Coyote Rising (53 page)

The watch officer was already issuing orders as the lift doors closed behind Baptiste. His hand wavered in front of the panel as he briefly considered stopping by his cabin to exchange his duty fatigues for a black dress uniform. If this was a disarmament conference, then perhaps he should be suitably attired for the occasion.

Then he thought better of it, and pushed the button for the shuttle deck. Doing so would only waste time. Besides, he was reluctant to do anything that might make the Matriarch look good.

And he doubted that Robert Lee would care very much about his appearance.

1521—S
AND
C
REEK
, N
EW
F
LORIDA

Sand Creek split off from North Creek at the tip of a broad peninsula
, where it took its own course to the southeast, passing grassy savannas dotted by isolated groves of faux birch and blackwood. One after another, the flotilla turned to the left, the keelboats and pirogues trimming their sails to catch the late-afternoon wind, the canoes keeping to the center of the narrow river in order to ride the current. The water level remained high, so no one ran aground on the narrow sandbars that lay submerged beneath the surface.

Peering back over his shoulder, Carlos watched as the last of the boats made the turn, making sure that no one continued down North Creek by accident. He and Chris had switched places a few hours ago; now he sat in the stern, the better to keep track of everyone. They had long since given
up trying to remain in the lead. The pirogues and keelboats had the advantage of speed, and it made little sense to try to outrace them, so they contented themselves with remaining near the rear of the flotilla; once they got closer to Liberty, he and Chris would paddle back to the front.

For a while, though, the current was pulling them along. Carlos laid his paddle across the gunnels, giving his arms a moment to rest. His back ached and his biceps felt like coils of lead cable; arching his spine, he felt vertebrae gently crack, and he shook his arms in an effort to loosen his muscles. Never before in his life had he pushed himself so hard. Even when he’d made his solo journey down the Great Equatorial River, he hadn’t attempted to travel such a long distance in so short a time. And he didn’t want to think about how far they still had to go.

“Got some water?” Chris was hunched in the bow seat. Like Carlos, he’d pulled off his shirt once the day had become warm; the sun had reddened his shoulders, and sweat plastered his hair against the back of his neck. He was just as tired, yet he continued to plunge the blade of his paddle into the brown water, mindless of the fact that Carlos had stopped paddling.

“No problem.” Carlos reached forward, pulled aside his jacket to find the catskin flash. It was little more than a quarter full, and although he was tempted to take a drink himself, he tossed it forward. “Take a breather. Let the river do the work.”

“I hear you.” Chris pulled up his paddle, then reached back to find the flask. Unstopping it, he tilted back his head and upended the flask, letting some of the water fall across his face. Carlos said nothing; they could always beg some more drinking water from one of the larger boats. “What a job, man. What a job.”

“Just a few more miles to go. We’re halfway there. It’ll soon be over.”

That was a half lie, and they both knew it. They had passed the halfway point shortly before they entered Sand Creek, but more than a few miles lay between them and Liberty. They had made good time, and the current was with them, but the journey was far from over. Soon enough, they’d have to put down paddles, pick up their guns, and face dozens of Union Guard soldiers who’d had little more to do all day than clean their weapons.

Whatever Lee was planning, Carlos hoped it was the right thing, because Red Company was going to arrive dead on its feet.
Alabama
would be passing over again soon; he was tempted to pick up the satphone and bounce a signal to Blue Company, just to see how it was doing, but he and Clark Thompson had agreed to maintain radio silence unless absolutely necessary until the two teams were within sight of their respective targets.

“Yeah, well, the sooner, the—” Chris’s voice abruptly dropped to a whisper. “Hey, look over there.”

Carlos raised his head, peered toward the riverbank to their right. At first he didn’t see anything—sourgrass as high as his chest, spider bush snarled along the edge of the water, a few trees in the background—then something moved, and he saw a boid looking straight at him.

No—not just one boid, but two . . . three . . . four. A hunting pack. Though dun-colored feathers rendered them nearly invisible against the tall grass that surrounded them, their enormous parrotlike beaks were easily discernible. Four avians, the smallest his own height, their murderous gazes locked upon them. They stood together on the creek bank, less than a dozen yards away. Carlos knew that the shallows wouldn’t stop them from attacking, not with prey so close at hand.

It had been years since the last time he’d seen a boid at such close range; they didn’t like the high country of Midland and had learned to avoid human settlements. Years ago one of these creatures had killed his parents, and another had come close to killing him as well; its skull used to hang from the wall of his tree house, until Susan complained that it gave her nightmares and Wendy had made him take it down.

Keeping his eye on them, Carlos slowly bent forward, searching for his rifle. Yet the boids remained where they were. They stood still, silently watching as the canoe drifted past. It wasn’t until Chris picked up his paddle and carefully moved them farther away from shore that Carlos relaxed. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the boids disappear back into the tall grass.

“I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “They didn’t attack.” He looked at Chris. “That close, and they didn’t attack.”

“No, they didn’t. And you know why?” He grinned. “They’re scared of us.”

All at once, the exhaustion left him. There was no more doubt, no more need for rest. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his paddle once more.

“We’re going to win,” Carlos said very quietly, more to himself than to Chris. “We’re going to win this thing.”

1859—S
HUTTLEFIELD
, N
EW
F
LORIDA

Plymouth
came out of the setting sun, making a low, sweeping
turn to the west that shed the rest of its velocity. In the last few seconds before it descended upon the landing field, Lee caught a brief glimpse of the shantytown that surrounded the place where this same craft—once named the
Jesse Helms
before Tom Shapiro had rechristened it—had made the first landing upon Coyote.

Good grief
, he thought, his eyes widening as he gazed upon the sprawl of shacks, hovels, and tents.
They’ve actually got people living here?
Then the jets kicked up dust around the cockpit and the wheels touched down, and Kim reached forward to pull back the throttles and kill the engines.

“All right, we’re here,” she murmured. “What do you want me to do now?”

“Stay put.” Lee unfastened his seat harness. “Raise the gangway after I’m gone and shut the hatch . . . just in case.”

“Right. Just in case. Captain . . .”

“Open the belly hatch and lower the ramp, please.” He avoided looking at her as he stood up. “If it doesn’t work out . . . well, you’ll know if it doesn’t. Get off the ground and head back to Defiance.” She started to object. “Don’t argue with me. You have your orders.”

“Aye, sir.” She reached to the center console and toggled a few
switches; there was a thump beneath the deck as the hatch opened and the gangway began to descend. “Good luck,” she added. “I hope everything works out.”

“Thanks. So do I.” Lee pulled on his jacket, then left the cockpit. As he expected, Dana was waiting for him in the passenger compartment; she’d already opened the inner hatch, and a cool breeze was drifting in. She was putting on her serape, but he shook his head. “Sorry, no. You’re staying here with—”

“Like hell. Where you go, I—”

“No, you’re not.” He planted his hands on her shoulders, backed her into the nearest seat. “Look, you said it yourself . . . there’s a good chance I could be taken hostage. If they get me, that’s fine, but if they get both of us, then they can use you to make me do whatever they want. You’re not going to be able to help me very much, so you’re staying here.”

Tears listened at the corners of her eyes. “Damn it, Robert,” she said softly, “do you have to be so . . . so logical all the time?”

He smiled down at her. “Sorry. Can’t help myself.” He leaned down to kiss her; she wrapped her arms around his neck, and for a few moments they held each other. “Now go forward and keep Kim company,” he said as he released her and stood up. “And close the hatch after I’m gone.”

“Yeah. Sure.” She hesitated. “Robert, I—”

“Me, too.” And then he turned and, ducking his head slightly, headed down the gangway.

Twilight was settling upon the landing field, the evening wind picking up as Bear began to rise to the east. A large crowd of Shuttlefield residents, kept at a distance by a ring of armed Guardsmen, had gathered around the
Plymouth
; he heard his name being murmured in tones of astonishment as he marched down the ramp, and even the two soldiers waiting to meet him regarded him with awe. Here was Robert Lee, the commanding officer of the
Alabama
, a figure of history and legend long before they were born. Lee couldn’t help but smile; he probably would have the same reaction if Christopher Columbus suddenly landed in a spaceship.

Enough of this.
He turned to the nearest Guardsman. “I’m here to meet
with Matriarch Hernandez,” he said, speaking in the pidgin Anglo he’d managed to pick up over the past few years. “Can you take me to her, please?”

“I . . . I . . .” The soldier was speechless, and for a moment Lee thought he’d drop his gun and ask for an autograph. “Yes, of course, but we . . . I mean . . .”

“Captain Lee?” From behind the two Guardsmen, another figure stepped forward. Wearing a dark blue jumpsuit that bore the insignia of the Union Astronautica, he carried an air of authority and obviously was unimpressed with fame. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said, addressing him in flawless English as he extended his hand. “I’m Captain Fernando Baptiste, commanding officer of the
Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars
.”

The captain of the starship that had brought the Union Guard reinforcements to Fort Lopez. “Pleased to meet you, Captain Baptiste,” he said, formally shaking his hand, “but I had rather expected the Matriarch to be here herself.”

“My apologies, Captain. She’s waiting for you in Liberty, at the community hall. I was sent to escort you to—”

They were interrupted by the sound of the gangway being retracted. Lee turned to watch the ramp fold against the
Plymouth
’s underside. “You’re a prudent man, Captain,” Baptiste said quietly, as the belly hatch slammed shut. “It might not have occurred to me to take such precautions.”

Lee said nothing as he studied Baptiste from the corner of his eye. He wore the uniform of the enemy, yet Lee sensed no malice in the man; indeed, he had the strong feeling that he was in the presence of a kindred soul. An adversary, perhaps, but possibly a reluctant one. He noted the satphone clipped to Baptiste’s belt, and a new thought occurred to him.