Coyote Horizon Page 5

  “Yeah.” The fact of the matter was that the other guy hadn’t even gotten a chance to land a blow before Hawk picked up the jug. But Bairns didn’t have to know this.

  Bairns nodded. “I’ll get a copy of the arrest report and send that along as well. The magistrates won’t like it very much…the terms of your parole are that you stay out of trouble and don’t commit any acts of violence…but you haven’t been charged with anything, and I’m willing to bet that the maggies will take that into consideration.”

  “Sure. Okay.” Hawk lowered his arm, flexed it a little. A new thought occurred to him. “Maybe they’ll even…I mean, since I did something good back there, maybe they’ll even think about reducing my sentence.”

  “Hawk…” The parole officer sighed. This was an old subject, something they’d discussed several times already. “You know better than that. You’re on probation for seven years…six and a half, counting the time you’ve already served. You should count yourself lucky that you’re not still in rehab. Even luckier that you’re not doing time in the stockade. If it wasn’t for your uncle…”

  “I know, I know.” This, too, was old news. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Uncle Carlos—hero of the Revolution, former president of the Federation—had interceded on his behalf, Hawk’s punishment would have been more severe. Indeed, it sort of continued a family tradition; long ago, his uncle had also arranged for Hawk’s parents to be released from the Liberty stockade and sent into exile. Indeed, that had happened during the time that Hawk himself was conceived.

  It might be said that getting into trouble with the law was congenital to the Thompson clan, except that his uncle Garth, his father’s brother, had himself recently been elected Federation president, and Hawk’s younger sister, Rain, was in training to join the Federation’s merchant fleet. So Hawk was the black sheep of the family. His mother seldom spoke to him anymore, and he knew that he was a political embarrassment to both of his uncles. Only Rain came to visit him, when she was in New Brighton between flights, but even she carefully maintained a certain distance; it wouldn’t do her career any good if it became generally known that her big brother was a convicted killer.

  “Well…there it is.” Which was Bairns’s way of saying that their time was up. He slipped his pad back in his pocket, then stood up. “Unless there’s anything else you want to talk about.”

  Once again, Hawk felt a surge of irritation. Bairns meant well, of course. In fact, Hawk was aware that the officer had a certain paternal fondness for him. But he wished that Joe would stop trying to play psychologist; he’d had enough of shrinks, and didn’t want even one more person trying to find out what was in his head.

  “No…no, nothing else.” Hawk forced a smile. “Thanks, Joe. Sorry to get you up in the middle of the night.”

  “Think nothing of it. Just doing my job.” Bairns stepped toward the door, started to open it. “Now get some sleep. See you again next week…usual time, okay?”

  “Sure.” As if Hawk had any say in the matter. Either next week, or for the next six and a half years. “See you later.”

  He went into work the next morning, and it was pretty much a normal day, aside from the arrival of a freighter carrying fifty head of cattle. Livestock had lately begun to be exported from Earth; with the eradication of boids just north of Liberty and in the Pioneer Valley of Midland, ranches were being established on vast tracts that had been cleared of native plants and replanted with grass more suitable for grazing. Children no longer had only goat’s milk to drink, and already it was possible, in some of the more expensive restaurants in New Florida, to order a steak dinner.

  Having grown up eating chicken, goat, pork, shag meat, and creek crab, Hawk often wondered what beef tasted like. A brief encounter with cows, though, was enough to make up his mind that he’d just as soon never have a hamburger for lunch. One of the health officials had picked that day to call in sick, so Hawk was drafted to help the others by herding cattle into a corral where they’d be checked for parasites and obvious signs of disease. He soon discovered that cows were more stupid than even the dumbest shag; they didn’t understand even the most simple of verbal commands, and it wasn’t long before his shoes were caked with manure. He stayed until the officials completed their task, then returned to the passenger terminal, where the other inspectors complained about the stench he’d brought back with him.

  When Hawk got home that evening, he noticed that the apartment across the hall was quiet; for the first time since he’d been living there, his neighbor wasn’t entertaining any male guests. The next day was Zamael, the beginning of the weekend; he had the day off, along with Orifiel, but although he went out only a few times—shopping for groceries at the farmer’s market, buying a new pair of shoes at the boot maker, picking up a replacement cell for his pad—he didn’t see the woman whom he’d rescued a couple of nights earlier.

  Late Orifiel afternoon, he’d just begun to cut up celery, carrots, and potatoes for a pot of soup when there was a quiet knock at his door. Thinking that it might be Bairns coming to check on him, he laid down the knife and went to the door, and instead found his neighbor standing in the hall.

  “Hello,” she said. “Hope I’m not bothering you. May I come in?”

  “Umm…sure.” It took a moment for Hawk to recognize her. Purple bruises beneath her eyes, a thick bandage across the bridge of her nose, and a collarlike brace fastened around her neck; the hemp dress she wore was much less revealing than the teddy she’d had on the first time he’d seen her. Stepping aside to let her in, he cast a wary glance down the hall. To his relief, no one else was in sight; he didn’t want to be observed inviting a prostitute into his apartment.

  “Thank you.” She waited until he closed the door, then looked around, her gaze falling on the counter next to the stove. “You making dinner? I could always come back later…”

  “No, no…it’s all right. I’m just…” At a loss for what to say or do, he gestured toward the nearest chair. “Have a seat, please. I’ll…I mean, I can…Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks anyway.” A sly smile as she glided across the room. “Actually, I brought something else instead.” For the first time Hawk noticed the bottle of waterfruit wine in her left hand; she placed it on the table, then looked at him expectantly. “Got a couple of glasses? Or I could go over to my place and…”

  “No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll get one for you.” Turning to the cabinet, he found a glass he normally used for his breakfast apple juice. “I…Not to be rude, but I don’t drink.” The fact of the matter was that he couldn’t drink; the bracelet would detect the subtle change in his metabolic rate, and since abstinence from alcohol was a condition of his parole, Bairns would have something to say about that during their next session. “But please, feel free.”

  “Maybe I’ll just save it for later.” She didn’t uncork the bottle, but instead pushed it aside as she took a seat at the table. “Actually, I brought it for you. Sort of to…y’know, thank you for saving me the other night.” Her smile faded. “That was very brave, coming to my rescue like that. If you hadn’t…”

  “Are you all right?” Hawk couldn’t help but stare at her bandaged nose. “Looks like he beat you up pretty badly.”

  “Yeah, well…nothing that the doctors couldn’t fix.” The corner of her mouth ticked upward. “Seriously, if you hadn’t shown up when you did, he might have killed me. That guy was completely psycho. I should’ve never…”

  Her voice trailed off, and Hawk was surprised to see a blush appear on her face, nearly matching the bruises beneath her eyes. She glanced away for a moment, as if trying to find the right thing to say, then looked at him again. “Anyway, my name’s Melissa Sanchez. And you’re…?”

  “Hawk…Hawk Thompson.” As always, he hesitated before saying his full name.

  “Glad to meet you, Hawk-Hawk Thompson.” A grin. “That is your real name, isn’t it? In my line of work…former line of work, I mean
…a girl hears a lot of fake names. John Doe, John Smith, John Cooper…There’s a reason why we call them johns, y’know.”

  “Never occurred to me.” Apparently she hadn’t heard of him, for there was no sign of recognition. Something she’d said, though, took him by surprise. “You’re no longer…um…?”

  “A prostitute?” Melissa shook her head. “Not anymore. Not since I got busted for operating without a license.” She idly traced her finger across the label of the unopened wine bottle. “Truth is, I was ready to get out of the business anyway. Never really wanted to do it in the first place, and I didn’t want to join the guild and have to pay a manager. But I couldn’t get a job anywhere else, and we all need to pay the rent one way or another, so…”

  Hawk nodded. Unemployment was a chronic problem in New Brighton; immigrants were coming in faster than jobs were being created for them. And Melissa didn’t look much older than his own sister, nor did she appear to be particularly robust; it was hard to imagine her finding work in a timber crew or on a fishing boat, and impossible to picture her wearing a miner’s helmet. After that, her options were limited at best.

  “Maybe you could…”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find something else, eventually.” A soft laugh. “Whatever it is, it can’t be any more dangerous than what I was doing before now. At least I won’t get beat up for refusing to…Well, never mind.”

  Hawk didn’t know what to say. Melissa made him vaguely uncomfortable. There had been a couple of prostitutes in the timber camps where he’d spent most of his youth: fat, cynical whores his father frequently brought home and whom he’d tried to avoid as much as possible. She reminded him of them, yet he didn’t want her to leave. It was the first time since he’d moved in that anyone had come to visit him; even Rain stayed away from his flat, preferring not to venture into the tenements.

  He also realized that, if Melissa noticed the bracelet on his wrist, she wasn’t saying anything about it. Perhaps she’d seen ones like it before; given her former occupation, it was all too likely that she had. Whatever the reason, the fact that he didn’t have to explain or apologize for his past made him more willing to overlook her sins.

  So he turned back to the counter and, picking up the knife, began to cut vegetables again. “I’m making dinner. Not much, really…just some vegetable soup…but you’re welcome to join me. I always make more than I can eat.”

  Melissa didn’t reply. When he looked back at her again, he saw that her face had gone pale, and she was staring fixedly at the knife in his hand. “Please put that away,” she said, very quietly. “Knives…scare me.”

  He almost asked why, then thought better of it. None of his business, and he didn’t want to say anything that might jeopardize their relationship. “Sorry,” he murmured, and hastily put the blade back on the counter and dropped a dishrag over it. “Won’t happen again.”

  “Thank you.” But the damage was done; she’d already risen from the chair and was heading for the door. “I need to get going. Just wanted to drop by and thank you for…”

  “Sure. I’m just glad I…well, that I was there when you needed me.”

  By then, Melissa had opened the door. She stopped, turned to look back at him. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m glad you were, too.” A pause. “Hey, if you ever need anything…anything at all…I’m right across the hall. All you need to do is ask.”

  Hawk didn’t know how specific the invitation was meant to be; he decided to interpret it in a less-than-intimate way. “Thanks. I could always use a little company.” Realizing that this could be misconstrued, he quickly added, “Perhaps we could do dinner some other time?”

  “Yeah…okay, sure. I’d like that.” She hesitated. “Y’know, maybe I don’t need to go anywhere just now. I mean, if you’d still like for me to stay…”

  He shrugged. “Like I said…I always make too much for one.” Hawk figured he could finish cutting the vegetables while his back was turned to her; that way, she wouldn’t have to see the knife. He waved a hand toward the table. “Please…”

  Melissa closed the door. “Thank you. Yeah, I think I will.” There was a twinkle in her bruise-shadowed eyes. “You know, Hawk-Hawk, I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

  Spring came with the gradual warming of the days as winter reluctantly let go of its long, cold grip. The rainy season began in the fifth week of Asmodel; almost every afternoon, sudden downpours turned the streets of New Brighton into mud slides and caused leaks to spring in the tenement ceilings. Between arrivals of inbound shuttles, the skies above the spaceport were often filled by flocks of swoops, squawking as they made their return migration from nesting grounds in the Meridian Archipelago to the northern climes of Midland, New Florida, and Great Dakota. Once again, Coyote was waking up; change came slowly to this world, but it came nonetheless.

  Hawk discovered that his life was undergoing change as well. The fact that he had someone to go home to made all the difference. Melissa wasn’t exactly a girlfriend—although she never gave him the impression that she’d reject sexual overtures on his part, he didn’t find the idea of sleeping with her very appealing—but it wasn’t long before she became more than just a neighbor across the hall. When he came home from work, he often found that she’d already made dinner for both of them; since she was currently unemployed, she had plenty of time to do the cooking. They began to go shopping together on the weekends, picking up the things they wanted to eat during the coming week. And if he had a little extra money on payday, they’d treat themselves by going out to dinner. Although Melissa avoided the taverns where she might be spotted by one of her former clients, Hawk soon learned that she knew which cafes were the best in town. One Zamael night, she even went so far as to insist that they both dress up so that they could get into a fancy restaurant in Riverside, the part of town near the docks that was the closest New Brighton had to a wealthy neighborhood. They dined on grilled redfish and roasted waterfruit stems as they watched fishing boats move along the Great Equatorial River, and pretended to be old friends of Morgan Goldstein, the billionaire entrepreneur whose manor stood near the lighthouse.

  Hawk knew that her friendship didn’t come without a few strings attached. Melissa hadn’t been able to get a job, so part of his salary went toward helping her meet her rent. He’d also assumed the role of being her personal bodyguard; men often dropped by her apartment, still believing that she was “a working girl” (Melissa’s term for her former occupation), so he’d learned to listen for a signal the two of them had worked out—three hard raps against her door—that was her way of asking him to come over and help evict any would-be john who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. But Hawk had enough money to spare, and so long as he didn’t have to use force, he didn’t mind being her chaperone.

  He decided not to let Bairns know about her; it wouldn’t do any good to have his parole officer find out that a prostitute, even one who was retired, had become his companion. So Melissa made herself scarce when Bairns came over for their weekly meetings, and if she happened to see Hawk while Joe was around, she pretended not to know either of them. As it turned out, though, Bairns never seemed to see her; as Melissa explained, most men tend to notice prostitutes only from the neck down. And since Bairns had seen her only once—and that when her nose was broken and her eyes were blackened—chances were that he wouldn’t recognize her unless she was nearly naked.

  The two of them became close, but they still kept secrets from one another. Hawk never spoke to her about his father, and she never asked why he wore a bracelet and inhibitor patch. And although he learned that her fear of knives came from having been raped when she was a teenager, she never told him why she’d become a prostitute despite the trauma of that experience. Each had boundaries; so long as they knew where the lines were and didn’t cross them, their friendship remained untroubled.

  Hawk hadn’t fully realized how lonely he’d been until he met Melissa. Having a friend, he discovered that his e
xistence no longer seemed so bleak. His job was still boring, but as long as she was there to say good-bye when he left for work and hello when he got home, that was enough to get him through the day. And although immigrants continued to shuffle past his window in a seemingly endless procession, he no longer envied their desire to find new lives for themselves.

  He’d almost come to enjoy his job when an incident occurred.

  On schedule, the EASS Magellan returned to 47 Uma. Unlike the Western Hemisphere, whose relations with the Coyote Federation were still constrained by its refusal to sign the U.N. treaty acknowledging the Federation’s sovereignty, the European Alliance enjoyed full diplomatic relations with the new world. Even so, the Alliance hadn’t quite forgotten the showdown that occurred a few years ago when the Magellan had nearly opened fire on Starbridge Coyote during a short-lived rebellion by a handful of colonists. Few people remembered that Hawk had been involved in the affair, if only in a peripheral way, and it was one more thing that he didn’t like to talk about.

  So he was always nervous whenever the Magellan’s crew shuttled down to New Brighton. None of them had ever recognized him, nor was it likely that they would. Nonetheless, Hawk tried to keep his face down as they went through passport control. Unlike its former sister ship, the Robert E. Lee, the Magellan was primarily a military vessel; the fact that it also carried cargo and a handful of passengers was almost an afterthought. So it was a relief that the next person to approach Hawk’s kiosk wasn’t wearing a uniform.

  A young man, only a year or two older than Hawk, dressed casually in trousers and a zipped-up Windbreaker. A nylon duffel bag was slung from a strap under his arm, and, despite having just arrived, he seemed already accustomed to Coyote’s lighter gravity and thin atmosphere. From the corner of his eye, Hawk casually sized him up as he processed the passport of the ESA lieutenant who’d preceded him in line. Clearly not an immigrant—he wasn’t carrying enough baggage—but apparently neither was he a tourist or a tradesman: his clothes weren’t expensive, and indeed appeared to be a bit cheap. Hawk doubted that he was a diplomat or government official; nor did he look like any clergyman that he’d ever seen.