Coyote Page 19

  Shapiro shrugs. “The same thing you meant when you called this place Eden.” Her smile returns, but this time there’s a hint of confusion in her eyes. He cocks his head toward the shuttle. “Find that paint can I brought aboard, and I’ll show you.”

  URSS ALABAMA 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 1732 GMT

  Like virtually everywhere else aboard the Alabama, Deck C4B is a scene of chaos barely under control. Cardboard boxes packed with personal belongings lie everywhere, lashed to the floor by elastic cords, while bunk cushions are being rolled up and passed hand over hand to people waiting to carry them to the cargo modules. Crewmen and passengers are busy stripping Module C4 to the bulkheads; as Jud Tinsley makes his way through the narrow aisles, he has to twist and turn every few feet to avoid a collision with someone else.

  The executive officer dodges a crewman using an electric screwdriver to unbolt a wall terminal as he follows the numbered plaques fastened to the bunk frames; after a minute he locates berths C4B-09 through C4B-12. At first, it seems no one is there; he’s about to turn away when he hears someone quietly tapping at a keypad. Tinsley ducks his head, pushes aside the curtains of a lower bunk to peer within.

  Hidden in its shadows, a teenage boy floats upside down, his legs crossed as if in sitting position. He holds a pad within his hands, his face backlit by the pale blue illumination of the screen he’s reading. On the other side of the bunk, a little girl is curled up in a fetal position, clutching a pillow in her sleep.

  “Excuse me,” Tinsley says softly, and the boy looks up—or down, rather—from his pad. “I’m looking for Jorge and Rita Montero…have you seen them?”

  “That’s my parents.” The kid says glances at the girl to make sure she hasn’t been disturbed. “Aren’t they out there?”

  “No, they aren’t.” Tinsley gives him a smile. “That’s why I’m asking you. Your dad wanted to see me about shuttle assignments.” As he speaks, he opens his own pad, checks the crew roster. This would be Carlos Montero and his sister, Marie.

  “Oh, yeah. Right. I know what this is about.” Carlos thumbs the top of his pad, bookmarking his place. “Papa saw we’re…I mean, my mother, my sister, and me…are on the first shuttle, but he’s on the second, so he wants to see if he can trade seats within someone on the first shuttle so he can fly down with us. That’s what this is about…sir, I mean.”

  The kid gives him a respectful and unnecessary salute; Tinsley grins as he returns the gesture. “At ease, Mr. Montero. Let me check.” This isn’t the first request of this kind he’s had to handle; although Captain Lee promised not to split up any families, the logistics of seating arrangements have made this difficult to keep. As the XO scrolls down the roster, he notes that the boy has returned his attention to his pad. “What’s that you’re reading?”

  “The Chronicles of Prince Rupurt.” Carlos doesn’t look up. “I’m at the part right after he’s met the Duchess L’Enfant and fought the Boids.”

  That’s the long novel Les Gillis wrote. Several days ago, Captain Lee requested that its handwritten pages be scanned into Alabama’s library system; Tinsley has heard that some of the kids have downloaded the book into their pads, but this is the first time he’s actually seen someone reading it. “Is it any good?” he asks, and Carlos nods in a distracted way; he’s completely absorbed by the story. “Think I might like it?” The boy shrugs noncommittally, an expression of mild annoyance upon his face.

  The XO is about to inquire how much he’s read so far when he hears someone coming down the aisle. Looking around, he sees Jorge Montero gliding past the row of empty bunks. “Oh, hey, I was just trying to find you,” Tinsley begins. “Your son tells me you’re…”

  “You’ve found him?” Montero glares past him into the bunk, spots the kid. “I thought I told you to help your mother pack the medical equipment.”

  Carlos blanches. “She wanted me to baby-sit Marie. She was getting in the way, and Mama wanted her out of there, so she told me to bring her back up here and keep an eye on her…”

  “Sure she did.” Montero pushes himself forward, almost shoving Tinsley out of the way. “I bet you just wanted to read some more.”

  Carlos is about to retort when Tinsley decides to intercede. “Maybe, but he’s doing a good job of holding down the fort. If he hadn’t told me what you wanted, I might have given up on trying to find you.”

  Montero looks up at him. “He’s already talked to you?” he asks, and Jud nods. Somehow, throughout all this, his daughter has remained asleep; either that, or she’s chosen to stay out of the argument by playing possum. Her father relents a little. He bends down to peer into the bunk. “Okay, c’mon out of there and go help Mama. I’ll keep an eye on your sister.”

  Carlos closes his pad and shoves it into his pocket, then pulls himself out of the bunk. He gives Tinsley a brief smile of gratitude before he shoves off, almost colliding with a crewman as he coasts down the aisle. “And don’t let me catch you goofing off again!” Montero yells after him, then he gives Tinsley an apologetic shrug. “Kids…”

  Tinsley wants to tell Montero to ease up on his son; last time he checked, the situation in Deck C7A was under control, and Dr. Okada didn’t need any more volunteers. But this was obviously a family matter, and none of his business. “Yes, well…anyway, he told me that you want to trade seats with someone on the first shuttle so the four of you can stay together.”

  “Uh-huh.” Montero turns so that he can study Tinsley’s pad from over his shoulder. “I don’t know how we got separated, but that’s what happened. If you can move someone else to the Helms so I can go down on the Wallace…”

  “I don’t know how it happened either, but we’ve still got a problem.” Tinsley runs the cursor down the passenger manifest for the Wallace, the shuttle scheduled to ferry the first group of colonists down to the surface after—or rather, if—Tom Shapiro’s team reports that conditions on Coyote are satisfactory for colonization. “I’ve been reshuffling seat assignments all day, and right now every seat on the Wallace is taken. You’re just one of several families who want to stay together, and with two children you’re one of the larger ones. It’s going to be hard for us to…”

  “Oh, c’mon!” Montero’s temper begins to rise once more. “Who helped you launch without authorization? Don’t you owe me something for that?”

  Yes, you did, Tinsley says silently. And for your efforts, you’ve already received your reward: safe passage for you and your family away from the Republic, which otherwise would have detained you within a government reeducation center for the rest of your lives. So count your blessings…

  “I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.” Tinsley shuts his pad. “If you can find someone who’s willing to trade seats with you, I’ll be more than happy to oblige, but right now everyone wants to get off this ship as soon as…”

  “Sir…excuse me?”

  Tinsley looks over his shoulder, finds the crewman he spotted a moment ago coming down the aisle: a thin young man wearing an Alabama ball cap. The name patch above the breast pocket of his jumpsuit reads GUNTHER, E.

  “Yes, Mr. Gunther? Can I help you?” Tinsley barely recognizes him; another low-rank member of Alabama’s crew.

  “Pardon me for eavesdropping, sir, but…” Gunther hesitates. “Well, I think I can help out here.”

  “Oh? If you have a suggestion…”

  “Well…I’m on the list for the Wallace, but there’s no real reason for me to go down that early, other than to help set up camp. If it’s all the same with you, sir, I could trade seats with…um, this gentleman here.”

  Jorge becomes hopeful. “You’d do this? I would be most grateful.”

  “It’s a good idea, but…” Tinsley opens his pad again, rechecks his list. “It’s not going to be that easy. We’re trying to keep crew members and colonists evenly dispersed. If I move you onto the Helms, that means there’s going to be one less crewman aboard the Wallace…”

  “Then I’ll ride dow
n on the Wallace when it makes its second trip.” Gunther shrugs. “I can stay behind to help with the close-out.”

  Tinsley raises an eyebrow. A small group of crew members is slated to remain aboard the Alabama until the end; their job will be to jettison the cargo and habitation modules, then assist Captain Lee with preparing to insert the ship into high orbit. Almost no one has volunteered to remain aboard the ship; now that they’ve reached Coyote, everyone is anxious to leave its cramped quarters and breathe fresh air once more. Indeed, there’s been much grumbling among the half dozen or so crewmen Tinsley recruited for the job; it may be the captain’s duty to be the last person to leave the ship, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anyone who joins him has to be happy about it.

  “If you don’t mind doing so…”

  “Not at all. I’m sure the captain could use an extra hand.” Then Gunther smiles and pats the bulkhead. “And I’d kind of like to see the old lady one last time.”

  “Suit yourself.” Crooking his elbow around a bulkhead rail to anchor himself, Tinsley moves Jorge Montero’s name from the Helms to the Wallace, then adds Eric Gunther’s name to the short list of crewmen who’ve been drafted to the close-out team.

  “Thank you, sir,” Jorge says to him, then he turns to Gunther. “And thank you, too…I’m in your debt.”

  Still smiling, Gunther shakes his head. “Think nothing of it. It’s my pleasure.” Then he glances at Tinsley. “If you’ll excuse me, sir…”

  Tinsley nods, and watches as Gunther pushes himself away. How fortunate that he should come along at exactly the right time…and yet, it’s odd that he can’t remember his face or name. Jud thought he’d come to know everyone who had gone through flight training, regardless of whether or not they had been involved in the conspiracy, but this ensign is unfamiliar to him. Of course, with more than fifty crew members aboard…

  “Glad we could work that out,” he says, snapping his pad shut. “I’ll let you get back to work.” He hesitates, then softly adds, “And don’t be so hard on your son, okay? We’re not on a deadline here.”

  Embarrassed, Montero nods and glances away. Tinsley gives him a pat on the shoulder, then kicks off the side of the bunk and floats back down the aisle. One more job done, about two dozen more to go. Maybe there’s still some coffee left in the wardroom. Unless, of course, that’s been packed away, too…

  His headset chirps, and he touches the mike. “XO here.”

  “Dwyer here, Cargo C6D. We may have a problem, sir…”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Dwyer. What do you got?”

  “Sir, I’ve just inventoried the small-arms locker. We’re missing a weapon.”

  Unsure of what he’s just heard, Tinsley reaches up to the ceiling, grabs a rail to brake himself. “Come again?”

  “A gun, sir. I’ve just checked the armaments locker. The cargo manifest shows ten .38 parabellums stored in Bin C6D-13F, but when I opened it a few minutes ago I discovered only nine, with an empty wrapper where the tenth one should be. And when I checked the ammo in the next bin, I found that a magazine had been taken as well.”

  Tinsley feels a chill. Alabama carries a small supply of rifles and handguns among its survival equipment, just in case Coyote has hostile natives. No one ever believed it would be necessary to keep them under lock and key; on the other hand, no one ever believed that anyone except loyal URA citizens would be aboard. Besides, access to firearms was one of fundamental rights guaranteed by the Second Amendment of the Revised Constitution. A nice idea…but like much of libertarian philosophy, it only works if everyone is on the same side and no one breaks the rules. The Republic, of course, made sure that no one violated the Second Amendment by passing laws that permitted only Liberty Party members to own guns.

  “Stay there,” Tinsley says quietly, “and don’t tell anyone else what you’ve found. I’m on my way.” Then he clicks off and scrambles toward the nearby ladder.

  Coyote Base 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 1932 GMT

  “Good news, people,” Bernie Cayle calls out as he marches down the shuttle ramp. “I’ve finished testing the plant samples, and we’re in luck…right-handed amino acids.”

  He expects a reaction from the rest of the advance team; not getting one, he stops at the bottom of the ramp, looks around. 47 Uma is setting behind the western horizon, casting a wan twilight radiance across the marsh. Bear has risen high in the dark purple sky, its ring plane a silver spike across the heavens. A shallow pool of light from an electric lantern surrounds the campsite, throwing shadows from the dome tents that have been erected. Now that the sun is going down, the wind has picked up; the evening is cool, and Bernie regrets having left his parka inside the shuttle.

  Jim Levin sits on a storage container, tending the campfire with a stick. Kim Newell stands a few feet away, hands thrust within her parka. Like Jim, she’s also staring up at the shuttle; noting her irate expression, Bernie walks out from beneath the spacecraft, looks in the direction she’s gazing.

  Tom Shapiro is seated on the shuttle’s port wing, his legs dangling over its edge, the upper hatch open behind him. Another lantern is propped on the wing next to him, and within its glow Bernie can see Shapiro’s handiwork. Where once URSS Jesse Helms and the URA flag had been stenciled on the fuselage is now a broad red swatch, and above it Shapiro has painted a single word: Plymouth.

  Noticing Bernie for the first time, the first officer grins down at the biochemist. “Like it? Might as well make it official before we return.” Then he looks at his copilot. “Or do you still want history to record that first ship to land on Coyote was called the Jesse Helms?”

  Newell gives him a sullen glare. “As if my opinion matters…”

  “If you want to add your objection to the official log, go ahead and do so.” Shapiro reseals the paint can, then drops the wet brush to the ground below. “But I bet you can’t tell me who Jesse Helms was.”

  Newell scowls, but says nothing as she turns away. Wrapping his arms around himself, Bernie follows her to the campsite. “If it makes any difference,” he murmurs, “I don’t know who he was either.”

  She opens a food container and pulls out a ration pack. The upper hatch creaks softly as Shapiro closes it behind him. “That’s not the issue. I just don’t like seeing the flag painted over. Maybe you guys are D.I.s, but I was raised to be a patriotic citizen…”

  “So was I.” Levin doesn’t look up from the fire. “But the flag I grew up with had fifty stars, not just one.” He hesitates, then adds, “And I’d thank you not to refer to me as a D.I. in the future.”

  Bernie smiles to himself. The fact that Coyote has passed a subtle yet crucial test of its habitability has gone unnoticed by these people. If his tests of the plant samples had shown them to have a left-handed genetic structure, any attempt to colonize Coyote would have been doomed; none of its vegetation could have been safely consumed, nor could any Earth crops been successfully cultivated from native soil. Theoretically, the odds of Coyote’s indigenous life-forms having dextro-configured amino acids were fifty-fifty, yet this was something no one could have determined in advance. The universe had rolled the dice in their favor; in the face of such of fortune, politics are trivial.

  “I don’t know about you, but I think this is a great place for a settlement.” He reaches into the container and finds another ration pack. The compressed brown square inside is unappetizing, but it’s the closest thing they have to food; he tears open the plastic wrapper with his teeth, digs out the fruit bar. “The soil is loaded with nitrogen…notice how dark it is? And that creek over there has fresh water…”

  “Good for farming,” Levin says, and Bernie nods. “Still think we should have landed elsewhere?”

  “I didn’t say we…”

  “What’s to eat?” Shapiro tramps down the ramp. Much to Bernie’s surprise, he’s carrying his parka. “Thought you might need this,” he says, tossing the coat to him. “Don’t want to catch cold.”

  “Thanks.” Bernie catche
s the parka, pulls it around his shoulders. Twilight has faded, and night is settling in. Bear outshines all but the most brilliant stars: like autumn moonlight back on Earth, only many times brighter. He gazes up at the superjovian. “First night on Coyote,” he says, thinking out loud. “Damn. Still can’t believe we’re really here…”

  “Likewise.” Jim Levin stands up, opens the container he’s been using for a seat. “In fact, I think it’s time for a celebration.”

  “I second the motion.” Shapiro replies, watching as Levin pulls out the bottle of champagne. He fishes in the pocket of his parka, pulls out a utility knife. “It doesn’t have a corkscrew, but you might be able to…”

  Suddenly, from somewhere in the night, a scream.

  It ripples across the dark marsh, a high-pitched shriek that sounds like an animal having its throat cut. It sustains for a few moments, then diminishes, as if swallowed by the tall grass.

  No one says anything. For a few moments, everyone freezes in place, staring into the darkness just beyond the dim glow of the firelight.

  “What the hell was…?” Newell begins.

  They hear it again: another howl, as insane as the one before, yet louder this time. Closer…

  “I’ve heard roosters that sound like that.” Levin puts down the champagne bottle, picks up a lantern. “Maybe it was a boid.”

  “A what?” Shapiro puts the knife back in his pocket…then, apparently thinking better of it, pulls it out again. “If that’s a bird, it’s a big one.”

  “Not a bird…a boid.” Levin holds the lantern high as he turns around, searching for the source of the sound. “A monster from the Prince Rupurt book…sort of like a giant chicken, only with a bad attitude. My kids have been reading them.”

  Again, the weird cry…only this time, barely a few moments later, they hear it repeated from behind, as if it’s been echoed. Yet there are no nearby hills to reflect the sound; Bernie instantly knows there must be another creature in the area.