Coyote Page 20

  He’s not the only one to reach this conclusion. “That’s no chicken, and I don’t like this one bit.” Shapiro turns to the others, snaps his fingers. “Okay, everyone, back in the ship.”

  Levin glances back at him. “You’ve got to be kidding. This could be our first chance to…”

  “And it could be our last chance, too…and put down that light! It might be attracting them.” Shapiro looks at Newell. “Kim, grab the fire extinguisher and put out the fire. Bernie, Jim, get whatever you can carry and move it inside. Leave the tents…they’ll take too much time to take down. C’mon, hustle.”

  Levin reluctantly lowers the lantern, switches it off. “You don’t think you’re overreacting a little, do you?”

  “If you’d like to stay out here tonight…no, forget I said that. We’re not taking that risk.” Shapiro bends to grab the handles of an equipment case. “That’s an order, Dr. Levin. We’ll have our drink once we’re aboard.”

  Bernie shares a look with Levin. Both of them have had their scientific curiosity aroused; until now, the most they’ve seen of Coyote’s inhabitants has been brief glimpses of hawklike flying creatures and small brown animals that quickly vanish into the tall grass. This is an opportunity to see another native creature in its native habitat; as the survey team’s biologists, this is what they were sent down to discover and examine. Yet Bernie can’t deny that what they just heard makes the bristles on his scalp feel as if they’re standing on end.

  Jim shrugs, picks up the container upon which he’s been sitting. “So long as we’re still drinking champagne tonight.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get another chance.” Lugging the case, Shapiro heads for the Plymouth. “Boid or no boid, we’re here to stay.”

  URSS ALABAMA 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 2018 GMT

  “No, I think you did the right thing,” Lee says. “But you say you haven’t seen anything?”

  “Not yet, skipper.” Shapiro’s voice comes through the speaker above the com station. “We put out the fire, but Dr. Levin insists we leave one lantern outside to see if we can draw it closer. So far, nothing. I’m going to post a watch, though, just to be sure.”

  Lee shifts uneasily in his seat. Although he hasn’t said so, he’s half-inclined to order the first officer to bring his team home; he’s all too aware that they’re unarmed, ill equipped to fend off a potentially dangerous inhabitant. Yet what would be the point? Even if the Helms—or rather the Plymouth, he reminds himself—had landed elsewhere on the planet, it’s unlikely that the situation would be any different. Sooner or later, they’re going to have to deal with whatever’s down there.

  “Very well,” he says. “Stay in the ship until tomorrow morning, then see if you can find any tracks…but keep your people close to the shuttle.” He glances at the chronometer. “Unless we hear different from you, we’ll proceed with our schedule. Wallace launches at oh-six-hundred tomorrow, and it should be on the ground by twelve hundred. I’ll make sure the first group is armed.”

  “We copy, sir. We’re looking forward to seeing them.” The transmission is becoming scratchy as Alabama passes out of radio range from Coyote Base. “We’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

  “Very good, Plymouth. Alabama out.” Lee switches off, then turns to the crewman seated next to him. “Remain at this post,” he says quietly, “and monitor this channel whenever we pass over the landing site. If you hear anything, notify me at once. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Swenson stifles a yawn as she adjusts her headset, then reaches for the coffee bulb clipped above her console. Lee gives her a pat on the shoulder, then unbuckles himself from his seat and pushes away from the com station.

  The command center is nearly empty. Only a few crew members remain at their stations; the others are either helping the first load of colonists prepare to leave or are trying to get a few hours of sleep. Indeed, Lee could use some rest himself; his eyes feel grainy, his temples tight with a mild headache. He’s been on duty for nearly twenty hours, and he tries to remind himself that he won’t be much good to anyone if he’s exhausted. But he’s also aware that if something were to go wrong with the survey mission, it’ll probably happen within the first twenty-four hours.

  And besides, there are a couple of important matters that need to be settled…

  As the captain pulls himself along a ceiling rail toward his chair, the hub access hatch opens. Looking around, Lee watches as Colonel Reese glides into the compartment, accompanied by one of his men—Schmidt, if he remembers his name correctly. This is the first time Reese has been allowed to visit the flight deck, yet he somehow behaves as if he’s in command; if he could walk in zero gravity, he’d probably swagger. Once again, Lee finds himself offended by the colonel’s arrogance although he’s careful not to let it show.

  “You wanted to see me, Captain?” Reese asks.

  “Yes, I do. Thanks for coming on such short notice.” Lee grasps the arm of his chair, pivots around to seat himself. “I expect you and your men have been keeping yourselves busy.”

  “Yes, sir, we have.” Reese reaches up to grasp the ceiling rail. “We’ve been helping load cargo aboard the Wallace, as you’ve requested.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure my exec appreciates your assistance.” Lee pulls a pad from his breast pocket, opens it to touch its screen. Through the windows, the daylight side of Coyote coasts into view: a vast swatch of brown, laced by the complex veins of its river system. It’s a spectacular vista, but Lee barely notices it as he studies the pad. “I see you’re scheduled to ride down on the Plymouth once it returns from the base camp.”

  “The Plymouth?” Reese exchanges a look with Schmidt. “You mean the Helms, don’t you?”

  “No, I mean the Plymouth. My first officer has taken the liberty of rechristening it. I suspect Mr. Tinsley will do the same with the Wallace. He’s got a good sense of humor, so I suspect he’ll want to call it the Mayflower.” Lee allows himself a wry grin. “Or at least that’s my suggestion.”

  “And I suppose you intend to rename this ship the Jolly Roger…”

  “No. Alabama is fine with me.” Lee doesn’t look up from the pad. “I’m reassigning you and your men from the Plymouth to Mr. Tinsley’s ship, whatever he wants to call it. You’ll accompany the first group of colonists…if you don’t have any objections, that is.”

  Silence. Even without looking at him, Lee can tell he’s caught the colonel by surprise. “Furthermore, I’m instructing Mr. Balis to release your weapons to you as soon as you’ve reached Coyote Base, and to supply you with whatever further firearms you may wish to request. I want you to be fully prepared as soon as you step off the shuttle. Do you understand, Colonel?”

  A reticent pause. Lee gazes directly at Reese. Although the colonel’s face remains stolid, there’s a certain glint in his eyes. Behind him, Schmidt is trying not to gloat. “I see,” Reese says at last. “You’ve found something down there, haven’t you?”

  “Maybe. We don’t know yet. The survey team heard something that doesn’t sound right, and I don’t want to take any chances.” Lee folds the pad, puts it back in his pocket. “My people could probably take care of any situation…most of them are former military, so they’ve received weapons training…but I doubt any of them has pulled a trigger outside a boot-camp firing range. Your guys are combat vets. When it comes to protecting lives, I’d rather have experienced men on the ground.”

  “I see your point.” Reese remains taciturn. “Good idea.”

  Lee folds his hands in his lap, stares back at him. “I can imagine what you’re thinking, Colonel. If your men are armed, you can stage an insurrection. Take control of Coyote Base, and be in a position to dictate terms of surrender before I arrive on the last shuttle.” Reese’s expression doesn’t change, and Lee shakes his head. “Even if you did that, it wouldn’t do you much good. First, you won’t have anywhere to go…Alabama will be stripped to the bulkheads, and I’ve already told you that we don’t have eno
ugh fuel for a return flight. Second, five men can’t control ninety-eight people for very long. Not unless you’re willing to shoot anyone who disagrees with you, and in this case you’d kill just about everyone.”

  Now Schmidt has looked away. “Go on,” Reese says. “I’m listening.”

  “You’ve got an opportunity to do some good. These people need protection…I’m giving you that chance. I’ll tell you now, whatever society we form down there won’t be anything like the Republic…but I also promise that you can have a place in it. If you’re willing to put aside your differences, that is.”

  Reese takes a deep breath. He gazes out the windows, pensive as he studies the planet far below. In those few moments, he looks less like a military officer than a man weighing a difficult decision. Political ideology against more pragmatic questions of survival. “There won’t be…I mean, my men won’t be held for trial, will they?”

  Has this been his major concern all along? “No, sir, they won’t,” Lee says. “They’ve done nothing wrong. So far as I’m concerned, you were following orders. We’re starting with a clean slate.”

  “Thank you, sir.” For a moment, Reese almost looks grateful. He looks over his shoulder at Schmidt. “Sergeant, you’ve heard all this. What do you think?”

  “Not that we have much choice, but…” The soldier shrugs. “I think we can live with it, sir.”

  Reese nods, turns back to Lee. “Then I accept your offer. We won’t take any action against your people if they won’t turn against us.” A moment of hesitation, then he offers his hand. “A clean slate.”

  Lee smiles, accepts the colonel’s handshake. It may not be friendship, but at least it’s a cessation of hostilities. “I’m glad we have that settled,” Lee says. “Now there’s one more problem we have to deal with.”

  Coyote Base 9.9.2300 (12.21.2296 rel.) 1332 GMT

  The sudden roar of engines from the opposite side of the camp draws Jorge’s attention. He looks up from the tent stake he’s driving into the soft ground just in time to see the Wallace—rechristened the Mayflower—ascending into the afternoon sky on its VTOL jets. A hot blast rips across the meadow; everywhere around him, colonists pause in their labors to cup their hands over their ears and watch the shuttle as it lifts off for its final rendezvous with the Alabama.

  Jorge turns back to the tent beside which he’s kneeling. Two more whacks of his hammer, then he grasps the half-buried stake and shakes it to make sure that it’s firm. It’s been many years since the last time he went camping, and he’s surprised at how much he remembers. Standing up again, he brushes dirt off his knees, then slowly walks around the red-and-white-striped plastic dome, making sure that all the guylines are taut. The tent is smaller than he expected; it’s hard to imagine how his family will be able to squeeze into it, but it will have to do until permanent shelters are built.

  Satisfied with his efforts, he turns to gaze across the meadow. Thick brown smoke rises from controlled fires set to clear away the chest-high grass, while tents are being erected in a tight cluster around Plymouth’s original landing site. A few dozen yards away, a couple of men dig a communal fire pit in the center of the camp; Jorge watches as one of them pauses to lean heavily against the handle of his shovel, his bare back glistening with sweat as he gasps for breath. It’ll be a while before anyone becomes fully acclimated to Coyote’s thin air; already he’s seen a few folks become nauseated from overexerting themselves. Farther away, near the edge of the campsite, he can hear another group digging latrines; Jorge hopes that they erect tarps around them, or he’ll never be able to persuade Marie to go to the bathroom…

  Remembering his daughter, he tucks the hammer in his belt, walks away from his tent to search for her. When he last saw her, she had gone off with Rita to gather firewood. Corporal Boone, one of the URS soldiers, was supposed to lead a foraging party into the grasslands; Captain Lee had made a firm order that no one was to leave camp without an armed escort. Yet that had been several hours ago, and although he had seen many of the younger children playing tag around the tents, none of them had been Marie.

  “Hey, Papa…?”

  Jorge turns to see Carlos walking toward him. Not surprisingly, Wendy and Chris are with him. The three have become a triumvirate during the last few days; where one is, the other two are not far behind. David and Barry are part of the pack, too, but they seem to have been subtly pushed off to one side, assuming subordinate roles in the social pecking order kids set up among themselves.

  “Dr. Levin wants to know if you’re through with that.” Carlos points to the hammer slung from Jorge’s belt. “He also wants to know if…”

  “I can help him with his tent.” Jorge grins as he wipes sweat from his brow. For as long as he’s known Jim, he’s never been much of an outdoorsman. “I’ll see if he needs a hand, sure.” He glances at Chris. “So why aren’t you helping your old man?”

  Chris shrugs offhandedly. “I was with them,” he says, as if that explains everything.

  Jorge looks back at Carlos. “And what’ve you been doing? I thought you were supposed to be fetching water.”

  “We did that already.”

  Great. Teenagers on the loose. Next thing he knows, he’ll have to set curfew hours. At the moment, though, he’s more concerned about the whereabouts of Marie and Rita. “Have you seen Mama and your sister lately?”

  “Sure. They’re right over there, stacking wood.” Carlos points in the general direction of the Plymouth. “I hear we’re going to have a bonfire tonight, after Captain Lee gets here.”

  That’s the first Jorge has heard of the plan. Sometime later in the afternoon, Alabama’s cargo and hab modules are scheduled to be air-dropped to the campsite; indeed, they should be jettisoned from the ship just at any time. By early evening, the Mayflower will have returned to Coyote Base, bringing down Captain Lee and the close-out crew. No one had said anything about a party, yet it only makes sense that there would be some sort of celebration: it’s the first night everyone from the Alabama will be together on the new world. Perhaps they’ll finally break out the rest of the booze…

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean you guys don’t have work to do.” Jorge musters the full force of paternal authority. “The sooner we set up camp, the sooner we’ll all be able to goof off.”

  Properly admonished, Carlos looks down while Chris bites his lip. Only Wendy seems unperturbed; she gazes absently at the camp growing around them, as if all the work is little of her concern. Again, Jorge finds himself wondering about her. Nearly two weeks after having met her for the first time, he’s still hasn’t met her parents…

  “So, Wendy,” he says, “where are your folks?”

  “My dad?” She smiles at him. “He’s up there. On the ship.”

  “Really?” He vaguely recalls her telling him that her father was a member of Alabama’s crew. A life-support engineer. Probably a member of the close-out team. “And your mother…?” She frowns, looks away; Carlos decides not to press further. “So what’s his name? I’d like to meet him sometime.”

  “Eric Gunther.” Wendy smiles at him once more. “He’s coming down tonight, after he gets through with the captain.”

  URSS ALABAMA 9.9.00 (12.21.2296 REL.) 17.59 GMT

  Hand poised above the toggle switch marked C7-JET, Lee watches the chronometer as it counts down the last few seconds. As it flashes to 18:00, he snaps the switch.

  There’s a sudden, hard thump from somewhere above him; he glances out the window in time to see Module C7 detach from the ring. Leaving behind a phosphorescent trail of debris, the jettisoned module falls away from the Alabama, recessed thrusters flaring briefly as its internal guidance system aligns it for atmospheric entry. Farther away, he can just make out Modules C6 and C5: tiny cylinders coasting toward the planet. Although he can no longer see them, C4 and C3 should be aerobraking in a few minutes. With any luck, all five modules will safely enter Coyote’s atmosphere and parachute to a soft landing close to the base
camp, if not right on target.

  “That’s the last one,” Lee says, speaking into his headset.

  “We copy, skipper,” Tinsley replies. “We’re ready to go.”

  “Give me a minute. There are a few things I need to take care of.” Lee smiles. “Don’t leave without me.”

  A short laugh. The XO is down in H5 along with the rest of the close-out crew, waiting to board the Mayflower. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir. Just remember, we’ve got a party tonight.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Lee clicks off, then pushes himself over to another console. He presses a row of buttons; the window shutters slowly descend, blocking his view of the planet. He pulls a plastic sheet across the console, then turns to gaze around the compartment.

  The command deck is deserted, dark save for a few random lights and a single ceiling fluorescent; all the consoles have been covered, the nav table vacant of any holographic images. As soon as the AI detects that Mayflower has left its docking cradle, it’ll fire the ship’s secondary engines and automatically pilot the ship to a higher orbit, where it will function as little more than a weather and communications satellite. Only the hibernation modules haven’t been jettisoned; within them are the biostasis dewars containing animal embryos: sheep, goats, chickens, geese, even a few dogs and cats. Lee has decided that the livestock are safer in orbit until the colony is well established, at which time one of the shuttles will return to bring them down to Coyote.

  Yet there’s another duty the ship will perform in their absence. Lee coasts over to the helm, pushes aside its cover. He taps a memorized code into the keypad, activating a program he’s written into the astrogation subsystem. He studies a screen, watching as the ship’s telescope rotates outward, facing the stars. Satisfied, he shuts down the station, covers the console once more. Just a little extra insurance no one else needs to know about…

  He should go below now. As commanding officer, he’s fulfilled his obligation to be the last man to leave ship. Instead, Lee glides over to his chair, pushes himself into it. One final job that needs to be done…