Coyote Rising (31 page)

“Oh, c’mon. Get real.”

“Didn’t think so.” Carlos stood up, tossed the rest of the coffee into the snow. “We’ll take the skimmer. Your friend, too . . . he needs medical attention. I’ll leave you with some rations and a compass. The East Channel’s about two hundred miles from here. You should be able to find your way back.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“You just said you love the great outdoors. Here’s your chance to get
as much of it as you want.” Carlos started to walk away. “Nice to see you again. I’ll tell your mom you said hi.”

He was halfway to where the others were waiting when Chris called after him. “Okay, you win. What do you want me to do?”

Carlos turned around. “I want you to take a hike with me.”

“A hike?” Overhearing this, Marie looked up from shoveling the last spadeful of dirt over Gondolfo’s grave. “What do you . . . where are you taking him?”

“Back where we came from, of course.” Before she could reply, Carlos stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Barry emerged from the top hatch of the Armadillo. Carlos gestured for him to come over, then looked at his sister again. “You guys take Mr. Constanza here—”

“It’s Dr. Constanza,” Chris said quietly. “Enrique Constanza.”

“Dr. Constanza, I mean, and take the skimmer back. Chris and I will ride the shags.”

“That’ll take two days, at least.” Lars put down his shovel. “Why can’t you. . . ?”

“The skimmer only has room for six. Counting these two, we’ve got seven.” Carlos glanced back at their two prisoners. “Kuniko should take a look at Dr. Constanza as soon as possible, so he’ll go with you. Besides, we need to return the shags . . . hey, you think you can drive that thing?”

Barry had joined them by then. He shrugged. “Looks easy enough. Sort of like a maxvee, just a little different”

“I’m sure you can handle it,” Carlos said. With his back turned toward Chris, he gave his friend a wink. “If we get lost, I can always call in and ask for help. Know what I mean?”

Rigil Kent avoided using satphones because they were dependent upon the
Alabama
for uplink; the Union might be able to triangulate their position by using RDF receivers to search for the point of origin. They carried short-range transceivers instead, but observed radio silence except in case of emergency. Barry understood his meaning; he gave a brief nod. “This is stupid,” Marie said. “Someone can just hang on to the hatch, ride outside. We can be home in just a few—”

“Don’t argue with me.” Carlos dropped his voice. “Do as I say, and I won’t tell anyone who fired the first shot.” Marie turned red, looked away. “Just leave us with food and another pack for him. Or do you have one aboard, Chris?”

“It’s in the skimmer. Of course, we could use another gun, just in case we run into any boids.”

“The boids are wintering south of here. You know that.” Carlos turned toward the Thompson brothers. “One more thing. Dr. Constanza is your responsibility. When I get back, I expect to find him in good health. If he has any accidents on the way . . .”

“That’s not going to happen. Count on it.” Barry gave Lars and Garth a dark look. “Are you sure you want to . . . ?”

“I know what I’m doing.” Kneeling next to the camp stove, Carlos snuffed it out, then began to fold it. “Lars, Marie, load the SIMS and bring it with you. Barry, help Dr. Constanza aboard. Garth, pack some snow on top of those graves. I want this place to look just the way we found it.”

As the others went about their tasks, Carlos shoved the collapsed stove into his backpack, then dug some rations out of the mess kit. “They follow orders well, don’t they?” Chris murmured with just a trace of sarcasm.

“Sometimes.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the entrenching tool Marie had dropped. It lay on the ground just a couple of feet away. For the moment, no one was paying any attention to them. Chris could easily snatch it up, bash him over the head. If he was lucky, he could then grab his rifle, shoot everyone while their backs were still turned. “When we’re out here on our own,” he added, “we learn to count on each other to stay alive. Know what I mean?”

Chris reached down, picked up the shovel. Carlos swiveled on his hips, watched as he folded the blade, collapsed the handle, and held it out to him. “Yeah, I know,” Chris said quietly. “The only thing I don’t get is why you’re doing this.”

“Haven’t seen you in a long time.” Carlos took the entrenching tool from him, shoved it into a loop on the side of his pack. “Think it’s time we had a talk.”

G
ABRIEL
75/1422—F
ORT
L
OPEZ
, H
AMMERHEAD

Like an immense swoop descending upon its nest, the heavy
lifter came in for touchdown, its VTOL jets blasting snow away from the ring of flashing red beacons that marked the landing field. The ground crew watched as the spacecraft settled upon its tricycle landing gear; they waited until the engines cut off, then trotted over to the aft cargo hatch, while an honor guard of six soldiers took up position, three on each side of the forward crew hatch. As the hatch swung open and the gangway ramp lowered, an officer standing nearby shouted a command. The soldiers came to attention, swinging their rifles to their left shoulders and snapping their bootheels together.

It wasn’t the reception Captain Baptiste had anticipated; in fact, he was quietly appalled by the formality. But he said nothing as Matriarch Hernandez led the way down the ramp, Savant Hull bringing up the rear. She pointedly ignored the honor guard as she walked past them, pulling up the cowl of her cloak. “Many apologies for not giving you a proper welcome,” she murmured once they were past the soldiers. “It’s the best we can do under the circumstances.”

“Think nothing of it.” And indeed, the absence of whatever the Matriarch considered “a proper welcome”—a military parade, perhaps, with full colors—was the least of his concerns. A cold wind whipped across the plateau, stinging his face and causing him to shiver despite the thick parka he wore. He felt light-headed—the lower atmospheric pressure, of course; he had been warned about it—but when he took a deep breath, the frigid air caused his teeth to chatter. He pulled down the bill of his cap before the wind could snatch it away. All things considered, he
reflected, he would have preferred New Florida; even the name sounded warmer.

By then, the officer in charge of the honor guard had dismissed his troops and come over to join them. “Captain, Savant Hull, may I present First Lieutenant Bon Cortez,” Hernandez said. “Lieutenant, Captain Fernando Baptiste, commanding officer of the
Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars
.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Cortez clasped a gloved fist against his chest. “Welcome to Fort Lopez.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Cortez was younger than Baptiste would have expected for someone in charge of a military installation; no more than twenty-five Earth-years, his beard was probably the first one he’d ever grown. “I hope you’ve been able to keep warm,” he added, at loss for anything else to say.

Cortez smiled, relaxed just a little. “We’re keeping busy, Captain. It helps a little. If you’ll follow me, please, I’ll show you around.” As they walked away from the HLLV, two platoons of Guard infantry were marching down the ramp; Baptiste could hear the shouted commands of their squad leaders as they fell into formation next to the craft. They stamped their feet against the hard ground and hunched their shoulders against the brutal wind. Only Gregor Hull was impervious to the cold; for once, he felt envious of the Savant for his lack of mortal concerns.

“We’ve only been here for the last eight weeks,” Cortez was saying, “just after the beginning to the month, so you’ll have to pardon our lack of facilities. There hasn’t been time to build permanent structures.” He was speaking of the semirigid inflatable domes, each a half acre in diameter, near the landing field. “The forest is about a half mile away, and we’ve begun marking trees for when we get around to—”

“We felt it more important to establish a base of operations as quickly as possible,” the Matriarch interrupted. “I picked the lieutenant for this job because he was instrumental in selecting the site for the bridge we constructed across the East Channel. So far, he’s done a commendable job.”

Baptiste noted the expression on Cortez’s face; he seemed to be chewing his lower lip. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, his voice tight. “I’m glad
you approve.” Then he pointed to the edge of the plateau. “If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you why Fort Lopez is here.”

“I was wondering about that,” Baptiste said. “After all, if you already have a large force on New Florida, then why put a base west of Midland?”

“New Florida has been compromised, sir. Rigil Kent can sneak across the East Channel anytime they want. They’ve already hit Liberty twice, not to mention the job they did on the Garcia Narrows Bridge . . .” Behind them, Luisa Hernandez cleared her throat. “The Matriarch Hernandez Bridge, I mean . . .”

“We had to look elsewhere for a military base,” the Matriarch said, “and Hammerhead was the most likely place.” She extended a hand from beneath her cloak. “As you can see, here we enjoy a certain geographic advantage.”

They had reached the edge of the plateau. Below them, a sheer granite escarpment fell away; three hundred feet down, waves crashed against jagged rocks. Fort Lopez overlooked the confluence of the Midland Channel and Short River; in the distance to the south lay Barren Isle, barely visible as small dun-colored lump. To the east, they could see the shores of Midland, with Mt. Bonestell on the far horizon. As a military surveyor, Lieutenant Cortez had done his job well. The cliff offered a natural defense against anyone who might try to cross the channel, and the island itself was a perfect place for staging military operations.

“A good choice.” Baptiste admired the view. This would be a great place to build a house, were he to decide to remain on Coyote. That wasn’t his intent; nonetheless, it was tempting. “But I still don’t understand why it’s so important to expend so much effort upon capturing a handful of malcontents.”

The wind ruffled the edge of the Matriarch’s cowl; she pulled it back from her face. “I thought I’d made that clear already,” she said, her voice low. “Perhaps I haven’t. They’ve attacked us again and again ever since we arrived. They’ve stolen firearms, destroyed spacecraft, sabotaged a bridge, ambushed soldiers, and assassinated the lieutenant governor.”

“You have no proof that Savant Castro is dead.” Until then, Gregor Hull had been silent. “I tend to believe that he may still be alive.”

“I have no proof that he is.” Luisa Hernandez shook her head. “With all due respect, Savant, you and Captain Baptiste only arrived recently. We’ve been dealing with this situation for just over six Earth-years. What was once a local disturbance has become a major uprising. Left unchecked, it will metastasize into a full-scale revolution. Rigil Kent . . . that is, Carlos Montero and his followers . . . have made it their mission to chase the Western Hemisphere Union off Coyote. You know as well as I that this isn’t an option. . . .”

“We’re aware of that, Matriarch.” Baptiste paused. A gyro was lifting off the landing pad, its rotors clattering as it rose above the shuttles parked near the HLLV. He waited until the noise abated, then went on. “Have you tried to talk with the original colonists? Open a dialogue with their leaders?”

“I met with Robert Lee shortly after we arrived.” She lifted her chin, almost as if daring him to challenge her. “In fact, he led a small group to the
Glorious Destiny.
 . . . It was his idea to negotiate, not mine. I attempted to reach an amicable understanding, but he refused, and instead abandoned the Liberty colony and fled to Midland. Since then, their actions have been nothing but hostile.”

“Which makes me wonder what you may have said that would have caused them to—”

“Captain, I refuse to stand here and listen to someone second-guess what was done six years ago. As the colonial governor, my duty is to maintain a Union presence on this world. Your duty is to back me up, by force if necessary. I say that it’s necessary.”

“I only wish to . . .”

“Point out the alternatives, yes. Your objections are noted.” The Matriarch turned away. “Come with me now. We have work to do.”

Baptiste watched as Hernandez began striding back toward camp, Savant Gregor following her. He let out a breath, looked out over the channel. Cortez remained with him. At first the younger man said nothing, then he stepped closer. “You have to forgive her, sir,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the wind. “Ever since Savant Castro disappeared, she’s been . . . well, obsessed . . . with tracking down Rigil Kent.”