Coyote Read online

  Here, he has to lie. Lee knows more about why Gillis was revived than anyone else aboard the ship, even Shapiro and Tinsley. But it isn’t something he’s willing to share with anyone, or at least not yet. “Mr. Gillis was unable to return to hibernation,” he continues, “yet he survived for the next thirty-two years. The murals in the ring corridor and the wardroom are his work. You may have also noticed a fungal growth on some of the surfaces, such as on the windows. After he died, the food he left in the galley refrigerator went bad, and that caused a bacterial fungus to spread through certain areas of the ship. Dr. Okada assures me that it’s harmless, but you should wash your hands if you’ve had any contact with it.”

  Uneasy looks pass from one person to another. Rumors had spread through the ship; now everyone knows the truth. “Les…Mr. Gillis…had to stay alive during this long period,” Lee goes on, “and in order to do so he consumed rations that were meant to support the rest of us for our first year on Coyote.” Now the expressions become those of alarm, even outrage. “We’ve taken inventory of our remaining rations, and have discovered the worst…our immediate food supply has been reduced by a little more than 30 percent. So instead of having a twelve-month surplus of food, we’re down to about eight months. Perhaps less.”

  Someone yells an obscenity; several others slam their hands against the benches. Muted comments roll through the compartment. “What about water and air?” someone demands. “Or did he use up all that, too?”

  “Alabama’s life-support systems were able to recycle his waste products into breathable air and water. However, our reserves have been reduced by 20 percent. We’ve got plenty of air and water for the next two weeks or so, but our time aboard ship has been decreased by a considerable factor. Whatever else happens, we’ve got to land soon.” There’s no sense in mentioning all the other things Gillis had used up—clothing, paper and pens, art supplies—and no one needs to know about the enormous quantities of alcohol he had consumed from the contraband liquor Tom reluctantly confessed to having smuggled aboard. “Our major long-term problem here is a shortage of food…”

  “But seven or eight months…” Jorge Montero shrugs. “That should get us by, shouldn’t it? At least for starters.”

  “They’ll last for a while, yes…but by the time they run out, it’ll be winter. As I said earlier, the seasons down there are three times as long as those on Earth. Even if we tighten the rations, we’ll still run into severe shortages.” Lee shrugs. “It doesn’t make much difference, really. Even if we had full rations, a food shortage would have been inevitable. The rations were simply a precaution. What all this means is that we have to cut our survey time to a bare minimum, begin farming almost as soon as we establish the colony, and pray that we have enough warm weather to bring up a substantial crop before winter sets in.”

  He picks up the remote again, uses it to display a schematic diagram of Alabama. “The cargo and hab modules are designed to be jettisoned from the primary hull and air-dropped to the planet surface,” he says, pointing to the seven cylinders surrounding the ship’s hub. “Over the next ten days we’ll get them ready for that, with essential supplies being transferred to the shuttles. Then, on day eleven, we’ll send an advance party ahead of us in one of the shuttles. Mr. Shapiro here will lead that group.”

  The first officer briefly raises his hand, and the captain acknowledges him with a nod before going on. “His team will locate a suitable landing site and ascertain that the planet is capable of supporting human life. By then Alabama will have achieved low orbit. If all works well, the first group of colonists will depart on day twelve, using the other shuttle to rendezvous with the advance team. Once they’re established a base camp, the first shuttle will return to Alabama to pick up the second group of colonists. The second shuttle will then return to Alabama to pick up the remaining crew members—including me—who will by then have jettisoned the modules and repositioned the ship to permanent high orbit.”

  “And what if Coyote is unsuitable?” a woman asks. “I mean, what if the advance team discovers that we can’t live there?”

  “In theory, the colonists would return to biostasis while the flight crew studies our options…either return to Earth, or set out for another star that may have a planet capable of supporting life.” Lee hesitates, and decides that telling the blunt truth is best for all concerned. “Realistically speaking, though, neither of those options is available. Alabama doesn’t have enough reserve fuel left to achieve boost velocity, and if it can’t attain 20 percent light-speed, the fusion ramjet won’t work at maximum efficiency. We wouldn’t be able to make it home, and we don’t know of any other solar systems within our range that have planets capable of supporting human life. In other words, this is an all-or-nothing shot.”

  People shift nervously in their seats, give each other uncertain looks. Lee waits a few moments, giving everything he just said a chance to sink in, before he continues. “That means we’ve got to pull together to make this work. Any differences you might have had…whether you were actively involved in taking this ship or resisted it, whether you were once a D.I. or a Liberty Party member…must be put aside and forgotten. That’s all in the past now. We’re all in the same boat.”

  He wants to say more, but it is not the time. Maybe once they’re down on Coyote…“All right, that’s it for now,” he finishes. “Mr. Tinsley here will be drawing up rosters for the first and second landing groups. We need to keep the groups evenly divided, but we don’t want to split up families if we don’t have to, so if you have any specific preferences, please see him. And if you’ve got any further questions, come to me or Mr. Shapiro.” He waits another moment, then raises his hands. “Very well. Meeting adjourned.”

  As Lee steps away from the table, crewmen and civilians begin rising from their seats. All around him, voices rise once again as people turn toward one another. Some head for the ladder while a few move toward him and Shapiro. Someone laughs out loud at an unheard joke, and a couple of others join in: a good sign, or at least so he hopes.

  The captain casts a wary glance toward the back of the room, catches a brief glimpse of Colonel Reese. His men have gathered around him; it appears they’re having a quiet conference. About what, Lee can only imagine; he can only pray that Reese has spoken sense to them. The captain picks up his remote, turns toward a woman who’s waiting to speak with him…

  And in that instant, through the crowd, he notices someone staring directly at him. A young ensign, in his late thirties, wearing an Alabama cap.

  Eric Gunther: Lee recognizes him at once. Upon discovering the note Gillis left in his quarters, the captain checked his profile in the crew records. A recent FSA recruit, assigned to the Alabama only a few months before launch. Member of the life-support team. Someone Lee had only met once or twice before, and then only very briefly.

  In that brief instant, their eyes meet, and Lee sees only loathing, unforgiving hatred. Then Gunther turns away, melting into the crowd. Lee tries to spot him again, but he’s already disappeared. There are too many people in the way…and Gunther, of course, doesn’t want to be known by his captain.

  Lee suppresses his apprehension; he turns his attention to the woman waiting to talk to him. Once again, though, he has heard a paw settle upon loose pebbles.

  URSS ALABAMA 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 0912 GMT

  Much to everyone’s relief, the shuttles survived the voyage in satisfactory condition. Chief Monroe’s engineers had spent the last two days inspecting the Jesse Helms and the George Wallace, entering the twin spacecraft to check their avionics systems and going EVA to make sure that their hulls were intact. Both shuttles had been drained of fuel shortly after Alabama had left Earth; yesterday hydrogen was reloaded into their wing tanks, the nuclear engines test-fired. After nearly forty-eight hours of round-the-clock preparation, Dana reported that the shuttles were flightworthy and ready to be taken down to Coyote.

  Tom Shapiro picked the Helms for the survey mission
; it was the same craft he had piloted from Merritt Island to Highgate, and not only was he familiar with the way it handled, but he also wanted to close the circle by landing the spaceplane again, this time on the new world. Once the craft passed muster with Monroe’s team, Tom spent several hours in the cockpit the night before, reacquainting himself with the controls and rehearsing emergency procedures that everyone hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Sometime during the evening, though, a new thought occurred to him, one that he didn’t share with anyone else.

  Lee finds out about it only a few minutes before the Helms departs from Alabama. He’s in the EVA ready room on Deck H5, going over last-minute details with the first officer, when a crewman emerges through the manhole leading to the hub access shaft. During the past eleven days Alabama has shed nearly all of its forward velocity; the magnetic sail has been collapsed, and the passenger decks have returned to microgravity. As the crewman enters the deck headfirst, Lee notes that he’s hauling a nylon bag with something stuffed inside.

  Tom looks away from the pad he and Lee have been studying, smiles as the crewman pushes himself over to them. “Ah-ha, Mr. Balis…you’ve found it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Balis glances nervously at the captain as he extends the weightless bag to Shapiro. “Sorry I took so long. It was in the cargo, but everything’s been moved around so much up there, and I couldn’t…”

  “Never mind. Just so long as you got it. Thanks.” Shapiro takes the bag, turns to pass it to another crewman waiting near the open hatch of the docking collar. “Mr. LeMare, if you could stow this safely…”

  “Just a moment, Tom.” Lee reaches out to intercept the bag. “I’m curious to see what you’ve had Mr. Balis locate for you.”

  Shapiro frowns, but surrenders the bag without argument. From the corner of his eye, Lee can see Shapiro’s party. Like him and his copilot, Lt. Kim Newell, Dr. Bernard Cayle, and Dr. James Levin are wearing spacesuits, their helmets tucked beneath their arms. No one really believes such precautions are necessary once the team reaches the surface, but Kuniko Okada insists they observe Federal Space Agency protocols for first landing, and as chief physician she has the final word. Cayle and Levin look uncomfortable in the bulky suits—as civilian scientists, they’ve never worn them before now—and Lee notes that they seem as mystified as Lieutenant Newell.

  Shapiro waits patiently as the captain loosens the drawstring and peers inside. Lee expects to find a bottle of California champagne from the liquor supply, so he isn’t shocked to find that his suspicion was correct; Les Gillis had consumed most of the booze, but bringing champagne was Tom’s idea in the first place, so Lee can’t begrudge his first officer taking one of the few bottles left. Yet also within the bag is a large metal can; the captain pulls it out, examines it more closely: a half gallon of red waterproof paint, intended for use in building permanent shelters. There’s also a four-inch utility brush within the bag.

  Lee looks up. “You want to paint an X on the landing site?”

  “Perhaps I do, sir.” Shapiro’s expression remains neutral.

  Lee waits another moment for a better explanation; when none is forthcoming, he shoves the can back in the bag and cinches it tight. “Go on, get out of here,” he murmurs. “And leave some for the rest of us…the champagne, I mean.”

  Shapiro grins as he takes the bag from him. “Seriously, Tom,” Lee adds, “don’t take any chances down there. If you run into any trouble, button yourself up, then call back and tell us what you’ve found.”

  The grin fades as Tom solemnly nods. “You know I will.” Then he turns to his team. “Okay, let’s go. We’ve got a planet waiting for us.”

  “It’s a moon, actually,” Cayle murmurs as he watches Shapiro enter the docking collar. Newell takes a moment to give her captain a formal salute, which Lee returns before she follows Shapiro through the narrow hatch. Although he tries not to show it, Lee’s grateful for the gesture. Unlike Tom, Kim Newell wasn’t part of the conspiracy; in fact, he knows from reading her crew dossier that she was a Liberty Party member. Apparently she’s decided to put aside political differences for the sake of the expedition; the fact that she and Tom were once Academy classmates may have something to do with it.

  Jim Levin hesitates, as if having second thoughts about volunteering his services as exobiologist, then he ducks his head and plunges in after Newell. Cayle waits until his friend has completely disappeared from sight before he clumsily enters the hatch feetfirst. The top of his head has barely vanished before LeMare shuts the hatch behind him and dogs it tight.

  Lee pushes himself over to the porthole, peers out at the shuttle suspended within its cradle. After a minute or so, he spots Shapiro and Newell as they enter the glass frames of the bullet-nosed cockpit; its interior lights brighten for a few moments, then become dim. The shuttle’s gull wings unfold from docking position, exposing the duel air-breathing ramjets mounted on the aft upper fuselage. Lee silently counts back from sixty; at the ten-second mark the cradle retracts its grip upon the vehicle. A few seconds later, there’s a brief flare from the maneuvering thrusters; Helms glides upward from its cradle, trailed by sparkling motes of dust and frozen oxygen.

  The shuttle falls away from the Alabama. For a few seconds it gradually recedes from view, its thrusters firing now and again. Then the main engine fires, and the craft peels away, and suddenly the Helms is gone, disappearing beneath the starship’s hull.

  Lee remains at the porthole for another few moments. Then, almost reluctantly, he turns away, pushing himself toward the access shaft.

  URSS JESSE HELMS 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 1048 GMT

  Coming out of the sun, the shuttle descends upon the new world, racing ahead of the dawn as it glides across the night terminator. As the spacecraft falls toward Coyote, a razor-sharp line rises from beyond the curved horizon, lancing straight up into space like a silver thread; a few moments later Bear comes into view, an immense orb the color of a robin’s egg, its ring plane dividing the superjovian in half.

  “Will you look at that?” Newell’s voice is an awestruck whisper. “Isn’t that the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “Uh-huh. Beautiful.” Shapiro barely glances up from his left-seat console. Coyote and its primary fill the cockpit’s lattice windows, but he can’t afford to let himself get distracted just now. Behind them, he can hear Levin and Cayle murmuring to each another; the scientists may have the luxury of sight-seeing, but they don’t. “Eyes down, Lieutenant. We’ll be kissing air in about sixty seconds.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.” Newell reluctantly returns her attention to the digital gauges on her instrument panel. “Altitude 400,500 feet, velocity seventeen thousand miles per hour. Roll zero, yaw zero, pitch twenty-five degrees.”

  “Roger that.” Shapiro gently pulls back on the yoke, hauling the shuttle’s nose up to proper descent angle. He checks the attitude direction indicator; the eight ball is right where it should be, the horizontal bar of the crosshatch dead center with the vertical bar, thirty degrees above the black. He taps his headset mike. “Alabama, this is Helms. Passing daylight terminator, preparing for atmosphere interface. LOS in forty-five seconds. Over.”

  A couple of moments pass, then a terse response: “We copy, Helms. Over.” In a few more seconds they’ll lose radio contact as the shuttle enters the ionization layer of Coyote’s atmosphere. This was anticipated, of course, yet Shapiro still feels something clutch at his stomach. The safety net is about to disappear; they’re on their own.

  By now Bear has risen almost completely above Coyote. It seems almost impossible that anything in the universe could be so huge; Shapiro deliberately looks away, focusing his attention on the planet below. The horizon has almost completely flattened out; through breaks in the cloud cover he can see a vast expanse of brown landscape crisscrossed by intricate blue veins, with a broad blue band winding down its center. No oceans, only a couple of silver-blue patches that could be seas or large lakes, each interconnected by a maz
e of channels. A river world.

  “Ground track.”

  “Ten north, one-sixty northwest. Just above the equator.” Newell studies the digital map of Coyote’s surface; composed only a couple of days ago through radar imaging, it isn’t very detailed, yet it’s the best they have. “Altitude 380,000 feet, velocity…”

  She’s interrupted by a sudden thump against the bottom of the fuselage. From behind them Shapiro hears Cayle yelp in alarm. “You’re strapped in tight back there, aren’t you?” he calls over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from his instruments. “This may be rocky.”

  “We’re okay.” This from Jim Levin. “Don’t worry about us.”

  “Just checking.” Shapiro can already see an orange-white corona beginning to form around the shuttle’s nose; the Helms is entering the atmosphere. Another thump, then a sickening plunge; the eight ball confirms that their approach is a little too steep. He compensates by pulling back on the stick. The ADI moves up by more than two degrees, and there’s a gentle sensation of rising as the shuttle’s wings bite into the thin air, yet he doesn’t dare relax. Looks like a nice place down there; it would be shame to mess it up with a new impact crater…

  And so they go, ever downward, the cockpit windows becoming opaque as a sheath of superheated air cocoons itself around the spacecraft. The hull softly creaks and groans; Newell calls out numbers every few seconds. Shapiro’s wrists begin to ache from clutching the yoke.

  Long minutes pass, then the orange haze gradually dissipates, and suddenly they’re in clear air: a wall of dark blue sky above him, a long smooth expanse of terrain directly below. Only a few clouds between him and the ground: some stratocumulus formations, but that’s all. Bear has reappeared, still looming large within the sky, but now it seems a little farther away, its blue-white hue faded by the atmosphere.