Coyote Rising (3 page)

Baptiste relaxed, assuming an at-ease posture. He could see the Patriarch more clearly: a short, stocky man, his scalp shaved clean, a narrow goatee framing a broad mouth, stark black eyes buried deep within his skull. Patriarch Leonardo Somoza, former member of the Union Proletariate, highest-ranking UA officer on the Moon . . . and, regardless of a cultivated air of affability, a man widely regarded to be merciless with anyone who roused his ire.
Be careful when you see him
, others had privately warned Baptiste.
Leo would just as soon cut off your balls as offer you a drink
.

“Would you like a drink?” The Patriarch now stood only a few inches away, peering up at Baptiste’s face. “I’m going to have one, and I don’t like drinking alone.”

Baptiste forced a smile. “Thank you, sir. Whatever you’re having.”

“Uh-huh.” Somoza studied him for another moment, then turned away. “We haven’t met till now,” he said as he walked toward a cabinet on the other side of the room, “but you’ve come highly recommended for this mission. Twelve years deep-space experience, commanding officer of the second Titan expedition . . . impressive. Very impressive.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad you approve.”

“Uh-huh.” Somoza opened the cabinet, regarded a small collection of cut-glass decanters, finally selected one. He said nothing as he poured a measure of pale brown liquid into two glasses, then added ice and water to each one. “Of course, this is . . . well, somewhat tame compared to Titan, don’t you think?”

Titan had been a nightmare. The first lander sent down from his ship had been caught in a storm while making atmospheric entry and crashed on the moon’s uncharted surface, killing half the crewmen aboard. Baptiste dispatched the second lander to recover the survivors,
and the rescue mission had nearly failed as well, with his first officer losing his life in the effort. The review board had absolved Captain Baptiste of any blame, though, and three months later the Proletariate ceremonially presented him with the Prix de Coeur, the Western Hemisphere Union’s highest military medal of honor. And two years after that, the Union Astronautica offered him the command of the
Spirit
.

“Not at all, sir.” Baptiste accepted the drink, took a sip. Bourbon. He hated bourbon. “Coyote may not be Titan, but I’m sure it must present its own challenges.”

“I’m sure it will.” The Patriarch gestured to a couple of chairs positioned in front of the windows. “In fact, that’s why I wished to meet with you. Have you had a chance to review the material we sent you?”

Baptiste hesitated. “Not in depth, sir. I didn’t receive it until shortly before I boarded the train. I’ve been rather busy.”

“Of course.” Somoza smiled as he sat down. “There are always last-minute details. I trust that you managed to read the summary, at the very least.”

“An assessment by the Savants Council of possible social conditions on Coyote.” Through the window slats, Baptiste saw another shuttle coming in for touchdown. There was a lot of traffic coming and going out in the spaceport. “My apologies, sir. I didn’t get very far into it.”

“Uh-huh.” Somoza frowned as he jiggled the ice in his glass. “Normally I wouldn’t accept failure by a senior officer to read a classified report. Yet I anticipated that you might be involved with other tasks, so I’ve invited someone to bring you up to date.” He looked over his shoulder. “Gregor? If you’ll join us, please?”

Baptiste glanced behind him to see a form step out from the deep shadows of the office, a tall figure cloaked in a black robe. As he stepped closer, ruby eyes lit within the cowl pulled over his head; there was the subtle mechanical whir from inside the robe.

“An honor to meet you, Captain Baptiste.” The voice was a smooth buzz, inflective of its vowels yet oddly without accent. “My colleagues and I have followed your career with great interest.”

A Savant. Like almost everyone else he knew, Baptiste found himself nervous in the company of these creatures: persons who’d chosen to
have their minds downloaded into mechanical forms, eschewing their human bodies for virtual immortality as cyborgs. Baptiste believed them to be closet sociopaths, people who would rather interface with an AI than look another person straight in the eye. The fact that they all looked very much alike didn’t help much either: the same black robes, the same skeletal forms. Yet once WHU granted them legal status as citizens, many had gone to work for the Union Astronautica, where they served as a legion of posthuman intellects. For some reason, space attracted them.

The
Spirit
’s complement included five Savants. Having no need to breathe, eat, or indulge any of the other biological functions they had forsaken, they would remain awake during the half century it took for the starship to travel to 47 Ursae Majoris, standing watch while he and everyone else slept the dreamless sleep of biostasis. What they’d do during that time, what they would think about, God only knew; their intellects were as alien to unaltered humans as that of ants. Or perhaps ghosts, although Baptiste didn’t believe in such things.

“Captain, allow me to introduce you to Savant Gregor Hull.” Somoza gestured lazily toward the Savant. “Savant Hull is the senior member of a group that’s been studying the social dynamics of small founding populations.” He glanced at Hull. “If you’ll continue?”

“Thank you, sir.” The Savant glided across the office until he stopped next to Somoza. Although there was another chair nearby, Hull didn’t take a seat. Indeed, Baptiste reflected, one thing that made the Savants seem so otherworldly was the fact that they seldom sat down; they didn’t need to rest, or at least not as flesh-and-blood humans did. “As Patriarch Somoza says, my team has done considerable historical research into colonies, both in space and on Earth. Our major finding is that, once a population grows to a certain size, there’s a strong tendency for it to sever ties to home.”

Baptiste shrugged. “Makes sense . . . especially if you’re referring to Coyote. Establishing a self-sufficient colony out there was the principal reason the URA built the
Alabama
in the first place.”

“Yes, it was, Captain.” The Savant’s voice was a monotonous purr. “But remember, the
Alabama
was hijacked by renegades . . . ‘dissident
intellectuals’ as they were known back then. They were committed to achieving political independence the moment they left Earth, and so there’s every reason to believe that, if their colony survives, they’ll be even more committed toward maintaining their independence.”

“The Union Astronautica anticipated this when it launched the
Glorious Destiny
four years ago.” The Patriarch crossed his legs. “That is why we put a large company of Union Guard aboard that ship, to make sure that there would be . . . well, little resistance from the original settlers.” He chuckled, shook his head. “ ‘Will be,’ I should say. One of the drawbacks of thinking in interstellar terms . . .
Alabama
is still en route to 47 Ursae Majoris, and, regardless of its greater velocity,
Glorious Destiny
is still a considerable distance behind it. So we’re discussing future events as if they’ve already happened.”

Baptiste nodded. The colony established by the crew of the
Alabama
would be almost four years old by the time
Glorious Destiny
arrived . . . and once the
Spirit
reached the 47 Ursae Majoris system almost eight years after the
Alabama
, three more ships from the Western Hemisphere Union would have followed the
Glorious Destiny
. So they were, in fact, engaging in a protracted form of time travel.

“If that’s so,” he said, “then
Glorious Destiny
 . . . shouldn’t have . . . won’t have . . .much difficulty asserting control over the original colonists.”

“That would appear to be the case,” Hull said. “However, my group has projected a very strong likelihood that the original colonists may revolt against the newcomers. Indeed, we believe that recent immigrants may even take sides with the original colonists.”

“You’re sure?” Baptiste raised an eyebrow. “No offense, but it sounds like so much guesswork. There are quite a number of factors we simply don’t know. . . .”

“History shows this to be a pattern that has repeated itself many times in the past. Those who come to a frontier first believe that the land belongs to them. They resent those who follow them, particularly if they represent some strong authority.” Hull paused. “An admirable tendency, true, but one that doesn’t bode well for our purposes.”

“Savant Hull’s report has been studied at the highest level. His
findings have been very persuasive.” Somoza’s tone was no longer cordial; realizing that the Patriarch was deadly serious, Baptiste wiped the smile from his face. “Regardless of the time factor involved, we cannot allow even the slightest chance for Coyote to slip from Union control. It’s absolutely vital for us to establish a viable colony out there.”

Again, Baptiste nodded. Earth’s natural resources had been exhausted; long-term effects of global warming had rendered entire countries uninhabitable, while the shorelines of others had disappeared beneath the rising oceans. It was only the development of space resources—the extraction of helium-3 from the lunar regolith, the mining of the Moon and nearby asteroids—that kept the human race from extinction, even then, just barely; the populations of the orbital colonies and the settlements on the Moon and Mars represented only a fraction of the human race, and the attempt to terraform Mars had met with disaster. Unless humankind found another home, it was doomed to a slow and miserable death.

The Western Hemisphere Union wasn’t the only government to be aware of that fact. Baptiste had seen the intelligence reports: the European Alliance had recently initiated a program to build starships of its own. Although the diametric drive was a classified secret, it was only a matter of time before the European Space Administration figured out how to duplicate it. Either that, or their spies would unearth the secret. One way or another, it wouldn’t be very much longer until the EA would be capable of sending a vessel of its own into interstellar space.

Yet even after centuries of search by orbital observatories, the only world within fifty light-years of Earth that appeared capable of supporting human life was Coyote. That was why the Union had resorted to assembling and launching a small fleet of starships even before the
Alabama
made it to the 47 Ursae Majoris system. No one had the luxury of waiting to receive the first radio transmissions; Coyote had to be settled now.

“I doubt the earlier ships will have much trouble,” the Patriarch continued. “Nearly a hundred Guardsmen have already been sent to Coyote, and with any luck our precautions will be unnecessary . . . no
offense, Gregor.” The Savant made no sound, but his metallic head tilted slightly forward, emulating a nod. “However, having more forces on the ground may be warranted if there is an uprising under way by the time you arrive.”

“So what do you want me do, sir?”

“We’re changing your mission parameters.” Somoza absently drummed his fingers on the glass in his hand. “We need you to stabilize the colony. Prop up the colonial government under Matriarch Hernandez, make sure that Union control remains intact. To this end, we’re increasing the military detachment—three hundred more soldiers, replacing the same number of civilians that you were originally carrying—along with gyros, skimmers, and long-range artillery. You’re still going to be carrying civilians of course, but your primary objective will now be military.”

Baptiste didn’t say anything, though he felt something freeze within his chest. Until a few minutes ago, he’d believed that he was doing little more than transporting another thousand colonists to Coyote. Nine hundred and thirty-five civilians, most of whom had won their berths aboard the
Spirit
by participating in public lotteries, plus fifty Union Guard soldiers and officers, whose main purpose for being aboard was to protect them from whatever threats might have been discovered on the new world. Once they were there, he and his flight crew, along with the five Savants who’d accompanied them, would return to Earth, where comfortable retirement awaited them. A long voyage, to be sure, but one with benefits: a good home wherever he wanted, a generous stipend, perhaps even a position as a Patriarch . . .

That had changed. Instead he was being asked—ordered, really—to lead a military expedition to Coyote and assist in quelling an uprising that the Savants believed might occur. This wasn’t the mission he’d been asked to perform.

“I realize that this is a major change of plan, nor the one for which you were selected.” Somoza looked sympathetic, like a father who’d asked a favorite son to do something particularly odious. “Believe me, though, we wouldn’t be asking you to do this if we didn’t think that you were capable of carrying it out. You’ve shown that you can make hard
decisions, Fernando. We hope . . . we believe . . . that you’re capable of doing this.”

Damn him! There was no way he could back out. Not without losing not only face, but also everything he’d worked all his life to achieve. If he refused, the Patriarch would probably nod, shrug, tell him that he understood . . . and his next job would be running freighters to Mars. And that would be all he’d do for the rest of his life.

“I understand, sir,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Somoza smiled. “That’s all I ask. And believe me, you won’t be alone. I’m sending one of my best people with you.”