Coyote Rising (58 page)

“A couple of kids from Bridgeton found him near the bridge,” she said. “Apparently he’d just dragged himself out the channel. They were beating on him when some adults spotted them. They got them to stop, then called AirMed.”

“A couple of kids?” Carlos found that hard to believe.

“Well, he was in pretty sad shape to start with, being underwater for so long.” She shrugged. “And since it sounds like they were recent immigrants, they had it in for the first Savant they’d seen since the revolution. I got the name of one of them. Tomas Conseco, from the
Spirit
 . . .”

“Never mind.” No point in trying to press charges; he wouldn’t have been able to make them stick. Everyone had a grudge against the Union, even the children. “How’s he doing?” Carlos peered at Castro. The Savant hadn’t moved since he’d arrived. “Has he said anything?”

“Not since we got him here.” Wendy gently pulled aside the sheet. “Right leg is broken . . . he’d tied a splint around it to stand upright . . . and the left eye is shattered. We should be able to fix the leg, but the eye may be irreplaceable.” She shook her head. “What am I saying? This is beyond me. He needs a mechanic, not a doctor.”

“All the same, I’m pleased to see you again, Wendy.” Castro’s voice, a modulated purr from his mouth grille, startled them; Wendy dropped the sheet, automatically stepped away. “You
are
Wendy Gunther, aren’t you? It’s been many years since the last time I saw you.”

“Yes . . . yes, it is.” She stammered a bit, trying to regain her composure. Carlos wondered why he’d remained quiet. Probably to assess the situation. “I’m surprised you recognize me.”

“You’ve grown quite a bit, yet your voice is still much the same.” Castro’s own voice sounded reedy; the vocoder had been damaged during the months he’d spent underwater. He turned his head slightly, fixing his remaining eye upon Carlos. “But you, I don’t recognize. Who may you be?”

“Carlos Montero, the mayor of—”

“Oh, my . . . Rigil Kent himself.” A buzz from the grille that might have been laughter. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to meet you, Mr. Montero. The Matriarch was quite obsessed with finding you. And now you’ve become . . . what did you say you were the mayor of?”

“Liberty. And also Shuttlefield, since that’s now part of Lee County.”

“Lee County. And you’re now its leader . . . elected, I take it.” Carlos nodded. “Then it’s reasonable to assume that Robert Lee is no longer with us?”

“No, he isn’t. He—” Carlos stopped himself. “You’ve been gone a long time, Savant Castro. Things are quite a bit different now.”

“So I take it. You know, when I was lieutenant governor, I sincerely doubt that a child would have dared to relieve himself upon me.” Again, the odd buzz. “I take it that Luisa Hernandez is no longer the colonial governor and that there has been . . . shall we say, a change of government?”

“That’s correct.” No point in telling him, at least for the time being, that the Matriarch was dead as well. He’d learn these things in due course. “We never expected to see you again. You were reported lost in action during the Battle of Thompson’s Ferry.”

“Lost in action. That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. And who said so, may I ask?”

“Umm . . .” Carlos had to search his memory. “Clark Thompson. He and his nephews said that they attempted to capture you, but that you fled from the scene. After that, you were never seen again.”

“Thompson said that, did he?” The Savant turned his head to gaze up at the ceiling. “A slight embellishment of the truth. I guess he didn’t want to admit to throwing me off his raft in the middle of the channel. You know, it took nearly three weeks for the ropes he’d used to tie my hands behind my back to loosen enough for me to free my hands? This may be a mechanical body, Carlos—or should I call you Rigil?—but three weeks is a long time to lie on your back in a hundred feet of water.”

Carlos felt his face grow warm. Glancing at Wendy, he saw the look of horror in her eyes. “He never told us that,” he said quietly. “He just said that you . . . ran away.”

“Every war has its share of atrocities, Mayor Montero, and the victors always have the liberty of revising history. Why should this conflict be any different?” The Savant turned his head slightly, gazing at the whitewashed blackwood walls, the rows of faux birch cabinets containing
surgical instruments. “A lovely hospital, Dr. Gunther. I had a chance to look at it while your people were bringing me in. New, isn’t it?”

“Built last summer. Savant Castro—”

“Please, call me Manny. I asked you to do so when we met aboard the
Glorious Destiny
.” He paused. “Orifiel, Gabriel 17,
C
.
Y
. 03. And today is Camael, Uriel 46,
C
.
Y
. 06. My internal chronometer has remained functional, and my long-term memory is perfect. It’s one of the few things that helped keep me sane.”

Carlos nodded. He had to remember that, despite all appearances, there was a human mind within that mechanical body. Something that Clark Thompson and his boys had conveniently forgotten. “Savant Castro—Manny—a lot of things have changed. The Western Hemisphere Union is no longer in control of New Florida. In fact, the last Union starship departed almost five and a half months ago, along with the rest of the Guard. Since then, Coyote has experienced severe climate changes because of a volcano eruption on Midland. We managed to survive, but only because we built greenhouses to—”

“This is all fascinating, Mr. Mayor, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy learning the rest of it in due time. But just now, one thing alone interests me.”

Castro pushed aside the sheet, then used his arms to raise himself upright. Turning himself around, he allowed Wendy to help him sit up on the examination table. If not for his damaged leg, he could have walked away at any time.

“As you say,” he continued, “ten months have passed. I went into the East Channel the lieutenant governor of a colony and came out a cripple at the mercy of a pair of brats. If the Union is no longer here, then I’m clearly both out of time and out of place. So the only question that matters: What are you going to do with me?”

Wendy said nothing. Carlos shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he said at last. “The truth is, I don’t know.”

A hollow boom from somewhere in the fields just outside town,
then a tiny rocket shot up into the night sky, its vapor trail forming an
arc that carried it high above the rooftops of Liberty. A couple of seconds later it exploded, creating a red fire-blossom that flung sparks across the pale blue orb of Bear.

The crowds gathered in the streets applauded and shouted in delight, then watched as another skyrocket launched behind the first one. Carlos tried to remember the last time he’d seen fireworks; when he did, the memory came with a sharp pang of regret. July 4, 2070, the summer evening he and his family had been taken into custody by the Prefects. His last night on Earth, a lifetime ago . . .

“Aren’t you enjoying this?” Wendy sat next to him on the porch of their house. Not far away, Susan played in the backyard with a few of her friends. First Landing Day wasn’t until the next day, but the organizing committee had decided to schedule the fireworks a night early. The day itself would be marked by the crafts fair, a baseball game, a shag race, a concert by the Coyote Wind Ensemble, and, at the end of the day, the big dinner at the grange hall. Just like Independence Day back on Earth, only this time without mass arrests of dissident intellectuals.

“Who says I’m not?” Carlos reached for the jug of ale on the table between them, poured some more into his mug. “I think it’s really pretty.”

“Then why the frown?” Wendy took the jug from him, poured another drink for herself. “You’re thinking about Marie, aren’t you?”

Actually, he wasn’t . . . or at least not at that moment. Oddly enough, he realized that his thoughts had been more upon Manuel Castro, about what he’d said earlier that afternoon. Marie and Lars would doubtless receive a stiff sentence for what they’d done today: at least six months in the stockade, plus hard time working on public service projects: road construction, laying sewage pipes, digging drainage ditches, the lousy jobs that no one wanted to do. Not that it would matter much to either of them, at least in the long run. Ever since the Union Guard had been ousted and Chris had overhauled the Proctors, crime had become infrequent enough that townspeople remembered who the perpetrators were and what they’d done. There were people in Liberty whom everyone remembered being bullies and thugs from the days of the squatter camps, and—almost universally—they were distrusted and disliked. So even after Marie and Lars served their sentence, they’d return to the
community as ostracized members . . . and Carlos foresaw that such treatment would just make them even more bitter than they’d been before.

Even so, there was always a chance that they’d eventually be accepted again, just as he’d been many years ago after he returned from his time alone on the Great Equatorial River. On the other hand, Manny Castro would never be a part of the community. He couldn’t change what he was, and as such he was a living reminder to everyone of the Union occupation of Coyote. The tents and shacks of Shuttlefield were gone, replaced by rows of wood-frame houses built during the course of the spring and summer, but no one who once lived there was likely to forget that Savant Castro had once served as the Matriarch’s right-hand man.

They’d done well these past few months; indeed, even better than anyone had expected. Two days after the last Union shuttle lifted off and the bodies of the dead—including Captain Lee—had been laid to rest, an ad hoc committee convened at the grange hall to formulate survival plans for the colonies on New Florida and Midland. Everyone knew that time was of the essence; the eruption of Mt. Bonestell meant that Coyote’s northern hemisphere would experience cold temperatures for at least four to six months, with a resultant loss of crops. So the first priority was building greenhouses; with available timber on New Florida at a premium, it was decided that the Garcia Narrows Bridge had to be repaired as soon as possible. Once that was done . . .

Carlos watched as another skyrocket bloomed above town. Everything had fallen into place after that. The bridge was quickly repaired, enabling teams of loggers to journey across the East Channel to the dense rain forests of Midland; blackwood, rough-bark, and faux birch were felled and hauled by shags to the lumberyards of Forest Camp and Bridgeton, where they were milled into wood planks for the construction of enormous greenhouses and solar-heated sheds for the livestock. Now that the war was over, there was no shortage of colonists to assist in any crash program; for weeks on end, the air had been filled with the sounds of nails being hammered into wood as structures half the size of football fields rose up in the place once occupied by squatter camps.

The towns of Defiance and New Boston received lumber in exchange for sending men to join the labor force. Although the provisional
government extended an open invitation to the Midland settlers to return to New Florida, many preferred to stay where they were. Only Shady Grove, the small town that once existed beneath the shadow of Mt. Bonestell, remained abandoned, buried beneath volcanic ash.

Even as the greenhouses were rising and the surplus lumber was being used for the construction of new homes, the Coyote Federation was being formed, and just as foul-smelling communal outhouses were being leveled to make way for sewage pipes and septic systems, social collectivism was replaced by democracy, with individual rights guaranteed by the statutes of the Liberty Compact.

It was a long, hard summer, with some days in Muriel so cold that snow had fallen from leaden skies and ice had formed along the creek banks. Yet no one froze to death in a tent; everyone had to tighten their belts a little, but no one starved. Although there were quite a few complaints, no one loaded their guns and marched on the grange hall, where the newly elected mayor of Liberty spent every waking hour struggling to figure out how to keep several thousand people alive.

At long last, the skies had begun to clear, the days had become warm again. It wouldn’t last long—a brief Indian summer before the autumn equinox only a few weeks away—but they would survive another winter. And, indeed, perhaps even come out better than they had been before.

Another skyrocket; the crowds yelled in response. Carlos was blind to it all, though, and deaf to the thunderclaps and shouting. “Excuse me,” he said, standing up from his rocker. “Just need to stretch my legs.”

“Sure.” Wendy watched as he walked down off the porch, ignoring the children playing tag nearby. She’d become accustomed to his long silences. “Take your time.”

How far they’d come. Clean streets; no more trash along the sides of the road. Warm houses; the original log cabins still stood, yet he and Wendy were among the few who still lived in them. A long row of wind turbines just outside Shuttlefield providing electrical power to everyone. A new infirmary, with free medical treatment guaranteed for all. A schoolhouse was going up soon. And yet . . .

It’s yours. . . .

Once again, Robert Lee’s last words came back to haunt him. He might have taken Lee’s place, yet he could never fill the long shadow he’d left behind. He’d picked up the torch, but what good was it if he couldn’t use it to shed light?

Oh, his people would survive, all right. And now that the clouds had parted, there was hope of a short growing season before another long winter came upon them. But it wasn’t enough just to survive, was it? If their existence upon this world—indeed, their reasons for coming to Coyote in the first place—were to mean something, then it had to be for something more than keeping a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Even the most brutal dictatorship can guarantee that; freedom had to stand for something more.