Coyote Rising (11 page)

The Church of Universal Transformation had come to Coyote well
prepared for life in the wild: thirty-one dome tents complete with their own solar heaters, with room for three in each; brand-new sleeping bags; hand and power tools of all kinds, along with a couple of portable RTF generators to run the electric lamps they strung up around the campsite; a ninety-day supply of freeze-dried vegetarian food; adequate clothing for both winter and summer; pads loaded with a small library of books about wilderness survival, homesteading, and craft-making; medical supplies for nearly every contingency.

All these riches were carefully packed inside the cargo containers; once I showed them the unclaimed marshland outside town, fifteen men went back to the landing field and unloaded the crates from the shuttle, lugging the crates across Shuttlefield past townspeople who watched with curiosity and envy. When I asked how they’d managed to get around the strict weight limitations imposed by the Union Astronautica, they merely smiled and gave noncommittal answers. After a while I gave up, figuring that the church had greased a few palms here and there. Compared to the miserable living conditions endured by everyone else in Shuttlefield, the Universalists were ready to live like kings.

Yet they weren’t lazy. Far from it; as soon as they had all their gear,
they took off their robes, put on parkas, unpacked their tools, and went to work. A half dozen men used scythes and hand axes to clear away the spider bush and sourgrass, while several more picked up shovels and began digging a fire pit and the women erected tents and foraged for wood. Although they weren’t yet acclimated to Coyote’s thin air, they seldom rested and they never complained; they smiled and laughed as they went about their labors. When one person needed to take a breather, another person simply picked up where he or she had left off.

During all this, the Reverend Shirow walked among them, wearing a wool tunic with long slits on its back through which his wings protruded. Now and then he’d take a few whacks with an ax or lend a hand with a shovel, yet he didn’t do much work himself; instead he supervised everyone, instructing them where and how to do their jobs, sometimes pausing to share a few quiet words with one church member or another. Zoltan’s private tent was the first to go up, though, and once it was ready for occupancy it wasn’t long before he vanished into it. No one seemed to mind; it was as if he had the right to excuse himself while his followers busted their asses.

After a little while I found myself joining in. I told myself that I had nothing else worth doing that day, that I’d get paid for helping unload their stuff from the shuttle. The truth of the matter was that these people fascinated me, and I wanted to be with them. . . .

Well, no. Not quite.
One
of them fascinated me: the girl I had met earlier. Her name was Greer—no one used their last names, and I never learned hers—and when she shed her shapeless robe, I saw that she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. So, yeah, sex was on my mind, but if getting laid was my only consideration, I could have just as easily bargained an hour or two with one of the ladies at the Sugar Shack. Greer was different; she had accepted me without reservation, despite the fact that I was stranger in dirty clothes, and had told me that she believed in me even though I’d already told her leader that I didn’t believe in God or, by extension, he himself.

When you meet someone like Greer, all you want to do is become part of her world. So I put aside my reluctance, picked up a shovel, and spent the better part of the day helping a few guys dig a couple of
deep-pit latrines. It didn’t put me any closer to Greer, since she was one of the women erecting the tents, but I figured that I had to take this slowly, show her that I wasn’t just a creek cat on the prowl.

And it seemed to work. Every now and then, when I paused to rest, I’d spot her nearby; she’d look in my direction, favor me with a shy smile, then go back to what she was doing. I considered crawling out of the pit and going over to chat with her, but none of the men with whom I was working—Boris, Jim, Renaldo, Dex—showed any sign of slacking off, so I decided that it would send the wrong signal. I dug and I dug and I dug, and got blisters on my hands and dirt in my teeth, and told myself that I was just helping out some newcomers, when all I really wanted to do was look into those lovely eyes once more.

They didn’t stop working until Uma went down and twilight was setting in. By then most of the land had been cleared; the tents were all up, and a bonfire was crackling in the stone-ringed pit in the middle of camp. That time of evening, most of the colonists would trudge down the road to Liberty, where they’d stand in line outside the community hall to be doled out some leftover creek crab stew. The Universalists were serving stew, too, but it wasn’t sour crap made from native crustaceans; it was a thick curry of rice and red beans. No one made a big deal of inviting me to join them for dinner; one of the women just handed me a bowl and spoon, and a couple of men moved aside to let me join the circle around the fire. Much to my surprise, a bottle of dry red wine made its way around the circle; everyone took a sip before passing it on, but no one seemed intent on getting drunk. Instead, it was done in a ritualistic sort of way, like taking communion in church.

Conversation was light, mostly about the trouble everyone had breathing the rarefied air, how hard it was to break ground in midwinter. Soon the stars began to come out, and they all stopped to admire the sight of Bear rising above the horizon. Greer sat across the fire from me; she looked up now and then, smiling when she caught my eye, but no words were spoken between us. I was in no hurry to rush the matter. Indeed, it felt as if I were among friends.

Through all this, Zoltan sat cross-legged at the edge of the fire, surrounded by his followers and yet aloof, involved in the small talk but
somehow disengaged, a batlike form whose shadowed features were made eldritch by the dancing flames. After everyone had eaten, and the bottle had made its way around, he gently cleared his throat. Conversation stopped as all eyes turned toward him.

“I think,” he said, “the time has come to offer prayer.”

His congregation put down their plates and spoons, bowed their heads, and shut their eyes. I ducked my head a little, but didn’t close my eyes; I haven’t prayed since I was little kid, and didn’t see much reason to start again.

“Lord,” Zoltan began, “thank you for bringing us safely to this world, and for allowing us to find a new home here. We thank you for this first day on Coyote, and for the blessing of our fellowship. We pray that you’ll let us continue in the spirit of the vision revealed during the Holy Transformation, and that our mission here will be successful.”

Thinking that he was done, I looked up, only to find that everyone was still looking down. Embarrassed, my first impulse was to bow my head again . . . yet then I saw that Shirow’s eyes were open and he was gazing at me from across the fire pit.

In that moment, there were simply the two of us: the preacher and the atheist, the chimera and the human, separated by flames yet bound together by silence. No one else was watching; no one else could see into the place where we had met.

“We thank you for your gift,” Zoltan said, never taking his eyes from mine. “Benjamin Harlan, who claims to be an unbeliever, yet who has labored with us and now shares our company. We welcome him as a friend, and hope that he will remain with us through the days to come.” My expression must have amused him, for he smiled ever so slightly. “For all these blessings,” he finished, “we offer our devotion in your name. Amen.”

“Amen,” the Universalists murmured, then they opened their eyes and raised their heads. Many looked toward me, smiling as they did so. Uneasy by this attention, I hastily looked away . . . and found Greer gazing at me, her face solemn, her eyes questioning.

“Umm . . . amen,” I mumbled. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I picked up my plate, started to rise. “Where should I take this? I mean, for it to . . . y’know, be cleaned.”

“You mean no one told you?” Dex asked. “You’re doing the dishes tonight.”

Everyone laughed, and that broke the moment. “Oh, c’mon,” Zoltan said. “Don’t worry about it. You’re our guest. Stay with us a while.”

“No, really . . . I’ve got to get back to camp.”

“Why? Is there something else you need to do tonight?”

How did he know that? How had he come to the realization that there was nothing that required my urgent attention? I had been a drifter before I had come to Coyote, and little had changed since then. Home was a tent in the
Long Journey
camp; no one would break into it because I had little, other than a filthy sleeping bag, some extra clothes, and a dead flashlight, that anyone would want to steal. My place in life was on the lowest rung of the ladder; I got by through doing odd jobs when I could find them and living off the dole when I couldn’t. If I froze to death that night, no one would miss me; my body would be buried in the cemetery, my few belongings claimed by anyone who might want them.

“Well . . .” I sat down again. “If you insist.”

“I insist on nothing. Anything you do should be of your own free will. But we’re new here, and we need a guide, someone who’s been on Coyote for a while. You’ve already demonstrated a willingness to help us.” He grinned. “Why not join us? We have enough to share with one more.”

Indeed, they did. I’d seen their supplies and caught myself wondering now and then how I might be able to sneak something out of there without them noticing. Now that Zoltan was practically inviting me to move in with them, such larceny was unnecessary. All I had to do was play the friendly native, and I’d never have to cut bamboo or dig potatoes ever again.

Still, there was no question that this was a religious cult. Not only that, but they followed someone who looked like a bat. The whole thing was spooky, and I wasn’t ready to start wearing a white robe.

“And it doesn’t bother you that I’m not . . . I mean, one of you?” Several people frowned at this. “No offense,” I quickly added, “but I’ve already told you that I’m not a believer. Hell—I mean, heck—I don’t even know what you guys believe
in
.”

That eased things a bit. Frowns turned to smiles, and a few people chuckled. “Most of us weren’t believers when we joined,” Renaldo began. “We soon learned that—”

“Your sharing our beliefs isn’t necessary,” Shirow said, interrupting Renaldo with an upraised hand. “No one here will proselytize or try to convert you, so long as you neither say or do anything intended to diminish our faith. In fact, I enjoy the fact that we have an atheist in our midst.” His face stretched into a broad grin that exposed his fangs. “Benjamin the Unbeliever . . . you know, I rather like the sound of that.”

More laughter, but not unkind. I found myself laughing with them. I was beginning to like Zoltan; appearances notwithstanding, he seemed like an easygoing sort of guy. And his people weren’t all that weird, once you got to know them. Another glance at Greer, and I realized again that I’d like to get to know her most of all.

“Well, if it’s Gunga Din you’re looking for, I’m your man.” I stood up, brushed off the back of my trousers. “I’ll come back tomorrow and bring my stuff with me.”

“Just like that?” Zoltan looked at me askance. “Don’t you have any questions?”

Once again, I was being put on the spot. Everyone gazed at me, awaiting my response. It seemed as if Zoltan was testing me in some way, trying to find out where I was coming from. Oh, I had plenty of questions, all right, but I didn’t want to screw the deal. So I picked the most obvious one.

“Sure, I do,” I said. “How come you look the way you do?”

The smiles vanished, replaced by expressions of reverence. Some turned their eyes toward the fire; others folded their hands together, looked down at the ground. For a moment I thought I’d blown it. Greer didn’t look away, though, nor did Zoltan.

“A good question,” he said quietly, “and one that deserves an answer.” Then he shook his head. “But not tonight. Come back tomorrow, and perhaps we’ll tell you . . . if and when you’re ready for the truth.”

He fell silent once more. My audience with him was over; I was being excused. I mumbled a clumsy good-bye, then left the warmth of the campfire and began trudging back through the cold to my squalid little
tent. Yet I didn’t feel humiliated. The opposite, in fact. I had just stumbled upon the best scam since Abraham, and all I had to do was go along for the ride.

Or at least so I thought. What I didn’t know was where the ride would eventually take one.