Coyote Horizon

by Allen Steele

  The crew had gathered on deck by the time we got there, and it appeared that the rest of our supplies had finally been loaded aboard. Shags had hauled the empty wagons back to the wharf, and a small crowd stood upon the pier, waiting for the LeMare to depart.

  Yet not everyone was on board. I was wondering what was keeping us from leaving—the crew was obviously impatient, and a pair of tugboats floated at the bow and stern, ready to take us out into the channel—but it wasn’t until I looked toward the gangway that I saw the reason for our delay. Carlos Montero wasn’t on the ship; instead, he was still on the pier, involved in a quiet conversation with a plump, middle-aged man whose straw hat didn’t quite conceal his balding head. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.

  “Well, now…that’s interesting.” Standing beside me at the bow mast, Lynn followed my gaze. “Know who that is?” I shook my head, and she went on. “Dieter Vogel. The European Alliance ambassador. Didn’t expect to see him here.”

  “Maybe he came to see us off.”

  “Hmm…no, I don’t think so.” Now that she mentioned it, I could see that the ambassador wasn’t very happy; nor was the president. Their shoulders hunched, their faces close together, the two men appeared to be making an effort not to be overheard by those around them. “What do you want to bet that he’s telling Carlos what I just told you?”

  That seemed likely. Although it had been nearly four years since Carlos Montero was president, his most significant act while in office had been the negotiation of the United Nations treaty that had officially recognized the Coyote Federation as an independent entity. The Western Hemisphere Union had steadfastly refused to ratify the treaty, though, and so the WHU remained a major concern to our government. After all, the Union had once laid claim to Coyote, and no one here doubted that they hadn’t yet given up hope of doing so again.

  Of course the president would be informed of the insurrection, even as he was about to lead a major expedition into parts unknown. For a moment, I wondered whether he’d back out at the last minute, perhaps putting his daughter in charge. Glancing up at the wheelhouse, I spotted Susan and Jon; worried expressions on their faces told me that the same thought had occurred to them.

  But instead, Montero patted Vogel on the shoulder, then stepped away. Vogel seemed reluctant, but he nodded. A grim smile as the president shook the ambassador’s hand; a few parting words—keep in touch, let me know what’s going on—then Montero marched up the gangway. When I looked up at the bridge again, I no longer saw Susan. A few moments later, she emerged from the deck hatch but said nothing to anyone as she made her way to her father’s side. Pulling her close, he whispered something in her ear; whatever he said, it gave her reason for a relieved smile. Then, with his arm still around her shoulders, he turned to give his son-in-law a quick thumbs-up.

  The ship’s bell rang four times, announcing to all that we were leaving. A cheer rose from the crowd as, at both ends of the ship, dockhands unfastened the thick ropes that held the LeMare against the pier. The tugboat nestled against the stern bellowed its foghorn, and was answered a moment later by its companion idling near the bow; working together, they began to gently push and pull the LeMare away from the pier.

  As the crowd continued its applause, a sailor on the poop deck raised the Coyote flag upon its mast. Hearing what sounded like an echo of the crowd noise, I glanced up the nearby Garcia Narrows Bridge, and saw for the first time the railing lined with onlookers. That brought a smile to my face; along with everyone else on board, I raised my hand to wave farewell.

  As soon as the ship had cleared the harbor, the tugboat at the bow bellowed again, then released its line, while the one pushing the stern answered its call before reversing prop to fall back. The LeMare was floating free. I half expected to hear Carlos shout a command—set sail or somesuch—but apparently he felt no need for dramatics; Jon was the captain, and he knew what to do. A few seconds later, white polymer sails descended upon their rigging from within the yardarms, gracefully coming down like giant window shades, while the masts themselves rotated, each section tacking at a slightly different angle to catch the westerly wind blowing through the narrows.

  The sails caught the offshore breeze and billowed outward, and it was our turn to let out a cheer as the LeMare moved forward. Salt spray kicked up by the bow licked at our faces as the ship emerged from beneath the shadow of the Eastern Divide. From the harbor behind us, we could hear the boat horns of other vessels, but they were already growing faint; off to the starboard side, a small schooner sought to escort us, but it, too, was quickly left behind.

  Ahead was the East Channel, already growing wider as it flowed southwest toward the Montero Delta. Beyond that lay the Great Equatorial River, and the rest of the world.

  We were on our way.

  It took the LeMare the better part of the day to reach the delta. By then, everyone had assumed their assigned roles, even if the science team had little to do but reinspect the nets and bait boxes with which they hoped to capture live specimens once the ship was in unexplored waters. I lingered on deck for a while, watching the channel gradually grow wider, with sea-swoops circling the ragged cliffs of the Midland Rise on the eastern shore, before going below again to see about lunch.

  In the lounge, I found that a smorgasbord of cold cuts, bread, pickles, and onion soup had been laid out on the galley counter. I made myself a sandwich, then sat down at the dining table next to a couple of university botanists. Their conversation was mainly devoted to speculating on possible floral habitats east of the Meridian Sea. It was interesting until it digressed into the effects of cross-species pollination on hybridization, at which point I was unable to keep up. They barely noticed when I excused myself from the table; indeed, I don’t think they even noticed I’d been there at all.

  With nothing else to do, I went back to my cabin. Much to my relief, Jorge was gone. I hadn’t seen him on deck during the launch, but it would have been easy for a small boy to be lost among adults; I assumed that he was tagging along with his mother or father. His absence gave me a chance to put away my ammo. There weren’t many hiding places in our quarters, so I had to settle on tucking it beneath my mattress. My rifle appeared to be untouched; this gave me hope that he’d respect my property. Satisfied that I’d done my best to keep my weapon safe for him, I lay down for an afternoon nap.

  I must have been more tired than I thought, because when I finally woke up, it was to the sound of the anchor chain rattling down the other side of the forward bulkhead. Standing up, I saw Jorge curled up in his own bunk; the kid must have come in while I was asleep. Through the porthole above his bunk, I saw mellow twilight touching upon densely wooded shoreline a few hundred yards away. Careful not to disturb the sleeping boy, I pulled on my boots and went topside.

  While I’d slept, the LeMare had sailed past the Montero Delta and turned east to enter the Great Equatorial River. We’d left New Florida behind, and were now just off the coast of Midland. With night beginning to fall, Jon had ordered the anchor lowered and the sails furled. One of the sailors told me our present position: fifty degrees west by two degrees south, just a few miles from the fishing village of Carlos’s Pizza. An ironic place for us to stop for the night: it was where President Montero had made camp during his first attempt to explore the river, many years ago when he’d been a teenager. I watched while the crew stowed away everything on deck, and shortly after the formation lights came to life atop the masts, the bell was rung, signaling everyone to come below for dinner.

  To commemorate the end of the first day of the expedition, the cooks laid out a lavish spread: roast pork, grilled potatoes, asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, mixed greens, apple pie. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d thought to bring liquor aboard, because several bottles of waterfruit wine were placed on the table. This time, I didn’t have to dine with strangers; Lynn took a seat beside me, so we were able to keep each other company. She said little, though, but inste
ad paid close attention to everything going on around us. A journalist at work.

  We were having dessert, with a few people indulging in a second or third glass of wine, when Jon tapped a bread knife against his glass and stood up from his seat at the head of the table. After thanking us for being there this evening and expressing his appreciation for a successful start to our voyage, he asked everyone to introduce themselves, just so that we’d know each other if we weren’t already acquainted. One by one, we all rose from our seats to state our names and reasons for being here. There were eighteen people aboard—eleven men, six women, and one boy—and most were scientists, with eight members of our company serving as crew. The majority were about my own age, more or less, yet the first mate and pilot was a grey-haired older gent who sat with the Montero family. Although he didn’t say so at the time, I’d later discover that Barry Dreyfus was another one of the original Alabama colonists, and had been with President Montero during their ill-fated attempt to explore the Great Equatorial River.

  When it came my turn to speak, I said little except my name and my profession as wilderness guide. Not much response to that, although I couldn’t help but notice a few dark looks from some of the scientists. Lynn was a little more forthcoming, telling everyone that she was a journalist covering the ExEx for her news service on Earth. Again, the same cool reception; clearly the thought had occurred to many of these people that our berths could have been used to pack a couple more researchers aboard.

  Once we were through with introductions, President Montero took the floor. He kept his remarks brief: how this was a historic opportunity, the first major effort to explore parts of Coyote as yet untouched by humankind, and how we’d soon visit places that, until now, had only been seen from orbit. He added his expectation that our findings would greatly increase our knowledge of this world, and hoped that no harm would come to any of us during the weeks ahead.

  And that was pretty much it. A few more announcements from Jon—duty rosters to be posted in the crew quarters in the morning, lectures to commence next evening—and then we were dismissed. A few people lingered over coffee, but I decided that I needed a little fresh air.

  I returned my plate to the counter, then went topside, wine stem in hand. The night was warm, but the humidity was kept down by a soft, steady breeze that wafted along the river. Off to the port side, a few miles away, were the lights of Carlos’s Pizza, the beam of its lighthouse whisking by every couple of minutes. I carried my drink over to the starboard side and leaned against the bulwark rail near one of the tenders. Bear had fully risen by then, its ring plane completely in view; the giant planet cast a bright blue luminescence across the still waters, giving the river the appearance of a tarnished platter upon which the ship rested. I sipped my drink and watched Coyote’s closest neighbor, Eagle, as it slowly moved into sight, a tiny reddish brown orb against the vast superjovian.

  The creak of footsteps on the deck behind me. Thinking that Lynn had come up to join me, I didn’t look around. “Romantic, isn’t it?” I murmured, half-hoping that one thing would lead to another.

  A low chuckle, then the soft sound of a match being struck. “If you say so, Mr. Lee. My wife often says the same thing, but then she usually has something on her mind.”

  Startled, I turned my head to see, in the glow of match light against his face, Carlos Montero lighting a cigar. I nearly dropped my glass. “Uhp…um, sorry, Mr. President,” I stammered. “Thought you were someone else.”

  “I should hope so.” He shook out the match and puffed at his cigar, coaxing it to burn a little higher. “Would that be Ms. Hu, your dinner companion?”

  I had to give it to the old man: he didn’t miss very much. I was still trying to decide whether I should stay or go when he stepped to the railing to stand beside me. “Do you mind?” he asked, holding up his cigar. I shook my head. “Thanks. Habit I’ve picked up lately, courtesy of a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Mr. Goldstein?”

  “Uh-huh. Has them shipped to him from Earth. Every now and then he gives me a box.” He blew smoke at Bear, briefly framing its rings with one of his own. “My daughter disapproves, and I suppose she’s right. I’m only able to indulge myself when she’s not around.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Indeed, I was still getting over the fact that I was sharing a private moment with a former president of the colonies, and a legendary one at that. But he spared me the effort of trying to muster a response. “I just wanted to thank you for sharing quarters with my grandson. I would’ve done so myself, but I’m bunking with Barry in the wheelhouse cabin. We’re old friends, and since he’s recently lost his partner…well, I think he needs company at this time in his life.”

  “Not at all, Mr. President…I mean, only too happy to do so.” I hesitated. “He’s a nice kid. A little shy, but…”

  “Please…knock off the ‘Mr. President’ bit, will you? Call me Carlos.” A pensive frown. “Yeah, Jorge is a good boy, but…well, a bit sheltered, I’m afraid. Susan protects him far too much for his own good. She would’ve left him with my sister if she’d had her way.”

  “Why didn’t she?”

  “Jon wanted him to see the world, and so did I.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that we weren’t being overheard, then went on. “Also, I’d rather he didn’t spend the summer with his aunt. Marie is a good woman, but her parenting skills…um, shall we say, leave something to be desired? Her son, Hawk…” He stopped himself, perhaps realizing that he was confiding too much in a stranger. “Anyway, I appreciate your looking after him. Perhaps it’s good for him to spend time with someone who doesn’t belong to his own family. If he gives you any trouble…”

  “I’m sure he won’t, Mr…Carlos, I mean.” My throat was dry, and I took a sip of wine. “We’re getting along just fine.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.” Leaning against the railing, Carlos tapped an ash over the side. “Since we’re alone, let me ask you about something else. When Morgan told me that he’d wanted to have you join the expedition, he said that he’d hired you before…just last year, in fact…to take him north to Medsylvania. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, and he gave me a sidelong look, as if to remind me not to address him with unwanted formality. That would be a difficult habit to break. “He was looking for an old friend of his…”

  “Joe Cassidy…Walking Star.” He nodded. “I know him, though not as well as Morgan. Go on. Did you find him?”

  My turn to become reticent. I’d kept my experiences in Medsylvania to myself, not telling anyone about what Morgan and I had discovered up there. The last thing I wanted anyone else to know was that Cassidy and his followers had learned how to read minds; I had little doubt that Walking Star could find ways of making my life miserable if I disclosed that little secret. “He’s up there, yeah. With a few friends. Sort of a…a spiritual retreat, I guess you could call it.”

  “I see.” Carlos was quiet for a moment. “And have you been back there since? Or heard anything from Walking Star?”

  I shook my head. “No. Not a word. I have the impression that he…um, would rather be left alone.”

  “Hmm.” Carlos gazed out at the river, puffing at his cigar. “Too bad. I’d rather hoped you’d found reason to visit him again. See what he’s up to.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know him well. Why are you…?”

  “Hawk, my nephew, he’s…” Another pause. “It’s a long story, but he’s been in a lot of trouble in the past, and last year he went missing altogether. I put out feelers, trying to find out where he went, but I didn’t hear anything until just a couple of days ago when I received word that someone who looked a lot like him had been seen in Walking Star’s camp. It was a while back…over a year, in fact…but apparently he’d managed to get a job as a carpenter on some sort of construction project up there…a monastery of some sort…only to walk away from it to join Cassidy’s group. My source suspected that the buildin
g project was bankrolled by Morgan, but when I asked Morgan himself about it, he denied all knowledge.”

  Carlos paused, looked at me again. “You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?”

  I felt a chill. “I…No, I don’t. No idea.”

  Carlos quietly regarded me for a second or two. He knew I was lying, and for an instant I was afraid that he’d say so. But instead he slowly nodded, as if disappointed by my untruthfulness. “Of course,” he said, standing erect and pushing himself away from the railing. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  One last drag from his cigar, then he flung it out into the water. “Well, then…perhaps I should go below. See if Jorge would like Grandpa to tell him a bedtime story.” He patted me on the shoulder, then turned to walk away. “Good to meet you, Mr. Lee…Sawyer, I mean.”

  “Good to meet you, too.” I was still unable to call him by his first name.

  I waited until he vanished from sight, his footsteps taking him down the aft ladder, before I let out my breath. There was only a sip of wine left in my glass. Too bad; just then, I could have used a stiff drink.

  In the autumn of c.y. 16, while plans were still being made for the Exploratory Expedition, a blue-ribbon commission comprised of representatives of the Colonial Council, various governmental ministries, and the Colonial University faculty convened on the university campus to discuss an unresolved issue: the map of Coyote.

  One of the peculiarities of history was that, for the first sixteen years of human presence on the new world, most of Coyote had not only gone unexplored but unnamed as well. The reason for the first was easily explained; the Union occupation had stalled exploration of much of the planet, and even after the Revolution had succeeded in expelling the Union Guard, the ongoing struggle for survival had prevented any effort to find out what lay west of Great Dakota or east of the Meridian Archipelago. As a result, nearly three-quarters of Coyote remained unsurveyed except from orbit.