Coyote Rising (59 page)

Meanwhile, his own sister sat in a jail cell across from her lover, two malcontents with nothing else to do with their time than to pick fights. What did freedom mean to them? And there was Manuel Castro, once thought to be dead, now returned to life, only to find himself alone in a world in which he had no place. What good was freedom to him?

A long time ago, Carlos had sought freedom. A canoe, a rifle, a cook pot, a tent . . . that was all he’d needed. Three months alone on the Great Equatorial River, and he’d managed to get as far as the Meridian Archipelago. To this day, no one else had explored Coyote as much as he had; the war had prevented it. And there was an entire world out there. . . .

From somewhere close by, his ears picked up a musical sound: a lilting melody, carried by a dozen flutes in harmony. Allegra DiSilvio, rehearsing her ensemble for the concert. Chris’s mother would be playing with them; under Allegra’s tutelage, Sissy had become an accomplished musician, and to see her today one would never believe that she’d once been a hermit living on the outskirts of Shuttlefield. Indeed, lately she’d been spending a lot of time with Ben Harlan. It only made sense; both had suffered the loss of loved ones since they’d come to Coyote, and both had seen the darker side of the human soul. And just last month, much to Carlos’s surprise, Allegra had moved in with Chris. She was nearly old enough to be his mother, but apparently the age difference meant little to either of them. Chris had been the first person on Coyote
to show her any kindness, after all, and on this world, such tenderness went a long way.

So Chris had taken his mother’s best friend as his lover, while Sissy herself had found someone to replace his father. It was a strange relationship, but . . . Carlos smiled at the thought. New families appearing to replace ones that had been lost. On the frontier, the heart finds its own way.

The music faltered, stopped for a few moments, then started again. “Soldier’s Joy,” an ancient song from the American Civil War. Captain Lee’s ancestor had probably marched his troops into combat with this tune, hundreds of years ago. Back when America had been a frontier, just as Coyote was now.

Inspiration stopped him in his tracks. A crazy idea, possibly irresponsible . . .

But perhaps, just perhaps . . .

Clark Thompson met him outside the vehicle shed, down by Sand
Creek near the boathouse. Dark circles beneath his eyes testified that he hadn’t slept well last night; Carlos had little doubt that he’d stayed up late, discussing the Mayor’s proposal with his wife and younger nephew.

“They’re waiting inside,” Carlos said as Thompson approached. “Chris brought them down from the stockade just a few minutes ago. I haven’t said anything to them about this yet.” He hesitated. “It’s your call, y’know. You can always call it off.”

“I know that.” Thompson was not only Lars’s legal guardian, but also a member of the Colonial Council. He could veto this with just one word. “Before I tell you what I’ve decided, let me ask you one thing. Do you really think this is the right thing to do?”

Carlos didn’t answer at once. Instead, he gazed at the first amber light of dawn, just beginning to break in the east. He remembered when he’d set out on his own, in a small canoe he’d built with his own hands, on a long journey that would eventually take him nearly halfway around the world. That morning had been almost exactly like this one.

“I can’t . . . I don’t know.” He owed Clark an honest answer. “If you
are asking me if I think this is wise, then I have to ask if you think it’s wiser to let them sit in the stockade till next spring.”

“At least then they’d be safe. We’d know where they were.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t believe that’ll solve anything. They’ll just come out more hardened than before, and we’ll just have the same problem again. This way, maybe they’ll grow up a little . . . and we might learn something as well.”

Thompson nodded, “That’s sort of what I’ve been thinking, too. Of course, it’s a hell of a risk.”

“They’re used to taking risks. Maybe that’s the problem. They’ve lived on the edge so long they can’t cope with peace and quiet. And it’s not like we’re asking them to do something they haven’t—”

“It is, but”—Thompson looked down at the ground, shuffled his feet a bit—“y’know, I can’t but wonder if this isn’t partly my fault. I made that boy grow up tough. Hell, I made him shove Castro over the side of that raft. I didn’t know he’d, y’know, turn out this way.”

Carlos bit his lip. He thought of how things could have been different with his sister. Marie should have never been allowed to carry a gun; she was too damn young. “None of us knew. We were caught in something we didn’t know how to control. We got what we wanted, and now we’re paying the price.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Thompson shrugged. “And you say the magistrates approve?”

“I spoke with them last night, after I dropped by to talk to you and Molly. They said that if you gave your approval, then this was acceptable to them as well.”

Thompson said nothing for a few moments. At last he looked up. “Very well, Mr. Mayor, I say yes.”

Carlos let out his breath. “Thank you, sir. Do you want to come in with me while I . . . ?”

He firmly shook his head. “No. I don’t want Lars trying to talk his way out through me. And maybe it’s just as well if I turn my back on him.”

There was a trace of tears in the older man’s eyes. Carlos realized that the decision must be tougher on him that he cared to admit. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

Thompson nodded, then, without another word, turned and walked away, heading back to his place. Carlos watched him go, then he opened the door and walked in.

The vehicle shed had been built by the Carpenters’ Guild during the Union occupation; a large, barnlike structure, it contained most of the ground vehicles left behind by the Guard. Skimmers of various makes and sizes, a couple of hover bikes, the disassembled fuselage of a gyro that had been cannibalized for spare parts. Someone had switched on the lights; near the front of the room, Lars and Marie sat on a couple of crates, with Chris and another Proctor standing guard nearby, stun guns inside open holsters on their belts.

“Stand up,” Carlos said, shutting the door behind him. “We’ve got something to talk about.”

“Not till we’ve had breakfast.” Marie glared at him like a petulant child and didn’t move from where she was sitting. “You’re supposed to feed us, y’know.”

“Was that my uncle out there? I thought I heard him.” Lars lifted his head, raised his voice. “Hey! Uncle Clark! Come in here and tell this fascist to get us some food!”

“Your uncle doesn’t want to speak to you.” Carlos kept his voice even. “To tell the truth, he’s turned his back on you.” He looked straight at Marie. “And I’m about to do the same.”

Her mouth fell open. “What are you—”

“Shut up.”

“Aw, c’mon. We haven’t eaten since—”

“I said,
shut up!
”

His shout rang from the sides of the craft parked around them. Marie visibly flinched, and the smirk disappeared from Lars’s face. “This isn’t a breakfast meeting,” Carlos went on, stepping a littler closer. “No coffee and biscuits for you two, and no one leaves this building until we’re done. And I thought I told you to get to your feet . . . so do it, now!”

Marie stood up, her legs shaking. When Lars didn’t move, Carlos glanced at Chris. The Chief Proctor stepped forward, pulling his stun gun from his belt. Seeing this from the corner of his eye, Lars hastily rose from the crate, yet he wasn’t done giving him lip. “Class act, Mr. Mayor.
Out-of-the-way place, no one around to watch, the maggies nowhere in sight. And two blueshirts to do the dirty work.” He glanced at Marie. “I told you the power’s gone to his head.”

Marie wasn’t nearly so brave. “Carlos,” she murmured, her mouth trembling with newfound fear, “I’m your sister. You can’t let them do this. It’s not right.”

For an instant, he saw once more the little girl who used to bug him to read her bedtime stories when their father was too busy with his work. But she was an adult now—twenty years old—and very close to becoming someone he’d never recognize again. He had to do this, for her own sake.

“Whatever you think I’m going to do, you’re wrong.” Carlos lowered his voice. “No one’s going to touch you. You’re going to walk out of here without a scratch. Which is more than I can say for the poor guy you attacked yesterday.”

“Well, when we see the maggies—” Lars started.

“You’re not seeing the magistrates. There’s not going to be a court date for you—or at least not unless you insist. But I’ve met with them already, and I’ve been told that, if they find you guilty, you’ll spend the next six months in the stockade.” He peered more closely at him. “Six months Coyote-time, and Chris here will make sure you and Marie are assigned to cells as far apart as possible. The only time you’ll see the sun is when they let you out to clean septic tanks and dig ditches, and in the middle of winter that can be a real bitch.”

“You’d do that, wouldn’t you?” Marie’s eyes were cold.

“You bet. I’ll see to it personally that your time is as hard as I can make it.” He looked at Chris. “You with me on this?”

“Oh, yeah.” Chris gave them his most callous grin. “I’ve got a lot of lousy jobs for y’all to handle. And it’s funny how often I forget to turn the lights off or change the sheets.”

“On the other hand,” Carlos went on, “there’s always an alternative. Something a couple of hardcases like you are well suited for.”

He sauntered past them to a Union Guard patrol skimmer parked nearby. “You’ve seen this kind of machine before. Marie, I remember that you once identified it for me . . . an Armadillo AC-IIb. Just like the one we captured on Goat Kill Creek.”

“Uh-huh. Even got a chance to operate it.” She gave the skimmer a passing glance. “Let me guess. You want us to clean it.”

“No, I want you to take it.”

She stared at him. “You want us to . . . what?”

“You heard me. I want you and Lars to take it.” Carlos slapped his hand on its armored hull. “Drive it out of here. Leave, go away. Go exploring. We’ll equip you with one month’s rations, two rifles and ammo, a medkit, sleeping bags, tents, lamps . . . whatever you need to survive. Even a satphone so you can report in. The Union left a comsat network in orbit, so you’ll be able to keep in touch.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t . . .” Marie shook her head in confusion. “I mean . . .”

“What’s the catch?” Lars regarded the skimmer with astonishment. “I mean, you can’t just be . . . y’know, cutting us loose like this without some strings attached.”

“Oh, there’s strings attached all right.” Leaning against the skimmer, Carlos held up a finger. “First, you can’t stay on New Florida or head for Midland. If you’re seen by any of our scouting parties, or try to enter any of the settlements, then you’ll be arrested and sent back here. For the next six months. After that, you’re free to return.”

“But if you’re only giving us one month of rations—”

“Then I guess you’ll have live off the land. But you two spent time in Rigil Kent . . . you know how to hunt and fish.” Carlos held up another finger. “Second, once every forty-eight hours, you use the radio to report to me personally. Tell me where you are . . . and, more importantly, what you’ve seen. I don’t care if it’s nothing but swamp or grassland or another hill, I want to know what you’ve found out there.”

“You want us to just”—Maria waved a hand in some imagined direction—“go exploring. Wander around. Look for stuff.”

“That’s right. In the five years we’ve been here, no one has yet crossed the West Channel to see what’s on Great Dakota, or gone north to check out Medsylvania, or seen the Northern River. The war’s kept us too busy. So you’re going to be our scouts. Do that for the next six months, and you can consider your sentences commuted as time served for the benefit of the Coyote Federation.”

“Uh-huh. Just the two of us.” Lars gave Marie a lascivious grin. “Oh, I think we can go along with . . .”

“No. Not just the two of you. I think you need the mature guidance of a responsible adult.” Stepping away from the skimmer, Carlos turned toward the rear of the shed. “Manny? If you’d join us, please?”

The Savant detached himself from beneath the shadows of the skimmer behind which he’d been hiding. He limped slightly upon his left leg, restored to near-complete motor function by a couple of machinists, and he remained blind in one eye, yet his body had been cleaned up, and once again he wore the black robe that had been taken from him by Clark Thompson.

“It’d be my pleasure.” His left eye gleamed as he turned his head toward Lars. “I believe we’ve already met. Thank you for such a delightful swim. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

“Uh-uh!” Lars backed away. “No way I’m going with this . . . this—”

“Yes, you are,” Carlos said. “Not only that, but I expect you to treat him with all due respect, because if he doesn’t come back with you—”

“I assure you, Mr. Mayor, I intend to survive this trip.” Castro hobbled toward Lars, extended a claw from beneath his robe. “We have much to talk about, Mr. Thompson. Or may I call you Lars? My friends call me Manny.”

Marie turned to Carlos. “You’re not giving us a choice, are you?”

“Sure I am.” Carlos touched her shoulder. “Come here.”