HOME OF THE BRAVE

The monster rose from the East Channel on a clear and sunny afternoon in late summer, a day so warm and fresh that it was as if the world had not skipped a season and a retrograde spring had finally come. The monster wasn't aware of these changes; for ten months he had known only the darkness and cold of the silent depths that had been his prison. At long last he'd had finally escaped, and now he emerged to see the sky again.

The creature that shambled out of the water was human-shaped and had a human mind, yet he wasn't human. His ceramic-alloy body, once a burnished shade of chrome silver, was now dull and corroded; weeds clung to the creaking joints of his skeletal limbs, and dark mud caked the clawlike feet that sank deep into the coarse gravel of the river shore. His right leg, broken last autumn by gunfire at close range, had been braced with a piece of sunken wood, lashed against it with lengths of tightly coiled weed; even then, he was only able to stand upright with the assistance of a waterlogged tree branch he'd fashioned into a makeshift crutch. Within his skull-like head, only his right eye emitted a ruby glow; his left one had been shattered when he'd attempted to scale an underwater cliff, only to become half-blind when he slid back down and his face struck a sharp rock.

Ten months in the channel. Ten months by the Coyote calendar; by Gregorian reckoning, that was two and a half years. That's how long it had taken for him to find a way out of his watery tomb. A hundred feet down, there had been only the most wan light from far above. Trapped within a narrow canyon, he'd crawled along its belly through silt and sludge, dragging his broken leg behind him as he struggled through muck and the decaying carcasses of dead fish, until he finally discovered a slope he was able to climb. And even then, more than seventy feet separated him from the surface. It had been a long hike across the river bottom until he reached the shallows, and yet he'd done it. He had no choice but to survive; death was a gift he couldn't give himself.

For a long while he stood upon the rocky beach, water drooling off his body, held upright only by the length of wood that he'd come to think of as his best friend. Sunlight registered feebly upon his remaining eye; lacking stereoscopic vision, everything seemed flat and one-dimensional.

Turning around, for the first time he saw where he was. The massive limestone bluffs of the Eastern Divide towered above him; a half mile away, an immense wooden bridge rose above the channel, connecting New Florida to the distant shores of Midland. He remembered the bridge; he'd watched it being built, witnessed the act of sabotage that caused its midlength spans to come crashing down. Now the bridge had been repaired; indeed, he could dimly make out forms moving along its roadway.

Seeing the bridge intact again, he felt a surge of joy. In his absence, the Matriarch had persevered. Once he returned to Liberty, she'd make sure that the ones who'd dare attempt to murder a Savant were brought to justice. She would not let their crimes go . . .

"Over here! It's over here!"

Hearing a child's voice shouting somewhere behind him, he looked around, saw a couple of small figures running toward him: two boys, carrying fishing rods. Lurching the rest of the way out of the water, he raised his free hand. One of the boys stopped, his face expressing fear. The other one slowed down but continued forward, more curious than afraid.

"Who are you?" the boy demanded.

"S-s-s-sa . . ." Covered with sand, his vocodor made only a harsh noise; the boy stared at him quizzically until he adjusted the pitch and volume, tried again. "S-s-savant Manuel Castro. I-"

"What happened to you?" The boy stared at his broken leg. "You look like crap!"

He was unaccustomed to such impudence, especially from one so young; nonetheless, it was good to see another face, hear another voice. "I was captured by members of the resistance. They took me prisoner, then threw me off a raft several miles upstream. They tried to kill me, but as you see-"

A stone struck the side of his head.

Castro felt no pain, yet his vision blurred for a half instant. Looking around, he saw the other boy pulling his arm back to hurl another rock at him. "A Savant! Tomas, get away! It's a Savant!"

"Stop that!" he shouted. "Under authority of the Matriarch, I order you to!"

"You know the Matriarch?" Tomas peered at him.

"Of course, the Matriarch Hernandez!" The other boy threw his rock, but it missed him, splashing into the water behind him. "Stop this! And tell me who you are!"

"I'm Tomas Conseco, and I'm taking you prisoner." Then Tomas kicked the crutch out from beneath his leg.

Castro toppled to the ground, and the boys attacked him. He wrapped his left arm across his face to shield his remaining eye, as for several long minutes they kicked him and pelted him with stones and gravel. When they finally got tired of their sport, the boys grabbed him by the arms and began dragging him across the beach. He was impressed by their strength; only hatred could lend so much muscle to those so young. For a moment, he thought they were going to pitch him back into the channel-which would have been a blessing-but instead they hauled him toward the bridge. Yet the worst indignity came when Tomas opened the fly of his trousers and, with hideous glee, urinated upon him.

It was at that point when the Savant Manuel Castro, former lieutenant governor of New Florida, realized that many things had changed while he'd been away.

On the eve of First Landing Day, Liberty was busy preparing itself for the festivities.

As he strode through town, Carlos saw townspeople suspending pennants between woodframe houses, stringing lights above their windows. Out front of the grange hall, vendors and craftspeople were setting up tents; the early arrivals had already put out their wares upon benches and tables: handmade clothing, catskin boots and gloves, cookware and cutlery, labor-saving devices for the frontier home both complex and simple, hand-carved children's toys. Shags carrying visitors from the Midland colonies shambled down Main Street, with Proctors directing them to stables where the beasts could be kept while their owners found temporary lodging either with friends or in one of the boardinghouses in Shuttlefield.

And everywhere Carlos looked, the new flag of the Coyote Federation rose from poles or hung from porches; it had even been painted across the faux birch walls of some of the houses that had recently been built along the side streets. Despite his dark mood, this gave him a certain sense of satisfaction. During all the public meetings he'd chaired as mayor, not even the long debates over the exact wording of the various articles of the Liberty Compact had raised as much ire as the ones pertaining to the flag's design, and it wasn't until Vonda Cayle presented her compromise-the Ursae Majoris constellation, transposed upon three horizontal bars of red, white, and blue-that all sides were satisfied. Now that the "Big Dipper" had been formally adopted, everyone took pride in it; at least it wasn't as scary as the one proposed by the Forest Camp delegation, which featured a snarling coyote above the slogan "Don't Mess With Me!"

The long, cold summer of '06 was almost over, and everyone was ready for a party, yet that wasn't what occupied his mind just then. Ignoring the bunting and decorations, giving only passing nods and hand-waves to citizens who called his name, he headed for the windowless log cabin at the end of the street. First Landing Day could wait; before he could join the celebration, there was some family business that needed to be settled.

The Chief Proctor was waiting for him outside. "She's in there," Chris said, then held up a hand as Carlos marched toward the door. "Look, wait a minute-"

"Wait for what?" Carlos started to walk around him, but Chris stepped in his way. "How many times have your guys brought her in? Two? Three?"

"It's the fourth . . . but it's more serious than that." Chris dropped his voice. "This time she's put someone in the infirmary."

Carlos stopped, stared at him. It wasn't the first time Marie had been taken into custody by the blueshirts; on three occasions his sister had been charged with public drunkenness, and the last time she'd also faced charges of assault and battery stemming from a brawl in which she'd been involved. "What happened?"

"Lars was with her," Chris said quietly. "They picked a fight with some guys from Forest Camp. About what, I don't know, but Lars threw the first punch."

"So it was just a fight."

"It got worse. Witnesses say she broke a bottle and slashed someone's face with it. Wendy just called, told me that she's had to put ten stitches just below the right eye." Chris paused. "Sorry, man, but that's assault with a deadly weapon. I can't look the other way this time."

Carlos nodded. The first two incidents, he'd asked Chris to do nothing more than lock her up for the night. The third time, he used his position as mayor to persuade the magistrates to be lenient with her; grudgingly, they had only sentenced her to house arrest and four weeks of public service, the minimum penalty under Colony Law.

"All right. I understand." Chris was right; this time, she'd gone too far. Carlos ran a hand through his hair as he forced himself to calm down. "Is Lars with her?" Chris nodded. "Let me talk to them, please."

Like other buildings erected during the first year of the colony's existence, the stockade had recently been expanded. The original log cabin-where, ironically enough, Chris himself had been interred on several occasions before he'd straightened himself out-now served as his office; the new part was built of fieldstone and cement and served as the county jail. Unlocking a solid blackwood door, Chris led Carlos down a narrow corridor of stone cells fronted with iron bars; at the end of the corridor, he found his sister.

"Heard you coming a mile away." Marie lay on her back upon a small bunk, one arm cast across her forehead. "You should keep your voice down," she added, pointing to the tiny window above her. "I could hear you through there."

"If your ears are that good, then you know what we were talking about."

"I only said I heard your voice. Didn't say I know what you said." Marie sighed. "Okay, all right. I'm sorry. Won't do it again, I promise. Now would you get my shoes back? My feet are cold."

"Mine too." In the cell across from hers, Lars Thompson sat on his bunk, holding a blood-soaked tissue to his nose. "Hell, you think I'm going to kill myself just because I pounded some lumberjack?"

"Looks like that lumberjack got in a few pounds of his own," Carlos said, and Lars glowered at him with mutual disdain. He'd never liked Lars, not even when he'd been a member of Rigil Kent, and especially not since he'd become his sister's boyfriend. Lars had been in trouble before, too, yet his uncle was Clark Thompson, the leader of Blue Company during the Battle of New Florida, now a member of the Colonial Council. Like Marie, he'd also benefited from family influence.

"I understand you started it." Carlos folded his arms as he leaned against the bars of his cell. "Want to tell me why?"

Lars said nothing. "He was sticking up for the corps," Marie said, lacing her hands together behind her head. "This guy claimed that, if it hadn't been for Bob Lee-"

"Robert Lee." Carlos hated it when people called the captain by a nickname he'd detested when he was alive. Especially those who knew better.

"Whatever . . . if it hadn't been for him, there was no way we'd have taken down the Union. That we were outnumbered, outgunned . . ."

"And he was right," Carlos said. Lars started to object, but he stared him down. "Go on. You were saying . . . ?"

"So one thing came to another, and . . . aw, c'mon! Where was he when we crossed the East Channel? I asked him, and he said he was taking care of his wife and kid!"

"We asked for volunteers, not conscripts." She began to argue, but he raised his hand. "So you two decided to defend the honor of Rigil Kent. Is that it?"

"Hell, yeah!" Lars stood up, advanced toward the bars. Carlos could see the dried blood on the front of his shirt; how much of it was his own, and how much was someone else's, there was no way of knowing. "And what would you have done?"

"Oh, I don't know." Carlos shrugged. "Asked if he had a picture of his family? Offered him a drink? Proposed a toast to Captain Lee?" He ignored Lars, looked straight at Marie. "Anything but open his face with a broken bottle. I understand Wendy had to put some stitches in him. I wonder how he's going to explain that to his wife and kid the next time he sees them. He's just lucky he'll be able to see 'em at all."

"I wasn't trying to hurt him." Her voice became very small. "Just give him a scratch."

A sarcastic retort hovered on his lips. Instead, he regarded her for a few moments, once again wondering what had happened to his sister. He'd discussed this with Dr. Okada, in her capacity as chief physician; although psychology wasn't her specialty, it was her opinion that Marie was afflicted with some sort of personality disorder. She'd come of age waging guerrilla warfare. When she should have been engaging in the usual rites of puberty, instead she'd been learning how to shoot people with a high-powered rifle. Indeed, she'd even taken pleasure in her task; even if she wasn't sociopathic, her lack of remorse put her close to the edge.

Or maybe it was just that she and Lars didn't know what do with themselves now that the revolution was over. The remaining members of the Union Guard had long since left; the Coyote Federation was at peace. Everyone else had put down their guns and picked up hammers and nails. Even Lars's younger brother, Garth, who'd been bloodthirsty in his own right, had helped build the greenhouses that helped keep everyone alive. But perhaps there were bound to be a few who weren't ready to stop fighting, if only because that's all they'd ever learned how to do.

Nonetheless, he couldn't tolerate this behavior any longer. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you," he said, "but if you think you can just let this pass, you're-"

His com unit chirped just then. As much as he wanted to ignore it, he plucked it from his belt, held it to his ear. "Mayor's office," he said, trying to ignore Lars's sniggering.

"Carlos, it's Jaime from AirMed."That would be Jaime Hodge, a gyro pilot with Liberty's medical airlift team. " We've just picked up someone from Bridgeton and we're flying him in. Touching down in Shuttlefield in ten minutes."

Carlos let out his breath. He turned away from Marie's cell. "Jaime, can this wait? I'm in the middle of-"

" You may want to get over there. It's Manuel Castro . . . we've found him."

Carlos's hand trembled on the phone; he tightened his grip to keep from dropping it. The last person in the world he'd ever expected to turn up again . . .

"I understand," he said quietly. "Don't let anyone else know about this."

" Sure. He's in pretty bad shape. We've already called ahead to the infirmary, and they're sending down the ambulance to meet us."

"I'll meet you there." Carlos clicked off, then turned to Chris. "Something's come up. Keep 'em here until their arraignment. I'll inform the magistrates that we need to-"

"Carlos!" Marie jumped off the bed, rushed to the bars. "I'm your sister! You can't-"

"Sorry, kid, but you and your boyfriend have crossed the line." He reluctantly gazed back at her. "Nothing I can do."

"You're the mayor! You can . . . come back here!"

But he was already walking away, trying not to hear her voice as it rose to become an angry shriek that followed him down the cellblock. Even after he shut the door, he still heard the obscenities she shouted at him.

Manuel Castro lay motionless upon an examination table in the Shuttlefield infirmary's emergency room, his robotic form incongruous in a place meant for flesh-and-blood humans. Nonetheless, Wendy had propped a pillow beneath his head and draped a sheet over his body; Carlos found her with the Savant, her hands in the pockets of her smock.

"A couple of kids from Bridgeton found him near the bridge," she said. "Apparently he'd just dragged himself out the channel. They were beating on him when some adults spotted them. They got them to stop, then called AirMed."

"A couple of kids?" Carlos found that hard to believe.

"Well, he was in pretty sad shape to start with, being underwater for so long." She shrugged. "And since it sounds like they were recent immigrants, they had it in for the first Savant they'd seen since the revolution. I got the name of one of them. Tomas Conseco, from the Spirit . . ."

"Never mind." No point in trying to press charges; he wouldn't have been able to make them stick. Everyone had a grudge against the Union, even the children. "How's he doing?" Carlos peered at Castro. The Savant hadn't moved since he'd arrived. "Has he said anything?"

"Not since we got him here." Wendy gently pulled aside the sheet. "Right leg is broken . . . he'd tied a splint around it to stand upright . . . and the left eye is shattered. We should be able to fix the leg, but the eye may be irreplaceable." She shook her head. "What am I saying? This is beyond me. He needs a mechanic, not a doctor."

"All the same, I'm pleased to see you again, Wendy." Castro's voice, a modulated purr from his mouth grille, startled them; Wendy dropped the sheet, automatically stepped away. "You are Wendy Gunther, aren't you? It's been many years since the last time I saw you."

"Yes . . . yes, it is." She stammered a bit, trying to regain her composure. Carlos wondered why he'd remained quiet. Probably to assess the situation. "I'm surprised you recognize me."

"You've grown quite a bit, yet your voice is still much the same." Castro's own voice sounded reedy; the vocoder had been damaged during the months he'd spent underwater. He turned his head slightly, fixing his remaining eye upon Carlos. "But you, I don't recognize. Who may you be?"

"Carlos Montero, the mayor of-"

"Oh, my . . . Rigil Kent himself." A buzz from the grille that might have been laughter. "You don't know how long I've waited to meet you, Mr. Montero. The Matriarch was quite obsessed with finding you. And now you've become . . . what did you say you were the mayor of?"

"Liberty. And also Shuttlefield, since that's now part of Lee County."

"Lee County. And you're now its leader . . . elected, I take it." Carlos nodded. "Then it's reasonable to assume that Robert Lee is no longer with us?"

"No, he isn't. He-" Carlos stopped himself. "You've been gone a long time, Savant Castro. Things are quite a bit different now."

"So I take it. You know, when I was lieutenant governor, I sincerely doubt that a child would have dared to relieve himself upon me." Again, the odd buzz. "I take it that Luisa Hernandez is no longer the colonial governor and that there has been . . . shall we say, a change of government?"

"That's correct." No point in telling him, at least for the time being, that the Matriarch was dead as well. He'd learn these things in due course. "We never expected to see you again. You were reported lost in action during the Battle of Thompson's Ferry."

"Lost in action. That's one way of putting it, I suppose. And who said so, may I ask?"

"Umm . . ." Carlos had to search his memory. "Clark Thompson. He and his nephews said that they attempted to capture you, but that you fled from the scene. After that, you were never seen again."

"Thompson said that, did he?" The Savant turned his head to gaze up at the ceiling. "A slight embellishment of the truth. I guess he didn't want to admit to throwing me off his raft in the middle of the channel. You know, it took nearly three weeks for the ropes he'd used to tie my hands behind my back to loosen enough for me to free my hands? This may be a mechanical body, Carlos-or should I call you Rigil?-but three weeks is a long time to lie on your back in a hundred feet of water."

Carlos felt his face grow warm. Glancing at Wendy, he saw the look of horror in her eyes. "He never told us that," he said quietly. "He just said that you . . . ran away."

"Every war has its share of atrocities, Mayor Montero, and the victors always have the liberty of revising history. Why should this conflict be any different?" The Savant turned his head slightly, gazing at the whitewashed blackwood walls, the rows of faux birch cabinets containing surgical instruments. "A lovely hospital, Dr. Gunther. I had a chance to look at it while your people were bringing me in. New, isn't it?"

"Built last summer. Savant Castro-"

"Please, call me Manny. I asked you to do so when we met aboard the Glorious Destiny ." He paused. "Orifiel, Gabriel 17,C .Y. 03. And today is Camael, Uriel 46,C .Y. 06. My internal chronometer has remained functional, and my long-term memory is perfect. It's one of the few things that helped keep me sane."

Carlos nodded. He had to remember that, despite all appearances, there was a human mind within that mechanical body. Something that Clark Thompson and his boys had conveniently forgotten. "Savant Castro-Manny-a lot of things have changed. The Western Hemisphere Union is no longer in control of New Florida. In fact, the last Union starship departed almost five and a half months ago, along with the rest of the Guard. Since then, Coyote has experienced severe climate changes because of a volcano eruption on Midland. We managed to survive, but only because we built greenhouses to-"

"This is all fascinating, Mr. Mayor, and I'm sure I'll enjoy learning the rest of it in due time. But just now, one thing alone interests me."

Castro pushed aside the sheet, then used his arms to raise himself upright. Turning himself around, he allowed Wendy to help him sit up on the examination table. If not for his damaged leg, he could have walked away at any time.

"As you say," he continued, "ten months have passed. I went into the East Channel the lieutenant governor of a colony and came out a cripple at the mercy of a pair of brats. If the Union is no longer here, then I'm clearly both out of time and out of place. So the only question that matters: What are you going to do with me?"

Wendy said nothing. Carlos shook his head. "I can't tell you," he said at last. "The truth is, I don't know."

A hollow boom from somewhere in the fields just outside town, then a tiny rocket shot up into the night sky, its vapor trail forming an arc that carried it high above the rooftops of Liberty. A couple of seconds later it exploded, creating a red fire-blossom that flung sparks across the pale blue orb of Bear.

The crowds gathered in the streets applauded and shouted in delight, then watched as another skyrocket launched behind the first one. Carlos tried to remember the last time he'd seen fireworks; when he did, the memory came with a sharp pang of regret. July 4, 2070, the summer evening he and his family had been taken into custody by the Prefects. His last night on Earth, a lifetime ago . . .

"Aren't you enjoying this?" Wendy sat next to him on the porch of their house. Not far away, Susan played in the backyard with a few of her friends. First Landing Day wasn't until the next day, but the organizing committee had decided to schedule the fireworks a night early. The day itself would be marked by the crafts fair, a baseball game, a shag race, a concert by the Coyote Wind Ensemble, and, at the end of the day, the big dinner at the grange hall. Just like Independence Day back on Earth, only this time without mass arrests of dissident intellectuals.

"Who says I'm not?" Carlos reached for the jug of ale on the table between them, poured some more into his mug. "I think it's really pretty."

"Then why the frown?" Wendy took the jug from him, poured another drink for herself. "You're thinking about Marie, aren't you?"

Actually, he wasn't . . . or at least not at that moment. Oddly enough, he realized that his thoughts had been more upon Manuel Castro, about what he'd said earlier that afternoon. Marie and Lars would doubtless receive a stiff sentence for what they'd done today: at least six months in the stockade, plus hard time working on public service projects: road construction, laying sewage pipes, digging drainage ditches, the lousy jobs that no one wanted to do. Not that it would matter much to either of them, at least in the long run. Ever since the Union Guard had been ousted and Chris had overhauled the Proctors, crime had become infrequent enough that townspeople remembered who the perpetrators were and what they'd done. There were people in Liberty whom everyone remembered being bullies and thugs from the days of the squatter camps, and-almost universally-they were distrusted and disliked. So even after Marie and Lars served their sentence, they'd return to the community as ostracized members . . . and Carlos foresaw that such treatment would just make them even more bitter than they'd been before.

Even so, there was always a chance that they'd eventually be accepted again, just as he'd been many years ago after he returned from his time alone on the Great Equatorial River. On the other hand, Manny Castro would never be a part of the community. He couldn't change what he was, and as such he was a living reminder to everyone of the Union occupation of Coyote. The tents and shacks of Shuttlefield were gone, replaced by rows of wood-frame houses built during the course of the spring and summer, but no one who once lived there was likely to forget that Savant Castro had once served as the Matriarch's right-hand man.

They'd done well these past few months; indeed, even better than anyone had expected. Two days after the last Union shuttle lifted off and the bodies of the dead-including Captain Lee-had been laid to rest, an ad hoc committee convened at the grange hall to formulate survival plans for the colonies on New Florida and Midland. Everyone knew that time was of the essence; the eruption of Mt. Bonestell meant that Coyote's northern hemisphere would experience cold temperatures for at least four to six months, with a resultant loss of crops. So the first priority was building greenhouses; with available timber on New Florida at a premium, it was decided that the Garcia Narrows Bridge had to be repaired as soon as possible. Once that was done . . .

Carlos watched as another skyrocket bloomed above town. Everything had fallen into place after that. The bridge was quickly repaired, enabling teams of loggers to journey across the East Channel to the dense rain forests of Midland; blackwood, rough-bark, and faux birch were felled and hauled by shags to the lumberyards of Forest Camp and Bridgeton, where they were milled into wood planks for the construction of enormous greenhouses and solar-heated sheds for the livestock. Now that the war was over, there was no shortage of colonists to assist in any crash program; for weeks on end, the air had been filled with the sounds of nails being hammered into wood as structures half the size of football fields rose up in the place once occupied by squatter camps.

The towns of Defiance and New Boston received lumber in exchange for sending men to join the labor force. Although the provisional government extended an open invitation to the Midland settlers to return to New Florida, many preferred to stay where they were. Only Shady Grove, the small town that once existed beneath the shadow of Mt. Bonestell, remained abandoned, buried beneath volcanic ash.

Even as the greenhouses were rising and the surplus lumber was being used for the construction of new homes, the Coyote Federation was being formed, and just as foul-smelling communal outhouses were being leveled to make way for sewage pipes and septic systems, social collectivism was replaced by democracy, with individual rights guaranteed by the statutes of the Liberty Compact.

It was a long, hard summer, with some days in Muriel so cold that snow had fallen from leaden skies and ice had formed along the creek banks. Yet no one froze to death in a tent; everyone had to tighten their belts a little, but no one starved. Although there were quite a few complaints, no one loaded their guns and marched on the grange hall, where the newly elected mayor of Liberty spent every waking hour struggling to figure out how to keep several thousand people alive.

At long last, the skies had begun to clear, the days had become warm again. It wouldn't last long-a brief Indian summer before the autumn equinox only a few weeks away-but they would survive another winter. And, indeed, perhaps even come out better than they had been before.

Another skyrocket; the crowds yelled in response. Carlos was blind to it all, though, and deaf to the thunderclaps and shouting. "Excuse me," he said, standing up from his rocker. "Just need to stretch my legs."

"Sure." Wendy watched as he walked down off the porch, ignoring the children playing tag nearby. She'd become accustomed to his long silences. "Take your time."

How far they'd come. Clean streets; no more trash along the sides of the road. Warm houses; the original log cabins still stood, yet he and Wendy were among the few who still lived in them. A long row of wind turbines just outside Shuttlefield providing electrical power to everyone. A new infirmary, with free medical treatment guaranteed for all. A schoolhouse was going up soon. And yet . . .

It's yours. . . .

Once again, Robert Lee's last words came back to haunt him. He might have taken Lee's place, yet he could never fill the long shadow he'd left behind. He'd picked up the torch, but what good was it if he couldn't use it to shed light?

Oh, his people would survive, all right. And now that the clouds had parted, there was hope of a short growing season before another long winter came upon them. But it wasn't enough just to survive, was it? If their existence upon this world-indeed, their reasons for coming to Coyote in the first place-were to mean something, then it had to be for something more than keeping a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Even the most brutal dictatorship can guarantee that; freedom had to stand for something more.

Meanwhile, his own sister sat in a jail cell across from her lover, two malcontents with nothing else to do with their time than to pick fights. What did freedom mean to them? And there was Manuel Castro, once thought to be dead, now returned to life, only to find himself alone in a world in which he had no place. What good was freedom to him?

A long time ago, Carlos had sought freedom. A canoe, a rifle, a cook pot, a tent . . . that was all he'd needed. Three months alone on the Great Equatorial River, and he'd managed to get as far as the Meridian Archipelago. To this day, no one else had explored Coyote as much as he had; the war had prevented it. And there was an entire world out there. . . .

From somewhere close by, his ears picked up a musical sound: a lilting melody, carried by a dozen flutes in harmony. Allegra DiSilvio, rehearsing her ensemble for the concert. Chris's mother would be playing with them; under Allegra's tutelage, Sissy had become an accomplished musician, and to see her today one would never believe that she'd once been a hermit living on the outskirts of Shuttlefield. Indeed, lately she'd been spending a lot of time with Ben Harlan. It only made sense; both had suffered the loss of loved ones since they'd come to Coyote, and both had seen the darker side of the human soul. And just last month, much to Carlos's surprise, Allegra had moved in with Chris. She was nearly old enough to be his mother, but apparently the age difference meant little to either of them. Chris had been the first person on Coyote to show her any kindness, after all, and on this world, such tenderness went a long way.

So Chris had taken his mother's best friend as his lover, while Sissy herself had found someone to replace his father. It was a strange relationship, but . . . Carlos smiled at the thought. New families appearing to replace ones that had been lost. On the frontier, the heart finds its own way.

The music faltered, stopped for a few moments, then started again. "Soldier's Joy," an ancient song from the American Civil War. Captain Lee's ancestor had probably marched his troops into combat with this tune, hundreds of years ago. Back when America had been a frontier, just as Coyote was now.

Inspiration stopped him in his tracks. A crazy idea, possibly irresponsible . . .

But perhaps, just perhaps . . .

Clark Thompson met him outside the vehicle shed, down by Sand Creek near the boathouse. Dark circles beneath his eyes testified that he hadn't slept well last night; Carlos had little doubt that he'd stayed up late, discussing the Mayor's proposal with his wife and younger nephew.

"They're waiting inside," Carlos said as Thompson approached. "Chris brought them down from the stockade just a few minutes ago. I haven't said anything to them about this yet." He hesitated. "It's your call, y'know. You can always call it off."

"I know that." Thompson was not only Lars's legal guardian, but also a member of the Colonial Council. He could veto this with just one word. "Before I tell you what I've decided, let me ask you one thing. Do you really think this is the right thing to do?"

Carlos didn't answer at once. Instead, he gazed at the first amber light of dawn, just beginning to break in the east. He remembered when he'd set out on his own, in a small canoe he'd built with his own hands, on a long journey that would eventually take him nearly halfway around the world. That morning had been almost exactly like this one.

"I can't . . . I don't know." He owed Clark an honest answer. "If you are asking me if I think this is wise, then I have to ask if you think it's wiser to let them sit in the stockade till next spring."

"At least then they'd be safe. We'd know where they were."

"Perhaps, but I don't believe that'll solve anything. They'll just come out more hardened than before, and we'll just have the same problem again. This way, maybe they'll grow up a little . . . and we might learn something as well."

Thompson nodded, "That's sort of what I've been thinking, too. Of course, it's a hell of a risk."

"They're used to taking risks. Maybe that's the problem. They've lived on the edge so long they can't cope with peace and quiet. And it's not like we're asking them to do something they haven't-"

"It is, but"-Thompson looked down at the ground, shuffled his feet a bit-"y'know, I can't but wonder if this isn't partly my fault. I made that boy grow up tough. Hell, I made him shove Castro over the side of that raft. I didn't know he'd, y'know, turn out this way."

Carlos bit his lip. He thought of how things could have been different with his sister. Marie should have never been allowed to carry a gun; she was too damn young. "None of us knew. We were caught in something we didn't know how to control. We got what we wanted, and now we're paying the price."

"Yeah, well . . ." Thompson shrugged. "And you say the magistrates approve?"

"I spoke with them last night, after I dropped by to talk to you and Molly. They said that if you gave your approval, then this was acceptable to them as well."

Thompson said nothing for a few moments. At last he looked up. "Very well, Mr. Mayor, I say yes."

Carlos let out his breath. "Thank you, sir. Do you want to come in with me while I . . . ?"

He firmly shook his head. "No. I don't want Lars trying to talk his way out through me. And maybe it's just as well if I turn my back on him."

There was a trace of tears in the older man's eyes. Carlos realized that the decision must be tougher on him that he cared to admit. "I understand," he said quietly. "I'll let you know how it turns out."

Thompson nodded, then, without another word, turned and walked away, heading back to his place. Carlos watched him go, then he opened the door and walked in.

The vehicle shed had been built by the Carpenters' Guild during the Union occupation; a large, barnlike structure, it contained most of the ground vehicles left behind by the Guard. Skimmers of various makes and sizes, a couple of hover bikes, the disassembled fuselage of a gyro that had been cannibalized for spare parts. Someone had switched on the lights; near the front of the room, Lars and Marie sat on a couple of crates, with Chris and another Proctor standing guard nearby, stun guns inside open holsters on their belts.

"Stand up," Carlos said, shutting the door behind him. "We've got something to talk about."

"Not till we've had breakfast." Marie glared at him like a petulant child and didn't move from where she was sitting. "You're supposed to feed us, y'know."

"Was that my uncle out there? I thought I heard him." Lars lifted his head, raised his voice. "Hey! Uncle Clark! Come in here and tell this fascist to get us some food!"

"Your uncle doesn't want to speak to you." Carlos kept his voice even. "To tell the truth, he's turned his back on you." He looked straight at Marie. "And I'm about to do the same."

Her mouth fell open. "What are you-"

"Shut up."

"Aw, c'mon. We haven't eaten since-"

"I said, shut up! "

His shout rang from the sides of the craft parked around them. Marie visibly flinched, and the smirk disappeared from Lars's face. "This isn't a breakfast meeting," Carlos went on, stepping a littler closer. "No coffee and biscuits for you two, and no one leaves this building until we're done. And I thought I told you to get to your feet . . . so do it, now!"

Marie stood up, her legs shaking. When Lars didn't move, Carlos glanced at Chris. The Chief Proctor stepped forward, pulling his stun gun from his belt. Seeing this from the corner of his eye, Lars hastily rose from the crate, yet he wasn't done giving him lip. "Class act, Mr. Mayor. Out-of-the-way place, no one around to watch, the maggies nowhere in sight. And two blueshirts to do the dirty work." He glanced at Marie. "I told you the power's gone to his head."

Marie wasn't nearly so brave. "Carlos," she murmured, her mouth trembling with newfound fear, "I'm your sister. You can't let them do this. It's not right."

For an instant, he saw once more the little girl who used to bug him to read her bedtime stories when their father was too busy with his work. But she was an adult now-twenty years old-and very close to becoming someone he'd never recognize again. He had to do this, for her own sake.

"Whatever you think I'm going to do, you're wrong." Carlos lowered his voice. "No one's going to touch you. You're going to walk out of here without a scratch. Which is more than I can say for the poor guy you attacked yesterday."

"Well, when we see the maggies-" Lars started.

"You're not seeing the magistrates. There's not going to be a court date for you-or at least not unless you insist. But I've met with them already, and I've been told that, if they find you guilty, you'll spend the next six months in the stockade." He peered more closely at him. "Six months Coyote-time, and Chris here will make sure you and Marie are assigned to cells as far apart as possible. The only time you'll see the sun is when they let you out to clean septic tanks and dig ditches, and in the middle of winter that can be a real bitch."

"You'd do that, wouldn't you?" Marie's eyes were cold.

"You bet. I'll see to it personally that your time is as hard as I can make it." He looked at Chris. "You with me on this?"

"Oh, yeah." Chris gave them his most callous grin. "I've got a lot of lousy jobs for y'all to handle. And it's funny how often I forget to turn the lights off or change the sheets."

"On the other hand," Carlos went on, "there's always an alternative. Something a couple of hardcases like you are well suited for."

He sauntered past them to a Union Guard patrol skimmer parked nearby. "You've seen this kind of machine before. Marie, I remember that you once identified it for me . . . an Armadillo AC-IIb. Just like the one we captured on Goat Kill Creek."

"Uh-huh. Even got a chance to operate it." She gave the skimmer a passing glance. "Let me guess. You want us to clean it."

"No, I want you to take it."

She stared at him. "You want us to . . . what?"

"You heard me. I want you and Lars to take it." Carlos slapped his hand on its armored hull. "Drive it out of here. Leave, go away. Go exploring. We'll equip you with one month's rations, two rifles and ammo, a medkit, sleeping bags, tents, lamps . . . whatever you need to survive. Even a satphone so you can report in. The Union left a comsat network in orbit, so you'll be able to keep in touch."

"I don't . . . I don't . . ." Marie shook her head in confusion. "I mean . . ."

"What's the catch?" Lars regarded the skimmer with astonishment. "I mean, you can't just be . . . y'know, cutting us loose like this without some strings attached."

"Oh, there's strings attached all right." Leaning against the skimmer, Carlos held up a finger. "First, you can't stay on New Florida or head for Midland. If you're seen by any of our scouting parties, or try to enter any of the settlements, then you'll be arrested and sent back here. For the next six months. After that, you're free to return."

"But if you're only giving us one month of rations-"

"Then I guess you'll have live off the land. But you two spent time in Rigil Kent . . . you know how to hunt and fish." Carlos held up another finger. "Second, once every forty-eight hours, you use the radio to report to me personally. Tell me where you are . . . and, more importantly, what you've seen. I don't care if it's nothing but swamp or grassland or another hill, I want to know what you've found out there."

"You want us to just"-Maria waved a hand in some imagined direction-"go exploring. Wander around. Look for stuff."

"That's right. In the five years we've been here, no one has yet crossed the West Channel to see what's on Great Dakota, or gone north to check out Medsylvania, or seen the Northern River. The war's kept us too busy. So you're going to be our scouts. Do that for the next six months, and you can consider your sentences commuted as time served for the benefit of the Coyote Federation."

"Uh-huh. Just the two of us." Lars gave Marie a lascivious grin. "Oh, I think we can go along with . . ."

"No. Not just the two of you. I think you need the mature guidance of a responsible adult." Stepping away from the skimmer, Carlos turned toward the rear of the shed. "Manny? If you'd join us, please?"

The Savant detached himself from beneath the shadows of the skimmer behind which he'd been hiding. He limped slightly upon his left leg, restored to near-complete motor function by a couple of machinists, and he remained blind in one eye, yet his body had been cleaned up, and once again he wore the black robe that had been taken from him by Clark Thompson.

"It'd be my pleasure." His left eye gleamed as he turned his head toward Lars. "I believe we've already met. Thank you for such a delightful swim. I thoroughly enjoyed it."

"Uh-uh!" Lars backed away. "No way I'm going with this . . . this-"

"Yes, you are," Carlos said. "Not only that, but I expect you to treat him with all due respect, because if he doesn't come back with you-"

"I assure you, Mr. Mayor, I intend to survive this trip." Castro hobbled toward Lars, extended a claw from beneath his robe. "We have much to talk about, Mr. Thompson. Or may I call you Lars? My friends call me Manny."

Marie turned to Carlos. "You're not giving us a choice, are you?"

"Sure I am." Carlos touched her shoulder. "Come here."

He led her away from the others, shaking his head at the nearby blueshirt when he tried to follow them. "This is how you're going to grow up," he murmured once they were alone. "You're getting freedom, and all the responsibility that comes with it. It's the same choice our parents had when they decided to come here. It's the choice I had many years ago. And now it's your turn."

"I . . . I don't . . . !" The corners of her eyes glistened. "I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go."

"Nobody does," he said softly. "We just have to make it up as we go along." He gave her a hug, kissed her gently on the cheek. "It's your world now. Go find it . . . and come back safe."

And then, before he could give himself a chance to reconsider, he released her. Turning his back on his sister, Carlos walked away, not looking back until after he'd shut the door behind him.

Morning had come upon Liberty, cool and quiet, with a warm breeze drifting in from the south. Roosters crowed within pens, answered by the barking of dogs, the nagging of billy goats. He could smell breakfast being prepared within a thousand kitchens, hear the faint sounds of townspeople rising to do their chores. Another day upon Coyote had begun.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Carlos Montero began walking back toward town. Ready to see what awaited him today, in the land of the free, the home of the brave.