by Allen Steele
“Yes, ma’am. Lowering gear now.” Parson reached up to an overhead panel, snapped a couple of toggle switches. A hard thump from belowdecks as belly hatches opened, then Isabella’s narrow prow lifted slightly as Parson throttled back the main engines and engaged the VTOL jets.
“Forty meters…thirty meters…twenty meters…” The second officer kept his eyes on his instruments as the skiff slowly descended. In the last few seconds before touchdown, a thick cloud of dust rose around the cockpit windows, obliterating everything from sight. “Ten…five…two…” Another jolt; an alarm sounded and red lamps blazed across his console. “Contact. We’re on the ground, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Parson. Nice flying.” While the pilot shut down the engines, the captain touched a couple of buttons on the com panel. “Isabella to Columbus, do you copy?”
“We read you, Isabella.” The first officer’s voice came over the ceiling speaker. “Telemetry indicates you’ve landed. Do you confirm?”
“Affirmative, Columbus, we’re down and safe. Remain on standby until further notice. Isabella over and out.” Tereshkova switched off the radio, then unbuckled her harness and let the straps retract into the seat as she turned to look at her passenger. “I assume you’re feeling better now, Dr. Whittaker.”
“Very much so.” Jonas struggled with the clasp of the seat belt for a moment until the captain stood up, walked back to where he was sitting, and opened it for him. “Thank you,” he mumbled, embarrassed again by his incompetence. “So…what now?”
“I believe much of that’s going to depend on them.”
Still seated, his logbook open in his lap, Parson gestured with his pen toward the cockpit windows. “Seems we have an audience.”
Jonas gazed out the side window. Now that the dust had settled, he could see, a few dozen feet away, several hundred people gathered just beyond the landing beacons. No one approached the skiff, though, and it appeared as if the crowd was being held back by several men in dark blue shirts. It wasn’t hard to miss the fact that they were carrying rifles.
“Doesn’t look very friendly, does it?” Parson added.
“No, it doesn’t.” Tereshkova started to reach toward the com panel again, then thought better of it. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Dr. Whittaker, if you’ll join me, perhaps we can get this straightened out. Mr. Parson, I know this is asking much of you, but—”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll remain aboard, just in case.” He nodded toward a locker in the rear of the passenger compartment. “Captain, if I may remind you…?”
“Perhaps we should…” She hesitated, considering her options, then shook her head. “No. Keep the weapons stowed. I don’t think it’ll make a good first impression if we walked down the gangway with guns in hand.” She glanced at Jonas. “Agreed?”
“Completely.” Nonetheless, the sight of armed men at the landing site was the last thing he’d anticipated. Indeed, he wondered what had happened here that provoked this sort of reception. “Maybe it’s time to practice a little diplomacy.”
“That’s why we brought you.” Tereshkova patted his shoulder as she moved past him. “With luck, maybe you’ll find a friend or two out there.”
I wouldn’t count on it, he thought, but he rose to his feet and followed her to the main hatch.
“That insignia…” Carlos pointed to the blue-red-green flag painted on the vertical stabilizer of the spacecraft’s starboard wing. “European Alliance?”
“It’s theirs, all right…but they’ve come a long way.” Tomas caught the look on the president’s face and quickly corrected himself. “Level of technology, I mean. When I left, the EA didn’t have any starships. In fact, they only had a few lunar colonies.” He nodded toward the ship. “This is something new.”
“This is new to all of us.” The spacecraft that just landed didn’t resemble the shuttles used by the Western Hemisphere Union: smaller and more streamlined, with down-swept wings and forward cabin extended at the end of a midsection neck, it vaguely resembled a goose. He cast a glance at the Proctors ringed around the edge of the landing field. Thirty men and women in blue shirts stood at attention, their carbines at their sides. He caught the eye of Chris Levin; the Chief Proctor for more than thirty years, his best friend since childhood, he gazed back at Carlos, gave him a tight nod. His people were ready.
“Maybe they should stand down.” Wendy stood next to him, her hands nervously fidgeting at her sides. “It’s like greeting house guests by pointing a gun to their heads.”
“They’re not guests,” Carlos said quietly, “and I want them to know exactly where they stand.” Perhaps this was only a show of force, yet it would let whoever was aboard the shuttle know that their unexpected arrival was being treated with suspicion. “If the Union had been given this sort of treatment when they showed up—”
“Nothing would have been different,” Wendy argued. “We’re establishing a bad precedent. We don’t know who these people are, what they’re—”
“Someone’s coming out,” Tomas said.
The belly hatch opened, revealing a ramp built into its underside. No sooner had it unfolded and lowered to the ground than a pair of boots appeared on the steps. A young woman made her way down the ladder, followed moments later by a middle-aged man. Both wore tan jumpsuits, and matching berets covered their shaved heads, attesting to the fact that they must have recently emerged from biostasis. They stopped at the bottom of the ladder, gazed uncertainly at the crowd gathered around the spacecraft.
“You’re on,” Wendy whispered.
Carlos took a deep breath, then marched out to the spacecraft. After a moment’s hesitation, Tomas fell in beside him. The younger man was still getting used to his role as Carlos’s senior aide; indeed, Carlos reflected, it hadn’t been all that many years ago when he’d been little more than a boy, setting foot on Coyote for the first time with his parents. No wonder he was nervous.
As if I’m not, he thought.
Carlos stopped in front of the newcomers, extended his hand. “Welcome to New Florida, and to Coyote,” he began, speaking in Anglo. “I’m Carlos Montero, President of the Coyote Federation. This is my chief of staff, Tomas Conseco.”
The woman accepted his handshake. “Pleased to meet you, President Montero,” she replied, and although she also spoke Anglo, he noted a thin Slavic accent to her voice. “Captain Anastasia Tereshkova, commanding officer of the—”
“No…it can’t be.”
She was interrupted by the man standing behind her. His eyes wide with disbelief, he regarded Carlos with open-mouthed astonishment. “You…you can’t be Carlos,” he stammered. “You…I’m sorry, but you…”
Captain Tereshkova turned to look at him. “Dr. Whittaker, do you know him?”
“I…no, but…” Whittaker cautiously stepped past her. “Yes, I know him. It’s been such a long time, but—”
“I don’t believe…” Carlos began, then his voice trailed off. Although his first impulse was to deny any previous association, long-buried memories began to resurface. The face was familiar, although in a distant sort of way. And the name…Whittaker, Whittaker. He’d heard that name before.
“Do I know you?” he asked. “Have we met?”
“We have. Maybe you don’t remember, but…” He shook his head. “It’s incredible how much you look like your father. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn—”
“You knew my father? There’s no way you could…”
Before he could finish, he heard someone running toward them. Carlos barely had a chance to turn around before Chris pushed both him and Tomas aside. “Dr. Whittaker!” he yelled, then he dropped his carbine and wrapped his arms around him. “I don’t believe it! You’re alive!”
For an instant, it seemed as if Whittaker was just as shocked as anyone else. Indeed, it had been many years since Carlos had seen Chris express this much emotion about anything. Then Jonas carefully prized Chris away from him and took a long, hard look at hi
s face, and tears began to seep from the corners of his eyes.
“Chris Levin,” he whispered, his voice choked. “Oh, my god…how much you’ve grown up.”
And now, all at once, memories returned. Whittaker. Dr. Jonas Whittaker. Another scientist, a physicist who’d once worked for the old Federal Space Agency. Several years older than his father, a senior colleague who’d visited Carlos’s home in Huntsville, had dinner with his family. Carlos hadn’t known him very well, but once during a summer outing in the park he’d shown him and Chris how to feed catfish from the footbridge. And he’d had a daughter, a few years older than either him or Chris.
“This is impossible,” he said. “You should be dead.”
He didn’t mean for it to come out quite this way, yet it did. Hearing a strangled gasp, Carlos glanced over his shoulder to see Wendy covering her face with her hands. Captain Tereshkova stared at him in shock as mortified laughter rose from those in the crowd who’d heard what he’d just said.
Yet Whittaker simply smiled. “You’re right, son. I’m a dead man. But in my case, it was only a temporary condition.”
LIBERTY / HAMALIEL 70 / 0945
Although Carlos insisted upon having proctors present when the Isabella landed, it had been Wendy’s idea to hold a small reception for the Columbus’s captain. Carlos had been reluctant at first, but it turned out that his wife’s instinct for diplomacy was correct. Once it became obvious that the first contact would be peaceful, Carlos quietly asked Chris to dismiss his proctors, then suggested to Captain Tereshkova that they move the meeting to the grange hall in Liberty. She graciously accepted his invitation and demonstrated her own good intentions by asking Jonathan Parson, her second officer, to disembark from the skiff and join them.
It was a little late for breakfast and still too early for lunch, but nonetheless the chefs had laid out a smorgasbord: redfish fritters, cornbread, fried tomatoes and mixed greens, along with apple strudel and coffee. Besides the fact that the newcomers had been in biostasis for nearly forty-nine years, it had been a long time since they’d eaten anything except ship’s rations. Their guests filled their plates, then everyone took seats at one of the blackwood tables that ran down the center of the room.
Captain Tereshkova was curious about their surroundings, and Carlos explained that the grange had been built by the original colonists during their first year on Coyote. He pointed out the mural of the Alabama that hung from one wall and the original flag of the Coyote Federation suspended from the rafters. He attempted to give her a short history of the colony, yet he didn’t get a chance. Although Tomas had tried to restrict the guest list to those officials who needed to be there—Colonial Council representatives, the chairs of various committees, members of the Liberty and Shuttlefield town councils, and so forth—the grange was jammed with VIPs, and everyone wanted to have a minute—if not five or ten—with the members of the Columbus party. Chris had posted a couple of proctors at the front door, but when Carlos happened to glance out a window, he saw that Main Street swarmed with townspeople curious to see the first visitors from Earth in nearly a generation.
Despite the fact that, as commanding officer of the Columbus, Anastasia Tereshkova was the center of attention, Carlos and Chris weren’t the only ones who remembered Jonas Whittaker. There were relatively few members of the original group of D.I.s smuggled aboard the Alabama who were still alive, but they had been hastily brought to the grange hall to meet Whittaker. When Henry Johnson—the oldest surviving member of the Alabama party, now half-blind and able to walk only with the assistance of a cane—laid eyes on a friend whom he’d long since given up for dead, there were a few seconds of stunned surprise as Jonas found himself gazing upon someone who’d once been a few years younger than himself and now appeared old enough to be his father. Then the two men threw themselves into each other’s arms, laughing and weeping at the same time.
Next appeared Sissy Levin, Chris’s mother. This was a sad moment, for it was when she introduced her second husband, Ben Harlan, that Jonas learned that his colleague Jim Levin was no longer living; like Carlos’s parents, he’d been killed by a boid. And right behind her were those whom Jonas recognized, but knew less well: Bernie and Vonda Cayle, both of whom were alive and well, and Carrie Geary, who’d survived the loss of her husband three years before, and Kuniko Okada, who’d become Wendy’s adoptive mother and now served as chancellor of the Colonial University.
And just how had Whittaker himself survived? Once again, Carlos found himself wondering this, as he watched a steady procession of lined and age-spotted faces come forth to meet someone who, for all intents and purposes, had aged little since they’d seen him. Although the question was often asked, Whittaker avoided giving a straight answer, dodging behind platitudes like clean living or good genes, I guess before changing the subject. And meanwhile Tereshkova carefully eluded the more probing queries, while Jonathan Parson remained noncommittal, saying little to anyone save for the occasional question about the weather or how the colonists had managed to cultivate apple orchards.
Yet Carlos remained patient, allowing the reception to run its course until finally, a couple of hours later, he’d managed to detach Tereshkova, Parson, and Whittaker from the crowd and lead them to the conference room in the back of the grange. Wendy was there, as were Tomas and several members of the Executive Committee; at Whittaker’s insistence, Henry Johnson was invited as well. Once everyone was seated and the door was shut, Carlos called the meeting to order and the small talk came to an end.
“I imagine you have quite a few questions,” Tereshkova began, “and we certainly have a few of our own, but let me make one thing clear from the beginning. The European Alliance only wishes to open peaceful negotiations with the colonies, for the mutual benefit of both the EA and the Coyote Federation.”
A nice start, Carlos thought. Tereshkova had surmised that the Columbus’s unexpected arrival was being regarded with distrust, and was trying to defuse this. “I appreciate this, Captain,” he replied, clasping his hands together on the table, “and I apologize if you were offended by the way you and your party were received in Shuttlefield. You have to realize, though, that your predecessors didn’t have the same…well, benign intentions.”
“No apologies necessary, Mr. Pres…um, Mr. Montero.” A quick smile as Tereshkova remembered that he preferred to be addressed in a less formal fashion. “Although my knowledge of your history is still far from complete, I’m fully aware that the Western Hemisphere Union attempted to use force to take over your colonies. Even before we left Earth, my government had received intelligence reports indicating that this was their intent.”
“I take it, then, that the Alliance isn’t on good terms with the Union?”
Tereshkova crossed her legs. “Although they aren’t engaged in active hostilities…at least not when we left…all the same there’s political rivalry between the two blocs. The Alliance is a capitalist democracy, while the Union is based upon collective socialism, so if they had still been in control, we would’ve had to negotiate with them on those terms. However, since they’re no longer here, we’re able to deal directly with those who colonized Coyote in the first place.”
“Then you’re aware that the Union was deposed during a revolution,” Carlos said, and Tereshkova nodded. “And I also take it that you’ve learned that the Federation is composed of eight colonies.”
“Liberty, Shuttlefield, Leeport, and Bridgeton on New Florida.” Tereshkova gazed up at the ceiling as she recited from memory. “Forest Camp, Defiance, and New Boston on Midland, and Clarksburg on Great Dakota. Not counting several smaller settlements here and there that haven’t yet gained sufficient population to be officially represented by the Colonial Council.”
“You’re a good listener,” Wendy said. “My compliments.”
A wry smile. “It’s my job to listen, Ms. Montero. I’m not only Columbus’s commanding officer, but I’m also something of a trade emissary.” Her expression be
came more serious. “So once more, let me assure you, I’m not here to be a conqueror. My government believed that the Union’s attempt to take military control was doomed to failure, and I’m only too happy to learn that their predictions were correct.”
“I’ll take you at your word,” Carlos replied. At least for the time being. “But if you say that you’re here on a trade mission, then that raises an important question. Given the long time it takes for anyone’s ships to get here, then return home, how can—?”
“Carlos?” Whittaker interrupted by raising a hand. “If you don’t mind, perhaps I can explain?”
“I think…” Henry Johnson coughed in his hand, then leaned forward upon his cane. “I think I know what you’re going to say, Jonas. But before you get to that part, would you kindly explain just how you managed to get here in the first place? And why I shouldn’t be changing your diapers now?”
Muted laughter from around the table, yet there were also nods and murmurs. Although the two eldest members of ExCom had once belonged to the Alabama crew—Jud Tinsley, originally the executive officer, and Ellery Balis, formerly the ship’s quartermaster—Carlos and Wendy had been in their teens when the Alabama was hijacked. Yet now they both were only a few years younger than Whittaker himself, at least in physical terms, while Jud and Ellery could have passed as a pair of older uncles. Henry was joking, of course, but beneath that was a serious question.
“Jealous, aren’t we?” Jonas replied, and even though this was received with a few chuckles, Henry wasn’t amused. Jonas settled back in his chair, folded his arms together. “Very well, then…”
Jonas kept his eyes shut as he felt the hospital cart come to a halt; he remained perfectly still, keeping his breathing as shallow as possible. Through the sheet that covered his body, he heard murmured voices, some belonging to the Prefects who’d carried him from the conference room. A door opened and shut, and then he heard a pair of footsteps approach him.
