Coyote Horizon

by Allen Steele

  “They vanished.” The chaaz’maha tried to remain stoical, but he didn’t have to search Rhea to know where he was going.

  “Not entirely.” The chief proctor didn’t look up from his pad. “A few weeks later, there was an unconfirmed sighting in Liberty. But by the time Chief Levin over there heard about this, the two of ’em had left town. And they haven’t been seen since.”

  Rhea raised his eyes to look straight at the chaaz’maha. “Until now, that is. May I ask…is this you?”

  He turned the pad around in his hands so that the chaaz’maha could see the screen. Upon it was displayed a picture of himself, when he’d been known as Hawk Thompson and when he’d worn the uniform of a customs inspector.

  “I can’t be sure, of course,” Rhea went on, watching the chaaz’maha carefully. “That is, he looks a bit like you, but…”

  “You are correct. That’s me.” The chaaz’maha took a deep breath. “Or rather, that’s the person I once was.”

  Rhea raised an eyebrow. “Sorry? Come again?”

  Before he could reply, Melissa stepped forward. “Constable Wolff, if you know that he was originally Hawk Thompson, then you must also know that I’m Melissa Sanchez, the woman who left New Brighton with him.” Rhea started to speak, but she held up her hand. “Listen to me, please. I’ve known him for almost a year and a half, and believe me when I tell you that this isn’t the same person I first met in New Brighton. When he says he’s changed, he doesn’t just mean his name or his appearance. Hawk Thompson is the man he used to be. The chaaz’maha is who he is now.”

  “I can’t accept that.” Rhea shook his head; searching him, the chaaz’maha found determination mingled with regret. “Y’know, if you’d denied everything, I might have let it go at that, even though I know better. You’ve done a lot for this town while you’ve been here. I’ve also been reading the Sa’Tong-tas lately, and there’s a lot to it that makes sense. But…”

  “But you’re an officer of the law, and have a sworn duty to uphold.” Despite his efforts to remain calm, the chaaz’maha realized that his hands were trembling. “So I take it you’re here to put me under arrest?”

  “Let me finish, please.” Wolff paused, then went on. “I haven’t reported this matter to anyone yet. No one else knows about this except the four of us.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Uh-huh. I thought you would, considering the respect you’ve earned in this community. When you came here, I told you that you’d get no trouble from me if you didn’t cause any yourself. You’ve kept your promise, which means the only thing I have on you is a charge of skipping parole. But still…”

  —Just go get out of here don’t make me do this I believe in Sa’Tong I can’t arrest my teacher just get out of here please…

  “What if we were to leave town?” the chaaz’maha asked. “Would that solve your problem?”

  Wolff blinked, not quite believing what he’d just heard. “My thoughts exactly.” He paused. “Y’know, I never know how you do that…I mean, figure out what people are going to say before they actually…”

  “I’m a good listener, that’s all.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Melissa covering her mouth with her hand. “Just give us a day or two to make arrangements, and we’ll go as quietly as we came. If you want to report seeing us after that…”

  “No, no.” Wolff shook his head. “Once you’re gone, you’ll be out of my jurisdiction. You won’t be my problem anymore.” He thought about it for a moment. “I’ll give you twenty-seven hours to get out of town. Think that’ll be enough?”

  Walking Star started to say something, but the chaaz’maha looked at him and he kept his peace. “That will be sufficient, yes. It’ll give us a chance to charter a boat ride.” He paused, then added, “I’d also like to take care of some unfinished business before we go.”

  The chief proctor studied him. “What sort of business?”

  “Now that we’re done here, there’s something I’d like to do next.” The chaaz’maha smiled. “And I’m going to need help from some of your people, if you don’t mind.”

  Wolff hesitated. “Depends.”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking…”

  The fishing boat was a twin-masted schooner, not much larger than the craft that had carried him from New Brighton over a year ago. This time, though, the chaaz’maha wasn’t sneaking out of town at dawn; instead, he was leaving in the broad light of day.

  The schooner’s second mate was one of his students, the sailor who’d come to him the first morning the chaaz’maha sat on the inn’s front porch. Now that he’d repaired his relationship with his captain, the second mate had been able to persuade him to take on passengers and cargo for a special trip across the channel. The captain was skeptical at first, but then the chaaz’maha passed him a handful of colonials and the bargain was made.

  The chaaz’maha was returning to New Brighton, but he wouldn’t be alone. During his last session on the Laughing Sailor’s front porch, the chaaz’maha told his students where he was going, and what he intended to do once he got there. He wasn’t surprised to find that he had volunteers. Yuri, Bess, a few other townspeople…even Grey, who’d decided that the chaaz’maha’s new mission was more important than cutting up fish.

  Indeed, Grey turned out to be instrumental in his plans. As the chaaz’maha stood on the dock, he watched as his small group helped the schooner’s crew carry aboard barrels of ice-packed fish. Once Grey had explained to his employers what the chaaz’maha intended to do, the processing plant was glad to get rid of the surplus catch from its warehouse. Along with several kegs of fish oil, they would be welcome donations to the refugee relief effort, with more to come.

  Yet the chaaz’maha’s heart was heavy, and not only because he was about to leave a town he’d come to love. He was also leaving behind his companions.

  “I’d still like to come with you.” Melissa stood beside him on the dock, a shawl wrapped around her head. “The baby isn’t due for another few weeks. I’m sure we could find a doctor over there who—”

  “We’ve been over this before.” The chaaz’maha shook his head. “I’m sorry, but the answer’s still no. You’ve got a good doctor already, and he’s willing to look after you while I’m gone.”

  Melissa nodded. As much as she wanted to remain by his side, they both knew that a refugee camp was no place for her to give birth. There was also the strong possibility that he might be arrested as soon as he set foot on Albion; indeed, the stress of the trip across the channel might complicate her pregnancy. So it was only for the best that she stay in Carlos’s Pizza, at least for the time being.

  The chaaz’maha didn’t need to search her to see the sadness in her eyes. “Don’t worry,” he added, taking her hand. “Once I’m done over there, I’ll be back.”

  “And when I have the baby…?”

  “Someone will let me know. We’ve got a satphone, remember?” He smiled as he let his hand fall to her swollen belly. “I want to see Inez, too, y’know.”

  She grinned, acknowledging that he’d finally lost the argument over whether they were going to have a son or a daughter. Nonetheless, there were tears in her eyes as she moved closer to him. “You better come back,” she whispered. “She’s going to want to meet her daddy.”

  A last kiss, one that lingered for a few seconds, before she reluctantly stepped away from him. The chaaz’maha let her go, then turned to Walking Star. “Still time to change your mind,” he said. “We could use you over there.”

  Cassidy shook his head. “Believe me, I’d only get in your way.” He nodded in the general direction of Albion. “Morgan’s over there. If he finds out that I’ve returned, that could be trouble for you.”

  “I’m going to have trouble anyway, if Joe discovers who I am…”

  “He might, or he might not.” Cassidy paused. “Melissa was right…I mean, about what she said yesterday to Rhea. You have changed, and not just in appearance. The person I met la
st spring doesn’t really exist anymore. You’re no longer Hawk…you’re the chaaz’maha.”

  “If that’s so, it’s because I had a good teacher.”

  “Maybe…but perhaps I’ve changed, too. Maybe I’m not your teacher any longer, but instead your student.” Walking Star raised a hand before the chaaz’maha could object. “Look, we could argue about this all morning, but the truth of the matter is that you don’t need my help anymore. My place is at The Sanctuary. Yours…”

  “I know.” The chaaz’maha let out his breath. “Take care of the Sa’Tong-tas, will you? I’ll come back for it when…”

  His voice trailed off as something caught in his throat. “When you come back,” Walking Star finished. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again before long.” As he gazed at the schooner, a rare smile appeared on his face. “The next time we meet, you’ll be a father as well as a teacher.”

  By then, the last of the barrels and kegs had been loaded aboard. The schooner’s captain walked to the stern and looked at the chaaz’maha, not saying anything yet obviously impatient to set sail before the tide changed.

  “I think you’re wanted.” Walking Star took a step back, then he clasped his hands together and bowed from the waist. “Sa’Tong qo, chaaz’maha.”

  “Sa’Tong qo, Walking Star…and thank you.” The chaaz’maha bowed as well…then, on impulse, he reached out to Cassidy. The two men embraced for a moment, then quietly let each other go. Nothing more needed to be said, nor was it necessary for either one of them to search the other’s mind.

  The chaaz’maha clasped Melissa’s hand one last time, then he turned and walked away, heading for the waiting ship. He found a place on the aft deck as the sailors cast off the lines and raised the anchor. A shouted order from the captain, then the sails were raised and the schooner slipped away from the dock.

  As the sails caught the morning wind, the chaaz’maha watched Carlos’s Pizza until it gradually disappeared from sight, before turning to gaze at the channel. The past was only prelude. His destiny lay beyond the horizon, in the place where he’d begun his journey.

  Part 7

  THE NEW BRIGHTON STORY

  COYOTE REFUGEE CRISIS DEEPENS

  by Lynn Hu/Pan News Service

  New Brighton, Albion, Coyote; June 22, 2352 (Hama. 79, c.y. 17)

  With as many as 1,000 people arriving every day from Earth—most of them refugees from the Western Hemisphere Union—Coyote’s refugee crisis has become worse, straining the resources of the colonies as they struggle to provide for so many homeless persons.

  Now that the WHU’s provisional government has agreed to ratify the United Nations treaty of 2340 that formally recognized the Coyote Federation as a sovereign nation, both the Union and the CF have rescinded the legal barriers that prohibited WHU citizens from traveling to the 47 Ursae Majoris system. In addition, the Federation has temporarily relaxed its immigration quotas and is no longer imposing limits on the number of people who wish to relocate to Coyote.

  However, the humanitarian impulses that drove these political decisions may cost the new world dearly. Although Coyote has no shortage of land, the Federation is barely able to feed, shelter, and provide medical attention to the multitudes arriving every day at its spaceport on Albion. Food, building materials, and medicine have been donated by nearby colonies on New Florida, Midland, and Great Dakota, yet senior government officials express concern that this may not be sufficient to take care of everyone.

  “We are doing our best to accommodate their needs,” says Blair Kaye, spokeswoman for Coyote Federation President Garth Thompson. “However, the fact of the matter is that we’ve always had a hard time just taking care of our own. Having so many new people coming here at once is taxing the limits of what we can do.”

  A refugee camp has been established just outside New Brighton, where Coyote’s principal spaceport is located. The vast majority of newly arrived immigrants have been located there, and an effort is being made to shelter them and provide food. But a senior government official, who declined to be identified for this story, has said…

  “Oh, God. What a mess.”

  Although Carlos’s voice was little more than a murmur, no one standing near the former president failed to hear him. The other Government House officials touring the refugee camp—Council representatives, for the most past, along with the heads of various ministries—looked in his direction, with most of them nodding in silent agreement. The former president had never been someone to be ignored, and now that he’d become one of the main figures in the crisis, every word he uttered was bound to be taken seriously.

  Carlos seemed to realize that, for he glanced over his shoulder at Lynn. “That’s off the record,” he quietly added. “I don’t want that showing up in your next story.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. President.” Lynn held up her pad, letting him see that it wasn’t in vox mode and that the only thing she was entering into it were handwritten notes. She knew that she was allowed to accompany Carlos because she’d agreed to his stipulation that nothing he said would be quoted for direct attribution. In fact, she’d described him so often already as “a senior government official” that her editors back home had lately asked her whether he’d ever say anything on the record.

  Carlos nodded, then turned to the man walking beside him. “This is bad,” he went on. “I mean, really bad. I haven’t seen anything like this since Shuttlefield during the Union occupation…and even then, it was only a few thousand people. But this…”

  He raised a hand toward the vast camp that sprawled around them. Mile upon mile of tents, sheds, shacks, and lean-to shelters, arranged in uneven rows along narrow paths that crisscrossed the settlement like a maze. The ground was littered with paper wrappers from the rations that had been airlifted in—what little there was, that is—while people stood in line before bamboo water tanks, all of them holding whatever they could find to carry freshwater back to where they were living. Even then, there was just enough for people to drink, and little else. A handful of children ran past; they looked happy enough, but it wasn’t hard to miss the fact they looked like they hadn’t bathed in days.

  Not far away, soldiers and volunteers labored to build barracks from pallets of cheap faux birch donated by the Thompson Wood Company. A dozen or more longhouses had been slapped together, but they were already overcrowded; the lucky few hundred or so who’d moved into them were hot-bunking, sleeping in shifts so that they could share their beds with others, while still more curled up on the floors. Marie Thompson had told her older brother that the company would send more timber as soon as it could, but its warehouses on Great Dakota were depleted; no one had anticipated such demand in so short a time, and the stockpiles of faux birch, mountain briar, and blackwood were nearly exhausted.

  “They’re doing the best they can, but there are too many people and too little material.” Dieter Vogel, the European Alliance ambassador to Coyote, surveyed the scene as well. “I’ve requested that my government send relief, and they’ve said that they’ll do what they can, but…”

  “That’s too many ‘buts’ here for my liking,” Carlos growled.

  “Mr. President, please remember we have our own problems back home…”

  “I know that. But the fact remains that your government has also sent us people without giving us the means to support them. Now that we’ve relaxed the quotas, they’re loading refugees on whatever ships can carry them. I don’t know what it’s going to take to make them listen to us, but…” Carlos stopped, shook his head. “We can’t be your dumping ground. At least not without the Alliance contributing their fair share.”

  Vogel said nothing, but instead gazed at the distant rooftops of New Brighton, rising above the bamboo fence that had been hastily erected between the city and the camp. “I’ve asked people in New Brighton to render assistance. A few have, but”—Carlos gave Vogel an annoyed look, which he ignored—“I’m afraid there’s a certain amount of animosity toward t
he immigrants. You know what they’re called, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. ‘Gringos’…Americans who don’t know what they’re doing and can’t fend for themselves.” Carlos’s mouth tightened into a distasteful frown. “Sort of overlooks the fact that Coyote was first settled by Americans, me included.” Vogel started to say something, but Carlos shook his head. “Nothing you can do about that, I know. It’s an old story…earlier waves of immigrants resenting the ones who came after them, while conveniently forgetting that they were once in the same situation.”

  “Yes, well…that’s why they insisted on putting up the fence.” As they strolled through the camp, their eyes were drawn toward a blueshirt who walked past. “There’s been no trouble so far…well, with one exception…but nonetheless we’ve got…”

  “What sort of trouble?” Carlos glanced at him. “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

  “A minor incident, really…but rather unfortunate, since it happened with someone who’s been trying to help.” Vogel stopped to point toward a large canvas tent a few hundred feet away; cook-fire smoke rose from behind it, and several dozen people were lined up nearby, waiting to go inside. “See that? It was set up a couple of weeks ago by a group from Midland.” An ironic smile. “From Carlos’s Pizza, in fact…”

  Carlos rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Lynn had noticed that he always seemed mildly embarrassed that a town had been named after him. “Glad to hear that someone has stepped in, but I don’t see how they’ve been causing…”

  “It’s not them. They’ve been bringing in food on a regular basis and using to it feed as many as possible. They’ve also pitched in with some of the other jobs…building longhouses, digging latrines, taking care of the sick, and so forth. But their leader…well, I’m afraid that he was placed under arrest yesterday evening by the local authorities.”