Coyote Destiny (8 page)

As the coupe entered the city center, the changes became more apparent. High-rise towers, more closely resembling enormous termite domes than the glass-walled skyscrapers of Old Earth, rose above broad avenues paved with native-stone compounds, their oval windows gleaming against the night sky. Within them were elevators that didn’t rely upon cables and pulleys but instead used
kua’tah
null-gravity shafts. Delicate-looking but sturdy footbridges led from one building to another; below, maglev trams traveling upon elevated monorails had replaced wagons and carts as the principal means of transportation within the city. As the coupe moved past the limestone edifice of the Bank of Coyote, Jorge spotted a couple of proctors on graveyard-shift foot patrol. Even they were different; wearing
arsashi
cloaks, they carried
nord
-made airpulse rifles, nonlethal weapons that fired not bullets or fléchettes but energy-directed microbursts capable of knocking targets down without harming them.

Nor were the changes limited to Liberty. According to the most recent census estimates, Coyote’s global population was around 6 million, spread across various provinces—no one but old-timers called them colonies anymore—along the Great Equatorial River. Almost as soon as the Corps mapped some previously unexplored island or subcontinent, boats and airships began to arrive, bearing homesteaders intent on staking a claim. The population was rising, sure, but there was still plenty of land available for those who wanted to make a new start.

Seventy Earth-years after the URSS
Alabama
had reached 47 Ursae Majoris, everything about Coyote was different. What had once been a remote colony world was now a full-fledged member of a galactic community. Every week, starships from Federation Navy’s merchant marine departed from the New Brighton spaceport, bound for planets dozens of light-years away. Not only that, but a merchant marine ship had recently informed the Federation of its discovery of an artificial world, nicknamed Hex, that a reclusive race called the
danui
had built within their homeworld’s system. If the cruiser’s reports were to be believed, Hex was two AUs in radius, comprised of trillions of cylindrical habitats forming an immense sphere around the G2-class star HD 76700. Jorge found this hard to imagine . . . and yet, he’d seen the pictures, and he knew it was real.

None of this would have been possible without the Talus, or the
hjadd’s
willingness to help humankind recover from the events of Black Anael. But such gifts hadn’t come without a price . . .

“Colonial for your thoughts?” Inez’s quiet voice broke his reverie.

“Nothing, really.” Jorge stifled a yawn behind his hand. “Just trying to stay awake, that’s all.”

“We’ll be there soon enough.” Sawyer nodded toward the window on his side of the coupe. “Trust me, the guest rooms are comfortable. I’ve stayed there before.”

By then, the coupe had passed through the city center and was heading into Liberty’s historic district. In the interests of preserving Coyote’s past, the University of New Florida had prevailed upon the city council to set aside the original homes built by the
Alabama
colonists. There was a soft bump as the coupe left the pavement and started traveling down unplowed dirt roads, passing houses, wood-sheds, and chicken coops that university historians and volunteers had managed to keep intact. Jorge caught sight of the log cabin his grandparents had built. He’d lived there the first few years of his life, until his parents decided to move to a new home on the other side of the city; nonetheless, he had fond memories of the place. No one resided there now, of course; even his grandmother, one of the few surviving members of the
Alabama
, had long since moved to the outskirts of Bridgeton. Yet as antiquated as it was, the family home remained as a testament to the fortitude of the first settlers.

Government House stood at the edge of the district not far from the Grange Hall, itself long since converted into a historical museum. Although the original wood-frame structure was left untouched, with Captain Lee’s life-size statue still holding vigil out front, a couple of years ago a limestone addition had been raised behind it, providing additional office space for the Federation’s ever-growing government. The coupe entered a paved driveway beside the building and came to a halt in front of a rear door. Two blueshirts were waiting for their arrival; as the coupe settled upon its skirts, they assumed positions on each side of its passenger doors, their airpulse rifles at the ready. Jorge wondered whether they were simply an honor guard, or if someone seriously believed that an armed escort was necessary.

“Oh, hell,” Sawyer muttered, plainly irritated by the Militia presence. “I was afraid of something like this.” Stepping from the vehicle, he scowled at the blueshirts. “Thank you, gentlemen, but we don’t need...”

“Sorry, General. President’s orders.” The soldier to the right made no move to leave. “We’re to make sure nothing interferes with you...”

“Walking ten feet to the door. Right.” Sawyer blew out his cheeks as an exasperated sigh. “Whatever you say, but I’m having words with the president the next time I see him.”

Jorge almost laughed out loud. Only Sawyer Lee would have the nerve to stand up to the president of the Coyote Federation. On the other hand, since Sawyer had refused to publicly endorse Charles Edgar during the last election, he probably took it as his right to oppose the president. But Jorge wisely refrained from saying anything as he climbed out of the coupe, Inez and her mother behind him, and followed Sawyer and the two soldiers to the door.

The guest quarters were located on the third floor of the new wing, their limestone walls and floors disguised by faux-birch panels and shagshair carpeting. Everyone in the group had been assigned an individual room; after two weeks of sharing a dome tent with five other men, Jorge was ready for a little privacy, and although his room was hardly the luxury suite Sawyer had led him to expect, he nonetheless looked forward to sleeping in a bed instead of a cot. But when he saw the blueshirts take up positions at each end of the hallway, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d been put in a velvet prison . . . and wondered why President Edgar had gone to such trouble to post guards.

Before they retired, Sawyer told the others that someone would come to fetch them first thing in the morning. Their briefing was scheduled for 0900 sharp, and they would be expected to be ready by then. Closing the door behind him, Jorge glanced at his watch. It was already 0147. Barely enough time to catch a few winks; he hoped breakfast would be provided.

No matter. It had been a long trip from Algonquin, and all he wanted to do just then was sleep. Civilian clothes had been laid out on the bed. Tossing them on a chair, he sat down on the bed to undress, but he had only just removed his boots when there was a quiet knock at the door.

“Yeah, come in,” he growled. He expected that it was Sawyer, dropping by to discuss one thing or another, but when the door opened, he was startled to see Melissa instead.

“My apologies.” She quietly shut the door behind her. “I know it’s late, but I wonder if I could have a word with you?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Jorge was instantly awake. He stood up. “Always happy to . . .”

“I rather doubt that, considering the hour, but I appreciate the courtesy all the same.” A soft smile appeared. “And it’s not necessary to call me ‘ma’am.’ I know we’ve never met until yesterday, but I
am
your cousin . . . in a certain sense, at least.”

Despite the fact that he now knew Inez to be a relative, it was hard to think of this woman as belonging to his family. “I’ll try to remember that.”

A nod, then the smile vanished as quickly as it had come. “As you should. And you should also keep in mind something else.” A tentative pause. “I’m aware of your feelings for my daughter. I think . . . that is, I’m sure . . . that you know that, too.”

Jorge felt a chill. “Yes, ma . . . um, yes, I do.” He hesitated. “There’s probably not much you don’t know about me, is there?”

Melissa shook her head. “Actually, there is. Contrary to what’s often said about the Order, we don’t make a practice of eavesdropping on other people’s thoughts. In fact, much of our training involves learning how to stay out of another person’s mind. Our talents are a gift, and as such shouldn’t be abused. So your secrets are, by and large, still your own.”

She let out her breath. “Having said that, though . . . yes, I know how you feel about her. That became obvious to me the moment I saw the two of you together. Before I was able to block your thoughts, I found something that I never expected . . . that you’re in love with her.”

Jorge’s face became warm. As much as he wanted to deny what she’d just said, he knew that any lies he might tell would be futile. Instead, he sat down heavily upon the bed.

“Yes,” he murmured. “You’re right. I am.”

Melissa regarded him with solemn eyes. “She knows this . . . and it’s unfair that she wasn’t able to tell you who she really is, if only because it would have spared you a lot of heartache and embarrassment. But the mistake has been made, and all you can do now is try not to make it worse. Jorge, your affection for her is misplaced. You may continue to love her as a cousin . . . but that’s as far as it may ever go.”

He shifted uncomfortably, unable to look Inez’s mother in the eye. “I know that. And I . . . I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

Melissa nodded but didn’t respond at once. He wondered if she was reaching into his mind; despite what she’d just told him, he didn’t trust her to refrain from exploring his thoughts. “For your sake and hers,” she said at last, “I hope that’s true . . . because the two of you are about to go on a journey together that will test the limits of your relationship.”

He looked up. “Pardon me? I don’t . . .”

“No, of course not . . . and I’ve said too much already.” Turning away from him, she stepped toward the door. “But you’ll understand soon enough. Good night, Jorge.”

Without another word, Melissa left the room. Jorge stared at the door for a while before he finally got undressed and put himself in bed. But even after he told the room to turn off the lights, it was a long time before he was able to fall asleep.

 

 

Jorge woke up at eight o’clock when a low but persistent chime
from the ceiling succeeded in getting him to open his eyes. Climbing out of bed, he glanced through the window at nearby Sand Creek, where he saw a thin skin of ice reflecting the morning sun, then lurched to the bathroom. He emerged from the shower a few minutes later to find a covered tray on the dresser; someone had delivered a bowl of cereal, toast and marmalade, a glass of apple juice, and a small pot of coffee. He hadn’t slept well; at least breakfast would help wake him up.

The civilian clothes he’d found on his bed the night before were his size: dark trousers, long-sleeve tunic, fisherman’s sweater, socks, and a pair of moccasins. Nothing official-looking; again, Jorge wondered why he wasn’t being allowed to wear his Corps uniform. As he got dressed, he listened to the morning news on the desk comp. Weather reports, local news, a feature story about a new settlement on Pawnee, followed by an interview with a well-known mystery writer . . . but nothing about the
chaaz’maha
, let alone the late-night arrival in Liberty of a group of Corpsmen and a member of the Order of the Eye.

He’d just finished breakfast when there was a knock at the door: Sawyer, summoning him to the briefing. Like everyone else gathered in the hallway, the general was dressed as a civilian. Jorge had never seen Inez in anything besides a Corps uniform, although he tried not to look as if he noticed her appearance. But Melissa seemed pedestrian without her robe; like Inez, she wore a hemp sweater and an ankle-length dress that made both mother and daughter look like a couple of university academics, while Sawyer could have been an ordinary bureaucrat.

The blueshirts stationed outside the guest quarters were still on duty. Without a word, the soldiers escorted them downstairs to the second floor, then led them to a conference room in the older part of Government House, a blackwood-paneled room downstairs from the president’s office. President Edgar was already there, waiting for them.

“Gentlemen, ladies.” The president rose from his seat at the end of the conference table. “Thank you for coming on such short notice . . . particularly those of you who were on Algonquin.” He waved them to chairs on either side of the table. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your expedition, but . . .”

“That’s all right, Mr. President.” Sawyer took a seat beside him. “I’m sure Lieutenant Montero and Corporal Torres . . . Corporal Sanchez, that is . . . don’t mind getting away from the subarctic for a while.”

The president nodded as he sat down, yet he seemed uncertain whether General Lee was being sarcastic or not. A thin, rather ascetic young man in his early teens by LeMarean reckoning, Charles Edgar was the first president to come from the wave of immigrants who’d fled to 47 Ursae Majoris following the collapse of the Western Hemisphere Union. Although born on Earth, he’d adopted Coyote as his home and risen to high public office through the support of his fellow gringos—the old pejorative, now largely forgotten, for those who’d once lived in the New Brighton refugee camps. True, quite a few people detested having a leader who’d once been a WHU citizen; the scars left by the Union occupation had never quite healed, particularly among the old-timers who’d lived through those years. But Edgar was only a few Earth-years older than Jorge when his family had set foot on Coyote; he’d come of age in the refugee camps, and during his campaign his people had distributed an old photo of him shaking hands with the
chaaz’maha
.

Although Edgar had carefully remained neutral on the subject of religion, that image had gone far to gain him the support of the
Sa’Tong
ians. He’d won the election, but there were still quite a few people who regarded Charles Edgar as little more than an opportunist, and at best a political hack. Jorge was aware that his own grandmother, herself a former Federation president, openly detested him.