Coyote Horizon (41 page)

Laird’s face reddened, but he forced a smile that was meant to be good-natured. The
chaaz’maha
knew otherwise. “Yeah, well . . . got lucky, I guess. The maggies don’t have much on me . . . just that weapons charge, plus attempted assault . . . and they were still trying to figure out how to get rid of me when the Union collapsed. I behaved myself while I was in here, so they decided to put me on probation.” He lifted his wrist. “Joe made me a trustee. I work the day shift, delivering meals and whatnot. That’s why I haven’t seen you till now. You didn’t get in until last night, I hear.”

“That is true. Seems you neglected to include me when you brought breakfast.”

“Did I now? How thoughtless.” Laird’s smile became a gloating smirk. “Kinda ironic, isn’t it. You . . .”

“Put you in here, and now I’m the one occupying a cell.” While Laird had been speaking, the
chaaz’maha
had searched him. “You’re particularly relishing the fact that I’m in the very same cell you occupied for over three months.” He shrugged. “It’s actually not all that uncomfortable. I even believe I could get used to it.”

Laird’s expression changed to one of bafflement. “Someone must have told you . . .”

“They didn’t. You’re just transparent, that’s all.” The
chaaz’maha
sighed as he resumed his seat on the bunk. “You think of yourself as a criminal genius, David, but that term is oxymoronic. Criminals are people who are too stupid to get what they want in an honest manner, which is why they resort to illegal acts. Truth is, you’re little more than a common thug . . . and not even a very threatening thug at that.”

Laird didn’t respond, but the
chaaz’maha
didn’t need to search him again to know the hateful thoughts coursing through his mind. Indeed, he had to rub his fingers together to keep the ugliness at bay. Finally, Laird regained control over his emotions.

“Remember what I said to you at the spaceport?” he asked, stepping closer to the bars. “That you’d made an enemy of Living Earth?”

“I do . . . and I have to admit it, it frightened me at the time.” The
chaaz’maha
lifted his feet from the floor to cross his legs together again. “I know better now. You’re the only Living Earth member on Coyote. In fact, the only reason why you came here in the first place is because you were desperate to get away from Earth before the law caught up with you. Your role in the bombing of the New Guinea space elevator . . .”

Laird’s mouth fell open. “How could you . . . ?”

“Just a hunch.” He tried not to smile. “Actually, if there’s any irony to be found, it’s that, for someone allegedly opposed to space travel, you had no problem with it when you found yourself on the run. But then, that’s the same reason why there’s no organization here to support you. You’re on your own.”

Astonished that the
chaaz’maha
could possibly know such things, Laird stared at him. “Maybe . . . or maybe not,” he muttered, pulling himself together again. “But as long as you’re in here . . .”

“I’m at your mercy.” The
chaaz’maha
resumed his lotus position, his hands lightly resting upon his knees. “Yes, I’m sure you can make my stay here uncomfortable. You can withhold meals, or spit in my food, or deny me water, or take away my bedsheets and make me sleep on a bare mattress. And I have no doubt that you could come up with even more imaginative harassments . . .”

“You bet I can.”

“Perhaps . . . although I should warn you about that inhibitor patch. I wore one once myself, and its effects are rather unpleasant.” The
chaaz’maha
shrugged. “But your inability to do violence against me isn’t the only thing you’ve overlooked.”

“And what’s that?”

“For me, this cell is only a physical form of incarceration. Sooner or later, I’ll leave this place. But you’re still in your own private prison.” He paused, then sadly shook his head. “And I’m afraid nothing I could say would ever change that.”

Laird glared at him for another moment or two, until the
chaaz’maha
closed his eyes and concentrated upon the friction between his thumb and forefinger. After a while, Laird stormed away, his heavy footsteps echoing off the concrete floor until they ended in the slamming of the cell-block door.

The
chaaz’maha
let out his breath as he sought to calm himself. The encounter with David Laird had been as unpleasant as it had been unexpected; even the few seconds he’d spent in the other man’s mind had been enough to disturb his inner peace. He was about to recite the Poem of Acceptance to himself when a new sound reached his ears.

It came through the narrow window above his bunk, from some distant source beyond the jailhouse walls. Curious, the
chaaz’maha
listened more closely, and after a moment a smile crept across his face.

He’d heard his name, being chanted over and over again.

 

 

 

The jail was located on the edge of New Brighton, close to the
torii
that marked the city limits. The bamboo fence separating the town from the nearby refugee camp had been erected at both ends of the Japanese gate, with a removable barrier blocking the gate itself. It was there, within sight of the jail, that the demonstrators held their rally. They were prevented by local proctors from coming any closer, but they could be clearly seen and heard for many blocks away.

Nonetheless, Grey Rice had managed to slip through the cordon. Upon his arrival two weeks earlier, the proctors had issued name badges to the group from Carlos’s Pizza, identifying them as relief workers and thus allowing them to enter New Brighton for the purpose of bringing in supplies from the harbor. After the
chaaz’maha
was arrested, Grey volunteered to follow him into town and take up a post near the jail in order to keep an eye on him; the rest of the relief workers would stay behind, continuing to feed refugees while organizing a protest march in support of their leader. Although the others had been shaken by the news that the
chaaz’maha
had a dark past, it was a sign of their faith in their teacher that they remained loyal to him.

Grey had found a cheap room in a hostel a couple of blocks from the jail, but he’d only used the place to sleep and change clothes. He’d spent the previous evening, and the morning that followed, sitting on the low stone fence that surrounded the jail, the closest the proctors would allow him to come. They had already denied him permission to visit the
chaaz’maha
, stating that, for security reasons, none of his students would be allowed to see him. And although the
chaaz’maha
hadn’t yet been arraigned, the Chief Magistrate had already sent word that he would be denied bail until further notice.

So Grey had spent long hours at the jail, waiting to see what would happen next. He’d used a satphone to keep in touch with the camp and learned that Bess had managed to enlist several hundred people to join the protest. That wasn’t surprising; in the two weeks that the
chaaz’maha
and his people had been living and working among the refugees, they’d earned their respect and trust; many of them had accepted downloads of the
Sa’Tong-Tas
along with the hot meals served in their tent. When the
chaaz’maha
was taken away, it had been in full view of dozens who’d been waiting in line for dinner; word of the arrest had spread quickly, and by morning most of the camp knew that the soft-spoken young man who had come to take care of them had been dragged away by the authorities.

Bess had told Grey that the protesters were scheduled to meet shortly before noon, after which they would march to the
torii
, where they would stage a demonstration. No attempt would be made to pass through the gate; it was clear that the proctors didn’t want any refugees to enter the city, and the last thing anyone wanted to do was take any actions that might compromise the
chaaz’maha’s
chances of being released. So nonviolent civil disobedience was to be their way of expressing their outrage. And in the meantime, Grey was to remain where he was, watching the jail to see how the proctors would react to the protest.

Grey hadn’t had anything to eat. He’d left the hostel almost as soon as the sun had come up, and by late morning his stomach was growling. The demonstration wasn’t to begin for another hour, though, so he’d decided to take care of his hunger. He’d spotted a small cafe down the street from the jail, and it was there that he went to grab a quick breakfast. Two scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee later, he returned to his post, and it was then and there that he saw someone he’d thought—and hoped—he’d never see again.

The Reverend Alberto Cosenza stood outside the jail, his black suit lending him the appearance of a raven. Speaking to a young woman holding a pad, his back was half-turned toward the street. Cosenza glanced over his shoulder at Rice as he approached; apparently dismissing him as a passerby, he turned back to the woman . . . then he did a double take, his eyes widening in recognition.

“Reverend Rice?” he asked. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it is . . . although the title no longer applies.” Grey tried to smile, but found that he couldn’t. “Good to see you again,” he added, as cordially as possible.

Curious, the woman moved a little closer, yet Cosenza didn’t appear as if he wanted to share this exchange with her. “I think that’ll be all,” he said. “Is there’s anything further you’d like to ask?”

“No . . . no, that’s enough for now.” She switched off her pad, put it back in her pocket. “Thank you for your time, Reverend.” He nodded, and she walked away; Grey noticed that the proctor standing nearby allowed her to pass through the fence gate.

“Press,” Cosenza murmured, watching her go. “Reporter for a news service back on Earth. She showed up the same time I did, with President Montero.”

“Carlos Montero is here?” Now it was Grey’s turn to be surprised. He glanced at the front door of the jail. “I didn’t see him when I was here just a little . . .”

He stopped himself, but that was enough to raise Cosenza’s attention. “You’ve been here already?” he asked, and Grey reluctantly nodded. “Why?”

No point in lying. “I’m with the relief effort from Carlos’s Pizza. When the
chaaz’maha
was arrested, I came over to . . .”

“Oh, dear God.” Horrified, Cosenza stared at the former minister. “Grey, you don’t mean to tell me you’re . . . that you’re following this false prophet, do you?”

Grey felt his face grow warm, yet he refused to look away. “He’s not a prophet, Rever . . . Alberto.” Cosenza’s eyes narrowed at the sound of his first name; he was not accustomed to junior clergymen addressing him with such familiarity, even those who’d left the Church. “I don’t think he even considers himself to be particularly holy. He’s a spiritual teacher, that’s all.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?” A vein throbbed at Cosenza’s temple; the older man was struggling to keep his temper in check. “Grey, you know even more about this than I do. You’ve met those damned aliens. You’ve heard their godless immorality . . .”

“Godless, yes . . . or at least the way you define God.” Grey shook his head. “Immoral, no. But you’re right about one thing . . . I do know more about
Sa’Tong
than you do. I’ve listened to the
chaaz’maha
, I’ve studied the
Sa’Tong-tas
, and I’ve come to the conclusion that theirs is a better . . .”

“Hush!” Cosenza angrily held up a hand. “Be quiet!” He let out his breath as a frustrated sigh. “Grey, I . . . I can’t tell you how much I’m disappointed in you. I know you’ve suffered a crisis of faith, but I would’ve never thought . . . never even dreamed . . . that you’d fallen so far.”

Despite himself, Grey found a certain satisfaction in being able to irritate Cosenza so easily. “I’d already fallen, Alberto. After I left the pulpit, I was a lost man. But the
chaaz’maha
helped me find myself again . . . not through piety, but by teaching me that the way we worship others, and not some invisible entity, is more important than all the empty words and rituals . . .”