Coyote Rising (49 page)

“But Fort Lopez is going to get hit, won’t it?” Henry smiled. “A little good news there.”

“Well, yeah, it’s pretty dangerous to fly aircraft through a volcanic plume. Ash will muck up rotors and jet intakes. But even if their gyros are grounded, they might be able to launch their shuttles, so long as they only use rocket boosters and don’t overload them.”

“White Company could be in trouble, though. The skimmer . . .”

“Uh-huh. If they’re in the path of the ashfall, then the skimmer’s turbofans will be knocked out. Better hope they’re smart enough to get out of there. But that’s a minor detail. Look here.”

Fred pulled up another image. This one showed Mt. Bonestell from a greater distance, as the
Alabama
passed over the Great Equatorial River south of Vulcan. The mountain itself was nearly invisible, but the plume could be easily seen as an enormous pillar rising high into the heavens, the sun catching its hazy outer reaches and tinting them luscious shades of orange and red.
A funeral pyre for a god
, Wendy thought, involuntarily recalling her earlier thoughts about Zoltan.

“Here’s the problem,” Fred went on. “The plume doesn’t contain only ash, but also a mixture of gaseous compounds. Carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide, chlorine, argon, fluorine, the works. They’re going to hit the upper atmosphere forty or fifty miles up and be caught by the jet stream, and pretty soon they’re going to spread across the entire planet. Even if this was a minor eruption, we might have something to worry about, but like I said, this isn’t a hiccup.”

“What are you getting at?” Again, Wendy found herself becoming impatient. “You say we’re in trouble?”

“Wait a minute, all right?” Fred gave her a stern look. “We haven’t been here long enough for us to study the geological history of this planet. All we can do is look at what’s happened on Earth in the past and make an educated guess. That having been said . . .”

He let out his breath. “Look, about seventy-four thousand years ago,
Mt. Toba in Sumatra underwent an eruption that put up to four hundred thousand megatons of dust and gas into the atmosphere. It caused the average global temperature to drop by somewhere between three and five degrees centigrade, with the temperature in certain regions dropping as much as fifteen degrees over the course of six years. Global cooling caused hard freezes that killed off all tropical vegetation and knocked out at least fifty percent of the forests. No doubt quite a few animal species went extinct as a result.”

“Oh, God . . .” Kuniko held a hand to her face.

“That’s the worst-case scenario. Doesn’t mean that it’ll happen here. But”—Fred held up a hand—“when Mt. Laki in Iceland erupted in the late 1700’s, it dumped about two thousand megatons of aerosols into the upper atmosphere and dropped the average temperature in the northern hemisphere by one percent. The same thing happened again when Mt. Tambora blew in the early 1800’s, and also with the eruption of Krakatau later the same century. Global cooling leading to short summers, loss of vegetation, shorter growing season . . .”

“And you think this could happen here,” Wendy said.

“That could very well be the case, yes. The only question is the magnitude of the eruption. I don’t have much to go by, but with any luck this isn’t a Toba event. If it is, we’re sunk, because the volcanic winter could last at least two Coyote years, and we’ll all die. And even if it’s only on the scale of a Laki or a Tambora event, then we’re still in trouble.”

Wendy understood. This was only the earliest part of spring on Coyote; the weather was still cool, but in a few weeks the rainy season would begin. Once that was over, the time would come to plant the first of several crops that would sustain them not only for the rest of the year, but also for the long winter months that lay ahead. But if their livestock starved, if they had no grain stockpiled, if next winter came around and there was insufficient food to keep everyone fed . . .

“I think I see what you mean,” she said softly. “Bad time for a revolution, isn’t it?”

Fred nodded. “Uh-huh. Better hope it’s not too late for peace talks.”

0803—WHSS
S
PIRIT OF
S
OCIAL
C
OLLECTIVISM
C
ARRIED TO THE
S
TARS

As he gazed up at the ceiling of the command center, Fernando
Baptiste came to the realization that he had no words for what he was seeing. During his long career as an officer of the Union Astronautica, he’d witnessed many impressive sights: the first light of dawn upon the summit of Olympus Mons, the transit of Galilean moons across the face of Jupiter, liquid methane raining down from the clouds of Titan. Yet none of these was as beautiful, nor as terrifying, as what was now displayed upon the dome of the bridge: a volcano of an alien world in full eruption, great clouds of pumice billowing forth to cover half a subcontinent.

Beautiful, yes . . . but also ominous. Coyote might be largely uninhabited; nonetheless, there were thousands of people down there. Baptiste didn’t need an extensive background in planetary science to know that an eruption of this magnitude would have severe consequences. Yet he was helpless to do anything about it that would matter. How could one contend with forces of such awesome power?

“Captain?” The officer on duty at the com station turned to him. “Receiving transmission from Fort Lopez. The base commandant is online.”

“Put him through, please.” Baptiste touched a button on his armrest that elevated a flatscreen; a moment later, Bon Cortez’s bearded face appeared. “Good morning, Lieutenant. I take it this isn’t a social call.”

“I only wish it were, sir. I expect you already know what’s happened.”

“I do indeed.” Less than an hour ago a yeoman had knocked on the door of his quarters, awakening him with an urgent request to report to the bridge. Since then the
Spirit
had completed an orbit of Coyote; now that the ship was once again above the planet’s daylight side, he’d been
able to view the eruption with his own eyes. “How’s your situation?”

“It’s not getting any better, sir, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Static fuzzed his voice; the screen wavered slightly, losing focus.
“We’re beginning to receive ash from the volcano . . . not much, at least so far, but it’s bound to get worse. We’ve also noticed a marked decrease in visibility.”
He glanced to one side, murmuring to someone off-screen, then looked back again.
“We’ve got a camera outside. If you’d like to see . . .”

“Yes, please.” The com officer had been listening to the conversation, and didn’t need to be told what the captain wanted. A broad window opened on a section of the ceiling. Across the command center, crewmen stopped what they were doing to gaze up at the dome so that they could see what the men at Fort Lopez were seeing.

It was as if a vast black curtain was slowly being drawn across the sky, quickly moving across the Midland Channel toward Hammerhead. In the foreground, Guardsmen stared up at the advancing cloud formation, while flecks of what looked like pink snow flashed past the camera; ash was already accumulating on the windshields of the gyros parked on the landing field nearby. It was still early morning on Hammerhead, yet it seemed as if a premature twilight was descending upon the island. And when it did . . .

“Lieutenant, I recommend that you move the gyros,” Baptiste said. “They may not be able to fly under these conditions.”

Cortez’s face was still on his screen, yet his image was breaking up. Same thing with the outside shot; lines raced across the view of the landing field. The ash cloud was causing electromagnetic interference.
“Sir? What did you say about the gyros? I don’t understand—”

“Get them out of there. Do you copy?”

“Yes, sir. But where do we . . . ?”

His voice crackled, became incoherent. Baptiste could barely see him, and the outside view was almost lost as well. The cloud had moved between Hammerhead and the
Spirit
, he realized, and was interfering with the uplink.

“Get them airborne!” he snapped. “I don’t care where, just move ’em!”

Cortez responded with something that sounded like an affirmative, then the screen went dark. Looking up at the dome, Baptiste caught one last glimpse of the landing field—the gyros were still on the ground, and
it seemed as if a blizzard was descending upon them—and then even that image was lost.

“Loss of signal, sir,” the com officer said.

“Do what you can to get it back.” Baptiste settled back in his chair. “We can’t afford to lose contact.”

With luck, Cortez might have enough time to get some of the gyros in the air before they were all grounded. Yet even if he did, where would they go? Not to the west; Midland already lay beneath the cloud. Maybe north or south, toward Barren Isle or Highland, for what little good that would do; the aircraft would consume half their fuel just getting out from under the plume. And there were not even names for the wilderness areas that lay west beyond Vulcan, let alone reliable maps.

Once again, he realized the futility of the war. So much effort had been put into fighting the Midland colonies that further exploration of this world had been neglected. Baptiste forced himself to calm down. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Rigil Kent had been inactive for the last couple of months. It had been a long, tough winter, and the raids the Union had made upon Defiance and the other colonies had probably sapped their strength. This eruption would doubtless affect them as well, cause them to retrench even more.

If so, why did he have the disquieting feeling that he was wrong?

0834—N
ORTH
C
REEK
, N
EW
F
LORIDA

Carlos gazed at the tiny screen of his pad. The unit was hard-wired
to his satphone; he could view the images of Mt. Bonestell that had been relayed from orbit. “I see what you’re talking about,” he said. “This changes everything, doesn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it does.”
Lee’s voice from the pad’s speaker was tinny yet distinct. The skies above New Florida remained clear, and with
Alabama
once again directly overhead, the satphone’s parabolic antenna had no trouble achieving an uplink.
“I don’t want to abort, but I’m ready to do so if you think we should.”

Carlos glanced at Chris and Marie. They were sitting cross-legged across from him, beneath the shade of one of the blackwoods where Red Company had pitched camp. Everyone else dozed within their tents, save for a couple of men standing guard near the boats, which had either been pulled ashore or, in the case of the keelboats, covered with camouflage nets. Chris didn’t say anything as he idly plucked at the grass, but Marie shook her head.

“I’d like to hear more,” he said. “Any word from White Company?”

“We’re still trying to make contact with them. The ash cloud’s causing radio interference. Defiance tells us that the skimmer’s engines would be clogged by ash, though, so we must assume that they’re out of the picture. But their gyros probably won’t be able lift off either. If that’s the case, Fort Lopez is already out of commission . . . at least, that’s what they think.”