four bells rang, the signal that the field was about to be shut down. A few seconds later, he felt his body rise from the seat cushion, held down only by the loosened strap. On the screen before him, the starbridge completely filled the view. Its broad silver torus was no longer empty at its center, though: a brilliant flash of defocused light, filtered slightly by the camera but nonetheless blinding, was replaced an instant later by a swirling haze of multicolored light.

The
Lee
surged forward, rushing toward the opened wormhole, and in that second, Cosenza raised the pad from his armrest. Holding it in his right hand, he lifted his left hand, extended a forefinger . . .

Twisting around in his seat, Carlos made a grab for Cosenza’s left hand. He managed to get hold of the deacon’s wrist. Cosenza snarled at him, an incoherent protest that sounded like an animal’s angry growl, as Carlos yanked the priest’s hand away from the pad. For an instant, Carlos thought he had him. He heard Lynn yell something, and behind them there was the sharp bang of the compartment’s rear hatch being slammed open . . .

Cosenza wrenched his hand free. Desperately, Carlos tried to lunge across his seat, but the strap interfered with him. “Don’t . . . !”

Cosenza stabbed his finger against the pad.

For a timeless moment, it appeared as if nothing was going to happen. Cosenza sagged back in his seat, letting out his breath even as he allowed the pad to fall from his grasp.

“Praise . . .” he whispered.

The rest was lost beneath an immense
thump!
as an explosion rocked the ship. Carlos heard the warbling shriek of the master alarm. On the screen, the image fuzzed and blurred. Another
thump
, harder, followed by a loud
wham!
as the oxygen tanks exploded.

The passengers screamed in terror as, several yards away, the immense rip appeared in the cabin fuselage. A cyclone tore through the compartment, tearing at loose objects and flinging them into space. Through the porthole, Carlos caught a glimpse of the starbridge hurtling toward them, the curving edge of its torus a vast silver wall.

He shut his eyes, took his last breath. His final living thought was of Wendy, and how beautiful she’d been the day he’d first met her.

The night was still, the city uncommonly quiet. It seemed to Wendy as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for a miracle that would never occur.

Pulling the curtains back in place, she moved away from the window, reluctantly returning to the suite on the second floor of the Federation consulate, where she’d spent her last night with her husband. Sometime during the morning—before she’d returned from the spaceport, before anyone had heard the awful news—someone from the housekeeping staff had come in here and made the bed: smoothing out the sheets, plumping the pillows, pulling the bedspread and comforter back in place. A thoughtful gesture, but one she wished hadn’t been made. It was the last bed she would ever share with Carlos; she would’ve preferred to have it left undisturbed.

She wasn’t alone. Melissa sat on the end of the bed, cuddling Inez in her arms as she quietly wept for . . . how many times had it been, for both women? Wendy had lost count, if she’d ever kept one in the first place. A staff member had brought mother and child to the guest suite shortly after they’d received word of the
Lee
’s destruction, and in hindsight Wendy realized that it was fortunate that Hawk’s family had decided to spend the night in New Brighton before returning to Midland. After the skiff lifted off, Wendy herself had briefly considered catching an airship back to New Florida—but changed her mind; there was some minor government business in New Brighton that required the attention of a former president, and since Carlos wasn’t available . . .

She let out her breath as a rattling sigh, laid a hand across the back of a wicker chair to steady herself. Government business. In the end, that was what had killed her husband. Not a boid, not his role as Rigil Kent during the Revolution, not any of the wilderness expeditions he’d participated in or led since his teenage years. A diplomatic mission, important yet hardly dangerous, that he shouldn’t have even undertaken in the first place. The irony was . . .

A soft knock at the door. Wendy glanced at Melissa, but the other woman—the other widow in the room, she reminded herself, although they barely knew each other—didn’t appear to notice. They’d already had quite a few visitors these last few hours. What was one more?

“Come in,” she said, surprised by how hoarse her voice had become.

The door slowly opened, and Tomas Conseco came in. Her aide had caught a gyro from Liberty as soon as he’d heard the news. “Wendy?” he said, for once addressing her by her first name. “Someone here to see you.” Seeing the look on her face, he quickly added, “I think you might like to talk to him.”

Wendy hesitated. For the first several hours after she’d learned of the
Lee
’s destruction, she’d had to deal with a seemingly endless progression of government officials, most of whom were strangers, each coming by to express condolences. They’d meant well, of course, but after a while she welcomed Tomas’s arrival, if only to have him run interference until the rest of her family made their way to New Brighton. But if her aide thought it was a person she ought to meet . . .

“All right,” she murmured, trying not to sigh. “Let him in.”

Tomas turned toward the open door, nodded to someone standing just outside. A moment later, a tall, dark-skinned man dressed in homespun clothing came in. Wendy had never seen him before, but he obviously knew who she was.

“Madam President?” he asked. “I’m . . . sorry to bother you at a time like this, but . . .”

“Go ahead.” She hoped that, whatever he had to say, he’d be quick about it. “And you are . . . ?

“Sawyer Lee.” He nervously shifted from one foot to another. “I’m a friend . . . I mean, I was a friend of your . . .”

“Yes, of course.” Wendy remembered his name from the letter Carlos had received from him. “Carlos and I were talking about you only this morning. Something about a . . .”

Quietly clearing his throat, Tomas lifted a finger. Seeing that her aide was trying to get her attention, she raised a hand to Sawyer. “Just a second,” she said, then looked at Tomas. “Yes?”