LIBERTY JOURNALS

From the journal of Dr. James Levin: December 24, 2296

Christmas Eve. No reason to celebrate, though. We suffered two casualties today.

Most of Alabama’s cargo and hab modules landed where they were supposed to after they were dropped from orbit, but C4’s chute got its lines tangled and came down in a swamp about two miles northeast of Liberty. The module broke apart when it crashed; pieces scattered all over the place, some ending up in a creek and the rest spread out across the marsh. Thank God C4 wasn’t a cargo module, or we’d really have a problem, but it was a loss all the same; we were counting on dismantling the hull and interior bulkheads for temporary shelter.

Capt. Lee sent people out to salvage whatever they could find. He hasn’t taken any chances; every time a group leaves camp, two soldiers have gone with them as escorts. Col. Reese’s men have cut the sleeves off their URS uniforms and wear them over their shirts. We’ve started calling them blueshirts, which they don’t seem to mind very much. They’re adequate protection against the boids . . . or at least so we assumed.

The grass was higher than Jorge expected, a dense green wall through which he could barely make out the soldiers moving ahead of them. He beat it down with a tree branch as he made his way through the marsh, pausing now and then to swat away the long-winged insects that infested the swamp, and swore to himself that this would be the last time he’d volunteer for anything.

“I’m an engineer, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “This isn’t what I . . .”

“What?” Behind him, Rita’s voice was nervous. “Did you say something?”

“Never mind. Just thinking aloud.”

His wife should have stayed behind with the kids; he knew that now, and regretted asking her to join the salvage party. But she’d become so self-involved lately, barely saying a word to anyone as she worked in the community kitchen. She was frightened of the place; at night she seldom moved far from the fire, and she twitched every time she heard a boid scream somewhere out in the darkness. It was time for her to get used to living here; Coyote was their home now, the comforts of Huntsville 230 years behind them. Yet perhaps dragging her into the marsh wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“I’m thinking,” she began, “maybe when we get back, we can ask Carlos if he’d mind . . .”

“There’s the parachute!” one of the soldiers shouted. “We’ve found the chute!”

Looking up, Jorge spotted a hand above the tall grass, clutching a large swatch of red-and-white fabric. “There’s more stuff over here!” Boone called back. “It’s all over the place!”

A dozen feet ahead, Gill Reese turned toward the civilians bringing up the rear. “Okay, we’ve found the crash site. Everyone, c’mon up front.” Then he vanished into the grass, jogging in the direction of the corporal’s voice.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Somewhere behind Rita, Jorge heard Jack Dreyfus. The propulsion engineer emerged from the grass, Beth Orr following him; like Jorge, Jack was carrying a stick to knock down the greenery. He stopped, wiped sweat off his forehead, grinned at him and Rita. “Are we having fun yet?”

“Loads.” Jorge smiled back. Jack may have been one of the Alabama crewmen who resisted the takeover of the ship, but they’ve tacitly agreed to put that in the past. Carlos and his son, Barry, became friends while they were still aboard ship; it only made sense for their parents to do the same. “Better catch up, or Reese’ll . . .”

“Salvage party! Front and center!”

“Too late. There he goes again.” Beth stepped past Jack, paused to gaze closely at Rita. “Are you okay?”

Rita was out of breath, her face covered with a film of sweat, pieces of grass stuck in her hair. But she shook her head. “No, no . . . I’m all right.” She took a deep breath, glanced at her husband. “Let’s just get this done so we can get out of here.”

“That’s my girl.” Jorge put an arm around his wife, gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. A wan smile in return, then she nodded bravely and fell behind him as he turned to follow the trail of knocked-down grass.

They came upon a small, irregular clearing. A shallow brook snaked through the marsh; the ground was soft and muddy, the air thick with skeeters. Not far away, a stand of blackwood rose from the opposite side of the brook, their broad canopy casting shadows across the clearing. Scattered across the swamp were bits and pieces of man-made debris: bent fragments of hull plate wedged into the mud at odd angles, mangled sections of bulkhead resting here and there. Glass crunched beneath Jorge’s boots; looking down, he found himself standing on a shattered porthole.

“Not much left to take home,” Jack murmured.

“Enough to matter.” Colonel Reese watched as Boone gathered the torn remnants of the parachute he discovered. “This was a hab module . . . that means it has bunks, lockers, ladders, all that stuff. Everything we haul out of here is one less thing we have to build from scratch.”

“Colonel . . . with all due respect, this is a junkyard.” Jorge gestured to the swamp surrounding them. “Maybe we can find some wiring, a circuit board or two if we look hard enough, but . . .”

“Then we’ll just have to look, won’t we, Mr. Montero?” Reese turned, whistled sharply; Boone stopped wadding up the parachute, looked around at him. “Bill, let these people take over with that. I want you on guard duty.”

“Guard . . . ?” Jack Dreyfus stared at the colonel. “I thought you were going to help us?”

Reese shook his head. “Our job was to get you here and look after you. Your job is salvaging whatever you can find. That was what Captain Lee ordered.” He unshouldered his fléchette rifle, cradled it in his arms. “You have an objection?”

Jack said nothing. He and Beth gave each other a look, then they trudged over to where Boone had dropped the parachute. Jorge didn’t move.

“If you think this is the way it’s going to be,” he said quietly, “you’re dead wrong.”

Reese didn’t reply. The two men regarded each other with mutual contempt for a few moments, then Jorge took Rita’s hand. “C’mon . . . let’s see what we can find.”

Jack was right; there was little here that was usable. The hab module had virtually disintegrated when it hit the ground; very little of what had remained inside survived the crash, and that which did was usable only as scrap material. But it was enough to be able to get away from Reese for a little while, so they began picking their way through the swamp, Jorge fetching odds and ends out of the mud and tossing them into the plastic bag Rita carried. As they worked, Rita chatted about things that needed to be done—building a cabin for their family, how to continue Marie’s and Carlos’s education, digging a latrine for just themselves—while Jorge only half listened, still privately fuming about his run-in with Reese. Once they returned to camp, he’d have a word with Captain Lee, tell him what . . .

Just a few yards away, something stirred in the tall grass.

Half–bent over to pick up a wire, Jorge froze. It could have been the wind . . . yet the midafternoon air was still, with barely a light breeze. And it occurred to him that the swamp was silent, save for the voices of the others some distance away.

Suddenly, he realized that they had strayed too far from the rest of the party. Yet they were no longer alone.

The boids were nocturnal. At least that was what Jim Levin believed, and that was what he had told Jorge just the previous day. Yet save for a few tracks found outside the camp’s defense perimeter—large, three-clawed prints, like those of an enormous avian—no one had yet laid eyes upon one of the creatures. And Jim could be wrong . . .

“And that’s why I think we will find we ought to . . .” Rita stopped, gazed at him. “What? You see something?”

“Honey,” he said, very quietly, “just stay still. Don’t say a . . .”

That was when the boid attacked. The last thing Jorge heard was his wife’s scream.

They brought Jorge and Rita back to Liberty, then I followed Reese and Boone back to where they shot the boid. It was already covered with creek crabs, but Reese kicked them off and let me examine the creature. It looks like something from a nightmare—the beak alone is two feet long, with a sharp hook at its end, and since its feathers are the same color as the grass, it’s perfectly camouflaged.

Blood everywhere, most of it belonging to Jorge and Rita. I went off into the grass and got sick. Then I remembered why I was there, so I made notes and took pictures. Guess there was bound to be something like this: a tiger in the jungle, a wolf in the woods.

I’m forced to consider the fact that the fault may be my own. Since we’ve heard the boids only at night and spotted them early in the morning or late in the afternoon, I assumed that they’re nocturnal. I told Jorge that just yesterday. As Liberty’s resident exobiologist, these people are accepting my judgments at face value. I should know better than to jump to conclusions without more evidence.

They’re digging graves for the Monteros now, by torchlight out by the edge of the camp. Sissy’s taking care of Carlos and Marie, and Chris and David are with them. Haven’t seen Wendy Gunther—she and Carlos are friends, but she lost her father only three days ago, when her dad was killed while helping Capt. Lee close down the Alabama. Maybe she’s not ready for this yet. Can’t blame her. Neither am I.

We’ve been on Coyote for only four days, and already we’ve got three orphans on our hands. What the hell are we doing here?

From the diary of Wendy Gunther: December 25, 2296

Today’s Christmas. Hip-hip-hooray. I’m miserable.

That’s a pretty lousy way to begin a diary. Dr. Okada—she wants me to call her Kuniko now that she’s taken me in—suggested that I start keeping one. She gave me a spare pad from her supplies, even tied a little bow of surgical tape around it to make it look like a Christmas present. None of the other kids received any presents—nothing to give—so I guess I should be grateful. But Dad’s dead, and it’s Christmas, and I hate this place. . . .

Seated cross-legged within the tent she shared with Dr. Okada, Wendy looked up from her pad. Through the open flap, she could see a couple of colonists stacking wood next to the nearby fire pit; a little farther away, the hum of a portable generator, powering electrical tools someone was using to build something. Murmured conversations, the hard bang of something hitting the ground. It was late afternoon; the air was already getting colder. She zipped up her parka, went back to her writing.

Could have been worse. Carlos and Marie lost both their parents yesterday—killed out in the swamp by a boid. At first we thought it was cute, naming these things after the giant birds in the Prince Rupurt book, but it’s not anymore. I guess I should spend more time with Carlos’s sister, since he’s my friend and all that, but how can I help a little girl when I can hardly stop crying myself. . . .

“Oh, cut it out,” she mutters under her breath. You haven’t cried in two days, and you know it. You barely knew your father; he was almost a stranger. If you’re going to write a diary, then at least be honest with yourself.

What were our parents thinking when they brought us out here?

Maybe I can understand why Dad did it. After Mom died and he was recruited by the Party to join the Service, I spent eight years in a government youth hostel. When he asked if I wanted to join the expedition, I was only too happy to go along with him. But it never really occurred to me that I was heading to another planet; all I wanted to do was get out of Schaefly. I mean, you can either go into biostasis for 230 years and wake up 46 light-years from Earth, or spend the rest of your life in a dorm with a baseball bat under your blanket in case another counselor tries to rape you. Talk about a tough choice.

But Carlos’s folks, and Chris and David’s. . . were they out of their minds? From what Carlos tells me, they were all about to be shipped off to Camp Buchanan, where they’d be interned along with all the other “dissident intellectuals”—God, I hate that term—the government was busy rounding up. But what made them thinking stealing the Alabama was any kind of solution? Yeah, so maybe the borders were sealed and there was the European shipping blockade. People still managed to escape to New England or Pacifica. And most of these guys have no survival training, none at all. Maybe I had it rough at Schaefly, but at least I learned how to pitch a tent and start a campfire. Until a few days ago, I don’t think many of these people ever spent a night out in the open. . . .

From somewhere in camp, not far away, she heard laughter, then a ragged cheer. Wendy looked up, gazed out of the tent. She couldn’t see the cause of the commotion, but suddenly she heard a new sound: voices raised in harmony, singing “The First Noel.” As if anyone had the right to be singing Christmas carols at a time like this. She shook her head, bent over her pad once more.

I think I know why they did this. It wasn’t enough just to escape from the United Republic of America—they wanted to stick it right in their face. The government spent a hundred billion dollars, completely ruined the economy, and sent the bottom one-third of the population to live in shacks, just to erect a monument to itself: the first starship. Dad bought into that crap, but he was a card-carrying member of the Liberty Party, so that figures. But Capt. Lee and the other officers who organized the conspiracy . . . they had a vendetta.

So here we are, the land of milk and honey, and we’ve paid our ticket with four people’s lives, including my father’s. Now I’m squatting in a tent that leaks when it rains. Haven’t bathed in a week, and there are bug bites all over my neck and arms—they call them skeeters: they’vegot huge wings and they hurt like hell when they take a chomp out of you—and tomorrow we’ve got to start clearing land to raise crops. . . .

“Wendy?” Footsteps outside, then the tent flap parted; Kuniko Okada bent down to peer inside. “What’s up?”

“Writing. Working on my diary.” Wendy barely glanced up from the pad. “Kinda busy right now.”

“Good . . . okay. Glad to see you’re doing that.” Kuniko hesitated. “Hey, we’re having a sort of Christmas party out here. Some of your friends are over there. Maybe you’d like to . . . ?”

“Sure. Be there in a minute.” Wendy continued to stare at the pad, and Kuniko gave up and went away. Wendy let out her breath; her train of thought had been interrupted, though, and there was little more to be said anyway.

Sure doesn’t feel much like Christmas.

I hate Coyote. I miss my Dad. I want to go home.

Wendy saved the text in an encrypted file, shut down the pad, folded it, and stuck it under her sleeping bag. She let out her breath, shook her head. Then she reluctantly crawled out of the tent, stretched her back, and ambled over to where a small group was attempting to remember the words to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

Colony Log: December 29, 2296 (Tom Shapiro, First Officer, URSS Alabama).

(1.) Three more acres cleared today for farmland. Controlled fires set five hundred yards NE of town, approx. fifty yards from Sand Creek in order to facilitate irrigation if necessary. Fifteen acres cleared so far, with ten more slated for agricultural use. Soil tests conducted by Dr. Cayle and Dr. Berlant continue to indicate that the ground is suitable for farming. Have put twenty people to work raking the first three acres; others tasked with setting up seed germination trays under guidance of Lew and Carrie Geary. Should be ready to begin planting within a few days if the weather remains dry.

(2.) Nearby woods inspected by ten-man timber crew led by Ensign Dwyer. Two major species of trees identified and named: blackwood, which resemble very large bonsai except with a deep root structure much like a cypress, and faux birch, a smaller tree closely resembling its namesake in that it has the same sort of flaky bark. Blackwood hard to cut—Paul reports that it took two men almost an hour just to saw through a low branch—but appears suitable for building permanent shelters. Faux birch is easier to cut, but its wood is soft, unsuitable for construction purposes; its fallen branches are good as firewood, Paul believes that it may be useful for making paper, furniture, utensils, etc.

Faux birch is plentiful, but Bernie and Lew believe that the blackwood may be old-growth, perhaps hundreds of years old, and have voiced concern that harvesting them damages the local ecosystem. I’ve reminded them that our first priority is establishing a self-sufficient colony; tents and prefabs won’t get us through winter, and we’re already in late summer. If we don’t erect warm shelter before the cold weather sets in, then we may pay for our environmental concern with our lives.

(3.) Ensign LeMare surprised Capt. Lee and me by showing us a side project he’s been working on—a Coyote calendar. Apparently he’s been doing this on his own initiative ever since Alabama entered the 47 Uma system, basing his computations upon local astronomical data. It’s not quite finished yet, and it’s more complex than an Earth calendar, but Ted claims that it will reliably predict the passage of seasons.

Robert has temporarily relieved Ted from well-digging chores to complete his work; he’d like to have the new calendar ready within the next two days, so that it can replace the old one by Jan. 1, 2297 [Oct. 7, 2300, Earth-time].

(4.) Capt. Lee has placed Carlos and Marie Montero under temporary custody of Newell. They were staying with the Levin family, who were close friends of Jorge and Rita Montero, but Jim and Sissy already have two sons of their own; even after they moved the Montero tent closer to their own, having to mind three teenage boys and a little girl soon proved impossible. Wendy Gunther remains under custody of Dr. Okada, and they seem happy together, yet Robert agrees that a more permanent solution is needed in regard to caring for our orphaned children.

Once again, we’re reminded that Alabama’s military command structure is ill suited for running a civilian colony. We need to devise some form of democratic government, as soon as possible.

From the notes of Ensign Theodore LeMare: Uriel 59, C.Y. 1 (December 30, 2296).

The Coyote calendar is determined by Bear’s sidereal year, i.e. the time it takes the primary to complete a full orbit around 47 Ursae Majoris. This takes 1,096 days, with each day approximately 27 hours (Earth standard) in length.

Although Coyote’s orbit around Bear is circular, Bear’s orbit around 47 Uma is slightly elliptical. Furthermore, Coyote doesn’t have an axial tilt. Therefore, we can expect an Earth-like seasonal cycle, with both northern and southern hemispheres experiencing the same seasons at the same time. As a result, the Gregorian calendar is useless for accurate timekeeping and predicting the change of seasons.

The Coyote calendar is divided into twelve months, with ten weeks in each month and nine days in each week. The months are ninety-one days long, except for every third month, which is ninety-two days long; these third months roughly correspond with the end of the seasons, which are approximately 274 days in length.

I’ve decided to name the months and days after archangels in the gnostic Christian pantheon, with Coyote’s months named after the twelve governing angels of Earth’s months. Commencing with the new year, the calendar is as follows:

The winter months are Gabriel (91 days), Barchiel (91 days), and Machidiel (92 days).

The spring months are Asmodel (91 days), Ambriel (91 days), and Muriel (92 days).

The summer months are Verchiel (91 days), Hamaliel (91 days), and Uriel (92 days).

The autumn months are Adnachiel (91 days), Barbiel (91 days), and Hanael (92 days).

The nine days of the week have likewise been named after the angelic governors of the seven planets in Earth’s solar system (according to Aristotle’s cosmology). They are, in order: Raphael, Anael, Michael, Zaphael, Kafziel, Sammael, Camael, Zamael, and Orifiel. This is a mouthful, of course, so they could be referred to as Rap, Ann, Mike, Zap, Kit, Sammy, Cam, Zam, and Oz.

The calendar would begin with the year in which humans first landed on Coyote; this would be known as C.Y. 1, or Coyote Year 1 (2300 Earth-time; 2296 relativistic time). The date of First Landing would be Ann, Uriel 47, 01 (Dec. 19, 2296 relativistic; Sept. 7, 2300 Earth). The algorithms necessary to convert one calendar to another can be easily entered into a pad; comps may likewise be reprogrammed.

Personal note: I’m not fooling myself—many people won’t want to use this, at least not at first. So much of the way we’ve come to regard the passage of time is based upon the Gregorian calendar that it’s become a fundamental part of our consensus reality. If today’s date is December 30, then tomorrow is New Year’s Eve; time to break out a bottle and sing that German song no one can remember. By my calendar, it’s just another Zaphiel (or Zap, maybe Zapday) in the middle of the week sometime in late summer.

The captain is interested, though, so I’ll see what he thinks of it. Maybe it’ll eventually be called the LaMarean Calendar . . . that would be a hoot!

From the journal of Dr. James Levin: Uriel 63, 01

Still trying to get used to this damn calendar. I know it’s more appropriate to use it than the old one, but I still think this is January 4, 2297. Ted’s working out the bugs with the program, and once he’s done we can install it in our pads, but until then I’m relying on handwritten notes from yesterday’s camp meeting.

The new calendar reminds us that we’re two-thirds of the way through the last month of summer. We don’t have much time left to cultivate sufficient food to get us through winter, and we don’t know how much longer it’ll be before the first frost sets in. We’ve already planted the first seven acres; the seeds are genetically tailored to produce hardier strains, and we’ve had a couple of days of rain, so that should help, too. But the nights have been cool, and even in the last week the average daytime temperature has dropped a few degrees. Capt. Lee has directed the construction crew to build a greenhouse ASAP—Dana Monroe says her people may be able to salvage enough glass from the module windows to erect a small one—and he’s asked Bernie and me to see if any of the native flora are edible.

We’ve tested the tall grass (i.e. “sourgrass”) that grows in abundance throughout the marshes. Indeed, it’s surprising to find grass here at all; on Earth, grass was a relatively recent development. One more piece of evidence to suggest that life repeats the same evolutionary steps on other worlds. Not much nutritional content—probably better for grazing once we get around to decanting the livestock embryos aboard Alabama (next summer, probably—too late now, or we’d have to worry about feeding them through winter). Roots may be useful, though; properly fermented, they could be made into something we can drink. Maybe even beer!

Large patches of a round-leafed ground vine (i.e. “cloverweed”) infest large parts of the marshy areas. It competes with sourgrass [and] frequently chokes it out. Inedible, but durable and water-resistant. Have recommended it to Dana as a possible source of roofing material.

And then there are the ball plants. . . .

“I thought you’d want to see this,” Sissy Levin said as she pushed through the sourgrass at the edge of the north cornfield. “I mean, it’s been bothering you so much.”

“It doesn’t bother me at all,” Jim replied. “I’m just . . .”

“Curious. Right.” Sissy favored her husband with one of her rare smiles. “C’mon, I know you better than that.” Then she continued her way through the marsh, impatiently shoving aside the tall grass as if it was a curtain. “It’s right over . . . okay, here we are.”

Jim stopped, gazed at the ball plant standing alone in the middle of the grass. Like the others they’ve seen growing near Liberty, it was a large sphere, somewhat resembling a wild onion growing upside down, a little more than two feet in diameter, with a long stalk growing upward from its center. From the top of its stalk grew a violet flower petal that, in some people’s minds, looked a little like a vagina. Most of the ball plants they’d found grew in clusters, but this one had taken root all by itself, isolated from the others.

“That’s close enough.” Indeed, they were much too close already. The ball plants were usually surrounded by pseudowasps—the colonists’ name for the hornetlike insects that tended to swarm the plants, building mud nests in the ground nearby and pollenizing the flower tops. The pseudowasps attacked anyone who came too close to their nests or the plants; it was bad enough that their sting was very painful, but even worse, the venom they carried was mildly intoxicating.

David had been stung a couple of days ago after coming too close to one of the plants. A blueshirt found their younger son a short while later, listlessly wandering around camp, singing to himself and giggling at nothing in particular. At first Tony Lucchesi thought the boy had stolen a bottle of vodka left over from the First Landing party, but when he noticed the boil on the back of his neck, he took him straight to Dr. Okada. Kuniko inspected him, administered a local antibiotic to the wound, and a half hour later David was sober once more. The pseudo-wasp sting was apparently meant to incapacitate its prey; in larger mammals, the effect was less pronounced, and fortunately not lethal. After that, everyone was warned to give the ball plants a wide berth.

“It’s all right,” Sissy said. “No, really. . . there’s nothing to worry about.” Before Jim could stop her, she walked over to the plant, gave it a gentle kick. It made a soft rustle, its stalk swaying slightly. “See? It’s dead. That’s why there are no wasps around it.”

Still cautious, Jim emerged from the tall grass, walked over to the ball plant. Now that he was closer, he saw that the plant had a shrunken appearance; its leaves were brown and dry, the iris of its stem wilted. As Sissy said, the plant was dead. Now was the perfect opportunity to examine one close-up.

He pulled out his jackknife and knelt beside the plant. Its leaves were coarse and leathery; it took an effort to cut through the ball, and as he pulled aside the part he’d incised, a foul odor escaped the sphere. He gagged and moved back, covering his mouth and nose with his hand; behind him, Sissy made a disgusted sound. Jim waited a moment for the air to clear. Then, putting away his knife and pinching his nostrils shut, he parted the leaves and peered into the plant.

The interior was hollow, as he suspected, and for a moment he thought it was completely empty. Then he saw, at its bottom, a small, lifeless form: the carcass of a swamper, desiccated and curled into a fetal position, mummified within tiny, hairlike tendrils growing from the bottom of the plant. It took him a few moments to realize what he was seeing.

“It’s a carnivorous plant,” he said. “It draws sustenance from the swampers, sucks them dry. Sort of like a pitcher plant back on Earth.” Then he sat back on his haunches, gazed up at Sissy. “But I still don’t understand.”

I’ve been observing ball plants for the last couple of days, and noted that swampers tend to give them a wide berth. Indeed, they avoid contact with the balls, even those whose flower tops are in full blossom. And the plants remain shut, with pseudowasps warding off anything that gets close to them. So what lures the swampers inside?

Doesn’t make sense . . . or at least by terrestrial standards. Once again, I’m reminded of the fact that I’m dealing with an alien ecosystem. Just when it seems as if I’ve found something that seems to mimic life on Earth, I find something else that is utterly unfamiliar.

Charles Darwin would have loved this world. Or it would have driven him nuts.

From the diary of Wendy Gunther: Uriel 69, C.Y. 01

Spending most of my time on the farm. Hard work. Calluses on my hands, back sore from all the raking and shoveling. Kuniko bitches about how much sunburn lotion I use and how it can’t be replaced once it’s gone. Always enjoyed gardening, though, and it helps me get my mind off Dad.

Some of the adults think I shouldn’t be doing this. Not appropriate for a fourteen-year-old girl to be doing hard labor. Maybe I ought to wear black and cry my eyes out, if that’s what they want. But even though I miss Dad, in the last couple of weeks I’ve come to realize that I really didn’t know him all that well. Something I’m just going to have to work out, and that’s going to take time.

Being out here also helps me stay away from Carlos. Like him a lot—really, I do!—but he’s just lost his rents, and he’s taking it a lot harder than I am. Have enough problems dealing with my own loss, don’t need the hassle of trying to help him as well. Since he’s with the timber crew and Marie helps out in the kitchen tent, I don’t see either of them more than a couple of times a day.

Talked about this with Kuniko last night, when we were alone in our tent (Kuni—if you’ve managed to crack my encryption, go away! This isn’t for you!). Told her about Carlos; she agrees that now isn’t the right time for a boyfriend. Told her he keeps coming over to me at dinner, and she laughed. “There’s nothing more pathetic than a fourteen-year-old boy,” she said. So true . . .

(And besides, there’s also Chris Levin. Is he cute or what?)

Also been studying the swoops . . .

She had never paid much attention to birds back on Earth. Most of those she’d seen were the robins and wrens that nested in the trees at Camp Schaefly. Swoops were different, though: a little larger than hawks, with the same hooked beaks and long-taloned feet, but whose wings were twice as long, making them look sort of like pterodactyls when they were in flight. They came out early in the morning, taking off from their nests in the blackwoods just after dawn to spend the day circling the marshes around Liberty. Dr. Levin said they were “riding the thermals,” staying aloft on warm air rising from the ground, yet Wendy knew without being told that they weren’t up there for show. They were hunting, and that’s why she found them fascinating.

Wendy was out by herself in a newly cleared field on the outskirts of town, using a hoe to break ground, when she spotted a swamper sneak out of the grass about fifteen feet away. She stood perfectly still and watched as the swamper came closer to a ball plant she had been trying to avoid. It stopped and sniffed around its base—interesting, since Dr. Levin thought the swampers stayed clear of the balls; he had told her about the mummified swamper he’d found in one of them. Wendy waited, wanting to see what would happen if the ball plant would somehow grab the swamper, when a shadow flitted across the ground.

She looked up just in time to see a swoop dive out of the sky.

Its wings remained folded against its body until the last moment, then it spread them to brake itself. The swamper never saw the attack coming; the swoop snagged it within its claws—a sharp, dismal squeek! an instant before the rodent’s neck was broken—then the raptor flapped its massive wings and took off again, never once having touched the ground.

Wendy dropped her hoe. Breathless, she watched the swoop soar away, the dead swamper clutched beneath it, for the blackwoods a couple of miles from camp.

It was a bright and cloudless afternoon, the sky as blue and pure as the innocence of youth, and suddenly she felt something she had never known before: an awakening of the senses, a feeling of direct connection with the world around her. The realization that she wasn’t distanced from nature, but rather an integral part of it.

In that instant, Wendy arrived on Coyote.

People bitch about how hard it is to live here, and they’re right—we’re already on limited rations, and we may starve if we don’t bring up a decent crop before winter. We’ve got plenty of tools, but once they’re broken or worn-out, we’ll either have to make new ones or do without. There’re boids in the marshes—come to think of it, I was really stupid to be out there all by myself—and any one of us could all die tomorrow.

But you know what? I love this place. I’ve never felt more alive in my life.

Minutes of Liberty monthly town meeting: Adnachiel 2, C.Y. 01; recorded by Tom Shapiro, Acting Secretary

(1.) Meeting called to order at 8:00 P.M. by R.E. Lee, Acting Chairman. Head count shows eighty-two members present, eighteen absent.

(2.) First order of business was formal introduction and ratification by majority vote of Colony Charter, based upon copies of the draft charter issued to all citizens two weeks earlier.

Mr. Reese went on record to oppose Paragraph 2, which calls for the establishment of a democratically elected government, and Paragraph 3, which annuls all former United Republic Service military ranks. He stated that the colony should continue to operate under military jurisdiction indefinitely, and that all URS officers should be allowed to retain their ranks.

Mr. Shapiro (speaking on behalf of the Charter Committee) countered by stating that an elected government will allow all colonists to have a representative voice in running the colony. The Town Council will be comprised of seven members selected by popular vote, with terms of no longer than one year (Coyote calendar).

Ms. Newell agreed in principle, but stated that she and other URS officers objected to losing their ranks and privileges. Mr. Dreyfus stated that he saw no problem with having URS officers retain their former ranks on an informal basis, but he pointed out that if the purpose of an elected government was to put all members of the colony on an equal basis, formally retaining military rank would mean that “some citizens would be more equal than others.”

After an hour of debate, Mr. Lee called for a motion to vote upon the Charter. Motion passed 71–11. Mr. Lee then called for a vote to ratify formally the Colony Charter. Vote was fifty-nine in favor, twenty-three opposed, two abstaining.

Colony Charter was thereby passed by majority vote.

(3.) Mr. Lee called for nomination of members of the Town Council. Under Paragraph 5(a) of the Colony Charter, any person above the age of eighteen (before Gregorian calendar 2300, or C.Y. 01) is eligible for election. All candidates must publicly announce their intent to run for office or be nominated by others, and all nominations must be seconded by at least one other adult. Eleven members were nominated for Town Council; ten were seconded.

Mr. Lee then called for formal election of Town Council members. Vote was conducted by show of hands, with Mr. Tinsley and Ms. Geary counting. Elected were: Mr. R.E. Lee, Mr. Tom Shapiro, Ms. Sharon Ullman, Mr. Paul Dwyer, Ms. Cecelia “Sissy” Levin, Dr. Henry Johnson, Ms. Vonda Cayle.

Mr. Dwyer and Mr. Reese tied in their votes. Mr. Lee called for a second round of voting, in which Mr. Dwyer defeated Mr. Reese by two votes.

Mr. Lee then called for election of Town Council chairman. Elected was Mr. Lee, with Ms. Cayle as vice chairman.

(4.) Mr. Lee called for nomination members of the Prefect Office, which would charged be charged with enforcing Colony Law as passed by the Town Council under Colony Charter. Eight nominations received, seven seconded.

Mr. Lee called for formal election of Prefect Office members. Vote was conducted by show of hands, with Mr. Shapiro and Ms. Cayle counting. Elected were: Mr. Gilbert “Gill” Reese, Mr. Ron Schmidt, Mr. William Boone, Mr. Antonio “Tony” Lucchesi, Mr. John Carruthers, Mr. Michael Geissal, Mr. Ellery Balis.

(5.) Mr. Lee requested reports from standing committees.

Mr. Dwyer (Timber Group) reported that his team had finished its assessment of the available timber within a three-mile radius of Liberty and were working to cut nearby stands of blackwood and faux birch. First priority is harvesting enough wood to finish construction of the agricultural greenhouse.

Ms. Jacobs asked when permanent shelters will be built, and Mr. Dwyer responded that work on them will commence once the greenhouse is finished.

Ms. Monroe (Construction Group) noted that, while log cabins can be built well into winter, the greenhouse has to finished as soon as possible. She also pointed out that her team is presently undermanned and overworked, and requested additional volunteers for the logging crews.

Mr. Geary (Agriculture Group) reported that twenty-five acres have been cleared and planted. However, he voiced concern that harvests may fall below anticipated totals. Cooler weather is not the only problem; swampers have recently discovered the seedlings, and although swoops take out many of those foraging in the farms, the swampers still manage to devour much of the crop. Since no traps have yet been devised, he requested that Prefects patrol the fields and shoot any swampers they see. Mr. Reese agreed to this request for assistance.

(6.) Mr. Lee opened the floor to further business.

Dr. Okada reported that medical supplies are still available, but no longer in large supply. In anticipation of a long winter, she is keeping most of the antibiotics and antivirals in reserve. She cautioned everyone to avoid contact with pseudowasps, whose sting has a toxic effect, and swampers, whose bite carries a viral infection that leaves the victim with high temperatures, temporary paralysis, and ring-shaped splotches on their skin.

Mr. Shapiro warned people to exercise caution when visiting the outhouses and compost pits after dark. A species of nocturnal animal—“creek cats,” faintly resembling Siamese cats but much larger, about the size of Border collies—has been spotted lurking around them at night. Although they tend to flee when someone approaches, some of the children have been caught trying to feed them scraps of food.

Ms. Dreyfus asked when school may resume for the colony children. Mr. Lee said that the Town Council will take this into consideration during its first formal session, but also noted that primary education for the younger children may have to wait a couple of months longer. At this time, every hand is needed to get the colony self-sufficient by winter.

The date for the next town meeting was set for Barbiel 3. Meeting adjourned at 11:26 P.M.

From the journal of Dr. James Levin: Adnachiel 38, C.Y. 01

Beth Orr complained about a foul stench coming from the compost pit; she said it smelled like rotting meat. I couldn’t imagine anyone throwing away food; we’re under tight rations, and everyone cleans their plate at dinnertime. Since Capt. Lee—I still use his rank, but so does everyone—asked me to become the health and sanitation officer, I went to the pit to check it out.

Found a dozen or so creek cats: shot at close range, skinned head to toe. No one else has access to firearms except the Prefects, so I knew where to go. . . .

Gill Reese stood in the doorway of the half-finished cabin, arm outstretched to block Jim Levin’s way. “You want to know about what?” he said in mock astonishment. “Dead cats?”

Sullen laughter from within the cabin; sunlight slanted in through the open spaces in the roof that hadn’t yet been patched with cloverweed, revealing a couple of blueshirts seated at a rough-hewn table inside. They were doing something Jim couldn’t quite see.

“That’s right,” he replied. “Creek cats. Found their carcasses in the compost pit, missing their skins.” Reese gave a noncommittal shrug. “They had bullet holes in them. Your men are the only ones who carry firearms. My guess is that they’ve been been shooting them late at night, skinning them, then tossing their bodies in the pit.”

Another shrug. “So?”

“Want to tell me about it?” Jim paused. “Or I can tell my wife and have her take it up with the rest of the Council, on grounds that you’re contributing to a public health hazard?”

The laughter died off; Reese glowered at him. He let his arm fall from the door, stepped away to let Levin come in. “Sure, c’mon and take a look. Nothing illegal about what we’re doing.”

The cabin smelled of dead animal. On the floor next to the table was a bucket, and in the bucket is a creek cat, its bare flesh pink and scarred by knife marks. Another cat lay on the table; Boone and Lucchesi had been carefully stripping it of its hide. Behind them were several more hides, stretched taut and nailed to the log walls. The two blueshirts stared at Levin like grave robbers caught dividing up the take.

Levin took in the scene, slowly nodded. “So how do you do it? They haven’t fallen for any traps we’ve set.”

“No traps,” Gill said. “We do it the old-fashioned way. We take the swampers we’ve shot and lay them out in the fields, then wait for the cats to come to snag their corpses. You can’t eat either swampers or cats—we’ve tried that already, and they’re awful even after they’ve been cooked—but the skin’s pretty useful.”

“The fur’s soft,” Boone said, eager to justify himself, “and the skin’s sort of like soft leather. And it’s water-resistant. Schmidt’s already made a good pair of moccasins from the skin of one cat. I’m halfway through sewing together a fur jacket for winter.”

Jim nodded as he regarded the tacked-up hides. “That’s good to hear. Nice work.” Then he looked back at Reese. “Once you’re done here, why don’t you and your men take some of your hides over to Captain Lee. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know that you’ve found something that will be beneficial to the rest of the colony.”

Reese said nothing; the other men remained quiet. Since there was little else that needed to be said, Jim turned to leave. Then he spotted another figure in the cabin he hadn’t noticed before: Carlos Montero, seated on a stool in the corner, silently watching everything.

Carlos stared back at Levin; neither of them said a word. After a moment, Jim left the cabin.

It doesn’t bother me that they’re shooting creek cats for their hide. What disturbs me is that Reese’s men would do this without telling anyone. They intended to keep this their own little secret, even though it’s something that could help everyone in Liberty.

Reese still wants to be boss, I think. He’s going to give us trouble as time goes on.

From the diary of Wendy Gunther: Adnachiel 72, C.Y. 01

Autumn is here. It’s no longer as warm as it was earlier this month, and some days have been downright cold. We had a lot of rain this week, and the winds have shifted, with cool air coming in from the northwest. We’ve already started wearing sweaters during the day, and at night we’ve had to bundle up in our parkas.

Mr. Geary says we’re probably going to have to pull up the crops pretty soon. We haven’t had our first frost yet, but he’s afraid the cold might kill everything if we don’t get them out of the ground. The potatoes and carrots are ready to come up, even though they’re a little small—I’d like to give them another couple of weeks, but we may not have a chance. The tomatoes were a total loss, though—the first cold snap killed all but a few bushels—and even though the corn’s ready to be harvested, the stalks are only as tall as I am. Glad we got that greenhouse finished; it may be small, but at least we’ll be able to have fresh vegetables throughout the winter.

Another reason for early harvest: the swoops are beginning to migrate. You’d think Liberty is far enough south that they’d want to winter here, but they seem to have their own ideas. I’ve seen flocks of them flying southeast, heading in the general direction of the Great Equatorial River. I’d love to know where they’re going, but the orbital photos we download from Alabama haven’t given us a clue.

Anyway, with the swoops going on vacation, the swampers are running amok on the farm. No natural predators left, winter’s coming in—party time for the little monsters. They’re eating everything they can find, and they really love the carrots. Dana devised live traps for them—an open-ended box made from old shipping containers, with a small carrot inside; when a swamper goes inside, it trips a lever on the floor and the hatch springs shut—and they’re dumb enough to fall for it every time. But they go berserk as soon as they realize they’re caught, and the only thing you can do is go find a blueshirt, get him to come over and shoot it. At first I couldn’t bear to watch, but I’ve become used to it. It’s cruel, but what can you do?

Yesterday was my fifteenth birthday—or at least it’s my birthday back home (Earth, I mean). Still haven’t figured out how to convert Gregorian to LeMarean without using my pad, and I don’t even want to think how old that makes me back home (15 plus 230 equals no way!!). I didn’t mention it to anyone except Kuniko, and I begged her not to tell anyone else, but . . .

She was out on the farm, down on her hands and knees to pull up cloverweed from the turnip patch, when someone tapped her shoulder. “Wendy? You got a minute?”

Lew Geary. Probably checking up on her. “Oh, hi, Mr. Geary. What doyou. . . ?”

Then she glanced over her shoulder and found a small crowd standing behind her. Indeed, it seemed like half the colony had suddenly appeared: Kuniko, Dr. Levin and his wife, Sissy, Mr. and Ms. Geary, Ted LeMare, Ms. Newell, Colonel Reese and a couple of his blueshirts, even Captain Lee. In the middle of the group were Chris, David, Barry, and Carlos; her friends were trying to hold it in, but the look on her face caused them to lose it completely.

“Oh, my God,” Wendy whispered, and a moment later she was serenaded by a ragged chorus of “Happy Birthday” while she squatted there in the dirt, feeling both humbled and idiotic at the same time.

That evening, at the fire pit after dinner was over, a party was thrown for her. The first birthday party on Coyote, everyone said, although she’d later learn that a couple of the adults had birthdays during the last couple of months; yet apparently birthdays weren’t so special once people get older, and everyone seemed to think that she deserved this. Ms. Geary gave her a little cupcake she’d baked in the community kitchen: chocolate, which always made Wendy break out although she was careful not to tell anyone this, and since chocolate was a scarce item, she knew she’d better be grateful. Someone opened the next-to-last bottle of champagne, of which she was allowed to have a small cup (which she almost threw up; why did grown-ups make such a big deal about booze?). Captain Lee made a short speech, talking about how wonderful she was, how much work she’d done on the farm and so forth, and it was all very nice. Wendy didn’t know until then that all these people really liked her, that she wasn’t just some poor orphan they have to take care of.

Yet she noticed that no one mentioned her father. Not even Captain Lee. It was as if everyone avoided talking about him. Didn’t anyone know him? Or was there something else?

The hour got late, and things started getting quiet. Bear was coming up over the horizon, which was when people usually started heading for their tents. Wendy was tired herself; it had been a long day, and she was ready to crawl into her tent, when Carlos approached her.

“Um, Wendy . . . you got a sec?”

“Yeah . . . okay, sure.” She hadn’t spoken to Carlos in a couple of weeks; the last time they had been alone together, it was down by Sand Creek. He’d tried to kiss her, and she’d let him; it had felt good, but then he tried to put a hand under her shirt, and although she somewhat wanted him to do so, her memories of Camp Schaefly were still fresh, and so she’d knocked him away, then stood up and fled. She’d avoided him since then, and still wasn’t sure whether she wanted to talk to him. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. I just . . .” Carlos seemed to be having trouble looking her in the eye. His right hand was behind his back, as if he was holding something he didn’t want her to see. “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened,” he said very quietly. “That was wrong, and I . . . I mean, I shouldn’t have, y’know . . . and I still want to be friends, if you . . .”

“That’s okay. I forgive you.” She smiled at him, and when he finally raised his head she saw that his face was bright red. His hand was still behind his back. “So . . . what don’t you want to show me?”

He glanced around, as if to see if anyone was watching. No one was paying attention, although past his shoulder Wendy could see Chris Levin sitting on the other side of the fire pit. He seemed to be engrossed in the flames, but Wendy knew he was catching every minute of this. “It’s just something I made for you,” Carlos said, then he pulled the object from behind his back. “I knew your birthday was coming up, so. . .”

A small parcel wrapped in paper, which no one was supposed to be wasting. Taking it from him, Wendy tried not to tear the paper as she opened it. Then she saw what was inside. . . .

A pair of gloves. Handmade gloves, stitched together from swamper hide, lined with creek cat fur. I thought they were a little large, but then I tried them on and they fit beautifully, comfortable and warm. And I knew, even without asking, that he had made them himself; the stitches are a little ragged, and there’s a loose thread at the base of the thumb on the left one, which Kuniko had to tie off.

I didn’t know what to say, so I tugged him behind the Dreyfus tent, and when we were alone I kissed him. This time it was only a kiss—he didn’t do anything with his hands this time—but it was a really good kiss. He said I tasted like champagne.

I’m still not ready for a boyfriend, but if Chris Levin wants to compete with Carlos, he’s going to have to give me a whole damn rug before I’ll let him so much as smooch my hand!

Colony Log: Barbiel 05, C.Y. 01 (Tom Shapiro, Secretary, Liberty Town Council)

(1.) Frost on the ground this morning, which didn’t melt until an hour after sunrise. Weather station recorded local overnight low of 27&(!!char1!!); F, with winds from the N-NE at 10–15 MPH. Orbital photos from Alabama reveal snowstorms in latitudes above 40&(!!char1!!); N, with ice forming on the banks of the Northern Equatorial River. Snow also falling in latitudes below 50&(!!char1!!); S, with ice along river channels within the tundra surrounding the southern glacial region.

(2.) Wildlife rapidly disappearing within New Florida. Swoops continue to migrate to the southeast, and daytime sightings of boids have become less frequent; tracks along the Sand Creek indicate they’re heading south, following the creek toward the West River. Although creek cats are still spotted near town, swampers are rarely seen, and it’s assumed that they’re going into hibernation.

(3.) Monroe suggests that the silo walls should be insulated to prevent spoilage of farm produce by extreme cold. Capt. Lee inspected the silos, decided that this is prudent advice; although the silos were former Alabama cargo modules, cracks caused by entry and landing stress allow cold air to penetrate the hulls. Cloverweed mixed with sand makes good sealing material.

(4.) Principal activity has become erecting permanent shelter. “House-raising parties” held almost every day: twenty-plus people working together to erect a cabin from blackwood logs. Takes approx. two days to build a one-room cabin with a fieldstone fireplace, four days to throw up a three-room family house. Eighteen cabins have been built on either side of Main Street, each with its own privy, and land has been set aside for eventual construction of a grange hall.

(5.) Plymouth and Mayflower have been mothballed. Although onboard nuclear cells are still being used to generate electrical power, propellant has been drained from the fuel tanks and tents have been lashed together as tarps to protect the fuselages against the weather. Many people favor cannibalizing one of the shuttles for electronic parts and furnishings—we’ve received requests for passenger couches—but Capt. Lee insists that we keep both craft in flightworthy condition in the event of an emergency. Yet it’s doubtful that they’ll fly again anytime soon.

From the journal of Dr. James Levin: Barbiel 23, C.Y. 01

Today, a mystery was solved. Two, in fact—we learned where the swampers have gone, and also the biological function of the ball plants.

In all fairness, I must give credit where credit is due: it was Wendy Gunther who made the discovery, not I. She and Carlos Montero were out in the fields—they say they were gathering corn stalks for roofing material, but I suspect otherwise—when Wendy noticed a family of swampers near the vicinity of a ball plant. Since so few swampers have been sighted lately, this aroused her curiosity, so she and Carlos watched from a discreet distance as the swampers climbed on top of the ball. One at a time, they squirmed through a narrow opening within its leaves until all of them had disappeared from view.

Wendy rushed to my house and told me what she had seen, and I followed her and Carlos back to the plant. The pseudowasps have died off, so there was no risk in approaching it, and the ball hadn’t completely sealed, so I gently peeled aside one of the leaves and peered inside.

I counted eight swampers within the plant, curled up against each other, already half-asleep. I let the plant close itself and stepped away, and made Wendy and Carlos promise not to tell anyone what we had found. I don’t want anyone—the blueshirts, namely—poaching the hibernating swampers for fur. For the time being, at least, it’s our secret.

My hypothesis: this may be a form of plant-animal symbiosis. The balls provide shelter for the swampers while they hibernate during Coyote’s long winter. However, since one or two of the swampers inevitably perish during hibernation—the old and the sick, most likely—their corpses remain within the balls. In spring, the swampers emerge from the ball, leaving their dead behind to provide food for the plants.

There may be certain superficial similarities to life on Earth—the close resemblance between swampers and ferrets, for example—but that’s because nature tends to select perfect (i.e. adaptive) designs and duplicate them. Yet Coyote isn’t Earth; although it’s Earth-like, nonetheless it’s a different world—younger, colder, with longer seasons, a less dense atmosphere, and lighter gravity. So there are bound to be significant differences.

One mystery solved . . . yet so many more remain.

In time, through continued observation of this world, we may be able to prove (or disprove) the Gaia hypothesis: that planets aren’t mere rocks upon which life evolves by circumstance of nature, but rather self-sustaining life-forms themselves, their ecosystems sustaining one another in an interlocked pattern of life and death. We came to Coyote in order to escape from political tyranny, but perhaps our future is something greater.

I’m not a religious man—Sissy and I seldom went to temple, and Chris went through bar mitzvah only because his grandparents insisted (David was just shy of his thirteenth birthday when we left)—yet nonetheless I’ve always considered myself to be a spiritual person. Sitting here within my log cabin, writing by lanternlight as a fire crackles within the hearth, my wife and sons asleep within beds we’ve cobbled together from hab module pallets and discarded shipping containers, I have to wonder if there is a greater power in the universe, and perhaps our role is to delve into the complexity of creation.

Winter comes tonight. I can hear sleet skittering against the shutters of our windows, the northern wind rushing past our eaves. The hand of God falls upon us. May we be strong enough to endure His fury, and wise enough to understand His mind.

Book Two

Shores of the Unknown

We have found that where science has progressed the farthest, the mind has but regained from nature what the mind has put into nature.

We have found a strange footprint on the shores of the unknown. We have devised profound theories, one after another, to account for its origin. At last we have succeeded in constructing the creature that made the footprint. And lo! It is our own.

—SIR ARTHUR STANLEY EDDINGTON,

Space, Time, and Gravitation