Coyote Horizon (47 page)

So there was nothing new about another interview with President Montero. What she needed to cap off her long tenure as a foreign correspondent was a real, honest-to-God scoop, something that would blow the competition on Earth right out of the water . . . and, just maybe, persuade her editors that they ought to send her back to Coyote, perhaps to open a permanent PNS bureau. That would give her a reason to return—and she smiled at the thought of coming back to Sawyer as well; there
was
something special about their relationship, wasn’t there?—but she knew that she’d have to do something outstanding to earn such a promotion.

Absently tapping a finger against her lips, she gazed toward the front of the cabin. Just past the second-class seats was the narrow passageway leading to the first-class cabins. A curtain had been pulled across the entrance, with a steward stationed just outside. It was obvious that measures were being taken to protect President Montero’s privacy while he was in transit, just as he’d been brought aboard on the captain’s skiff. It wasn’t Carlos whom she wanted to see, though, but the person traveling with him.

No one had yet interviewed the
chaaz’maha
. Lynn hadn’t even known who he was until he was arrested, and after he was released from jail, the magistrates had ordered him sequestered in the consulate, with no one allowed to visit him except family members. However, there was no question that, in a very short period of time, he had become a figure of enormous influence.

Not to mention controversial, or least potentially so. Lynn turned her head to gaze across the aisle. The Reverend Alberto Cosenza was seated on the starboard side of the cabin; a Bible lay open in his lap, but he stared out the porthole even though, now that the
Lee
had left orbit, there was little to be seen. His right hand tapped nervously at the cover of a datapad resting on the armrest. When he looked away from the porthole for a moment, Lynn noticed the tightness of his jaw, the angry look in his eyes, as he regarded the curtain behind which lay the cabin Carlos and the
chaaz’maha
were sharing.

An idea occurred to her. Ever since she’d come aboard, Lynn had been kicking herself for not having had the foresight to reserve first-class accommodations; PNS didn’t budget her for such extravagances, but she could have shelled out the money on her own. And the steward had already made it clear to her that she wouldn’t be allowed to go forward to see the president.

But maybe there was a way to get the
chaaz’maha
to visit her instead? And if she could persuade him to do so, how interesting it would be, to conduct an interview within earshot of a Dominionist clergyman so virulently opposed to his teachings? Lynn normally didn’t practice ambush journalism, considering it unethical to lay traps for interview subjects. In this case, though, she could always claim that it had been sheer coincidence that the two men happened to be in the same place at the same time.

Lynn still had Carlos’s private number stored in her pad’s memory; he’d given it to her when she started covering his early negotiations with Earth, so that she’d keep informed of new developments as they occurred. No doubt he would have his pad with him. Pulling up the text-message function, she took a few minutes to compose a brief note, taking care to make her request as respectful as possible. Once she was satisfied, she tapped the SEND button, then settled back in her seat to wait.

Nothing might come of it. The
chaaz’maha
could always turn her down. But it was worth a shot . . .

 

 

 

Carlos’s pad beeped just as he and the
chaaz’maha
were finishing lunch. Surprised by the interruption, he retrieved his jacket from where he’d stashed it beneath his seat and fished the pad out of its pocket. The
chaaz’maha
watched him from the other side of the fold-down table as he read the message that appeared on its screen.

“Oh, dear . . .” Carlos chuckled, shook his head. “Should’ve known this would happen.” He looked up at his nephew. “Remember Lynn Hu, the PNS reporter I was telling you about? She’s here.”

“Aboard the
Lee
?” The
chaaz’maha
spoke around a mouthful of teriyaki noodles.

“Uh-huh. I’d forgotten she was heading back to Earth today. Anyway, she wants an interview . . . with you, for a change.”

The
chaaz’maha
wiped his mouth and put aside his chopsticks. “About what? Or does she say?”

“Read for yourself.” Carlos pushed the pad across the table. “She’s not very specific, but it sounds like she’d like to talk to you about
Sa’Tong
and your role in it.”

The
chaaz’maha
picked up the pad, studied it for a moment. “That’s something I didn’t expect. Didn’t think I’d be speaking to the press anytime soon.”

Carlos shrugged. Until less than two weeks ago, he’d been careful to keep Hawk out of sight after he’d bargained his release from jail, not authorizing public disclosure of the fact that the
chaaz’maha
would be accompanying him on the trip. “Like I said, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

The
chaaz’maha
looked up. “Think I should do it?”

“Well . . . the pope gives interviews. So does the Dalai Lama. No reason why you shouldn’t. And Lynn is reasonably honest, at least so far as reporters go. When I’ve asked her not to quote me for the record, she’s gone along with it.” He paused, then added, “Not that you’d have the same liberty, I’m afraid. As a religious leader . . .”

“Spiritual teacher.”

“Hawk . . .” Carlos sighed, rubbed his eyes. “Look, I know the difference, but most people aren’t going to make that distinction.
Sa’Tong
is going to be viewed as a religion, no matter how you try to nuance it. Don’t be surprised if you get a lot of resistance because of that.”

“Oh, I know.” The
chaaz’maha
smiled as he put down the pad. “One of my students is a former Dominionist minister. We’ve had quite a few interesting discussions.” He gazed out the porthole; Coyote had vanished behind, to be replaced by Bear. “So . . . you think I should do this?”

“I don’t see why not. You haven’t done any interviews. Besides, it’ll give you good practice for when we get to Earth.” He looked at the message again, and frowned. “Says here that she’d like for you to go back to second class. I could always turn things around, invite her to come here instead.”

The
chaaz’maha
shook his head. “Cabin’s too small for three people,” he said, and Carlos had to admit that he had a point. Although their accommodations were relatively luxurious, with brass rails, window curtains, a wall screen, and faux-leather seats that could be folded down to serve as bunks, the fact remained that it was not much larger than a closet. Big enough for two, but three would be a crowd. “And if I’m going to have to get used to doing interviews, perhaps I should also get used to doing them without your holding my hand.”

“All right, then.” Carlos tapped the REPLY button on the message bar. “I’ll tell her that you . . .”

“Does it have to be right now?” The
chaaz’maha
sighed. “I mean . . . I want to do it, sure, but it’s been a long morning already. I was looking forward to a nap.”

Carlos glanced at the wall screen. It depicted a graphic display of the
Lee
’s projected course, with Starbridge Coyote as a tiny ring in trojan orbit around Bear. A chronometer at the bottom of the screen informed him that a little more than three hours remained until the ship rendezvoused with the starbridge. Normally the trip took ten hours, but once the differential drive was engaged, as Ana said it would, the flight time would be reduced by nearly two-thirds.

“Sure. I understand. I’ll let her know that you’ll come back in a little while.” He grinned as he began to type in an appropriate response. “Anyway, maybe it’ll do her good to let her sweat for a change. No point in jumping whenever she says frog.”

“Frogs.” The
chaaz’maha
rotated his chair away from the table, then reached down to the lever that cranked his seat back to horizontal position. “I’d like to see one once we get to Earth . . . if they’re not extinct, that is.”

Carlos smiled, watching his nephew as he closed his eyes. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that the he hadn’t been born on Earth. He had many surprises waiting for him. Carlos hoped that few of them would be unpleasant.

 

 

 

The
chaaz’maha
awoke to the sound of bells: two sharp clangs, coming through the ceiling speaker. Opening his eyes, he turned his head to look up at his uncle. Carlos was calmly seated on the other side of the cabin, a pad open in his lap.

“Have a good nap?” Carlos asked.

“Yes, thank you.” The
chaaz’maha
yawned, then raised his seat to its upright position. He glanced out the porthole, felt his breath catch: Bear was much closer, larger than he’d ever seen it, its rings filling the window. “How long have I . . . ?”

“About three hours.” Carlos nodded toward the wall screen. “Those bells were the signal that we’re on primary approach. The main drive has been shut down, and we’re now in braking maneuvers.”

If he’d had a mind to do so, the
chaaz’maha
might have cursed under his breath. Obviously, he’d been more tired than he thought, or he wouldn’t have slept quite so long. “I suppose that means I won’t be able to do that interview after all,” he murmured, shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs.

“No . . . no, you’ve still got time.” Carlos grinned. “You’re not getting out of it that easy. In fact, Lynn just sent me another message, asking me to remind you about this.”

“I suppose you’re right. I did promise her, didn’t I?” Sighing in resignation, he pushed himself out of his chair. Even though the differential drive had been shut down, the Millis-Clement field was still active; he’d be able to walk around, or at least until the field itself was shut off just prior to the ship’s insertion into hyperspace. “Very well, then. Be back soon.”

“Have a good time.” The
chaaz’maha
was about to open the door when Carlos lifted a finger. “Want some advice? When you talk to the press, always tell them everything, but say nothing.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Trust me, it will.” Carlos gave him a wink, then returned his attention to his pad.

The
chaaz’maha
was still trying to figure out what his uncle meant as he pushed aside the curtain leading to the second-class section. He was mildly surprised to see that most of the seats were vacant; the lights had been lowered, and the majority of the passengers were napping, but the few who were awake looked up in astonishment as he made his way down the center aisle. The steward, surprised that he’d left his cabin, immediately came forward to ask if he needed anything. He smiled and shook his head, and the steward stepped aside to let him pass.

It wasn’t hard to figure out who Lynn Hu was: a petite young woman, sitting alone in the rear of the compartment. Seeing him, she rose from her seat. “
Chaaz’maha
,” she said, offering her hand. “Thanks for coming back to see me.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Hu. Thank you for inviting me.” As he took her hand, the
chaaz’maha
opened his mind to hers.

Perhaps he was giving himself an unfair advantage by searching her mind, but this was the first time he’d met a reporter, and he didn’t want to be caught off guard. So he fixed a smile upon his face as he moved toward the seat next to Lynn. She’d put her shoulder bag there, but she hastily pulled it aside, putting it in her lap as she sat down again.

“Many apologies for not coming back sooner,” he went on, taking the empty seat. “The trip up took a lot out of me, and I needed to rest before we . . .”

“No, no. Not at all. I understand perfectly.” A glance at the screen in the seatback in front of her, and she frowned. “Although we’re probably going to have to make this short. We’re about to rendezvous with the starbridge, and . . .”

“Of course.” The
chaaz’maha
folded his hands together. “Again, my apologies. I didn’t . . .”

At that instant, violent emotion hit him like a cold, dark wave, its fury so unexpected that he involuntarily sucked in his breath as a new stream of consciousness invaded his mind:

The unspoken voice, harsh and menacing, rode the crest of a psychic surge so foul that it threatened to nauseate him. It clearly didn’t belong to the smiling young woman beside him, but came from another source, yet one so near that it must have been almost as close to him as she was.

“No need to apologize.” Lynn apparently didn’t notice his discomfiture; distracted by her pad, she gazed at the screen as she switched it to vox mode. “But since we have just a few minutes, perhaps we should . . .”

Ignoring Lynn, the
chaaz’maha
slowly turned his head, searching for the source of the terrible thoughts. Across the aisle, only a few feet away, was an elderly man. Dressed in the black outfit of a Dominionist minister, he stared directly at him, and there was no mistaking the unmitigated loathing in his face. And in that instant, as their eyes met, the
chaaz’maha
searched him, and found . . .