LIBERATION DAY

KAFZIEL, ASMODEL5,C .Y. 06/0503-WESTCHANNEL, NEWFLORIDA

Darkness lay heavy upon the north shore; sunrise was still a half hour away, and the stars had yet to disappear from the night sky. Bear hung low above the western horizon, its ring-plane rising above the channel. The winter snow had melted a few weeks earlier, and a cool breeze stirred the tall grasses of the marshlands surrounding the inlet of North Creek; the grasshoarders were still asleep in their nests, though, and the boids had yet to begin to hunt. A new day was coming to this part of Coyote as it always had, in peaceful serenity, heretofore untouched by the hand of man.

Now there were new sounds: murmured voices, wooden paddles faintly bumping against canoe gunnels. From time to time, thin beams of light moved across black waters, briefly exploring the shoreline before disappearing once more. Tiny wavelets lapped against the sandy beach, forced ahead by low shapes that glided quietly toward shore.

As the lead canoe approached the inlet, the figure hunched in its bow stroked in reverse, gently slowing his craft. The keel softly crunched against sand, and he briefly thrust the paddle downward to test the depth. Then, carefully balancing himself upon the gunnels, he stood up and stepped over the side, his boots splashing through calf-deep water.

Pulling a light from his jacket pocket, Carlos aimed it toward the channel and flashed three times. A moment passed, then from the darkness there was a rapid succession of flashes in response. Putting the light away, he took a moment to look around. He was almost home. And this time, he was bringing a few friends with him. . . .

"I could use a hand here." Chris had climbed out and was wading ashore. "Unless you're too busy admiring the view, of course."

"Sorry." Carlos turned to help him haul the canoe ashore. "Never seen this part of the island before."

"Who has?" Chris bent down to loosen the ropes of the tarp covering their gear. "But you look like you're posing for a picture. Like Washington crossing the . . . y'know, whatever."

"Hey, if you've got a camera . . ."

"Left it behind, George. Maybe next time."

The rest of the flotilla was approaching the shore: canoes, pirogues, a couple of keelboats, more than three dozen boats in all. The thin light cast by masked lamps illuminated shadowed figures as they climbed overboard to pull their craft onto dry land. They moved quickly, wasting as little time as possible; with sunrise fast approaching, they'd have to hurry to make camp before daybreak.

Over the course of the last nine days, eighty-six men and women, from settlements all across Midland, had navigated the Medsylvania Channel from their departure point at New Boston. They'd traveled under the cover of darkness, sleeping during the day under camouflage nets so as not to be spotted by low-flying aircraft. Two nights ago, Red Company crossed the confluence of the East Channel, where the Medsylvania Channel became the West Channel, until they reached the northeastern tip of New Florida. From there, North Creek flowed south to Sand Creek, which in turn led straight to Liberty. Carlos noticed that they all kept their voices low, as if they were expecting a Union Guard patrol somewhere nearby. Liberty was a long way from there, yet no one was taking any chances.

Hearing someone coming up behind him, he looked around to see his sister walking toward him. "Spotted a small blackwood grove about fifty yards that way," Marie said quietly. "I think we can make camp there."

"Very good. Take as much equipment as we need, leave everything else here." Carlos turned to two men standing nearby. "You and you . . . pull out the nets and start covering the boats. I want everything under wraps before the sun comes up."

"Got it, Rigil," one of them said. More than half of Red Company still referred to him as Rigil Kent, the alias he'd chosen for himself long ago, even though they now knew his real name. Just as well, he thought. If this fails, that'll be probably be the name they carve into my tombstone .

That was an uncomfortable notion, so he sought to avoid it. "You got the satphone?" he asked Chris.

Chris had just unloaded their packs. He glanced at his watch, then gazed up at the night sky. "Little early for that, don't you think? Alabama isn't due over for another hour or so. We don't even know if they . . ."

"You're right. Just skittish, that's all." He hesitated. "Wish I knew where the other guys are."

Chris bent over one of the packs, loosened its flap, and dug inside until he found the satphone. "Relax," he said softly as he handed it to Carlos. "You've done as much as you can. It's up to them now."

Carlos nodded. A hundred and seventy miles southeast of their position, Blue Company would be paddling across the East Channel, making landfall at the Garcia Narrows. A couple of thousand miles away, White Company was hiding somewhere along the eastern coast of Midland, watching the bluffs of Hammerhead across the Midland Channel. And meanwhile, out in space . . .

"If you're going to pitch this one . . ." Chris began.

Carlos glanced at him, not knowing at first what he was talking about, until he realized that he'd been holding the satphone for a long time. Chris was remembering the day, long ago, when Carlos had unwisely thrown a satphone into Sand Creek. "If I did, would you . . ."

"Hey, what's that?" Chris pointed past him. "Look over there."

Carlos turned around. For a moment, he didn't see what his friend had spotted, then he saw it: an orange-red radiance low upon the eastern horizon, faintly illuminating the undersides of morning clouds. For a moment, he thought they'd miscalculated the time before local sunrise. But dawn wasn't due for at least another half hour, and, although the glow flickered faintly, it didn't subside as heat lightning would. Whatever it was, it was coming from Midland.

And suddenly, he realized what he was seeing.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Not now. Please, not now . . ."

0532-CSS P LYMOUTH

"Range three hundred yards and closing." Kim Newell barely looked up from her controls; her gaze was locked on the computer screens, her left hand steady upon the yoke as she gently fired a quick burst from the forward RCRs. "On course for rendezvous. Stand by for docking maneuver."

"Roger that." Robert Lee instinctively reached up to tap his headset mike before he remembered that there was no reason to activate the ship-to-ship radio. Indeed, there was little for him to do at that point; Kim was in the left seat, and she knew the Plymouth much better than he did. All he was doing was riding shotgun.

So he gazed up through the canopy and watched as the Alabama steadily moved closer. It didn't look the same as the last time he'd seen her-over four and a quarter years ago by the LeMarean calendar, he reminded himself, or nearly thirteen years by Gregorian reckoning. Five hundred feet in length, the starship filled the cockpit windows; five of the seven crew modules that had once formed a ring around its forward section were missing-they'd been jettisoned shortly after Alabama had arrived-and the shuttle cradles along its central boom were empty. The aft navigation beacon had burned out, leaving the engine section in the dark, and long-term exposure to solar radiation and micrometeorites had warped and pitted some of the hull plates. The ship had survived a 230- year voyage from Earth, yet it was meant to travel between the stars, not linger in high orbit. After so many years of being subjected to the effects of space weather, the giant vessel was slowly falling apart, like a sailing ship left to rot at the wharf.

All the same, though, it was good to see the old lady again. As Kim coaxed the Plymouth closer, Lee felt his throat grow tight. It had been a long while since he'd considered himself to be a starship captain. Now, at least for a brief time, he would be the commanding officer of the URSS Alabama once more.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder. "A little worse for wear," Dana Monroe murmured, floating next to him in the narrow cockpit, "but she's still there." She gazed up at the ship. "Glad you made the trip?"

"Yeah. Sure." Lee took his mate's hand, gave it a squeeze. "Ready to play chief engineer again?"

She gave him a hard look. " Playchief engineer? Sir, that is an insult."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to question your professional-"

"Oh, cut it out." She leaned forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. "But if it's play you've got in mind," she whispered in his ear, "if we get a chance maybe we can see if there's still a bunk where we can-"

"Range fifty feet and closing." Kim nudged the thruster bar again. "Six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . ." There was a sudden jar as Plymouth 's dorsal hatch mated with Alabama 's docking collar. "Rendezvous complete, Captain."

The maneuver caused Dana to bump the back of her head against the canopy. She muttered an obscenity beneath her breath, but Kim didn't notice; she let out her breath, then reached forward to shut down the engines. Lee gazed at her with admiration. Kim claimed that flying a shuttle was like riding a bicycle, but they both knew that operating a spacecraft was far more complex than that; considering how long it had been since she'd last piloted Plymouth , her performance had been outstanding. True, she had been rehearsing this mission for the past two months, borrowing time from her farm chores to perform flight simulations in the cockpit, yet the fact remained that Plymouth hadn't moved an inch since it had been covered with camouflage nets. In that time, Kim had been more concerned with raising a little boy with her husband. And now that Tom Shapiro was gone . . . but it wasn't the time to mourn for lost friends.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Ever since they'd lifted off from Defiance six hours before, they had subconsciously reverted to their former United Republic Service ranks. Old habits die hard, even after so many years. "How's the airlock pressure?"

Kim looked up to check a gauge. "Equalized. We're okay to pop the hatch."

Lee unbuckled his harness and pushed himself out of his seat. Kim followed him. Dana had already left the cockpit, floating back to the passenger compartment to undo the ceiling hatch. She pulled it open, then moved aside, allowing him captain's privilege of being the first person aboard.

Lee squirmed up the narrow manhole and found the zebra-stripped panel that covered the controls for the inner hatch. Flipping it open, he pushed a couple of buttons. The airlock hissed slightly as it irised open, revealing darkness beyond. Deck H5 was pitch-black save for a couple of small red diodes on a wall panel on the opposite side of the ready room. The air was cold, with a faintly musty odor. With the heat turned down, the ship was colder than he'd expected; he was glad he was wearing a catskin jacket and trousers rather than his old URS jumpsuit.

He unclipped a penlight from his belt, then glided over to the wall panel. Recessed lights within the low ceiling flickered to life, revealing the narrow compartment. Everything looked much the same as he'd left it, down to the empty hardsuits stowed in their apertures and the fungal growth they'd discovered on the consoles shortly after they'd awoken from biostasis.

Dana followed him, but Kim hovered within the airlock. "Look, you guys don't need me," she said. "Maybe I ought to stay back, keep the boat warm."

She was clearly unsettled by the silence, nor could Lee blame her. It felt strange to be back here again. "Suit yourself. See you in a few."

'Thanks, Captain. And . . . the docking cradle?"

"I'll take care of it topside." Plymouth was mated to Alabama only by its docking collar; until they entered the bridge and reactivated the AI, Kim would be unable to remote-operate the cradle that secured the shuttle to the ship. A minor safety precaution, but best not to leave anything to chance. "We'll be back soon. Don't go away."

"Not without you. Good luck." Kim retreated to the shuttle, careful to close the inner hatch behind her. Lee watched her go, then he and Dana pushed themselves over to the central access shaft leading up through the ship's core.

The darkened shaft echoed softly as they floated upward, its tunnel walls reverberating with the sound of their hands grasping the ladder rungs. Lee was tempted to make a brief tour of his ship, yet there was no reason to do so; with most of the crew modules missing, there was little to be seen, save the hibernation modules and the engineering and life-support compartments farther up the hub. He briefly considered climbing up to the ring corridor on Deck H1, where Leslie Gillis-poor Les, condemned to a solitary existence for thirty-five years-had painted a vast mural across its walls. Sometime in the future, he'd have to visit the ship again, perhaps even dismantle the bulkheads and have them shipped home so that Gillis's artwork could be preserved for future generations. But now wasn't the time.

Lee stopped at Deck H4, undogged the hatch, and pushed it open. The command compartment was cold and dark, with only a few muted lights gleaming from beneath brittle, fungus-covered plastic covers that shrouded the consoles and instrument panels. The rectangular portholes remained shuttered; the chill air held a faint scent of dust and mildew. Something on the far side of the compartment moved; when he aimed his penlight at it, he spotted a maintenance 'bot scuttling away upon spidery legs.

"Like a haunted house," Dana said softly. "Only we're the ghosts."

She'd felt it, too. "Let's make this a little less spooky." Lee turned to a wall panel next to the hatch, found the switch that illuminated the compartment. "All right, we're in. Let's go to work."

Dana went straight for the com station. She pulled aside the cover and shoved it beneath the console, then tapped a few instructions into the keyboard. "Just as I figured," she murmured, studying the screen. "Main antenna's been disabled. Won't track incoming signals."

Of course. The Union had figured out that the resistance movement was using satphones to keep in touch with one another. Once the Union knocked out Alabama 's ground-to-space relay system, then the guerrillas were unable to communicate across long distances, even though Rigil Kent had already stopped using satphones for fear of revealing their whereabouts. "Can you fix it?"

"No sweat. I'll reboot the AI, then I'll have you enter your code prefix. Once that's done, I can realign the antenna. With any luck, we'll have the satphone back in thirty minutes, tops." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Take a break. I'll call when I need you."

"Thank you, Chief." Lee pushed himself over to his chair. It had been many years since the last time he'd sat there; the soft leather was cracked and worn, and creaked softly as he settled into it. He had to search for the belt straps that held him in place, and another minute passed before he remembered how to open the lapboard. How strange. He could skin a creek cat, milk a goat, chop down a faux birch, make a fire with damp wood . . . yet now his hands wavered above the keypad, uncertain of what to do next.

He sighed, shook his head. Come on, Lee, get on with it. There are people down there depending on you.

He took a moment to lock down the Plymouth . And then, almost as if of its own accord, his right hand sought out the controls that operated the window shutters. Dana was still at the com station keyboard, awakening the ship's computer from its long slumber; he had a couple of minutes to kill, and it had been many years since he'd enjoyed the pleasure of looking down upon a world from space. As the shutters slowly rose, he unfastened his belt again, then guided himself hand over hand along the ceiling rails until he reached the nearest porthole.

From an altitude of 450 miles, Coyote lay before him as a vast blue-green plane that curved away at either end, its clear skies flecked here and there with tiny clouds. 47 Ursae Majoris had risen from behind the planet; Lee winced and held up his hand, then the glass polarized, blocking the worst of the glare. Alabama was passing over the daylight terminator; looking down, he could see the first rays of dawn, just touching the east coast of New Florida.

With any luck, Red Company and Blue Company would already be in position. Once he and Dana reactivated Alabama 's communications system, the two teams, along with White Company, would be able to talk to one another via satphone, coordinating their movements without fear of having their transmissions intercepted by the Union Guard. At that point, the operation would enter its second phase. But until then, he could steal a few moments to . . .

Something caught his eye: a brownish red cloud hovering just below the horizon. Alabama had crossed the East Channel and was above the western side of Midland; now they were above the Gillis Range, he could see that the cloud lay above the subcontinent's eastern half. At first he thought it might be a storm front, yet there had been no indication of foul weather when Plymouth had lifted off. The closest edge of the formation seemed to taper downward; like the funnel of an enormous tornado, it rose from the high country past Longer Creek, where . . .

"No," he murmured. "This can't be happening."

"Robert?"

Lee didn't respond. He'd heard his wife, but only faintly, as if from a thousand feet away. It wasn't until she'd pushed herself across the command deck and gently touched his arm that he pointed down at the massive fumarole below them. It took a few moments for her to realize what she was looking at; when she did, he heard her gasp.

"Oh, lord . . . that's Mt. Bonestell isn't it?"

"Uh-huh." He took a deep breath. "Hurry up with the com system. We've got a problem."

0551-MT. BONESTELL, MIDLAND

When the world came to an end, when the apocalypse finally arrived , it was with all the fury and thunder foretold by the biblical scriptures Sareech had read long ago.

First the ground shook, an earthquake that rippled the mountainside as if Satan himself had suddenly flexed his arms somewhere in the caverns of Hell. He could hear trees snapping as if they were little more than dry twigs, the vast forest crashing down upon itself in waves of percussion that steadily moved toward him, and through it all was the odor of sulfur, heavy and poisonous, as the morning sun disappeared behind a thick, black pillar of smoke that ascended upward into the heavens, blocking out the dawn, eradicating all warmth, all light, all hope.

The chireep were in full panic. For many days, they had felt the tremors, smelled noxious odors rising from the flanks of Corah , the mountain upon which they had built their city. Some had fled-the unfaithful, those who were more afraid of Corah than Sareech's holy wrath-but most remained behind, believing that their god-from-the-sky would save them. Now they swarmed through the tunnels of the cliff dwellings even as the walls began to cave in, burying alive the young and elderly; they huddled together on parapets, crying out to him in words that he barely understood:

Save us,Sareech! Rescue us! The destroyer has awakened! Use your powers to send Corah away! We call upon you, please stop this!

This was the moment for which Sareech knew he'd been destined. Many years ago, far beyond the stars, he'd been Zoltan Shirow. He had been born a human, had lived his early life in that mortal shell, understanding nothing of the cosmos until the Holy Transformation had occurred. Not recognizing his own divinity, believing himself to be a mere prophet, he'd traveled to this world with his followers, only to discover that, as humans, they were inherently sinful, damned beyond hope of redemption.

One by one, his congregation had perished in the mountains. Only one among them he managed to save, after they consumed the bodies of the others in order to stay alive. Greer stood beside him; her body had become frail to the point that she was unable to walk without the aid of a stick, and her blue-green eyes had grown dark and haunted, her hair grey and matted. It had been a long time since he'd last heard her speak, yet she was still his consort even though she was no longer able to share communion with him.

Nonetheless, she was a holdover from his past. The chireep were his true people. They'd found him, worshiped him as a god, and, in their doing so, Zoltan had discovered his destiny. He was not a prophet, but far more. He was Sareech, capable of taming the Destroyer.

So now, as the ground quaked and ancient forests tumbled and the air itself became foul, Sareech stood his ground. Standing on top of a wooden platform high above the cliff dwellings, he raised his arms, let his batlike wings unfold to their farthest extremity.

"I am Sareech!" he shouted. "I am God!"

As he spoke, a hideous black curtain rumbled down the mountainside, a wall of superheated ash that ignited the undergrowth, setting bushes and fallen trees ablaze. Even the bravest of the chireep were running away; chirping madly, they scrambled downhill in one last, desperate effort to escape. Two of his followers clutched at his legs, their oversize eyes insane with terror, their claws digging into his calves and knees, no longer even praying for salvation, merely hoping that death would be swift.

Only his consort remained unmoved. Beneath the cowl of her ragged white robe, she stared at him, ignoring the ash descending upon them. Her eyes challenged him, daring him to justify his claim to divinity.

At last it was the time. It was within his power to perform a miracle; it was the moment when he would conquer the elements. Opening his hands, Sareech reached forth, calling upon the black mass hurtling toward him to part on either side, just as Moses had once willed the Red Sea to open wide and allow the escape of the Children of Israel.

"I am Sareech! I am-"

"Go to hell," she said.

Then a wall of ash struck them with the force of a hurricane. He had one last glimpse of his consort-her head lowered, her eyes shut, her tattered robe catching fire-before she was swept away like an angel in flames.

In the next instant he was pitched off the parapet, hurled toward the ground far below. As hot ash filled his lungs, roasting him from the inside out, and his skin was flayed and his wings were ripped from his back, he had one last thought, as if a solemn and merciless voice had finally spoken to him.

You are not God.

0610-MIDLANDCHANNEL

Barry Dreyfus blew into his cupped hands, then stamped his feet on the skimmer's forward deck. The sun had come up only a short while earlier, but it didn't make the morning feel any warmer; a chill breeze blew across the channel, kicking up small whitecaps on the dark blue waters. He craved a cup of hot coffee, but was unwilling to venture below to brew a pot on the camp stove they'd brought with them. It was his turn to stand overnight watch while the others slept; so close to enemy territory, he didn't dare leave his post.

The missile carrier lay at anchor within a small lagoon, concealed by the willowlike fronds of parasol trees he and his father had cut shortly after they'd arrived the night before. It had taken over a week for White Company to make the journey down Goat Kill Creek from Defiance to the Great Equatorial River, then east along Midland's southern coast until they reached the confluence of the Midland Channel, then northwest up Midland's east coast until they reached the most narrow point of the channel, directly across from Hammerhead. Although the captured Union Guard hovercraft was capable of thirty knots, they had traveled only in darkness, weighing anchor just offshore during daytime. There had been one close brush, five days earlier, when a Union gyro had flown over them when they'd stopped near Longer Creek. Fortunately, the aircraft didn't spot them, and since then they had seen no other patrols.

He tried not to think about how cold and tired he was. His shift had ended ten minutes ago, but he was reluctant to wake up anyone. His father, Paul Dwyer, Ted LeMare . . . they were curled up in the hovercraft's tiny cabin, and needed all the rest they could get. Twenty miles away, across the broad delta north of Barren Isle that marked the confluence of Midland Channel and Short River, lay Hammerhead, and high upon its rugged granite bluffs was Fort Lopez.

Barry could barely make out Hammerhead at that distance, yet during the night he'd seen the lights of Fort Lopez, watched gyros taking off occasionally. If all went according to plan, in the morning they would attempt to take the Union Guard stronghold out of commission by launching the skimmer's rockets against its landing field. With any luck, they might be able to destroy the fort's gyros and military shuttles. Fort Lopez was unassailable by ground force, but it was vulnerable to its own weapons. All White Company had to do was maneuver the missile carrier within striking range, and the balance of power on Coyote would shift. Red Company and Blue Company would do the rest.

If all went according to plan, that is. Barry didn't want to think about how many things could go wrong. . . .

Hearing the cabin hatch creak open, he looked around to see his father climb up the short ladder. Jack Dreyfus peered at his son through bleary eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I'm okay." Barry shrugged, gave the old man a grin. "If you want to sleep longer . . ."

"Stop it. You sound like your mother." Jack stepped onto the deck, then arched his back and yawned. "I could kill the jackass who designed these things. No room for a man to get any sleep. And with Paul snoring all night . . ."

"Yeah, uh-huh." Barry had heard the same complaints every morning for the last week. His father never stopped thinking like an engineer. He and Paul Dwyer had restored the skimmer to operating condition after it was shot to pieces during the Battle of Defiance; considering their limited resources, they had done a superlative job. Jack was a perfectionist, though; nothing anyone else ever did was good enough for him. "Did you make some coffee?"

"Ted's up. He's working on it now." Jack stretched his arms, then turned his back to him. "I need to take a-hey, what the hell is that?"

Barry turned to look in the direction his father was gazing. Until then, his attention had been focused upon Hammerhead; he hadn't looked to the west, toward Midland. At first he saw only the lagoon-nothing unusual there-but then his eyes moved upward, and he saw a thick blanket moving across the sky. Clouds that looked like black cotton boiled across the heavens; deep within them, he could see flashes of lightning.

"Storm coming in," he said. "We're about to get hit."

"Uh-uh. That's no storm." And indeed, the clouds were darker than any Barry had ever seen, either on Earth or on Coyote. They resembled smoke from an burning oil refinery, or maybe a coal mine that had been set ablaze. And they were moving fast . "That's so weird," Jack added, absently rubbing the stubble of his new beard. "It's almost like . . ."

Feet rang against the cabin ladder, then Ted appeared within the open hatch. " Alabamajust called in. They say . . ." Then he glanced up at the darkening sky. "Oh, hell . . ."

Jack turned toward him. "What's going on?"

"Mt. Bonestell just blew." Ted's eyes were fixed upon the menacing clouds. "And it's coming our way."

0656-DEFIANCE, MIDLAND

The eruption couldn't be seen from the colony-Mt. Bonestell lay over the horizon, and the closer mountains of the Gillis Range blocked the plume from sight-yet the townspeople had been awakened by tremors so violent that tree houses had creaked ominously in the swaying blackwoods and the bell in the center of town had rung several times. Thinking about it later, Wendy Gunther realized that they should have anticipated something like this, for the animals had been acting strange for the last couple of days: chickens stopped laying eggs, goats refused to give milk, dogs barked for no reason, and shags had restlessly paced around their corral. But no one had been that observant, and the livestock and pets didn't have the capacity to tell their masters what was upsetting them.

It wasn't until she received the priority message from the Alabama that Wendy discovered that this was no mere earthquake, but something far more serious. As acting mayor in Robert Lee's absence, the colony's precious satellite transceiver had been placed in her care; she'd left it switched on, awaiting word that the Plymouth had reached the ship and that orbital communications had been restored. She was still picking up broken crockery and trying to calm Susan when the unit beeped for the first time in several years.

Lee's transmission didn't last very long, but Wendy managed to save the photo images he sent down before the ship passed over the horizon. Suddenly, shattered plates and a child were the least of her concerns. Once she copied the images into her pad, she put on her parka and boots, then shinnied down the rope ladder from her tree house and ran off to gather the members of the Town Council who'd remained in Defiance . . . and one more person, a recent arrival who knew much about such things.

So now Fred LaRoux was seated in front of the comp set up in the Council office, studying a succession of high-orbit images captured by Alabama 's onboard cameras. Save for the occasional whispered comment-"oh, boy," "uh-oh," "that's not good"-the geologist remained quiet until he ran through the series twice, sometimes backing up to zoom in on one frame or another, while the Council members sat or stood around him, murmuring to each other as they gazed at the awesome views of Mt. Bonestell as seen from space.

Wendy finally lost patience. "So what's going on?" she asked, leaning across the table so that Fred couldn't ignore her any longer. "Are we in trouble?"

He sighed. "Good news first, or bad?" He didn't wait for her response. "Good news is that the prevailing winds are pushing the plume to the east, not the west. So we're not directly in the line of the ashfall . . . it's moving away from us, toward the Midland Channel."

"White Company's over there." Henry Johnson leaned heavily upon his walking stick, taking the weight off his wounded knee. "Is this going to affect their mission?"

Fred nodded. "When that ash comes down, it's going to clog up their hovercraft fans . . ."

"But it's just ash. I don't see how-"

"This is rock ash, not wood ash. With an eruption of this severity-and believe me, this is severe-they're going to get several feet of what amounts to powdered stone. They'll be dead in the water if they don't get out of there quick as they can." He glanced at Wendy. "Better fire a message to them as soon as you can, warn them what's about to happen."

Wendy nodded, even though she knew it was hopeless. It would be another two hours before Alabama came within transmission range once more; until then, she'd be unable to bounce a signal to White Company. Just then, though, that was the least of their problems. "You said that's the good news. So what's the bad news?"

"Lava?" Kuniko Okada had been watching the comp screen with the same horrified fascination as the others.

Fred shook his head. "If this was a Hawaiian-type eruption, then we'd expect lava flows, yes, and even then I wouldn't be worried. Oh, maybe I'd be concerned, if my people hadn't come down here. . . ."

Fred had been the mayor of Shady Grove, a small settlement in a lowland valley beneath Mt. Bonestell, eight hundred miles northeast of Defiance. Six weeks earlier, fearing an eruption, he'd evacuated the town's sixty residents and brought them down the Gillis Range to Defiance. Since then, many of them had joined the Rigil Kent brigade; they were among the members of Red Company and Blue Company, poised for a final assault upon New Florida.

"But lava isn't a problem here," he continued, pointing to dark grey plume captured by Alabama 's cameras. "See that? Instead of liquefied rock, what we're seeing here is vaporized lava, coming up from a magma chamber beneath the planet's crust, along with a lot of superheated gases."

"Then . . . so what?" Vonda Cayle stood behind Wendy, nonchalant about the whole thing. "If it's just smoke, then I don't know what we're supposed to be worrying about."

"You don't understand." Fred rubbed his eyelids between his fingertips. "Look, this is a major Plinean eruption. No, not just an eruption, an explosion. What probably happened is that a bubble of magma, under very high pressure, gradually rose through the planet's crust until it reached the surface, at which point it simply blew up." He clicked to another view of the volcano, one made from nearly directly overhead. "It's hard to tell, but I think it's a safe bet that the force of the explosion was roughly equivalent to that of a nuke. Probably took out the top of the mountain. That's what we felt down here."

Fred expanded the screen so that the plume appeared in close-up. "So that's not just smoke . . . that's ash, millions of tons of it. The heavier particles stay close to the ground and roll downhill in what we call a pyroclastic flow. Think of a tidal wave, but instead of water you've got ash, rock, even boulders, moving more than a hundred miles an hour, reaching temperatures as high as three hundred degrees. Anything in its path is either crushed or incinerated."

Wendy stared at the screen. Although most of the plume extended to the east, she noticed that smaller pyroclastic flows extended in all directions, including southwest toward Shady Grove. "Good thing you got your people out of there."

"Yeah, well, I had a feeling something like this was going to happen when we started feeling tremors a few months ago." Fred hesitated. "But your friend Zoltan . . . if he didn't leave-"

"Don't call him my friend." When she and Carlos had encountered Zoltan Shirow a couple of months ago, his madness had become complete; he believed himself to be a god, with the sandthieves-the chirreep , he called them-worshiping him as such. She doubted that Zoltan had survived, but she couldn't help but feel remorse for the primitive creatures who had probably lost their lives. And she'd also briefly seen one of his original followers.

She must have died, too. Glad that I didn't tell Ben about her.Wendy repressed a shudder, forced her thoughts back on track. "Mt. Bonestell is a long way from here. We shouldn't have to worry about that."

"You're right. The effects of pyroclastic flows will be localized . . . say, only about thirty or forty miles from the caldera. But that's not the worst of it." Fred clicked to another view of the eruption: this one farther east, showing the plume as it moved toward the eastern side of Midland. "The wind will carry the lighter particles across the rest of the island, all the way to the Midland Channel, then to Hammerhead, Highland, even beyond. So you're going to see significant amounts of ash-up to two or three inches-falling across a broad area. Fortunately, we don't have any settlements out that way. . . ."

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

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

"White Company could be in trouble, though. The skimmer . . ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, God . . ." Kuniko held a hand to her face.

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

"And you think this could happen here," Wendy said.

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

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

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

Fred nodded. "Uh-huh. Better hope it's not too late for peace talks."

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

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

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

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

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

"I only wish it were, sir. I expect you already know what's happened."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get them out of there. Do you copy?"

"Yes, sir. But where do we . . . ?"

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

"Get them airborne!" he snapped. "I don't care where, just move 'em!"

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

"Loss of signal, sir," the com officer said.

"Do what you can to get it back." Baptiste settled back in his chair. "We can't afford to lose contact."

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

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

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

0834-NORTHCREEK, NEWFLORIDA

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

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

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

"I'd like to hear more," he said. "Any word from White Company?"

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

Carlos nodded. Once White Company knocked out the landing fields on Hammerhead, Red Company would move in on Liberty from the north and Blue Company would take Shuttlefield from the east. The three attacks were scheduled to occur simultaneously at 0600 the next morning; taking out the Union Guard's air superiority was vital to the operation's success. The ashfall might have done so already, but still . . .

"Sounds a little iffy, Captain. Are we sure Hammerhead is down?"

A short pause. "We don't know for sure . . ." Lee replied after a moment. "We haven't seen anything take off from Hammerhead, but that doesn't mean they didn't launch their gyros before the cloud moved over them. They're probably just as confused as we are, so . . ."

"I see." Carlos absently kneaded his hands together. It had taken months to put this operation together, and now that they were so close to achieving their objective, nature had thrown a monkey wrench into the works. Damn! If it had only erupted a couple of days later . . .

"I say we go ahead." Chris lifted his head. "We've got everyone in place. If we abort now, we might not get another chance for a long time."

"He's right," Marie said. "We've come a long way already. . . ."

"Then we'll just go back the same way," Carlos said. "That's not the issue."

"Hell it ain't." Chris looked him straight in the eye. "C'mon, man, how much has it taken for us to get this far? Until now, they've had us by the short hairs. Now we've got them. You want to duck out now just because of bad weather?"

Carlos started to object, but stopped short. No one had been drafted; everyone there had volunteered because they wanted to be free, to live their lives without fear of Union Guard troops raiding their villages, not to work as forced labor upon projects created by the Matriarch for the further industrial development of this world. Their own lives were at risk, but also in the balance were those of countless individuals-not only in the present, but for years to come. The future of Coyote itself rested upon the decisions he'd make that morning, that moment.

He took a deep breath. "Sir," he said, "I've decided . . . we've decided . . . to proceed."

A short silence, just long enough for him to wonder whether they had debated too long and Alabama had already passed beyond range. But then he heard Lee's voice once more: "Glad to hear it. I think you're doing the right thing. And for your information, Blue Company concurs."

Carlos smiled. Of course, Lee would have been in contact with Clark Thompson. Blue Company was holding position on the Eastern Divide, waiting to march up the Swamp Road from Bridgeton to Shuttlefield. "Thank you, sir. Glad to know that Blue is with us."

"So am I."Again, a short pause. "There's something else . . . I think we should consider advancing the timetable."

The suggestion took him almost as much by surprise as learning that Mt. Bonestell had erupted. "By how much?" he asked. And more importantly, he wondered without asking, why?

"Let me ask. How long do you think would it take for your team to reach Liberty?"

Carlos snapped his fingers, pointed to the rolled-up map they'd been using to lead the flotilla. Chris quickly laid it out across the ground, placing stones on its corners to keep it flat. Carlos gave it a brief study; from where they were now, they would have to travel about thirty miles southwest down North Creek until they reached the point where Sand Creek branched off, then another twenty-five miles to Liberty. Fifty-five miles. Yet they would be traveling downstream all the way, and with the water running high because the snowmelt farther north, they shouldn't have trouble with shoals or sandbars.

"If we start out this evening-" he began.

"I'm thinking much earlier than that. What if you left now?"

"Is he crazy?" Marie whispered. "We can't . . ."

Carlos shot her a look. "If we leave now, we could get there"-he made a quick mental calculation-"sometime tonight, shortly after sundown."

"Sure," Chris murmured. "And we'd get there too tired to fight."

Carlos quickly nodded as he held up a hand. "Captain, my people have been rowing all night. If we spend the next twelve hours or so on the river, they'll be half-dead by the time we reached Liberty."

Not only that, he suddenly realized, but they'd also be moving in broad daylight. If anyone aboard the Union starship above Coyote were to focus their telescopes down upon New Florida, then they'd be able to see Red Company heading their way. The advantage of surprise would be lost.

"I realize what I'm asking you to do."Lee said. "Clark Thompson voiced the same concerns, and he has the same problem." Carlos glanced at the map again. He was right; Blue Company would have to travel by foot for almost forty miles before they reached the southern end of Sand Creek, then cross the river and hike another dozen or so miles until they reached Shuttlefield. "There's a good reason for this. I've got an idea, one that may save a lot of lives. If it's going to work, though, I'm going to need to have Red and Blue teams within striking range of the colonies by the end of the day."

"So what's your plan?"

He didn't hear anything for a couple of seconds. "I can't tell you that right now." Lee said at last, "so I'm just going to ask you to trust me. Can you do that?"

A leap of faith. That was what Lee was asking him to make. Chris had his face in his hands, and Marie was slowly shaking her head, yet Carlos found himself remembering the past. Two hundred and forty-five years ago, when they were only children, their fathers had made a similar leap of faith when they'd joined the conspiracy to hijack the Alabama and take it to 47 Ursae Majoris. And three and a half Coyote years ago, after the first Union ship had unexpectedly arrived, Lee had trusted him to lead the original colonists from New Florida into the Midland wilderness. Once again, it came down to a matter of trust. And again the future was at stake.

"Yes, sir," he said, "I can."

"I won't keep you then. You've got a lot to do. We're remaining aboardAlabama, so you'll be able to reach us again in another couple of hours. But do so only if you have to."

Back to radio silence. "I understand, sir."

"Thank you. Good luck. Crimson Tide over and out . . ."

"Good luck to you, too. Red Company out." He signed off, then disconnected the satphone from his pad.

Marie regarded him with disbelief. "Wow, that was easy, wasn't it? And he didn't even thank us. . . ."

"He's grateful. Believe me." Carlos folded the satphone's antenna, then stood up. "You heard him. We're on a new schedule. Go wake up the others, tell them to break camp and load up. We're shipping out."

His sister started to say something else, but one look at his face told her that it wasn't the right time. Heaving an expansive sigh, she stood up and marched away. Chris slowly stretched his arms. "I think I'd mind a lot less if I knew the reason why."

"He knows what he's doing. And like you said, we may not get another chance." Carlos forced a smile. "Look at it this way. If everything works out, then you get to see Luisa again a little earlier than you expected."

"Now that you put it that way . . ." Chris heaved himself to his feet, then walked away, clapping his hands as he whistled sharply. "Okay, people, wake up! Time to ride!"

0902-URSS A LABAMA

"Crimson Tide to White Company. Please respond, over." Lee listened for a moment, but heard nothing through his headset but carrier-wave static. "White Company, this is Crimson Tide. Do you copy? Over."

"Give up, Robert. We're not getting anywhere." Dana pointed to one of the screens above the com panel. "Transmitter's working fine, and we've got a good fix on where they should be. We just can't break through all that-"

"I know, I know." One more try, just for the hell of it. " Alabama . . . I mean, Crimson Tide to White Company. If you copy, boost your gain. Repeat, boost your gain and respond. Over." He counted to ten, then finally surrendered to the inevitable. "Feels almost like they can hear us, but . . ."

"If they did, we would have known by now." She unfastened her seat belt, then floated out of her chair and pulled herself along the ceiling rail until she was next to him. "I'm sure they're fine," she added, putting a hand on his shoulder. "They just can't talk to us, that's all."

Lee absently took her hand as he gazed out the porthole. Once again, Alabama 's equatorial orbit was taking it over the Midland Channel. Indeed, they were passing directly over Hammerhead, yet the only way they had of knowing that was the ground track displayed on the nav station's flatscreens. The terrain itself was rendered invisible beneath the volcanic plume that covered everything between Mt. Bonestell and Mt. Pesek. Even from this distance, they could see the tiny sparks of St. Elmo's fire that roiled within the thick clouds. Short-range radios on the ground might be able to penetrate the electromagnetic interference, but from space . . .

"I guess . . . I hope you're right." If Fred LaRoux was correct, then White Company was immobilized. If that was the case, they could still clear enough ash from the skimmer's fans for them to restart the engines and retreat back down the channel. If worse came to worst, they could always abandon the missile carrier and make their way on foot across Midland until they reached Defiance.

Nonetheless, White Company's mission was a key part of the operation. Even if Fort Lopez's gyros were grounded, there was no guarantee that military shuttles couldn't be launched. And with several hundred Guardsmen garrisoned on Hammerhead, the Union still had the ability to repel Red Company and Blue Company as they moved in on New Florida.

Lee shut his eyes. Five hundred years ago, his ancestor must have faced these same choices. Yet even at Gettysburg, all General Lee had lost was a battle; the Confederacy might have perished, but America itself survived. The stakes for which he was fighting were far higher: freedom not just for a country, but for an entire world. And what he intended to do was something his great-grandfather would have never imagined. . . .

"Robert? Robert, are you . . ."

"I'm fine. Just thinking, that's all." He opened his eyes, gave her a tired smile. "Better get to work. We've got a lot to do before the next orbit."

"Sure." Dana released his hand, but she lingered by his side. "You didn't tell Carlos what you mean to do. Or Clark either."

He shook his head. "They might be caught. If so, I don't want to risk either of them telling . . ."

"You know them better than that."

He couldn't fool her, and he should have known better than to try. "It's better that they don't know," he said quietly. "If anything goes wrong . . ."

"Then let's make sure we don't screw up." Dana grasped the handrail, started to pull herself away. "So what do you want me to do first? Take the helm, or . . ."

"I'll handle navigation. You go prime the main engine." He checked his watch. "Another hour and forty-five minutes before we're in range of Liberty. Move fast." He started to unbuckle his seat belt, then he snapped his fingers. "And we'd better tell-"

"Kim. I know. She's going to love this." Dana grinned at him. "Y'know, I bet she thinks we've been fooling around up here."

"Believe me, I wish we were."

1146-LIBERTY, NEWFLORIDA

Almost noon, and the town was going about its daily routine. A pair of shags led by a drover pulled a cart loaded with manure down Main Street, their hooves splashing through muddy potholes as they headed for the farm fields outside town. A couple of women walked past on the plank sidewalk, carefully avoiding eye contact with a handful of off-duty Guardsmen lounging on a bench outside their barracks. Across the road, someone washed the front windows of his cabin. Just another day, much like any other day in early spring.

Nonetheless, as she watched all this from the front steps of the community hall, the Matriarch Luisa Hernandez had a certain sense of foreboding. With her bodyguard standing nearby, she should have felt safe, and yet she found herself gazing up at the sky. It remained clear, the bright midday sun promising a warm afternoon, but she'd seen the images of Midland relayed from the Spirit , listened to Captain Baptiste's report of the eruption. Mt. Bonestell was a long way from there, the winds were carrying the plume from its eruption away from New Florida.

On the other hand, contact with Hammerhead had been lost earlier that morning. Apparently the ash cloud was interfering with the satellite relay. She told herself that it was little more than an aberration. A temporary inconvenience, nothing to be worried about; her people were already working to reestablish communications with Fort Lopez through other means. But still . . .

In the three and a half years-almost eleven Earth-years; had it really been that long?-since she'd arrived on Coyote, nothing had gone the way she'd expected. It should have been a straightforward task: assume control of the colony established by the Alabama , institute a collectivist system of government, put the second wave of settlers to work at developing local resources, and ultimately transform this world into a new Earth. She'd anticipated difficulties, of course-this was a frontier; there were bound to be hardships-but nothing that she and the Guard shouldn't have been able to handle.

Yet it hadn't gone that way. The original colonists had not only refused to cooperate, but had also gone so far as to flee to Midland, leaving behind little more than a collection of log cabins stripped to the bare walls. The more recent settlers, those either selected by lottery or able to bribe their way aboard Union starships, had gradually turned against her; Shuttlefield had become a ghetto, and those who'd left before she barred emigration had joined forces with the resistance movement on Midland. Her effort to build a bridge across the East Channel had ended in disaster when its own architect had collaborated with Rigil Kent in its sabotage. And although she'd established a military base on Hammerhead and given the Guard the task of seeking out the Alabama party's hidden settlement, the recent raid upon Defiance had been repelled, at the cost of many lives and some irreplaceable equipment.

So, after all these long seasons, she found herself in control not of a world, as she had dreamed, but instead of little more than an island. And only marginal control, at that; she'd shifted most of the Guard to Hammerhead, leaving behind only a small garrison to defend New Florida. It was a risky move, yet she was convinced that the key to victory was taking an offensive stance; rooting out the Rigil Kent movement had become her top priority.

In a few short weeks, she'd take the battle to them. The locations of the major settlements on Midland had been determined by Union patrols. Although the Defiance raid had been unsuccessful, it had helped her gauge its defensive capability. There were over four hundred Guardsmen on Hammerhead, along with gyros, armed skimmers, and military shuttles. Once the rainy season had come and gone and the creeks resumed their normal levels, she'd issue orders to attack. There would be no quarter asked and none given; by the end of spring, Coyote would belong to her.

But now . . .

A volcano erupts, and suddenly her forces on Hammerhead are rendered incommunicado. Luisa wrapped her arms around herself, drawing her cape a little closer despite the warmth of the day, and stared stubbornly at the calm blue sky. A minor setback, that was all. A slight delay in her plans. She'd faced defeat before, and had survived. This, too, would pass. . . .

The door behind her swung open. "Matriarch . . ." an electronic voice began.

"I hope you're going to tell me you've reached Fort Lopez," she said, not bothering to look around.

Heavy footsteps upon the wooden boards, then a tall figure cloaked in black moved beside her. "We have indeed, ma'am, but there's something else you should-"

"Fort Lopez. Tell me what you've learned."

Luisa couldn't help being impatient with Gregor Hull; he reminded her too strongly of his predecessor. Manuel Castro had accompanied her aboard the Glorious Destiny , and he had served as the colony's lieutenant governor. No, more than that; when he'd disappeared the previous autumn during the raid upon Thompson's Ferry-although his body was never found, she was certain that he was dead-she had lost her closest confidante. As another posthuman, Savant Hull was physically identical to Savant Castro. Although he'd assumed Manny's role, he could never replace him. Indeed, his very presence was an insult to Castro's memory.

The Savant hesitated. "As you wish," he said after a moment. "Satellite communications with the base are still impossible, but one gyro managed to escape."

"Only one?" Luisa looked at him sharply. "What about the others?"

"Two more lifted off. One attempted to fly through the ash cloud, but it lost power and crashed in the Midland Channel. The other reported engine trouble and was forced to turn back. It was able to land safely, and none of its crew were-"

"Get on with it."

"The third got away, but only because its pilot broke formation. It touched down on the southeastern coast of Midland, where its pilot was able to uplink with the Spirit while maintaining shortwave radio contact with Fort Lopez."

The Matriarch let out her breath. One gyro out of twenty. If only the ground crews had acted more quickly on Baptiste's orders . . . "I can imagine the rest. Lieutenant Cortez has grounded the rest of the squadron."

"Yes, ma'am, he has. He doesn't wish to risk losing any more aircraft. There are already four inches of ash on the landing field. . . ."

"No excuse."

"Matriarch, this isn't snow. This is volcanic ash. It doesn't melt. Two military shuttles are being prepared to lift troops and equipment to a safe location, but it may take some time before they're flightworthy. Even then, it won't be safe for them to carry more than half their usual payload, because-"

"I understand." Luisa disliked being lectured, and the Savant sounded as if he was speaking to a child. "Tell them to do the best they can, but I want Fort Lopez to be ready to resume operations as soon as possible. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, ma'am. Robert Lee wishes to speak to you."

For a few seconds, the Matriarch didn't comprehend what Savant Hull had just said. She watched the man across the road cleaning his cabin windows, admiring the diligence he exercised, soaping and rinsing every single pane. From somewhere not far away, she heard children playing softball in a field that hadn't yet been planted with the first spring crops. And suddenly, for only the second time in all these years, the man who had eluded her for so long wanted to parley with her.

"Now?" she asked. "Is he . . . I mean, do you have him online now?"

"Yes, Matriarch. His transmission is being received via satphone. I'm patched into our system, and I can relay it to you. If you wish me to provide translation-"

"That won't be necessary. Put him through."

As a pastime, she'd studied English during the last few years; she partially blamed her lack of understanding the older form of Anglo for her inability to negotiate with Lee when she'd first met him. She sat down on the steps, then raised her right hand to push aside her hair and prod her jaw, activating the subcutaneous implant beneath her skin. Savant Hull knew how to open the private channel to her; a few moments passed while he established linkage between her, him, and Liberty's satellite transceiver. There was a double beep within her inner ear, then a faint hiss.

"Captain Lee?" she asked.

" Matriarch Hernandez." The voice was faint, yet unmistakable. " You've kept me waiting."

"My apologies, Captain. I didn't realize . . ." Luisa stopped herself. She was the one in charge here, not him. "You have something you wish to discuss?"

" Yes, I do. I assume you've already learned about the eruption of Mt. Bonestell."

"I've been informed, yes." She glanced up at Savant Hull. "Quite an event. I trust none of your people are in immediate danger."

" At least for the time being, no. Thank you for your concern." A brief pause. " It's come to my attention that this may have long-term consequences, ones of which you may not be aware. I've been reliably informed that the-"

"Captain, would you hold a moment, please?" She prodded her implant, breaking the connection, then turned to Hull. "You say you're receiving this as a satellite transmission?"

"Yes, ma'am. Obviously he's been able to restore Alabama 's orbital communications system."

Which meant that, if Lee wasn't in Defiance, then he was probably aboard the Alabama . That wasn't a surprise; although the original colonists had left behind one of their shuttles when they had fled Liberty, they had taken the other. Yet why would Lee have returned to his ship? Something was odd. . . .

No time to worry about that now. She reopened the channel. "Sorry to keep you waiting. One of my aides wanted to speak with me."

" They're probably wondering how I'm able to contact you. The truth is, I'm aboard theAlabama. We came up here to restore our com network, so that our settlements could talk to one another again ."

His admission was unexpected and caught her by surprise. "I appreciate your candor, Captain. I regret having to isolate your settlements, but the terrorist actions of Rigil Kent made it necessary for us to take such measures."

Another pause. " Matriarch Hernandez, we can debate the reasons for our conflict another time. This isn't why I've contacted you. You just expressed appreciation for my truthfulness. Are you willing to accept that I may tell you the truth about other issues?"

"I'm listening."

" I've been told by one of my people-Dr. Frederic LaRoux, you may know him-that Mt. Bonestell poses a grave threat to everyone on this planet. It's releasing acidic gases into the upper atmosphere that will cause the average global temperature to drop by as much as five degrees centigrade. This will probably-no, very likely-result in climate changes that will drastically affect crop production over the course of the coming year."

The Matriarch smiled as she heard this. "I'm out in front of the community hall. The sky is clear and the temperature is very pleasant. Mt. Bonestell is on your side of the world. If it erupts, that's your problem."

" Don't fool yourself, Matriarch. It's your problem, too. You may not be able to see the effects now, or tomorrow, or even next week, but it'll affect you as well. Much the same thing happened on Earth in the past, and our people have little doubt that it's about to happen here, too. If we lose the summer crops, then we'll suffer drastic food shortages, and you should know by now how much we depend upon agriculture to carry us through the winter months."

She frowned. He had a point, whether she liked it or not. Despite her best efforts to increase crop production, New Florida depended upon six months of warm weather in order to grow enough food to stock the warehouses during the long, harsh months of Coyote's winter. The swampers knew how to hibernate within ball plants, but humans didn't have that option. "Assuming that your people are correct," she asked, "what do you suggest we do about it?"

" Matriarch, your people and mine have been fighting for over three years. As I said, the reasons are beside the point." Lee paused. " I think the time has come for us to seek a truce. We can't afford to engage in war while we're trying to stay alive."

Luisa felt her pulse quicken. She stood up, walked down the steps, Savant Hull and her bodyguard following close behind. "You're willing to surrender?"

" No. Not a surrender. Armistice. A cessation of hostilities."

She clasped a hand over her mouth. After all this, the man was suggesting peace talks! She didn't know whether to laugh out loud or scream with victory. "I think"-she took a deep breath, hoped that she wasn't betraying her emotions-"I think we should discuss this further. What do you suggest?"

For an instant, she thought she heard another voice in the background, as if someone else aboard the Alabama was arguing with him. Then Lee returned. " I'm prepared to meet with you in Liberty, face-to-face, provided I can come under flag of truce. Are you willing to do that?"

"Certainly. Of course." This was getting better all the time; she found herself dancing from one foot to another. "Your shuttle will bring you here?"

" Yes. We can arrive at"-a few seconds passed-" 1900 hours, by your time. We'll touch down in the landing field just outside Liberty."

The center of Shuttlefield. Perfect. "Very good, Captain Lee. I look forward to seeing you again."

" Same here, Matriarch. I hope our talks will be fruitful. Alabama out ."

She heard a buzz within her ear, signaling that the satphone link had been broken. Luisa heaved a deep sigh. "I got him," she said quietly, unable to keep the smile from her face. "I finally got him."

"If you say so." As always, the Savant registered no emotion. "But don't you think-"

"I think very well, thank you." She turned away, allowing her bodyguard to open the front door of the community hall for her. In only a few hours, her enemy would walk into her hands, voluntarily and of his own free will. "Come now. We need to prepare for his arrival."

He must be desperate. All the better. The negotiations would be very short, and entirely on her terms.

1214-URSS A LABAMA

Lee switched off, then slowly let out his breath as he settled back in his chair. For a few moments he gazed out the window, watching Midland as it passed below once more. Alabama was in its third orbit since they had come aboard; the titanic column of ash rising from Mt. Bonestell was clearly visible, and, if anything, it had become larger since the last time he'd seen it. He hoped that Fred LaRoux was overstating the consequences of the eruption, but he didn't think so; already the thin gauze of the upper atmosphere above the limb of the planet had subtly changed color from light blue to reddish brown.

"You know what she's going to do, don't you?" Dana floated upside down above the engineering station, consulting a pad she'd clipped to a panel while she carefully entered a new program into the keypad. "She thinks you're going to give up, and when she finds out you're not, she's going to take you hostage."

"That thought occurred to me, yes." He tapped his headset mike. "Kim, how's it going down there?"

" I've got reentry plotted," she replied, " but if we're going to touch down by 1900, we're going to have to depart by 1300 at the latest. Sorry to rush you, but we've got a tight window."

"Understood." Lee glanced over Dana; she briefly nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. "Shovel some more coal into the engines, we'll be there as soon as we can." He clicked off, then unbuckled the seat belt and pushed himself toward the engineering station. "I have no doubt whatsoever that she'll try to take full advantage of the situation. She's the kind of person who sees everything in terms of power."

"And you think you can deal with someone like that." Not a question, but a statement.

"I think so." He grasped a ceiling rail to brake himself. "I was once married to someone who thought that way."

Dana glanced away from the comp screen. "Sorry," she murmured, embarrassed by what she'd said. "I forgot."

"Don't worry about it." It had been many years-almost 245, in fact-since the last time any of them had seen Elise Rochelle Lee, the daughter of a United Republic of America senator, once his wife before . . . Lee shook his head. He seldom thought of Elise anymore, and when he did his memories were bitter. "Let's just say that I've had practice, and leave it at that."

Dana said nothing, but her eyes expressed sympathy before she returned to her work. Lee watched as she tapped a few more keys, double-checked what was on the screen against the datapad's display, then loaded the program into the AI. "All right, we're golden. Main engine's back online and I've preset the ignition sequence for 1930 on the nose. All we have to do now is set the trajectory and engage the autopilot."

"I've already worked out the trajectory." Lee reached for the pad. "Want me to insert the final numbers?"

"Let me handle it. I've got 'em in my head. Excuse me. . . ." Dana unclipped the pad, then performed a graceful somersault that sent her in the direction of the helm station. "If you want to do something, you can disengage the command lock-out on the autopilot. I know your code, but it'll save me a minute. Oh, and yeah, Kim might appreciate it if you opened the cradle."

"Got it." Lee returned to his chair. Not bothering to seat himself again, he pulled up the lapboard while hovering overhead, then typed in the six-digit string that would allow Dana to enter a new course into the navigation subsystem. Once that was done, he pushed the buttons that would reopen the shuttle cradle and let Plymouth undock from the ship.

The instruments made their discordant music of random beeps and boops, and for a moment it almost seemed as if the ship was alive again. Lee let his gaze roam across the command center. He had trouble remembering Elise's face, but it was all too easy for him to recall when this place had been filled with his crew, shouting orders to one another in those last minutes before Alabama launched from Earth orbit. Now it was just him and his chief engineer, preparing their ship for one last journey. . . .

"Done and done." Dana turned away from the helm, pulled herself along the rails toward him. "We're on the clock now. Better get below before Kim throws a fit."

"Yeah. Sure." Lee started to reach down, intending to close the porthole shutters, then realized that it was pointless. He withdrew his hand . . . then, on impulse, he hit the switch anyway.

"Why did you do that?" Dana watched the shutters slowly descend upon the windows, blocking out the sunlight and casting the compartment into darkness once more. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does." It was hard to explain, but he felt like it was the right thing to do. Like offering a blindfold to a man being marched before a firing squad. He turned toward the hatch. "Come on," he said, feeling a dryness in his throat, "let's go before I change my mind."

1301-WHSS S PIRIT OF S OCIAL C OLLECTIVISM C ARRIED TO THE S TARS

"There it is," Baptiste said. "Increase magnification, please."

He watched as the image displayed on the ceiling changed. What had once been a tiny sliver of reflected light almost lost among the stars suddenly became a recognizable shape: the Alabama , picked up by the Spirit 's navigation telescope.

The other ship was nearly two thousand miles away, gliding just above the limb of the planet. Over the last few months, his crew had become used to spotting the derelict every now and then; its equatorial orbit was higher than the Spirit 's, though, and on a slightly different plane, and so the vessel would disappear beyond the horizon after each brief encounter. Only once had anyone gone aboard the Alabama , and then just to disable its communication system. Baptiste always meant to pay it a visit, if only out of curiosity-after all, it was an historic artifact-but he had never found the time nor the opportunity, and after a while its presence faded to the back of his mind.

Once again it occupied his full attention. As he watched, a tiny wedge-shaped form detached itself from its midsection. A brief flare of light, then it slowly fell away from the ship, beginning a long descent toward the planet below.

"That must be the shuttle," the com officer said unnecessarily. "I should be able to locate its radio frequency, sir. Do you wish me to hail it?"

"Negative." The last thing Baptiste wanted its crew to know was that it was being observed. "Reopen the channel to Liberty, please." He waited until he heard the double beep within his ear, then prodded his jaw. "You're correct, Matriarch. There was someone aboard the Alabama ."

" Was, or is?"

"Was. Past tense. We just saw a shuttle depart." He peered more closely at the Alabama . No light within its portholes. "From what I can tell, its docking cradles are empty. I doubt there's anyone aboard."

" I see." A brief pause. " All the same. I'd like to be certain. Can you send someone over there to check?"

"Just a moment." Baptiste glanced at the navigator. She tapped a couple of keys, then pointed at her screen. He punched up her console display on his private screen, quickly studied the orbital tracks of both ships. "I can do so, but it'll take some time for a skiff to make rendezvous. Six hours at least, and only if we launch at once."

"Please do so, Captain. At the very least, I'd like to have their satphone capability taken down again."

"Yes, ma'am." He didn't like Luisa Hernandez very much; she was arrogant, her methods crude and imperialistic, and once already they'd crossed swords. Although he was in charge of military operations, she was the colonial governor, and in certain matters her authority superseded his. It was her original order to deny orbital communications to the resistance movement, and in that regard she had the final say. "I'll send a team over right away. If that's all-"

"It isn't, I want you to come down here and join me."

Several people looked up as she said this. They were patched in to their conversation, as normal for space-to-ground communications. It was no secret among the crew that the captain detested the Matriarch, and that he'd returned to the ship, on the pretext of maintaining command discipline in order to avoid having personal contact with her. Baptiste deliberately turned his back on them. "Do you think that's necessary, ma'am?"

"Captain, may I remind you that Robert Lee is aboard that shuttle, and that he himself has requested this meeting? If he's planning to surrender-"

"You said earlier that he requested an armistice."

" Only a choice of words. This situation obviously poses a threat that he can't handle. Or perhaps he's been considering this for a while, and just sees this as a way out. Either way, he wants to bring hostilities to an end. As commander of Union Guard operations, your presence here is crucial."

Baptiste bit his lower lip. She had him there. In breaking off her operation nearly three months earlier to capture Rigil Kent, he'd asserted his rank as the most senior Union Astronautica officer on Coyote. The role of being a commander of an occupational force wasn't comfortable for him, though, and since then he'd been happy to let the Matriarch do as she would with the Union Guard reinforcements he'd brought from Earth.

He knew he couldn't wash his hands of the matter any longer. And, he had to admit to himself, he was curious as to why Lee would make such a sudden gesture toward peace. And the timing . . . there was something odd about the timing. . . .

"Yes, Matriarch. I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Very good, Captain. I'm looking forward to-"

"Thank you, Matriarch. Spirit out." He impatiently cut the comlink, then stood up from his chair. "Prepare a shuttle for me, please," he said, turning to the senior watch officer standing nearby, "and tell the pilot I want a fast descent to Liberty." With luck, he might be able to beat Lee's shuttle to the ground. "And detail an inspection crew to the Alabama ," he added as he headed for the lift. "Tell them to burn extra fuel if they have to, but I want them aboard as soon as possible."

The watch officer was already issuing orders as the lift doors closed behind Baptiste. His hand wavered in front of the panel as he briefly considered stopping by his cabin to exchange his duty fatigues for a black dress uniform. If this was a disarmament conference, then perhaps he should be suitably attired for the occasion.

Then he thought better of it, and pushed the button for the shuttle deck. Doing so would only waste time. Besides, he was reluctant to do anything that might make the Matriarch look good.

And he doubted that Robert Lee would care very much about his appearance.

1521-SANDCREEK, NEWFLORIDA

Sand Creek split off from North Creek at the tip of a broad peninsula , where it took its own course to the southeast, passing grassy savannas dotted by isolated groves of faux birch and blackwood. One after another, the flotilla turned to the left, the keelboats and pirogues trimming their sails to catch the late-afternoon wind, the canoes keeping to the center of the narrow river in order to ride the current. The water level remained high, so no one ran aground on the narrow sandbars that lay submerged beneath the surface.

Peering back over his shoulder, Carlos watched as the last of the boats made the turn, making sure that no one continued down North Creek by accident. He and Chris had switched places a few hours ago; now he sat in the stern, the better to keep track of everyone. They had long since given up trying to remain in the lead. The pirogues and keelboats had the advantage of speed, and it made little sense to try to outrace them, so they contented themselves with remaining near the rear of the flotilla; once they got closer to Liberty, he and Chris would paddle back to the front.

For a while, though, the current was pulling them along. Carlos laid his paddle across the gunnels, giving his arms a moment to rest. His back ached and his biceps felt like coils of lead cable; arching his spine, he felt vertebrae gently crack, and he shook his arms in an effort to loosen his muscles. Never before in his life had he pushed himself so hard. Even when he'd made his solo journey down the Great Equatorial River, he hadn't attempted to travel such a long distance in so short a time. And he didn't want to think about how far they still had to go.

"Got some water?" Chris was hunched in the bow seat. Like Carlos, he'd pulled off his shirt once the day had become warm; the sun had reddened his shoulders, and sweat plastered his hair against the back of his neck. He was just as tired, yet he continued to plunge the blade of his paddle into the brown water, mindless of the fact that Carlos had stopped paddling.

"No problem." Carlos reached forward, pulled aside his jacket to find the catskin flash. It was little more than a quarter full, and although he was tempted to take a drink himself, he tossed it forward. "Take a breather. Let the river do the work."

"I hear you." Chris pulled up his paddle, then reached back to find the flask. Unstopping it, he tilted back his head and upended the flask, letting some of the water fall across his face. Carlos said nothing; they could always beg some more drinking water from one of the larger boats. "What a job, man. What a job."

"Just a few more miles to go. We're halfway there. It'll soon be over."

That was a half lie, and they both knew it. They had passed the halfway point shortly before they entered Sand Creek, but more than a few miles lay between them and Liberty. They had made good time, and the current was with them, but the journey was far from over. Soon enough, they'd have to put down paddles, pick up their guns, and face dozens of Union Guard soldiers who'd had little more to do all day than clean their weapons.

Whatever Lee was planning, Carlos hoped it was the right thing, because Red Company was going to arrive dead on its feet. Alabama would be passing over again soon; he was tempted to pick up the satphone and bounce a signal to Blue Company, just to see how it was doing, but he and Clark Thompson had agreed to maintain radio silence unless absolutely necessary until the two teams were within sight of their respective targets.

"Yeah, well, the sooner, the-" Chris's voice abruptly dropped to a whisper. "Hey, look over there."

Carlos raised his head, peered toward the riverbank to their right. At first he didn't see anything-sourgrass as high as his chest, spider bush snarled along the edge of the water, a few trees in the background-then something moved, and he saw a boid looking straight at him.

No-not just one boid, but two . . . three . . . four. A hunting pack. Though dun-colored feathers rendered them nearly invisible against the tall grass that surrounded them, their enormous parrotlike beaks were easily discernible. Four avians, the smallest his own height, their murderous gazes locked upon them. They stood together on the creek bank, less than a dozen yards away. Carlos knew that the shallows wouldn't stop them from attacking, not with prey so close at hand.

It had been years since the last time he'd seen a boid at such close range; they didn't like the high country of Midland and had learned to avoid human settlements. Years ago one of these creatures had killed his parents, and another had come close to killing him as well; its skull used to hang from the wall of his tree house, until Susan complained that it gave her nightmares and Wendy had made him take it down.

Keeping his eye on them, Carlos slowly bent forward, searching for his rifle. Yet the boids remained where they were. They stood still, silently watching as the canoe drifted past. It wasn't until Chris picked up his paddle and carefully moved them farther away from shore that Carlos relaxed. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the boids disappear back into the tall grass.

"I'll be damned," he murmured. "They didn't attack." He looked at Chris. "That close, and they didn't attack."

"No, they didn't. And you know why?" He grinned. "They're scared of us."

All at once, the exhaustion left him. There was no more doubt, no more need for rest. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his paddle once more.

"We're going to win," Carlos said very quietly, more to himself than to Chris. "We're going to win this thing."

1859-SHUTTLEFIELD, NEWFLORIDA

Plymouth came out of the setting sun, making a low, sweeping turn to the west that shed the rest of its velocity. In the last few seconds before it descended upon the landing field, Lee caught a brief glimpse of the shantytown that surrounded the place where this same craft-once named the Jesse Helms before Tom Shapiro had rechristened it-had made the first landing upon Coyote.

Good grief, he thought, his eyes widening as he gazed upon the sprawl of shacks, hovels, and tents. They've actually got people living here? Then the jets kicked up dust around the cockpit and the wheels touched down, and Kim reached forward to pull back the throttles and kill the engines.

"All right, we're here," she murmured. "What do you want me to do now?"

"Stay put." Lee unfastened his seat harness. "Raise the gangway after I'm gone and shut the hatch . . . just in case."

"Right. Just in case. Captain . . ."

"Open the belly hatch and lower the ramp, please." He avoided looking at her as he stood up. "If it doesn't work out . . . well, you'll know if it doesn't. Get off the ground and head back to Defiance." She started to object. "Don't argue with me. You have your orders."

"Aye, sir." She reached to the center console and toggled a few switches; there was a thump beneath the deck as the hatch opened and the gangway began to descend. "Good luck," she added. "I hope everything works out."

"Thanks. So do I." Lee pulled on his jacket, then left the cockpit. As he expected, Dana was waiting for him in the passenger compartment; she'd already opened the inner hatch, and a cool breeze was drifting in. She was putting on her serape, but he shook his head. "Sorry, no. You're staying here with-"

"Like hell. Where you go, I-"

"No, you're not." He planted his hands on her shoulders, backed her into the nearest seat. "Look, you said it yourself . . . there's a good chance I could be taken hostage. If they get me, that's fine, but if they get both of us, then they can use you to make me do whatever they want. You're not going to be able to help me very much, so you're staying here."

Tears listened at the corners of her eyes. "Damn it, Robert," she said softly, "do you have to be so . . . so logical all the time?"

He smiled down at her. "Sorry. Can't help myself." He leaned down to kiss her; she wrapped her arms around his neck, and for a few moments they held each other. "Now go forward and keep Kim company," he said as he released her and stood up. "And close the hatch after I'm gone."

"Yeah. Sure." She hesitated. "Robert, I-"

"Me, too." And then he turned and, ducking his head slightly, headed down the gangway.

Twilight was settling upon the landing field, the evening wind picking up as Bear began to rise to the east. A large crowd of Shuttlefield residents, kept at a distance by a ring of armed Guardsmen, had gathered around the Plymouth ; he heard his name being murmured in tones of astonishment as he marched down the ramp, and even the two soldiers waiting to meet him regarded him with awe. Here was Robert Lee, the commanding officer of the Alabama , a figure of history and legend long before they were born. Lee couldn't help but smile; he probably would have the same reaction if Christopher Columbus suddenly landed in a spaceship.

Enough of this.He turned to the nearest Guardsman. "I'm here to meet with Matriarch Hernandez," he said, speaking in the pidgin Anglo he'd managed to pick up over the past few years. "Can you take me to her, please?"

"I . . . I . . ." The soldier was speechless, and for a moment Lee thought he'd drop his gun and ask for an autograph. "Yes, of course, but we . . . I mean . . ."

"Captain Lee?" From behind the two Guardsmen, another figure stepped forward. Wearing a dark blue jumpsuit that bore the insignia of the Union Astronautica, he carried an air of authority and obviously was unimpressed with fame. "Permit me to introduce myself," he said, addressing him in flawless English as he extended his hand. "I'm Captain Fernando Baptiste, commanding officer of the Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars ."

The captain of the starship that had brought the Union Guard reinforcements to Fort Lopez. "Pleased to meet you, Captain Baptiste," he said, formally shaking his hand, "but I had rather expected the Matriarch to be here herself."

"My apologies, Captain. She's waiting for you in Liberty, at the community hall. I was sent to escort you to-"

They were interrupted by the sound of the gangway being retracted. Lee turned to watch the ramp fold against the Plymouth 's underside. "You're a prudent man, Captain," Baptiste said quietly, as the belly hatch slammed shut. "It might not have occurred to me to take such precautions."

Lee said nothing as he studied Baptiste from the corner of his eye. He wore the uniform of the enemy, yet Lee sensed no malice in the man; indeed, he had the strong feeling that he was in the presence of a kindred soul. An adversary, perhaps, but possibly a reluctant one. He noted the satphone clipped to Baptiste's belt, and a new thought occurred to him.

"I've learned to be careful," he said. "Especially when dealing with the Matriarch."

"Yes . . . of course." Turning aside, Baptiste beckoned in the direction of Liberty. "If you'll follow me, please?"

They set out on foot, marching side by side along the long, muddy road that led from the edge of Shuttlefield across fallow farm fields toward Liberty. Despite the Guardsmen who formed a protective ring around them, the crowd continued to follow them, peering through the soldiers, occasionally shouting Lee's name. At one point his left foot found a pothole in the road; he tripped, started to fall forward, only to find Baptiste reaching out to catch him.

Lee regained his balance, but this small incident told him that, at least for a few minutes, his safety was assured. The Matriarch might have plans for him, but Baptiste meant him no harm. The reception he'd received so far was cordial, but that could easily change. Yet if there was a possibility, however remote it might be, that he might be sympathetic to his cause . . .

The last light of day was waning, and the first stars were appearing in the night sky. He turned his head to peer toward the west, searching the heavens for one particular point of light that should be rising there. "Looking for your ship?" Baptiste stopped, allowing Lee to do so as well. "I think it should be coming over around now."

"Yes, it should." There were low clouds in the western skies, obscuring his view. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes . . . "Captain Baptiste," he murmured, deliberately keeping his voice low, "have you been able to reach your people on Hammerhead?"

He nodded meaningfully toward Baptiste's satphone. "That way, no," Baptiste replied, speaking quietly as well. The soldiers, distracted by the crowd around them, weren't paying too much attention to the two men. "Too much atmospheric interference. But we've been able to communicate with them via short-range radio." He peered at Lee through the gloom. "Why do you ask?"

Lee hesitated. It was an enormous gamble, and he was all too aware that he was putting many lives at risk, his own included. But if it paid off . . .

"Listen to me," he whispered. "We don't have much time. . . ."

1928-URSS A LABAMA

Once again, the starship was dark and silent, its passageways deserted, its compartments cold and lightless. The only movement aboard were those of the maintenance 'bots as they patrolled the corridors and cabins, making minor repairs here and there, making sure that the vessel remained clean.

In the ring corridor on Deck H1, a 'bot stopped to vacuum a clump of dust it had found beneath a hand-painted mural: a young man, leading a procession of figures across a hilltop, a giant ringed planet looming in the background. It had just completed this minor chore when the floor trembled ever so slightly beneath the adhesive soles of its six legs. Registering the disturbance, the 'bot sent an electronic query to its mother system. A fraction of a second later, the AI instructed the machine to return to its niche; the ship was about to engage in a major course maneuver. The 'bot quickly scurried away, its diodes briefly illuminating a work of art that no one would ever see again.

Three hundred yards from the Alabama , a skiff from the Spirit was closing in upon the ship when the ship's reaction-control rockets suddenly flared. As the pilot watched, its bow pitched downward until it was pointed at the planet far below. He barely had time to report his observation before Alabama 's secondary thrusters ignited, and the giant vessel began to move away from him.

Grabbing his yoke, the skiff pilot fired his RCRs to take his tiny craft to a safe distance. His precaution was wise, for few seconds later Alabama 's main engine came to life, its white-hot flare silently lancing out in space. Through his cockpit window, he watched in awe as the mammoth spacecraft began to fall toward Coyote.

With its main engine burning at full thrust, it took only a few minutes for Alabama to reach the troposphere. The ship wasn't designed to land upon a planet, yet the deorbit maneuver its captain had programmed into its autopilot guaranteed that it would take a long, shallow dive through the planet's atmosphere. And even though Alabama wasn't streamlined, it was still over five hundred feet long, with a dry weight of nearly forty thousand tons.

Even as the massive cone of its Bussard ramscoop disintegrated, bow shock formed an orange-red corona around its spherical fuel tank, until the intense heat of atmospheric friction ignited the last remaining fuel. In the last few seconds, the 'bots shut down for good before the explosion ripped apart the forward decks, and Leslie Gillis' mural of Prince Rupurt was lost for all time.

Yet the Alabama survived, if only for a little while longer. Just long enough for it to complete one final mission.

1932-LIBERTY, NEWFLORIDA

Robert Lee found Luisa Hernandez waiting for him within the community hall, the place he and the others who'd built it with their bare hands had once called the grange hall. He was pleased to see that the mural of the Alabama that graced one its walls hadn't been taken down; long benches ran down the length of the floor, and the wood-burning stove that they'd installed to heat the room had been removed, but otherwise it was much the way he'd left it.

The hall was vacant, except for several soldiers positioned near the windows. The Matriarch stood near the middle of the room, another Union Guard soldier close behind her, a Savant standing nearby. As Lee entered, a Guardsmen stepped in front of him; with no preamble or apologies, he quickly patted Lee down, searching for any hidden weapons. Lee submitted to the search, taking the moment to size up the woman standing before him.

She'd aged quite a bit since the last time he'd seen her; her hair had grown longer, and it was thin and tinged with grey. The lines of her face had become sharper, her stout figure less fulsome. Even so, Lee reflected, there had seldom been any days in which she'd had to skip a meal or nights in which she'd slept in the cold. Others might have starved while she tried to sustain a cocoon of comfort around herself, but no one survives Coyote without feeling the hardships of the frontier.

The soldier completed his task, turned to the Matriarch, and nodded. "Captain Lee," she said, as if none of this had happened. "Good to see you again."

"Matriarch." Behind him, he heard the front doors close, shutting out the crowd that had followed him from the landing field. Only Baptiste had accompanied him inside, and he stood off to one side, his hands behind his back. "You're well, I take it."

"It's been a long winter." An offhand shrug beneath her robe; the same one she'd worn the first time they had met, Lee observed, yet noticeably faded, patched in several places with swamper hide. "Care to sit?" she asked, gesturing to the nearest table; as her hand rose, he caught a glimpse of the pistol holstered beneath her robe. "Perhaps some coffee?"

"No, thank you." Lee remained standing. "Matriarch, about the eruption . . ."

"Yes, of course." Still maintaining a pose of amicability, she took a seat, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. "You're concerned about the long-term effects, and nor can I blame you. Defiance and the other settlements on Midland will undoubtedly suffer quite a bit from it."

"No question about it, but so will you. New Florida's distance from Mt. Bonestell matters little. This may be the last warm day we'll experience for quite a while. And you know as well as I do how much we depend upon regular crop rotations to keep everyone fed."

"Oh, come now." She gave him a condescending smirk. "I doubt it'll be as serious as you believe. And even if it is, we're not entirely at the mercy of nature. Greenhouses can be built, hydroponics can be implemented."

"I agree. If we act now, the worst of this can be mitigated. But we can only do so if we're not having to fight each other at the same time. The first thing we must do is bring an end to this conflict."

"Absolutely. No question about it." She was having a hard time keeping a straight face. "I'm more than willing to negotiate terms of surrender."

Lee nodded. "Thank you. I'm pleased to hear this. Our first condition is that the Union Guard must lay down its weapons at once, and-"

"Captain! I must . . . come now, be serious! We're discussing your surrender, not mine!" Even as she laughed at his expense, Lee watched Baptiste move closer to the Savant. Behind her back, there was a whispered consultation. He tried to remain calm, even though he knew what was being said.

"I'm quite serious," he continued. "Your forces must surrender at once, beginning with giving up their firearms. If they do so, I promise that no harm will come to any of them, and they'll be treated fairly by-"

"Enough." The smile faded from her face as she raised an indulgent hand. "Captain Lee, you've got a good sense of humor, but the joke's gone far enough. Rigil Kent has inflicted some damage upon us, I'll grant you that, yet the fact remains that your people are outnumbered by at least ten to one. Not only that, but we have more weapons at our disposal than-"

"No, ma'am," Lee said, "you don't. Or at least not for very much longer." And then he turned to Baptiste. "Captain . . . ?"

Hearing his name, he looked away from his private discussion with the Savant. "Matriarch," he said, "a few minutes ago Captain Lee advised me to order the emergency evacuation of all personnel from Fort Lopez. I've done so, but I'm not sure if there's been enough time to-"

"You've . . . what? " Standing up, Hernandez turned to stare at him. "What are you . . . ?"

At that instant, from somewhere not far away, they heard the distant sound of gunfire.

For a few seconds, everyone in the room froze, then one of the soldiers rushed to the door. He flung it open, and now they could hear small-arms fire from not far away, along with shouts from the crowd outside. The Matriarch's bodyguard immediately moved to protect her, while Baptiste sought cover behind a table.

Only the Savant and Lee remained where they were. The posthuman was almost placid, his only visible reaction a slight lowering of his head within his hood, as if he was listening to distant voices no one else could hear. Then his metallic face turned toward Lee, his ruby eyes seeking his own.

"Very good, sir," he said. "Very well played."

1947-MIDLANDCHANNEL

"Hey, you see that?"

Hearing his father's voice from the bow, Barry Dreyfus looked up from his work. For the past hour or so, he and Ted had been clearing ash from the intake ducts of the skimmer's turbofans. It was the second time they'd done so; even after they'd left the lagoon and retreated down the channel, ash had continued to fall upon them, clogging the intakes and threatening to overheat the engines, forcing Paul Dwyer to shut them down before they burned out.

Pathetic. Instead of taking out Fort Lopez, they were limping home in a crippled skimmer, their mission a failure. Oh, perhaps the gyros were grounded, yet a few minutes ago they'd spotted a shuttle lifting off from Hammerhead, swiftly rising until it pierced the heavy clouds that shrouded the night sky. At least three more were still on the ground; if the Union could launch one, then they'd soon be able to launch the others. If that happened, the Union would be able to dispatch reinforcements to New Florida.

Then Barry raised his eyes, and these thoughts were forgotten. Even though the sun had long since gone down, to the west he could see a faint glow within the clouds: a thin halo of light, quickly moving to the east, growing brighter by the moment. At first he thought it might be the shuttle returning to base, but that didn't make any sense. Why would . . . ?

"Holy . . . !" Ted yelled, and in that instant a miniature comet broke through the overcast, a white-hot fireball that painted the underside of the clouds in shades of scarlet and burnt orange as it streaked across the dark heavens. Thinking that it was headed their way, Barry instinctively ducked, until he realized that it was falling toward . . .

"Get down!"

Jack Dreyfus's voice was lost in the sound of the sky being ripped open, and then the fist of an angry god came down upon Hammerhead. Barry threw up his hands, yet even with his eyes shut he could see the retinal afterimage of the nuclear blast seared across his plane of vision.

The roar sent him to his knees. He put his head down, feeling the deck rock beneath him. When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was the concussion rippling across the channel, a series of sustained thunderclaps that sent up tiny waves across the dark waters. Then he raised his head, and stared in shock at the distant granite bluff. Where Fort Lopez once stood, there was now a fire-drenched mushroom shape rising high into the sky.

"What was . . . ?" His voice was a dry croak, without any expression save bewildered astonishment. "What did . . . I don't . . ."

"I'm not sure." Ted's eyes were wide as his own. "But I've got a feeling that was something very precious."

1948-LIBERTY, NEWFLORIDA

The first shots were already fading in the distance when the advance team reached the boat dock. Jumping from his canoe onto the dock, Carlos crouched low, brought up his rifle, quickly scanning the area through its infrared sights. As before, no soldiers were visible; the dock and the nearby boathouse were deserted.

He reached down to offer Chris a hand, but he was already clambering out of the stern, gun in hand. No time to tie up; they let the canoe drift away as they dashed toward the boathouse. Behind them, more canoes were approaching the dock: the strike force to retake Liberty.

The boathouse was the same one where he and Chris had built the canoes they'd used to explore the Great Equatorial River. Carlos didn't give himself a chance to reflect upon that irony as they flattened behind its log walls, taking a moment to assess their situation while they waited for the others to catch up. To the south, they could hear scattered gunfire coming from the direction of Shuttlefield.

"That's Blue Company," Chris whispered. "Clark's guys shouldn't have much trouble. A few Guardsmen, some Proctors . . . they'll go down easy enough."

Carlos nodded. He was more concerned about what was happening north of Liberty. They had left the rest of Red Company a half mile upstream, to invade the colony from the opposite direction. With luck, simultaneous incursions from north and south would divert the Union Guard's attention from the creek, giving his team a chance to infiltrate the town center just a few hundred feet away.

"You ready to do this?" The hours they'd spent on the river had left him feeling light-headed; he reached down to massage a cramp in his leg.

"We've got a choice?" Chris glanced back at him. "I mean, if you want to take a nap, go ahead, we'll-"

"Never mind." Hearing movement behind them, he looked back and saw shadowed forms advancing toward them, the weathered boards creaking beneath their boots, Bear's pale blue glow lending a soft luminescence to their faces. Marie was the first to join them, her carbine clasped against her chest. She caught his eye, nodded once. They were all there. Time to move in.

Carlos raised his hand, silently pointed to either side of the shack, then leveled his palm and lowered it: Half of you go this way, the other half go that way, and stay low . No one had to ask what he meant, or who was going where; they'd rehearsed this phase of the operation many times over the past month, and everyone had memorized Chris's hand-drawn maps of the colony. While a half dozen Rigil Kent members fell in behind Chris, Marie, and five others followed Carlos.

A narrow dirt path led them through brush and tall grass until they came up from behind the community hall. By then they could hear gunfire coming from the north as well; Red Company had apparently engaged the Union Guard. Between the grange and the nearest cabin, he spotted Guardsmen emerging from their barracks across Main Street, running toward both Shuttlefield and the north side of Liberty.

The battle for New Florida had begun. Although he was tempted to join the fight, Carlos focused upon his principal task. Raising his hand, he brought his people to a halt, then crouched low and peered through the sourgrass. Light glowed within the windows of the community hall; apparently someone was inside. Good. The Matriarch might have taken cover within; since his group's primary objective was capturing her, that left Chris's team clear to achieve their task of taking down the Union Guard barracks.

The clatter of gyro rotors. Carlos looked around, saw aircraft lights rising from Shuttlefield. There was a thin streak of fire from the ground, and a half second later the gyro exploded. As it plummeted to the ground, he heard distant voices raised in victory. The gunfire resumed, only more sparsely. Blue Company had taken out a gyro; now the people of Shuttlefield were joining the fight as well, rebelling against the Guardsmen and Proctors who'd been their overlords for so long,

Staying as low as possible, Carlos moved his people closer to the hall. They were less than forty feet from the entrance when a pair of soldiers came around the front of the building. Although people were fighting on either side of them, they were sticking close to the hall. Someone important was inside; he had little doubt who it was.

Carlos turned around, only to find Marie crouched next to him. He pointed toward the soldiers, and she nodded; she knew what to do. Raising herself up on one knee, she propped her rifle against her shoulder, took careful aim at the Guardsmen. One shot, and one of them went down; the other barely noticed that his comrade had been hit before the next shot took him down as well. Carlos tried not to notice the grin on his sister's face. It had to be done, and she was an incredible sharpshooter; despite that, he felt horror at the pleasure she took from killing people. When this was over . . .

Worry about that later. Carlos jumped up, tore out of the high grass, raced toward the front steps of the hall. He was less than a dozen feet away when the door slammed open and another soldier emerged onto the porch. Seeing Carlos, he whipped up his rifle and fired. Bullets zinged past Carlos's left ear even as he crouched, aimed, fired. The Guardsman fell, his body keeping the door ajar.

Bolting up the stairs, Carlos dashed inside with his rifle raised. The light dazzled him, causing him to blink, and the warmth of the room was suffocating after the cool of the evening, yet now he saw several figures standing only a few feet away.

A Savant, cloaked in black, standing silently in the background. A Union Astronautica officer half-hidden behind an overturned table. A middle-aged woman in a frayed purple robe, her right hand outstretched, holding a pistol on . . .

"Don't shoot!" Lee snapped.

Carlos's expression, so determined just an instant before, changed to one of bewilderment. It was obvious that Lee was the last person he expected to see there. Yet his rifle remained fixed upon the Matriarch, his index finger poised on the trigger.

"What . . . how did you . . . ?" Carlos began. Behind him, several other members of Rigil Kent were rushing into the hall. Seeing Lee, they came to a stop, yet no one lowered their weapons.

"I'll tell you later." Lee carefully kept his voice even. "Right now, I want you and everyone else to just calm down." That wouldn't be easy-outside the building, they could hear the sounds of gunfire-but the last thing he wanted was to have the negotiations end in a shoot-out. He looked past Carlos to the two men standing closest to the door. "Go out and stand watch. Make sure no one comes in."

They hesitated. "Do it," Carlos said, and they reluctantly went back the way they had come, leaving the door open. "Captain-"

"Not now." Lee returned his attention to Luisa Hernandez. Her pistol, which she had produced the moment her bodyguard had dashed outside, was still aimed straight at him. At that range, she'd couldn't miss. "I believe we were discussing terms of surrender."

"You had this planned all along." Her voice trembled with barely suppressed rage. "Under flag of truce, you came here to negotiate peace, knowing that your people were preparing to attack-"

"I didn't plan to be here until just a few hours ago. Carlos wasn't aware of what I was doing, were you, Carlos?" The younger man shook his head, but she ignored him. "There's still a way to resolve this peacefully, Matriarch. There's no reason why more of your people should die . . . and believe me, your troops are outnumbered."

The left corner of her mouth flickered in a sardonic smile. "For now," she said, her gun still leveled upon him, "but not much longer. Oh, you may be able to take control, but I can have reinforcements from Fort Lopez here within an hour."

Lee looked over at Baptiste. He had risen from behind the table he'd kicked over, and he stood silently nearby, a witness to the endgame. "Captain . . . ?"

"Matriarch"-he cleared his throat-"Ma'am, it's my sad duty to report that Fort Lopez has been destroyed. Captain Lee informed me of this just before we arrived."

Her eyes widened. "How . . . you can't know this! Why would you trust his word-"

"It's true." For the first time, Savant Hull spoke up. "While you've been . . . um, engaged in negotiations . . . I accessed the Spirit . Sixteen minutes ago, a force as yet unknown struck Hammerhead, obliterating our base there-"

"That force was the Alabama ," Lee interrupted. "Before I left, I preset its guidance system for a deorbit trajectory that would bring it down on Fort Lopez. I gambled that, even if most of the forward section disintegrated during atmospheric entry, the engine's fusion reactor would survive long enough to reach the ground."

"He didn't do it without fair warning." Baptiste stepped around the table. "After he arrived here, he informed me of what he'd done. That gave me a chance to contact Fort Lopez and order an emergency evacuation of all troops. I did so before we-"

"Thank you, Captain. Well done." Hernandez looked at Hull again. "And were the troops evacuated?"

"One shuttle was able to lift off before the base was destroyed. From what I've been able to gather, it carried eighty-eight survivors. They're now en route to the Spirit ."

Lee winced as he heard this. He glanced at Baptiste. "My apologies, Captain. I'd hoped you might be able to rescue more."

"I'm sure you did," Hernandez said coldly. "Captain Baptiste, make contact with the shuttle, tell it to change course. It's to land here, with the objective of-"

"No, ma'am. I refuse."

She gaped at him in astonishment. "What did you say?"

Baptiste assumed a formal military position: feet spread apart, hands locked together behind his back, back rigid and chin uplifted. "It's my judgment," he continued, staring straight ahead, "that the objectives of this mission . . . that is, to establish a self-sustaining colony upon this world . . . have been neglected by a personal desire for-"

"Get those soldiers on the ground!"

"It's over, Matriarch." Lee spoke softly, yet his quiet voice carried more force than her outraged shout. "Captain Baptiste knows the truth, and I suspect the Savant does as well. You can't conquer a place whose people don't want to be conquered. The most you can do is occupy it for a short time. Ancient Rome learned this, and so did Nazi Germany and the United Republic . . . those who want to be free will remain free, at any cost, even their own lives."

All this time, Hernandez had held the pistol upon him. Suddenly she seemed to shrink in upon herself, like a woman who had once worn pride as her armor and suddenly found it replaced by mere flesh. The pistol wavered, shook within her grasp; Lee found himself remembering the last time he'd stared down a gun barrel, many years ago aboard the Alabama .

"What is it that you want?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

"Removal of all Union Guard troops from Coyote. Relinquishment of all territorial claims by the Western Hemisphere Union. Return of the Spirit to Earth, along with anyone who wishes to go back . . ."

"Of course." Her hand dropped, as if tired of holding the gun for so long. Her eyes were dull, registering hopeless defeat. "It's all yours. You win."

Lee fell silent. All the years of exile, all the years of revolution, had come to this moment: a quiet surrender, in a place he'd once helped build. His namesake had surrendered inside a courthouse in Appomattox, with his defeated troops gathered just outside; this evening, with the last few shots of battle dying off in the distance, his own war was drawing to a close.

Turning away from the Matriarch, he found Carlos waiting nearby. To his relief, the younger man had lowered his rifle. That was a good start. "Tell your people to cease-"

"Robert!"

Gunshots from behind him, then something slammed into his back: three bullets that punched through his spine, his lungs, his heart. His mind barely had time to register the pain before his muscles lost control and he pitched forward, his hands grasping at the unexpected wetness at his chest. He hit the floor facefirst, barely able to think, unable to move.

Everything came to him as a hollow roar of sensation-gunshots, voices, hands grasping at him. He fell over on his back, saw Carlos staring down at him even as his vision began to form a lightless tunnel. He heard something pounding, at first with loud persistence, and then much more slowly. Carlos was saying something to him- Captain, can you hear me?-but he could barely comprehend the meaning of the words.

Beneath the pain there was a warm inviting pillow. He felt himself falling into it. Yet there was one last thing he had to say before he rested . . .

He spoke, hoping that Carlos heard him. Then darkness closed in upon him.

2614-SHUTTLEFIELD, NEWFLORIDA

Within the stark glare of the Union shuttle's landing lights, a long row of bodies lay upon the ground, each wrapped in a black plastic bag. A pair of Guardsmen picked up their fallen comrades one at a time, and carried them up the ramp, where other soldiers secured them to the deck with cargo nets. Twenty-two bodies in all, including that of the Matriarch; Carlos couldn't tell which was hers, and he was reluctant to ask.

"I'm sorry it had to end like this," he said quietly, careful not to raise his voice lest it break the silence. "I know that sounds awful, but if there could have been any other way . . ."

"You don't have to apologize." Baptiste stood next to him, watching the dead being taken away. The night was cold, and his hands were shoved in the pockets of the military-issue parka someone had given him. "In fact, I prefer that you didn't. These men died in the line of duty. It's not for you to say whether it was right or wrong."

Carlos didn't know what to say to this. He'd killed one of the men himself; the fact that he'd done so to liberate his home mattered very little at that moment. Sometime the next day, he'd have to bury some of his own: twelve Rigil Kent members, along with seven colonists from Shuttlefield and Liberty who'd given up their lives in the name of freedom.

And one more, whose death weighed upon him most of all.

"But you're right." Baptiste looked down at the ground. "There could . . . there should have been another way. This world belongs to you, and we had no right to take it from you." He looked up at Carlos. "If there's anyone who owes an apology . . ."

"Thank you, but . . . maybe you're right. Anything you'd say now would only be an insult."

Baptiste said nothing, but simply nodded before turning his face away. Within the ring of armed men surrounding the landing field, Carlos watched Union Guard soldiers marching aboard other shuttles. With their guns taken away, they represented the defeated remnant of the force that had once held New Florida. Among them were several dozen civilians: a handful of Union loyalists, but mainly those colonists who'd simply decided that they'd had enough of Coyote. More would join them before the last shuttle lifted off early the next morning, yet Baptiste had assured him that the Spirit had enough biostasis cells to accommodate everyone who wanted to return to Earth.

"Are there going to be more?" Carlos asked. "I mean, will the Union send more ships out here?"

"I don't know." Baptiste shrugged. "My ship was the last one in the fleet . . . and believe me, they were expensive to build. But that was almost fifty years ago, and I don't know what's happened since then. For all I know, there could be more on the way . . . or none at all."

"But Savant Hull will be awake during the journey, right?" Carlos had seen him board the shuttle just a few minutes ago. Baptiste nodded. "Then tell him to send a message to any ships they see coming this way. Tell them that . . ."

He took a deep breath. "Tell them that this is our home. We want freedom, and we'll fight to keep it that way. Tell them, Captain."

Baptiste didn't respond. Once more, his eyes returned to the bodies of the fallen Guardsmen. "I believe you," he said at last, his voice low, "and I'll pass the word along, but tell me one thing."

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do now?" Baptiste turned to look him in the eye. "You've won your freedom. So what are you going to do with it?"

Carlos met his gaze without blinking. "We'll do what we've always done best. We'll survive."

For a long while, the two men regarded one another in silence. Then Baptiste offered his hand, and Carlos took it. "Good luck to you," Baptiste said. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Then he turned away, joining the procession of men, both living and dead, going aboard the shuttle that would take them back to the Spirit and, eventually, back to Earth. In the days to come, Carlos would regret never having thanked him for the choice he'd made, or for failing to realize that his last words echoed something that had been said to Lee a long time ago.

After Baptiste disappeared within the craft, Carlos watched the last few Union Guard soldiers march up the ramp. It slowly rose upward, then the hatch closed behind it. He stepped back as the ascent jets whined to life. A ragged cheer rose from the crowd as the shuttle slowly lifted off, and a few people fired their guns into the air. All he felt was exhaustion, as if the weight of a world had settled upon his shoulders.

Coyote was free. Yet Robert Lee's last words haunted him, echoing through his mind: It's yours . . . it's yours . . . it's yours . . .