COMING TO COYOTE

URSS ALABAMA 8.26.2300 (12.6.2296 rel.) 0330 GMT

Not long after Robert Lee was picked to be commanding officer of the Alabama, the Federal Space Agency sent him and eleven members of his flight crew to Arizona for survival training. At the end of the two-week seminar, the team was airlifted into the Sonora Desert northeast of the Mexican border, where they parachuted into the barren country with little more than their survival knives and a half liter bottle of water for each person. No rations, no communications gear, no compass. Until they reached the rendezvous point thirty miles away, they were expected to live off the land as best they could.

As their leader, Lee was responsible for the well-being of the eleven men and women under his command, a task made more difficult by the fact that Tom Shapiro twisted his right knee upon landing. Dr. Rawlings—the original chief physician, who would later wash out of training and be replaced by Dr. Okada—bandaged Tom’s knee with a torn strip of parachute nylon, and Jud Tinsley cut a tree branch for him to use as a walking stick, but their trek across the desert was nonetheless reduced from an anticipated ten miles a day to less than seven. So there was little opportunity for Lee to reflect upon the harsh majesty of the Sonora, for every waking moment was focused upon the task of survival: finding their bearings, foraging for food and water, tending to minor injuries, keeping morale high. The shark-toothed mountains surrounding them became simply a backdrop for their ordeal, and he had no time to admire the towering organ-pipe cactus as anything more than a meager source of water.

On their second night in the desert, the team curled up in the makeshift sleeping bags they had fashioned from their parachutes, hungry after having had nothing more than a few strips of undercooked lizard and some juniper berries for dinner, their sunburned skin chilled by the cold wind that moaned across the barrens after the sun went down. Exhausted beyond belief, his legs aching and his feet beginning to blister, Lee wrapped himself within his parachute, pulling it up around his head to prevent scorpions from climbing into bed with him. The flickering glow of the dying campfire was the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes; he couldn’t bring himself to look up at the stars, for fear that he might spot the Ursa Major constellation. Although he hadn’t expressed his thoughts to anyone, Lee secretly harbored doubts about his ability to lead an expedition to 47 Ursae Majoris. Indeed, he was beginning seriously to consider tendering his resignation once he returned to Houston, thereby leaving Project Starflight.

He didn’t know how long he slept, yet sometime in the middle of the night he abruptly awoke with the preternatural feeling that he was being watched. He couldn’t see or hear it, nonetheless he knew that a presence was nearby.

Swaddled within his parachute, his hands tucked within his armpits for warmth, Lee remained still, listening for the slightest movement. For a long time he couldn’t hear anything save the wind, and he was almost ready to believe that it had only been a dream when pebbles softly clattered as if a weight had settled upon them, and it was then that he knew for certain that he was no longer alone.

Heart hammering within his chest, Lee fought to control his breathing; he couldn’t see anything through the parachute, and he was acutely aware of just how vulnerable he was. Once again, he heard small stones make a hollow sound as they shifted together: this time it was much closer. Something had entered the campsite, and it was very close to him.

Lee felt something gently prod his shoulder. He held his breath as paws padded only a few inches from his face; he smelled the rank odor of animal fur, and there was a faint snuffle as the intruder caught his scent. Whatever it was, it was standing directly above him. Studying him.

He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He hesitated, then snapped, “Get outta here . . . shoo!”

There was a startled whuff! then the animal scampered away. Lee waited a few seconds, then whipped aside the parachute and sat up to gaze around the campsite. The moon had risen and hung directly overhead, casting a silver-white aura across the forms huddled around him; no one else had been disturbed and the intruder had disappeared.

Lee remained awake the rest of the night, gazing up at the stars. He didn’t consider himself to be a religious person, yet he knew that he had just experienced a moment of spiritual awakening. When the sun rose over the mountains, he was ready to take his people out of the desert; never again would he be uncertain about his leadership ability. By the time they arrived at the rendezvous point, all thoughts of resignation had been forgotten.

He told no one about what had happened, then or later. His encounter with the coyote was meant for him, and him alone.

And now it’s 232 years later, and for some reason this memory comes back to him as he watches Kuniko Okada carefully remove plastic surgical tubes from his arms. Gelatinous blue fluid trickles down his naked body, staining the towel wrapped around his waist; Lee stares blankly at the biostasis cell from which he has just emerged, his mind numb from his long and dreamless sleep.

Dr. Okada’s hands tremble as she withdraws another tube from his forearm. Although she was the first to awaken, she hasn’t quite shaken off the aftereffects of the somatic drugs. Lee finds himself staring at a dimple in the soft flesh on top of her skull; the last time he saw Kuniko, her raven hair had fallen to the base of her neck, yet like everyone else aboard—himself included—she had shaved her head shortly before entering biostasis. Everyone aboard Alabama was bald now; he’d better get used to it.

On the other side of the compartment, Tom Shapiro sips water from a foam cup, his elbows resting on his knees. The first officer looks up at him, gives Lee a tired smile. “Think it was going to be this bad?”

Lee slowly shakes his head. He knows he should be grateful to be feeling anything at all. Until now, the record for human hibernation had been eighteen months, during tests conducted at the Marshall Space Flight Center. They proved that long-term biostasis was theoretically possible, yet there was no way anyone could be sure that the Alabama’s crew would remain safely in comalike conditions for over two and a quarter centuries. Lee looks up at Kuniko. “How . . . did the others pull through?”

“Think so. Haven’t checked everyone yet, but . . .” Okada pulls out the last tube, then gently tapes a square of surgical gauze across the wound in his arm. “Something you should know, Captain. One of the cells was empty when I woke up. Someone was revived before me.”

“Before you?” Lee doesn’t quite understand. “Run that by me again. Weren’t you supposed to . . . ?”

“This one, skipper.” Shapiro nods toward the coffinlike cell closest to him; like the others on the hibernation deck, it has been lowered from its niche in the bulkhead. “It’s dry. Nobody’s been here for a while.”

Gently massaging his sore arm, Lee slowly rises to his feet. His legs are like stiff rubber, yet he impatiently shakes off Okada’s hand as he shuffles across the deck to inspect the cell. Its fiberglass lid is shut. As he gazes through its inspection window he can see that it’s empty, its suspension fluid drained. The status panel is blank, so there’s no easy way of determining who had once been inside, yet as Tom said, it hasn’t been occupied for a very long time.

“Dana’s gone below.” Shapiro staggers to his feet, stumbles over to a storage locker; he pulls out a headset, fits it over his ears. “I’ll have her check it out.”

“Do that, please.” The fourteen biostasis cells in Deck C2A were occupied by Alabama’s command team; once the AI revived Dr. Okada, she would have then resuscitated Dana Monroe, the chief engineer, in order for her to inspect the ship’s major operating systems. Lee himself and Tom were next in line, followed shortly by Jud Tinsley, his executive officer, and Sharon Ullman, the senior navigator. Lee gazes around the compartment. Tinsley sits up in his cell and, hands clasped around his knees, takes his first breaths of fresh air; Sharon is still immersed in suspension gel, oxygen mask in place around her face. The other cells remain in vertical position, their occupants sleeping for a just little while longer. Kuniko, Dana, Tom, Jud, Sharon, himself . . . so who else was there?

“Gillis,” Okada says quietly. “Now I remember. He’s in that cell.”

“Yeah, sure. Les.” Lee tries to shake off the cobwebs. Leslie Gillis, the chief communications officer . . . but why would the AI have revived him before Kuniko? He’s about to ask this question when Shapiro looks up at him.

“Skipper? Dana reports that the ship’s in good condition and we’re on course, but . . .” He listens to the voice in his headset. “Something’s happened.”

“Is there a problem?” Lee becomes a little more alert.

“Not a problem . . . or at least it doesn’t seem that way. She . . .” Shapiro holds up a finger as he listens. “She’s found something in the ring corridor, and we ought to take a look at it.”

“Let me talk to her.” Shapiro pulls off the headset and hands it to him; Lee holds the headset to his ear. “What have you found, Chief?”

“Hard to explain, sir.” Monroe’s voice is tinny. “Maybe you should see for yourself. It’s in the ring, just before you get to the hub hatch. I don’t know how or why, but . . .”

“Chief, I’ve already got one mystery. I don’t need another. What’ve you found?”

“The walls, sir. Someone’s painted the walls.”

Dana Monroe touches the headset lobe, lets out her breath as she rests against the console of the main engineering station. Although Alabama has decelerated to a little less than one-quarter gee, her muscles are unaccustomed to any sort of exercise. It’s difficult for her to remain standing for very long; indeed, climbing down the hub access shaft to the command center took a supreme effort. She feels a pang of regret for having urged the captain to leave the hibernation module before he’s ready, but it can’t be helped; something strange happened during the ship’s long voyage, and it’s her duty to inform the commanding officer.

Yet that’s not her job just now. Her primary responsibility is ascertaining that Alabama’s major systems are nominal and that the ship hasn’t suffered any significant damage. Settling into her accustomed seat, Dana taps instructions into the keyboard, studies flatscreen readouts. So far as she can tell, everything is as it should be . . . in fact, even a little better than she expected. Fuel reserves at 17.3 percent, almost 3 percent higher than anticipated; the ramscoop must have located more molecular hydrogen than had been theoretically projected. The main engine automatically shut down three months ago; the fusion reactor is in medium-power mode, operating at the levels sufficient to maintain electricity for ship’s internal systems. Minimal hull erosion; the buffer field had apparently protected the ship from interstellar dust, and there’s no sign of leakage from any of the payload modules. Magnetic sail successfully deployed shortly after engine shutdown; it’s now acting as an enormous drag chute, using 47 Ursae Majoris’s solar wind to gradually decelerate the ship from its .2c cruise velocity. Major life-support systems . . .

“Whoa,” she murmurs. “What’s this?” Dana enlarges a portion of the screen, then types in another query to double-check her findings. No, it’s not a mistake: potable water reserves down 20.4 percent, oxygen-nitrogen by 21.9.

She whispers an obscenity. When she saw the walls in the ring corridor, she suspected the worst. Someone had been up and around during Alabama’s outbound leg; judging from the amount of air and water he or she had consumed, they managed to survive for quite a long time.

A stowaway? Not unless he was suicidal. Still alive? Impossible; no one who hadn’t been in biostasis would have lasted so long. Although she hasn’t found a body, this is a big ship; there are dozens of places where someone could curl up and die. . . .

A chill runs down her back. This isn’t something she wants to explore just now; once the rest of the command team is awake, she’ll tell them what she’s discovered. One thing at a time; just be glad you’re alive. Dana observes her reflection in the nearest flatscreen. Not bad for a 268-year- old bald lady . . .

She rubs her eyelids, yawns. God, why should she feel so sluggish? It’s not as if she hasn’t slept enough lately. And it’s probably the last time she’ll have the command center all to herself; once everyone else has been revived, over a hundred people will be elbowing each other for room.

Groaning with effort, Dana pushes herself out of her chair. Clutching the ceiling rails, she moves across the deck to the navigator’s station. She reaches down to pull aside the plastic cover, then stops herself. In the dim half-light cast by ceiling fluorescents, she notices that the translucent sheet is spotted with filmy brown splotches. Curious, she gently scratches at a spot; it comes up easily, staining the tip of her finger.

Fungus. But the ship was decontaminated before it left Earth. So how could . . . ?

Later. Like the captain said: one mystery at a time, please. Dana uncovers the nav console and lets the sheet fall to the floor, then searches the panels until she locates the porthole shutter controls. She presses the buttons, watches as the shutters outside the rectangular windows slowly move upward. Raw sunlight lances through the thick glass; she winces against the glare, reflexively raising a hand to her eyes. Then the windows polarize and now, past the long shadow cast by the ramscoop, she sees a brilliant white orb.

47 Ursae Majoris. Dana lowers her hand. Tears well at the corners of her eyes.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she whispers through the tightness in her throat. “You’ve got company.”

Snowcapped mountains above vast plains of high grass, where six-legged felines roam between oddly twisted trees. Multicolored birds soar through a purple sky, silhouetted against an enormous ringed planet looming above the horizon. In the far distance, ships move across a sapphire ocean, their sails billowed by a warm breeze. A caravan of wheeled carts drawn by shaggy oxlike creatures trundles down a road, pennants fluttering in the winds. Upon the crest of a low hill, a handsome young man dressed in medieval regalia gazes down upon this panorama; behind him stand a multitude of characters: warriors, noblemen, merchants, a beautiful woman, a small child.

Nearly sixty feet long, the mural wraps itself almost entirely around the inside wall of the ring corridor, its concave surface lending the painting a three-dimensional effect. The illusion isn’t accidental; the artist placed the closer objects near the top and bottom of the wall and put the more distant objects toward the center. His attention to detail was extraordinary; every single feather on the birds has been individually colored, and even the mountains have distinct ridges and gullies.

Fascinated, Lee gazes upon the mural for a long time. “Les had a lot of time on his hands,” he says at last, very quietly.

“Thirty-two years.” Shapiro studies the readout on his pad; he’s used it to access the ship’s log. “He was revived on October 3, 2070, and died on February 25, 2102.” He shakes his head. “He must have been out of his mind at the end.”

Lee steps a little closer to the mural, gently touches it with his finger. Acrylic paint. Doubtless from the small supply of art materials in cargo. “Does it say why he was revived?”

Shapiro shakes his head. “Only that it was by accident. Ditto for cause of death . . . the AI reports that his body was found at the bottom of the hub shaft. He was jettisoned into space shortly afterward. Everything else is pretty much routine . . . maintenance reports, navigational updates, that sort of thing. Very little about Gillis himself. It’s almost as if he wasn’t here.”

The captain slowly walks to where the mural ends, his hands thrust in the pockets of his robe. The painting was left unfinished: only pencil outlines, without any coloration. This was probably where Gillis was working when he died. If Les was in his early thirties when he came out of biostasis and he managed to survive alone aboard the Alabama for the next thirty-two years—a fact even more mind-boggling than the artwork he had created—then he would have been in his sixties when he died. Back home, that would be considered middle age, but out here on his own, with no chance of cellular rejuvenation . . . “Poor bastard probably fell off the shaft ladder, broke his neck.”

“You’re probably right.” The first officer shuts the pad. “If we look around, maybe we can find a diary or a journal. That’s what I would have done, if I were he.”

Lee nods; he’s still examining the mural. With no sunlight to fade the paint and the ship’s internal temperature lowered to fifty degrees, it has remained perfectly preserved for nearly two hundred years. Yet he can only wonder what it means. What is this place, and who are all these people? “Look around. There may be something that explains this. But that’s not what concerns me just now.”

“Like, how he managed to stay alive so long?” Tom’s face is grave. “I was just thinking about that.”

“Uh-huh. Gillis had to eat, and there was no food aboard except the expedition rations. If he got to them . . .”

“I know. We could be in trouble.” Shapiro turns to head back down the corridor. “I’ll check the cargo modules, see how much of a dent he put in the stores.”

“Do that, please. Let me know what you find” Upon further thought, Lee grasps Shapiro’s shoulder. “And Tom . . . keep it quiet, at least for the time being. No sense in alarming anyone unless . . . I mean, until we have to.”

Shapiro nods. Down in Deck C2A, Dr. Okada is bringing up the remaining members of the command team; over the course of the next couple of days she’ll work her way through the Alabama’s hibernation decks, gradually reviving the rest of the crew. They will have a hard enough time just learning how to walk again; after that, they’ll spend two weeks in close confines. It won’t do anyone much good to learn that they don’t have as much food as they had when the ship departed from Earth. “Understood, sir,” he says quietly.

“Thank you. Carry on.” Lee waits until Shapiro has disappeared up the bend of the corridor, then he closes his eyes and lets out his breath. “Damn it, Les,” he whispers to himself. “Why didn’t you . . . ?”

What? Commit suicide? Give up his life for the sake of 103 people who would remain in biostasis for the next two centuries? Perhaps that would have been the honorable thing to do, but Lee can’t honestly say that he would have sacrificed himself had he been in the same position. Instead, he can only feel respect for someone who managed to stay alive on his own for more than thirty years. Alive, if not necessarily sane . . .

Lee takes another moment to study the mural. The kids will probably love it, even if they don’t know what it means. Then he continues down the corridor, heading in the direction of the hub shaft. Time to go below and see if Chief Monroe has found anything to be happy about.

URSS ALABAMA 8.27.2300 (12.7.2296 rel.) 1432 GMT

Jorge Montero found his son on Deck C7D, the wardroom one level below the ship’s mess. Unlike their parents, Carlos and his sister, Marie, had recovered from biostasis fairly quickly: the advantage of youth. However, while Marie obediently remained by Rita’s side while she languished in her bunk, it hadn’t been long before Carlos found another teenage boy. Jorge had left his family for only a few minutes to fetch some water for his wife; when he returned he discovered that Carlos had vanished, leaving Rita distraught and Marie almost in tears.

Jorge stayed with Rita and Marie long enough to calm them down, then he went looking for his son. It wasn’t easy; the Monteros had been assigned to four berths on Deck C4B, halfway down one of Alabama’s two habitation modules, and the decks themselves were mazes of lockers and double-decker bunks. Almost everyone had been brought out of biostasis, and it seemed as if every square inch was jammed with people: squeezing past each other in the narrow aisles, waiting for their turn to visit the lavatories, sitting cross-legged on narrow bunks, chatting with one another in passageways. Noise everywhere: lockers opening and slamming shut, footsteps across metal floors, the constant hubbub of overlapping voices. It hadn’t seemed as if there were this many people aboard when the ship left Earth. On the other hand, considering how happy everyone had been to escape with their lives, perhaps there simply hadn’t been enough time for anyone to feel cramped before they went into hibernation.

As Jorge made his way through the ring modules, though, his anger gradually began to subside. Although many of these people were strangers, quite a few were old friends . . . and almost all were fellow political dissidents who had been smuggled aboard the Alabama at the last minute. He found Henry Johnson leaning against the hatchway of the tunnel leading into Module C3; as Henry turned around, Jorge saw that he was talking to Bernie Cayle, another former colleague from Marshall Space Flight Center. No wonder he didn’t recognize them at first; like Jorge himself, their heads were shaved. The three friends greeted each other with bear hugs and backslaps; although it seemed as if they had last seen each other only a few hours ago, they were all aware that 230 years had passed—226, if you counted in the time-dilation factor—since they entered biostasis. A few minutes later, upon climbing up the ladder to Deck C3A, he discovered Jim Levin and his wife, Sissy, sitting on their bunks. Another warm reunion, during which Jim told Jorge that he had seen Carlos only a few minutes earlier, along with a boy he didn’t recognize. Sissy was upset because their sons, Chris and David, had taken off with Carlos and two other kids: a boy and a girl, neither of them ever seen before. Jorge promised that he’d send their children home once he tracked them down. By now he was more amused than irritated. Nothing changes: teenagers tend to travel in packs, whether they are in a shopping mall or aboard a starship.

Yet his smile faded as he came around a corner and discovered four men seated together on a pair of lower bunks, their knees nearly touching as they blocked the aisle. Even without their hair or uniforms, he recognized them immediately: the URS soldiers who had boarded the Alabama shortly before launch and who had still been in the ship when it left Highgate. Their leader was nowhere in sight; the men were quietly murmuring to one another when Jorge came upon them and fell silent as their eyes turned in his direction. They regarded him with sullen contempt, not bothering to move aside so he could pass between them; they knew he was a D.I., and they despised him not only for what he was but also for his role in bringing them to this place. Jorge decided not to push his luck; he turned and went back the way he came, and heard coarse laughter behind his back.

Like the rest of the ship, Deck C7D is crowded, yet Jorge manages to spot Carlos as he climbs down the ladder into the wardroom. Accompanied by his new friends, the boy is at the far end of the circular compartment, gazing at something on the wall. Carlos doesn’t notice his father until Jorge touches him on the shoulder; looking around to see who’s come up behind him, the boy’s face turns red.

“Umm . . . hi, Papa,” he quietly murmurs.

“Hi, yourself.” Trying not to look relieved, Jorge gives his son a baleful glare. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

“Well, uh . . .” Carlos glances helplessly at his friends. “I kinda met up with some guys, and we, y’know . . .”

“Hi, Mr. Montero.” Jorge looks up to see Chris Levin grinning at him. The same age as Carlos yet a little taller, Chris has been Carlos’s playmate since they were both four-year-olds cavorting together in preschool day care. “Hope you’re not upset, but we wanted to see the rest of the ship, and . . .”

He shrugs with studied shamefacedness, and Jorge bites the inside of his lip. Handsome and outgoing, Chris has always been the natural leader of whatever group he’s managed to gather around himself, and doesn’t have much trouble manipulating adults either. And utterly unlike his younger brother; shy, stoical to the point of brooding, David looks up at Jorge, gives him a brief nod and a fleeting smile that disappears.

“I’m not upset,” Jorge says, speaking as much to Chris and David as to Carlos, “but your folks don’t like you guys running off any more than I do.” He turns his attention to his son. “If you want to go somewhere, tell Mama or me first . . . just don’t take off like that, okay? This is a big ship, and it’s hard to find someone with all these people around.”

Carlos nods. He knows his father’s upset, and he’s grateful that he isn’t punishing him in front of his friends. From the corner of his eye, Jorge spots a couple of other kids he doesn’t recognize: another teenage boy, perhaps a year or two older than Carlos and Chris, and a girl who seems to be about their age. “You want to introduce me to your buddies?” he murmurs softly.

“Uhh . . . yeah, sure.” Carlos turns to the older boy, who shuffles uneasily from one foot to another. “This is . . . uhh . . . I forgot . . .”

“I’m Barry . . . Barry Dreyfus.” He steps forward to extend his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Montero. I’m the one who got Carlos to follow me. Didn’t think it’d get him in trouble.”

“Glad to meet you, Barry.” As Jorge grasps the teenager’s hand, he’s surprised by the strength in his grip. Yet, upon closer inspection, it occurs to him that Barry may not be all that much older after all, just big for his age. He seems like a nice enough kid, though. “Carlos isn’t in trouble,” he adds, giving his son a sidelong look, “if he doesn’t do it again.”

“I’m Wendy.” The girl steps past Barry. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Montero.”

“Pleased to meet you, too, Wendy.” As Jorge shakes her hand, Wendy can’t help but notice that Carlos’s face turns red once more. So his son has noticed her. No wonder; Wendy is a nice-looking young lady: slender build, pleasant face. She’s found an Alabama mission cap somewhere, pulled it over her shaved head. She may only be thirteen or fourteen, but in a few years the boys will be fighting over her. Perhaps they already are. Although Carlos quickly looks away, Jorge can tell that he has his eye on her . . . and so does Chris, Jorge observes, noticing how the other boy immediately steps closer to insert himself between the girl and Carlos.

Jorge wants to ask Barry and Wendy who their parents are, yet his gaze follows Carlos’s to the wall and suddenly his questions are forgotten. Painted across the bulkhead, stretching from the wallscreen to the rectangular porthole, is a long mural. A life-size portrait of a young man, apparently only a little older than the teenagers studying it, dominates the scene; he stands in a field of high yellow grass, his right hand clasped upon the pommel of a sheathed sword. In the background, looming above a range of snowcapped mountains, is an enormous ringed planet, and in the near distance can be seen what looks like a city: silver arches and towers and low, domelike structures, eerily familiar, alien nonetheless.

Jorge finds himself mesmerized by the unexpected artwork. He had visited this deck only once before, shortly after the Alabama had escaped from Highgate. His memory might still be a bit fuzzy, but if this mural had been here then, he surely would have remembered it. “What . . . where did this come from?”

“There’s another one like it in the ring,” Chris says. “You didn’t see it?”

Jorge shakes his head; in his single-minded determination to locate Carlos, he must have missed something he should have seen. The kids give each other incredulous looks, and Carlos gives his father a patronizing look. “Smell the coffee, Papa,” he murmurs under his breath.

More than anything else, Jorge wishes he had some right now. “Who did this?”

“Someone was revived after we left Earth.” This from David; for the first time, Chris’s younger brother has chosen to make himself heard, even if his manner is as self-effacing as always. “It was an accident. One of the officers told us he spent thirty-two years all by himself.”

“They found some books over there.” Wendy points at the game table behind them; Jorge notices a pair of rectangular dust-shadows upon its surface, as if some large objects had rested there for a long time and had only recently been removed. “A couple of guys took them away. They told us he had written something, but they wouldn’t say what it was.”

Thirty-two years alone aboard the Alabama. Jorge’s mind reels at the thought; he suppresses a shudder. No wonder he had painted the walls; he must have gone mad with loneliness. Yet he finds himself wondering who the young man is supposed to be. A self-portrait, perhaps? “I’m sure they’ll tell us eventually,” he replies.

“I can ask my dad,” Wendy says. “He’s a member of the flight crew . . . works in life support.” Then she looks down at the floor. “Although he may not want to tell you guys anything,” she quietly adds. “He’s still pretty angry about what happened.”

Barry also looks away as she speaks. Their parents weren’t members of the conspiracy that had hijacked the ship, Jorge suddenly realizes. He recalls hearing that a small group of crewmen tried to take control of the life-support deck just before the Alabama launched from Highgate and had to be subdued by force. Their fathers must have been two of them. An uncomfortable silence. Carlos, Chris, and David are from D.I. families; they don’t know what to say, and Wendy herself appears sorry she raised the issue.

Time to change the subject. Jorge glances away from the mural, notices a three-dimensional chart displayed on the wallscreen: a holo diagram of the 47 Ursae Majoris system, with a small luminous blip moving through the orbit of its outermost planet. “Hey, is that our present position?” he asks, pointing to the blip.

Barry glances at it. “Yes, sir, that’s us.” He steps closer to the screen. “That’s Wolf, the fourth planet,” he says, gesturing to round dot nearly halfway to aphelion from the Alabama’s position. “Another gas giant, but smaller than Bear. It’s about 3.7 A.U.s from its primary . . .”

“What’s an A.U.?” Wendy shrugs as the boys gape at her. “Hey, bust me . . . I don’t know this sci stuff.”

She doesn’t? This is as much a surprise to Jorge as it is for the boys. Most of the D.I.s are scientists who had worked on Project Starflight before they were blacklisted by the Internal Security Agency. They usually tutored their children in the most rudimentary principles of the astronautical sciences at a young age; Carlos had memorized the major constellations before he was able to read, and the Levin children could recite the names of moons, planets, and nearby stars. Judging from the expression on Barry’s face, Jorge has little doubt he can do the same. So why doesn’t Wendy, whose father is an FSA-trained astronaut, recognize a commonplace astronomy term?

And what’s her last name, anyway? Jorge doesn’t recall her mentioning it.

“Astronomical unit,” Chris says. “The mean distance of Earth from the Sun. It’s . . .”

“A measure of distance.” Now Carlos has slid up next to Wendy, diverting her attention from Chris. “The primary is the star . . . 47 Uma, to be exact.” He points to the planets closest to the star. “That’s Fox . . . it’s .4 A.U.s from Uma . . . and the next one out is Raven, which is .9 A.U.s . . .”

“Within the habitable zone.” Not to be outdone, Chris gestures to Raven. “Not that anyone thinks it’s habitable. . . .”

“And we’re not sure whether Fox is really a planet,” Carlos says quickly. “It’s pretty small, so it may only be a large asteroid. . . .”

“Whatever.” Chris gives Carlos a stern look, which Carlos accepts with a smug grin as he points to the third planet in the system. “Anyway, that’s Bear . . .”

“47 Ursae Majoris B.” Wendy suddenly asserts herself. “That’s where we’re going . . . or at least to its fourth moon. Coyote, right?”

“Uh-huh. It’s about 1.7 million miles from Bear.” David speaks so quietly it seems as if no one except Jorge has heard him, yet Wendy favors him with a dazzling smile, and David sheepishly looks down at the floor once more.

“That’s Coyote, right,” Carlos says. “They’re all named after Native American deities. Dog, Hare, Eagle, Coyote, Goat . . .”

“You forgot Snake,” Chris mutters.

“Not until you reminded me,” Carlos replies, and the others laugh as Chris glares at him.

Realizing that his presence is unwanted, Jorge quietly steps aside. Secretly, he’s pleased that Carlos has made new friends as well as finding old ones; he only hopes there are more girls aboard besides Wendy, or the boys will murder each other for her smile. Better have that birds-and-bees talk pretty soon . . .

He moves across the wardroom to the porthole. The shutter has been raised, and several adults are clustered in front of the broad window, peering out into space. There’s not much to see from this angle; 47 Ursae Majoris is still a distant object, brighter than any other star yet tens of billions of miles away, nonetheless everyone is captivated by the sight of the new sun. Bear lies directly in front of the ship, and therefore can’t be seen from any of its ports; not until the Alabama draws closer will any of its satellites become visible to the naked eye.

Twelve days. In less than two weeks, the ship will have decelerated sufficiently so that it can successfully enter Bear’s system, and then they’ll find out whether their information was correct. 47 Uma B has six major moons, this much is known for a fact, yet analysis of the spectroscopic data gathered by the Sagan Terrestrial Planet Finder led the JPL scientists to believe that only Coyote has conditions suitable for human settlement.

And if their estimates turn out to be in error . . . ?

“Papa? You okay?”

Now it’s Jorge’s turn to be surprised. Carlos has left his friends to come over to stand beside him. “I’m really sorry I ditched Mama and Marie,” he says quietly. “I hope you’re not still mad at me.”

“No . . . no, I’m not.” Peering over his shoulder, Jorge sees that the other kids have returned their attention to the mural. Once again, he notices that Wendy is the center of the circle, with Chris by her side. “Just don’t do it again, please. I don’t mind you hanging with your friends, but . . . well, things are different now. You understand?”

Carlos nods. He doesn’t say anything, only stares out the window at 47 Ursae Majoris. Jorge follows his gaze, and for the first time he sees something he hadn’t noticed before: a thin brownish film that coats the inside of the thick glass, visible only when starlight touches it. Curious, he runs his finger across the porthole; it leaves behind a small trail, and now there’s a dark smudge on his fingertip. Fungal growth? But how. . . ?

“Papa?” Once again, Carlos interrupts his train of thought. “Can I ask you a straight question?”

Jorge wipes off his hand on his trousers. “Sure. What do you want to know?”

Carlos hesitates. Then, almost in a whisper: “Are you scared?”

He considers for a moment. “No, not at all,” he lies, shaking his head. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

A quiet rap on the door. Lee looks up from the handwritten text he’s been reading for the last hours, massages the corners of his eyes. “Come in,” he says, closing the ledger upon his fold-down desk.

The pocket door slides open. Jud Tinsley stands just outside, with someone just behind him. “Colonel Reese here to see you, Captain,” the executive officer says.

“Very good.” Lee pushes the desk aside as Tinsley steps away from the door; just outside, framed by the narrow doorway, Reese stands at attention, hands clasped behind his back. Lee rises from his bunk. “Come in, Colonel, please.”

Reese steps into the cabin, instantly taking up all the room left in the closet-size compartment. Once again, Lee is reminded that having private quarters affords him little more than the luxury of a single bunk and a bulkhead wall; no more than three people can fit into this tiny space, and then only if they’re close friends . . . which, in this instance, doesn’t include Reese.

“That’ll be all, Jud,” Lee says. “You can leave us now.” Tinsley nods reluctantly, slides the door shut. “Sorry I can’t offer you a seat, Colonel, but this bunk is all the furniture . . .”

“I prefer to stand, sir.” Reese assumes a rigid stance—hands at his sides, feet placed together, back stiff, chin tucked in—as if he’s back on the parade grounds of the Academy. He wears a blue jumpsuit like everyone else’s, but it could just as well be a Service dress uniform; his gaze doesn’t meet Lee’s, but remains locked straight ahead, fixed on some point on the wall above the captain.

Lee sighs. “At ease, Gill. This isn’t a review.” He reaches for the intercom panel. “I was just about to call down to the galley, ask someone to bring up some coffee. Would you like some?”

Reese says nothing, and Lee takes his hand away from the panel. “However you want it, Colonel.”

“Thank you, sir.” Reese doesn’t so much as bat an eye, yet any response is encouraging. Lee sits back on the bunk, folding his hands together across his stomach as he silently regards the colonel. Never once does Reese look in his direction; indeed, Lee imagines that, if he were to leave his quarters and go down below to fetch the coffee himself, the colonel would still be standing here when he returned.

Or perhaps not. And it’s that uncertainty that needs to be addressed.

“Gill, we go back a long way,” Lee begins. “We have much in common. Remember when I was a plebe at the Academy and you were an upperclassman?” No reaction. “You hazed me mercilessly, as I recall. Made my life miserable. But as much as I disliked the way you treated me, I never hated you. Truth is, I respected you highly, and I still do.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Lee nods. “I have little doubt that feeling isn’t reciprocated. You probably think of me as a traitor . . . and, quite frankly, you’re correct. By taking the Alabama, I’m guilty of high treason against the United Republic of America. However, as I told you shortly before we went into biostasis, my loyalty isn’t . . . or rather, wasn’t . . . to the government, but rather to a higher power. The ideals of democracy, which I consider to have been stolen from the American people by the Liberty Party. Because of this, I . . .”

“Permission to speak candidly, sir.”

“Granted. I want to hear what you have to say.”

“The reasons why you hijacked this ship aren’t of any interest to me. The fact remains that, by your own admission, you’re a traitor to the Republic. As an officer of the United Republic Service, it’s my sworn duty to remain loyal to my country. Therefore, we have nothing in common . . . sir.”

“I disagree.” Lee sits up straight once more. “We’re both aboard this ship.”

“That means nothing, sir.”

“No, Colonel, it means everything.” Lee gestures to the comp panel above his bunk. “See the date? By Greenwich Mean Time, it’s August 27, 2300 . . . although, by the ship’s calendar, it’s December 7, 2296. Either way you look at it, we left Earth over two and a quarter centuries ago. If the Alabama had been launched on the day the Declaration of Independence was signed, it wouldn’t have arrived here until 2006. . . .”

“And your point is?”

Lee lets out his breath. “Gill, we’re forty-six light-years from home . . . or at least what we used to call home. Since it’s often difficult to realize just how far that is, let me put it to you in less abstract terms. Yesterday I asked my com officer to transmit a message back to Earth, informing whoever might receive it that the Alabama has safely arrived at 47 Uma. No one will hear that message for another forty-six years . . . and if they decide to call back, we won’t receive their response for nearly a hundred years from now.”

For the first time, Reese blinks. Lee presses on. “Colonel, the Republic to which you’ve pledged allegiance is 230 years in the past and over fourteen parsecs away. Whether it still even exists is a matter of conjecture. Subjectively speaking, it may seem to us that the Alabama left home only a few days ago, but so far as everyone on Earth is concerned, we’re history.”

Although Reese stubbornly maintains his poise, Lee notices that his hands have curled into fists. “However, you may still consider it your duty to retake control of the Alabama. If I were you, the thought might cross my mind. You’ve got four of your men aboard, after all, and there may be a few crew members who also remain loyal to Republic.” Judging from the expression on Reese’s face, Lee can tell this notion has occurred to him. “Yet even if you were successful in inciting a mutiny . . . which is unlikely . . . and you were able to turn this ship around and return home . . . which we can’t, because Alabama was designed for one-way travel only . . . it would mean that nearly five hundred years would have gone by since the day we left Earth.” He shrugs. “I hope you’re not expecting a medal, because it’s going to be a long time before you get it.”

Reese no longer stares at the wall. His eyes have lowered to meet Lee’s; it’s hard to read what’s going on behind them, nonetheless Lee can see that he’s beginning to comprehend his situation. “Colonel, I don’t blame you for attempting to stop us,” he continues. “Again, if I was in your position, I might have done the same. You were acting under orders, and I respect that. Yet you and your men refused to leave the Alabama when I gave you the chance to do so. . . .”

“Which makes us your prisoners.” Reese’s voice is cold.

“Not anymore, no.” Lee shakes his head. “I’m sorry I had to place you in biostasis, but there was no other way. I couldn’t allow you to take one of the shuttles back to Highgate, because we’ll need both of them once we reach Coyote, and I wasn’t about to jettison you from the airlock, because that would have been murder. So technically you’re stowaways.” He pauses. “However, I hope you’ll come to accept your situation and decide to join us as crew members . . . reluctant or otherwise.”

For an instant, it seems as if Reese might cave in. His stance relaxes a little, and there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Sensing this, Lee starts to rise from his bunk, prepared to offer his hand in friendship. Then Reese’s expression becomes glacial once more, and he looks away from Lee.

“Thank you for the offer, Captain,” he says. “I’ll present it to my men for consideration.”

“That’s all that I ask, Colonel.” At least for the time being

“Yes, sir. Is that all, Captain?”

“Just one more thing . . .” Lee glances down at the sheet of brittle notepaper he discovered on his desk shortly after he entered his quarters for the first time; like the ledger books, it’s covered with Gillis’s handscript. “Do you know a junior officer aboard this ship? One Eric Gunther . . . an ensign?”

“No, sir.” No visible reaction. “Is there any reason why I should?”

Lee hesitates. “Perhaps not. I just thought you might have met him.”

“That name is unfamiliar to me. May I go now, sir?”

Lee nods; he notes that Reese doesn’t salute him before he turns to leave. Not that he was expecting him to do so; it’s enough that the colonel knows where he and his men stand. Cooperation may or may not come later.

And as for Ensign Gunther . . . that remains to be seen.

The colonel lets himself out, sliding the door shut behind him. Lee lets out in his breath, then reopens the ledger he had been studying before Reese arrived. It’s the first volume of the novel Leslie Gillis had written during his years of solitude; the unlucky crewman had filled thirteen ledger books, with a fourteenth found open on his makeshift desk, his pen still resting upon the sentence he had left unfinished before his mysterious death. Lee had two of his officers bring the ledgers to his quarters before anyone else had a chance to read them. From what little Lee has managed to skim through, however, Gillis’s works comprise a long fantasy epic about the adventures of one Prince Rupurt; the captain believes that this is the young man who appears in the murals Gillis had painted in the ring corridor and the wardroom.

Yet that isn’t what intrigues him. Once more, Lee turns to the first two pages of the first volume. Unrelated to everything else which follows, it appears to be Gillis’s first-person account of having spotted a bright object—“a moving star,” as he describes it—from the wardroom window.

Gillis didn’t give a specific date when he spotted the anomaly—indeed, it seems as if he had taken pains to cover every chronometer within the ship, as if he didn’t want to be reminded of how much time had passed—but he mentioned that the incident occurred about six months after his revival. That would be approximately nine months after Alabama left Earth; the ship would have been deep within interstellar space by then, far beyond the outermost reaches of the solar system.

And then there’s this passage, written in Gillis’s plain handscript:

I’m not certain, but I’m almost sure—dead sure—what I saw was another ship. I don’t know where it came from or where it was going. All my tries to contact it failed, yet there can’t be any other explanation. Maybe I’m desperate, but it can’t be an hallucination or any natural object. I know what I saw. I’m positive it was a starship.

Lee reads this part of the book again. Then, very carefully, he grasps those first two pages of the ledger, rips them from the binding. He takes a few moments to pluck out the scraps of torn paper, then he folds the missing pages in half and slips them into his shelf, hiding them between a pair of operations manuals.

He’ll let others read Gillis’s fantasy novel. In fact, he’ll have someone scan them into the ship’s library subsystem. From what he’s read so far, it seems harmless—tales of a prince wandering across an alien world, that sort of thing—and it might entertain the children. Yet no one else must ever know what Les had seen—what he thought he had seen—during his lonesome ordeal.

Things are much too complicated already.

URSS ALABAMA 8.28.2300 (12.8.2296 rel.) 1206 GMT

“Gentlemen, ladies, may I have your attention, please . . . ?”

Lee patiently waits for everyone to quiet down; only a few seem to have heard him, so he raps his knuckles on the table. “If I could have your attention, please,” he says again, louder this time, “we’ll get started.”

The noise gradually subsides as the crowd turns its attention to him. The mess deck is filled to capacity, and then some; with the exception of a couple of officers who have volunteered to remain on duty in the command center, every man, woman, and child aboard the Alabama has shown up for the meeting. Every seat at the long benches that run down the center of the room has been taken; a couple of dozen people stand against the walls, while others sit cross-legged on the floor. A few are seated on the serving counter, and one person even stands upon the ladder leading down to the wardroom. No one’s comfortable; the ship’s mess was never intended to be occupied by nearly a hundred people at once.

“Thank you all for coming,” Lee continues once the room has gone quiet. He stands at a table on one side of the compartment, the wallscreen behind him. Seated on either side of him are the members of his executive staff. “Sorry about the crowded conditions, but it can’t be helped. With any luck, this will be the last time we’ll have to get together like this . . . or at least aboard ship. The next time we hold a general meeting, it should be where we’ll have a bit more elbow room.”

Laughter, some scattered applause. A small girl squatting on the floor—Marie Montero, if he remembers correctly—looks up at her mother, gives her a querulous scowl. “What does he mean?” she demands. “What’s so funny?” Rita shushes the child, then picks the girl up and settles her in her lap. Lee can’t help but notice that the mother isn’t smiling.

She isn’t the only one who’s unamused. Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the compartment is Colonel Reese, flanked by his troops. Reese gazes stolidly back at him, his arms folded across his chest; Lee observes that, while almost everyone else has either found Alabama ball caps or, as many of the women have done, tied kerchiefs around their shaved heads, the soldiers are wearing their Service berets. He also notes that the civilians are giving them plenty of room; one of the soldiers has propped a foot upon a bench, arrogantly taking up a place where someone could have been seated.

No. This sort of thing can’t go unchallenged. “I think we have another place where someone can sit,” Lee says, then he turns toward the man standing on the ladder and points to bench where the soldier is resting his foot. “We’ve got a seat for you over here, if you want to take it.” Then he locks eyes with the soldier. “I’m sure no one will mind.”

The guy on the ladder hesitates, then climbs down and makes his way toward the vacant seat. The soldier glares at Lee, then Reese whispers something to him, and he reluctantly removes his foot from the bench. The civilian sits down in front of him, careful not to look his way. A few murmurs from around the room, which Lee pretends not to notice.

“As I was saying,” Lee goes on, “I hope this will be the last time we’ll have to meet like this, or at least while we’re still aboard ship. Our present ETA for arrival at our destination is about twelve days from now. By shiptime that’s December 19, 2296 . . . back on Earth, it’s September 8, 2300. Since we’re going by the ship’s clock, the first date is the one that matters. Those of you whose watches are still on Earth-time will want to reset the calendar function to this standard. However, we’ll continue to use Greenwich Mean Time for timekeeping purposes for a little while longer.”

Although the flight crew nod, many of the civilians glance at one another in confusion. Lee was expecting this; indeed, that’s the reason he called the meeting. “There’s a lot about all this that may seem strange,” he says. “Although the flight crew has been specifically trained for this mission, many of the civilians”—he tactfully avoids using the term D.I., with all of its connotations—“are unprepared for what lies ahead.”

Lee reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a remote. “Our current position is here,” he says, as a three-dimensional diagram of the 47 Ursae Majoris system appears on the screen behind him, a small blip moving just within the orbit of Wolf. “About nine days from now, we’ll begin final approach to 47 Uma B. . . .”

Another touch of the remote, and the third planet in the system expands to fill the screen, its satellites revolving around the superjovian. The captain explains the makeup of the three inner satellites and the two outer ones; this is all redundant information to his crew and the civilian scientists who worked on Project Starflight, yet there are quite a few spouses and children among them who may not know these things.

The screen expands again, this time to show a close-up of the fourth moon. Like the others, it remains a featureless sphere. “This is 47 Ursae Majoris B4, also known as Coyote. Until earlier today, this was as much as we knew about its physical appearance . . . everything else we knew about it was through infrared inferometry. A few hours ago, though, we were able to train the navigational telescope on Coyote, and this is what we saw.”

As he turns toward the screen, he can hear the reaction: several audible gasps and whistles, murmurs of astonishment. Lee can’t help but smile, for although the image is grainy and slightly out of focus, nonetheless it provokes wonder.

An earth-toned world, like a marble dyed in shades of green and light brown, crisscrossed by slender blue veins. There are distinct blotches of white at its poles—the ice pack at the north is slightly larger than the one at the south—and skeins of hazy clouds obscure areas north and south of the equator. In a sequence of time-lapse photos, the planet slowly revolves on its axis, revealing a wide blue band that completely circles its equator. Oddly, the planet resembles the photographs made of Mars during the early twentieth century, the ones that led Percival Lowell to believe that the red planet was inhabited by a canal-building intelligent race.

The new world. Lee’s careful not to let his emotions show as he turns toward the crew and passengers once more.

“There it is,” he says quietly. “That is what we’ve come all this way to find.”

Before he can go on, someone starts to applaud. It’s picked by others; people begin rising from their seats, putting their hands together, shouting at the tops of their lungs. He looks across the room, sees only gratitude, admiration, even adulation. Lee feels his face grow warm; being regarded as a hero is not something to which he’s accustomed, nor was it something he ever expected. Embarrassed, he looks away, only to see that his senior officers—Shapiro, Tinsley, Murphy, Okada—have also risen to their feet. Even Sharon Ullman, who hadn’t been part of the conspiracy and who had to be subdued by force when they took control of the Alabama, has joined in.

And yet, even in this moment of triumph, a small voice of doubt nags at him. Once again he remembers the night in Arizona when he lay paralyzed with fear as a hungry coyote prowled around his makeshift sleeping bag. . . .

So he takes a humble bow and says thank you a few times, all while gesturing for everyone to be seated. After a minute or so the room grows quiet; this time the silence is respectful. He clears his throat and, not quite knowing what else to say, picks up where he left off.

“That’s Coyote,” he says, and raises his hand when someone tries to start the ovation all over again. “Its diameter is approximately 6,200 miles, and its circumference is 19,400 miles, with a planetary mass a little more than 75 percent that of Earth’s. So it may be a moon, but still it’s a rather large one . . . almost 30 percent larger than Mars. Which is why it’s been able to retain an atmosphere. . . .”

“But can it support life?” someone calls out from the back of the room.

“In the past couple of days, we’ve managed to confirm our previous information.” Lee fumbles with the remote; a jagged bar graph is superimposed over the telescopic image. “Our new data shows the clear presence of water vapor, and since we’ve got absorption spikes . . . here and here, see . . . of carbon dioxide and ozone, that tends to indicate the strong concentration of atmospheric oxygen and nitrogen, and therefore chlorophyll-producing activity upon the surface. So, yes, there’s already life down there. The planet can support us.”

More murmurs. Several people close their eyes, their shoulders slumping with released tension. A woman seated nearby raises her hand. “What about atmospheric pressure? Do we know anything about that yet?”

“We won’t know for certain until we get there, but since the satellite . . . the planet, rather, for that’s what it is, for all intents and purposes . . . is smaller and less massive than Earth, we can be sure that the air is thinner. Probably more or less the same pressure as you’d find in high-altitude regions back home, such as in the Rockies. That may cause us some problems at first, or at least until we’ve become acclimated.” More hands are raised, but Lee quickly waves them off. “Let me get through this, please, then I’ll field your questions.”

He opens another window on the screen: more statistics, displayed in columns. “Fortunately, Coyote isn’t rotation-locked. Its orbit is far enough from Bear that it’s able to rotate on its axis, with both hemispheres turning toward its primary during its day-night cycle, which lasts approximately twenty-seven hours. Because Bear’s located 2.1 A.U.s from its sun, which is beyond what has been previously considered to be the habitable zone, this should mean that Coyote is unable to support life. However, we’ve managed to confirm the theory that Bear reflects enough sunlight from Uma to warm the atmosphere sufficiently to allow for a greenhouse effect.”

He points to the screen. “We’ve detected a strong magnetic field, which indicates that it has a nickel-iron core . . . probably some tectonic activity, too, which is good. Dog, Hawk, and Eagle are located within Bear’s radiation belt, but Coyote lies outside that, and its magnetic field and atmosphere should shield us from any ionizing radiation. However, it’s just close enough to Bear that the primary’s gravitational pull probably draws away most meteors or asteroids, so we shouldn’t have to worry much about large impacts. And although Coyote follows a circular orbit around Bear, Bear’s orbit around 47 Uma is slightly elliptical. That means Coyote probably has a regular change of seasons, and since there’s no axial tilt, conditions will be the same in both the northern and southern hemispheres. However, considering that Bear’s sidereal period . . . its year . . . is 1,096 Earth-days in length, that means those seasons will be very long . . . about nine months on average. What effect this has on the native life-forms, we’ll just have to see.”

The room is quiet. Everyone gazes toward the screen, taking it all in. “Surface gravity is about 68 percent that of Earth’s,” Lee continues, pointing to another column. “That may sound good, but since we’re also dealing with lesser atmospheric density, it doesn’t necessarily mean we’ll be any stronger. Since Alabama is currently at .45 g’s and decelerating, we’ll probably feel pretty sluggish once we set foot on the surface. I recommend that everyone do the daily exercises Dr. Okada has prescribed. Otherwise, we’re going to have trouble walking when we get down there.”

He points to another column. “However, this is what worries us the most . . . surface temperature. From what we’ve been able to observe, the average nighttime temperature at the equator is about forty degrees Fahrenheit.” Low whistles from the crowd, and several people shake their heads. “However, bear in mind that we’re looking at Coyote’s far side . . . that is, the hemisphere that currently faces away from Bear. It’s likely that the daytime temperatures on the near side may be much more temperate. Also, since Bear is about three-fifths of the way through its sidereal period, Coyote is currently going into what we might think of as late summer or early autumn. So although things are cooling off down there, it’s not going to be that cold all the time.”

Lee clicks back to the original image. “The fact that we’re able to observe water channels tends to support this. The planet seems to be crisscrossed by a complex system of rivers and streams. No major oceans, just lots of channels . . . perhaps a couple of dozen, all interconnected to one another.” He points to the irregular blue band wrapped around the center of the planet. “They seem to drain into a central equatorial river that gets broader on one side of the planet . . . almost the size of a large sea at one point. Again, this is something we’ll have to see once we get closer.”

He puts down the remote. “Anyway, that’s the good news. Coyote appears to be habitable. It may be a bit chilly when we get there, but we’re prepared for that . . . we’ve got plenty of cold-weather gear in storage, and nuclear-thermal generators to keep us warm until we set up the solar farms. It won’t be easy, to be sure, but we’ll manage.”

He glances at Tom Shapiro. The first officer says nothing, but nods ever so slightly. Next to him, Jud Tinsley stares down at his folded hands. Now comes the tough part. . . .

“Here’s the bad news.” Lee’s tone becomes more serious. “As many of you know already, we had an unforeseen . . . um, occurrence . . . during flight. One of our crewmen, Chief Communications Officer Leslie Gillis, was accidentally revived from biostasis about three months after we left Earth. We still don’t know exactly why this happened, only that it was the result of a glitch in the ship’s AI.”

Here, he has to lie. Lee knows more about why Gillis was revived than anyone else aboard the ship, even Shapiro and Tinsley. But it isn’t something he’s willing to share with anyone, or at least not yet. “Mr. Gillis was unable to return to hibernation,” he continues, “yet he survived for the next thirty-two years. The murals in the ring corridor and the wardroom are his work. You may have also noticed a fungal growth on some of the surfaces, such as on the windows. After he died, the food he left in the galley refrigerator went bad, and that caused a bacterial fungus to spread through certain areas of the ship. Dr. Okada assures me that it’s harmless, but you should wash your hands if you’ve had any contact with it.”

Uneasy looks pass from one person to another. Rumors had spread through the ship; now everyone knows the truth. “Les . . . Mr. Gillis . . . had to stay alive during this long period,” Lee goes on, “and in order to do so he consumed rations that were meant to support the rest of us for our first year on Coyote.” Now the expressions become those of alarm, even outrage. “We’ve taken inventory of our remaining rations, and have discovered the worst . . . our immediate food supply has been reduced by a little more than 30 percent. So instead of having a twelvemonth surplus of food, we’re down to about eight months. Perhaps less.”

Someone yells an obscenity; several others slam their hands against the benches. Muted comments roll through the compartment. “What about water and air?” someone demands. “Or did he use up all that, too?”

“Alabama’s life-support systems were able to recycle his waste products into breathable air and water. However, our reserves have been reduced by 20 percent. We’ve got plenty of air and water for the next two weeks or so, but our time aboard ship has been decreased by a considerable factor. Whatever else happens, we’ve got to land soon.” There’s no sense in mentioning all the other things Gillis had used up—clothing, paper and pens, art supplies—and no one needs to know about the enormous quantities of alcohol he had consumed from the contraband liquor Tom reluctantly confessed to having smuggled aboard. “Our major long-term problem here is a shortage of food. . . .”

“But seven or eight months . . .” Jorge Montero shrugs. “That should get us by, shouldn’t it? At least for starters.”

“They’ll last for a while, yes . . . but by the time they run out, it’ll be winter. As I said earlier, the seasons down there are three times as long as those on Earth. Even if we tighten the rations, we’ll still run into severe shortages.” Lee shrugs. “It doesn’t make much difference, really. Even if we had full rations, a food shortage would have been inevitable. The rations were simply a precaution. What all this means is that we have to cut our survey time to a bare minimum, begin farming almost as soon as we establish the colony, and pray that we have enough warm weather to bring up a substantial crop before winter sets in.”

He picks up the remote again, uses it to display a schematic diagram of Alabama. “The cargo and hab modules are designed to be jettisoned from the primary hull and air-dropped to the planet surface,” he says, pointing to the seven cylinders surrounding the ship’s hub. “Over the next ten days we’ll get them ready for that, with essential supplies being transferred to the shuttles. Then, on day eleven, we’ll send an advance party ahead of us in one of the shuttles. Mr. Shapiro here will lead that group.”

The first officer briefly raises his hand, and the captain acknowledges him with a nod before going on. “His team will locate a suitable landing site and ascertain that the planet is capable of supporting human life. By then Alabama will have achieved low orbit. If all works well, the first group of colonists will depart on day twelve, using the other shuttle to rendezvous with the advance team. Once they’re established a base camp, the first shuttle will return to Alabama to pick up the second group of colonists. The second shuttle will then return to Alabama to pick up the remaining crew members—including me—who will by then have jettisoned the modules and repositioned the ship to permanent high orbit.”

“And what if Coyote is unsuitable?” a woman asks. “I mean, what if the advance team discovers that we can’t live there?”

“In theory, the colonists would return to biostasis while the flight crew studies our options . . . either return to Earth, or set out for another star that may have a planet capable of supporting life.” Lee hesitates, and decides that telling the blunt truth is best for all concerned. “Realistically speaking, though, neither of those options is available. Alabama doesn’t have enough reserve fuel left to achieve boost velocity, and if it can’t attain 20 percent light-speed, the fusion ramjet won’t work at maximum efficiency. We wouldn’t be able to make it home, and we don’t know of any other solar systems within our range that have planets capable of supporting human life. In other words, this is an all-or-nothing shot.”

People shift nervously in their seats, give each other uncertain looks. Lee waits a few moments, giving everything he just said a chance to sink in, before he continues. “That means we’ve got to pull together to make this work. Any differences you might have had . . . whether you were actively involved in taking this ship or resisted it, whether you were once a D.I. or a Liberty Party member . . . must be put aside and forgotten. That’s all in the past now. We’re all in the same boat.”

He wants to say more, but it is not the time. Maybe once they’re down on Coyote. . . . “All right, that’s it for now,” he finishes. “Mr. Tinsley here will be drawing up rosters for the first and second landing groups. We need to keep the groups evenly divided, but we don’t want to split up families if we don’t have to, so if you have any specific preferences, please see him. And if you’ve got any further questions, come to me or Mr. Shapiro.” He waits another moment, then raises his hands. “Very well. Meeting adjourned.”

As Lee steps away from the table, crewmen and civilians begin rising from their seats. All around him, voices rise once again as people turn toward one another. Some head for the ladder while a few move toward him and Shapiro. Someone laughs out loud at an unheard joke, and a couple of others join in: a good sign, or at least so he hopes.

The captain casts a wary glance toward the back of the room, catches a brief glimpse of Colonel Reese. His men have gathered around him; it appears they’re having a quiet conference. About what, Lee can only imagine; he can only pray that Reese has spoken sense to them. The captain picks up his remote, turns toward a woman who’s waiting to speak with him . . .

And in that instant, through the crowd, he notices someone staring directly at him. A young ensign, in his late thirties, wearing an Alabama cap.

Eric Gunther: Lee recognizes him at once. Upon discovering the note Gillis left in his quarters, the captain checked his profile in the crew records. A recent FSA recruit, assigned to the Alabama only a few months before launch. Member of the life-support team. Someone Lee had only met once or twice before, and then only very briefly.

In that brief instant, their eyes meet, and Lee sees only loathing, unforgiving hatred. Then Gunther turns away, melting into the crowd. Lee tries to spot him again, but he’s already disappeared. There are too many people in the way . . . and Gunther, of course, doesn’t want to be known by his captain.

Lee suppresses his apprehension; he turns his attention to the woman waiting to talk to him. Once again, though, he has heard a paw settle upon loose pebbles.

URSS ALABAMA 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 0912 GMT

Much to everyone’s relief, the shuttles survived the voyage in satisfactory condition. Chief Monroe’s engineers had spent the last two days inspecting the Jesse Helms and the George Wallace, entering the twin spacecraft to check their avionics systems and going EVA to make sure that their hulls were intact. Both shuttles had been drained of fuel shortly after Alabama had left Earth; yesterday hydrogen was reloaded into their wing tanks, the nuclear engines test-fired. After nearly forty-eight hours of round-the-clock preparation, Dana reported that the shuttles were flightworthy and ready to be taken down to Coyote.

Tom Shapiro picked the Helms for the survey mission; it was the same craft he had piloted from Merritt Island to Highgate, and not only was he familiar with the way it handled, but he also wanted to close the circle by landing the spaceplane again, this time on the new world. Once the craft passed muster with Monroe’s team, Tom spent several hours in the cockpit the night before, reacquainting himself with the controls and rehearsing emergency procedures that everyone hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Sometime during the evening, though, a new thought occurred to him, one that he didn’t share with anyone else.

Lee finds out about it only a few minutes before the Helms departs from Alabama. He’s in the EVA ready room on Deck H5, going over last-minute details with the first officer, when a crewman emerges through the manhole leading to the hub access shaft. During the past eleven days Alabama has shed nearly all of its forward velocity; the magnetic sail has been collapsed, and the passenger decks have returned to microgravity. As the crewman enters the deck headfirst, Lee notes that he’s hauling a nylon bag with something stuffed inside.

Tom looks away from the pad he and Lee have been studying, smiles as the crewman pushes himself over to them. “Ah-ha, Mr. Balis . . . you’ve found it?”

“Yes, sir.” Balis glances nervously at the captain as he extends the weightless bag to Shaprio. “Sorry I took so long. It was in the cargo, but everything’s been moved around so much up there, and I couldn’t . . .”

“Never mind. Just so long as you got it. Thanks.” Shapiro takes the bag, turns to pass it to another crewman waiting near the open hatch of the docking collar. “Mr. LeMare, if you could stow this safely . . .”

“Just a moment, Tom.” Lee reaches out to intercept the bag. “I’m curious to see what you’ve had Mr. Balis locate for you.”

Shapiro frowns, but surrenders the bag without argument. From the corner of his eye, Lee can see Shapiro’s party. Like him and his copilot, Lt. Kim Newell, Dr. Bernard Cayle, and Dr. James Levin are wearing spacesuits, their helmets tucked beneath their arms. No one really believes such precautions are necessary once the team reaches the surface, but Kuniko Okada insists they observe Federal Space Agency protocols for first landing, and as chief physician she has the final word. Cayle and Levin look uncomfortable in the bulky suits—as civilian scientists, they’ve never worn them before now—and Lee notes that they seem as mystified as Lieutenant Newell.

Shapiro waits patiently as the captain loosens the drawstring and peers inside. Lee expects to find a bottle of California champagne from the liquor supply, so he isn’t shocked to find that his suspicion was correct; Les Gillis had consumed most of the booze, but bringing champagne was Tom’s idea in the first place, so Lee can’t begrudge his first officer taking one of the few bottles left. Yet also within the bag is a large metal can; the captain pulls it out, examines it more closely: a half gallon of red waterproof paint, intended for use in building permanent shelters. There’s also a four-inch utility brush within the bag.

Lee looks up. “You want to paint an X on the landing site?”

“Perhaps I do, sir.” Shapiro’s expression remains neutral.

Lee waits another moment for a better explanation; when none is forthcoming, he shoves the can back in the bag and cinches it tight. “Go on, get out of here,” he murmurs. “And leave some for the rest of us . . . the champagne, I mean.”

Shapiro grins as he takes the bag from him. “Seriously, Tom,” Lee adds, “don’t take any chances down there. If you run into any trouble, button yourself up, then call back and tell us what you’ve found.”

The grin fades as Tom solemnly nods. “You know I will.” Then he turns to his team. “Okay, let’s go. We’ve got a planet waiting for us.”

“It’s a moon, actually,” Cayle murmurs as he watches Shapiro enter the docking collar. Newell takes a moment to give her captain a formal salute, which Lee returns before she follows Shapiro through the narrow hatch. Although he tries not to show it, Lee’s grateful for the gesture. Unlike Tom, Kim Newell wasn’t part of the conspiracy; in fact, he knows from reading her crew dossier that she was a Liberty Party member. Apparently she’s decided to put aside political differences for the sake of the expedition; the fact that she and Tom were once Academy classmates may have something to do with it.

Jim Levin hesitates, as if having second thoughts about volunteering his services as exobiologist, then he ducks his head and plunges in after Newell. Cayle waits until his friend has completely disappeared from sight before he clumsily enters the hatch feetfirst. The top of his head has barely vanished before LeMare shuts the hatch behind him and dogs it tight.

Lee pushes himself over to the porthole, peers out at the shuttle suspended within its cradle. After a minute or so, he spots Shapiro and Newell as they enter the glass frames of the bullet-nosed cockpit; its interior lights brighten for a few moments, then become dim. The shuttle’s gull wings unfold from docking position, exposing the duel air-breathing ramjets mounted on the aft upper fuselage. Lee silently counts back from sixty; at the ten-second mark the cradle retracts its grip upon the vehicle. A few seconds later, there’s a brief flare from the maneuvering thrusters; Helms glides upward from its cradle, trailed by sparkling motes of dust and frozen oxygen.

The shuttle falls away from the Alabama. For a few seconds it gradually recedes from view, its thrusters firing now and again. Then the main engine fires, and the craft peels away, and suddenly the Helms is gone, disappearing beneath the starship’s hull.

Lee remains at the porthole for another few moments. Then, almost reluctantly, he turns away, pushing himself toward the access shaft.

URSS JESSE H ELMS 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 1048 GMT

Coming out of the sun, the shuttle descends upon the new world, racing ahead of the dawn as it glides across the night terminator. As the spacecraft falls toward Coyote, a razor-sharp line rises from beyond the curved horizon, lancing straight up into space like a silver thread; a few moments later Bear comes into view, an immense orb the color of a robin’s egg, its ring plane dividing the superjovian in half.

“Will you look at that?” Newell’s voice is an awestruck whisper. “Isn’t that the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Uh-huh. Beautiful.” Shapiro barely glances up from his left-seat console. Coyote and its primary fill the cockpit’s lattice windows, but he can’t afford to let himself get distracted just now. Behind them, he can hear Levin and Cayle murmuring to each another; the scientists may have the luxury of sight-seeing, but they don’t. “Eyes down, Lieutenant. We’ll be kissing air in about sixty seconds.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.” Newell reluctantly returns her attention to the digital gauges on her instrument panel. “Altitude 400,500 feet, velocity seventeen thousand miles per hour. Roll zero, yaw zero, pitch twenty-five degrees.”

“Roger that.” Shapiro gently pulls back on the yoke, hauling the shuttle’s nose up to proper descent angle. He checks the attitude direction indicator; the eight ball is right where it should be, the horizontal bar of the crosshatch dead center with the vertical bar, thirty degrees above the black. He taps his headset mike. “Alabama, this is Helms. Passing daylight terminator, preparing for atmosphere interface. LOS in forty-five seconds. Over.”

A couple of moments pass, then a terse response: “We copy, Helms. Over.” In a few more seconds they’ll lose radio contact as the shuttle enters the ionization layer of Coyote’s atmosphere. This was anticipated, of course, yet Shapiro still feels something clutch at his stomach. The safety net is about to disappear; they’re on their own.

By now Bear has risen almost completely above Coyote. It seems almost impossible that anything in the universe could be so huge; Shapiro deliberately looks away, focusing his attention on the planet below. The horizon has almost completely flattened out; through breaks in the cloud cover he can see a vast expanse of brown landscape crisscrossed by intricate blue veins, with a broad blue band winding down its center. No oceans, only a couple of silver-blue patches that could be seas or large lakes, each interconnected by a maze of channels. A river world.

“Ground track.”

“Ten north, one-sixty northwest. Just above the equator.” Newell studies the digital map of Coyote’s surface; composed only a couple of days ago through radar imaging, it isn’t very detailed, yet it’s the best they have. “Altitude 380,000 feet, velocity . . .”

She’s interrupted by a sudden thump against the bottom of the fuselage. From behind them Shapiro hears Cayle yelp in alarm. “You’re strapped in tight back there, aren’t you?” he calls over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from his instruments. “This may be rocky.”

“We’re okay.” This from Jim Levin. “Don’t worry about us.”

“Just checking.” Shapiro can already see an orange-white corona beginning to form around the shuttle’s nose; the Helms is entering the atmosphere. Another thump, then a sickening plunge; the eight ball confirms that their approach is a little too steep. He compensates by pulling back on the stick. The ADI moves up by more than two degrees, and there’s a gentle sensation of rising as the shuttle’s wings bite into the thin air, yet he doesn’t dare relax. Looks like a nice place down there; it would be shame to mess it up with a new impact crater. . . .

And so they go, ever downward, the cockpit windows becoming opaque as a sheath of superheated air cocoons itself around the spacecraft. The hull softly creaks and groans; Newell calls out numbers every few seconds. Shapiro’s wrists begin to ache from clutching the yoke.

Long minutes pass, then the orange haze gradually dissipates, and suddenly they’re in clear air: a wall of dark blue sky above him, a long smooth expanse of terrain directly below. Only a few clouds between him and the ground: some stratocumulus formations, but that’s all. Bear has reappeared, still looming large within the sky, but now it seems a little farther away, its blue-white hue faded by the atmosphere.

“Altitude 180,000,” Newell says before Shapiro can ask. “Velocity 8,300.”

“Switchover to ramjets.” Shapiro reaches to the panel between them and clicks a double row of toggles. There’s a hard lurch as the airbreathers come on-line. He looks to the left, peers out through his side window. Wispy white contrails stream away from the wingtip and port stabilizer; the shuttle has become an aircraft once more. He shuts off the main engines, glances over at Newell; the color has left her face, but she gives him a wan smile.

“Alabama, this is Helms,” he says aloud. “Do you copy, over?”

“Roger that, Helms, we copy.” Now the voice is clear, with little static. “Good to hear you again. Confirm present position, over.”

Newell checks her panel. “Bearing . . . ah, twelve north, one-three-eight northwest.

“All systems nominal, Alabama.” His gaze shifts across his instruments. “Fuel level at 51 percent.”

“We copy. How’s the terrain? Over.”

Shapiro reaches over to the com panel, switches on the bow camera. Alabama’s flight team should be able to receive an image by now, but they’re depending upon his firsthand judgment, so he gazes through the cockpit windows. To his right, the vast blue expanse of Coyote’s equatorial river, so wide at some points that its southern banks nearly vanish beyond the horizon. Directly below and to his left, though, there’s solid ground; they’re above what looks like a small continent, with a jagged ridgeline running northwest from the northern riverbank to, in the far distance, what appears to be high mountain country. To the east are what appear to be alluvial plains, stretching away from the base of the range. He doesn’t put down anywhere near the highlands, though; thermal updrafts could cause problems for the cargo modules once they’re dropped from orbit.

“Nothing promising yet. It’s pretty steep right around here, and I don’t . . .”

“Sir?” Newell points ahead of them. “Look there . . . eleven o’clock low.”

Shapiro gazes in that direction. Past the edge of the continent, a broad channel empties into the equatorial river. Just past the delta, though, he sees what appears to be a large, tooth-shaped landmass. No mountains, or at least none that he can see from their present altitude, yet as they come closer he can just make out another channel on its far side. An island, albeit an enormous one; as a guess, he estimates that it’s several hundred miles long, perhaps half as much at its widest point.

“Hold on, Alabama. We may have something. Going in for a closer look.” He turns the yoke a few degrees to the left and pitches the nose forward, dropping altitude while making a shallow northeast turn. The horizon tilts to one side; after a few moments he levels off but continues the descent, reaching down to his center panel to raise the wing ailerons.

Now they’re at fifty-five thousand feet, airspeed five hundred miles per hour. Shapiro looks out the window again, studies the island directly in front of them. As he suspected, the two channels he spotted earlier converge at a narrow confluence at its northern tip, making it independent from both the continent they had spotted earlier and two more lying to the east and northeast, with the equatorial river forming its southern boundary.

“Do you see this, Alabama?” he asks.

“We got it, Helms.” He recognizes Lee’s voice; the captain has taken over the mike from his com officer. “Tell us what you’re looking at.”

“It’s an island, skipper . . . a subcontinent, really. I’d say it’s about seven hundred miles long, three or four hundred miles wide at its center. Terrain looks nice and looks flat . . . no mountains, no volcanos . . . with four or five major rivers crossing it from northwest to southeast and draining into the major channels to the west and east.”

“Sounds good. What does your team say?”

Shapiro turns to call back to Levin and Cayle, and is surprised to find that both men have already unbuckled their harnesses and come forward to the cockpit, where they crouch together between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. Levin touches his own mike. “I concur with Commander Shapiro, Captain. It’s isolated from everything else, but more than large enough for our purposes. With any luck those rivers are fresh water.”

“I don’t know.” Cayle appears skeptical. “We could travel farther east, follow the main river, and see what else we find.”

“Our present bearing is ninety-two west, twelve north.” Newell studies her map. “That puts us slightly above the equator, about halfway around the western hemisphere. There may be more islands at zero-zero and zero-ten, but I can’t tell for sure.”

Shapiro checks the fuel gauge. Down to 42 percent. Still enough left in the tanks to make the flyby Cayle suggests, and Helms should be able to refuel itself from the hydrogen in the planet’s atmosphere. Yet the shuttle has to land to be able to do so, and if the indigenous propellant conversion system were to fail for some reason, they would barely have enough fuel available for an emergency return to Alabama.

As if reading his mind, Newell points to the map, holds up two fingers, then makes a fist three times. “I don’t agree, Captain,” he says. “We’re two thousand miles from zero-zero, and I’d prefer not to burn more fuel than we have to. I vote to land here.”

It’s his call, of course, but Newell nods, and Levin gives him a thumbs-up. Cayle hesitates, then reluctantly nods as well. “We concur, Helms,” Lee responds. “Take her down. We’ll continue our survey from orbit. Over.”

“We copy, Alabama. Beginning final descent. Over.” He clicks off the headset, looks back at the two scientists. “Strap in. We’re landing.” Shapiro waits until and Levin and Cayle have retreated to the passenger compartment, then he turns to Newell. “Okay, Kim,” he murmurs, “just pretend we’re in the simulator . . . only no second chances this time.”

She grins at him. “You mean you’ll buy the beer if I get us down without crashing?”

“What’s that about crashing?” Cayle says from behind them.

Newell squeezes her eyes shut and mutters something under her breath. “Never mind, Bernie,” Shapiro replies. “Bad joke.”

One last systems check, then Shapiro banks hard to starboard, pushing the yoke forward as he takes the shuttle down in a shallow gyre. The wings bite into the thicker air; he hears wind whistling past the fuselage, feels the stick tremble within his grasp. He’s landed shuttles nearly a dozen times, but before now he’s always known exactly where he was going: paved strips on Merritt Island, southern California, or west Texas, where there would always be a double row of landing beacons and the soothing voice of a ground controller to help guide him in.

Which is what makes this landing feel so surreal. Shapiro has been a pilot nearly all his life—his first flight was at age fourteen, when he climbed behind the stick of his uncle’s home-built ultralight—but never before has he ever seen a landscape so empty. Vast tracts of what look like grassy savannah, with a labyrinthine network of streams running between dense wooded areas—but no roads, no plowed fields, no buildings of any sort. Flying over the most remote desert on Earth, there’s always some sign of human habitation, even if it’s only a dirt road. Here, there’s nothing of the kind, only wilderness. Intellectually, it’s what he expected, yet knowing that Coyote is uninhabited is not the same as seeing it for himself.

Leveling off at three thousand feet, he follows a low ridgeline running along the eastern channel until he makes a northwest turn and flies inland, tracking a narrow river as it meanders through marshland. Newell continues to read him numbers, then her breath catches as, just for an instant, they catch a glimpse of something that looks like a bird, yet not like any bird seen on Earth—something like a cross between a hawk and a small pterodactyl—soaring beneath them. In a moment it’s gone, but it’s all Shapiro can do to keep himself from craning his neck to see where it went.

“Did you see that?” Newell’s eyes are huge.

“Uh-huh.” Shapiro grins back at his copilot, then nods toward the console. “C’mon, pay attention to your board, or you’re buying the drinks.”

Now they’re nearly thirty miles inland. The terrain is utterly flat, not a hill in sight; nothing but high meadow cut through by the river. “Looks like as good a place as any,” Shapiro says, and Newell nods in agreement as he touches his headset mike. “Alabama, this is Helms. Going for touchdown.”

“We copy, Helms. Good luck. Over.”

Shapiro throttles down the jets, then powers up the VTOLs. The hull shudders as the shuttle comes to a near standstill in midair; the nose comes up for a moment, then settles back to a horizontal position. He nudges the yoke forward a little, glances at the eight ball, sees that they’re in perfect trim. “Wheels down,” he says, and Newell reaches up to click a row of toggles. A grinding sound as the landing gear fold down from their wells. “All right, let’s take it nice and easy. . . .”

The shuttle slowly descends upon the grasslands. Newell recites the altimeter readings—one thousand, nine hundred, eight hundred, seven hundred—while Shapiro keeps his right hand loose on the yoke, ready to grab the throttle and climb back to higher altitude should anything go wrong. But nothing like that happens; at four hundred feet, he increases vertical thrust, and at two hundred he inches it up a little more. Through the cockpit windows he can see the high grass spreading away from them, flattened out by the jet blast.

“One hundred feet . . . seventy . . . sixty . . .”

His mouth is dry. Shapiro licks his lips, prays that he’s not setting down in a swamp. Yet between clearings in the grass he can see what looks like dry ground; this gives him confidence, so he continues the descent.

“Thirty . . . twenty-five . . . twenty . . .”

Tufts of grass and dark brown dirt fly up around the cockpit, littering the windows with debris. Something that looks like a tiny grasshopper skitters down the pane in front of him, falls off the side. Even at this moment, Shapiro can’t help but note that a half dozen generations of exobiologists would have sold their souls for such an experience.

“Fifteen . . . ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

“That’s okay, Kim,” he murmurs. “I can take it from here.”

Instinctively, relying on nothing more than his feel for the craft, he pulls the throttle back to nearly vertical position. A dense roar that shakes him within his seat, and then a solid whump against the undercarriage as the wheels meet the surface.

“Contact.” He shoves the throttle firmly into lock position. “Engines down.” The craft rocks a little on its gear, then settles down. “All systems nominal,” he says, checking his board. “Safe engines.” Newell follows his lead by switching off the VTOLs; she glances at him, briefly nods. Shapiro lets out his breath, touches his mike. “Alabama, we’re on the ground.”

No response for several seconds, longer than would be necessary to receive verbal communication from Alabama. For a moment Shaprio wonders whether they’ve lost telemetry, then from behind him he hears Cayle and Levin yelling at the top of their lungs. There must be the same reaction aboard the ship; he can only imagine the scene within the command center, if not throughout the entire vessel.

“Helms, this is Alabama.” Now he hears Captain Lee’s voice, if only faintly; there’s a lot of noise in the background. “We copy you safe and on the ground. Thanks, Tom. We’ve got a lot of smiling faces up here.”

Shapiro looks first at Newell, then back at Levin and Cayle. “And four more here, skipper. I think . . .”

He hesitates, just long enough for Newell to notice his reticence. “I think the pilgrims would have approved,” he finishes. “We’ll be in touch. Plymouth over and out.”

Newell gives him a sharp look. “Plymouth?”

He doesn’t reply as he switches off the radio. Let her wonder . . .

FSA mission protocols for first landing called for them to put on their helmets, pressurize their suits, and exit the shuttle through the small airlock located in the rear of the passenger compartment. Yet even as they prepare to disembark, one look at everyone’s faces tells Shapiro that no one relishes that idea. For one thing, the airlock can accommodate only two people at a time; Levin and Cayle would have to remain aboard for ten more minutes, waiting for the airlock to recycle before they can join him and Newell on the surface.

And second, how necessary is it for them to wear EVA equipment on a planet with an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere? Although Jim Levin points out that the air could be rife with microorganisms against which they have no natural immunity, the normally cautious Bernie Cayle surprises the others by countering that this is a risk that the colonists will have to confront eventually, so they might as well get it over and done with.

In the end, Shapiro makes the final decision: they’ll roll the dice and leave the shuttle through the forward hatch. As expected, no one disagrees. So they spend a few minutes struggling out of their cumbersome suits, then Newell twists the lockwheel that unseals the floor hatch.

A loud pop, followed by a prolonged hiss as overpressurized cabin air floods through the open hatch. Shapiro opens a candy-striped panel above the hatch, flips a pair of toggles, and presses an orange button; the boarding ramp grumbles as it folds down upon its pneumatic jacks. Everyone gives each other one last, hesitant look, as if waiting to see who’s going to die first.

“Come on,” Shapiro says quietly. “Let’s see what’s down there.”

He leads the way down the ramp, his boots clumping on the metal steps. The outer hull ticks softly as it sheds the last of the entry heat. The blast from the VTOL jets has flattened the grass in a wide swath around the shuttle; he observes that the forward landing gear has sunk a couple of inches into the ground, with dirt sprayed across the tires and wheel brace.

Shapiro halts at the bottom of the ramp, turns to look at the others. “Any historic words, anyone?”

“ ‘One small step for man . . .’ ” Bernie begins, and Newell and Levin laugh.

“It’s been done.” Then, not knowing what else to say or do, Shapiro steps off the ramp.

The ground is firm, yet moist and loamy; two more steps, and both feet are on the ground. He slowly walks out from beneath the fuselage and feels warm sunlight upon his face. He takes a deep breath; the air is thin, and for a few moments he feels giddy, as if he’s standing on a high mountain plateau, yet he can taste the high, rich scent of summertime: sun-baked meadows, morning dew, fresh mud.

He turns, taking it all in. Thick, tawny grass the height of his shoulders, stretching as far as the eye can see, with clouds of tiny insects swarming above them like white motes of dust. A few dozen yards away, a small cluster of brown plants that look like onions the size of medicine balls, violet flower tops resembling irises protruding from their apexes upon long, thin stalks. In the distance, he can make out a grove of trees: black, twisted trunks from which thick dark branches spread upward and outward, flattening out at the top like enormous Japanese bonsai.

He looks back toward the shuttle, and his breath catches as he sees Bear looming above the western horizon, a blue hemisphere that fills half the sky, larger than any mountain he’s ever seen. 47 Ursae Majoris, smaller than Earth’s sun and half as brilliant, rises from the east, casts a silver tint across Bear’s rings until their leading edges fade from view in the depths of the dark blue sky.

And it’s quiet. Only the soft rustle of an Indian summer breeze as it moves through the grass, the rhythmic purr of something that sounds a little like cicadas, only lower-pitched. Again, he realizes that this place has never felt the human presence. Even if he had decided to quote Neil Armstrong, those words would have been inappropriate, for those words had been spoken on the Moon, a world that had always overlooked Earth. Although Coyote might bear some superficial resemblance to his home planet, it’s not Earth. . . .

A sudden slap, a muttered obscenity. Shapiro looks around to see Bernie Cayle remove his hand from his neck. “Damn mosquito.” Then he examines his palm more closely, raises his eyebrows. “Maybe not. You should see the wings on this thing. . . .”

First contact. Shapiro grins, but says nothing.

“I think it’s time to pull out the med kit.” Levin starts walking back to the shuttle. Everyone has been inoculated, but Okada told them not to take any chances. “Where do you keep it, commander?”

“It’s back in the cargo net. The case marked with a red cross.” Shapiro begins to follow Levin toward the shuttle, then he feels a soft hand close around his wrist. He turns, finds Newell standing next to him. Perhaps she’s been there all the time, but he simply hasn’t noticed.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “He’ll find it.” She lets her head fall back, and the warm sunlight catches the soft stubble of dark hair on her scalp. Not for the first time, Shapiro observes that Kim Newell is a very beautiful woman. “Oh, God, can you believe it? It’s like Eden or something. . . .”

He almost laughs out loud. “You know, no offense, but that’s the worst cliché in the book. . . .”

“It is?” She gives him a coy smile. “Which one are you talking about?”

The one in at least a dozen bad stories he read as a kid. He starts to answer, then thinks better of it. “Never mind. I’ll tell you some other time.” Trying not to be rude, he gently slips his arm from her grasp. “I think we better let Alabama know we’re safe. And see about setting up camp . . . Lieutenant.”

“Of course.” Whatever romantic impulse had seized Newell fades away; now she’s an officer once more. She steps away, her face reddening. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” He almost says forget it, but he doesn’t want her to do that. “Let’s do what we’ve been sent here to do. All right?”

“Sure.” She hesitates. “Just one thing. When you signed off . . . I mean, when you ended contact with Alabama . . . you did so as Plymouth, not Helms. What did you mean by that?”

Shapiro shrugs. “The same thing you meant when you called this place Eden.” Her smile returns, but this time there’s a hint of confusion in her eyes. He cocks his head toward the shuttle. “Find that paint can I brought aboard, and I’ll show you.”

URSS ALABAMA 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 1732 GMT

Like virtually everywhere else aboard the Alabama, Deck C4B is a scene of chaos barely under control. Cardboard boxes packed with personal belongings lie everywhere, lashed to the floor by elastic cords, while bunk cushions are being rolled up and passed hand over hand to people waiting to carry them to the cargo modules. Crewmen and passengers are busy stripping Module C4 to the bulkheads; as Jud Tinsley makes his way through the narrow aisles, he has to twist and turn every few feet to avoid a collision with someone else.

The executive officer dodges a crewman using an electric screwdriver to unbolt a wall terminal as he follows the numbered plaques fastened to the bunk frames; after a minute he locates berths C4B-09 through C4B-12. At first, it seems no one is there; he’s about to turn away when he hears someone quietly tapping at a keypad. Tinsley ducks his head, pushes aside the curtains of a lower bunk to peer within.

Hidden in its shadows, a teenage boy floats upside down, his legs crossed as if in sitting position. He holds a pad within his hands, his face backlit by the pale blue illumination of the screen he’s reading. On the other side of the bunk, a little girl is curled up in a fetal position, clutching a pillow in her sleep.

“Excuse me,” Tinsley says softly, and the boy looks up—or down, rather—from his pad. “I’m looking for Jorge and Rita Montero . . . have you seen them?”

“That’s my parents.” The kid says glances at the girl to make sure she hasn’t been disturbed. “Aren’t they out there?”

“No, they aren’t.” Tinsley gives him a smile. “That’s why I’m asking you. Your dad wanted to see me about shuttle assignments.” As he speaks, he opens his own pad, checks the crew roster. This would be Carlos Montero and his sister, Marie.

“Oh, yeah. Right. I know what this is about.” Carlos thumbs the top of his pad, bookmarking his place. “Papa saw we’re. . . I mean, my mother, my sister, and me . . . are on the first shuttle, but he’s on the second, so he wants to see if he can trade seats within someone on the first shuttle so he can fly down with us. That’s what this is about . . . sir, I mean.”

The kid gives him a respectful and unnecessary salute; Tinsley grins as he returns the gesture. “At ease, Mr. Montero. Let me check.” This isn’t the first request of this kind he’s had to handle; although Captain Lee promised not to split up any families, the logistics of seating arrangements have made this difficult to keep. As the X0 scrolls down the roster, he notes that the boy has returned his attention to his pad. “What’s that you’re reading?”

“The Chronicles of Prince Rupurt.” Carlos doesn’t look up. “I’m at the part right after he’s met the Duchess L’Enfant and fought the Boids.”

That’s the long novel Les Gillis wrote. Several days ago, Captain Lee requested that its handwritten pages be scanned into Alabama’s library system; Tinsley has heard that some of the kids have downloaded the book into their pads, but this is the first time he’s actually seen someone reading it. “Is it any good?” he asks, and Carlos nods in a distracted way; he’s completely absorbed by the story. “Think I might like it?” The boy shrugs noncommittally, an expression of mild annoyance upon his face.

The XO is about to inquire how much he’s read so far when he hears someone coming down the aisle. Looking around, he sees Jorge Montero gliding past the row of empty bunks. “Oh, hey, I was just trying to find you,” Tinsley begins. “Your son tells me you’re . . .”

“You’ve found him?” Montero glares past him into the bunk, spots the kid. “I thought I told you to help your mother pack the medical equipment.”

Carlos blanches. “She wanted me to baby-sit Marie. She was getting in the way, and Mama wanted her out of there, so she told me to bring her back up here and keep on eye on her. . . .”

“Sure she did.” Montero pushes himself forward, almost shoving Tinsley out of the way. “I bet you just wanted to read some more.”

Carlos is about to retort when Tinsley decides to intercede. “Maybe, but he’s doing a good job of holding down the fort. If he hadn’t told me what you wanted, I might have given up on trying to find you.”

Montero looks up at him. “He’s already talked to you?” he asks, and Jud nods. Somehow, throughout all this, his daughter has remained asleep; either that, or she’s chosen to stay out of the argument by playing possum. Her father relents a little. He bends down to peer into the bunk. “Okay, c’mon out of there and go help Mama. I’ll keep an eye on your sister.”

Carlos closes his pad and shoves it into his pocket, then pulls himself out of the bunk. He gives Tinsley a brief smile of gratitude before he shoves off, almost colliding with a crewman as he coasts down the aisle. “And don’t let me catch you goofing off again!” Montero yells after him, then he gives Tinsley an apologetic shrug. “Kids . . .”

Tinsley wants to tell Montero to ease up on his son; last time he checked, the situation in Deck C7A was under control, and Dr. Okada didn’t need any more volunteers. But this was obviously a family matter, and none of his business. “Yes, well . . . anyway, he told me that you want to trade seats with someone on the first shuttle so the four of you can stay together.”

“Uh-huh.” Montero turns so that he can study Tinsley’s pad from over his shoulder. “I don’t know how we got separated, but that’s what happened. If you can move someone else to the Helms so I can go down on the Wallace . . .”

“I don’t know how it happened either, but we’ve still got a problem.” Tinsley runs the cursor down the passenger manifest for the Wallace, the shuttle scheduled to ferry the first group of colonists down to the surface after—or rather, if—Tom Shapiro’s team reports that conditions on Coyote are satisfactory for colonization. “I’ve been reshuffling seat assignments all day, and right now every seat on the Wallace is taken. You’re just one of several families who want to stay together, and with two children you’re one of the larger ones. It’s going to be hard for us to . . .”

“Oh, c’mon!” Montero’s temper begins to rise once more. “Who helped you launch without authorization? Don’t you owe me something for that?”

Yes, you did, Tinsley says silently. And for your efforts, you’ve already received your reward: safe passage for you and your family away from the Republic, which otherwise would have detained you within a government reeducation center for the rest of your lives. So count your blessings. . . .

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.” Tinsley shuts his pad. “If you can find someone who’s willing to trade seats with you, I’ll be more than happy to oblige, but right now everyone wants to get off this ship as soon as . . .”

“Sir . . . excuse me?”

Tinsley looks over his shoulder, finds the crewman he spotted a moment ago coming down the aisle: a thin young man wearing an Alabama ball cap. The name patch above the breast pocket of his jumpsuit reads GUNTHER, E.

“Yes, Mr. Gunther? Can I help you?” Tinsley barely recognizes him; another low-rank member of Alabama’s crew.

“Pardon me for eavesdropping, sir, but . . .” Gunther hesitates. “Well, I think I can help out here.”

“Oh? If you have a suggestion . . .”

“Well . . . I’m on the list for the Wallace, but there’s no real reason for me to go down that early, other than to help set up camp. If it’s all the same with you, sir, I could trade seats with . . . um, this gentleman here.”

Jorge becomes hopeful. “You’d do this? I would be most grateful.”

“It’s a good idea, but . . .” Tinsley opens his pad again, rechecks his list. “It’s not going to be that easy. We’re trying to keep crew members and colonists evenly dispersed. If I move you onto the Helms, that means there’s going to be one less crewman aboard the Wallace . . .”

“Then I’ll ride down on the Wallace when it makes its second trip.” Gunther shrugs. “I can stay behind to help with the close-out.”

Tinsley raises a eyebrow. A small group of crew members is slated to remain aboard the Alabama until the end; their job will be to jettison the cargo and habitation modules, then assist Captain Lee with preparing to insert the ship into high orbit. Almost no one has volunteered to remain aboard the ship; now that they’ve reached Coyote, everyone is anxious to leave its cramped quarters and breathe fresh air once more. Indeed, there’s been much grumbling among the half dozen or so crewmen Tinsley recruited for the job; it may be the captain’s duty to be the last person to leave the ship, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anyone who joins him has to be happy about it.

“If you don’t mind doing so . . .”

“Not at all. I’m sure the captain could use an extra hand.” Then Gunther smiles and pats the bulkhead. “And I’d kind of like to see the old lady one last time.”

“Suit yourself.” Crooking his elbow around a bulkhead rail to anchor himself, Tinsley moves Jorge Montero’s name from the Helms to the Wallace, then adds Eric Gunther’s name to the short list of crewmen who’ve been drafted to the close-out team.

“Thank you, sir,” Jorge says to him, then he turns to Gunther. “And thank you, too. . . . I’m in your debt.”

Still smiling, Gunther shakes his head. “Think nothing of it. It’s my pleasure.” Then he glances at Tinsley. “If you’ll excuse me, sir . . .”

Tinsley nods, and watches as Gunther pushes himself away. How fortunate that he should come along at exactly the right time . . . and yet, it’s odd that he can’t remember his face or name. Jud thought he’d come to know everyone who had gone through flight training, regardless of whether or not they had been involved in the conspiracy, but this ensign is unfamiliar to him. Of course, with more than fifty crew members aboard . . .

“Glad we could work that out,” he says, snapping his pad shut. “I’ll let you get back to work.” He hesitates, then softly adds, “And don’t be so hard on your son, okay? We’re not on a deadline here.”

Embarrassed, Montero nods and glances away. Tinsley gives him a pat on the shoulder, then kicks off the side of the bunk and floats back down the aisle. One more job done, about two dozen more to go. Maybe there’s still some coffee left in the wardroom. Unless, of course, that’s been packed away, too. . . .

His headset chirps, and he touches the mike. “XO here.”

“Dwyer here, Cargo C6D. We may have a problem, sir . . .”

“Go ahead, Mr. Dwyer. What do you got?”

“Sir, I’ve just inventoried the small-arms locker. We’re missing a weapon.”

Unsure of what he’s just heard, Tinsley reaches up to the ceiling, grabs a rail to brake himself. “Come again?”

“A gun, sir. I’ve just checked the armaments locker. The cargo manifest shows ten .38 parabellums stored in Bin C6D-13F, but when I opened it a few minutes ago I discovered only nine, with an empty wrapper where the tenth one should be. And when I checked the ammo in the next bin, I found that a magazine had been taken as well.”

Tinsley feels a chill. Alabama carries a small supply of rifles and handguns among its survival equipment, just in case Coyote has hostile natives. No one ever believed it would be necessary to keep them under lock and key; on the other hand, no one ever believed that anyone except loyal URA citizens would be aboard. Besides, access to firearms was one of fundamental rights guaranteed by the Second Amendment of the Revised Constitution. A nice idea . . . but like much of libertarian philosophy, it only works if everyone is on the same side and no one breaks the rules. The Republic, of course, made sure that no one violated the Second Amendment by passing laws that permitted only Liberty Party members to own guns.

“Stay there,” Tinsley says quietly, “and don’t tell anyone else what you’ve found. I’m on my way.” Then he clicks off and scrambles toward the nearby ladder.

Coyote Base 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 1932 GMT

“Good news, people,” Bernie Cayle calls out as he marches down the shuttle ramp. “I’ve finished testing the plant samples, and we’re in luck . . . right-handed amino acids.”

He expects a reaction from the rest of the advance team; not getting one, he stops at the bottom of the ramp, looks around. 47 Uma is setting behind the western horizon, casting a wan twilight radiance across the marsh. Bear has risen high in the dark purple sky, its ring plane a silver spike across the heavens. A shallow pool of light from an electric lantern surrounds the campsite, throwing shadows from the dome tents that have been erected. Now that the sun is going down, the wind has picked up; the evening is cool, and Bernie regrets having left his parka inside the shuttle.

Jim Levin sits on a storage container, tending the campfire with a stick. Kim Newell stands a few feet away, hands thrust within her parka. Like Jim, she’s also staring up at the shuttle; noting her irate expression, Bernie walks out from beneath the spacecraft, looks in the direction she’s gazing.

Tom Shapiro is seated on the shuttle’s port wing, his legs dangling over its edge, the upper hatch open behind him. Another lantern is propped on the wing next to him, and within its glow Bernie can see Shapiro’s handiwork. Where once URSS Jesse Helms and the URA flag had been stenciled on the fuselage is now a broad red swatch, and above it Shapiro has painted a single word: Plymouth.

Noticing Bernie for the first time, the first officer grins down at the biochemist. “Like it? Might as well make it official before we return.” Then he looks at his copilot. “Or do you still want history to record that first ship to land on Coyote was called the Jesse Helms?”

Newell gives him a sullen glare. “As if my opinion matters . . .”

“If you want to add your objection to the official log, go ahead and do so.” Shapiro reseals the paint can, then drops the wet brush to the ground below. “But I bet you can’t tell me who Jesse Helms was.”

Newell scowls, but says nothing as she turns away. Wrapping his arms around himself, Bernie follows her to the campsite. “If it makes any difference,” he murmurs, “I don’t know who he was either.”

She opens a food container and pulls out a ration pack. The upper hatch creaks softly as Shapiro closes it behind him. “That’s not the issue. I just don’t like seeing the flag painted over. Maybe you guys are D.I.s, but I was raised to be a patriotic citizen. . . .”

“So was I.” Levin doesn’t look up from the fire. “But the flag I grew up with had fifty stars, not just one.” He hesitates, then adds, “And I’d thank you not to refer to me as a D.I. in the future.”

Bernie smiles to himself. The fact that Coyote has passed a subtle yet crucial test of its habitability has gone unnoticed by these people. If his tests of the plant samples had shown them to have a left-handed genetic structure, any attempt to colonize Coyote would have been doomed; none of its vegetation could have been safely consumed, nor could any Earth crops been successfully cultivated from native soil. Theoretically, the odds of Coyote’s indigenous life-forms having dextro-configured amino acids were fifty-fifty, yet this was something no one could have determined in advance. The universe had rolled the dice in their favor; in the face of such of fortune, politics are trivial.

“I don’t know about you, but I think this is a great place for a settlement.” He reaches into the container and finds another ration pack. The compressed brown square inside is unappetizing, but it’s the closest thing they have to food; he tears open the plastic wrapper with his teeth, digs out the fruit bar. “The soil is loaded with nitrogen . . . notice how dark it is? And that creek over there has fresh water. . . .”

“Good for farming,” Levin says, and Bernie nods. “Still think we should have landed elsewhere?”

“I didn’t say we . . .”

“What’s to eat?” Shapiro tramps down the ramp. Much to Bernie’s surprise, he’s carrying his parka. “Thought you might need this,” he says, tossing the coat to him. “Don’t want to catch cold.”

“Thanks.” Bernie catches the parka, pulls it around his shoulders. Twilight has faded, and night is settling in. Bear outshines all but the most brilliant stars: like autumn moonlight back on Earth, only many times brighter. He gazes up at the superjovian. “First night on Coyote,” he says, thinking out loud. “Damn. Still can’t believe we’re really here . . .”

“Likewise.” Jim Levin stands up, opens the container he’s been using for a seat. “In fact, I think it’s time for a celebration.”

“I second the motion.” Shapiro replies, watching as Levin pulls out the bottle of champagne. He fishes in the pocket of his parka, pulls out a utility knife. “It doesn’t have a corkscrew, but you might be able to . . .”

Suddenly, from somewhere in the night, a scream.

It ripples across the dark marsh, a high-pitched shriek that sounds like an animal having its throat cut. It sustains for a few moments, then diminishes, as if swallowed by the tall grass.

No one says anything. For a few moments, everyone freezes in place, staring into the darkness just beyond the dim glow of the firelight.

“What the hell was . . . ?” Newell begins.

They hear it again: another howl, as insane as the one before, yet louder this time. Closer . . .

“I’ve heard roosters that sound like that.” Levin puts down the champagne bottle, picks up a lantern. “Maybe it was a boid.”

“A what?” Shapiro puts the knife back in his pocket . . . then, apparently thinking better of it, pulls it out again. “If that’s a bird, it’s a big one.”

“Not a bird . . . a boid.” Levin holds the lantern high as he turns around, searching for the source of the sound. “A monster from the Prince Rupurt book . . . sort of like a giant chicken, only with a bad attitude. My kids have been reading them.”

Again, the weird cry . . . only this time, barely a few moments later, they hear it repeated from behind, as if it’s been echoed. Yet there are no nearby hills to reflect the sound; Bernie instantly knows there must be another creature in the area.

He’s not the only one to reach this conclusion. “That’s no chicken, and I don’t like this one bit.” Shapiro turns to the others, snaps his fingers. “Okay, everyone, back in the ship.”

Levin glances back at him. “You’ve got to be kidding. This could be our first chance to . . .”

“And it could be our last chance, too . . . and put down that light! It might be attracting them.” Shapiro looks at Newell. “Kim, grab the fire extinguisher and put out the fire. Bernie, Jim, get whatever you can carry and move it inside. Leave the tents . . . they’ll take too much time to take down. C’mon, hustle.”

Levin reluctantly lowers the lantern, switches it off. “You don’t think you’re overreacting a little, do you?”

“If you’d like to stay out here tonight . . . no, forget I said that. We’re not taking that risk.” Shapiro bends to grab the handles of an equipment case. “That’s an order, Dr. Levin. We’ll have our drink once we’re aboard.”

Bernie shares a look with Levin. Both of them have had their scientific curiosity aroused; until now, the most they’ve seen of Coyote’s inhabitants has been brief glimpses of hawklike flying creatures and small brown animals that quickly vanish into the tall grass. This is an opportunity to see another native creature in its native habitat; as the survey team’s biologists, this is what they were sent down to discover and examine. Yet Bernie can’t deny that what they just heard makes the bristles on his scalp feel as if they’re standing on end.

Jim shrugs, picks up the container upon which he’s been sitting. “So long as we’re still drinking champagne tonight.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get another chance.” Lugging the case, Shapiro heads for the Plymouth. “Boid or no boid, we’re here to stay.”

URSS ALABAMA 9.7.2300 (12.19.2296 rel.) 2018 GMT

“No, I think you did the right thing,” Lee says. “But you say you haven’t seen anything?”

“Not yet, skipper.” Shapiro’s voice comes through the speaker above the com station. “We put out the fire, but Dr. Levin insists we leave one lantern outside to see if we can draw it closer. So far, nothing. I’m going to post a watch, though, just to be sure.”

Lee shifts uneasily in his seat. Although he hasn’t said so, he’s half-inclined to order the first officer to bring his team home; he’s all too aware that they’re unarmed, ill equipped to fend off a potentially dangerous inhabitant. Yet what would be the point? Even if the Helms—or rather the Plymouth, he reminds himself—had landed elsewhere on the planet, it’s unlikely that the situation would be any different. Sooner or later, they’re going to have to deal with whatever’s down there.

“Very well,” he says. “Stay in the ship until tomorrow morning, then see if you can find any tracks . . . but keep your people close to the shuttle.” He glances at the chronometer. “Unless we hear different from you, we’ll proceed with our schedule. Wallace launches at oh-six-hundred tomorrow, and it should be on the ground by twelve hundred. I’ll make sure the first group is armed.”

“We copy, sir. We’re looking forward to seeing them.” The transmission is becoming scratchy as Alabama passes out of radio range from Coyote Base. “We’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“Very good, Plymouth. Alabama out.” Lee switches off, then turns to the crewman seated next to him. “Remain at this post,” he says quietly, “and monitor this channel whenever we pass over the landing site. If you hear anything, notify me at once. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Swenson stifles a yawn as she adjusts her headset, then reaches for the coffee bulb clipped above her console. Lee gives her a pat on the shoulder, then unbuckles himself from his seat and pushes away from the com station.

The command center is nearly empty. Only a few crew members remain at their stations; the others are either helping the first load of colonists prepare to leave or are trying to get a few hours of sleep. Indeed, Lee could use some rest himself; his eyes feel grainy, his temples tight with a mild headache. He’s been on duty for nearly twenty hours, and he tries to remind himself that he won’t be much good to anyone if he’s exhausted. But he’s also aware that if something were to go wrong with the survey mission, it’ll probably happen within the first twenty-four hours.

And besides, there are a couple of important matters that need to be settled. . . .

As the captain pulls himself along a ceiling rail toward his chair, the hub access hatch opens. Looking around, Lee watches as Colonel Reese glides into the compartment, accompanied by one of his men—Schmidt, if he remembers his name correctly. This is the first time Reese has been allowed to visit the flight deck, yet he somehow behaves as if he’s in command; if he could walk in zero gravity, he’d probably swagger. Once again, Lee finds himself offended by the colonel’s arrogance although he’s careful not to let it show.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” Reese asks.

“Yes, I do. Thanks for coming on such short notice.” Lee grasps the arm of his chair, pivots around to seat himself. “I expect you and your men have been keeping yourselves busy.”

“Yes, sir, we have.” Reese reaches up to grasp the ceiling rail. “We’ve been helping load cargo aboard the Wallace, as you’ve requested.”

“Thank you. I’m sure my exec appreciates your assistance.” Lee pulls a pad from his breast pocket, opens it to touch its screen. Through the windows, the daylight side of Coyote coasts into view: a vast swatch of brown, laced by the complex veins of its river system. It’s a spectacular vista, but Lee barely notices it as he studies the pad. “I see you’re scheduled to ride down on the Plymouth once it returns from the base camp.”

“The Plymouth?” Reese exchanges a look with Schmidt. “You mean the Helms, don’t you?”

“No, I mean the Plymouth. My first officer has taken the liberty of rechristening it. I suspect Mr. Tinsley will do the same with the Wallace. He’s got a good sense of humor, so I suspect he’ll want to call it the Mayflower.” Lee allows himself a wry grin. “Or at least that’s my suggestion.”

“And I suppose you intend to rename this ship the Jolly Roger . . .”

“No. Alabama is fine with me.” Lee doesn’t look up from the pad. “I’m reassigning you and your men from the Plymouth to Mr. Tinsley’s ship, whatever he wants to call it. You’ll accompany the first group of colonists . . . if you don’t have any objections, that is.”

Silence. Even without looking at him, Lee can tell he’s caught the colonel by surprise. “Furthermore, I’m instructing Mr. Balis to release your weapons to you as soon as you’ve reached Coyote Base, and to supply you with whatever further firearms you may wish to request. I want you to be fully prepared as soon as you step off the shuttle. Do you understand, Colonel?”

A reticent pause. Lee gazes directly at Reese. Although the colonel’s face remains stolid, there’s a certain glint in his eyes. Behind him, Schmidt is trying not to gloat. “I see,” Reese says at last. “You’ve found something down there, haven’t you?”

“Maybe. We don’t know yet. The survey team heard something that doesn’t sound right, and I don’t want to take any chances.” Lee folds the pad, puts it back in his pocket. “My people could probably take care of any situation . . . most of them are former military, so they’ve received weapons training . . . but I doubt any of them has pulled a trigger outside a boot-camp firing range. Your guys are combat vets. When it comes to protecting lives, I’d rather have experienced men on the ground.”

“I see your point.” Reese remains taciturn. “Good idea.”

Lee folds his hands in his lap, stares back at him. “I can imagine what you’re thinking, Colonel. If your men are armed, you can stage an insurrection. Take control of Coyote Base, and be in a position to dictate terms of surrender before I arrive on the last shuttle.” Reese’s expression doesn’t change, and Lee shakes his head. “Even if you did that, it wouldn’t do you much good. First, you won’t have anywhere to go . . . Alabama will be stripped to the bulkheads, and I’ve already told you that we don’t have enough fuel for a return flight. Second, five men can’t control ninety-eight people for very long. Not unless you’re willing to shoot anyone who disagrees with you, and in this case you’d kill just about everyone.”

Now Schmidt has looked away. “Go on,” Reese says. “I’m listening.”

“You’ve got an opportunity to do some good. These people need protection . . . I’m giving you that chance. I’ll tell you now, whatever society we form down there won’t be anything like the Republic . . . but I also promise that you can have a place in it. If you’re willing to put aside your differences, that is.”

Reese takes a deep breath. He gazes out the windows, pensive as he studies the planet far below. In those few moments, he looks less like a military officer than a man weighing a difficult decision. Political ideology against more pragmatic questions of survival. “There won’t be . . . I mean, my men won’t be held for trial, will they?”

Has this been his major concern all along? “No, sir, they won’t,” Lee says. “They’ve done nothing wrong. So far as I’m concerned, you were following orders. We’re starting with a clean slate.”

“Thank you, sir.” For a moment, Reese almost looks grateful. He looks over his shoulder at Schmidt. “Sergeant, you’ve heard all this. What do you think?”

“Not that we have much choice, but . . .” The soldier shrugs. “I think we can live with it, sir.”

Reese nods, turns back to Lee. “Then I accept your offer. We won’t take any action against your people if they won’t turn against us.” A moment of hesitation, then he offers his hand. “A clean slate.”

Lee smiles, accepts the colonel’s handshake. It may not be friendship, but at least it’s a cessation of hostilities. “I’m glad we have that settled,” Lee says. “Now there’s one more problem we have to deal with.”

Coyote Base 9.9.2300 (12.21.2296 rel.) 1332 GMT

The sudden roar of engines from the opposite side of the camp draws Jorge’s attention. He looks up from the tent stake he’s driving into the soft ground just in time to see the Wallace—rechristened the Mayflower—ascending into the afternoon sky on its VTOL jets. A hot blast rips across the meadow; everywhere around him, colonists pause in their labors to cup their hands over their ears and watch the shuttle as it lifts off for its final rendezvous with the Alabama.

Jorge turns back to the tent beside which he’s kneeling. Two more whacks of his hammer, then he grasps the half-buried stake and shakes it to make sure that it’s firm. It’s been many years since the last time he went camping, and he’s surprised at how much he remembers. Standing up again, he brushes dirt off his knees, then slowly walks around the red-and-white-striped plastic dome, making sure that all the guylines are taut. The tent is smaller than he expected; it’s hard to imagine how his family will be able to squeeze into it, but it will have to do until permanent shelters are built.

Satisfied with his efforts, he turns to gaze across the meadow. Thick brown smoke rises from controlled fires set to clear away the chest-high grass, while tents are being erected in a tight cluster around Plymouth’s original landing site. A few dozen yards away, a couple of men dig a communal fire pit in the center of the camp; Jorge watches as one of them pauses to lean heavily against the handle of his shovel, his bare back glistening with sweat as he gasps for breath. It’ll be a while before anyone becomes fully acclimated to Coyote’s thin air; already he’s seen a few folks become nauseated from overexerting themselves. Farther away, near the edge of the campsite, he can hear another group digging latrines; Jorge hopes that they erect tarps around them, or he’ll never be able to persuade Marie to go to the bathroom. . . .

Remembering his daughter, he tucks the hammer in his belt, walks away from his tent to search for her. When he last saw her, she had gone off with Rita to gather firewood. Corporal Boone, one of the URS soldiers, was supposed to lead a foraging party into the grasslands; Captain Lee had made a firm order that no one was to leave camp without an armed escort. Yet that had been several hours ago, and although he had seen many of the younger children playing tag around the tents, none of them had been Marie.

“Hey, Papa . . . ?”

Jorge turns to see Carlos walking toward him. Not surprisingly, Wendy and Chris are with him. The three have become a triumvirate during the last few days; where one is, the other two are not far behind. David and Barry are part of the pack, too, but they seem to have been subtly pushed off to one side, assuming subordinate roles in the social pecking order kids set up among themselves.

“Dr. Levin wants to know if you’re through with that.” Carlos points to the hammer slung from Jorge’s belt. “He also wants to know if . . .”

“I can help him with his tent.” Jorge grins as he wipes sweat from his brow. For as long as he’s known Jim, he’s never been much of an outdoorsman. “I’ll see if he needs a hand, sure.” He glances at Chris. “So why aren’t you helping your old man?”

Chris shrugs offhandedly. “I was with them,” he says, as if that explains everything.

Jorge looks back at Carlos. “And what’ve you been doing? I thought you were supposed to be fetching water.”

“We did that already.”

Great. Teenagers on the loose. Next thing he knows, he’ll have to set curfew hours. At the moment, though, he’s more concerned about the whereabouts of Marie and Rita. “Have you seen Mama and your sister lately?”

“Sure. They’re right over there, stacking wood.” Carlos points in the general direction of the Plymouth. “I hear we’re going to have a bonfire tonight, after Captain Lee gets here.”

That’s the first Jorge has heard of the plan. Sometime later in the afternoon, Alabama’s cargo and hab modules are scheduled to be air-dropped to the campsite; indeed, they should be jettisoned from the ship just at any time. By early evening, the Mayflower will have returned to Coyote Base, bringing down Captain Lee and the close-out crew. No one had said anything about a party, yet it only makes sense that there would be some sort of celebration: it’s the first night everyone from the Alabama will be together on the new world. Perhaps they’ll finally break out the rest of the booze. . . .

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean you guys don’t have work to do.” Jorge musters the full force of paternal authority. “The sooner we set up camp, the sooner we’ll all be able to goof off.”

Properly admonished, Carlos looks down while Chris bites his lip. Only Wendy seems unperturbed; she gazes absently at the camp growing around them, as if all the work is little of her concern. Again, Jorge finds himself wondering about her. Nearly two weeks after having met her for the first time, he’s still hasn’t met her parents. . . .

“So, Wendy,” he says, “where are your folks?”

“My dad?” She smiles at him. “He’s up there. On the ship.”

“Really?” He vaguely recalls her telling him that her father was a member of Alabama’s crew. A life-support engineer. Probably a member of the close-out team. “And your mother . . . ?” She frowns, looks away; Carlos decides not to press further. “So what’s his name? I’d like to meet him sometime.”

“Eric Gunther.” Wendy smiles at him once more. “He’s coming down tonight, after he gets through with the captain.”

URSS ALABAMA 9.9.00 (12.21.2296 REL.) 17.59 GMT

Hand poised above the toggle switch marked C7-JET, Lee watches the chronometer as it counts down the last few seconds. As it flashes to 18:00, he snaps the switch.

There’s a sudden, hard thump from somewhere above him; he glances out the window in time to see Module C7 detach from the ring. Leaving behind a phosphorescent trail of debris, the jettisoned module falls away from the Alabama, recessed thrusters flaring briefly as its internal guidance system aligns it for atmospheric entry. Farther away, he can just make out Modules C6 and C5: tiny cylinders coasting toward the planet. Although he can no longer see them, C4 and C3 should be aerobraking in a few minutes. With any luck, all five modules will safely enter Coyote’s atmosphere and parachute to a soft landing close to the base camp, if not right on target.

“That’s the last one,” Lee says, speaking into his headset.

“We copy, skipper,” Tinsley replies. “We’re ready to go.”

“Give me a minute. There are a few things I need to take care of.” Lee smiles. “Don’t leave without me.”

A short laugh. The XO is down in H5 along with the rest of the close-out crew, waiting to board the Mayflower. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir. Just remember, we’ve got a party tonight.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Lee clicks off, then pushes himself over to another console. He presses a row of buttons; the window shutters slowly descend, blocking his view of the planet. He pulls a plastic sheet across the console, then turns to gaze around the compartment.

The command deck is deserted, dark save for a few random lights and a single ceiling fluorescent; all the consoles have been covered, the nav table vacant of any holographic images. As soon as the AI detects that Mayflower has left its docking cradle, it’ll fire the ship’s secondary engines and automatically pilot the ship to a higher orbit, where it will function as little more than a weather and communications satellite. Only the hibernation modules haven’t been jettisoned; within them are the biostasis dewars containing animal embryos: sheep, goats, chickens, geese, even a few dogs and cats. Lee has decided that the livestock are safer in orbit until the colony is well established, at which time one of the shuttles will return to bring them down to Coyote.

Yet there’s another duty the ship will perform in their absence. Lee coasts over to the helm, pushes aside its cover. He taps a memorized code into the keypad, activating a program he’s written into the astrogation subsystem. He studies a screen, watching as the ship’s telescope rotates outward, facing the stars. Satisfied, he shuts down the station, covers the console once more. Just a little extra insurance no one else needs to know about. . . .

He should go below now. As commanding officer, he’s fulfilled his obligation to be the last man to leave ship. Instead, Lee glides over to his chair, pushes himself into it. One final job that needs to be done . . .

Alone in the darkness, Lee waits, just as many years ago he lay awake in the desert night, waiting for the coyote to come to him.

He hears a metallic creak from somewhere behind him: the hatch being pushed open. Yet he doesn’t turn, not even when he detects the soft movement of someone entering the deck.

“Hello, Mr. Gunther,” he says. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Lee rotates his chair. Eric Gunther hovers near the nav table, grasping a ceiling rail with his left hand. Although Lee can’t see him clearly, the glow of the instrument panels is reflected upon the barrel of the .38 automatic in his right hand.

Gunther actually seems surprised. “You knew?”

“You’d eventually find a way to get me alone . . . if not here, then down there.” Lee pauses. “I hoped you might change your mind, but when a gun turned up missing I knew it had to be taken by you. When I saw that you volunteered for the close-out, I decided to make this meeting a little easier.”

“I don’t understand. How could you have . . . ?”

“Mr. Gillis figured it out first.” Lee rests his hands upon the armrests, making sure that they’re in plain view. “He left a note for me before he died, informing me that the ISA had placed you aboard the ship as a security precaution. Your mission was to destroy the ship if it was hijacked, but of course that didn’t happen . . . Gillis was revived from hibernation three months after launch instead of you. There was a mistake, and your cell assignments were switched. An error on someone else’s part . . . or at least so he believed.”

Lee slowly shakes his head. “But it wasn’t a mistake, was it? At the last minute, you made that switch yourself, didn’t you?”

Gunther’s confusion fades into anger; the gun inches upward. “It doesn’t matter. You’re guilty of treason against the Republic. . . .”

“Oh, but it does matter.” Lee folds his hands together. “After I found his note, I asked the AI why his cell . . . originally your cell . . . had been programmed to open three months after launch. That’s when I discovered your orders to destroy Alabama if the launch orders weren’t confirmed by the president. Gillis discovered this long before I did . . . but what he neglected to ask was exactly who had switched the cell assignments. He assumed it was an accident . . . but it wasn’t.”

He points toward Gunther. “According to your crew profile, you were one of the mission candidates, but you didn’t make the first cut. My guess is that, when the ISA offered you this assignment, you accepted because it would bump you back into the mission. In fact, you went so far as to make sure that your daughter Wendy was brought aboard as a colonist. You figured that you’d never be revived, but since you didn’t want to take any chances . . .”

“Leave her out of this.”

“As you like.” Lee gently nods. “Anyway, since you weren’t able to delete the AI program, you picked another crew member at random and had him take your place in the rigged cell. As a member of the life-support crew, you were able to alter the cell assignments. So Les was the one who got the dirty end of the stick, and you . . .” He shrugs. “Well, now here we are.”

“And here we are.” Now the gun is pointed straight at him. “For treason against the United Republic of America . . .”

“My guess is that’s the part that really bothers you.” Lee keeps his voice even as he stares past the barrel at Gunther. “I’ll admit I’m guilty of treason . . . but if I’m a traitor, then so are you. You were given direct orders to destroy this ship if it was hijacked. Orders that you deliberately disobeyed . . . and now you’re trying to demonstrate your loyalty to the Republic by killing me instead. A little too late for that, isn’t it?”

The look on the ensign’s face tells Lee that he’s hit a nerve; this must have been what set Gunther off. Yet the gun is still aimed straight at him, and Gunther’s eyes are furious with hatred. “I . . .”

A soft metallic click from somewhere behind him. Gunther’s eyes widen as he recognizes the sound: a rifle’s safety being disengaged.

“Thank you, Gill,” Lee says quietly. “I think I can handle this.”

“If you’re sure, Captain.” Reese’s voice is a low murmur from the shadows behind Gunther.

Lee nods in his direction, then looks back at Gunther. “Colonel Reese is standing about eight feet behind you. If you fire, he fires next . . . and even if you don’t fire, I imagine the colonel would be able to take you down.”

The gun trembles in Gunther’s hand. His eyes shift nervously, moving from Lee to the man he can’t see behind him. “Colonel Reese, you’re with the Service. You’re on our side. You can’t . . .”

“Sorry, son.” Reese remains an invisible presence. “Things have changed.”

“Colonel Reese is still loyal to the Republic,” Lee says, “but he’s accepted the reality of our situation. The Republic is forty-six light-years from here. Government orders no longer apply . . . his, yours, mine, no one’s.” He opens his hands. “You want to execute me as a traitor? Guilty as charged. But what purpose is killing me going to serve?”

The gun wavers, pulls away from Lee. But now there’s hopelessness in Gunther’s eyes, the empty withdrawal of a man who has lost everything he has come to believe in. The barrel begins to move toward his head. . . .

“Don’t do it, Eric.” Lee keeps his voice low and steady. “Think about Wendy. She’s going to need you.”

Gunther rapidly blinks. “When she . . . when she finds out . . . I mean, about Gillis . . .”

“She doesn’t have to know.” Lee shakes his head. “So far as everyone else is concerned, Les was revived by accident. Everything we’ve talked about stays here. From now on, we’re starting fresh.”

He holds out his hand, beckoning for the ensign to give him the gun. “Come on, Eric. We’ve only got 103 people. We’re going to need every . . .”

The gun whips toward Lee, the barrel pointed straight at his eyes. “Long live the Republic! God bless . . . !”

His body is punched forward even before Lee hears the muted concussion of Reese’s rifle. Gunther’s arms splay outward; his finger convulsively squeezes the trigger. There’s a single gunshot; somewhere behind him, glass shatters. For an instant, Lee thinks the bullet has hit a window. Yet the decompression alarms don’t sound, and now Gunther’s body pitches toward him, red globules of blood spewing upward from his back.

Lee catches the crewman in his arms. Gunther stares up at him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. From the corner of his eye, Lee sees his gun tumbling away.

Gunther stares up at him, his mouth twisted in agony. Then his eyes, still filled with hatred, grow dim.

Lee’s still holding him as Reese emerges from the shadows. He silently regards both men, then slides open the rifle, ejecting the next fléchette in the chamber. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “No other way.”

Lee doesn’t answer. He waits until he feels Gunther’s body become limp within his arms. “It was an accident,” he says. “Something went wrong during close-out.”

He looks up at Reese. “Better that way, don’t you think?”

Coyote Base 9.9.00 (12.21.2296 rel.) 2218 GMT

“There was no way to save him. He was in the ring corridor, trying to shut the inner hatch to C6. No one knew he was there. He had gone back on his own initiative to check the modules. So when C6 was jettisoned, he . . . well, we couldn’t even retrieve his body.”

Charred black wood hisses and snaps, tossing sparks high into the cold night. All around him, silence; men and women stand or sit in a circle around the bonfire, huddled within their parkas, hoods pulled up over their heads. Tonight was supposed to be meant for a celebration; instead it’s become a wake. Of all the ways Lee imagined the first day on the new world would end, this was not one of them.

Reese regards him from the other side of the fire. The colonel has said little since the Mayflower landed, and he has remained silent while the captain told the story of how Eric Gunther died: heroically, in the line of duty. All he has to do is open his mouth, proclaim that everything Lee has said is a lie, and the colony would be . . . well, perhaps not destroyed, but crippled at the very least, for without faith in their leader the colony would flounder, torn between feelings of loyalty and betrayal. And it would be so easy for Reese to do. Just a few words . . .

Yet Reese only nods, ever so slightly; no one else notices the look that passes between the two men. Wendy Gunther, sitting in her tent being comforted by her friends and a couple of adults, need never know the truth.

Somewhere out in the darkness, far beyond the glow of the lanterns set up around camp, a hideous cry ripples across the grasslands. Several people glance in its direction; others visibly shudder. No one has yet seen a boid, as the creatures have come to be called, yet their footprints have been found in soft mud: three-toed avian tracks nearly eighteen inches in length, several feet apart from the other, suggesting a large flightless bird of some sort. Reese’s men have set up automatic machine guns around the camp’s perimeter; they’re programmed to fire upon anything that enters the range of their infrared motion detectors, and Tom Shapiro has reported that the guns fired briefly a couple of times the night before. The boids have kept their distance since then, yet the soldiers continue their patrol.

Lee waits until the boid has quieted down, then he goes on. “We were supposed to break out the liquor tonight, have a party, but . . . well, perhaps that wouldn’t be appropriate at this time.” Murmurs of agreement. “By shiptime, in four days it’ll be Christmas. Maybe we should wait till then. But I would like to say a few words I’ve been saving for now.”

As he speaks, Lee unbuttons his parka. “Just before we left Earth, before I boarded the shuttle to Alabama, I had a final meeting with Ben Aldrich, the Launch Supervisor at GSC. On behalf of his team, Ben gave me something he wanted to be taken here. I didn’t want it, but I took it anyway, and I’ve kept it in my cabin until we were ready to board the Mayflower.”

From an inside pocket, Lee pulls a plastic-wrapped object: a URA flag, its single star visible through its transparent pouch. As hs pulls out the folded flag, he observes the reactions of the people gathered around the fire. Loathing, respect, wonder, fear, contempt . . . but never pride, or love.

“Until a few hours ago, I meant to use the occasion to burn this thing.” A sharp hiss from someone in the back of the crowd. “Like many of you, I was once loyal to the United Republic of America. Like many of you, I was betrayed by its government. I hated what became of my country, and . . .”

He stops, shakes his head. “No. I’ve never hated my country, nor the people who live in it. I only despise the things a few selfish men did to destroy America. In the last few days, though, I’ve come to realize that my opinion isn’t the only one that matters. Many among you still honor this symbol. If I were to burn it, they would be offended . . . but if I were to raise it on a mast, not only would it be an insult to everyone who feels as I do, but it would also betray the memories of all the men and women who sacrificed their freedom, even their lives, so that we could come to this place.”

He lets the moment linger, allowing everyone to think about what he has said. The flag weighs heavily in his hand; with a casual flick of the wrist, he could easily toss it into the flames. The flag is more than two hundred years old, its fabric brittle with age; the fire would consume it within seconds. Some of these people would cheer, while others . . .

“So I’ll do neither. I intend to keep it as a reminder of our past, for better or worse. I won’t burn it, and I won’t bury it, and I won’t hide it . . . but neither will I ever allow it to be raised above our colony. It’s part of history. Let it stay that way.”

“Amen,” someone says. Others mutter the same in agreement, although a few shake their heads. Through the flames, Lee catches a glimpse of Gill Reese; the colonel has turned away, shouldering past those around him as he quietly departs the meeting. Once again, Lee realizes that although he and Reese have put aside their differences, they will never be friends.

“By much the same token, I’ve given some thought about what we should call our colony. . . .”

The crowd quiets down once more. As leader of the expedition, this is his prerogative. “I’m reminded of what became of America, and who was responsible for its demise. Those people took a great word . . . a fine word . . . and corrupted its meaning until it stood for something different. Tonight, I want to take it back.”

He hesitates, takes a deep breath. “Liberty. The name of this place is Liberty.”