Coyote Horizon (6 page)

“Get outta here!” Letting go of the woman, the man started toward him, right hand pulling back as a fist. “None of your goddamn . . . !”

The bearshine jug lay at his feet, unbroken despite being thrown against the wall. Hawk snatched it up and, curling his forefinger through its neck ring, swung it wildly at the stranger. To his amazement, the jug connected on the first try; it slammed into the side of the man’s face, and he yelled in pain as he lost his balance and fell against the bed. His right foot caught the edge of the sheets; he tripped and toppled over, his left hand clutching at the welt that had appeared on his cheek.

He was still trying to get up when Hawk kicked him in the stomach. An angry jolt in his big toe, and he knew at once that he’d jammed it. Yet the pain was dull; the benzodiazepine had kicked in, and already he was beginning to feel sluggish. Meanwhile, the bracelet continued to beep madly, as if scolding him for becoming violent without permission.

But the man was down. Right arm wrapped around his stomach, he whimpered as he crawled across the floor. Hawk was still trying to fight the drug when the woman managed to get to her feet. Cursing beneath her breath, she staggered over to her assailant and kicked him herself, this time in the ribs; he gasped and rolled over, and she mercilessly rammed her foot into his balls.

Hawk barely noticed any of this. Unable to focus, he lurched through the door, back out into the hall. Someone caught him as he fell, but he wasn’t fully aware of that either.

All he knew was that he’d failed.

 

 

 

He never really passed out, but lapsed into a lethargic stupor. Unable to stand on his own, he let one of his neighbors carry him back to his room, where he collapsed on the bed. Someone else came in to see if he was all right; he nodded, and the neighbor got him a glass of water, which he sipped before putting it on the floor. After a while they left him alone, closing the door behind them.

Across the hall, he could hear people moving about; his neighbors had turned their attention to the woman and were taking care of her as best they could while trying to figure out what to do with the injured man who’d attacked her. Their voices were soon joined by those of a couple of proctors who had finally showed up. Hawk listened as they questioned everyone they’d found at the scene; as to be expected, no one had actually seen anything, so the proctors had only one reliable witness, the victim herself. Although Hawk wanted to doze off, he knew what was going to happen next, so he forced himself to stay awake.

It wasn’t long until he heard a familiar voice. It spoke for a few minutes, quietly asking questions of the proctors. Then there was a knock at his door. Before he could answer, the door opened and Joe Bairns walked in. One look at Hawk, then he sadly shook his head.

“I thought I told you to stay out of trouble,” Bairns said.

“I tried . . . I did.” The benzodiazepine had largely worn off, but his tongue still felt thick. “The lady over there . . .”

“I know. I got that part of the story already.” Bairns shut the door, then walked over to the bed. “You okay? Sit up, let me take a look at you.”

Hawk rolled his legs over the side of the bed and rose to a sitting position. He was still too weak to stand up, but Bairns was being easy with him. For the last six months since he’d moved to New Brighton, the parole officer had been the closest Hawk had to a friend. Grey-haired and thickset, a plainclothes proctor on the verge of retirement, Joe had been assigned to his case by the magistrates who’d approved Hawk’s release from the farm. Although he’d never been unkind to Hawk, Bairns had made it clear that he was keeping him on a short leash.

That leash was the bracelet attached to Hawk’s wrist, which would automatically alert Bairns if the inhibitor patch was ever activated. Until that night, the bracelet had remained mute. Judging from the disappointment in Bairns’s eyes, Hawk realized that the parole officer had come to expect that he’d never hear it.

“I’m all right. Really.” Hawk had a hard time meeting Bairns’s gaze. “Joe, I’m sorry. But when I heard what was going on over there . . .”

“You just had to get involved.” Bairns bent over to gently open the left side of Hawk’s unbuttoned shirt. “You thought you were doing the right thing,” he said as he inspected the patch, “and maybe you were . . . but I’m going to have to report this, y’know. Just hope the maggies are in a forgiving mood.”

Hawk shook his head. “Joe, I’m telling you . . . if I hadn’t been there, she might’ve been killed. That guy . . .” He stopped. “Who was he, anyway?”

“A disappointed customer, or at least so I’ve been told.” Bairns touched a button on the patch, watched as a tiny diode flashed red. “I’m going to have to give you a new one.” Hawk shrugged; the parole officer changed the patch during their weekly meetings, anyway, so its replacement would come only a day earlier than usual. “Actually, maybe we should thank you. Appears that she’s an unlicensed sex worker. Once she gets out of the hospital, she’s going to have to go to court.”

Hawk wasn’t surprised. It only confirmed what he’d already suspected. “Hardly seems fair. I mean, considering the way he knocked her around . . .”

“Believe me, her boyfriend got the worst of it. Hold still.” Bairns carefully peeled away the patch, and Hawk winced as it detached from the cannula that had been inserted into his brachial artery. “And once he’s out of the ER, he’s going to be charged with assault and battery, maybe attempted rape. So he’s in trouble even more than she is.”

“And what about me?”

Bairns didn’t respond. Instead, he made himself busy with the procedure Hawk underwent every week during their meetings. After checking the bracelet to make sure that Hawk hadn’t tampered with it, he pulled out his datapad and, after hardwiring it to the bracelet, entered the six-digit code that would reset it. Next came the replacement patch; the parole officer tore open its cellophane envelope, and after Hawk raised his left arm above his head, Bairns removed the adhesive backing and carefully put it in place just beneath the armpit. Once he was satisfied that it was securely fastened, Bairns located the activation tab and firmly pressed it with his forefinger. The diode blinked, signaling that the patch had been successfully mated with the cannula.

“I’m going to have to put this in my report,” he said at last. “Sorry, but that’s my job. But I’ll also make sure to say that there were mitigating circumstances. One of your neighbors was being attacked, and when you stepped in to save her, the other guy came at you.” He looked Hawk straight in the eye. “That is what happened, isn’t it? He threw the first punch?”

“Yeah.” The fact of the matter was that the other guy hadn’t even gotten a chance to land a blow before Hawk picked up the jug. But Bairns didn’t have to know this.

Bairns nodded. “I’ll get a copy of the arrest report and send that along as well. The magistrates won’t like it very much . . . the terms of your parole are that you stay out of trouble and don’t commit any acts of violence . . . but you haven’t been charged with anything, and I’m willing to bet that the maggies will take that into consideration.”

“Sure. Okay.” Hawk lowered his arm, flexed it a little. A new thought occurred to him. “Maybe they’ll even . . . I mean, since I did something good back there, maybe they’ll even think about reducing my sentence.”

“Hawk . . .” The parole officer sighed. This was an old subject, something they’d discussed several times already. “You know better than that. You’re on probation for seven years . . . six and a half, counting the time you’ve already served. You should count yourself lucky that you’re not still in rehab. Even luckier that you’re not doing time in the stockade. If it wasn’t for your uncle . . .”

“I know, I know.” This, too, was old news. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Uncle Carlos—hero of the Revolution, former president of the Federation—had interceded on his behalf, Hawk’s punishment would have been more severe. Indeed, it sort of continued a family tradition; long ago, his uncle had also arranged for Hawk’s parents to be released from the Liberty stockade and sent into exile. Indeed, that had happened during the time that Hawk himself was conceived.

It might be said that getting into trouble with the law was congenital to the Thompson clan, except that his uncle Garth, his father’s brother, had himself recently been elected Federation president, and Hawk’s younger sister, Rain, was in training to join the Federation’s merchant fleet. So Hawk was the black sheep of the family. His mother seldom spoke to him anymore, and he knew that he was a political embarrassment to both of his uncles. Only Rain came to visit him, when she was in New Brighton between flights, but even she carefully maintained a certain distance; it wouldn’t do her career any good if it became generally known that her big brother was a convicted killer.

“Well . . . there it is.” Which was Bairns’s way of saying that their time was up. He slipped his pad back in his pocket, then stood up. “Unless there’s anything else you want to talk about.”

Once again, Hawk felt a surge of irritation. Bairns meant well, of course. In fact, Hawk was aware that the officer had a certain paternal fondness for him. But he wished that Joe would stop trying to play psychologist; he’d had enough of shrinks, and didn’t want even one more person trying to find out what was in his head.

“No . . . no, nothing else.” Hawk forced a smile. “Thanks, Joe. Sorry to get you up in the middle of the night.”

“Think nothing of it. Just doing my job.” Bairns stepped toward the door, started to open it. “Now get some sleep. See you again next week . . . usual time, okay?”

“Sure.” As if Hawk had any say in the matter. Either next week, or for the next six and a half years. “See you later.”

 

 

 

He went into work the next morning, and it was pretty much a normal day, aside from the arrival of a freighter carrying fifty head of cattle. Livestock had lately begun to be exported from Earth; with the eradication of boids just north of Liberty and in the Pioneer Valley of Midland, ranches were being established on vast tracts that had been cleared of native plants and replanted with grass more suitable for grazing. Children no longer had only goat’s milk to drink, and already it was possible, in some of the more expensive restaurants in New Florida, to order a steak dinner.

Having grown up eating chicken, goat, pork, shag meat, and creek crab, Hawk often wondered what beef tasted like. A brief encounter with cows, though, was enough to make up his mind that he’d just as soon never have a hamburger for lunch. One of the health officials had picked that day to call in sick, so Hawk was drafted to help the others by herding cattle into a corral where they’d be checked for parasites and obvious signs of disease. He soon discovered that cows were more stupid than even the dumbest shag; they didn’t understand even the most simple of verbal commands, and it wasn’t long before his shoes were caked with manure. He stayed until the officials completed their task, then returned to the passenger terminal, where the other inspectors complained about the stench he’d brought back with him.

When Hawk got home that evening, he noticed that the apartment across the hall was quiet; for the first time since he’d been living there, his neighbor wasn’t entertaining any male guests. The next day was Zamael, the beginning of the weekend; he had the day off, along with Orifiel, but although he went out only a few times—shopping for groceries at the farmer’s market, buying a new pair of shoes at the boot maker, picking up a replacement cell for his pad—he didn’t see the woman whom he’d rescued a couple of nights earlier.

Late Orifiel afternoon, he’d just begun to cut up celery, carrots, and potatoes for a pot of soup when there was a quiet knock at his door. Thinking that it might be Bairns coming to check on him, he laid down the knife and went to the door, and instead found his neighbor standing in the hall.

“Hello,” she said. “Hope I’m not bothering you. May I come in?”

“Umm . . . sure.” It took a moment for Hawk to recognize her. Purple bruises beneath her eyes, a thick bandage across the bridge of her nose, and a collarlike brace fastened around her neck; the hemp dress she wore was much less revealing than the teddy she’d had on the first time he’d seen her. Stepping aside to let her in, he cast a wary glance down the hall. To his relief, no one else was in sight; he didn’t want to be observed inviting a prostitute into his apartment.

“Thank you.” She waited until he closed the door, then looked around, her gaze falling on the counter next to the stove. “You making dinner? I could always come back later . . .”

“No, no . . . it’s all right. I’m just . . .” At a loss for what to say or do, he gestured toward the nearest chair. “Have a seat, please. I’ll . . . I mean, I can . . . Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks anyway.” A sly smile as she glided across the room. “Actually, I brought something else instead.” For the first time Hawk noticed the bottle of waterfruit wine in her left hand; she placed it on the table, then looked at him expectantly. “Got a couple of glasses? Or I could go over to my place and . . .”

“No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll get one for you.” Turning to the cabinet, he found a glass he normally used for his breakfast apple juice. “I . . . Not to be rude, but I don’t drink.” The fact of the matter was that he
couldn’t
drink; the bracelet would detect the subtle change in his metabolic rate, and since abstinence from alcohol was a condition of his parole, Bairns would have something to say about that during their next session. “But please, feel free.”

“Maybe I’ll just save it for later.” She didn’t uncork the bottle, but instead pushed it aside as she took a seat at the table. “Actually, I brought it for you. Sort of to . . . y’know, thank you for saving me the other night.” Her smile faded. “That was very brave, coming to my rescue like that. If you hadn’t . . .”