Amid the Alien Corn

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn . . .

— JOHN KEATS,

"Ode to a Nightingale"

Part 1

BRIDGE OF STARS

HOUSTON, TEXAS / JULY 7, 2070 / 2317

The midi sent to pick him up at the airport was black as the night itself, with the two-digit plates that designated government vehicles. Once the unmarked jet taxied to a stop at the far end of the runway, the two Prefects who'd accompanied Jonas Whittaker from Huntsville marched him down the boarding ramp. For a moment he envied their grey overcoats and peaked caps; a warm, steady rain pelted his bare head as he walked across the tarmac, and the handcuffs caused him to slouch forward. A third Prefect waiting beside the midi held open the rear door and slammed it shut once Jonas and his escorts climbed in.

There was no conversation as the midi left the airport and hummed onto the outer belt. Although he used the lane reserved for government vehicles and Liberty Party members, the driver didn't turn control over to the local highway system, instead keeping his hands on the wheel. Now and then Jonas caught his eyes when he glanced back at him through the rearview mirror, but no one spoke to him, and Jonas tried to hide his fear by gazing out the window. The city looked familiar, but no one had told him where he was going. It was almost midnight, long past curfew, and so there was little traffic; it wasn't until he spotted a Texas plate on a passing police coupe that he knew where he was.

The driver took an exit south of downtown Houston, and before long Jonas glimpsed a long expanse of chain-link fence surrounding a cluster of featureless buildings. As the midi pulled up to a security checkpoint, he caught a glimpse of a sign: FEDERAL SPACE AGENCY—GEORGE W. BUSH MANNED SPACE FLIGHT CENTER. A uniformed United Republic Service soldier stepped out of the gatehouse just long enough to inspect the ID held up by the driver, then he raised the vehicle barrier and let the midi pass through.

The first time Jonas was here, back when he was a young post-grad fresh out of Cal Tech, this place was still called the Johnson Space Center. But that was a long time ago; now an entire generation was growing up that had never heard of NASA, and in a few years he doubted that even the United States itself would be remembered as little more than a few chapters in a history book. An enormous flag was draped above the front doors of the headquarters building. Once it had fifty stars; now there was only one. One star, one political party, one government . . . and no hope.

No. This time, Pandora hadn't shut the box quickly enough. Hope had managed to escape, in the form of a starship called the Alabama. Which was why he was here . . .

The midi glided to a halt in front of a four-story building, and Jonas barely had time to observe that most of its windows were dark before the Prefect seated to his right opened the door. Jonas climbed out of the vehicle, wincing as the Prefect to his left impatiently prodded him with his swagger stick. If anything, the rain was coming down harder now; his greying hair was plastered to his skull as he was marched up the sidewalk. Another URS soldier awaited them at the entrance; he held open the glass door, silently gesturing to an elevator bank on the other side of the lobby. Just behind a vacant admissions desk stood a large holosculpture— an idealized DNA helix, slowly rotating within a shaft of light— and that was when Jonas realized where he'd been taken.

The medical research facility. He'd never visited this building, even during his infrequent trips here from the Marshall Space Flight Center. His research in theoretical physics kept him busy on the other side of the campus, and once his security clearance was revoked and he'd been fired, no one he knew here had ever spoken to him again, lest they join in the disgrace. By then, of course, it didn't matter; his only regret was that he and his family had been unable to join the others aboard the Alabama.

But this didn't make sense. Why had he been brought here? Not just to Houston, or even to Bush . . . but here, to a building he'd never set foot in before. He'd kept his mouth shut after he was arrested, but once he learned that the Alabama had been hijacked, he'd cheerfully blabbed everything he knew about the plot. Not that his interrogators found anything he said useful; one of the strengths of the conspiracy was that most of its participants were kept in the dark about its ultimate objective, and even who its leaders were, and therefore knew little more than what they needed to know. Jonas was aware that a few of his colleagues from Marshall were involved— Jim Levin, Henry Johnson, Jorge Montero— but he had little doubt that they'd gotten away. Even after being deprived of food, water, and sleep while ISA inquisitors hammered at him under bright lights, he could tell them little in the way of meaningful information. Yes, he'd been part of the plot to steal the Alabama. And now the Alabama was gone. Any more questions?

Apparently there were. But it still didn't tell him why he'd been brought all the way to . . .

The elevator doors opened, and the two Prefects led him out into a third-floor corridor. He walked between them, barely noticing the framed photos of orbital spacecraft, until they reached a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM 3-12B. The Prefect on the left rapped his knuckles against the door; a short pause, and then it opened.

The room was dark, lit only by ceiling panels that had been turned down low. Their dim illumination was reflected by the polished surface of a long oak table that ran down the center of the room; thick curtains had been pulled across the windows on the opposite side of the room. A wallscreen behind the far end of the table displayed ever-changing images of Mandelbrot patterns, and seated before it was a lone figure, caught in silhouette yet otherwise invisible.

"Dr. Whittaker, sir." The Prefect on Jonas's left spoke, his voice low and respectful.

"Thank you. Wait outside. Close the door." The two Prefects saluted, then turned and walked from the room, shutting the door behind them. A moment of silence, then the figure gestured toward the row of empty chairs. "Sit, please," he said quietly. "I'm sure you must be weary from your flight."

Before Jonas could respond, a form emerged from the shadows behind him. Another Prefect, younger than the others and a bit taller. When he raised his hands, Jonas instinctively flinched; he thought he was about to be struck again, as he'd often been since his arrest. But instead the Prefect did the unexpected: he pulled out the nearest chair and held it for Jonas.

"No doubt you've been treated badly the last two days," the man at the far end of the table continued, as Jonas carefully sat down in the offered chair. "If it helps, I gave orders that you were not to be harmed . . . or at least subjected to physical abuse, at any rate. Anything that might have been done to you was beyond my control, and for this I apologize."

Jonas swallowed, discovered that his throat was parched. He was tired, so tired. "May I have some water, please?"

"Of course." The Prefect behind him quietly moved away, and a moment later Jonas heard liquid being poured into a glass. "I'd offer you something to eat, but . . . well, I'm sorry, but this is the best I can do. And please, don't drink much. It won't be good for you."

The Prefect reappeared at his side, offering a glass with little more than an inch of water in it. Why so stingy about giving him a drink? Perhaps this was the overture to another form of coercion. For every truthful answer, he'd get water; for every hesitation or obvious lie, water would be denied. By the time they collected enough evidence to convict him on charges of high treason, he'd have sold his soul for a full glass.

Yet if this was an interrogation method, it was clumsy, something only amateurs would do. And besides, he'd already told them everything he knew. Even if they didn't believe him, there wasn't much they could do about it. Jim, Henry, Jorge . . . they and everyone else were aboard the Alabama, and it was probably couple of million miles beyond the Moon by now.

But his wife and daughter . . .

"My family." He took a small sip, resisting the urge to chug it down. Conserve what little he'd been given for as long as possible. "Where are they?"

The chair squeaked slightly as the man at the end of the table stood up. "Safe and sound . . . or at least as much as they can be under the circumstances. They've been sent to Camp Buchanan, but I assure you that they'll be treated well. If possible, I'll try to arrange for their release at the first possible opportunity."

Camp Buchanan. The government reeducation center outside Valdosta, Georgia. Little more than a concentration camp, from what he'd heard. "When will I see them?"

Silence. The shadowed figure disappeared from in front of the wallscreen, but Jonas could see him slowly walking closer, his hands clasped behind his back. Just as he was almost close enough for Jonas to see his face, though, he stopped.

"Dr. Whittaker, I'm sorry." His voice was very quiet, nearly a whisper. "I don't think you'll ever see your family again."

For a second, Jonas didn't know what to say, even how to respond. He found that he couldn't remember Caroline's face, even though he'd woken up next to her almost every morning for thirty years; he recalled the day Ellen was born, but everything after that was lost behind a haze. It was as if a curse had been laid upon him, one that erased memories of them as well as their place in his life. Just like that, they were gone.

So this was the game. It wasn't water they were going to withhold from him; it was his wife and daughter. "Who do you people think you are?" When he was finally able to speak, his voice came as a hollow rasp. "You think you can just . . . can just—"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Whittaker, but I didn't have any choice except to have them interned. As your family, they're considered security risks as well. I'll do my best to make their stay as short as possible, but—"

"What's the point? You've got everything you want. You know I'm guilty. You can only go through the motions now."

Which was the truth. The best he could expect was a show trial on Govnet, in which the prosecution attorneys would denounce him as an enemy of the people and his government-appointed lawyer would offer only a token defense. A federal judge would determine his fate, without the unnecessary distraction of a jury of his peers, and in the United Republic of America, there was only one sentence for capital crimes. Yet just before he was marched to the gallows, usually within hours of the end of the trial, Govnet would show a quick shot of him hugging his wife and child goodbye. A small, public display of tenderness, demonstrating that the government was not without mercy. To be denied even this . . .

"You're right. Your guilt has already been determined. But . . ." A pause. "There won't be a trial, nor will there be a public execution. Not if you're willing to cooperate."

"What?" Jonas was confused; he shook his head. "I don't . . . what are you—?"

"We don't have much time. Please, you have to listen to me." Then the figure sat down beside him, and for the first time since he'd entered the room, Jonas saw his face.

Roland Shaw, the Director of Internal Security. Next to the attorney general, the highest-ranking law enforcement official in the country. If President Conroy himself had shown up, Jonas couldn't have been more surprised.

Seeing that he'd been recognized, Shaw nodded. "You know who I am. Good. Glad we've got that out of the way." He raised a finger to the ceiling, twirled it slightly. "In case you're wondering, I've already had the room cleaned. No mikes, no cameras. No one's listening, and there'll be no record of what's been said here."

"I . . . I find that hard to believe."

"You're right to be suspicious. I would be, too, if I were in your position." Then he moved closer. "Yet my position is even worse than yours. Your involvement in this affair has already been exposed. Mine hasn't . . . or at least not yet."

If he hadn't been so afraid, Jonas might have laughed out loud. "Oh, I believe you. Of course. The top Prefect, involved in a plot to commit treason. Makes perfect—"

"Robert Lee was the ringleader." Shaw spoke softly, yet there was an urgency in his voice. "It was his idea to hijack the Alabama, with the assistance of as many crew members and FSA people as he could recruit. The conspiracy was arranged as a pyramid, with only a few people at the top knowing where all the pieces lay. Lee and his senior officers were at the highest level. I was on the second tier, yet my job was just as crucial, because when all the D.I.'s who went aboard the Alabama were rounded up by my people, I was the one who arranged for them to be taken off the prison train to Camp Buchanan."

"I'm not aware of—"

"Of course not. That was the part you weren't told about." Shaw sighed, shook his head. "If you hadn't been so smart, you'd have been aboard that train, and my friend here"— he gestured to the Prefect standing quietly behind them—"would have been able to remove you and your family from the train and put them aboard a maxvee for Cape Canaveral. You were that close to getting aboard the Alabama, but—"

"Oh, God." Jonas slumped in his seat. "I didn't know."

When word had come down through the grapevine that the Prefects were closing in, he'd swept up his wife and daughter and they'd fled for their lives. Their home was an old farm on the outskirts of Huntsville, and the dense woods behind their house had hidden them. The rendezvous point was supposed to have been a closed-down restaurant in Titusville, not far from the Gingrich Space Center on Merritt Island, yet they didn't make it nearly that far. Jonas had borrowed a coupe from a friend who lived nearby, and there he'd made his mistake; no sooner had they left when his neighbor had a change of heart and tipped off the Internal Security Agency. A couple of hours later, Jonas found himself spread-eagled across highway pavement, a mere mile from the Florida state line.

That was the last time he'd seen Caroline and Ellen. As a heavy boot against the back of his neck held his face against cold asphalt, he watched as they were bundled into a maxvee just a few yards away. Caroline screamed his name, and then the rear hatch shut behind them and they were gone.

"You were too clever for your own good," Shaw went on. "No one told you that you were supposed to be arrested in Huntsville, because they figured . . . we figured . . . that the Prefects would be as efficient as they always were in rounding up D.I.s."

D.I.s—dissident intellectuals, the Liberty Party's favored term for the so-called liberal extremists who took issue with the United Republic of America. Jonas had heard it so many times, mainly from people who had the courage and intellect of rats, he took it as a badge of honor. "So we were too late to make the train. Were there others?"

"Two were shot trying to run a roadblock near Atlanta. Everyone else made it. Rather a miracle, although coming up five short resulted in some problems down the line." Shaw impatiently waved a hand. "But that's beside the point. Our problem is more immediate."

"Which is . . . ?"

"Namely, it's the fact that you're still here." Shaw reached forward to push a button, and a touchpad flickered to life on the table's black surface. "Of all the people who should have been aboard the Alabama, you were perhaps the most important," he said as he typed in a six-digit code number. "Not because your presence was vital . . . you know as well as I do that it wasn't . . . but because of the work you've been engaged in."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Jonas forced himself to remain calm.

"Please, Dr. Whittaker. We don't have time for this. I'm fully aware of what you've been working on for the last twenty-five years. After all, I am in charge of internal security." Shaw moved the tip of his forefinger across the touchpad, accessing and opening classified files. "If you need proof, though . . . ah, here it is."

The image on the wallscreen changed, and Jonas looked up to see something he thought he'd successfully purged from his FSA database: a three-dimensional wire-frame model of a ring-shaped structure, a hundred and thirty feet in diameter. A circular gridwork of red and blue lines collapsing into one side indicated its event horizon; on the other side was the narrow funnel of an artificial wormhole, leading to an identical ring on the other side.

"A spacetime access reactor . . . or starbridge, as I believe you call it. A way of harnessing quantum mechanics to create a Morris-Thorne wormhole." He regarded it with admiration. "Faster-than-light travel. Quite an achievement, sir. If we had one of these today . . ."

"The Alabama would've been unnecessary." Along with Henry Johnson and several others, Jonas had been one of the designers of the Alabama, yet even that vessel, however advanced it may be, was a mere rowboat compared with a starbridge. With a maximum cruise velocity of twenty-percent light-speed, it would take the Alabama 230 years to reach 47 Ursae Majoris, while a ship using the hyperspace tunnel opened by a pair of starbridges could— at least in theory— travel the same distance in a matter of seconds. "You know, of course, that this is impossible."

Shaw sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Dr. Whittaker, I'm not an idiot. You've spent more than two decades working on this. A man of your intelligence . . . genius, really, because that's how your colleagues regard you . . . wouldn't have wasted his time if he thought it was impossible. Implausible, perhaps, with our current level of technology, but impossible?"

Jonas remained quiet. Shaw was correct. Starbridges weren't impossible; it was just that no one knew how to build them yet. He and the other physicists on Project Starflight had shelved the idea— along with its close-cousin, the diametric drive— in favor of developing a fusion-augmented Bussard ramjet for the Alabama. There, at least, the physics were clearly understood, the engineering safely within the realm of near-term possibility. Even so, he'd continued to research hyperspace travel on his own time, in hope that, one day, the technology would be available to manipulate quantum singularities to the extent that wormholes could be created at will. He was confident that it could eventually be done, but for now . . .

"And that's why I've had you brought here," Shaw continued. "The moment I learned you'd been arrested, I knew that you were too valuable to be scarified. If you were hanged, it would be as much a loss as when Giordano Bruno was burned at the stake for stating that distant stars might harbor other worlds."

"Then put me in a reeducation camp." Jonas didn't want to plead, yet nonetheless he found himself doing so. "I can keep my mouth shut. Just let me—"

"No." Shaw slapped a hand against the table, and the display vanished from the wallscreen. "If I do that, then it'll only be a matter of time before someone else discovers what I know about your work."

"Not if you don't let them."

Shaw was quiet for a moment. "I won't be able to protect you much longer," he said at last, not looking at him. "Making sure that Robert Lee got away cost me more than I can say. It may be only days, or even a few weeks, but sooner or later they'll discover my part in all this. When that happens . . ." He gave a resigned shrug.

"You won't be hanged."

"Oh, I most certainly shall. I've made many enemies, and the Department of Justice loves nothing more than to trot out disgraced government figures." He nodded toward the Prefect standing behind them. "We're both guilty of treason, just as much as you. He has his reasons, as do I, and it's only a matter of time before the truth comes out. But before that happens, there's one last thing that needs to be done."

"And that is . . . ?"

"I have to make sure that no one ever learns what you know." Shaw gestured toward the wallscreen, which once again displayed random fractal images. "It'll take the Alabama a little more than 230 years to reach 47 Ursae Majoris. In the meantime, it's reasonable to assume that the technology may become available for the construction of a starbridge. Hence, the Republic . . . if it lasts so long . . . could eventually develop the means to pursue the Alabama. Perhaps even beat it to 47 Uma."

"If the enabling technology becomes available, yes, this may be possible." Then Jonas shook his head. "But starbridges have to be constructed at both the departure and destination points. So a second ship wouldn't arrive until after—"

"I realize that." Shaw was becoming impatient; once again, he glanced toward the closed door. "There's several variables we have to consider, not the least of which is that someone in the future develops an engine capable of achieving near-light-speed velocity. In fact, I understand you yourself were investigating this, yes?"

What didn't Shaw know about his work? It was frightening to consider how long the ISA must have had him under surveillance, how much they'd learned about his work. "It's possible," Jonas admitted reluctantly. "But if you have my notes—"

"Encrypted files, which can be erased in an instant." Shaw tapped a finger against the touchpad. "However, one copy will go with you . . . and where you're headed, they'll never be found. For that, I can give you my word."

"Uh-huh." Jonas's hand trembled as he picked up the glass, drank what little water was left. "So . . . what is it that you want from me?"

"Let me tell you what I'll do in exchange for your cooperation. As I said, you'll never be able to see your family again. I wish it could be otherwise, but that's simply the way it is. However, I can make sure that they receive good treatment during their stay at Camp Buchanan, and that they're released as soon as possible."

Jonas reluctantly nodded. He was in no position to negotiate a better deal; he realized that now, and the best he could do now was to save Caroline and Ellen. He sighed, shrugged in resignation. "Fair enough. So what do you want me to do?"

Shaw looked past him, nodded his head. From somewhere just behind him, Jonas heard a hollow metallic click. He didn't need to look back to know that the Prefect had just drawn his gun from its holster and cocked it.

"First," Shaw said, "I need for you to die."

CLARKSBURG, GREAT DAKOTA / HAMALIEL 69, C.Y. 13 / 1112

The wind turbine was a slender white pylon rising from a ridge overlooking town. A hundred and sixty feet tall, it towered above the treetops of the surrounding forest, its three paddle-like blades creaking softly as they revolved in the mid-summer breeze. A hundred yards away, an identical turbine rose from another hilltop; another hundred yards farther down the ridge, a third tower thrust upward against the sky, dwarfed only by the rocky peaks of the Black Mountains looming in the background.

They looked out of place, like weird contraptions erected by some alien race. Which, Carlos reflected, they were indeed. Although smaller turbines had been built elsewhere in the colonies, beginning with the ones in Liberty shortly after First Landing, the Thunder Ridge Wind Farm was the most ambitious energy facility yet erected on Coyote, and they wouldn't be here were it not for the presence of humankind.

"Okay, I'll admit it," he murmured. "I'm impressed."

"Nice of you to say so." Marie chuckled quietly. They stood together outside Tower One's control shack, gazing up at the giant machine. "I mean, we knew we had a good plan, but it's so nice of you to vindicate our efforts."

"Cut it out. You know what I'm saying."

"Maybe I don't. Sometimes I don't know if I'm talking to my brother or the president." Then she relaxed; stepping closer, she hugged his arm. "Never mind. I just wanted you to see this." She looked up at the tower. "Awesome, ain't it?"

"It is at that." Carlos gave his sister a kiss on the forehead. "Y'all done a good job."

Nonetheless, he knew what she was getting at, the reason why she'd had him hike all the way up here just to look at something he'd already seen in countless photos. Although the towers themselves were built from Great Dakota timber— mountain rough bark for the support pylons, faux birch for the lighter wood of the blades— much of the construction material had been imported. The concrete blocks of the base structures were made of volcanic ash shipped in from the eastern side of Mt. Bonestell, the electrical cables of copper mined from the Gillis Range and insulated with tightly woven strands of chokeweed vine from New Florida.

Nonetheless, these were all local materials, derived from the mountains, woodlands, and savannahs of this world. Their generators, though, were not renewable resources. Like so many other items upon which the colonists depended, they'd been manufactured on Earth. And it was forty-six light-years to the nearest electrical supply store.

"I know what you're thinking," Marie said. "Three towers, that should give us enough power to run the mills, plus some for the rest of town."

"No question there. That's what you asked for."

"Right. And you delivered." She pointed toward the line of hills to the southwest, where Thunder Ridge continued until it was broken by Mill River, leading into the highlands of the Black Mountain Range. "But we figure that, if we can build three or four more towers—"

"How many?" He looked at her askance.

"All right. Three . . ." She caught his look. "Two at least . . . but even then we'd have enough generating capacity to be able to expand the mills. That way, we could produce more material for the rest of the colonies. More lumber, more paper . . . and not only that, but eventually we might even be able to export surplus power across the channel to New Florida."

"I liked it better when you stuck with lumber and paper. Then I might have believed you." Carlos released her arm. "C'mon, kid. I didn't leave my brains at the door when I got elected. Expanding the mills, that's one thing. But when you start talking about producing power for New Florida, you're talking about putting lines across the channel."

He looked to the east. Below the foot of the ridge, past the narrow coastline of Great Dakota, lay the broad expanse of the West Channel. In the far distance, through the haze, they could make out the western shore of New Florida. "From here to there, that's . . . what? Eight miles? Ten? And most of that's across water. You think we'd be able to lay a cable across the channel? And even if we could do that, then we'd still have to get them all the way to Liberty. That's a lot of line, not to mention the transformer stations that have to be built."

"Okay, then what about Leeport? That's almost halfway to—"

"Have you been to Leeport? Lately, I mean?" Carlos tried not to laugh. "Not exactly what I'd call a boomtown. At least, not unless you're into fried swamper and—"

"Do you have to be so cynical?"

"No. Just realistic." He checked his watch. Quarter past eleven already. Garth Thompson had invited him to lunch at his place before they met with the rest of the town council, and he didn't want to keep the mayor waiting, even if he was his brother-in-law. "Look, it's not a bad idea," he said as he turned to walk toward the path that would lead them back down the ridge. "I just think that your eyes may be bigger than your stomach."

"Jerk!" She playfully punched him in the arm. "Are you making fun of my weight?"

"No, no. Just an expression." Truth to be told, though, Marie had put on a few pounds in recent years; she was in her late thirties, by Gregorian reckoning, and having two kids had cost her the slender physique she'd once enjoyed. Not that he himself had done much better . . . "I'm sure Klon and his people got this all worked out on paper, but even if we could lay electric lines all the way to Liberty, that would mean requisitioning two or three more generators. And you know what that means."

Marie didn't have to be reminded. The generators used for the wind farm's first three turbines had been salvaged from skimmers left behind seven Coyote years ago by the Western Hemisphere Union. One had been severely damaged by Hurricane Bertha, and weardown had rendered the other two inoperative, so it hadn't taken much effort on the part of the Civil Engineering Corps to covert their duct-fan engines into electric generators suitable for wind turbines. But it also meant that, for every new turbine the Thompson Wood Company proposed to build, another skimmer would have to be cannibalized. And she didn't have to check with Jack Dreyfus to know that the remaining skimmers were still in good operating condition.

So which was more important, transportation or more electrical power for the Clarksburg wood mills? Another matter to be taken before the Colonial Council. Another headache he'd have to deal with. Once again, he remembered the hand-carved sign Ted LeMare had given him for his fiftieth birthday, just after he'd won election as president and, sadly, just a few weeks before old Ted passed away. THE BUCK STOPS HERE: something a long-forgotten president of the United States was reputed to have once said. His own chief of staff didn't know what a buck was, yet the message was clear nonetheless.

Time to change the subject. "So how are the kids?" he asked, taking her arm and guiding her around a boulder in the middle of the path. "They getting along?"

"Rain's doing well." Marie snuggled against him. "She's in third grade, and when she's not playing practical jokes on everyone, she's showing signs of becoming an artist. Can't wait to show you her watercolors when you come over for dinner . . . she's got a lot of talent."

"Can't wait to see them. And Hawk?"

Marie became pensive, staring down at the ground as they walked. "Not so good," she said after a moment, her hand slipping from his arm. "He's supposed to be in upper school, but he dropped out two months ago. I only see him when he bothers to come home, and even then he's . . . well, barely there."

Carlos frowned. "If he's not home or at school, then where is he?"

She let out her breath. "Where do you think he is? With his father, of course."

Carlos felt something within him go cold. He'd never liked Lars Thompson; even when they'd fought together during the Revolution, he'd been someone Carlos couldn't turn his back on. Lars's younger brother had been much the same way— and so was Marie, for that matter— but once the war was over, Garth had straightened himself out, in time coming to lead the colony their late uncle had founded on Great Dakota that now bore his name.

Clarksburg— once known as Riverport— had been founded by Lars and Marie six years ago, after the magistrate had exiled them from Liberty. In the aftermath of the Revolution, the two had become violent misfits, and making them leave was the only way Carlos could keep them from spending hard time in the stockade. Together with Manuel Castro, the posthuman Savant who'd been left behind when the Union abandoned Coyote, the three of them had spent the next six months exploring the unknown territories west of New Florida. Everyone expected them to return to Liberty once their sentence was completed, but instead Lars had asked his family to join them in establishing a new settlement at the mouth of a river he and Marie discovered on the southeast coast of Great Dakota. Clark Thompson brought a number of other people with them, most of them people who'd once lived in Thompson's Ferry before it was destroyed during the first major battle of the Revolution, and so Riverport became the first colony west of New Florida.

No one knew what happened to Manny Castro. The Savant had remained with Lars and Marie until the first boatload of colonists arrived from New Florida, then one morning they found his cabin abandoned. He'd disappeared during the night, apparently taking with him only a rucksack filled with a few hand tools and a datapad. To this day, some claimed to have spotted him deep within the Black Mountains, a spectral figure in a hooded cloak, yet nonetheless Manny never again set foot within a human settlement.

It wasn't long before Marie was pregnant with her first child, and one of Clark Thompson's first acts as the colony's leader was to preside over her marriage to Lars. This was also one of the last things he did; less than a week later, the roof-beam of a cabin he was helping build fell on him. Riverport was renamed Clarksburg in his memory, and Lars had assumed the role as mayor.

But Lars wasn't like his uncle. He'd lacked the leadership qualities, preferring to spend most of his time drinking sourgrass ale, and when he wasn't drunk, he railed at people for not working hard enough. It was only inevitable that the townspeople rebelled; during a midnight meeting of the town council— which Lars himself didn't attend, because he'd passed out at the bar of the local cantina— a unanimous vote was taken to remove him from office. His aunt, Clark's widow, Molly, was elected mayor, something which her nephew didn't discover until he woke up the following morning.

Marie stayed married to her husband; she was carrying her second child, and had matured to become a respected member of the community, so she didn't want to leave him. Aunt Molly successfully led Clarksburg to self-sufficiency, establishing the family business, the Thompson Wood Company, as its principal employer; when she stepped down to let Garth become mayor, he and Marie went ahead with Klon Newell's idea to build a wind farm on Thunder Ridge in order to provide electrical power not only to the colony— which, with more than a thousand residents, was now third in population only to the twin townships of Liberty and Shuttlefield— but also to the timber mills that had become the backbone of Clarksburg's economy.

Yet Lars never regained his standing in the community. Embittered by the loss of authority, estranged from his wife and his younger brother, he'd moved up into the nearby mountains, becoming the boss of one of the logging camps that supplied wood for the mills.

"The only time I see Hawk is when he and his father come into town for supplies." Marie stepped over a rotted faux birch that had fallen across the path. "Other than him bringing my son home occasionally, I don't have much use for him. He's the father of my children, but . . ."

She paused to gather her long dark hair and tie it back into a knot. In the midday light, Carlos saw for the first time that it was threaded with grey. It shouldn't have been a surprise; there was silver in his beard, and lately he'd found the beginnings of a bald spot at the crown of his head. Nonetheless it was a shock to see such signs of age in his little sister.

"I married the wrong man, didn't I?" she said quietly, her hands working behind her head. "If I'd known how he'd turn out—"

"Don't beat yourself up." Carlos looked down from the hillside. Through the trees, he could make out wood-frame houses, see smoke rising from the mills. A pair of swoops circled above them, cawing their dismay at the human presence. "You were a lot younger back then. You couldn't have known better."

"Yeah, well . . ." She gave him a sad smile. "You know what they say."

"Time catches up to you when a year is worth three." An old Coyote truism, much like boids attack when you're not looking or don't eat the winter corn until spring. In this instance, it was a way of saying that time went quickly when you only paid attention to the passing of the seasons. Even though this was only the thirteenth summer he and his sister had spent on this world, they had been here long enough to pass from childhood to early middle age. And yet . . .

His satphone suddenly chirped, startling him.

"Can't get a break, can you?" Marie murmured, watching as he fumbled to unclasp the unit from his belt.

"Goes with the job." Carlos unfolded the miniature dish, held the phone to his face. "President Montero . . . how may I help you?"

"Wow, don't you sound official." Wendy's voice was a low purr in his ear. "Should I call you 'sir', or is that too much?"

" 'Sir' will do." Carlos smiled as he heard his wife's voice. " 'Your honor' would be nice, too. Oh how about 'your holiness'? I think I'd like that."

"Holy fool, more like it," Marie said.

Carlos pushed her aside, then turned away. "What's going on? Something important, I hope." Although his annual summer trip to Great Dakota was supposed to be diplomatic in nature, he'd come to regard it as a vacation, or at least a reason to get away from Liberty for a few days. Wendy knew this, and that's why he'd asked her not to call unless it was crucial.

"Important enough," Wendy replied. "Have you looked at the sky lately?"

"Huh?" Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked straight up. The only thing he saw was Uma, blazing almost directly overhead. "I don't understand. What am I supposed to be seeing?"

"Are you on high ground?" she asked, and he grunted an affirmative. "Okay, look due east, toward the horizon. Find Wolf, and then look just slightly above it."

Carlos peered in the direction she indicated. About a hand's width above the coast of New Florida, through the light blue haze of the sky, he spotted a bright point of light: Wolf, the outermost jovian planet in the 47 Ursae Majoris system, 1.6 A.U.'s from Coyote. This time of year, it appeared as an afternoon star, rising seven hours before Bear and almost invisible in daylight unless you were searching for it.

It took him another moment to find what Wendy was talking about, yet when he did, he felt his breath catch: a tiny, luminescent streak, so small that he could have covered it with an outstretched thumb. It might have been a comet, yet the moment he saw it, he knew what it was.

"Oh, hell," he murmured.

The exhaust plume of a fusion engine. The telltale sign of an approaching starship.

EASS CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS / NOV. 2, 2339 (RELATIVE) / 1532

"MECO in sixty seconds, Captain."

"Thank you, Mr. Pacino." Anastasia Tereshkova nodded to her first officer in acknowledgment. She checked her lap belt to make sure that it was securely fastened, then gently touched the wand of her headset mike to activate the intercom. "All hands, stand by for main-engine cutoff. Repeat, MECO in one minute and counting."

Settling back in her chair, Ana took a moment to glance around the command deck. As expected, the flight crew were already at their stations, watching the screens of their consoles as Pacino commenced final countdown to the end of braking maneuvers. Of course, the AI was fully capable of performing this task automatically, just as it had for all other important functions over the last forty-eight years and nine months. Nonetheless, her second officer, Jonathan Parson, had insisted upon assuming the helm. He was a young officer, though, and this was his first deep-space mission, so Ana wasn't about to deny him the privilege, however unnecessary it may be.

She quietly watched from behind as Parson rested his hands upon the helm, keeping an eye on the master chronometer as the last seconds ticked away. At the instant the clock reached 00:00:00, he snapped a pair of toggle switches. A second later, the low vibration she'd felt beneath her feet ever since she awakened from biostasis faded away, and she felt her body pull slightly against her straps.

"MECO complete. Main engines in safe mode." Parson checked his nav screen, then glanced over his shoulder at her. "On course for 47 Uma B, ma'am. All systems green."

"Very good, Mr. Parson." Ana relaxed a little, savoring the momentary sensation of weightlessness. However much she personally enjoyed freefall, it wasn't a good idea to let it last very long; although most of the crew was accustomed to this, some of her passengers might get ill if it persisted. "Initiate turn-around maneuver, please, and stand by for MCF."

"Yes, ma'am." As Parson's hands moved across his console, Ana turned her attention to her lapboard. Displayed upon its screen was a miniature image of the Columbus, the long shaft of its stern pointed in the direction of flight. As she watched, lights flashed along the midsection maneuvering thrusters just aft of the shuttle cradles. She didn't need to study the screen, though, to know that Columbus was rotating 180 degrees upon its secondary axis. Brilliant beams of sunlight pierced the rectangular windows and quickly traveled across the low ceiling of the command deck until they reached the aft bulkhead, then formed long shadows as they raced back across the floor before fading out as the windows polarized against the glare of 47 Ursae Majoris.

Ana glanced at Pacino. He met her eye, gave her an encouraging nod. He, too, had been quietly observing the second officer's performance, and was just as impressed as she was. "Turnaround maneuver complete," Pacino said. "Ready to initiate MCF, Captain, on your mark."

"Mark." Although she was watching Parson as he pressed a couple of buttons on his board, she almost didn't notice when the Millis-Clement field was reactivated, restoring 1g gravity to the ship. Her body settled back in her seat, yet she observed this only in an abstract sort of way. For the last twenty hours, Columbus had been traveling backward, its fusion engine delivering constant thrust to decelerate its entry into the 47 Uma system. Now that the ship faced forward again, the fat ring of its diametric drive no longer blocked the view; she could see 47 Ursae Majoris as a distant sun, still two and a half A.U.'s away. Yet it was more than just another star. If she looked more closely . . .

Yes, there it was: a ruddy spot of light, bisected by a thin line. Bear, the third planet out from 47 Uma, closely surrounded by a small family of satellites. Dog, Hawk, Eagle, Snake, Goat . . .

And there, just barely visible. Coyote.

Ana's hand trembled as she touched her mic again. "All hands, stand down from maneuvers."

"Captain, we should be able to transmit now." The communications officer turned to her. "Do you wish to do so?"

"Yes, please." Electromagnetic interference from the fusion engine had rendered radio communications impossible until now. "Ku channel, between 15 and 18 gigahertz," she said. That was the band commonly used by older spacecraft; if anyone on Coyote had observed the Columbus's arrival and was monitoring deep-space radio, this was the frequency range they'd most likely monitor. "Use both Anglo and Old English," she added. "We don't know who might be listening."

As the com officer moved to comply, Ana unbuckled her seat belt and carefully stood up. It had been more than forty-eight hours since she'd emerged from biostasis, yet her legs still felt weak. She let out her breath, then walked over to the helm. "Good job, Jon," she said quietly, patting him on the shoulder. "You handled that beautifully."

"Thank you, Captain." Parson barely glanced her way, but when he did there was a guarded look on his face. "Set course for rendezvous with Coyote?"

"Please do, by all means." A brief nod in response, then he turned back to his console, opening a window on his console's main screen that depicted a heliocentric diagram of the 47 Uma system. As she watched, he began entering new coordinates into the navigation subsystem, even though this was a task, like the turnaround maneuver, that AI could have handled just as efficiently.

A strange person, she once again reflected. Of the thirty men and women aboard Columbus, she knew Jonathan Parson the least well. Much of that could be owed to British reserve; that, and the single-minded determination of a young man who'd made his way through the ranks to become second officer aboard the second European Alliance starship. Yet even before they'd left Earth, he'd quietly rebuffed her attempts to get to know him better. Like Melville's Bartleby, he seemed to have no life outside his job. He came out of his cabin, did his shift, then returned to his cabin. When he ate, he did so alone; when he bathed, it was when no one else was in the officer PQ. He spoke to no one, and after a while no one spoke to him. Very efficient, and very weird.

Well . . . she had other things to worry about just now. "Carry on," she murmured, then turned to see her first officer beckoning her from the remote-imaging station. "Yes, Mr. Pacino?"

"New pictures of Coyote," he replied, pointing to a pair of flatscreens. "Something here you might want to see."

On the left screen was an optical image of the world, as captured in real-time by the navigation telescope mounted just above the main deflector. Although still fuzzy, it depicted a large moon: a planet, really, a little larger than Mars, its green-brown terrain traced by an intricate network of blue waterways, with white icecaps at its northern and southern poles. It wasn't the first time she'd seen close-up images of Coyote since they'd entered the system, yet once again she was struck by its beauty. A marble in the cosmos, Earth-like yet definitely not Earth.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Once again, it was as if Gabriel could read her thoughts. They'd served together for so long, though, that this wasn't a surprise. Indeed, for a little while during training, they'd indulged in a brief, furtive affair, before deciding that it was better for their respective careers if they no longer slept together. "But that's not what concerns me. Look here . . ."

He pointed to the screen on the right. High-resolution radio inferometry, a little less than fifteen minutes old, depicting an image of the planet as seen by radar beams directed at the planet and bounced back to the Columbus. "See something?"

Ana studied the screen. Monochromatic whorls and deep depressions and long lines: a topographic map of the world, more informative than the optical image, yet showing nothing unusual so far as she could see. "All right," she said after a moment, "I give up. What are you trying to show me?"

"Here's a hint. It's not what you see . . . it's what you don't see." Pacino expanded the focal point, allowing her to view the planet from a wider perspective, then waited for her to respond. When she didn't say anything, he pointed to a pair of tiny black dots suspended above Coyote's equator. "Low-orbit satellites . . . communications, possibly meteorological. Much what we'd expect. But if we can see those, shouldn't we also be seeing . . . ?"

"You're right." Ana leaned closer, resting the knuckles of her hands against the console. "Where's the Spirit? Or the Alabama?"

The first ship to 47 Ursae Majoris had been the URSS Alabama, launched by the United Republic of America in 2070. Hijacked, really, and that tale was legend in itself. No other starships had followed it for nearly two hundred years, until the Western Hemisphere Union had sent out five more ships between 2256 and 2260, each using the diametric drive that allowed for near light-speed travel. The last ship launched was the Spirit of Social Collectivism Carried to the Stars; it was known that the four previous Union vessels had been ordered to return to Earth once they'd delivered colonists to Coyote, but the Spirit had a military mission and was supposed to remain here until further notice. And one would naturally expect to find the Alabama still in orbit above Coyote.

Yet as she could plainly see, there were no starships. Only a couple of satellites. "I don't understand."

"Nor do I." Pacino moved a little closer, dropping his voice slightly so that he couldn't be overheard. "It's possible, of course, that the Spirit may have headed for home while we were still in transit."

"Perhaps." She absently reached up to push back her hair, before once again remembering that she had none. Like everyone else aboard, her scalp had been shaved before entering biostasis. She ought to start wearing her beret. "We'd have to examine the log to see if the AI registered any ships heading in the direction of Sol."

The Columbus had departed from Earth orbit on Jan 19, 2290, thirty years after the Spirit, yet more than ten years before the estimated arrival date of the Alabama. As fast as the Union ships traveled, or even as late as it had been before the European Alliance managed to develop the diametric drive on its own, the first radio messages transmitted by the Alabama still hadn't reached Earth before the Columbus had launched.

"Little chance of that," Pacino said, "but we can always check. Yet it doesn't answer the question . . . where's the Alabama?"

"Do Italians have to ask so many questions?" She gave him a sidelong glance.

"Are Russians always so obstinate?" He grinned back at her. A private joke, left over from when they'd once shared the same bed. "Look, we've already seen lights from the planet surface, right?"

She nodded. Earlier infrared photos, taken shortly after the Columbus had entered the system, had revealed dim sources of illumination scattered in a narrow band across Coyote's northern hemisphere.

"That means the earlier expeditions have established colonies," Pacino continued. "We just don't know what happened to the ships themselves."

A chill moved up her spine. "We don't know what happened to the Galileo, either," she murmured.

The smile vanished from Pacino's face. "That's another matter entirely," he whispered. "Don't borrow bad luck. We have to—"

The lockwheel on the hatch next to them suddenly turned clockwise. They looked around to see the hatch ease open, allowing a figure to emerge from the shaft that led up from the ship's lower decks.

"Pardon me." One of the civilian passengers paused on the ladder, uncertain of whether he should enter the command deck. "Is this a bad time to . . . ?"

"Not at all." Ana moved away from the console. "Please, come in. Perhaps you can help us solve a mystery."

"I rather doubt it, but . . ." Jonas Whittaker carefully stepped through the hatch. "Whatever I can do, please let me know."

CLARKSBURG / HAMALIEL 69 / 1200

"The boat's too slow," Carlos said. "I'm going to need—"

The long, sharp blast of the noon whistle startled him, causing him to wince as he clapped his hands against his ears. He glanced in the direction of the timber mill; the vast shed was nearly a hundred yards away, yet the steam whistle mounted on its slate roof was just close enough to deafen him. He waited until the noise subsided, then he spoke into the satphone again.

"Sorry 'bout that," he continued. "It's lunch time. Like I was saying, getting home by boat is too slow, so I need—"

"A gyro to fly out and pick you up." A faint note of amusement in Tomas's voice. "We've already got you covered. Wendy called the Chief Proctor's office and asked them to send one over. Should be landing"— a short pause while he cupped the phone to speak to someone else—"in about thirty minutes. Forty-five, tops."

"Outstanding. Thank you." Although he should have expected as much. As his chief of staff, Tomas Conseco was responsible for making sure that the president got from one place to another with as little fuss as possible, but the fact of the matter was that the Wendy handled a lot of these details when no one was looking. She'd once served a term on the Colonial Council, so she knew the drill better than anyone else who worked for him. "Tell the pilot to touch down—"

"Near the wharf. Got it. I . . ." A pause; Carlos heard voices in the background. "Hang on a moment, boss."

Again, Tomas muffled the phone with his hand. Something was obviously going on back in Liberty. Glancing over his shoulder, Carlos became aware of the curious looks being cast his way by passing townspeople. He stood outside a cheesemaker's shop on River Street, only a short distance from the wharf where the keelboat that had transported him from New Florida was moored. By custom, the president traveled by water when he paid state visits to the colonies. Everyone else did, after all, so why should the president of the Coyote Federation rate special treatment?

Most of the time, Carlos enjoyed the fact that even senior officials received few extra privileges than anyone else. He remembered what it had been like to grow up in the United Republic of America, where the government had become separated from the people and the unwritten rule was that those in power were somehow superior to those who'd put them there in the first place. All this had been rejected on Coyote; indeed, the First Article of the Liberty Compact held that the government existed to serve the public, not vice versa. When he walked down the street, he did so without bodyguards or entourage, and only on formal occasions did anyone address him as "Mr. President."

All the same, standing out here by himself, he was drawing attention that he didn't want just now. Turning away from the street, Carlos headed for the shop behind him. A bell jingled as he opened the front door, and the sharp aroma of fresh cheese surrounded him as he stepped inside. The young woman stacking wheels upon a shelf did a double-take as he entered; the last customer she expected today was the president.

"Pardon me, but is there a place where I can be alone?" Carlos held up his satphone. "Private call. Should take just a moment." Mildly flustered, she hastily ushered him through the beaded curtains of a keyhole door into a back room, where copper pots of goat's milk slowly simmered upon wood-fired stoves and a couple of men stirred curds within barrels. No one paid much attention to them as the clerk led him to an ice block–lined storeroom; she smiled sweetly and favored him with a brief curtsy before closing the door behind him.

A moment later, Tomas came back. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but—"

"Never mind. What's going on?"

"We just received a radio message from the ship." Tomas's voice was rushed. "It's called the Christopher Columbus, and claims to be from the European Alliance. They say that they expect to achieve orbit over us by 0200 tomorrow."

"Who were they trying to reach?"

"The message wasn't . . ." A murmur from somewhere in the background. "Hold on, I'll put you through to Wendy."

Another pause, then he heard his wife's voice. "Carlos, the message was sent to anyone representing either the Alabama or the Western Hemisphere Union. Like Tomas said, it wasn't specific, but considering that it was sent first in English, then in Anglo, I guess they don't know exactly who's here."

That made sense. If the new ship had taken nearly forty-nine years to get here, as had the previous starships using diametric drive, then it would have been launched even before the first radio signals from the Alabama reached Earth. "Has anyone sent a response?"

"No. We've maintained radio silence, pending your decision. In the meantime, I've contacted the Council members, along with the chairmen of the Defense and Interior committees. Hope you don't mind, but I knew you'd be out of touch until you got back into town, so—"

"Don't worry. You did the right thing." In fact, he had to admit, she'd done a better job than he would have. Wendy had been involved in colonial politics since she was a teenager, when she was elected to the Liberty Town Council, while Carlos had come into politics only reluctantly, first assuming the mayorship of Liberty following Captain Lee's death, then later being drafted to run as president. But while his wife was a natural-born stateswoman, Carlos's reputation came from being an explorer and war hero; although he was now the leader of the Coyote Federation, in many ways he was Wendy's political protégé.

"So what do we do now?" Even as he said this, he shut his eyes, swore at himself. "I mean, what do you think we should do now?"

"Carlos . . ." She took a deep breath. "C'mon, you can't do this. You're in charge. I can't—"

"Look, I'm in the storeroom of a cheese shop, all right? I'm making this up as I go along." He sat down on a stool, stared at the wax-encased wheels stacked on the shelves around him. "We've been through this before, and I don't want it to go the same way again. This time, I want the new guys to know where things stand from the beginning."

"I agree. That's the consensus of the Council members I've spoken with, and same for the committee chairs. No one wants another war, but . . ."

She didn't say more, nor did she have to. It had been over ten years, by LeMarean reckoning, since the Glorious Destiny had arrived from Earth, bringing with it the Matriarch Luisa Hernandez and the armed might of the Western Hemisphere Union. For three and a half years, the Union had maintained an authoritarian dictatorship over New Florida, while the Matriarch sought to assert military control over the rest of the planet. It had taken an armed uprising by the original colonists to overthrow the Union, yet it had come at the cost of many lives.

No one had any desire to repeat that experience. But neither did anyone want to give someone else from Earth the chance to take their world away from them again.

Carlos leaned forward, absently rubbing his forehead. "All right, send a message back to them. Tell 'em we're willing to meet with them down here . . . on Federation territory, not their ship. Give them the coordinates for Shuttlefield and inform them that the president will be there to greet them." He thought a moment, then added: "And one more thing. Tell Chris I want him to mobilize the Proctors. Every blueshirt not on leave . . . no, skip that, all leaves are canceled. Put 'em in uniform, and break open the armory. Everyone gets a gun, and everyone gets put on the front line."

"Are you sure you want to—?"

"Yes, I'm sure. And get that gyro here as soon as you can."

"It's on the way. Don't stop for souvenirs."

He smiled at that. Wendy had a small collection of handcrafted wood bowls from Clarksburg; he made a point of picking up a new one for her every time he came out here. "I'll IOU one for the next trip. See you when I get back."

Carlos closed the satphone and put it back in his pocket, then left the storeroom. This time, the men working in the cheese shop noticed him, and the clerk was waiting for him just outside the door. Making a deliberate effort not to appear as if he was concerned about anything, he spent a few minutes touring the shop, inspecting their work and accepting a small wheel of smoked gouda as a gift. By the time he made his exit, the gyro from New Florida had appeared, a tiny black dot high above the sapphire waters of the West Channel.

As he waited in a square near the wharf, he took a moment to look around. At midday, Clarksburg went on about its everyday business. Here and there, he saw people moving along the wooden sidewalks, either heading home for lunch or having a sandwich and a mug of ale at one of the pubs along the riverside. Rough bark logs floated in a pond next to the mill, waiting to be loaded into the conveyer that would take them to the saws; a couple of teenagers played on the logs, trying to push each other off as they rolled beneath their feet. From somewhere nearby, he heard a burst of laughter as someone told someone else a funny story.

They'd come a long way in thirty-nine Earth-years: from little more than a hundred settlers struggling for survival upon a dangerous and unexplored world, to nearly seven thousand people in eight colonies scattered across the northern hemisphere. They still had their problems, to be sure, not the least of which was a shortage of advanced technologies they'd once taken for granted, yet their early hardships were now largely in the past. No one was starving; the wilderness had been tamed, and they were at peace.

And yet, on this sunny afternoon of another endless summer, he had the uneasy feeling that all this was about to change.

EAS ISABELLA / NOV. 3, 2339 (RELATIVE) / 0842

The skiff shuddered, then took a hard jolt that threw Jonas against his straps, almost knocking the wind from him. Gripping the armrests a little tighter, he took short, deep breaths, yet he refused to shut his eyes, knowing that this would only make him airsick.

"Having trouble?" From her seat on the right-hand side of the cockpit, Captain Tereshkova calmly observed the efforts of her second officer. "If you want any help . . ."

"No, ma'am. No problem at all." Parson pulled back on the yoke, then pushed forward on the throttle bar. The engines whined a little louder as the pilot compensated for an increase in atmospheric density. More air, more resistance; more resistance, more drag against Isabella's wings. For a moment, it seemed as if they would encounter more turbulence, yet Parson was keeping an eye on the gauges; there was another jolt, less severe than before, then they found smooth air once more, and everything settled out.

Jonas let out his breath, tried to relax. Tereshkova turned her head to gaze back at him. "How are you doing there, Dr. Whittaker? Not going to be sick, I hope."

"No, no, I'm fine." Which was a lie. Although he tried to pretend that this was just like riding a jet back on Earth, the fact of the matter was that this wasn't Earth, nor had he been on a plane in . . . how long? Nearly 269 years, give or take a few months. Even when he'd left Earth, it had been aboard the New Guinea space elevator: a long, slow climb to geosynchronous orbit, with none of the high-g stress of a shuttle launch. "Doing great, thanks."

He gazed out the window beside him. Now that the Isabella had penetrated the thin layer of cirrus clouds, Coyote's northern hemisphere spread out below him, a vast mosaic of islands of all shapes and sizes, separated from one another by a maze of rivers and channels. No oceans to speak of; the largest body of water was the equatorial river that wrapped itself around the planet's midsection like an immense serpent, becoming broad enough at one point to form a small sea. The enormous blue orb of 47 Ursae Majoris-B hovered above the western horizon, its ring-plane obscured by high clouds as it rose straight up into the deep purple sky.

An alien world. Again, he found himself awestruck by the simple fact that he was here. Although his life's ambition had been to build the first interstellar vessel, never had he truly expected to go to the stars himself. Even when he'd become involved in the conspiracy to steal the Alabama, its final destination had been something he'd thought about only in the most abstract of terms. But now, here he was.

Yet Caroline wasn't, and neither was Ellen. Once again, any sense of wonder he felt was suffused by the hollow pain of grief. His wife and daughter, long since dead and gone, lost to him forever. Not for the first time, he felt guilt gnawing at him. He'd cheated death, yes, but only at the cost of their lives . . .

"I'm sorry," he whispered, gazing at ghosts only he could see reflected in the window. "I'm so sorry . . ."

"Pardon me?" Tereshkova gazed back at him. "Did you say something?"

"Just thinking to myself." He drew a deep breath. "Shouldn't we be seeing the colony . . . um, New Florida . . . by now?"

"We're approaching it now." She pointed straight ahead, through the teardrop-shaped forward windows. "In a moment we'll be above—" She suddenly stopped, staring at something far below. "Is that what I think it is?"

Jonas craned his head to look. They were passing over a channel separating the island just ahead of them from the larger landmass to the east. For a moment, he didn't see what startled the captain so much, but then he spotted a dark, slender line that ran straight across the channel, an artifice that closely resembled . . .

"A bridge!" Parson yelled. "There's a bridge down there!"

Nor was that all they saw. As the skiff shed altitude, now they could make out other signs of human habitation. Small settlements lay on either side of the bridge, with a road leading inland through a quilt-like patchwork of farm fields, and even from several thousand feet they could see the regular lines of irrigation ditches.

"Someone's been busy," Tereshkova murmured.

"They've had a lot of time." Yet even so, Jonas was impressed. The farms lay here and there along the twisting road, isolated from one another by vast tracts of marshland, yet as the Isabella continued to descend, they saw that the settlements grew closer together until, as they passed low over a wide creek, they came upon a broad expanse of houses, barns, sheds, buildings both large and small.

Thirty-nine years, he thought. No wonder they've done so well. Give people a wide-open frontier and put them on their own for a few decades, then stand back and watch what happens. If nature doesn't kill them or they don't die of starvation, then they'll learn to live off the land. And these people were well-motivated for survival.

"We're coming in on the landing coordinates," Parson said. "I take it this is the Liberty colony."

"Liberty, or else Shuttlefield. I think they're two towns adjacent to one another." Tereshkova glanced back at Jonas. "We weren't given much information by the person with whom we spoke." Then she looked forward again, and pointed through the cockpit windows. "There, Mr. Parson. Landing beacons, twenty degrees port."

"Yes, ma'am. Lowering gear now." Parson reached up to an overhead panel, snapped a couple of toggle switches. A hard thump from belowdecks as belly hatches opened, then Isabella's narrow prow lifted slightly as Parson throttled back the main engines and engaged the VTOL jets.

"Forty meters . . . thirty meters . . . twenty meters . . ." The second officer kept his eyes on his instruments as the skiff slowly descended. In the last few seconds before touchdown, a thick cloud of dust rose around the cockpit windows, obliterating everything from sight. "Ten . . . five . . . two . . ." Another jolt; an alarm sounded and red lamps blazed across his console. "Contact. We're on the ground, Captain."

"Thank you, Mr. Parson. Nice flying." While the pilot shut down the engines, the captain touched a couple of buttons on the com panel. " Isabella to Columbus, do you copy?"

"We read you, Isabella." The first officer's voice came over the ceiling speaker. "Telemetry indicates you've landed. Do you confirm?"

"Affirmative, Columbus, we're down and safe. Remain on standby until further notice. Isabella over and out." Tereshkova switched off the radio, then unbuckled her harness and let the straps retract into the seat as she turned to look at her passenger. "I assume you're feeling better now, Dr. Whittaker."

"Very much so." Jonas struggled with the clasp of the seat belt for a moment until the captain stood up, walked back to where he was sitting, and opened it for him. "Thank you," he mumbled, embarrassed again by his incompetence. "So . . . what now?"

"I believe much of that's going to depend on them."

Still seated, his logbook open in his lap, Parson gestured with his pen toward the cockpit windows. "Seems we have an audience."

Jonas gazed out the side window. Now that the dust had settled, he could see, a few dozen feet away, several hundred people gathered just beyond the landing beacons. No one approached the skiff, though, and it appeared as if the crowd was being held back by several men in dark blue shirts. It wasn't hard to miss the fact that they were carrying rifles.

"Doesn't look very friendly, does it?" Parson added.

"No, it doesn't." Tereshkova started to reach toward the com panel again, then thought better of it. "Let's not jump to conclusions. Dr. Whittaker, if you'll join me, perhaps we can get this straightened out. Mr. Parson, I know this is asking much of you, but—"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll remain aboard, just in case." He nodded toward a locker in the rear of the passenger compartment. "Captain, if I may remind you . . . ?"

"Perhaps we should . . ." She hesitated, considering her options, then shook her head. "No. Keep the weapons stowed. I don't think it'll make a good first impression if we walked down the gangway with guns in hand." She glanced at Jonas. "Agreed?"

"Completely." Nonetheless, the sight of armed men at the landing site was the last thing he'd anticipated. Indeed, he wondered what had happened here that provoked this sort of reception. "Maybe it's time to practice a little diplomacy."

"That's why we brought you." Tereshkova patted his shoulder as she moved past him. "With luck, maybe you'll find a friend or two out there."

I wouldn't count on it, he thought, but he rose to his feet and followed her to the main hatch.

"That insignia . . ." Carlos pointed to the blue-red-green flag painted on the vertical stabilizer of the spacecraft's starboard wing. "European Alliance?"

"It's theirs, all right . . . but they've come a long way." Tomas caught the look on the president's face and quickly corrected himself. "Level of technology, I mean. When I left, the EA didn't have any starships. In fact, they only had a few lunar colonies." He nodded toward the ship. "This is something new."

"This is new to all of us." The spacecraft that just landed didn't resemble the shuttles used by the Western Hemisphere Union: smaller and more streamlined, with down-swept wings and forward cabin extended at the end of a midsection neck, it vaguely resembled a goose. He cast a glance at the Proctors ringed around the edge of the landing field. Thirty men and women in blue shirts stood at attention, their carbines at their sides. He caught the eye of Chris Levin; the Chief Proctor for more than thirty years, his best friend since childhood, he gazed back at Carlos, gave him a tight nod. His people were ready.

"Maybe they should stand down." Wendy stood next to him, her hands nervously fidgeting at her sides. "It's like greeting house guests by pointing a gun to their heads."

"They're not guests," Carlos said quietly, "and I want them to know exactly where they stand." Perhaps this was only a show of force, yet it would let whoever was aboard the shuttle know that their unexpected arrival was being treated with suspicion. "If the Union had been given this sort of treatment when they showed up—"

"Nothing would have been different," Wendy argued. "We're establishing a bad precedent. We don't know who these people are, what they're—"

"Someone's coming out," Tomas said.

The belly hatch opened, revealing a ramp built into its underside. No sooner had it unfolded and lowered to the ground than a pair of boots appeared on the steps. A young woman made her way down the ladder, followed moments later by a middle-aged man. Both wore tan jumpsuits, and matching berets covered their shaved heads, attesting to the fact that they must have recently emerged from biostasis. They stopped at the bottom of the ladder, gazed uncertainly at the crowd gathered around the spacecraft.

"You're on," Wendy whispered.

Carlos took a deep breath, then marched out to the spacecraft. After a moment's hesitation, Tomas fell in beside him. The younger man was still getting used to his role as Carlos's senior aide; indeed, Carlos reflected, it hadn't been all that many years ago when he'd been little more than a boy, setting foot on Coyote for the first time with his parents. No wonder he was nervous.

As if I'm not, he thought.

Carlos stopped in front of the newcomers, extended his hand. "Welcome to New Florida, and to Coyote," he began, speaking in Anglo. "I'm Carlos Montero, President of the Coyote Federation. This is my chief of staff, Tomas Conseco."

The woman accepted his handshake. "Pleased to meet you, President Montero," she replied, and although she also spoke Anglo, he noted a thin Slavic accent to her voice. "Captain Anastasia Tereshkova, commanding officer of the—"

"No . . . it can't be."

She was interrupted by the man standing behind her. His eyes wide with disbelief, he regarded Carlos with open-mouthed astonishment. "You . . . you can't be Carlos," he stammered. "You . . . I'm sorry, but you . . ."

Captain Tereshkova turned to look at him. "Dr. Whittaker, do you know him?"

"I . . . no, but . . ." Whittaker cautiously stepped past her. "Yes, I know him. It's been such a long time, but—"

"I don't believe . . ." Carlos began, then his voice trailed off. Although his first impulse was to deny any previous association, long-buried memories began to resurface. The face was familiar, although in a distant sort of way. And the name . . . Whittaker, Whittaker. He'd heard that name before.

"Do I know you?" he asked. "Have we met?"

"We have. Maybe you don't remember, but . . ." He shook his head. "It's incredible how much you look like your father. If I didn't know better, I could have sworn—"

"You knew my father? There's no way you could . . ."

Before he could finish, he heard someone running toward them. Carlos barely had a chance to turn around before Chris pushed both him and Tomas aside. "Dr. Whittaker!" he yelled, then he dropped his carbine and wrapped his arms around him. "I don't believe it! You're alive!"

For an instant, it seemed as if Whittaker was just as shocked as anyone else. Indeed, it had been many years since Carlos had seen Chris express this much emotion about anything. Then Jonas carefully prized Chris away from him and took a long, hard look at his face, and tears began to seep from the corners of his eyes.

"Chris Levin," he whispered, his voice choked. "Oh, my god . . . how much you've grown up."

And now, all at once, memories returned. Whittaker. Dr. Jonas Whittaker. Another scientist, a physicist who'd once worked for the old Federal Space Agency. Several years older than his father, a senior colleague who'd visited Carlos's home in Huntsville, had dinner with his family. Carlos hadn't known him very well, but once during a summer outing in the park he'd shown him and Chris how to feed catfish from the footbridge. And he'd had a daughter, a few years older than either him or Chris.

"This is impossible," he said. "You should be dead."

He didn't mean for it to come out quite this way, yet it did. Hearing a strangled gasp, Carlos glanced over his shoulder to see Wendy covering her face with her hands. Captain Tereshkova stared at him in shock as mortified laughter rose from those in the crowd who'd heard what he'd just said.

Yet Whittaker simply smiled. "You're right, son. I'm a dead man. But in my case, it was only a temporary condition."

LIBERTY / HAMALIEL 70 / 0945

Although Carlos insisted upon having proctors present when the Isabella landed, it had been Wendy's idea to hold a small reception for the Columbus's captain. Carlos had been reluctant at first, but it turned out that his wife's instinct for diplomacy was correct. Once it became obvious that the first contact would be peaceful, Carlos quietly asked Chris to dismiss his proctors, then suggested to Captain Tereshkova that they move the meeting to the grange hall in Liberty. She graciously accepted his invitation and demonstrated her own good intentions by asking Jonathan Parson, her second officer, to disembark from the skiff and join them.

It was a little late for breakfast and still too early for lunch, but nonetheless the chefs had laid out a smorgasbord: redfish fritters, cornbread, fried tomatoes and mixed greens, along with apple strudel and coffee. Besides the fact that the newcomers had been in biostasis for nearly forty-nine years, it had been a long time since they'd eaten anything except ship's rations. Their guests filled their plates, then everyone took seats at one of the blackwood tables that ran down the center of the room.

Captain Tereshkova was curious about their surroundings, and Carlos explained that the grange had been built by the original colonists during their first year on Coyote. He pointed out the mural of the Alabama that hung from one wall and the original flag of the Coyote Federation suspended from the rafters. He attempted to give her a short history of the colony, yet he didn't get a chance. Although Tomas had tried to restrict the guest list to those officials who needed to be there— Colonial Council representatives, the chairs of various committees, members of the Liberty and Shuttlefield town councils, and so forth— the grange was jammed with VIPs, and everyone wanted to have a minute— if not five or ten— with the members of the Columbus party. Chris had posted a couple of proctors at the front door, but when Carlos happened to glance out a window, he saw that Main Street swarmed with townspeople curious to see the first visitors from Earth in nearly a generation.

Despite the fact that, as commanding officer of the Columbus, Anastasia Tereshkova was the center of attention, Carlos and Chris weren't the only ones who remembered Jonas Whittaker. There were relatively few members of the original group of D.I.'s smuggled aboard the Alabama who were still alive, but they had been hastily brought to the grange hall to meet Whittaker. When Henry Johnson— the oldest surviving member of the Alabama party, now half-blind and able to walk only with the assistance of a cane— laid eyes on a friend whom he'd long since given up for dead, there were a few seconds of stunned surprise as Jonas found himself gazing upon someone who'd once been a few years younger than himself and now appeared old enough to be his father. Then the two men threw themselves into each others arms, laughing and weeping at the same time.

Next appeared Sissy Levin, Chris's mother. This was a sad moment, for it was when she introduced her second husband, Ben Harlan, that Jonas learned that his colleague Jim Levin was no longer living; like Carlos's parents, he'd been killed by a boid. And right behind her were those whom Jonas recognized, but knew less well: Bernie and Vonda Cayle, both of whom were alive and well, and Carrie Geary, who'd survived the loss of her husband three years before, and Kuniko Okada, who'd become Wendy's adoptive mother and now served as chancellor of the Colonial University.

And just how had Whittaker himself survived? Once again, Carlos found himself wondering this, as he watched a steady procession of lined and age-spotted faces come forth to meet someone who, for all intents and purposes, had aged little since they'd seen him. Although the question was often asked, Whittaker avoided giving a straight answer, dodging behind platitudes like clean living or good genes, I guess before changing the subject. And meanwhile Tereshkova carefully eluded the more probing queries, while Jonathan Parson remained noncommittal, saying little to anyone save for the occasional question about the weather or how the colonists had managed to cultivate apple orchards.

Yet Carlos remained patient, allowing the reception to run its course until finally, a couple of hours later, he'd managed to detach Tereshkova, Parson, and Whittaker from the crowd and lead them to the conference room in the back of the grange. Wendy was there, as were Tomas and several members of the Executive Committee; at Whittaker's insistence, Henry Johnson was invited as well. Once everyone was seated and the door was shut, Carlos called the meeting to order and the small talk came to an end.

"I imagine you have quite a few questions," Tereshkova began, "and we certainly have a few of our own, but let me make one thing clear from the beginning. The European Alliance only wishes to open peaceful negotiations with the colonies, for the mutual benefit of both the EA and the Coyote Federation."

A nice start, Carlos thought. Tereshkova had surmised that the Columbus's unexpected arrival was being regarded with distrust, and was trying to defuse this. "I appreciate this, Captain," he replied, clasping his hands together on the table, "and I apologize if you were offended by the way you and your party were received in Shuttlefield. You have to realize, though, that your predecessors didn't have the same . . . well, benign intentions."

"No apologies necessary, Mr. Pres . . . um, Mr. Montero." A quick smile as Tereshkova remembered that he preferred to be addressed in a less formal fashion. "Although my knowledge of your history is still far from complete, I'm fully aware that the Western Hemisphere Union attempted to use force to take over your colonies. Even before we left Earth, my government had received intelligence reports indicating that this was their intent."

"I take it, then, that the Alliance isn't on good terms with the Union?"

Tereshkova crossed her legs. "Although they aren't engaged in active hostilities . . . at least not when we left . . . all the same there's political rivalry between the two blocs. The Alliance is a capitalist democracy, while the Union is based upon collective socialism, so if they had still been in control, we would've had to negotiate with them on those terms. However, since they're no longer here, we're able to deal directly with those who colonized Coyote in the first place."

"Then you're aware that the Union was deposed during a revolution," Carlos said, and Tereshkova nodded. "And I also take it that you've learned that the Federation is composed of eight colonies."

"Liberty, Shuttlefield, Leeport, and Bridgeton on New Florida." Tereshkova gazed up at the ceiling as she recited from memory. "Forest Camp, Defiance, and New Boston on Midland, and Clarksburg on Great Dakota. Not counting several smaller settlements here and there that haven't yet gained sufficient population to be officially represented by the Colonial Council."

"You're a good listener," Wendy said. "My compliments."

A wry smile. "It's my job to listen, Ms. Montero. I'm not only Columbus's commanding officer, but I'm also something of a trade emissary." Her expression became more serious. "So once more, let me assure you, I'm not here to be a conqueror. My government believed that the Union's attempt to take military control was doomed to failure, and I'm only too happy to learn that their predictions were correct."

"I'll take you at your word," Carlos replied. At least for the time being. "But if you say that you're here on a trade mission, then that raises an important question. Given the long time it takes for anyone's ships to get here, then return home, how can—?"

"Carlos?" Whittaker interrupted by raising a hand. "If you don't mind, perhaps I can explain?"

"I think . . ." Henry Johnson coughed in his hand, then leaned forward upon his cane. "I think I know what you're going to say, Jonas. But before you get to that part, would you kindly explain just how you managed to get here in the first place? And why I shouldn't be changing your diapers now?"

Muted laughter from around the table, yet there were also nods and murmurs. Although the two eldest members of ExCom had once belonged to the Alabama crew— Jud Tinsley, originally the executive officer, and Ellery Balis, formerly the ship's quartermaster— Carlos and Wendy had been in their teens when the Alabama was hijacked. Yet now they both were only a few years younger than Whittaker himself, at least in physical terms, while Jud and Ellery could have passed as a pair of older uncles. Henry was joking, of course, but beneath that was a serious question.

"Jealous, aren't we?" Jonas replied, and even though this was received with a few chuckles, Henry wasn't amused. Jonas settled back in his chair, folded his arms together. "Very well, then . . ."

Jonas kept his eyes shut as he felt the hospital cart come to a halt; he remained perfectly still, keeping his breathing as shallow as possible. Through the sheet that covered his body, he heard murmured voices, some belonging to the Prefects who'd carried him from the conference room. A door opened and shut, and then he heard a pair of footsteps approach him.

"They're gone," Shaw said quietly. "You can get up now."

Jonas opened his eyes as Shaw pulled back the sheet, blinked hard against the glare of the ceiling lights. The cart had been wheeled into what appeared to be an infirmary; an examination table lay nearby, surrounded by all the customary medical apparatus, with cabinets lining the clean white walls. A short young woman wearing a surgical gown stood next to Shaw, her blond hair pulled back behind a cap; she regarded Jonas with nervous eyes, casting an occasional glance at the closed doors where the Prefect whom Jonas had met earlier now stood guard.

"We need to get him cleaned up." The doctor spoke to Shaw as if Jonas wasn't there, even as she pointed to his blood-drenched shirt. "I know you had to do this, but we can't risk having him contaminated." She picked up a large metal bowl filled with a watery pink solution, placed it on the cart next to him. "Strip, then use this to wash yourself," she said, handing him a sponge and a plastic bag. "Dump your clothes in here. And try not to make a mess."

His shirt buttons were slick with blood, yet although he wanted to get out of his clothes as soon as he could, he was uneasy about disrobing in front of strangers. It was almost as unnerving as having a pint of warm blood squirted on his chest as he lay upon the carpeted floor of the conference room, then having the Prefect fire a blank at him from close range. "What's the rush? I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are, but we've got to make sure you're still dead by the time Dr. Kendrick gets through with you." Shaw smiled at him. "It won't be long until an ambulance arrives to take you to the mortuary, and by then we have to switch you for one of the cadavers she's generously agreed to provide." He looked at Kendrick. "You have the body, don't you?"

"In the storeroom." Turning away from them, she walked across the tile floor, her long cotton robe brushing against her ankles. "With any luck, no one will notice the substitution before they've cremated it."

"They won't," Shaw said. "We've done this sort of thing before."

Jonas refrained from asking the obvious questions; it seemed that Shaw had some previous experience with disposing of corpses in the middle of the night. Likewise, he also wondered how many times Shaw had faked someone's death. It was all so perfect; the blood, the gunshot, the story told to the Prefects standing outside the room that Jonas had tried to attack Shaw and that his bodyguard had acted to protect him. This, and the fact that a medical facility lay conveniently close at hand, complete with a doctor who just happened to be working late. And now, another body that would soon be cremated in the interests of national security.

Shaw worked for a corrupt system, yet he'd learned how to manipulate that same system to his own ends. No one would question his version of what had happened, and even if they did, he had witnesses to back him up. A stone alibi. All this might have been comforting, if Jonas hadn't known where it was leading.

Once he'd stripped off his clothes and given himself a sponge bath, Kendrick returned to give him a quick yet thorough physical, all the while asking him questions about his medical history. Apparently satisfied with his answers, she administered a half dozen injections, jabbing his biceps again and again with a syringe gun; she didn't bother to tell him what she was giving him, so he assumed that they were antibiotics of one sort or another. Then she handed him a bedpan and ordered him to relieve himself, right then and there. And the humiliation didn't stop there; while Shaw watched from the corner of the room, Kendrick made him lay down on the cold metal surface of the operating table and, using an electric razor, shaved his entire body, from his head down to his chest and pubic area.

"Clock's ticking, Maggie." Shaw glanced at his watch. "We don't have much time left."

"Don't rush me," Kendrick muttered, yet she was clearly moving as fast as she could. She handed Jonas a cotton gown, then stood back and waited for him to get off the table. "All right, you're done. Now come with me—"

A keycard slipped into an electronic lock opened a sealed door on the other side of the room. A faint whuff of pressurized air as the door slid open, and then Jonas followed the doctor into an adjacent room, as cold and antiseptic as the one they'd just left. "You can't come in," Kendrick said, looking over her shoulder at Shaw. "We have to keep this place—"

"I won't touch a thing." All the same, he stopped just inside the door, his hands in his coat pockets. "You probably don't recognize this place, Dr. Whittaker," he went on, "but I'm sure you know what it is."

Gazing around the room, Jonas nodded, and shivered with a chill that went farther than his flesh. In the center of the room rested three ceramic-alloy containers, faintly resembling coffins save for the tiny windows and the instrument panels at one end. Biostasis cells, used by FSA for testing long-term human hibernation in preparation for Project Starlight. One of the cells was closed, but the other two lay open, their raised lids revealing the gelatin pads within.

"Your ticket to the twenty-third century," Shaw said, as Jonas gingerly stepped farther into the room. "Maybe longer, I don't know. Sorry, but we can't be sure how long you'll—"

"I know. You've told me." Jonas shuddered, took a deep breath. He had a sudden impulse to turn and run for his life, yet there was nothing behind him save for certain death. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, he was already dead; this was merely the anteroom to a dreamless form of limbo. "How will . . . how will they know me? On the other side, I mean."

"They won't." Kendrick nodded toward the closed cell. "That's Test Subject 11. He went in two and a half years ago, and even I don't know who he is, other than the fact that he was a volunteer. All his records have been scrubbed, in exchange for his cooperation in this experiment. You'll be known as Test Subject 12, and you'll be treated the same way. When you're revived—"

"I won't be anyone." Jonas hugged himself. "I'll be nameless, a nonperson. No past, no proof of who I was."

"No. No, that's not true." As Shaw took a tentative step forward, he withdrew from his coat pocket a plastic packet about the size of a manila envelope. He extended it to Kendrick. "Here's all your records . . . personal, private, everything my people were able to copy from your files. It's all on minidisc. I've been assured that it'll last a few hundred years without noticeable degradation."

Kendrick took the packet. She quickly examined it, making sure that it was sealed, then brushed away some lint and handed it to Jonas. He studied it for a second. "And from what you've told me, it also contains my notes for—"

"Everything we've discussed." Apparently Shaw wasn't willing to trust even Dr. Kendrick with some things. "It's all there. All you have to do is enter your old passwords."

Jonas gazed at the packet, then at the open biostasis cell. "You think of everything, don't you? Except that I'll be alone when I wake up . . ."

"We're getting down to the wire." Shaw glanced at his watch again. "Either you go, or . . ."

"Next time your man shoots me, he'll use real bullets." Jonas sighed, then turned to Kendrick. "All right, let's get it over."

So then he removed his gown and lay down in the nearest cell, carefully placing the packet behind his left shoulder. He watched while Dr. Kendrick inserted plastic tubes in the veins of his arms. She did so with the reverence of an ancient Egyptian priest preparing a pharaoh for his entry to the afterlife, and for the first time her touch became tender, her voice soft. And since he never saw Roland Shaw again, he didn't get a chance to either thank or curse him. Yet, as she injected him with the drugs that would put him in a coma for the next two and half centuries, Kendrick leaned close to him.

"Good luck," she whispered. "I envy you."

Before he could ask what she meant by that, he fell asleep.

"And you were in biostasis for . . . how long?" Carlos asked.

"Two hundred and twelve years." Whittaker said this as a matter of fact, yet for a moment he closed his eyes, almost as if recalling what it had been like to have slept for almost a quarter of a millennium. "I was revived on August 12, 2282 . . . just about nine years ago." He stopped himself. "I mean, about nine years before the Columbus left Earth. Sorry, I'm still getting used to this myself."

"Happens to us all," Henry said drily. "Getting old is a bitch."

More chuckles, and Jonas went on. "By then, of course, the URA no longer existed. On the other hand, since I wasn't even on Earth anymore . . ."

Wendy raised an eyebrow. "If you weren't on Earth, then where—?"

"Shaw apparently didn't want to take any chances with anyone reviving me, so he had my cell transported to a URS military base on the Moon." Jonas picked up a glass of water, took a sip. "A small research installation on the lunar farside. Top secret, and completely off the map. After the Republic fell, it was abandoned and forgotten. I'd probably still be there if an expedition from the International Geographic Society hadn't rediscovered it. And that's where they found me." He glanced at Tereshkova and briefly smiled. "Luckily, the expedition was Russian-led. They brought my cell back to St. Petersburg, and that's where I was revived."

"Lucky, indeed," Tereshkova added. "If Dr. Whittaker had been found by a Union-led expedition, then they would've also found the disk containing his notes. And if that had happened, then chances are that we wouldn't be here."

"All right. Now you've lost me." Carlos held up a hand. "You mentioned that disk, but you didn't say what was on it. And you haven't told us why Roland Shaw went to the trouble of faking your death and putting you in suspended animation. Why did—?"

"Starbridges."

Until now, Henry had remained silent. Now, upon speaking, all eyes turned toward the elderly physicist. "You finally did it, didn't you?" he added, ignoring the others as he stared down the table at his former Marshall colleague. "You figured out how to build starbridges."

"C'mon now, Henry." Whittaker slowly shook his head. "We knew how to build them even before the Alabama left. We just lacked the technological capability, that's all." Then he smiled. "But now . . . yes, we have it. It's all there."

Henry's mouth dropped open. He sat up a little straighter in his chair. "You must be joking. You've—?"

"Will one of you please tell the rest of us what you're talking about?" Wendy asked impatiently. "What in heaven's name is a starbridge?"

Before either Henry or Jonas could respond, Tereshkova gently cleared her throat. "This may be a good time for a visual presentation." She pointed to the comp at Carlos's end of the table. "Does that operate, Mr. Montero? And the screen, too?"

"Umm . . . more or less." Like all other electronic equipment left behind by the Union, the comp was an antique, as was the flatscreen behind him. They'd been seldom used, though, so he had doubts that they'd still work. Like so much other Earth-made equipment that had gradually worn out over the years, it was difficult to find even a pad that functioned. He reached forward to switch on the comp, and was relieved to hear a faint beep as its aged hard drive creaked to life once more. "Yes, I think they do."

Tereshkova raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing as she drew a small pad from her pocket and plugged it into the comp's external port. She tapped on the keys, and the wallscreen flickered for an instant before resolving into a grainy image: a three-dimensional wire-model of a ring-shaped structure.

"This is a starbridge," she began.

Henry leaned closer to Carlos. "Watch this," he whispered. "You're going to love it."

HAMALIEL 70 / 1832

Twilight was settling upon the town by the time Carlos and Wendy returned home. The meeting had only lasted a few hours, but after it broke up they spent the afternoon showing the visitors around town. Since Captain Tereshkova had accepted their invitation to spend the night in Liberty, Wendy arranged for them to stay at a small inn near the grange, and once the tour was over Chris escorted them over there.

Yet the day wasn't done yet. Carlos and Wendy had invited Henry Johnson over for supper, so they met the old man back at the grange. The lights of their house were on, and when they came in through the door, they found that Susan had already fixed dinner. Their daughter had briefly attended the reception, but had returned to the university to teach her afternoon class. Once she'd learned that her parents were showing the visitors around town, though, she'd canceled class. She knew her parents would be hungry and decided that her biology students could use an extra day to prepare for their next exam.

"Besides," she said as she laid out another setting at the table, "there's no sense in trying to teach 'em anything today. All they want to talk about is the Columbus."

"Fine with me." Carlos sat down to remove his boots and exchange them for a pair of catskin slippers. Their two dogs, Zack and Jake, cavorted around him, competing for his attention. "It was my turn to cook anyway." He looked at Susan askance. "Not leftover stew, I hope."

"Fed it to the dogs. Went to the market and bought a chicken . . . and don't give me that look, Papa. I sprung for it myself." Spotting her mother lifting the lid of the pot simmering on top of the stove, she hastened over to snatch it away from her. "And don't mess with my bird! I didn't put in too much garlic this time."

"Lord, I hope not." Henry wheezed slightly as he settled into a wicker chair next to the kitchen table. "Last time I ate your chicken, I had gas for three days."

"Henry!" Wendy started to scold him, but he and Carlos were already cracking up, so she surrendered to the inevitable and went into the bedroom to change into her robe. Carlos poured some waterfruit wine for himself and their guest, then stoked a fire in the flagstone hearth. It had been a long day for everyone, and it was good to be home at last.

Little of consequence was discussed over dinner, but once Susan cleared the table and Carlos put the plates in the sink, the four of them retired to the hearth. With drinks in hand and the dogs curled up between them, the topic of conversation turned to what had been discussed at the meeting. As usual, Susan was sworn to secrecy, something she'd understood ever since she was old enough to know that most of the things she heard in her living room weren't meant for public knowledge.

"This is beyond me." Wendy pulled a shagswool comforter around herself as she gazed into the fire. "I mean, I understand the concept of wormholes and all that, but the idea that we can create them . . ." She shook her head. "It doesn't seem possible."

"Oh, it's possible, all right." Henry finished loading his clingberry pipe with cloverweed and lit the bowl with a twig from the fireplace. "We understood the basic principles a long time ago. Only thing we didn't know was how to do it at will. Now it sounds like they've got that part licked."

"Let me get this straight." Carlos stood up to crack open a window. He normally didn't allow smoking in his house, but for Henry he made an exception. "You've got two starbridges . . . one in Lagrange orbit between Earth and the Moon . . ."

"Uh-huh." Henry puffed on his pipe as he idly scratched Zack behind the ears. "That one's already been built. Or should be, by now."

"And the other one . . . the one that hasn't been built yet . . . would be in trojan orbit between here and Bear."

"That's correct. Two entrances at either end of a tunnel . . . or a bridge, if you want to think of it that way. Only in this case, one port can't function without the other, because if you tried to enter the tunnel without having an exit on the other side, you'd just fall into a singularity and be crushed to nothingness."

"So that's what they've brought here," Wendy said. "The materials they need to build a second starbridge. The first gate is already . . . should already . . . be in place, and the second one . . ."

"The components are aboard the Columbus, right." Henry removed the pipe from his mouth, absently studied the embers of the bowl. "A rather elegant feat of engineering, really. Instead of the vanes used by Union ships, Columbus's diametric drive was built as a torus. So all they have to do is dismantle the ship, then reassemble it in trojan orbit as the starbridge and its gatehouse. Saves on time and material."

"That's what Captain Tereshkova wants to show us," Carlos said. "She's invited Wendy and me to ride back on the Isabella tomorrow morning, so she can let us see the Columbus firsthand."

"Wish I could come along, but I don't think I could handle it." Henry winced and shook his head. "Damn, I hate getting old. Anyway, once they've rebuilt the diametric drive as the focusing ring, all they'd have to do is activate the swiftgate. They can do that easily enough by reversing the drive's polarity to open a quantum singularity in Bear's gravity well, then thread the aperture with negative energy so that they create a stable wormhole. After that, it's mainly a matter of expanding it to a usable size. They can do that by—"

"Sure. Got that part." In truth, it was over his head, and Carlos was too tired to listen to another lecture in quantum physics. "Let's assume that it works," he said, leaning against the mantle. "Starbridges between here and Earth. Instead of forty-nine years, it just takes a few seconds for a ship to get from here to there."

"Or from there to here," Wendy murmured.

"Right." Susan nodded in agreement with what her mother had just said. "It's not so bad when Earth is forty-six light-years away. But when it's only a few hundred thousand miles . . ."

"Not even that far," Henry said. "Look, let's say we've got a couple of starbridges right here in this house. One here, in front of the fireplace, and the other . . . oh, say, over by the kitchen." He pointed to the next room. "That's about twelve feet, right? But if I walked through the one here, I'd instantly come out through the starbridge over there. You could even look through the wormhole and see me standing in the kitchen. The distance between here and there would simply cease to exist."

"Uh-huh." Susan looked at the others. "Am I the only one here who thinks this might be a bad idea? Do we really want to have a fleet of starships coming through the swiftgate and parking themselves on our front doorstep?"

No one said anything. Carlos found himself gazing at the boid skull that hung from the wall above the fireplace. As a young man, he'd killed that boid while making a solo journey down the Great Equatorial River. Susan hadn't yet been born, but just as his hegira had been the pivotal moment of his life, her earliest memories were those of the years when the Alabama colonists had lived in a tree house village, her father gone for long periods of time to wage a guerilla war against the Union. She was almost thirty-one now, but her life had been shaped by the revolution. She knew nothing of Earth except distrust for anyone who came from there.

"No one wants to have the Union on our backs again," he said quietly. "Believe me, I'm the last guy to want to fight another war. But if this technology exists, sooner or later someone's going to use it. At least now, we have a choice . . . do we control it, or do we let it control us?"

Susan stared at him. "I don't know what you're—"

"Hush, dear. Listen to your father." Henry exhaled pale blue smoke. "Go on, son."

"What I'm trying to say is, we've got a chance to turn this to our advantage." Carlos moved away from the mantle, took a seat next to Susan. "Look, what's one of the biggest problems we have now? Or, to put it another way, what's the root cause of a lot of our problems?"

"Weardown," Susan said.

"Right. Everything we brought with us from Earth is wearing down. Comps, solar cells, engines, guns, even hand tools . . . they're getting used up. The last time anything new was brought here was almost seven years ago. That's by our calendar. Call it twenty-one by Gregorian reckoning . . ."

"And when they've worn out, we've replaced them."

"No. All we've done is make substitutes, or learned how to get along without. That's easy when you have to . . . oh, say, replace a axe-handle. But just yesterday I had to tell your Aunt Marie that we probably couldn't build more wind turbines because we didn't have any generators to spare. And you saw what happened in the conference room when we switched on the comp. I thought it was going to fry out on us."

"It's worse than that." Wendy leaned forward in her chair. "Kuniko told me yesterday that the clinic is running low on antibiotics. We had a good stockpile left when the Union left, but they're almost used up. In another year or so, we'll be down to using herbal medicines almost exclusively. I don't want to be the doctor who has to treat a case of ring disease with nothing more than ball plant extract and an ice pack."

"So what are you saying? We give up our independence just to get a lot of stuff?" Susan looked at Carlos askance. "Me good injun. Want lots of wampum from white man. Trade lousy island for some trinkets . . ."

"What've you been letting this kid read lately?" Henry leaned forward to knock out his pipe in the fireplace. "Haven't heard that since I was . . ."

"Got it from a history disk." Susan ignored him. "Papa, you know what I'm talking about. If we let them build a starbridge, then we'll have ships coming through by the hundreds, even thousands. They'll—"

"It's not quite as easy as that." Henry put the pipe back in his pocket. "The starbridges consume a lot of energy. It'll take a while for them to recharge between each passage. Not only that, but the wormhole is only so large. Even if we receive only a few ships every year or so . . ." He shrugged. "I don't think we'll see much more difference than when we received five Union ships in a two-year stretch."

"But each of those ships carried a thousand immigrants," Wendy said, "and none of them ready to be colonists. I don't want to go back to where we were when Shuttlefield was a squatter camp. That was horrible."

"So we negotiate with them. Reach some sort of agreement." Carlos reached for the bottle of wine. "Look, from what we've been told, the EA isn't the same as the Union. They're offering trade . . . raw material in exchange for advanced technology. Earth's resources have been used up, and they're reaching the limits of what they can get from the Moon and Mars. With the starbridges, it will actually be easier for them to transport material from Coyote than it is from within the solar system . . . their solar system, I mean. And in trade, we get—"

"All the things we need here," Susan said. "New comps, and drugs, and machines that haven't been worn out. All right, I get that part. But what if . . . ?"

The dogs heard the visitors before anyone else. One moment, Zack and Jake were quietly dozing next to the fireplace; the next, they scrambled to their feet, growling and barking as they rushed across the room. Carlos barely had time to turn around before there was a knock on the door.

"What in the world?" Wendy asked.

"I have no idea." Shushing the dogs, Carlos stood up, walked over to the front door and opened it. Within the pale glow of the fish-oil lamp, he saw Chris standing on the front porch. And just behind him, Anastasia Tereshkova.

"Good evening. What brings you out so late?" Then he glanced at Tereshkova. "No problems, I hope."

"I hope not," Chris said, "but Captain Tereshkova—"

Before he could go on, Tereshkova stepped forward. In the cool of the evening, she was wearing the wool poncho she'd been given as a gift by one of the merchants in town. Until now, her face had worn a constant smile, yet now her expression conveyed concern, even a trace of suspicion.

"Mr. President," she said, "one of my people is missing."

"I don't . . ." Taken off guard by her abrupt formality, Carlos shook his head. "Pardon me, Captain, but—"

"Jonathan Parson, my second officer. He was supposed to have dinner with us at the inn. When he didn't show up, we checked his room—"

"His stuff 's gone," Chris said, interrupting her. "I looked around after she called me, but it's like he wasn't even there. The blanket's missing, and so's some things from the bathroom. Soap, a towel, the toothbrush and razor the innkeeper gave him." He hesitated. "We thought he might have come over here."

"No, no." Carlos opened the door a little wider, holding back the dogs while letting everyone look inside. "Haven't seen him since late this afternoon." He turned his attention to Tereshkova. "You know, he might have only gone for a walk. Wanted to get some fresh air . . ."

"I thought that, too, but . . ." Tereshkova hesitated. "We looked around for him, and when we went back to the inn, we found that Dr. Whittaker had disappeared as well."

SHUTTLEFIELD / HAMALIEL 70 / 2013

Although more than an hour had passed since the sun went down, Jonas was surprised by how well he could see after dark. Bear had risen to the east, and he was astonished not only by how large it was— many times the size of the Moon back on Earth, like a child's balloon held at arm's length— but also by how much light it cast. Once his eyes became night-adapted, there was no need to carry a lamp.

More than a few times after he left the inn, Jonas paused to take in the strange beauty of Bear's rings, the soft blue pattern of its cloud bands. He told himself that he'd gone out to search for Parson, yet the fact of the matter was that he'd used it as an excuse to take a walk. The tour he'd been given this afternoon had been interesting, but more than a few times he'd wanted to get away from everyone, to see this place without having the president or his wife explaining everything to him. In hindsight, he realized that he should have left a note, or at least told someone at the inn where he was going. Yet the temptation to explore alone was too great. He'd crossed forty-six light-years to reach this world; he was entitled to a little time by himself.

His steps had taken him from the Liberty town center down the gravel road leading to Shuttlefield. He was about halfway between the two settlements, surrounded by low marshland cultivated with tall stalks of bamboo, when he was startled by a high-pitched shriek, carried to him from the distance by the cool evening breeze. It sounded like an animal being slaughtered, and when he heard it he felt an atavistic chill. That would be a boid, one of the giant, flightless avians that killed Jorge and Rita Montero only a couple of days after they'd reached Coyote, and later killed Jim Levin during an ill-advised hunting expedition. Carlos had told him that the creatures seldom ventured close to the colonies anymore— they'd apparently learned to keep their distance from human habitats— but nonetheless Jonas quickened his pace, and didn't relax again until he'd reached the warm lights of Shuttlefield.

A few residents were out and about, strolling the dirt streets that meandered between wood-frame cottages, yet no one paid much attention to him. A craftsman in Liberty had gifted him with a shagswool poncho; wearing it over his jumpsuit, Jonas figured that he passed for a local. Enjoying the anonymity, he smiled to himself. In time, perhaps he'd have a little house somewhere on this or that street, perhaps with a small garden out back. Maybe a job teaching physics at the university. Caroline would like this, and Ellen could . . .

No. His wife and daughter were forever lost to him; he had to remember this. They would never see this world, never enjoy the wonder of watching a ringed planet as it rose above bamboo fields on a cool midsummer night.

God, forgive me, he thought. I never intended to trade my life for theirs.

Alone in his melancholy, he found himself approaching the landing field where the Isabella had touched down. The skiff was no longer surrounded by curious townspeople, yet he was surprised to see light glowing within its cockpit. Intrigued, he walked closer, and now he saw that the ramp had been lowered from the ship's belly. He was certain that Parson had shut it after they'd left.

"Hello?" he called out. "Is anyone there?"

For an instant, he thought he spotted movement inside the cockpit. Then the lights winked out, and now he became wary. Someone had managed to enter the Isabella. A looter, perhaps, searching for whatever he or she could steal. Jonas remembered the firearms stowed away in the locker, along with the emergency supplies: spare clothes, rations, flashlights, even a small tent. If there was a black market here, they'd probably fetch a high price.

He shouldn't have gone out by himself. He should have found a Proctor, brought him along. Yet there was no one in sight, and even if he ran back to the nearest house, who would he ask for help? And if Captain Tereshkova found that he'd allowed a thief to escape . . .

"Who's there?" he shouted, his legs shaking as he inched closer to the ramp. "You're not supposed to be there. I'll . . ."

Footfalls from the open hatch, then a figure appeared within the shadows. "Dr. Whittaker? Is that you?"

Parson. Jonas let out his breath. "Damn it, man, don't do that to me. I thought someone was breaking in."

A wry laugh, then the heavy clunk of boots descending the ladder. "Right you are. Only difference is, I used the remote to get in."

As Parson came down the ramp, Jonas saw that he carried a backpack in his right hand, and slung over his left shoulder was a carbine. A wool poncho covered his EA jumpsuit, and he wore the wide-brimmed catskin hat he'd bartered from a shopkeeper. Indeed, Jonas had been embarrassed by how much wheeling-and-dealing the second officer had done during the tour; it was as if he'd used his notoriety to bargain as many items as he could away from the locals.

"Had to come back here to pinch a few items," Parson said, as if this explained everything. "I'm sure no one will mind. Well, perhaps they will, but . . ."

"What are you talking about?" Jonas stared at him. "You know the captain's been looking for you? She even went to find the police."

"Proctors, you mean. Did she really?" Parson set down his pack, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small unit. A soft beep as he pressed it, then the ramp began to rise, folding itself against the underside of the hull. "Better hurry then. If you found me, then it's only a matter of time before they do, too."

"What are you doing?" Jonas couldn't believe he was hearing this. "You're not . . . you don't mean you're . . . ?"

"A fine old naval tradition." Parson handed the remote to him. "Sailor reaches paradise, decides he likes the scenery, so he grabs whatever he can and jumps ship. Worked for Mr. Christian when he reached Fiji, so why not for me?"

He pulled the carbine off his shoulder. For a second Jonas thought he was going to level it at him, but instead Parson laid it down on the ground, then picked up the pack and pulled it across his shoulders. "Once I'm gone, I'm sure you'll run off to find the captain, tell her what you know. However, I'd appreciate it if you took your time. Give me a few minutes head start. As it stands, I figure I've only got a fifty-fifty chance of getting away."

Jonas hesitated. "I'll walk instead of run if you'll tell me why."

"I just did." Then he chuckled. "All right then. Truth of the matter is that I've planned to do this all along. Even before we left Earth . . . hell, even before I enlisted. I've put a lot of thought into this, and now's my best shot. If I delay longer, there's going to be more of our people on the ground, and once that happens they might be able to stop me. But for now it's just you and the captain, so—"

"That's not what I'm asking."

Parson was bending down to pick up the rifle. He sighed, then straightened up again. "All right, I'll tell you. For as long as I've been alive, I've wanted to find a place I could call my own. I don't mean a house in the country, nothing like that . . . I mean true wilderness, a place where no one has ever been. But that sort of place doesn't exist anymore, at least not where we came from. But here . . ."

He stopped, gazed off into the night. "It's all out there, Whittaker. A whole world for the taking. All I have to do is go walkabout, as they say, and sooner or later I'll find it."

"You're . . ." Jonas shook his head. "Man, you're out of your mind. There's no way you can survive out there on your own."

"Umm . . . yes, well . . ." Parson bent down again, picked up the carbine. "If I was truly mad, you know, I'd shoot you where you stand." Jonas involuntarily took a step back, but Parson laughed again. "Oh, no, don't worry. I've got nothing against you . . . at least, nothing personal. But once those starbridges you devised are built, it's only a matter of time before this place is swarming with people. So if I'm going to find my own private Fiji, the sooner I get started, the better. Before the cruise ships and real estate developers start moving in."

Parson pulled the rifle across his shoulder, then took a little hop to settle the weight of the pack upon his back. "Best be off now. Give the captain my best regards. No offense, but I resign my commission."

And then, without so much as a farewell, Jonathan Parson turned and strode off into the night. He walked fast, but he didn't run, and although he headed in the general direction of Shuttlefield, Jonas had little doubt that this wasn't his destination.

"Good luck," he said softly. "I envy you."

The same words Dr. Kendrick had said to him, all those many years ago. Now he knew what she'd meant by that.

EAS ISABELLA / HAMALIEL 71 / 1449

"Mr. President? We're on final approach."

Carlos reluctantly turned his attention away from the starboard side window. It had been many years since he had last seen Coyote from space; indeed, the only time he'd been above the atmosphere was when he was still only a boy, riding down to the new world with his parents and sister aboard the Plymouth. Although he'd seen countless high-resolution satellite photos of the planet's surface, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to look down upon his home from three hundred nautical miles.

"Thank you, Captain." He paused, then added, "You know, I really wish you'd call me Carlos."

"Of course. My apologies." Yet Tereshkova didn't smile as she said this, nor did she look away from the controls. Perhaps she was preoccupied with flying the skiff— with the mysterious disappearance of her second officer, she'd been forced to pilot the craft herself— but nonetheless her attitude toward him had become colder since the events of last night.

He glanced back at Wendy, strapped into the passenger seat behind Tereshkova. She caught his eye, quietly shook her head; no words were exchanged, yet she knew what he meant. Although it wasn't their fault, the fact remained that Parson had vanished while he'd been their guest, and for this Tereshkova held them responsible.

The skiff shuddered slightly as Tereshkova fired maneuvering rockets; Carlos looked back in time to see the limb of the planet swing away as the skiff rolled to port. His stomach clutched at him, and once again he was sincerely glad that he'd taken his wife's advice not to eat breakfast this morning. But once the stars stopped moving, he saw a single enormous object among them.

"Is that it?" An unnecessary question, yet he blurted it out without thinking.

"Yes, it is." A tinge of pride in Tereshkova's voice, and the smile that briefly crossed her face held no hint of patronization. "Perhaps not as large as the Alabama, of course, but . . ."

"She's a beauty." And, indeed, from a little more than a mile away, the Columbus was awesome to behold. Over 400 feet in length, it was a long, narrow cylinder, segmented here and there by various modules, gradually tapering back to the fusion engine at its stern. Just behind the drum-like crew module at its bow was the giant ring of its diametric drive, a wheel-shaped torus 130 feet in diameter, joined to the axis by three spokes. As Tereshkova said, the ship was smaller than the Alabama, yet its design was far more elegant; Carlos couldn't help but gaze at it in wonder.

Tereshkova tapped her headset mike with her right hand, murmured something in Russian. She waited a few moments, then entered commands into the keypad between her and Carlos. A double-beep from the comp; she released the yoke, and simultaneously the Isabella made a slight yaw to starboard, aligning itself with the open claws of the docking cradle just aft of the drive ring.

"There. We're on autopilot now. The ship will guide us the rest of the way in." She paused, then added, "I've told Jonathan that he could just as well let the comp handle this, but he always insisted on flying it himself. I suppose I'm not the pilot he was."

Cool silence descended upon the cockpit; no one knew quite how to answer this remark. "I'm sure he'll turn up eventually," Carlos said at last. "Chris has his people making inquiries, and they're also searching outside town. If he's around—"

"Yes, of course." Tereshkova softened a bit. "I'm certain they'll do their best. But still—"

"But still," Wendy interjected, "you said yourself that he appears to have left on his own free will. The survival gear is missing. The main hatch was shut, and you found the remote on the ground. So if he came back here, he must have done it to pick up some things before—"

"Are you suggesting that my second officer deserted?" Tereshkova tilted her head back slightly, almost as if she was challenging Wendy. "I find that difficult to—"

"A fine old naval tradition." It was the first time that Jonas Whittaker had spoken since they'd left the ground. Until now, he'd been oddly quiet, saying nothing to anyone.

"Sorry, Dr. Whittaker." Carlos turned around in his seat to gaze back at him. "I didn't quite catch that."

"Nothing. Just a passing thought." Whittaker continued to gaze out the window. "The stars really are lovely, don't you think? So strange, though . . . no constellations I can recognize."

"We're a long way from Earth," Wendy said. "The sky looks different out here."

"Yeah . . ." Whittaker laughed quietly. "You're right. Everything's different now, I think."

Carlos regarded the physicist for another moment, wondering what he knew that the others didn't. Then he turned back around, watched as the Columbus filled the windows.

"You're right," he said softly. "I think everything's about to be different."