Coyote Horizon (46 page)

Carlos was about to reply when there was a loud chime from the cockpit. The pilot silenced the annunciator, then glanced back at them. “We’re on final approach, gentlemen. Could you please make sure that your harnesses are secure?”

“Wilco.” Carlos tugged at his seat and shoulder straps, and ascertained that the
chaaz’maha
did the same. “Just a precaution,” he said quietly. “Docking should be a lot easier than liftoff, but as soon as we’re in the hangar bay . . .”

“The Millis-Clement Field will be reactivated, so there might be a bump or two when we land.” The
chaaz’maha
grinned. “I didn’t spend all that time at the spaceport without learning a thing or two.”

“Of course . . . sorry.” Carlos returned his attention to his porthole. Now that they were above the
Lee
, he could see that the ship’s enormous hangar doors were wide open; directly below, a fluorescent circle had appeared on the hangar floor, red arrows around its circumference lit to help guide the skiff during its descent. There was a brief surge as RCRs fired to correct its trajectory, then the pilot carefully maneuvered the small craft down into the cavernous bay.

As the
chaaz’maha
predicted, they felt gravity return the moment the skiff entered the hangar. Carlos grasped his armrests and gritted his teeth, but there was only a mild jar as the landing gear touched down. Chimes rang again from the cockpit, and the pilot silenced them once more. “All right, gentlemen, we’re down,” he said, snapping toggles along his dashboard. “Give us a few minutes to close the doors and repressurize, and you’ll be free to go as soon as . . .”

He paused, cocking his head as if to listen to his headset. Then he looked back at them again. “Mr. President, I’ve been requested to ask you to remain on board a little while longer. The Commodore will be receiving you in person, along with an honor guard.”

“Oh, for the love of . . .” Hastily unclasping his harness, Carlos leaned forward to rest his elbows on the back of the pilot’s seat. “Please inform the Commodore that I’ll be happy to see her again, but an honor guard is unnecessary.” He glanced back at his nephew. “Unless, of course, you want . . .”

“No. Not at all.” The
chaaz’maha
shook his head.

“All right, then.” Carlos turned to the pilot again. “Tell the Commodore that she’s been overruled”—the pilot blanched—“or words to that effect,” he added, trying to soften the blow a bit.

The pilot reluctantly nodded, then spoke quietly into his mike wand. “Well, we dodged that bullet,” Carlos murmured, settling back in his seat, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have to put up with this sort of thing, sooner or later, once we get to Earth.”

“I hope you’re wrong.” The
chaaz’maha
was distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect. “I’m just a simple teacher, you know. Not . . .”

“Sure. And I’m just a simple passenger. But people like ceremonies, and they’ll do whatever they can to make sure you suffer through them.” He paused. “Better get used to it, especially since you’re now the
chaaz’maha
.”

He didn’t intend for the last part to sound sarcastic, but it did. The
chaaz’maha
nodded, but remained quiet as he watched the hangar doors slowly lower back into place. A few seconds later, their portholes misted over as atmosphere was reintroduced to the vast space. The hangar crew had just emerged to push a ladder toward the skiff when the
chaaz’maha
leaned over toward Carlos.

“As I said, I prefer my new name,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only Carlos could hear him. “If it makes you more comfortable, though, you can call me Hawk . . . at least when we’re alone.”

Carlos blinked. “I thought you were pretty adamant about your title.”

“I am, but”—an offhand shrug—“you still have doubts about who I am, so there’s little purpose in my belaboring the point.”

Carlos was surprised. He’d never spoken his thoughts aloud; more than ever before, he began to suspect that the stories about the Order were true. “Suppose that’s true,” he murmured, glancing at the pilot to make sure he wasn’t eavesdropping. “Do you really believe it? What you say you are, I mean . . . or is this just a clever way of staying out of jail?”

Hawk gazed back at him, his expression neutral. “What do you think?”

“You already know the answer to that, don’t you?” The
chaaz’maha
didn’t reply, and his face remained stoical. “Besides,” Carlos went on, “it doesn’t really matter what I think. Other people believe you . . . and to tell the truth, that’s all I really care about. You can be pretty persuasive, and I’m counting on that. So if this is just a con game . . .”

“It isn’t.” The slightest of smiles. “But as you said yourself, it doesn’t really matter, now does it?”

Carlos had no ready answer for that. A moment later, his ears popped as the cabin pressure equalized and the skiff’s hatch was opened from outside. The pilot stood up, but politely waited until President Montero and the
chaaz’maha
exited the spacecraft.

To Carlos’s relief, there was no honor guard waiting for them, only a lone midshipman in dress uniform standing at stiff attention at the bottom of the ladder. Carlos returned his salute and the
chaaz’maha
bowed; behind them, the deck crew were already unloading their bags from the cargo hold. As soon as the pilot exited the craft, the ladder was pushed away and a small tractor moved in to pull the skiff toward another side of the deck, clearing the landing zone for the incoming passenger shuttle.

The midshipman led them to a bulkhead hatch. Commodore Anastasia Tereshkova awaited them in the corridor on the other side, another officer standing beside her. “President Montero,” she said, offering a formal salute. “Welcome aboard. It’s an honor to have you here again.”

“And it’s an honor to be here, Cap . . . Commodore, I mean.” Tereshkova didn’t seem to mind the slip of the tongue; they both remembered that she’d held the lesser rank when she was with the European Space Agency. Carlos returned the salute, but he couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. “Hello, Ana,” he added, ignoring the nearby crewmen as he opened his arms to her. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Carlos.” Tereshkova relaxed, and allowed him to give her a quick hug. The two had been friends ever since he’d escorted her on a long river expedition across Barren Isle not long after her first ship, the
Columbus
, had reached 47 Ursae Majoris. Their relationship had become so close that, for a brief time, there had been a rumor that the two of them were having an affair. Completely untrue, of course, but it had caused a bit of embarrassment for everyone involved until it finally went away. Fortunately, their friendship had survived; indeed, if anything, it had become stronger.

Stepping back from her, Carlos remembered his nephew, still quietly standing nearby. “Allow me to introduce Hawk”—damn, another slip of the tongue!—“that is, the
chaaz’maha
. He’s joining me on my mission as . . . ah, a senior advisor, you might say.”

“Pleased to meet you,
chaaz’maha
.” There was a wary look in Tereshkova’s eyes as she stepped toward him; nonetheless, she offered her hand.

“Pleased to meet you, too, Commodore.” The
chaaz’maha
briefly took her hand, then bowed. “Although I should say that we’ve met before . . . when I worked as a customs inspector at New Brighton. I doubt you remember me, though.”

Tereshkova frowned, her left eyebrow rising ever so slightly.
Of course she doesn’t remember,
Carlos thought.
But you already know that, don’t you?
“Sorry, but I can’t say that I do,” she said. “However, your reputation precedes you. Welcome aboard.”

This time, she didn’t sound as if she meant it. Carlos hastened to ease the situation. “So, Commodore . . . an honor guard.” He shook his head in mock disgust. “I’m flattered, but really, you should know better.”

That returned the smile to her face. “I do, but . . .” She shrugged as she turned to lead them down the corridor, the two officers falling in behind their passengers. “I’m not joking when I say that it’s an honor to have you aboard again. Call it a token of my respect.”

“C’mon. It’s just a diplomatic mission.”

“ ‘Just a . . .’?” She stared at him. “Finally, we’re getting a chance to settle things with the Union, and you call it ‘just a diplomatic mission’?” An appalled sigh. “I’ll have you know that I was supposed to take a four-week shore leave when this came up, but I pushed it back just so that I’d have the privilege of escorting you to Earth.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did . . . and you’d damned well better be appreciative, Mr. President. I have a rose garden that badly needs to be weeded.” A wry grin, then she became serious again. “I have complete confidence in my crew, but for something as important as this, I decided that I needed to be aboard. Just to watch your back in case something should happen again.”

Carlos nodded. They both remembered how his first mission to Earth had ended. Although he and Wendy had successfully negotiated the U.N. treaty that formally recognized Coyote’s independence, the Western Hemisphere Union had been the sole holdout, going so far as attempting to spark an international incident that would have led to their detainment on Union soil. Had it not been for Morgan Goldstein’s last-minute intervention, Coyote’s diplomatic team might have become bargaining chips in a power play between the Federation and the Union. He wasn’t expecting the same thing to occur twice, but Tereshkova was right. It would be prudent to have the
Lee
guarding his back, with its commanding officer at the helm.

“I suppose you’re right,” Carlos said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She paused to return the salute of a junior officer who passed them in the corridor, then went on. “Because of the priority nature of your mission, I’ve also instructed my crew to . . . what’s the old saying? Not relieve the ponies . . . ?”

“Don’t spare the horses.”

“
Da.
Yes, that’s it. What I mean is, we’ll be engaging the differential drive as soon as we break orbit, thereby cutting our flight time by a little more than six hours.”

Carlos looked at her askance. “That’s not really necessary . . .”

“Perhaps not.” Tereshkova shrugged. “But I’d rather spend fuel in braking maneuvers than have you arrive at your final destination any later than possible.” There was a grim smile on her face as she returned the glance. “I know how important this is, my friend. And it’s what little I can do,
nyet
?”

Knowing that it was impossible to argue with the Commodore aboard her own ship, Carlos simply nodded. By then they’d come to a ladder leading to the upper decks; Tereshkova halted there to step aside. “I have some business down here before I return to the bridge,” she said, then gestured to the officer who’d been with her at the hangar. “This is Mr. Heflin, my chief petty officer. He’ll escort you to your quarters . . . a first-class cabin in the passenger section.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Carlos nodded to Heflin, then looked at Anastasia again. “Perhaps we can have dinner sometime, if you’re not too busy?”

“I’ll have to check my schedule, but, yes, I’d like that very much.” She grasped his hand again. “Again, welcome aboard, Mr. President . . . and see you soon.”

A deferential nod to the
chaaz’maha
, then she turned to head farther down the corridor. As Heflin eased past to lead them up the ladder, the
chaaz’maha
stepped closer to Carlos. “I like her,” he whispered, “even if she doesn’t like me.”

Carlos looked at him sharply. “And how would you know that?”

The
chaaz’maha
didn’t reply, but Carlos had no remaining doubt that, although Tereshkova was very good at concealing her emotions, her thoughts couldn’t stay hidden from his nephew for very long.

He was certain of it now. Hawk could read minds.

 

 

 

Four bells rang, followed a minute later by a brief surge as the
Lee
’s fusion secondary engines fired. Lynn felt herself being pushed back in her seat, but she looked up from her pad long enough to watch Coyote as it slowly drifted away. Departure was bittersweet; after over four Earth-years on this world, she was ready to go home, but she also regretted the things she was leaving behind. Nor was she altogether convinced that she’d never pass this way again.

Apparently, she wasn’t the only person to have some regrets. Looking around the passenger compartment, Lynn couldn’t help but notice the thoughtful expressions of her fellow travelers, or the fact that more than half of the seats were vacant. She’d even been able to put her shoulder bag on the empty seat beside her. The last time she’d been aboard the
Lee
, though, the second-class section had been full, and even the first-class cabins in the front of the compartment were booked solid. Now there weren’t so many people returning to Earth as there were coming to Coyote, and even those who were homeward-bound seemed reluctant to be making the trip.

Maybe Sawyer was right. Perhaps the time had come for her to consider a change of scenery. She wouldn’t be the first journalist to move to a place where they’d first visited to cover a story . . .

With that thought in mind, Lynn returned her attention to her work. She had one last dispatch to write, an update on President Montero’s diplomatic mission. Her editors were expecting her to file before the
Lee
reached Highgate, and the steward had assured her that she’d be able to transmit it via the ship’s hyperlink. With a little less than ten hours to go until the
Lee
rendezvoused with Starbridge Coyote, she had plenty of time to put something together.

Looking over her notes, though, she saw that the story was still thin. Carlos had granted her a brief interview the night before, when she’d dropped by the Federation consulate in New Brighton just before meeting Sawyer for dinner, and for once the former president had gone on the record instead of asking her to describe him as “a highly placed government source.” But even then, Lynn had lost count of how many times she’d already interviewed him . . . and after her account of the crash landing on Vulcan, in which she’d depicted Carlos in frankly heroic terms, one of her editors had gone so far as to ask whether she’d become his press secretary.