by Allen Steele
Wendy Gunther didn’t appear much older than she did when she and her husband, Carlos Montero, traveled to Earth as Coyote’s emissaries to the United Nations. With pale blond hair turned silver with age and braided into a slender rope that hung down her back from beneath a straw sun hat, she remained slender and almost sensuously regal, with only crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and the wrinkled skin on the backs of her hands giving evidence of her age. There was a certain strength to her, though, that hinted at a sense of belonging to this place; Lynn would later reflect that it was as if she’d become part of Coyote, as native to this world as any of the creatures that had evolved here.
An easel had been set up on the balcony, a broad canvas perched upon the tripod. President Gunther stood before it, wearing a smock smeared with flecks of gumtree-oil paint. She didn’t look around as Tomas escorted Lynn onto the balcony but instead continued to gently daub at the canvas with a small shagshair brush, using brief, gentle strokes to add minute details to the landscape she was creating.
“Ms. Hu, yes?” she said softly, her voice almost too quiet to hear. “Welcome. I’ll just be a minute.” She nodded toward a nearby pair of wingback wicker chairs. “Have a seat, please. Tomas…I believe there’s some ice tea in the kitchen. Would you be so kind?”
“Of course, Madam President.” Tomas gestured Lynn toward a chair, then disappeared through the glass door. Yet Lynn didn’t sit down yet. Instead, she stepped closer to the easel to see what President Gunther was painting.
The Garcia Narrows Bridge, as seen from the top of the Eastern Divide. Not a realistic depiction, though, but rather an impressionist image, its two-mile span rendered in muted, slightly unfocused earth tones, the reddish brown colors of the wooden trusswork contrasted against the blue waters of the West Channel and the dark tan of the Midland Rise on the opposite side. Certainly not a masterpiece, yet nonetheless the work of a talented amateur.
“Please don’t tell me it’s good.” The president added a dash of magenta to the leaves of the faux-birch trees in the foreground, then sighed in frustration as she stepped back from the canvas. “An old lady’s hobby, nothing more. Something to while away the time.”
“Well…it is pleasant.” Lynn gazed over the balcony rail at the view below. The Garcia Narrows Bridge rose high above the channel, its long roadway joining New Florida with the subcontinent of Midland to the east. If she correctly remembered the history of Coyote colonies, the bridge had been erected during the Union occupation, shortly before the Revolution. Although sabotaged by its own architect, James Alonzo Garcia, the bridge was rebuilt after the war, and now served as the major conduit between the two landmasses.
From the distance, she could see traffic moving along its roadway, with sleek hovercoupes recently imported from Earth competing with riders on horseback and farm wagons hauled by massive shags. Beneath the bridge lay Bridgeton’s commercial port; dozens of vessels were tied up to the pier, while people and animals unloaded freight from barges that had recently sailed up the channel from the Great Equatorial River and carried it to warehouses along the nearby wharf.
“Flattery will get you nowhere…except here.” President Gunther dropped her brush in a jar of grain alcohol, then picked up a rag next to the palette and wiped her hands. “So…from what I’ve been told, you’re a journalist from the old world, come out here to write about what you’ve found in the new.”
“Yes, ma’am. I—”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, young lady.” The president’s chin lifted slightly as she turned toward her. “I have a daughter about your age, and I wouldn’t take that from her.” Lynn couldn’t tell she was joking until she glanced toward the door. “Tomas insists on formality,” the president added, smiling as she lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “He’s been with me a long time, so I let him do that…but between you and me, I wish he’d call me by my first name.”
“Umm…Wendy?”
“At your service.” She offered her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hu…or may I call you Lynn?”
“Lynn is fine.” Surprised by the unexpected familiarity, Lynn accepted Wendy’s hand. Her grasp was almost mannishly firm, her callused palm like old suede. “Yes, I’m writing a story…a series of stories, really…about the colonies. Trying to find out what’s going on here, for my readers back on…”
“‘Trying to find out what’s going on here.’ Fascinating.” Wendy glided over to the wicker chairs. “Please sit…ah, and here’s Tomas with our drinks.”
Lynn looked around just as Tomas opened the balcony door and stepped out, carrying two tall glasses filled with dark brown tea. He silently handed one to each of the women, then walked over to the railing and settled against it, arms folded against his chest. “Forgive the sarcasm,” Wendy said as she sat down, “but I’ve been on Coyote for most of my life, and I’m still trying to find out ‘what’s going on here.’ What makes you think you’re going to do any better?”
Again, it was hard to tell if the former president of the colonies was serious or not. “I have a hard time believing that. I mean, one of the reasons why I want to interview you is because of your memoirs…”
“You’ve read my book?” Wendy’s face expressed mild astonishment. “All of it?”
“Yes.” Lynn couldn’t help but grin. “You don’t know that it’s been a bestseller back home? Takes several minutes to download…and forget about trying to buy a hard copy in a bookstore. The waiting list is…”
“I had no idea.” The president shrugged. “I should have a word with my editor. My royalty statements seem to be in arrears.” She gave Lynn a sidelong glance. “Not that I’ll see any money from the book. I’ve put it in my contract that all royalties are to be contributed to the Colonial University medical school. The Kuniko Okada Scholarship, named for…”
“Your adoptive mother, who taught you how to become a physician yourself.” Lynn caught the annoyed look on Wendy’s face and shook her head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Not at all. I’m afraid I’m the one who keeps interrupting.” Wendy took a sip from her tea, then placed her glass on a table between them. Taking off her sun hat, she stood up for a moment to untie her smock, revealing the light summer dress she wore beneath it. “But the question still stands,” she continued, sitting down again. “What makes you think you can do any better?”
Lynn had lost the train of conversation. “Umm…at what?”
Wendy gazed at her for a moment, then turned her eyes toward the unfinished painting. “I’ve written my memoirs, and lately I’ve taken up art, and still I find that I’m unable to express…or even understand…what this has all been about. And I’ve been here since I was little more than a child. This place…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but you’ve come to the wrong person. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Perhaps if you just spoke.” Lynn glanced at Tomas. “If I could have my pad, we could do an interview. Get it all down, in your own words.” She hesitated. “Or perhaps I could speak with your husband, if you’d rather not.”
“Carlos is in Liberty, visiting our grandson and attending to some business. I’m afraid he won’t be back for a few days.”
“I see.” Lynn picked up her glass of tea, took a sip. “I understand he’s become the official liaison to the hjadd. Is that where he is now? Visiting their consulate, I mean.”
Wendy said nothing for a moment. Lynn wondered if she’d pried a little further than she should. “His dealings with the hjadd are matters of state,” Wendy said at last, “and not open for discussion. Was the walk up here difficult? I can’t help but notice that you’re sweating.”
“Not really. Just getting used to the thin air.” Lynn cast her gaze across the balcony. “This is a beautiful house. Interesting place to build…”
“But a little off the beaten path, right?” Again, the guarded smile. “After I finished my second term in office, my husband’s sister had it built for us. We cons
idered remaining in Liberty, but…well, considering that both Carlos and I had served as president, it became difficult for us to extricate ourselves from politics. Too many people seem to believe that, because they once voted for one or both of us, they’re entitled to a few minutes of our time. So we moved out here and made it as hard as possible for anyone to reach us.”
“Uh-huh.” If Lynn’s recollection was correct, that would be Carlos Montero’s younger sister Marie, who had married into the family that owned the Thompson Wood Company, one of the largest private enterprises on this world. Indeed, it was the current president’s older brother, Lars Thompson, who’d been Marie’s husband before he was murdered; with the recent death of Molly Thompson, the family patriarch, it had fallen to Marie to run the family business. How interesting that the two families, the Monteros and the Thompsons, had come to command so much of the wealth and political power on Coyote. “Well, it is hard to get to.”
“Our original house still stands in Liberty, if you care to visit it. Built shortly after he and I married. My daughter and her family live there now, but there’s talk about having it turned into a historical monument. I’d sooner have it razed first, but”—an offhand shrug—“sometimes places are like people. They become legendary whether they want to or not.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Lynn leaned a little closer, resting her elbows on her knees. “You and President Montero…”
“Carlos.” Wendy smiled. “If he were here, he’d insist.”
“Oh…yes, of course.” Lynn struggled to keep the conversation on track. “You and Carlos have been here since you were teenagers…children, really. You were among the first to step foot on Coyote. You witnessed the establishment of the Liberty colony. Fought in the Revolution. Explored the planet. Became leaders of the Federation, then led the first delegation to the United Nations. You participated in the first contact between humankind and the hjadd…”
“No.” Wendy briefly closed her eyes and wagged a finger. “Give credit where credit is due. That was the Galileo expedition…We only greeted the survivors after they returned from Rho Coronae Borealis.”
“My apologies…but, as president, you did welcome the first hjadd ambassador, and saw to it that land was set aside in Liberty for them to build an embassy.” She paused. “Just as Carlos later volunteered to become their Federation liaison.”
“What else should I have done? Tell them to mind their own business and go home?” A quiet smile as Wendy sipped her ice tea. “No doubt there are some on Earth who wished I’d done just that. The Dominionists, for one…not to mention the Living Earth fanatics.”
More than ever, Lynn wished that she had her pad, if only to catch such remarks on the record. But perhaps that was why Wendy had spoken so freely in the first place; she knew that this was a private chat and no more. “So what is it that you want from me?” Wendy went on, absently letting the ice rattle around her glass. “A few pithy remarks from a former president to spruce up your article? A few pictures?” She nodded toward the easel. “I can pose over there. Former President Gunther in retirement, beginning a new career as an artist. ‘I like to paint,’ she says. ‘It makes me feel good…’”
She was getting nowhere, and Lynn was tired of being patronized. “Thank you for sparing a few minutes of your time, Madam President,” she said, putting down her glass and standing up. “If you’d be gracious enough to have your assistant call me a cab, I’ll be on my—”
“Your objection has been noted, Ms. Hu. Now sit down.” When Lynn remained on her feet, Wendy lowered her voice. “No, really…sit with me, please. If you want that interview, you may have it. Only don’t ask me to reiterate everything you’ve already read in my memoirs, or talk about me and Carlos as if we’re relics who have nothing more to offer. Give us our dignity, and I’ll tell you anything you want.” She favored her with a sly wink. “And then some…provided you ask the right questions.”
Lynn hesitated, then resumed her seat. As she sat down again, she felt something prod her shoulder: her pad, silently offered to her by Tomas. She took it from him, flipped it open, and placed it on the table between her and Wendy. The former president crossed her legs and nodded, and Lynn posed the question she wanted most to have answered:
“Where do we go from here?”
Wendy blinked. “Pardon me?”
Lynn tried not to smile. “You wanted a hard question. Well, here it is. Where do we go from here?” While her words were still sinking in, she went on. “Nearly three-quarters of Coyote is still unsettled, let alone explored, and yet the Coyote Federation continues to restrict immigration from Earth. This despite the fact that Earth’s environment has collapsed and the solar system colonies are overpopulated.”
“Well, I can’t speak for…”
“In the meantime, the hjadd have established an embassy on Coyote while refusing to deal directly with Earth. And even then, there is very little that we know about them. Although they’ve recently opened trade negotiations with us, none of our ships has been allowed to travel to their world through the starbridge. Indeed, very few people have even seen what they look like inside the environment suits they wear when they go outside their compound…which is seldom, at best.”
“Well, I…”
“Just a moment, please.” Lynn glanced at the pad’s screen to check her notes. “And, as you mentioned earlier, there has also been resistance from various groups, notably the Dominionist Christians and Living Earth, whom you described earlier as fanatics—”
“That was off the record.”
“Of course.” Lynn placed a finger across her lips to hide her smile. “Where was I? Oh, yes…certain organizations have objected to humankind’s contact with alien races. Or, indeed, to the very idea of Coyote’s becoming a refuge for the human race, when they believe our efforts should be devoted to saving what’s left of Earth itself.” She lifted her eyes to gaze at Wendy. “So…”
She stopped. The former president of the Coyote Federation stared back at her. “So?”
“So…where do we go from here?” Lynn crossed her legs as she settled back in her chair. “Or would you rather let me take pictures of you at your easel? I’m sure my readers would be interested in your hobby, as a sidebar.”
The question hung in midair, an invisible wall between them. Wendy said nothing for a moment, then eased herself out of her chair. “I wish I could tell you,” she said, walking over to the railing to gaze out at the channel, “but one thing that I’ve learned is that life seldom takes the turns you expect it to take. The future is unknowable, and any attempt to divine the shapes of things to come from studying the present is doomed to failure. And I, for one, do not believe in predestination.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“It’s the best I can give. But see here…”
Stepping over to the easel, Wendy laid a hand upon the canvas’s frame. “This is a work in progress. I’ve rendered a pencil sketch of what I wish to depict, then used my oils and brushes in an attempt to bring that vision to life. But my skills are limited, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be. Although I could avail myself of gene therapy to recover some of my youth, both my husband and I have decided that we’d rather let nature take its course and grow old gracefully. So I have to make do with what I have.”
She picked up a dry brush. “In art, as in life, every action carries consequences. If my hand falters, if I select the wrong pigment”—she made a careless slash across the canvas, not touching the painting—“then the work is ruined and I have to start again.” She dropped the brush on the table. “But life isn’t so simple, is it? There’s no fresh canvas, nor can it be discarded.”
Wendy turned away from the painting. “Coyote is a work in progress. At first, we were only a handful of people, trying to survive on a world where every day had the potential to kill us. But those who came here first aboard the Alabama are in the winter of their lives, and even the youngest…Carlos a
nd his sister, me, a few of our friends…are seeing autumn closing in. Even those who arrived aboard the Union Astronautica ships are getting old.” She glanced at her aide. “Tomas was only a boy when he came here with his family…aboard the Spirit, wasn’t it, Tom?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tomas nodded. “The Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars…the last starship built by the Union.”
“And he’s already an adult.” Wendy smiled at him. “Carlos and I are trying to groom him for political life, but he doesn’t seem to have that ambition.” Tomas gave a noncommittal shrug, and she went on. “So the future of this world belongs to those who came after us, the ones who’ve taken advantage of the starbridge to make the journey here from Earth.”
“So you do believe that your generation’s time has come and gone?”
Wendy shrugged. “I’m painting that bridge because it was built by people who are already old. Those who’ve come after them take it for granted as something that existed before they set foot on this world. One day, someone may decide that it’s hopelessly antiquated and, therefore, see the necessity of tearing it down and replacing it with something more modern.”
“Or it could stand for another hundred years.” Lynn stood up, walked over to the railing. “I rather hope so.”
“So do I…but that won’t be my decision to make, nor will it be yours.” Wendy gazed at her painting. “Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I’m doing this…to preserve, in some small way, what it looked like, so that my grandson will have something to show his children.”
She looked at Lynn again. “I think you’ve answered your own question. Where do we go from here? We’ve made contact with an alien race, but they’re still reluctant to let us visit their world. We’ve settled a new world, yet most of it remains unexplored…although my good friend Morgan Goldstein has some ideas about that.” Wendy pointed toward the distant wharf. “Down there…see that ship being built?”
