by Allen Steele
“Because you’ll make too much noise carrying it. They’ve got sharp ears.” Hawk glared at him. “Just do as I say, all right?”
Lars thought they were being quiet enough already. Hawk had been here before, though, so he must know what he was doing. Besides, once he knew where the sinkhole lay, he could always come back and fetch the equipment. He took off his pack, placed it next to his son’s. Hawk nodded in satisfaction; crouching low, he led his father into the hollow.
The first stars had begun to appear in the twilight sky. Bear hadn’t risen yet, but if they waited a little while longer, Lars figured that they’d be able to use bearlight to set the charges. Maybe they’d have to spend the night up here—he didn’t look forward to picking their way back across the ledge in the dark—but it would be worth the trouble if they got rid of those damn chirreep once and for all.
They made their way through the hollow, trying to make as little sound as possible, and before long Lars made out a patch of darkness within the floor of the cove. The sinkhole was smaller than he expected, yet as they drew closer, he spotted what looked like a pair of sticks sticking up from the opening. The top of a ladder, fashioned from pieces of wood lashed together along two long tree branches. That surprised him; he’d never thought the chirreep were capable of anything that sophisticated.
“Down there,” Hawk whispered, crouching beside the hole. “That’s where it is.” He pointed to the ladder. “You first.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You said you wanted to find ’em.” He gestured impatiently toward the ladder. “C’mon. It’s just a short climb.”
Lars felt the hair rise upon the back of his neck. The hole was an abyss, leading into the unknown. “You didn’t tell me—”
“Oh, for the love of…” Hawk let out his breath in disgust. “Just go, will you? We’re running out of time.”
Hawk was right. If he wanted to lay the explosives correctly, Lars would have to see how far down the sinkhole extended. He sucked at the gap in his teeth. All right, just a quick look-see; he wouldn’t have to go all the way down to make an estimate. Then he could go back and grab his gear. And besides, he didn’t want to show his son that he was a coward.
Swallowing his fear, Lars crawled around to the opposite side of the hole, then carefully stepped onto the ladder. It creaked under his weight, but it was sturdier than it looked. He lowered his left foot, then his right; now his hands were upon the top rungs, and he was into the sinkhole, his head just above the edge.
A couple of pebbles, dislodged by the ladder, fell past him. It seemed as if several seconds passed before he heard them make a hollow rattle somewhere far below. All right, that was enough. The hole was deeper than he thought. Courage fled him as he raised his left foot…
Then Hawk kicked the ladder away.
Lars didn’t even have time to yell before he lost his grip. A glimpse of his son’s figure, framed against the dim twilight, then he plummeted into hellish darkness.
For a timeless moment, he was suspended in freefall. Then solid rock rose to slam against him. A white-hot shaft of pain shot from his left hip to the center of his brain, and he screamed out loud, flailing helplessly in the cold black that enveloped him.
Obscenities swarmed from his mouth as he tried to clutch at his broken leg. Yet his agony was without mercy; he tried to roll over on his right side, only to discover that his muscles wouldn’t obey his mental commands. His horror increased when he realized that his vertebra had been shattered as well. He was paralyzed, utterly helpless…
Tasting blood, his eyes swiveled to the mouth of the sinkhole, somewhere far above. For a second, he thought he saw Hawk, a thin silhouette against the stars. Then he vanished, even as Lars tried to cough out a plea for mercy.
By now, there were sounds around him. Things coming from somewhere nearby; voices that chirped and hooted, echoing from a tunnel he couldn’t see. He managed to twist his head to the right, and that was when he saw, in dim light that seemed to come from the rock itself, the reflection of alien eyes.
A stray leaf, caught by the autumn wind, drifted down from the sinkhole. Dry and tender, it whisked against his face: a last touch of life. Lars barely felt it, for now the chirreep were upon him. He screamed, and continued to scream, until their tiny knives found his throat.
And that was when he discovered that blood wasn’t so thick after all.
Part 7
PARSON’S REBELLION
SHUTTLEFIELD, NEW FLORIDA / BARBIEL 68, C.Y. 14 / 0312
The landing field lay still and silent in the dark hours before dawn, its concrete apron turned a pale shade of grey by bearlight. Nothing moved save for the windsock on a pole near the chain-link security fence, gently ruffled by a cool breeze coming in from the northwest. Not far away, the town slept; only a few lights glimmered on the outskirts within the windows of farmhouses whose residents had risen early to feed the livestock.
Four figures emerged from the tall grass near the edge of the field. They hesitated for a moment, looking both ways to make sure that no one was in sight, before scurrying through the darkness toward the fence.
Jonathan Parson stopped at the gate, glanced back at his companions. Susan was right behind him, as she’d been ever since she rendezvoused with him and the others outside town less than an hour ago. Manny was the slowest, of course; his mechanical body had never allowed him to move very quickly, and what he ironically referred to as his “war wounds”—the lack of sight in his left eye, the loss of full mobility of his right leg—hindered him even more. As before, Hawk was helping him along; the kid didn’t need to do so, but somehow Hawk seemed to feel responsible for the Savant, much as if he was an elderly gent who needed tender care.
Manny was far from helpless, yet he’d never complained about Hawk’s attention, and this act of caring seemed to help the kid himself. Parson had come to worry a bit about Hawk lately. His father had disappeared a few weeks ago, under circumstances that remained not wholly explained, yet Hawk didn’t seem particularly upset. Indeed, it was almost as if he was glad that his old man was gone.
No. He had to focus on matters at hand. Pulling off his pack, Parson withdrew the pair of bolt cutters he’d had Hawk buy for him in Clarksburg. He raised its beak to the U-shaped hasp of the lock that secured the gate chain, then pulled the handles together. A moment of resistance, then a hard snap as the blades severed the lock. Parson started to put the bolt cutters back in the pack, then reconsidered and instead tossed them aside.
“Don’t you want to bring ’em?” Hawk whispered.
“Why bother?” Parson pulled off the lock and threw it away. “Don’t need them anymore. By the time they find ’em, it won’t matter.”
The night-watch had left the area fifteen minutes ago; by now the blueshirt would be sauntering through town, making his rounds once more before returning to the barracks to fill out the logbook and maybe steal a few winks. Parson almost felt sorry for the poor guy—no doubt he’d catch hell from someone—yet no one must have ever seriously considered the possibility of what they were doing now. The fence was there mainly to keep animals and children away, and the only reason the Proctor came by was because it was part of his routine.
The gate creaked softly as he pushed it open. Parson looked at the others. “Last chance,” he murmured, “if you want to back out.”
“Too late for that now,” Susan said. “C’mon, we’re running out of time.” Hawk danced nervously from foot to foot, while Manny’s right eye glowed like an amber jewel within his cowl. No one was having any second thoughts. Or if they were, they were keeping it to themselves.
“Right.” Parson picked up the pack, pulled it over his shoulder. “Then off we go.”
They moved quickly across the field, saying nothing to each other as they headed for the closer of the two spacecraft parked on the apron. Now that the New Brighton spaceport was in service, most shuttles arrived there, yet the New Florida landing field was still used on o
ccasion, mainly because of its proximity to Liberty. Of course, there was the URSS Plymouth, but it never went anywhere; long since decommissioned, the old bird simply waited for the day when it would be towed to an as-yet unbuilt hangar, to be preserved as a historic artifact. This morning, though, an ESA skiff rested nearby.
The Virginia Dare had landed only yesterday, following the return of the Drake to the 47 Uma system. Steam rose from vents along its fuselage as indigenous-fuel nuclear engines converted atmospheric water vapor into useable hydrogen. The boarding ramp had been raised—its crew had done that as a precaution, just before they’d gone to the boardinghouse in town where they were staying—but this was a minor obstacle that Parson had already anticipated. Kneeling down, he let Hawk climb on his shoulders, then he carefully stood up, lifting the young man until he was within arm’s reach of the spacecraft’s lower hull. Using a pocket light, Hawk found a recessed panel; he slid it open, then pushed a button. A faint grinding noise, then the belly hatch opened and the ramp began to descend.
Parson bent his knees again and Hawk hopped off his shoulders. He waited until the ramp touched ground, then he turned to the kid. “Okay, that’s it for you,” Parson said, and held up a hand before Hawk could object. “We’ve been through this before. Not enough room for all of us.”
“Aw, c’mon, Jon…”
“Do as he says.” Susan’s voice was cold. “You’re staying behind. Period.”
His feelings more than a little hurt, Hawk looked down, nodded his head. Parson couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The boy had betrayed him, to be sure, and his body bore scars from the beating he’d taken last spring, but he’d come to understand why it’d happened. Perhaps Susan couldn’t bring herself to forgive him, but he had.
“Besides,” Parson added, “I’ve got an important job for you.” Opening his pack, he produced a satphone. “It’s preset to the frequency we’ll be using,” he said, handing it to Hawk. “Keep it switched on. When you hear from me, I want you to go to the president and give her this.” Then he unbuttoned his parka, pulled out a sealed envelope, and gave it to him as well. “But not a minute before. Understand?”
Susan stared at him. “What are you—?”
“Our statement of demands. The one we signed. Remember?”
“Sure, but I thought you were going to transmit it once we—”
“It’ll be more effective if it’s delivered by hand.” Parson looked back to Hawk. “Look, this could be dangerous. They might try to pin the blame on you. If you don’t think you can handle it—”
“I can do this.” Hawk put the envelope in his jacket, clipped the phone to his belt. He hesitated, then offered his hand. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Parson shook his hand. “You, too.” Susan hesitated, then gave his shoulder a squeeze. Hawk gave Manny a quick nod, which the Savant reciprocated in his own spooky way: a brief forward tilt of a skeletal head within the cowl of his black robe, like the Grim Reaper acknowledging his presence. Then Hawk turned and jogged away, heading for the fence.
“You trust him?” Manny’s voice was a low purr.
“You trusted me, didn’t you?” Parson peered up at the sky from beneath the skiff’s starboard wing. The leading edge of Bear’s rings had already touched the western horizon. “Sun’s coming up soon. Let’s go.”
The cockpit was tight: just enough seats for the pilot, copilot, and two passengers, with the rest of the interior space reserved for freight. Once he was buckled into the left seat, Parson took a few moments to study the dashboard. Although the craft was a little more sophisticated than those he’d flown before, the controls remained basically the same. Besides, he had backup; while he initiated the prelaunch procedures, Manny took the right seat, then stretched a cable from his chest to a terminal on the panel before him. “Comp interface achieved,” the Savant said. “All systems green. We’re good to go.”
“Thanks.” Parson pulled up the checklist on a screen. With Manny’s assistance, nothing would take him by surprise. He stole a moment to glance back at Susan. She’d managed to figure out how the seat harness worked, yet her hands trembled as she snapped the buckles shut. She’d never gone into space before; all this was new to her. “Relax,” he said. “It’s no worse than riding a jet, really.”
“I’ve never been on a jet. Only gyros.” She hesitated. “Three times.”
“Okay.” He didn’t know what to say to that. “If it gets too much for you, then close your eyes, put your head against the seat—”
“There’s a vomit bag beneath your seat,” Manny said. “Please use it.”
Parson cast a cold look at the Savant, which his blind left eye was conveniently able to ignore. “I’ll be okay,” Susan said. “Just get on with it.”
Parson returned his attention to the controls. All systems nominal: fuel tanks fully pressurized, atmospheric engines preheated, guidance systems in standby mode. He placed his right hand on the thruster bars, moved them up a couple of degrees; the hull trembled as the engines ignited. Through the windows, he saw house lights begin to flash: Shuttlefield residents, awakened by the unexpected roar of a ship preparing to take off. If he waited a few minutes, he’d hear someone come over the comlink, demanding to know who he was, where he was going.
He was wasn’t going to stick around that long.
“Liftoff,” he said, then he pushed the bars all the way forward.
The Virginia Dare slowly rose from the landing field, its VTOLs burning hot against the cold autumn morning. For a few moments the skiff hovered against the star-flecked sky, its landing gear rolling up within their wells. Then its bow tilted upward and it leaped toward space.
LIBERTY, NEW FLORIDA / 0718
Carlos had just finished making breakfast when there was a knock at the front door. He didn’t respond immediately—if he didn’t rescue the biscuits at once, they’d burn to a crisp—so he took a few moments to remove the tray from the brick oven and place it on the stove top next to the coffeepot. One day soon, they’d be able to afford one of the new solar ovens that were being imported from Earth; until then, they’d have to continue to make do with wood fire.
The knocking continued, more urgently than before. He heard Wendy yell something from their bedroom. The door was shut, but he could guess what she was saying. “I’ll get it,” he yelled back, then he pulled off his oven mitt and dropped it on the counter. Whoever was outside was getting impatient. “Calm down,” Carlos muttered as he strode toward the front door. “You’d think the house was on fire.”
Chris was on the front porch. He apparently noticed the irate look on Carlos’s face, for he took an involuntary step back from the door. “Sorry. I know it’s early, but…”
“It can’t wait, right?” Carlos sighed. When he’d been president, he’d let it be known to one and all that he wasn’t to be disturbed, save for the more dire emergencies, after Government House closed at six o’clock, or before he returned to work at eight the following morning. This had gone far to preserve the privacy of his home as well as his own peace of mind; there was little that demanded his attention after hours, save for the monthly meeting of the Colonial Council or the occasional late-night budget session. After Wendy took office, though, she’d rescinded that standing order. She’d promised her supporters that, as president, she’d be on call twenty-seven hours a day, nine days a week, 1,096 days a year, and since then she’d been determined to keep that pledge. As a result, they’d often been visited as late as midnight and as early as dawn. Carlos often griped that she was making more work for herself, but she took her job seriously…perhaps a bit more than her husband had, he had to admit.
“It’s important, yeah.” Chris exhaled a tiny cloud; there was a nip to the morning, with an autumn frost upon the dying flowers beside the front walk. “I tried to wait as long as possible, but…” He shrugged. “She’s up, isn’t she?”
“Getting dressed.” Carlos stood aside, letting his old friend inside. “Want coffee?”
<
br /> “Sure. Thanks.” Chris walked over to the dinner table, took a seat in the guest chair. Carlos had set the table for three, so he went to the cupboard to fetch another mug; on second thought, he also pulled out a fourth plate and butter knife. Chris was up early, so he probably hadn’t had breakfast yet. And besides, he always made more biscuits than Wendy or Susan could eat…
Come to think of it, where was Susan, anyway? Her bedroom door was still shut, and although she tended to sleep later than her parents, by now she was usually coming back from the privy, clutching her robe about her, damp hair wrapped in a towel. Of course, there’d been many times recently when she hadn’t been home at all, but that was when she’d been away on research, and it had been a while since…
“Morning, Chris.” The door of the master bedroom swung open, and Wendy came out. “Early for you, isn’t it?”
“Madam President.” The Chief Proctor gallantly stood up.
“Hey, you never did that with me.” Carlos put a mug in front of him, then placed the extra plate and knife beside it.
“Stand up when you entered the room, or address you as Madam President?” Wendy picked up the coffeepot, carried it over to the table. “I like it. Makes me feel all tingly inside.”
She was dressed for the office: ankle-length hemp skirt, cotton blouse, wool sweater, all in earth tones. The kind of outfit one expected the leader of the Coyote Federation to wear while conducting the affairs of state. If necessary, though, she could report to the hospital, where she could change into scrubs to deliver a baby or perform surgery; then she was no longer Madam President, but simply Dr. Wendy Gunther, chief of emergency medical services. One job rarely interfered with the other, although the latter paid better than the former.
