Coyote Rising (38 page)

Hernandez’s face had gone pale. “You . . . you’re holding him prisoner,” she stammered. “I demand that you . . . that you release him immediately before we . . .”

“You’re in no position to demand anything, Matriarch. Now go away. This is our home, and you’re not wanted here.”

The transmission ceased suddenly, as if someone at the other end had flipped a switch. Baptiste looked down at Acosta, and she shook her head; she’d failed to pinpoint its source. “Tell Flight Two to return to base,” he murmured, then he turned to speak to the Matriarch.

Luisa Hernandez was no longer listening. Without another word, she turned her back on him and walked away. No one dared to speak or even look at her as she strode through the operations center, followed a few steps behind by her reluctant bodyguard. The Guardsman stationed at the exit saluted as she marched past him; his stiff gesture went unacknowledged. Winter sunlight briefly streamed through the door, followed by a cold draft before it slammed shut again.

It had been a bad morning for the colonial governor of Coyote.

G
ABRIEL
76/1803—D
EFIANCE
, M
IDLAND

Twilight came as a gradual lengthening of shadows upon the
snow-covered ground, cast by Uma as it sank behind the summit of Mt. Shaw. A cool wind drifted through the blackwoods, curling the woodsmoke that rose from fieldstone ovens sheltered by the forest canopy, causing bamboo chimes to rattle and clank gently in random melody. As darkness closed upon the village, fish-oil lamps flickered to life within tree house windows. Dogs barked as they helped their masters herd goats and sheep into their pens; within work sheds on the ground, glassblowers and potters extinguished their kilns, put away their tools. The evening air was filled with the aroma of cooking food; here and there were the creaking of rope ladders, the muted buzz of conversation, an occasional laugh. The day was done; Defiance was settling down for the night.

“I can see why they never found you.” Chris walked alongside Carlos as they strolled along a path leading through the center of town. All around them, small wood-frame cabins were suspended within the boughs of enormous trees, with rope ladders that led to floor hatches and porches dangling to the ground below. “A hundred people here . . .”

“A hundred and fifty-two. Like you said, we’ve been having a population explosion lately.” Chris glanced at him, and he shrugged. “We’ve had a few more babies, and we’ve picked up some people from your side of the river.”

“All these people in one place, and the Union never figured out where you were.” Chris winced as he shook his head. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon in the clinic, letting Dr. Okada tend to his shoulder
wound, yet every move he made hurt a little. “But the farms, the grazing land. How did you . . . ?

“See all those poles over there?” Carlos pointed toward a broad meadow near the edge of the forest. “That’s where we hang camouflage nets. From above, it looks like just another empty field. Can’t tell we’ve got crops there unless you approach them from the ground.” He had already shown him the water tanks, the grain sheds, the privies and communal bathhouses, all concealed by the blackwoods surrounding them. “We’re careful about how we do things,” he added. “There’s some rules you’re going to have to learn.”

“Like what?”

As he spoke, a figure came toward them: Ron Schmidt, who long ago had worn the uniform of the United Republic Service. Now he wore a catskin serape over his patched URS parka, a carbine slung on its strap from his shoulder. “Ten minutes,” he murmured. Carlos raised a hand and he went on, pausing to shine a flashlight beam upon a couple of children playing on a catwalk between two tree houses.

“That’s one of ’em,” Carlos said. “No one outdoors after sundown except the night watch. Keeps down on thermal emissions . . . especially important during winter. The chimneys have caps on them, and all the windows have shutters. In ten minutes, it’ll be dark as hell around here. Unless you know where to look, you’d never know there was someone living here.”

“You’ve got it all figured out.”

Carlos shook his head. “No, not really. We’ve been lucky so far. The Union hasn’t found us because they didn’t know where to look. But now they know we’re somewhere in this valley, so they’re going to come searching for us. I don’t think trees and camouflage nets are going to hide us much longer.”

“And you’re going to blame me, right?”

“Uh-uh.” Carlos stopped, turned toward him. He couldn’t see Chris’s face, but he could hear the accusation in his voice. “So far as I’m concerned, our bills are paid. You’re going to have to work things out with everyone else, but . . .”

He stopped. They weren’t friends again; there were still many things
that had to be settled between them. On the other hand, neither were they enemies anymore. They would just have to see how things would come out, one day at a time. “When push came to shove, you did the right thing,” he finished. “That’ll get around.”

“Yeah, well, maybe.” Chris didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve been away a while. I’m going to have to . . .”

From a tree house not far away, someone played a bamboo flute. An old tune, “Soldier’s Pay,” dating back to nineteenth-century America. A few seconds later, a second flute joined in, a little more hesitantly, as if the second person was still learning the melody.

Chris listened, turning his head to focus upon the music. “Is that her?” he asked quietly.

“That’s her. She’s been getting better. Allegra’s been a great help.”

“I thought she’d be. That’s why I encouraged her to look after my mom.” Chris started to walk toward the tree house, then stopped. “Look, there’s one thing I’ve got to know.”

“Sure.” Carlos shoved his hands in his pockets. “What is it?”

“When you found me, you had a feeling that this was all a setup, but you didn’t shoot me. Then you found out for sure that it was a trap, and you didn’t shoot me. And then I tried to give you away to the guys who were chasing us, and still you didn’t shoot me.”

“Yeah? And . . . ?”

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. “Nothing,” Chris said at last. “Just checking.”

“Go on home,” Carlos said quietly. “I think your mother’s calling you.”

An old line, remembered from a shared childhood, long ago and far away. Chris laughed softly, understanding something that didn’t need to be said, then turned to walk toward the light gleaming through the cracks of a shuttered tree house window.

Carlos watched him go. It was late, and he was tired. His wife and child were waiting for him. He turned around, began making his way through the night. For the moment, at least, all was well. Now it was time to go home.

Part 6
SHADY GROVE
(from the memoirs of Wendy Gunther)

The revolution against the Western Hemisphere Union occupation
of Coyote was the turning point of our lives. We’d come to the new world to escape one form of tyranny, only to have another take its place; we tried to run away, but found that doing so was little more than a temporary solution. Sooner or later, we had to stand and fight.

No one wanted a war, but we got one anyway. Yet there are worse things than war. I discovered that in the winter of
C
.
Y
. 06, when the Union Guard attacked Defiance.

They appeared shortly after sunrise on the morning of Anael, Barchiel 29. Bill Boone was just ending his shift on overnight watch when he spotted two aircraft coming in over Mt. Aldrich from the east. He ran to the bell post and sounded the alarm, but it was early and most of us were still in bed, so only a few people managed to grab their guns before the gyros touched down in a farm field about three hundred yards from town.

Carlos and I were awakened by the bell, but we thought it was only another drill until the shooting began. He threw on his clothes, pulled his rifle off its hooks, and was down the ladder before I was even dressed. We’d discussed what we would do if something like this happened, so my duty was clear; I yanked Susan out of her bed, shoved her beneath it, then pulled off the mattress and stuffed it in after her to catch any stray bullets that might come our way. She screamed like hell—little girls don’t like rough treatment, least of all before breakfast—and I tried to calm her as best I could, but by then I knew we were in trouble.

I was supposed to stay in the tree house and protect Susan, but that’s not what happened. This may sound negligent, but when your home is
under attack, you’ve got a choice: either bolt the door and hide, or pick up a gun and go out to face the enemy. I’d long since made up my mind, without telling Carlos, that if the Union ever attacked Defiance, I wasn’t going to play the role of defenseless female. When I was a kid back on Earth, I had the benefit of paramilitary training in Republic youth hostels; if anything, I was a better shot than my husband. So I told Susie to stay put and that Mama would be back soon, then I took down my own rifle, jammed in a cartridge, opened the floor hatch and jumped, not bothering to use the ladder.

I like to think I was brave. Perhaps, but I was also stupid. I was wearing nothing more than a thin nightshirt and a pair of drawstring pants, and in my haste I’d forgotten to pull on moccasins or a jacket; when my bare feet hit the ground, they sank into three inches of snow. If I wasn’t fully awake by then, that did the trick. I hardly noticed, though, because all around me were my neighbors, coming down rope ladders and running across catwalks from one blackwood tree to another. An ice-fog lay thick above fields where only last autumn corn had grown high beneath camouflage nets; I couldn’t see Carlos, but from the mist I could hear the popcorn sound of guns in full-auto mode, interspersed with the more distant noise of enemy fire.

The snow numbed my feet as a chill wind ripped through my clothes. I was useless as far as leading any sort of cavalry charge, so I headed for the nearest dry spot I could find, a well about a dozen yards away. The low stone wall that surrounded it had been swept clear of snow; I jumped on top, taking cover behind the wooden yoke supporting the bucket.

It was an absurd moment—Wendy Gunther, wife of the legendary Rigil Kent, crouched in her pajamas on top of a well—but there wasn’t much else I could do. Leaving the cabin was a bad move; I had realized that by then. Yet there I was, all the same, so I held my rifle against my chest and waited for something to come close enough for me to shoot.