Book 6

Coyote's Stepchildren

A patriot must be ready to defend his country against his government.

— EDWARD ABBEY,

A Voice Crying in the Wilderness

Part 5

EMISSARY TO EARTH

(from the memoirs of Wendy Gunther)

Winter was upon the world, the morning we left for Earth. Although it was the sixth week of Hanael, late autumn by the LeMarean calendar, a light snow had fallen on Liberty the night before. No more than half an inch, but nonetheless a sign that the season was changing. Little did we know that the weather wasn't the only thing that would soon be different.

The sky was overcast, and a cold wind from the north clutched at my cape as I shut the front door of my house. As Carlos and Chris waited for me in the shag-wagon that would carry us to Shuttlefield, I paused to look back at home for what seemed to be the last time. The three of us had only been teenagers when our parents had brought us to Coyote; now we were a middle-aged couple and a family friend, although by Gregorian reckoning we were nearly three hundred years old. Very soon, we'd be back on the planet of our birth; I knew that we'd eventually return to Coyote, but at that moment it didn't seem that way. I remembered that I'd left Carlos's and my bed unmade, and for an instant I had an impulse to go back inside and tidy up a bit so that Susan wouldn't be stuck with that chore, yet I knew that I was just looking for an excuse to delay our departure a little while longer. The ship was ready to leave, and it wouldn't do to keep Captain Tereshkova waiting for very much longer.

So I tried not to let Carlos see the tears in my eyes as I loaded my bags into the back of the wagon, then I climbed aboard and silently took his hand. Chris shook the reins and clucked his tongue, and the wheels creaked softly as the shag lurched forward. Ironic. We'd left Earth aboard a starship; our journey back would begin with a wagon ride.

The Isabella rested on the landing field just outside Shuttlefield, a gull-winged spacecraft smaller than the shuttles that had carried us down from the Alabama all those many years ago. Cold hydrogen fumes drifted down from its engine vents and drifted around the legs of its landing gear. There were several dozen people waiting for us: friends, family members, members of the Colonial Council, along with curious townspeople who'd come out to watch us leave. Carlos had tried to keep our departure as low-profile as possible, but there was no denying the fact that this was a historic event.

Still, we kept the formalities to a minimum. Carlos took a minute to shake hands with Frederic LaRoux; as soon as we left the ground, he'd assume the position of President Pro Temp, and lead the council until our return. Chris did the same with Juanita Morales, who'd serve as Chief Proctor during his absence. I didn't have any official duties that needed to be filled, but Kuniko Okada gave me a hug, told me that she'd try to care of my patients; that was worth a laugh, since she'd taught me everything that I knew about being a doctor.

And then there was Barry Dreyfus and his partner Will, and Chris's mother Sissy and her second husband Ben, and Bernie and Vonda Cayle. Dana Monroe had come in from Leeport; she'd been the Alabama's chief engineer, and after that, Captain Lee's partner, so her unexpected presence added a certain gravitas to the occasion. My sister-in-law Marie had brought her children Rain and Hawk all the way from Clarksburg; notable in his absence was her husband Lars, who'd apparently decided to remain in Great Dakota. We spoke nothing of this, though; Lars was not a favorite member of the family.

Susan was there, too. Once again, I found myself surprised by just how quickly my little girl had grown up. Coyote's long years had that effect on those of us who'd been born on Earth; although you eventually became used to the fact that a single summer lasted nine months by the Gregorian calendar, it was more difficult to accept that a child could age three years between one winter and the next. I tried not to start crying again as we gave each other a hug, and although she and her father hadn't been on good terms lately, they managed to put aside their differences long enough for a final embrace.

By then, Captain Tereshkova was becoming impatient. We had a narrow launch window to meet if we wanted to rendezvous with the starbridge without burning more fuel than necessary. Our luggage had already been loaded aboard the skiff; looking up at the forward windows, I could see Gabriel Pacino seated in the cockpit, preparing the Isabella for liftoff. So I nudged Carlos's elbow, and he finished his conversation with Tomas Conseco, his chief of staff: pretty much politics-as-usual, nothing that he and Fred couldn't handle while we were away. A last round of good-byes and good-lucks, and then Carlos, Chris, and I walked up the ramp.

The skiff's cabin was small, just large enough to seat the five of us. My hands trembled as I fastened the seat harness around me, and I had to take a deep breath as Pacino powered up the engines. Through the starboard porthole, I could see townspeople backing away from the Isabella. I caught one last glimpse of Susan, standing next to Marie and her kids. They'd raised their hands to wave farewell, and I was about to do the same when there was a dull roar, and suddenly the craft rose from the ground.

Liftoff was rougher than I expected. Pacino was a good pilot, and after a minute or so the turbulence eased off, once we got above the clouds. I thought I was accustomed to spaceflight, but as soon as the Isabella cleared the atmosphere the bottom fell out of my stomach. Fortunately, Carlos saw it coming; he had a paper bag ready for me, and into it went the hearty breakfast I'd unwisely eaten earlier that morning. Yet my husband didn't get sick, and when I looked over at Chris, he was calmly gazing out the porthole. So much for experience.

My guts finally settled down, though, and after a few minutes I was able to raise my head and peer out the window. We weren't on a low-orbit trajectory, but instead were headed for the recently completed starbridge, established in trojan orbit between Coyote and Bear. So it wasn't Coyote that I saw through the cockpit windows, but Bear itself. Carlos, Chris, or I hadn't seen 47 Ursae Majoris-B from this perspective since we'd been aboard the Alabama; we watched in silence as the gas-giant slowly grew in size, its blue cloud-bands and silver rings taking on hues that couldn't be seen from the ground.

It took ten hours to reach the starbridge. Long enough to take a nap, review my notes, chat with the others, even feel a little hungry even though I decided not to put any more food in my stomach. The cabin was cramped, so we didn't unfasten our straps unless it was absolutely necessary, and then only to visit the head. Carlos and I were discussing the terms of the trade proposal when Gabriel announced that we were on primary approach.

Starbridge Coyote consisted of two independent components, both cannibalized from what had once been the EASS Columbus. The ship's primary hull was now Station B, otherwise known as the Gatehouse: a long, spindle-shaped structure, over four hundred feet long, which used to be the starship's payload and service modules and now served as a command platform. It was positioned about twenty miles from Station A, which was the starbridge itself: a thick ring resembling a bicycle tire a hundred and thirty feet in diameter, reassembled from sections of the torus that had once contained Columbus's diametric drive.

I don't understand the physics of hyperspace travel, so I won't try to explain how it worked, lest to say that the starbridge created a temporary wormhole between 47 Ursae Majoris-B and Earth by locating and isolating a point of singularity within the quantum foam of Bear's gravity well, then enlarging it to form the hole's mouth. When another starbridge near Earth did the same thing at the same time, a tunnel through hyperspace was created. Eureka: faster-than-light travel.

Jonas Whittaker, the physicist who'd invented the starbridge, was aboard the Gatehouse; he'd flown up last week to oversee its final test phase, which included opening it just long enough to launch a probe into hyperspace. The probe successfully traversed the wormhole; seconds after disappearing from our side of the junction, it beamed back a radio signal, indicating its safe arrival in cislunar space near the Moon. Two days later, the test was repeated, this time with an identical probe launched from Starbridge Earth; once again, it arrived intact. And during each test, brief radio messages had been exchanged; for the first time since humankind arrived in the 47 Ursae Majoris system, people on Earth directly heard from those who'd settled Coyote.

So we didn't need a massive starship to reach Earth; our little skiff was sufficient to make the journey. Nonetheless, it was pretty tense aboard the Isabella as it assumed a parking orbit five miles from the starbridge. Through the cockpit windows, we could see it as a small silver ring among the stars, its navigation beacons flashing red and blue. A brief exchange between Ana and the Gatehouse team, then Gabriel entered commands into the comp that slaved the skiff's onboard guidance systems to the Gatehouse AI. A final rundown of the prelaunch checklist, then we commenced final countdown for what was being called "hyperspace insertion maneuver."

It took fifteen minutes for the starbridge to power up. At T-minus two minutes, Ana looked back at us to make sure we'd securely fastened our harnesses; she also warned us not to look directly at the starbridge as we went through. At T-minus one minute, the Gatehouse informed the Isabella that they'd received telemetry from Starbridge Earth, confirming that the starbridge on the other side of the wormhole had been successfully activated. At T-minus forty-five seconds, the Isabella fired its aft thrusters and began moving toward the ring. And at T-minus thirty seconds, I took Carlos's hand in mine and silently began to pray.

I forgot to look away, so the flash nearly blinded me: starlight from the other side of the galaxy, defocused as it entered the mouth of the wormhole, came out on our side like a silent nuclear blast. Dazzled, I yelped as I whipped my left hand in front of my face; even with my eyes tightly shut, my retinas retained a black-on-white negative afterimage of the flash.

By then, though, that was the least of my worries. Everything around me shook violently, and then the craft turned upside down, spiraling around its axial center as if caught in a maelstrom. An invisible hand pushed me back against my seat. Intellectually, I knew what was happening— the Isabella had passed the wormhole's event horizon and now was plummeting headlong through the hyperspace tunnel created by the two starbridges— yet in the deepest, most atavistic corner of my little monkey-mind, I knew that I was about to die.

I may have screamed. I can't remember. All I knew was that I hoped death would come quickly, so that I wouldn't suffer much.

Then there was another hard lurch, and suddenly I was pitched forward against the shoulder straps, hard enough to knock the wind from my lungs. Gasping for air, I forced myself to breathe. For a few seconds, everything continued to swirl, then I felt a few quick jolts as the skiff's maneuvering thrusters automatically fired to stabilize our trajectory, and gradually everything began to settle down.

Opening my eyes, I took stock of the situation. Carlos had fainted; his hand still loosely held my own, yet his head lolled back against his seat, and saliva floated upward from his agape mouth. On the other side of the aisle, Chris clenched his mouth as he fumbled for the relief bag beneath his seat; he barely got it to his face before he vomited. Pacino's hands were unsteady as he reached forward to grasp the control yoke; Tereshkova's dark hair was sweat-matted against her forehead and the nape of her neck, yet she managed to touch the wand of her headset and murmur something in Russian.

Through the cockpit windows, I saw stars amid the darkness of space. They didn't seem any different from those I'd seen only a few seconds earlier; indeed, for a moment I wondered if the attempt had somehow failed, and we'd returned to where we had started. But then I turned my eyes toward the porthole next to my seat, and caught sight of something I hadn't seen since I was fourteen years old . . .

Earth.

A marble in the cosmos, a couple hundred thousand miles away: one-third covered by darkness, the rest bathed by the sun. Blue oceans, green continents, white polar icecaps, with everything masked here and there by thin clouds. A world so familiar, and yet so alien.

We'd made it. We'd left home, only to come . . . home.

Nearly as soon as Jonas Whittaker told us that it was possible to reach Earth via hyperspace, we'd begun to make preparations for this trip. True, there were quite a few who were reluctant to have anything to do with our home world; the United Republic of America may have long since collapsed, but the memory of the Union occupation was still fresh for everyone older than seven Coyote years, and some believed that nothing good could come of ending our isolation. During the course of public hearings before the Colonial Council, though, it became clear that this was a minority opinion; a large majority believed that the benefits of resuming contact with Earth outweighed the potential risks.

They had a point. Much of the high-tech equipment left behind by the Union was getting old; weardown had become a common problem as comps failed, machines broke down, and precision tools suffered metal fatigue. We'd learned how to get by through swapping parts or fashioning crude substitutes, but every incident in which a gyro failed to take off or a memory cell crashed was a bitter reminder that even frontier ingenuity had its limits. It wasn't hard to foresee a time, only a generation or two in the future, when our grandchildren and great-grandchildren would be struggling along with bone knives and pieces of flint, while the devices once used by their ancestors rusted away in farm fields.

So while engineers and technicians aboard the Columbus began building the starbridge, an executive committee convened to discuss the means by which the Coyote Federation could establish peaceful relations with the governments of Earth. In the end, a draft set of protocols was decided upon, and the members of a diplomatic envoy were selected to undertake the first voyage to Earth.

To no one's surprise, Carlos was tapped to lead the mission. As president, it was only natural that he should represent the colonies; because he'd also once been an explorer, he had the advantage of being able to describe the new world from the perspective of someone who'd seen it as few others had. It took a bit more debate, though, before he managed to convince the committee that I should join him. Several members suspected Carlos was indulging in nepotism by wanting to bring along his wife; they preferred to send a Council member instead. However, Carlos argued that since I myself had once belonged to the Council, I'd be able to represent its interests. And besides, Jonas had warned us that the first flight would doubtless be rough. While most of the Council members were either too old or too inexperienced, both Carlos and I were veterans of the original Alabama party, yet still young enough to endure a hyperspace jaunt.

It took a lot more persuasion before the committee decided that Chris Levin should be the third person on our team. Nearly every member wanted to be part of the mission, but what we needed more than another politician was a good right-hand man. Although Ana Tereshkova assured Carlos and me that the European Alliance would treat us as honored guests, we weren't ready to take her word at face value. So while Chris was officially our aide, the fact of the matter was that he was really our bodyguard. He and Carlos may have once had their differences, with me being the girl in the middle, but that was a long time ago; since then, he'd become a trusted friend, and I was glad to have him watching our backs.

So there were the three of us, sitting in the passenger seats of the Isabella, quietly watching as Pacino maneuvered the skiff away from the starbridge. Starbridge Earth was positioned at L4, a Lagrange point in a halo orbit near the Moon, about a quarter of a million miles from Earth. Not far away, we could see a small cruciform-shaped space station; at first I thought we were headed for the Gatehouse, but when Ana finished her conversation on the comlink, she said something in Russian to Gabriel. He gave her a questioning look, then shrugged and began entering coordinates into the keyboard.

"We've been instructed to proceed to Highgate," she said, turning to us and speaking in English. "That's the station at L1, in high orbit above the Moon."

"I've heard of it." Carlos raised an eyebrow. "But isn't it controlled by the Union?"

"It was when we left. Apparently it's come under international control since then." She glanced at Gabriel. "I'm not sure what the situation is, but the person with whom I spoke is an Alliance officer, and he insists that we rendezvous with Highgate. A ship will meet us halfway and escort us in."

"If he insists . . ." Gabriel finished punching in the new coordinates, then engaged the autopilot. The aft and starboard thrusters fired; Earth glided away from our windows, and we found ourselves pointed in the direction of the Moon. "I would've thought that we'd head straight for Earth and dock with the New Guinea space elevator instead."

"I asked about that." Ana paused. "I was told that it no longer exists."

Gabriel's eyes widened. "For God's sake, what happened?"

"No idea. It wasn't explained to me." Ana looked back at us again. "It seems that much has changed since we were last here."

Carlos nodded silently, and Chris shifted uneasily in his seat. Nearly three centuries had passed since the three of us had left Earth, yet it'd been almost fifty years since Columbus's departure. I knew that the EA had built a beanstalk in New Guinea, just as the WHU had erected one of its own in Ecuador; if the New Guinea space elevator was gone, then that left only the one operated by the Union . . . and there was no way an Alliance ship was going to dock there.

Ana turned away from us again, her expression pensive as she gazed through the cockpit windows. I'd never warmed to her very much, although she and Carlos had become friends during their trip together to Barren Isle the previous month. To be truthful, it was probably because my husband had established a relationship with a younger woman— however cordial it might be— that I instinctively distrusted her. Long-married couples are apt to suspect one another of having affairs, but Carlos and I had crossed that point many years before. All the same, though, something had happened during the week they'd spent together that my husband still wouldn't tell me about. Maybe he hadn't slept with Ana— and Barry, who'd also been on the boat with them, had positively sworn that he had not— yet nonetheless . . .

Even so, I couldn't help but feel a certain sympathy for Captain Tereshkova. When she'd left home, everything had been a certain way; deep in her heart, she'd probably believed that the world would remain unchanged upon her return. I'd received that same sort of shock when the Glorious Destiny had arrived at Coyote; now it was her turn to find out otherwise.

Yet she wouldn't be alone. Many more surprises awaited us.

It was a long ride to Highgate. Once again, I tried to kill time by taking a nap, even though I wasn't tired at all; I just shut my eyes for a while and tried to ignore my sense of unease. At some point, I must have actually dozed off; when I woke up, I looked out the window and saw a small, cylindrical vehicle keeping pace with the Isabella off our starboard side. About half the size of the skiff, the tricolor flag of the European Alliance painted on its forward hull, it looked somewhat like a spark plug; harmless, until I noticed the missile rack protruding from its starboard side. An armed spacecraft: not the most comforting introduction to the twenty-fourth century.

But it was Highgate itself that threw everyone for a loop. I'd seen pictures of the original station, from the datafiches brought to Coyote by the Columbus. It had been impressive then, yet sometime during the last half century it'd been replaced by something far larger. Almost three miles in diameter, it vaguely resembled an enormous fan, with a saucer-shaped hub and three giant spheres at the ends of long booms that telescoped out from the hub at equilateral distances. Two drum-shaped modules rose from the top and bottom halves of the hub; the spheres were opaque, but light gleamed from hundreds of portholes within the hub and cylinders. Along the curved sides of the spheres were vast hatches; as the skiff drew closer, I peered inside one, and caught a glimpse of a streamlined spacecraft floating within a skeletal dry dock.

Many years ago, when I'd accompanied Captain Lee to the Glorious Destiny after it had arrived at Coyote, I'd been stunned by the sight of a vessel that dwarfed the Alabama. Yet Highgate made even Union starships seem like toys by comparison. Back home, people considered the Garcia Narrows Bridge a major feat of engineering, yet even James Alonzo Garcia would have been awestruck by the size of this thing.

I wasn't the only one who was amazed. Gabriel could barely keep his attention on the controls, and Ana was so shocked that she had to ask the traffic controller twice where the Isabella was supposed to dock. As it turned out, Alpha Dock was the same sphere where I'd seen the ship during our first flyby. Red and blue beacons flashed on either side of a small-craft hatch, and the escort craft peeled away as we slowly entered the sphere. A tethered figure in a hardsuit waved luminescent batons above his head as he guided us toward a small docking cradle; Pacino brought the Isabella to a halt, and there was a sudden thump as the cradle closed around the skiff.

Ana slowly let out her breath, then cupped a hand around her headset and listened intently. "We're to disembark through the top hatch," she said after a moment. "A gangway is being extended." Then she frowned as she listened further. "I don't believe this," she murmured. "We're going to be put in quarantine until we pass sterilization procedures."

I couldn't help but smile. "Nothing new here. I had to put up with much the same when I went aboard the Destiny." Gabriel gave me a dark look, and I shrugged. "Can't blame 'em for being careful. They don't know what sort of cooties we might be carrying."

"Cooties?"

"Extraterrestrial microorganisms." Carlos grinned. "My wife has a fine grasp of scientific terminology." He gazed out the portside window at the giant spacecraft docked nearby, whistled under his breath. "Will you get a load of that thing?"

I leaned over to gaze past him and Chris. The ship was nearly six hundred feet long: shaped somewhat like a pumpkin seed, its sleek hull gradually expanded back from its narrow bow to where a pair of nacelles on its flanks contained what appeared to be diametric-drive engines. Aft of the nacelles were blunt wings, with vertical stabilizers above and below the wingtips; on the topside of the hull between the wings was what appeared to be a shuttle bay, its hatch doors yawning wide open. At the front of the ship, rising from the upper fuselage just above the bow, was a small bulge that I assumed to be the bridge.

The ship was obviously capable of making atmospheric entry— that alone was a radical departure from every other large space vessel I'd ever seen before— yet its graceful lines weren't the only thing I noticed. Just forward of the starboard engine nacelle, I spotted a pair of horizontal hatches, recessed slightly into the hull. They were in the wrong place for landing gear, and the wrong shape for gangway doors. It took me a moment to recognize them for what they were . . .

Torpedo tubes.

Maybe they housed energy weapons instead, like particle-beam guns. I couldn't tell for sure, but nonetheless this was an armed ship. The fact that the vessel bore the insignia of the European Alliance upon its aft hull didn't assuage my feelings. Until now, every starship I'd ever seen had been unarmed. This one was, though, and that sent a chill down my back. Why would anyone want to put weapons aboard a . . . ?

There was another abrupt jolt, this time from the top of the Isabella. The gangway had been moved into position. Ana listened for another second to her headset, then pulled it off. "We're free to disembark," she said, unclasping her harness. "Bring your belongings . . . no one's coming aboard until the skiff's been thoroughly decontaminated."

"They'll probably open the hatches after we're gone," Gabriel muttered as he shut down all systems. "Void the entire ship, just to make sure." Unexpectedly, he fondly patted the yoke. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's hauled away to a museum . . . or maybe to the junkyard."

"Why do you say that?" Chris asked.

He glanced over his shoulder at him, then cocked his head toward the nearby ship. "Take a look at that thing. You really think the Isabella isn't obsolete?" He sighed as he unfastened his harness. "I'll be lucky if my next job is piloting a tugboat."

The next couple of hours were humiliating.

We were met at the end of the gangway by two men in isolation suits, who silently led us down a sealed-off corridor to a windowless room that had no furniture, only several cardboard bins stacked along a wall. By now we'd entered that part of the station that had artificial gravity, thanks to a localized Millis-Clement field. Our escorts gave us each a pair of dark glasses, then they left, shutting the door behind them.

A few minutes later, a voice from a speaker grill instructed us— in both Anglo and English— to put our bags in the bins, then undress completely and place our clothes on top of them. This was an uncomfortable moment. Carlos, Chris, and I had seen one another naked before, of course— although it had been quite a long while since the last time I'd seen Chris in the buff— and I had a sense that Ana and Gabriel weren't unaccustomed to each other's bodies. Nudity is a cultural taboo that's hard to break, though, and there was no telling how many other eyes might be observing us through hidden cameras. But we stripped, carefully keeping our backs to one another, and once we put our clothes in the bins with our baggage, the guys in the white suits came back in to take them away.

The voice instructed us to put on our dark glasses, then extend our arms and stand still with our legs apart. Panels within the ceiling and floor slid open, and for the next couple of minutes we were subjected to ultraviolet radiation, designed to kill any cooties we may have carried with us from Coyote. Can't blame anyone for being careful, although I could have done without having deeper shade added to my tan.

Once this was over, our escorts came back, this time to give each of us a robe and a pair of slippers. We were taken farther down the corridor to a row of examination rooms, where for the next hour or so physicians in isolation suits worked each of us over. My doctor, a humorless young woman about Susan's age, submitted me to a complete physical; I was poked and prodded and scanned, asked a long series of questions, forced to submit blood and urine samples, and finally given a purple liquid to drink that soon gave me a reason to make a frantic dash to the adjacent toilet.

After she was done, I was taken to yet another room— a little more comfortable than the first; at least this one had chairs— where the others were already waiting for me. We were left alone for awhile. I was beginning to regret leaving the bed unmade this morning— if I'd stayed home, I'd probably be asleep by now— when the door opened once more and our doctors reappeared, no longer dressed in isolation gear. As politely as they could, they administered injections to each of us, then attached adhesive drug patches to our biceps.

They'd just finished when a new person appeared, a thin gent with a chin beard that had begun to go grey and the kindly expression of someone who commiserated with all the indignities we'd suffered. He ducked his head and shoulders in a respectful bow, an oddly Asian gesture for a European, then introduced himself as Angelo Margulis, Highgate's chief administrator.

"I'm very sorry we've had to put you through this," he began, speaking in Anglo once Carlos, Chris, and I let him know that we were fluent with the language. "Please, understand that these precautions are not unusual. They're normal procedure for anyone arriving here from anywhere else than the lunar and orbital colonies, and those coming from Earth have to undergo complete sterilization." A slight smile. "Although, in your case, we've decided to waive the usual ten-day quarantine."

Ana glared at him. "Since when did that apply to—?"

"Much has changed since you've been away, Captain." Margulis held up a patient hand. "In short, though, problems with disease control on Earth have given us reason to enact health procedures to protect our residents. In your case, much of this was unnecessary, since you're headed to Earth . . . but we had to make sure that none of you brought anything contagious from 47 Ursae Majoris."

No point in telling him about ring disease or the effects of pseudowasp stings, or any of the other minor illnesses that Coyote colonists had learned to deal with over the years. Kuniko had given each of us a physical only a couple of days earlier, just to make sure we weren't going to bring any unwanted souvenirs from home. After what we'd just been through, though, I sincerely doubted that even a single E. coli cell still resided within my lower intestines.

"So I take it we're free to go?" Carlos asked.

"Of course. Your belongings will be returned to you shortly, once they've been decontaminated as well. However, since I understand you're guests of the European Alliance, you'll probably be taken to their sector as soon as you're released. In fact, I believe one of their representatives is waiting for you outside."

"You're not from the EA?" Pacino appeared confused. "I thought you were—"

"Sorry, no. I was born and raised in Florence, but my family left Earth many years ago." Another quick smile, almost apologetic this time, then he went on. "Highgate is neutral territory, established as an interplanetary port for the major spacefaring powers . . . the Western Hemisphere Union, the European Alliance, and the Pacific Coalition, as well as their off-world colonies." He raised his head slightly. "Arthur? Display station chart, please."

"Certainly, Mr. Margulis." The same disembodied voice we'd heard earlier; I now realized that it belonged to the station AI. An instant later, a holographic image of Highgate appeared above our heads, rendered transparent to reveal a complex hive of docking bays, passageways, and interior decks.

As Margulis pointed to one of the three spheres, it lit up in red. "This is Alpha Dock, where we are now. It's leased to the European Alliance, so everything . . . well, almost everything . . . that goes on here is within their jurisdiction." When he pointed to the bottom three levels of the station's upper cylinder, they were likewise illuminated. "That's North Hab. The levels here are also leased by the EA as its consulate . . . I imagine you'll be taken to VIP quarters there. The decks above it belong to the Pacific Coalition, but I doubt you'll hear much from them. They're . . . well, they tend to keep to themselves."

"And the Western Hemisphere Union?" Tereshkova asked. "Where are they located?"

"Beta Dock, with its consulate located on these levels on South Hab." Another sphere lit up, this time in blue; the bottom three decks of the lower cylinder were similarly illuminated. "You're free to visit them as well, although I wouldn't recommend it. Relations between the Union and the Alliance have been rather strained since the destruction of the New Guinea beanstalk."

The fact that the Western Hemisphere Union and the European Alliance were rivals wasn't news to us; we'd learned this shortly after the Columbus arrived at Coyote. We were also aware that the Union had a space elevator in Ecuador and the Alliance had one in New Guinea. Yet the revelation that the New Guinea beanstalk no longer existed was just as much a shock to Ana and Gabriel as it was to the rest of us. They burst forth with questions, but Margulis shook his head as he raised a hand again.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but perhaps it's better that your government brief you. That way you'll receive an honest appraisal of the situation." Meaning, he was tactfully washing his hands of the matter. Margulis touched the side of his jaw, murmured something that I didn't quite catch. "As soon as you're dressed, you'll be released to the custody of the Alliance."

The door opened and a couple of orderlies walked in, carrying plastic bags containing the clothes we'd worn aboard the Isabella. I almost laughed; it was as if they'd just been brought over from the dry cleaner. Margulis stepped aside to allow another man to push a cart into the room; it held our bags, almost wrapped in plastic. The chief administrator waited until they left, then he turned to Carlos, Chris, and me. "On behalf of Highgate," he continued, assuming a more formal tone, "it's an honor to receive the first delegation from Coyote. I hope your stay here will be pleasant and that you'll think well of us during your negotiations."

"I'm sure we will." Carlos stepped forward to offer his hand. Margulis hesitated, then he gingerly grasped his palm. "Thank you for your hospitality," Carlos added. "We greatly appreciate it."

"My pleasure, Mr. President." Margulis hastily withdrew his hand, then assayed another bow, which Carlos clumsily returned. Then he turned and left the room . . . just a little too quickly, I thought.

"Lesson one," I murmured, as soon the door shut behind the chief administrator. "Handshakes are no longer popular." I glanced at my husband. "Sorry, dear, but I think you committed a social faux pas there."

"How was I to know?" He glanced at Ana, but she only shrugged; this was new to her, too. "Bows, no handshakes. Gotcha. I'll try to—"

"Aw, dammit to hell," Chris muttered, and as we turned toward him he looked up from his clothing. "They took away my gun. My knife, too."

Until now, I was unaware that Chris had been carrying weapons. It made sense that he would; after all, it was his job to look out for Carlos and me. I was about to respond when Arthur's voice came from the ceiling. "Personal weapons are not allowed aboard Highgate. Your pistol and knife, along with your ammunition, will be returned to you by station security before you leave."

Another surprise. I was beginning to lose count. Yet I was beginning to detect a certain pattern. Rival powers sharing the same space station, while being carefully kept apart from one another. Quarantine and sterilization procedures for those coming from Earth, with bows replacing handshakes as the socially accepted form of contact. Routine disarmament of visitors. The as-yet unexplained loss of the Alliance space elevator, while the Union's remained intact. And now, an AI that routinely monitored everyone's conversations.

Carlos must have been thinking the same things, for he bent closer to me. "Lesson two," he whispered. "Trust no one . . . because they don't trust each other."

As Margulis promised, we were met outside the quarantine area by an aide to the chief consul, a rather effete young man who seemed to believe that we'd just arrived from the Stone Age. He raised a disapproving eyebrow at my shagswool cloak and seemed repelled by the catskin jackets Carlos and Chris wore, although he treated Ana and Gabriel with a little more respect, probably because he recognized their ESA jumpsuits.

Yet he was polite enough: more bows, then he escorted us down a corridor to a tram station. A small cab whisked us down a long tunnel to a transit center at the station's core; a brief glimpse of a vast central atrium, with tier upon tier of balconies overlooking gardens surrounded by shops and cafes, before we were hastened aboard a lift that carried us up to North Hab.

It was here that we parted company with Ana and Gabriel. As soon as the lift doors opened and we stepped out into a circular corridor, the young man informed them that their presence had been requested by ESA senior officers for a mission debriefing. Ana showed a moment of reluctance— I sensed that neither she nor Gabriel were looking forward to this, particularly since one of the things they'd have to report was the disappearance of Jonathan Parson, the Columbus's second officer— but she nodded anyway, and we took a few moments to say farewell. Despite my distrust of her, I gave Ana a hug; after all, she and Gabriel brought us safely through hyperspace, and right now they were the closest thing we had to friends. Besides, it was amusing to observe the disgust on our escort's face as he observed two people getting so close to one another that their bodies actually touched. How barbaric . . .

Our quarters in the EA consulate were spacious: a three-room suite, carpeted and comfortably furnished, with a small lounge separating the bedroom Carlos and I would share from the one Chris occupied. Broad oval windows looked out upon Alpha Dock; from the sitting room, we could watch spacecraft moving around the station. A small fridge was well stocked with bottles of water, soft drinks, and wine, along with packets of some sort of junk food that I wasn't eager to sample, and there was also a wallscreen activated by a miniature remote. Only one bathroom, though; when our escort showed us the shower stall, an ever-so-slight crinkling of his precious little nose told us that he wished we'd avail ourselves of it as soon as possible. I wanted to swat him just then— if he doubted that we were clean, all he had to do was talk to Margulis or the doctors who'd examined us— but I kept my mouth shut and contented myself with thoughts about how long he'd last on Coyote.

Finally, he informed us that Dieter Vogel, the senior consul, had invited us to join him for a late dinner at 2100, about four hours from now. Until then, we'd be left alone to rest, have a snack, perhaps even take a bath; Carlos gently squeezed my arm, preventing a diplomatic incident. If we needed anything, all we had to do was ask Arthur for assistance. Carlos bowed and thanked him, and the young man made his leave, not a second too soon.

We bumbled about the suite for a few minutes, unsure of what to do with ourselves. Chris opened one of the soft drinks from the fridge, took a sip, and made a face; he said it tasted like raspberry-flavored piss. Carlos tried the wallscreen, clicked a few channels: a sporting event that looked like four men in zero-g chasing a ball around a court no larger than our living room; comedies and dramas utterly meaningless to us; an early-twenty-first-century action movie frequently interrupted by a panel discussion among three academics disapprovingly obsessed with its sexual innuendos. I sat on the couch and watched spacecraft moving around the station until I realized just how exhausted I was. Excusing myself, I went into the bedroom and, without taking off my clothes, lay down in bed. It took a long time for me to remember how to switch off the lights.

"Arthur, turn off the lights," I said.

"Yes, ma'am," the AI replied. "Sleep well." The room went dark, and that's when it occurred to me how many years it had been since the last time I'd done it that way. No oil lamps to be extinguished, no candles to be blown out. Just a verbal command, and the deed was done.

Good heavens. Perhaps I had become a barbarian . . .

A few minutes later, Carlos came in. He lay down beside me, and I curled up next to him, and for no reason I began to cry. He stroked my hair and told me that everything would be all right, and after a while I fell asleep.

Dinner was served down the corridor from our suite, in a large dining room whose windows offered a magnificent view of the Moon. Other than that, though, we could have been in a country estate somewhere in western Europe; framed lithographs of foxhunting scenes hung upon wood-paneled walls, and the table and chairs were either genuine nineteenth-century antiques or clever reproductions. White linen drapes, Indian carpets, a crystal chandelier, fresh-cut roses in China vases— no expense had been spared to make the room as elegant as possible.

By comparison, though, the chief consul was rather unremarkable. Dieter Vogel had dressed for the occasion, but even his dovetail morning coat and white cravat couldn't disguise the fact that he was a doughy, bland-faced man who was losing his hair; I pegged him as a mid-level bureaucrat who'd somehow parlayed his way into a comfortable diplomatic position. Or at least that was my first impression; although both Carlos and Chris offered bows as his aide introduced us, Vogel extended his right hand without a trace of reluctance. Apparently he'd done a little homework and knew that handshakes had been the customary form of greeting back in the twenty-first century.

And indeed, Vogel did his best to put us at ease. He seemed to notice that we didn't like his aide very much, so once the young man minced about serving us wine—'81 Mare Crisium, an exceptional lunar Bordeaux, or perhaps we'd prefer beer instead?— Vogel dismissed him, then apologized for his manners once he was gone. He inquired about our jaunt through hyperspace, and seemed genuinely curious about the experience. He expressed interest in our clothing and asked about the wildlife on Coyote from which the materials had been derived. Small talk, of course, but nonetheless it helped to make us feel more like envoys than hayseeds who'd just fallen off the potato wagon.

By this time, stewards had finished setting the table. Once we were seated, they ladled chilled vichyssoise into pewter bowls before each of us. Vogel sipped his soup as he listened to Chris finish an anecdote about hunting boid on Miller Creek in New Florida, then daubed his lips with a linen napkin.

"Quite fascinating, Herr Levin," he said. "You must save that story for my colleagues in the diplomatic corps. I think they'll be intrigued by your descriptions of the native fauna, once you meet them."

Obviously he was changing the subject. "We'd only be delighted," Carlos replied. "And this will be . . . ?"

"As soon as you like, of course." Laying down his spoon, Vogel signaled for a steward to take away his soup. "Unless you have serious objections, our present schedule calls for us to board a yacht for Earth tomorrow morning at 1000 hours. If all goes well, we should arrive in London by 1400 Greenwich time the following day." He smiled. "It's not quite as fast as it sounds . . . the entire trip will take twenty-eight hours."

"Of course." Carlos put aside his own spoon. "And I take it that you're going to accompany us?"

"My government has requested that I do so, yes. I've been assigned as your official escort. Since you've come here aboard an Alliance spacecraft, we consider you as our guests." He favored Carlos with a sly wink. "Naturally, we hope that you'll remember our patronage during your negotiations. We believe that you won't find a more worthwhile ally among the members of the U.N. General Assembly."

"We'll try to keep that in mind." Carlos shot me a glance, and I rubbed the corner of my left eye. A prearranged signal: be careful. "I'm rather surprised that you're flying us into London," he continued. "Didn't the ESA once operate a space elevator in New Guinea?"

Vogel didn't miss a beat. "Unfortunately, as you may have already heard, our beanstalk no longer exists. It was destroyed by a terrorist action about fifteen years ago . . . a bomb planted aboard one of its climbers, which detonated sixty miles aboveground. We haven't rebuilt it since then."

"Any idea who did it?" Chris asked.

"Living Earth claimed responsibility . . . a terrorist group that wants to put an end to space colonization." Vogel shook his head. "However, we have reason to believe that their action may have been covertly sponsored by another country."

"Such as?"

"It's not my place to speculate." Vogel signaled for the stewards to bring the next course. "However, I will offer the observation that the Ecuador space elevator remains operational, nor has it ever received any serious threats."

Carlos and I traded another look. Even if he wasn't coming straight out and saying so, Vogel clearly meant to implicate the Western Hemisphere Union. And he had a point; it was difficult to believe that a terrorist group opposed to space colonization would sabotage one beanstalk only to leave the other alone.

As if he'd read our minds, Vogel went on. "You can expect that the WHU will do their best to assert territorial rights to Coyote," he continued, as the stewards placed what looked like broiled lamb cutlets before each of us. "I've already spoken with Captain Tereshkova, and she told me that the colonies successfully rebelled against the Union and forced their troops to leave. My congratulations. However, I sincerely doubt their U.N. delegation will accept that prima facie. They'll probably say that the Union still has control—"

"We considered that," Carlos said. "We've brought recent pictures of our colonies, along with sworn affidavits by colonists who came over on Union ships. That should help prove that the WHU is no longer in charge of the government."

It was a weak leg to stand on, though, and we knew it. Our evidence of having achieved independence was tenuous at best. Yet Vogel smiled as he picked up knife and fork. "Good, very good. That should go a long way to convincing the General Assembly." An indifferent shrug. "And if they're not, then we have other means of persuading them."

"How so?" I asked.

A steward interrupted to ask if we wanted more wine. Vogel nodded, then went on. "You may have noticed the vessel dry-docked in Alpha Port. The Francis Drake, the first starship specifically designed for hyperspace travel. Since it doesn't have to accommodate biostasis decks, it can transport up to 10,000 tons of freight or passengers in a single run. As soon as it's christened, it'll take very little effort to carry U.N. representatives to Coyote to verify your claims."

Now the reasons for its streamlined hull were apparent; the Drake could land directly on Coyote, instead of having to rely upon shuttles to haul passengers and cargo to and from the surface. Chris whistled appreciatively, yet Carlos showed little emotion as he allowed a steward to refill his wineglass. "Quite impressive," he said, "but isn't that quite an effort to make on the presumption that we'd make a trade agreement with the EA?"

"Possibly." Vogel shrugged as he spooned some mint jelly onto his cutlets. They were a little well done for my taste, but on the other hand, I wasn't sure they were lamb at all. Possibly a soybean substitute; the texture wasn't quite right. "But we're confident that you'd rather have us as a principal trading partner than the Union or the Pacific Coalition. And, to be quite honest, even if the WHU had maintained control of your colonies, sooner or later they would've had to negotiate with us. A round-trip journey of nearly a hundred years versus a starbridge jaunt of only a few minutes . . . ?"

"I see your point." Carlos absently ran the tip of his finger around the stem of his wineglass. "But since you have this sort of capability, what prevents you from attempting the same sort of hostile takeover that the Union did?"

Vogel didn't respond at once. He deliberately took time to sip his wine. "Nothing," he said at last. "At least not in military terms. But"— he raised a finger—"I should point out that the EA has a better grasp of history than the WHU does. We're aware that you can't hold a hostile population at gunpoint for very long before they rise against you. Even their Savants tried to warn their Patriarchs and Matriarchs that such a revolution was inevitable . . ."

"And your Savants?" I asked. "What did they advise?"

"The Savants in the European Alliance were never allowed to hold positions of responsibility." Dieter's voice turned cold. "When the Union's Savant Council turned against them, we told ours to leave . . . and so they did. For the outer asteroid belt." Then his manner thawed. "We don't intend to repeat the Union's mistakes. As I said, we'd rather enjoy a peaceful partnership based on trade and cultural exchange than have to worry about your people staging guerrilla raids and blowing up spacecraft. Wouldn't you say . . . Rigil Kent?"

Carlos's mouth went tight, and I felt my own heart skip a beat. Damn it, just how much had Ana told him? It was obvious that Dieter Vogel was far more than the minor cog that he'd first appeared to be. "Not to worry," he continued, his voice low as he leaned forward. "Your background as a . . . shall we say, a freedom fighter . . . is classified information. No one needs to know about it."

"Not that it makes much difference." Carlos got hold of himself. "I did what had to be done. I won't apologize for that."

I could have kissed my husband. From the look on Chris's face, he was just as proud of Carlos as I was. Unruffled, Vogel slowly nodded. "Very good. I'm pleased to hear that. But for others to know this . . ."

"I fought in the war, too," Chris interrupted. "So did almost everyone else on Coyote. You're just going to have to get used to that."

I shut my eyes. Very patriotic, but now wasn't the right time to wave the flag. Yet Carlos nodded at his old war buddy, and the two exchanged a grin that made me want to kick both of them beneath the table.

"Yes, well . . ." Vogel glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the corner. "I hate to run, but I have other duties this evening. This has been a delightful—"

"One more question, if I may?" I raised a hand, and all three turned to look at me. "The Drake . . . when we saw it earlier, I couldn't help but notice something rather unusual about its hull."

"Such as?" Vogel gave me a distracted glance. Perhaps he was expecting me to ask something obvious, like why it had wings.

"There were hatches on either side of its forward section. They weren't cargo doors, and they were in the wrong position for landing gear." I paused. "In fact, they looked very much like weapon bays . . . torpedo tubes, maybe?"

Vogel's face lost color. From the corner of my eye, I could see Carlos covering his mouth with his hand. Chris covered his expression by taking a drink . . . a major thing for him, since he'd studiously avoided the wine all evening.

"You're very observant," Vogel said.

"I try to be," I replied.

"The Drake is intended to be primarily a merchanteer. Which means that it will carry valuable cargo. Considering that the EA has been attacked once already, we believe that it's in our best interests to provide protection for its crew and passengers. So, yes, we've installed missile launchers . . . torpedoes, if you will . . . as a means of preventative measures."

Perfect bureaucratese. A Govnet flack from the old United Republic of America couldn't have done better. "Thank you," I said. "Just wanted to know."

Vogel blinked, then once again offered apologies as he stood up. A few bows, then he hastened out the door. One of the stewards offered coffee and dessert, but we declined; it had been a long day, and we needed to get some sleep. Yet once we left the dining room and Vogel's aide— who'd apparently been waiting in the corridor the entire time— nervously led us back to our quarters, Carlos took my arm.

"Nice try," he murmured, "but I wish you hadn't done that."

"Why not?" I was still grinning. "I haven't smelled manure that fragrant since I cleaned out the goat pen last week."

Chris chuckled under his breath, yet Carlos glowered at me. "There's more about this than you know," he whispered.

I darted a glance at him, and he shook his head. "Another time. When we're sure the walls aren't listening."

Next morning, another journey: this time aboard a delta-winged transport twice the size of the Isabella. The EAS Von Braun was intended to shuttle VIPs to and from Highgate; its passenger cabin was fitted with faux-leather seats with individual viewscreens, a small galley, even a plasma billiards table. A uniformed steward offered us squeeze bulbs of champagne shortly after the vessel undocked from Alpha Port, then handed out menus for what would be the first of several meals.

I passed on the champagne and nibbled at some cheese and grapes as I gazed at Earth through the window beside my seat. From lunar orbit, the planet of my birth was so small that I could easily cover it with my thumb. An impressive sight, to be sure, yet after a little while I started looking for other things to do.

Although the yacht was too small to have its own Millis-Clement field generator, its nuclear engines fired at constant quarter-g thrust that cut our travel time from days to hours, so there was sufficient gravity inside the craft to allow us to walk around the cabin. I shot a couple of rounds of pool with Chris— strange to play billiards on a table that operated in three dimensions, with cues that generated an electromagnetic pulse and balls that were nothing more than colored spheres of light— and let Vogel explain the rules of zero-g handball to me while we watched a game. I took a nap, woke up and had dinner, went over the draft of the trade agreement one more time with Carlos, played another game with Chris . . .

And still, despite my best efforts to distract myself, I kept returning to the porthole, watching Earth as it gradually swelled in size. When we left Highgate, I had to crane my head to see it through the window by my seat, but as the hours went by the planet slowly crawled closer to the center of the pane, slowly waxing as its daylight terminator moved from east to west. I discovered that my seat's viewscreen allowed me to access a close-up view from a camera positioned in the yacht's bow, and it wasn't long before I was able to distinguish the major continents. At one point I was even able to spot the Ecuador space elevator, a silver thread rising in a horizontal line from the equator above South America, reflecting sunlight until it reached its terminus in geosynchronous orbit.

But that wasn't what caught my attention. As the Von Braun drew closer, the pilots made midcourse corrections so that we'd be able to land in the northern hemisphere. It wasn't long before southeastern Europe was spread out before us, and certain geographic changes soon became apparent. Italy had lost its boot-like appearance, becoming instead a slender peninsula, with Sicily little more than a speck in a Mediterranean Sea that had become a vast gulf that altered the coastline of much of North Africa.

"Too bad we can't see the South Pole from here," Vogel said. Surprised, I looked around to find him leaning over my shoulder to peer at the screen. "That's where it all began."

"I know. The collapse of the east Antarctic ice sheet." Vogel seemed surprised that I knew about this, and I nodded. "We've already heard. Dr. Whittaker already told us . . . so did the Columbus's crew."

"Then if you're aware of what's happened, there's not much for me to tell you."

"I'm aware only that it happened, not how or why. Go on, please. I'd like to learn more."

Vogel hesitated, then settled into Carlos's seat across the aisle. "It didn't happen overnight," he said, his voice low. "The climate started to change during the late twentieth century, when Greenland began losing its glacial icepack. The trend continued through much of the twenty-first century, but even after the major industrial nations curtailed the use of fossil fuels that discharged carbonic oxides into the atmosphere . . ." He paused, then added, "With certain notable exceptions, as I'm sure you know."

Feeling my face grow warm, I looked away. He didn't need to say it, but one of those "notable exceptions" had been the United Republic of America. One of the dubious achievements of National Reform had been the rollback of every environmental protection program intended to reduce global warming, which the Liberty Party claimed was only liberal propaganda. There had been protests, of course, but it wasn't long before activists and the more outspoken scientists joined the ranks of those sent away to government reeducation camps.

Vogel noticed my discomfort. "I forget . . . you were only a child then," he said, gently patting my arm as if to absolve me of personal guilt. "In your time, the global sea level had only risen by a dozen or so centimeters . . . enough to cause a few beaches to disappear in your country, but not much else."

I gazed at the screen. By now, I could make out the Middle East; the Persian Gulf had swelled to consume the lowlands of the Arabian Peninsula. "All we heard from Govnet was that it was a natural occurrence. A temporary problem, nothing more."

"A temporary problem." Vogel shook his head in wonder. "If only they'd been right . . ." He stopped himself. "Well, be that as it may, ocean temperatures continued to rise through the late twenty-first century and into the twenty-third until, in 2265, one-third of the east Antarctic ice sheet slipped into the ocean."

"So we've heard." But not until much later. By then, the Alabama was still on its way to 47 Ursae Majoris, and I'd been in biostasis for nearly two hundred years. The last of the Union starships had already departed from Earth by that time, though, so no one on Coyote would know about this until the Columbus arrived. "That was the tipping point."

"That's one way of putting it, yes." A wan smile. "In hindsight, it's fortunate that it happened much later than most climatologists predicted. That gave some countries time to prepare themselves." Then his face darkened. "Coastal regions and river deltas flooded, and the subsequent loss of freshwater supplies afflicted much of the inland regions. Drought caused some regions to become uninhabitable. But that was only part of the problem. The introduction of freshwater from the ice sheet also caused seawater to expand at the molecular level while at the same time growing warmer. And that, in turn, caused the Gulf Stream of the North Atlantic to reverse itself."

As he spoke, I stared at the screen. The southern half of India was no longer recognizable; Sri Lanka had all but disappeared. Vast stretches of Southeast Asia were now separated from one another by bays and channels that hadn't been there before. "That probably had an effect on wind patterns in the Northern Hemisphere, didn't it?"

Vogel nodded. "Europe got colder, yes, while much of North America got considerably hotter. The results were crop failures, deforestation, mass extinctions of wildlife . . ."

"Yet the colonies on the Moon and Mars . . ."

"They managed to hold out." Vogel shrugged. "The Union, the Alliance, the Coalition . . . they'd had the foresight and the resources to build colonies on the Moon, with a few more on Mars. The wealthy migrated there, and they were able to preserve much of human culture. Nonetheless, a lot of people died."

"How many?"

"No one knows for certain. They stopped counting the dead a long time ago." Almost impulsively, Vogel reached forward to switch off the screen. "So far as we can estimate, though, there's less than three billion people now alive on Earth." He shook his head. "What the Savants failed to do, we managed to accomplish ourselves . . . starting three hundred years ago."

Somewhere behind me, I could hear the buzz of one plasma ball striking another: Carlos and Chris killing time at the billiards table. The air inside the cabin suddenly felt cold, as if the flight engineer had decided to adjust the thermostat. "Do you realize now just how important you are?" Vogel said, his voice very quiet now. "Do you now see why Coyote has become our last, best hope?"

Through my window, I could see Earth, a wounded planet for which time was running out. Feeling sick at my stomach, I only nodded.

Night was still upon the west coast of North America as the Von Braun raced across the Pacific, rapidly shedding altitude as the darkened limb of the Earth filled the viewscreens. The pilot's voice came over the speaker, informing us that we were on primary approach; by now we were buckled into our seats, gazing out the windows. There wasn't much to see: fewer lights along the California coast, and a dark gap where Seattle once lay.

The first light of morning had just touched New England as the Von Braun began atmospheric entry. Just before a reddish-orange penumbra started to form around its hull, I caught sight of the ruined shores of our homeland. A brief glimpse of the Massachusetts coast: Cape Cod was no more, and all I could see of Boston were a few tiny silver pylons rising above dark blue water.

The yacht quaked and trembled as its wings bit air, and I deliberately shut my eyes and clutched the armrests. Then the turbulence ceased, and there was a sudden roar as air-breathing jets cut in. I looked out the window again, saw only the vast expanse of the Atlantic. Then a ragged green peninsula swept beneath us— southern Ireland, perhaps, although it was hard to tell— and disappeared again. More ocean, and then, suddenly, we were above England.

What had once been Wales was now an archipelago of tiny isles, the port cities of Cardiff and Newport long since drowned by St. George's Channel, now extending inland as far as Gloucester. As we came in low, I could see where canals had been dredged in an attempt to alleviate the flooding. I saw deserted English towns, their roads abruptly disappearing beneath swollen creeks, with small lakes where there had once been pastures. The whiskery trail of a small boat moved past the spire of what might have once been a country church.

The others also gazed down upon the devastation, Carlos with his mouth hidden by his hand, Chris staring in stunned disbelief. Yes, we'd known that things were bad back on Earth, yet somehow it had seemed abstract, a matter of statistics. Seeing it firsthand, though, was another matter entirely.

And then, all of a sudden, we were above London.

The city itself had been spared the worst effects of the floods. Unlike that in my country, the British government hadn't ignored scientists' warnings about the long-term effects of global warming. I'd later see pictures of the vast row of seawalls erected along the southern coast of the English Channel; as we flew in, though, all I saw were the massive floodgates of the Thames Barrier, with fortress-like levees rising above either side of the river. Yet even these macroengineering projects hadn't been enough; London now lay below sea level, and time and again the rising waters had breached the levees and barriers. The Waterloo and Hungerford bridges were gone, and a pair of half-collapsed towers were all that remained of the Westminster Bridge. Although Big Ben still rose above the Houses of Parliament, its windows were dark, its ancient walls overgrown with weeds and creeping vine; I'd later find out that the seat of British government had relocated to Buckingham Palace.

Despite its best efforts, London was losing the battle against the sea. Where countless foes had failed, nature was inexorably succeeding. Much of the city had been abandoned; streets once filled with vehicles and pedestrians were nearly empty, and as the Von Braun circled low over London, I looked down to see boarded-up shops and abandoned high-rises. Smoke from the fires of squatter camps rose from Charing Cross Road and the Strand; the stub of what had once been the Telecom Tower loomed above the wasteland of Oxford, and a rotting and overgrown hulk was all that remained of the British Museum.

Nonetheless, it became clear that a long row of dikes erected west of Oxford had effectively isolated much of the chaos caused by flooding, for this part of the city looked relatively undamaged. As the yacht's descent jets kicked in, I caught sight of the New United Nations Plaza; the curved half-arch of the Secretariat rose above the enormous white geodome of the General Assembly Building, both built on the former site of the U.S. Embassy at the east end of Hyde Park.

This wasn't new to me. The U.N. had left New York when I was still a child, after the URA had withdrawn from the General Assembly and unilaterally revoked the U.N.'s title to the site on the East River where its headquarters had once been located. The U.N. responded by relocating to London, where the first sessions of the General Assembly and the Security Council had been held in 1946. In the long run, perhaps this had been just as well; London may have been a shadow of its former regal self, yet at least its system of seawalls and levees had held back the waters long enough to save much of the city. Like Washington, D.C., and Boston, Manhattan now lay underwater, inundated after the seawalls the Union belatedly attempted to erect around the island collapsed due to slipshod design and construction.

The Von Braun had been given permission to land in Grosvenor Square, on a paved landing pad specifically built for diplomatic aircraft. There was a mild jar as its landing gear touched down, then a low rumble as the pilots throttled back the engines. Luminescent strips along the ceiling and aisle went from red to green; Dieter unclasped his harness and stood up.

"Gentlemen, lady, we're here," he said unnecessarily, as if we'd slept through the whole thing. "Don't worry about your personal belongings. They'll be brought to your quarters. Now, if you'll follow me, please."

I unbuckled my harness, started to stand up . . . then my knees collapsed, and I fell back into my seat. It felt as if someone had suddenly placed a fifty-pound bag of sand on my shoulders. I should have expected this; Coyote's gravity was less than two-thirds that of Earth's, and even the Millis-Clement field aboard Highgate had been adjusted to approximate lunar gravity for the benefit of those born and raised on the Moon. All well and good, yet although I'd spent my first fifteen years on Earth, for the last forty Gregorian years I'd become accustomed to living in .68-g. Sitting in an overstuffed seat during the ride from Highgate, I hadn't noticed the subtle difference . . . but, oh boy, did I now.

And so did Carlos and Chris. Both were in excellent shape, at least for men in their mid-fifties, but my husband grunted as he heaved himself to his feet, and Chris swore beneath his breath as he clasped the back of his seat for support. I couldn't see how Vogel could take the strain with so little effort; perhaps he worked out in a high-gravity gym aboard Highgate.

The steward came forward, offered each of us canes; apparently this was a common occurrence. Although it made me feel like an old lady, I accepted mine and found myself wishing that I'd dyed the grey in my hair before we'd left home. Carlos was even more reluctant; as President of the Coyote Federation, he didn't want to be seen hobbling down the ramp. Yet it would have been even more humiliating if he'd fallen flat on his face, so he took his cane with a scowl. Chris would have nothing to do with it; he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stood erect. At first I thought he was just toughing it out . . . but then I noticed the bulge created beneath his jacket by the holstered flechette pistol, and recalled why he was with us. He couldn't be a good bodyguard if he couldn't reach for his gun.

With diplomatic stoicism, Vogel pretended not to notice our difficulties. He patiently waited until we caught our wind, then he led us through the cabin to the main hatch. It had already been opened, its ramp lowered. Vogel paused for a moment, as if to make sure that we weren't going to have heart attacks, then we followed him as he exited the spacecraft.

At the bottom of the ramp, a dozen members of the Royal Palace Guard stood at stiff-necked attention on either side of a long red carpet, their black fur helmets giving them the resemblance of a double row of exclamation points. Beyond the landing pad, a vast crowd surrounded the yacht; several thousand people had gathered in Grosvenor Square to witness our arrival, held back by portable barriers and dozens of British police officers in security armor. The afternoon sun was bright, and as we made our way down the stairs, I raised a hand against the glare. Someone in the crowd must have misinterpreted this as a wave, for suddenly a cacophony of sound rolled across us: shouts, yells, applause, whistles, like surf crashing upon a rocky shore . . .

I don't know what sort of reception I'd anticipated, but it certainly wasn't this. Startled, I stumbled on a riser. Chris was behind me; he managed to grab my arm before I made a fool of myself. As our feet touched ground, from somewhere nearby I heard a brass orchestra strike up "God Save the King." Which was entirely appropriate, because His Royal Highness awaited us at the other end of the red carpet.

Henry XI was a bit shorter than I expected, yet nonetheless quite handsome. Dressed in a collarless black suit, with the Prime Minister at one side and his consort at another, His Majesty stepped forward to offer a bow to Carlos, then clasped my hand and gallantly passed his lips about two inches above it. A few short, noncommittal words of greeting—"Welcome to the City of London, and the United Kingdom of Great Britain" was all that I remembered— and then he and his entourage were ushered to a row of black hoverlimos that floated away before I had a chance to remember how to curtsy.

Yet even that royal reception, or the crowds or even the red-carpet treatment, didn't make as much of an impression on me as something else far more subtle. Something that everyone there had learned to take for granted, but that instantly struck me as unusual.

The weather.

We landed in London on November 4, 2340. When we'd left Coyote on Hanael 62, c.y. 13, we'd dressed for late autumn. Expecting much the same on Earth, we'd packed warm clothes— catskin jackets, shagswool sweaters and so forth— and although we put on our best outfits just before the Von Braun made ready to land, I figured that we'd probably peel off a layer or two shortly after we disembarked.

Yet London was cold as a midwinter day in the Midland Range. Oh, the Palace Guard was comfortable in their red dress jackets, and His Majesty had a red scarf loosely draped around his shoulders, but despite the bright afternoon sun, everyone standing behind the barricades was bundled up in heavy coats, wearing hats and gloves. A harsh wind nagged at us as we walked to the limo waiting to take us for a short ride down Knightsbridge Road to the European Alliance embassy; just before we climbed in, though, I observed patches of snow on the ground beneath the trees. Their branches were barren, without so much as a stray leaf clinging to them, and their bark was brown and lifeless.

Dead trees and snow. A new ice age was approaching. It wouldn't be long before winter was permanent, with summer only a faint memory.

That evening, a reception in our honor was held at the embassy. Vogel had warned us that this had been scheduled, so once we were shown to our suite— larger than the one on Highgate, with windows that looked out upon Hyde Park— we took the opportunity to catch a few winks. We didn't have long to rest, though, before an embassy staff member showed up at our door; pushing a cart laden with sandwiches and coffee, he informed us that, although there would be food at the reception, we'd probably have little chance to eat.

Thoughtful of our hosts to consider this, but our appetite wasn't their only concern. We were still chowing down when a squad of tailors arrived, complete with a rack of formal apparel. It went without saying that Herr Vogel considered our homespun clothes a bit too rustic for the occasion. Just as well; none of us wanted to look like Daniel Boone. Carlos and Chris picked out identical tuxedos, while I selected a strapless black gown that trailed to the floor yet complimented my figure. Carlos's eyes bugged out when he saw me in this— the cleavage was deep enough that you could have dropped a coin between my breasts— but he didn't protest as a seamstress took my measurements. The clothiers disappeared, and by the time we'd showered and had a second cup of coffee they showed up again, this time with our outfits, each one perfectly fitted. Don't ask me how they performed this minor miracle; I was still trying to figure it out when Dieter came to escort us downstairs.

The embassy ballroom was crowded to capacity, with several hundred men and women each as elegantly dressed as the next. They arrived two or three at a time, each briefly detained at the door to step through an arch that scanned them for weapons. Chris hesitated when he saw that, but since we'd been brought down to the ballroom via a private lift, no one thought to check to see if he was packing a gun. 'Bots circulated through the crowd, carrying platters of drinks and hors d'oeuvres, while a string quartet in the corner performed waltzes by Vivaldi and Strauss. Ambassadors and attachés and senior aides made their own dance steps, deftly moving from one conversation to the next. No handshakes, only slight bows and brief curtsies . . . and I noted how gloves had come back into style, along with face masks worn by several men and silk veils by a number of women.

No formal announcement was made of our arrival, yet our entrance didn't go unnoticed. As soon as we walked into the room, it seemed as if every eye turned in our direction. And yet there was no rush, but instead the cool aloofness of diplomacy. Carlos and I sauntered into the crowd, with Dieter leading the way and Chris close behind, and before long various dignitaries began to make their way toward us, each carefully maintaining a certain savoir faire even though they were anxious to meet us. Vogel ran interference for us, and soon it fell into a pattern: a brief but formal introduction by Dieter, then we'd exchange bows and curtsies. A few polite words, then on to the next guest. Minor aides and attachés were acknowledged, but weren't allowed to get too close: senior diplomats received a few more seconds of our time, and Dieter would intercept their cards and slip them into his pocket. Every now and then, someone had a floater hovering nearby; Carlos and I would pose on either side of them and let our picture be taken, and sometimes Carlos would sign the print. This amused me the most; even in high society, there were no shortage of autograph seekers.

No doubt about it: we were celebrities. Carlos Montero and Wendy Gunther, the President of the Coyote Federation and his wife. We needed canes to walk, and we may have worn finery that we'd put on for the first time less than a hour ago, yet nonetheless we were visitors from a star so far distant that its light hadn't yet reached Earth. Our lives were the stuff of legend. We weren't just part of history . . . we were history.

So we chatted, and we posed, and we enjoyed the limelight as we made our way through the ballroom. But after a while the bureaucrats and minor scoundrels fell away, and it wasn't long before we found ourselves in more rarified company: ambassadors and senior consuls, the men and women who represented the governments of their respective countries and thus weren't impressed by mere fame. Vogel didn't put himself between us and them; a brief introduction, then he'd step out of the way. Most were polite, even charming; they didn't wear gloves, masks, or veils, and some offered handshakes instead of bows. The Russian ambassador went so far as to bend down to kiss the back of my hand. No one had ever done that to me before— not counting His Majesty, who'd only made a polite pass at it— and it was utterly charming. I tried to stifle my laughter, but he must have caught the gleam in my eye, for he favored me with a seductive wink as he stood up, and his eyes never strayed far from my breasts.

Yet all encounters weren't so pleasant.

Carlos and I were about halfway across the room when someone began making his way toward us: a tall, slender gentleman with a grey-tinged goatee, his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. When Vogel spotted the newcomer, a stern look appeared on his face; he murmured something to Carlos, then attempted to guide us in the opposite direction. But the other man was too quick for that; he artfully stepped around a couple of women with whom Carlos had been speaking and, before Chris could intercede, planted himself directly in our path.

"Dieter, my friend," he said, with a smile that didn't have a trace of affection, "aren't you going to introduce me?"

That was when I noticed what he wore: a long velvet robe, dark purple, with gold trim around its sleeves. I'd seen pictures of the patriarchs of the Western Hemisphere Union; this was how they dressed for formal occasions. I instinctively took my husband's hand.

"Of course, Señor Amado." Dieter tried not to show his reticence. "May I present to you the Honorable Carlos Montero, President of the Coyote Federation, and his wife Wendy Gunther, former member of the Colonial Council. Mr. President, this is—"

"Patriarch Marcos Amado, ambassador for the Western Hemisphere Union." He offered a bow that was little more than the slightest nod of his head. "Very pleased to meet you, Señor Montero . . . although you'll forgive me if I don't address you as Mr. President."

"You can call me anything except late to dinner," Carlos replied. A few chuckles from those standing nearby. My husband had been using that line all evening; it was an old saw, but it helped break the ice, especially among all these stuffed shirts.

The loudest laugh, though, came from a rotund little man with a shaved head who hovered at the edge of the crowd. I hadn't noticed him before; when I glanced his way, he favored me with a grin that was both knowing and warm. I needed all the friendly faces I could get just then, so I gave him a brief smile.

"Very good, sir." A dry smirk appeared on Amado's face. "I trust we'll hear more of your . . . wit, shall we say? . . . when you address the General Assembly tomorrow."

"And until then," Vogel said, "I trust your government will afford the president and his party the courtesy to which they're—"

"Patriarch, I take it the Union doesn't recognize the Coyote Federation," Carlos said. "May I ask why?"

He didn't raise his voice, yet even if he'd shouted it wouldn't have made much difference. A hush fell across the people around us; it seemed as if everyone moved in a little closer. Dieter winced, and even Amado seemed to be taken aback; for a moment, his condescending attitude was replaced by one of respect, however reluctant.

"I appreciate your candor, Señor." The Patriarch's voice was quiet. "I think our negotiations will be . . . interesting, to say the least."

"No doubt they will," Carlos said. "I'm looking forward to them."

The two men silently regarded one another for a moment. Then Amado went on. "You'll hear my government's opinion on this matter when we meet before the General Assembly. Until then, I hope that you and your wife will have a pleasant stay."

"Thank you," Carlos said. "I'm sure we will."

Amado nodded, then unexpectedly he offered his hand. Carlos hesitated, then he accepted the handshake. "One more thing," the Patriarch added. "Regardless of the outcome, my government wishes to extend to you and your wife an invitation to visit the Union. We understand that you were both born and raised in the Norte Americano provinces. Perhaps you'd like to see your home country again before you leave?"

We'd received nearly a dozen similar requests all evening. Carlos responded just as he did to all the others. "Thank you. Our time here is limited, but if we can . . ."

"Of course." Amado withdrew his hand. "Consider it an open invitation, at your leisure." A formal bow in my general direction. "Señora . . ."

"Señor," I said, with as much frost in my voice as I could muster. A dark look, and then the Patriarch disappeared back into the crowd.

Chris moved closer. "Watch where you step," he whispered. "I think he left a slime trail."

I was too irritated to find this funny. Until this moment, no one had challenged Carlos's standing, either as President of the Coyote Federation or as its designated emissary to the United Nations. Yet Marcos Amado had insinuated Carlos was merely some upstart yokel, representing a province with pretensions of statehood.

I was still seething when a hand gently touched my elbow. "Your husband took care of that quite well," a voice said softly, and I turned to see the short fellow who'd caught my eye a couple of minutes earlier. "I'm impressed. Marcos doesn't usually back down like that."

"Neither does my husband." From the corner of my eye, I could see Chris moving closer to protect me, yet this gent seemed as harmless as Amado had been menacing. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"Forgive me." An elaborate bow, with head lowered and hands spread aside. "Morgan Goldstein, m'lady, at your service. I suppose you could say that I'm a diplomat without résumé—"

"As always, Mr. Goldstein, you flatter yourself." Vogel appeared at my side. "How did you get in here?" he asked, although he didn't appear to be perturbed. "I thought this was by invitation only."

Feigning insult, Goldstein arched an eyebrow. "But I did indeed receive an invitation, Dieter. The very best money could buy."

Vogel shook his head as he looked at me. "Be careful of this one," he said. "Herr Goldstein apparently believes that because he can buy and sell entire countries . . ."

"Only buy," Goldstein added. "I rarely sell." Ignoring Dieter, he turned to me again. "Truth to be told, I'm merely an entrepreneur, and only modestly successful at that." Vogel made an uncharacteristically rude noise with his lips, which Goldstein chose to overlook. "When I heard that you and the president were going to grace us with your presence, I hopped the first suborbital I could find."

"Don't let him fool you," Dieter murmured. "He owns his own fleet."

"True, but they're always committed to something else." Goldstein glared at him. "Dieter, don't you have something else to do?"

For a moment, it seemed as if Dieter wavered. Goldstein said nothing, only waited patiently. Then, much to my surprise, Vogel stepped away, apparently deciding that a nearby ambassador and his wife needed his attention. I was amazed; it was the first time that evening that Dieter had left our side.

"That's impressive," I murmured. "Do you often order chief consuls around like that?"

Goldstein smiled. "My dear lady, I never order anyone around. I merely offer alternatives." He paused. "You're new here, so you don't know better . . . that both Dieter and Marcos are playing the same game."

"And what game is that?" Carlos asked.

I hadn't noticed that he'd come up behind me; apparently he'd been listening the entire time. Yet Goldstein wasn't surprised; his eyes nor his ears missed anything. "Seeking control of your world, of course," he replied, his voice just low enough for us to hear. "Herr Vogel seeks to ingratiate himself with you, while the Patriarch believes that he can win through intimidation. Two different means, but ultimately the same objective."

"And you, of course, aren't interested—"

"Oh, but of course I am." Goldstein flagged down a passing 'bot, took a glass of wine from its platter. "The difference between me and them . . . and indeed, everyone else here . . . is that I have a gift to offer to your world, with no strings attached." He took a sip from his wine. "Oh, perhaps just one, but I think you'll find it difficult to reject. As I said, I merely offer alternatives."

"And that is . . . ?" Carlos asked.

"Another time. When we don't have so much company." He paused, his eyes shifting to see who was around us, then he went on. "Marcos invited you to pay a visit to the Union. May I suggest that you take him up on this . . . but when you do, you let me know first, so that I can arrange private transportation."

His left hand went into his jacket, came out again with an engraved card. "This is my private number," he said, handing it to me. "I can be reached anytime, day or night. Please don't lose it . . . you can't possibly underestimate its importance."

Another bow, then Goldstein said good night and drifted away, just as Vogel detached himself from the brief conversation he'd just had. By then Carlos had slipped the card into his pocket. We said nothing of this to Dieter, and shortly afterward Carlos requested that we return to our suite.

I didn't know quite what to make of the mysterious Morgan Goldstein. Yet somehow, I had a feeling that we'd found a friend. I certainly hoped so. Because I had no doubt that we'd also found an enemy.

The next morning, we appeared before the United Nations.

Beneath the cavernous dome of the General Assembly Hall, delegates were seated at oak-top desks arranged in concentric tiers overlooking a circular floor where the U.N. seal had been engraved in blond marble. High above, a ring-shaped array of viewscreens was suspended from the ceiling; although Anglo was the official language, simultaneous translations were offered to the delegates through comps imbedded within their desks. The flags of the member nations hung from the walls, and were also displayed on the front of each desk.

Carlos, Chris, and I were escorted to an elevated dais facing the Secretary-General's podium. The hall was packed; every seat had been taken, and even the public gallery was filled to capacity. Floaters hovered about our table, their lenses constantly trained upon us; glancing up, I saw myself on one of the screens, my face enlarged to giant size. Taking a deep breath, I looked down and self-consciously shuffled some papers, trying to appear more calm than I actually was.

The Secretary-General was Farouk Sadat, a tall, thin Egyptian with slate-grey hair. Dieter had briefly introduced us to him the night before; I'd liked him, even if he was a bit stiff. Once he took his place, he banged his gavel on the podium to bring the session to order. A quick roll call was taken, then Sadat formally introduced us to the General Assembly. It soon became clear that the Secretary-General took unabashed pride in welcoming the delegation from Coyote; he congratulated us not only for undertaking humankind's first expedition to the stars, but also for successfully establishing its first interstellar colony. That made me relax a little; at least he was on our side, or so it seemed.

After offering further congratulations to the European Alliance for having demonstrated the viability of hyperspace travel, Sadat relinquished the floor to Carlos. Gathering his notes, my husband stood up and walked to the rostrum. Despite my advice to wear the formal attire that had been tailored for him only yesterday, Carlos decided that he wanted the delegates to see us for what we really were. So it was in clothes made of hemp, shagswool, and catskin— the same outfit he wore when he presided over formal meetings of the Colonial Council— that the President of the Coyote Federation addressed the U.N. General Assembly.

Carlos began by acknowledging the European Alliance for their hospitality, then offered his appreciation to the U.N. for allowing him to address its General Assembly. Then he gave a brief description of the world we'd discovered. Much of this was pretty dry— facts and figures, some historical background— but we'd also brought a datafiche containing images of Coyote. While he spoke, pictures were projected on the overhead screens, and an awed hush fell upon the hall as the delegates received their first look at our home: the vast savannahs of New Florida, the Gillis Range of Midland, and the Black Mountains of Great Dakota, the broad expanse of the Great Equatorial River, Bear rising at sunset above the West Channel. As Carlos went on to describe the progress we'd made in establishing permanent settlements, there were more images: street scenes of Liberty and Shuttlefield, the Garcia Narrows Bridge, tugboats upon the East Channel, the timber mills of Clarksburg, the towns of Leeport, New Boston, and Defiance.

Thinking back on it now, it may have been unwise to show them all this. Compared to what Earth had become, Coyote must have looked like Eden: forests and mountain valleys, clean air and fresh water, miles upon miles of terrain upon which no one had ever set foot. Paradise, virgin and unspoiled. With every picture they saw, their hunger must have grown; like starving children who'd long gnawed the bones of their world, they were now being shown a proverbial land of milk and honey.

Yet there would have been no point in pretending otherwise. They would've found out for themselves what Coyote was like. And besides, just as much as they wanted what we had, we wanted what they had, too. So while the images were still on the screens, Carlos laid out the basic tenets of our proposal.

In exchange for formal U.N. recognition of the Coyote Federation as a sovereign entity, and Coyote itself as an independent world, we'd be willing to negotiate trade agreements with member nations of the General Assembly. Spacefaring nations could also sign right-of-passage agreements with both the European Alliance and the Coyote Federation, which would give them access to the starbridges, with all parties involved being signatory to their terms. We would allow those countries to establish their own colonies, but only if they agreed to strict immigration limits and also signed a nonaggression pact prohibiting military forces on the new world; those colonies would also be subject to the terms of the Liberty Compact, which ensured basic human rights to everyone who came to Coyote. After a six-year probation period— two years by the LeMarean calendar— new colonies would be allowed to join the Coyote Federation, and thus have permanent representation on the Colonial Council.

It was a hard bargain, and we knew it. Yet this was what the executive committee had hammered out during countless meetings that had lasted late into the night. Although we certainly desired to have relations with Earth, we didn't want a repeat of the Union occupation: invasion by a militant power that sought to impose their social system upon ours, even as it dumped thousands of ill-prepared immigrants on our shores. This time, there would be no Union Guard, no squatter camps, no matriarch with ambitions of empire. We'd fought hard for our freedom; we weren't about to give it away.

All the same, it took a lot of courage for Carlos to stand before the nations of the world we'd once known as home and say these things. Yet he never stammered; his hands didn't shake as he turned the pages of his speech, and his gaze remained calm and unwavering. In the many years I've known my husband, after all the things we've been through together, I've never been more proud of him than I was at that moment. I hadn't known his father very long before he died, but I did know Captain Lee; Jorge Montero may have been Carlos's flesh and blood, yet it was then that I realized that my husband's spirit had come from another man.

When Carlos finished, murmurs swept through the hall. As customary during U.N. meetings, there was no applause. Carlos returned to his seat; beneath the table, I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Chris nodded to him, but his expression was stoical. Looking around, I saw aides in whispered conference with ambassadors who peered at their notes. We'd run up the flag; now we'd see who saluted.

The Secretary-General thanked President Montero for his presentation, then opened the floor for comments. One at a time, delegates took a turn at responding to what Carlos had said. Most were carefully neutral— the ambassador of the Pacific Coalition, for instance, reiterated Sadat's admiration for the progress we'd made in colonizing the new world, and stated that his country looked forward to negotiations with the Coyote Federation— but others were a little less forthcoming. The Israeli ambassador told us that, while his country was also interested in pursuing a trade agreement, it was primarily interested in immigration; he expressed hope that small, nonspace-faring countries such as his would eventually be allowed to claim unoccupied islands as colonies. The ambassador from India expressed concern that raw materials imported from Coyote might pose unfair competition with the same materials exported from the Near East; he wanted to know how much we intended to ship back to Earth, and whether it would be subject to tariffs. The South African ambassador stated that, while he respected the Coyote Federation's desire to be recognized as an independent entity, we should take into consideration Article II of the U.N. Space Treaty of 1967, which forbade signatory nations from claiming any planet as sovereign territory; in that regard, in accordance with Article I of the same treaty, Coyote should be considered the rightful inheritance of all humankind.

Yet it wasn't until Secretary-General Sadat recognized Patriarch Amado of the Western Hemisphere Union that things got rough.

"Mr. Secretary General," Amado began, "while the Western Hemisphere Union respects the opinions of our fellow members, my government questions the validity of the statements made by Mr. Montero. In fact, his assertion that the colonies he represents have a rightful claim to Coyote leads us to believe that he intends to perpetrate a deliberate deception. Indeed, we believe that it is nothing but an outright lie."

Low murmurs swept through the room. The Patriarch's pointed refusal to refer to Carlos as "President Montero" hadn't been lost on anyone, and his accusation showed that he'd abandoned any pretense at diplomatic niceties. Sadat clasped his hands together beneath his chin; he showed no emotion as he listened intently.

"First," Amado said, "the historical record clearly shows that the first starship sent to the 47 Ursae Majoris system was URSS Alabama, and that vessel was under the registry of the United Republic of America when it was launched in 2070. Since the URA was subsequently absorbed by the Western Hemisphere Union in 2096 . . . two hundred and four years before the Alabama arrived at Coyote . . . this means the Alabama was the rightful property of the WHU long before it reached 47 Ursae Majoris. Second, since no radio transmissions from the Alabama have been received by deep-space telemetry stations, either on Earth or elsewhere in the solar systems, any territorial claims made by its captain and crew aren't legally admissible under international law."

Chris muttered a curse beneath his breath, but Carlos calmly jotted notes on a sheet of paper. "Third," Amado continued, "between 2256 and 2260, the Union Astronautica dispatched five starships to 47 Ursae Majoris, the first of which arrived less than four years after the Alabama. With five thousand colonists aboard those vessels, the Union has just as much right . . . and, indeed, even more so . . . to claim Coyote as the Alabama party, which numbered little more than a hundred."

Amado paused; now he glared straight at Carlos. "Furthermore, my government has received reliable information that our peaceful efforts to colonize this new world were met with hostile resistance by the members of the Alabama party, resulting in the deaths of many Union colonists. We've also been told that the principal leader of this unlawful insurrection was none other than Mr. Montero himself."

This stunned me. How could he have learned this? Carlos's face went pale; his left hand went below the table, found my own. I grasped it, offering what little comfort that I could.

"Therefore," Amado went on, his voice simmering with outrage, "it's our opinion that the so-called Coyote Federation is little more than a guerilla insurgency, bent upon assuming control of territory that rightfully belongs to the Western Hemisphere Union. The WHU also regards any efforts by the European Alliance to open hyperspace travel between Earth and Coyote to be just as intrusive, and views its sponsorship of an illegal government as nothing less than an intrusion tantamount to an act of war."

By now, Carlos was gripping my hand so hard that I was afraid he'd bruise my fingers. Yet he was careful not to show his anger; he stared directly ahead, refusing to let his emotions get the better of him.

"Thank you, Patriarch Amado," Sadat said. I thought he was going to allow Carlos a chance to respond, but instead the Secretary-General looked to the other side of the room. "The chair recognizes the ambassador of the European Alliance."

Dieter Vogel had also introduced us to Sir Ian Rutledge the night before. He'd failed to make much of an impression upon me: an elderly Englishman, stoop-shouldered and rather frail, like some tired old lord who'd been given a diplomatic position a long time ago and left to rot there. Dieter was seated next to him; he whispered in Sir Ian's ear, and the old man listened to him for a moment, then nodded slightly.

"With respect to my collegue from the Western Hemisphere Union," Sir Ian began, soft-spoken and calm, "my government believes that his concerns have been rather overstated. In fact, to put matters as bluntly as he did, they're completely and wholly without merit."

More murmurs from the delegates. Sir Ian let it pass. "When the Alabama left Earth," he went on, "it was hijacked by a group of political dissidents led by its captain, the late R. E. Lee. This, too, is a matter of historical record. In doing so, they effectively dissolved all political ties to the United Republic of America . . . and therefore, by extension, to its successor, the Western Hemisphere Republic. So the WHU has no legal claim upon the Alabama, its crew, nor any of its passengers."

Chris gently rapped his knuckles against the desk; Carlos shook his head at him, but he was having a hard time keeping a straight face. "The fact that the Alabama has failed to establish radio contact with Earth is a simple matter of physics," Sir Ian continued. "Given the limitations imposed by the speed of light, the first transmissions from the Alabama won't be received for another"— he paused to check his notes—"five years, eight months, twenty-eight days, ten hours, and some-odd minutes and seconds." He paused. "That's a back-of-the-envelope calculation," he added dryly. "Sorry I can't be more specific, but my watch seems to be a bit off."

Laughter rolled across the room. Sir Ian allowed it to die down before he went on. "Granted, five ships from the Union Astronautica have also visited the 47 Ursae Majoris system, but since their radio signals have yet to be received, either, there's no way to ascertain their own territorial claims." More laughter, and Amado's face turned red, but Sir Ian chose to ignore this as well. "However, our own intelligence reports indicate that the Union's efforts to colonize Coyote were anything but peaceful. Heavily armed Union Guard soldiers were aboard the very first Union Astronautica vessel, along with colonists who had been selected largely by public lottery, as was the case with every WHU starship. In fact, the last ship sent to 47 Ursae Majoris was primarily military in nature, its mission undertaken by the Union Guard upon the recommendation of the Council of Savants . . . and I don't think this body needs to be reminded of the threat posed by the Savants before they were abolished."

More murmurs. Everyone surely remembered what the Savants had once planned for the rest of humankind: selective genocide, with the ultimate goal of reducing the global population. Yet Sir Ian wasn't done yet. "Therefore, any resistance the original colonists may have offered was justifiable. It was occupation by the Western Hemisphere Union that was unlawful, not their revolution. And once the Union Guard was defeated twenty-one years ago, and its forces sent back to Earth, the colonists set about forming the Coyote Federation as a free and democratic society."

Sir Ian gestured toward Carlos. "The very fact that they elected this man to be their president speaks well of their society. They chose neither a terrorist nor a tyrant, but instead one of their own . . . a common man who'd taken up arms to fight for their liberty. And I think we should respect them for this."

Carlos sat up a little straighter; he was no longer gripping my hand, but instead gazing at Sir Ian. I glanced at Amado; he should have considered himself lucky that a floater wasn't focused upon him just then.

"Therefore," Sir Ian continued, "it's the opinion of the European Alliance that the U.N. Space Treaty doesn't apply to the Coyote Federation since, from the very beginning, its colonies dissolved their connections from the governments of Earth. By much the same token, it should also be allowed to reestablish those ties, this time as an independent entity, free to negotiate matters of trade and immigration with whomever it chooses. My government is proud to act as its intermediary to the United Nations, and hopes to sponsor its eventual membership to the General Assembly."

Again, voices rumbled across the vast hall, as delegates quietly conversed with each other. The Secretary-General let it go for a few seconds, then pounded his gavel and called for adjournment. Hearings would continue tomorrow morning; until then, he'd be available to hear any motions for mediation. For now, the General Assembly was in recess.

It took nearly an hour for Carlos, Chris, and me to make our exit; we found ourselves surrounded by diplomats and their aides. The last I saw of Ambassador Amado, he'd gathered his notes and stalked from the hall. He'd made his best shot, and blown it.

I caught a glimpse of Sir Ian. The ambassador left the Assembly Hall without any fanfare; for him, this was just another day's work. But just before he left, I caught his eye. He smiled at me and nodded, and I blew him a kiss.

Thank you, Ambassador. You may have just saved my world.

A hoverlimo took us back to the European Alliance embassy, where we remained for the rest of the day. Yet Carlos and I had little chance to relax. All afternoon, we received visits from various U.N. delegations, each wishing to privately discuss the details of our trade and immigration proposals. The embassy staff allowed us to use a ground-floor parlor near the ballroom for our meetings; Carlos and I sat in armchairs near an ornate fireplace warmed by the holographic projection of burning logs as, two or three at a time, various diplomats and their aides were ushered in to see us.

Every one of them was willing to recognize the Coyote Federation as a sovereign entity, and nearly all were willing to join the European Alliance in cosponsoring Coyote's induction to the United Nations. However, in return for their support, they all wanted certain concessions to be made. The potential for future colonization was the biggest concern. Nearly everyone objected to our insistence that immigration be limited; they saw no reason why their countries shouldn't be allowed to ship as many people as possible to a world that was largely uninhabited. Others were reluctant to accept our stipulation that new colonies would be nonmilitarized; they argued that they needed to protect themselves from their neighbors. Several were less than enthusiastic about having to abide by the terms of the Liberty Compact; they wanted to export their own forms of government, in effect turning their colonies into miniature copies of their home countries.

And there were dozens of questions. What were Coyote's most temperate regions? Which continents and islands had the greatest reserves of natural resources? What was the potential for mining? Were there any rare substances? Was the native animal life dangerous? Were the indigenous plants edible? Who would control access to the rivers and channels? Had anyone yet explored the polar regions? How did we maintain agriculture during the long winters? Had we yet considered building an international spaceport? And, most importantly, was there anything we'd told the last delegate who'd walked in here that we weren't telling them?

So on and so forth, with one ambassador after another coming forth to smile, bow, make noises about how much they respected our courage and pioneer fortitude, then try to wiggle out of us a bargain that would give them an edge over their rivals. Carlos listened patiently to each one; I took notes and occasionally offered a comment or two, while Chris quietly stood off to one side. We offered as much information as we could, except about what we'd discussed with the last delegation with whom we'd met, and conceded nothing but vague assurances that we'd take their issues into consideration. The fine art of diplomacy: take as much as you can, surrender as little as possible, and attempt to make friends or, at the very least, prevent anyone from declaring war.

The last light of day cast long shadows through the windows when we finally put quits to the whole ordeal. We'd received over a dozen dinner invitations, but we'd accepted none; all Carlos and I wanted to do was return to our suite, have a shower and a quick bite to eat, then crawl into bed. My skull pounded with a headache, and Carlos complained that his lower back was sore from having bowed so many times; Chris was the only one of us who didn't seem to have any trouble adjusting to the higher gravity.

We were in no mood for more visitors, so when an embassy aide stuck his head through the door and told us that Morgan Goldstein had just arrived, Carlos was on the verge of an ill-tempered reply before I cut him off.

"Yes, we'll be glad to see Mr. Goldstein," I said. "Please show him in." Carlos scowled at me, and I held up a hand. Five minutes, I mouthed, and he gave an exhausted shrug. Five minutes. What difference could that make?

Goldstein entered, casually dressed in a charcoal overcoat and a dark brown sweater. This time he wasn't alone; he was accompanied by a tall, heavy-set gent with long blond hair and a thick beard. Clearly a bodyguard. He and Chris warily gazed at each other, two warriors sizing up a possible adversary.

"Mr. President, First Lady . . ." Goldstein smiled. "Or are you tired of hearing that all day? I can call you something else, if you prefer."

"You can call me anything except . . ." Carlos sighed, rubbed his eyelids. "Naw, forget it. I'm already late for dinner. You want to call me Carlos, go right ahead. I don't care."

"Carlos, then." Goldstein nodded, and looked at me. "And I take it I can call you Wendy? And you, Mr. Levin . . . is it too much of a familiarity if I called you Chris?"

"Whatever suits you." Chris didn't take his eyes off Goldstein's strongman; I noticed that his hand had risen to the lapel of his jacket. "If he's packing a gun, though, he's going to have to wait outside."

"Mr. Kennedy doesn't wait outside for anyone." Yet Goldstein turned toward him. "Mike, if you'll kindly divest yourself of your weaponry, I think it'd go a long way toward instilling trust in our friends."

Kennedy hesitated, then opened his overcoat and carefully withdrew a small, chrome-plated handgun from a shoulder holster. A particle-beam laser; he laid it on a nearby table, then slowly stepped away. Chris picked it up, unclipped the power-pack, then put it back on the table. Kennedy nodded, then picked up his gun and put it back in his holster. Professional courtesy; Chris wasn't disarming his counterpart, just making sure that he couldn't do any harm.

"Glad we're past that." Carlos relaxed a little; he reached for a glass of water on the side table next to him. "Mr. Goldstein, you're going to have to forgive us, but—"

"Call me Morgan, please."

"Morgan, we've had a long day. Wendy and I would rather—"

"Of course. I have no intention of imposing upon you more than necessary." Removing his coat, Goldstein walked to the chair where dozens of delegates had seated themselves; for a moment, I thought he was going to sit down, but instead he tossed his coat on the chair. "You're worn out. I don't blame you. For what it's worth, though, you handled yourselves in an exemplary fashion. I couldn't have done it better myself."

Carlos and I exchanged glances. Who the hell did he think he was? "Thank you," I said. "If that's all, then . . ."

"Well, no. Not quite." Goldstein clasped his hands behind his back. "First, I've taken the liberty of having a local caterer deliver dinner to your rooms. Nothing too elaborate, I assure you. Just a little better than the soup and sandwiches the embassy kitchen would offer."

Carlos raised an eyebrow. "We appreciate that, but—"

"Please. Consider it a token of my admiration." Goldstein walked away, rubbing an imaginary speck from his eye. "You know, that really was a remarkable performance. I have to admit, in fact, that I may have underestimated you. I thought you might have been out of your league, but instead you showed remarkable grace under pressure. And having Sir Ian come to your rescue like that . . ." He chuckled. "Outstanding. My compliments on a fine maneuver."

"It wasn't a maneuver," I said coldly. "We didn't ask Sir Ian to defend us. He did that by himself."

Goldstein darted a sharp look in my direction. "Really? That wasn't prearranged?" Carlos and I both shook our heads, and now it was his turn to be surprised. "Even more remarkable. I didn't think the old duffer still had it in him."

I was quickly getting annoyed. "Mr. Goldstein . . ."

"The other reason I came," he went on, as if I hadn't spoken, "is to offer a little advice. My sources tell me that Patriarch Amado has met with the Secretary-General and requested mediation."

This was unexpected. "What does that mean?" Carlos asked, as we glanced at each other.

"That means, tomorrow morning before the General Assembly reconvenes, you'll meet informally with Farouk, Marcos, and Sir Ian. I don't know the specifics, but I'm willing to bet that Marcos knows that any further attempt to claim Coyote as Union territory is pointless, and that he should try to offer a compromise before his country gets left out."

I almost laughed out loud. Last night, Amado had treated Carlos and me as if we were a couple of hicks. This morning, he'd gone so far as to openly accuse Carlos of being a terrorist. Now that he saw which way the wind was blowing, he wanted to make a deal. Politics . . .

"Sure, we can compromise," Chris said. "I'll bend over if he gets down on his knees, so he can kiss my . . ."

Mike Kennedy apparently forgot he was supposed to be a bodyguard, too, because he guffawed. He and Chris took one look at each other, then they both broke up. Moments like that are infectious; a second later, everyone in the room was howling with laughter, with Carlos and me holding on to one another for support and Goldstein half-collapsed against a table. One of the embassy staff opened the door to peer inside; seeing what was going on, he hastily slammed the door shut. And that just set us off again.

When the laughter finally wore off, Goldstein ran a hand across his hairless head. "Well, I doubt he'll go that far, but . . ." Straightening up, he wiped the smirk from his face. "All the same, I think you should take whatever he offers into consideration. The WHU has enormous clout in the General Assembly, particularly in matters regarding extraterrestrial resources. If you can work out some sort of equitable agreement between them and the EA, then the Pacific Coalition will probably go with it. After that, the nonaligned countries will fall into line."

"Makes sense." Carlos was sober again. "So why are you telling us this?"

Goldstein shrugged. "As I told your wife, I'm a businessman. A venture capitalist, if you will. I see Coyote as an opportunity for long-term investment. If the three major powers can come to terms, then I stand to make money."

"Simple as that, huh?"

"Not quite so simple. If money was the sole objective, I'd be at my estate, sunning myself by the pool and waiting to see which countries sign trade agreements with you so that I can buy stock in the right places." Again, an offhand shrug. "But after a while, there's little difference between having ten billion and having a hundred billion. A few more toys, that's all. And eventually, time catches up."

Goldstein went silent for a moment, as if reflecting upon thoughts to which we were not privy, until he finally went on. "So that's it. Dinner, and a word to the wise. Please take it as is. Mike?"

Kennedy picked up Goldstein's overcoat, held it open for his boss. "One more thing," Goldstein added, as he pushed his arms into the sleeves. "As I said before, I have a gift for you. If Marcos offers you a trip to the Union . . . and I have no doubt he will . . . please take him up on it. However, allow me to provide the transportation."

"We'll keep it in mind," I said.

"Please do." A bow, and then he turned away. "Very well, then. Good night. Enjoy your dinner."

The door closed behind them, and we let out our breaths. For the first time in hours, we were alone. Or at least in the physical sense; I had little doubt that the parlor was bugged, and EA intelligence operatives were listening to everything we said.

"So," Carlos said. "Do we trust him?"

I said nothing, but instead raised my hand, twisted my wrist back and forth. Maybe. Maybe not.

The Mediation Room was a small chamber adjacent to the General Assembly Hall; a round mahogany table dominated the room, beneath a circular stained-glass ceiling fashioned to resemble the zodiac. Marcos Amado was already there when we arrived, along with a senior aide; he offered a formal bow to Carlos, Chris, and me, but said nothing until General-Secretary Sadat and his aide showed up a few minutes later, with Sir Ian Rutledge and a senior consul right behind them.

A few more bows, then everyone took their seats: the Patriarch and his aide directly across the table from Carlos, Chris, and me, with Sadat and his aide to our right, and Sir Ian and his consul to our left. A summit meeting. Yet even though Carlos and I were prepared for another fight, we didn't get one. As Goldstein predicted, Amado had apparently realized that any further attempt to claim Coyote as Union territory would be futile; his best hope now was to try to bargain with us.

So he laid his offer on the table. In exchange for WHU recognition of the Coyote Federation, he wanted assurances that the European Alliance would be granted hyperspace passage to the 47 Ursae Majoris system, and also that the Union would be allowed to establish a new colony on a previously unsettled landmass, along with sovereign control of its government.

We were willing to let the Union establish a new colony, but Carlos was reluctant about letting it have its own government. Social collectivism had already been tried on Coyote, and the results had been disastrous: thousands of immigrants reduced to virtual slavery, while a select few had enjoyed the fruits of their labor. As a result, the Liberty Compact was based upon democratic principles; the colonies that made up the Coyote Federation had already accepted this standard as the foundation of our government. Therefore, if one colony embraced collectivism, it couldn't be allowed to join the Federation, and we didn't want to have a colony that posed a potential threat to the others.

The Secretary-General pointed out that the United Nations didn't endorse one social system over another. If the U.N. were to legally recognize the Coyote Federation, then it would have to exempt Coyote from the terms of the 1967 Space Treaty; this meant that the Liberty Compact couldn't be enforced upon new colonies established by nations on Earth. However, he quickly added that, if the immigration controls were put in place and outside military forces were prohibited on Coyote, then the other colonies shouldn't have anything to fear from one that embraced social collectivism.

Sir Ian suggested a compromise. If the WHU was allowed to establish a colony, then its citizens should also be given the opportunity to relocate freely to colonies if they chose to do so, or even start their own noncollectivist settlements somewhere else. And if the Union colony abided by those terms, and didn't undertake any hostile actions against their neighbors, then the Union colony would be allowed to join the Coyote Federation as a nonvoting member of the Colonial Council.

Patriarch Amado hesitated upon hearing this; so did Carlos and I. The WHU was looking for another toehold upon Coyote, and we weren't wild about them getting it. But the EA controlled the starbridges; they were anticipating the revenue they'd make from passage fees, and denying the Union would cut deep into their estimated profits. And just as much as these two coalitions wanted to exploit the resources of a new world, we also needed what they had to offer. They were desperate, yes . . . but then, so were we.

So we accepted the compromise.

In hindsight, I can't say whether we were wrong or right. All sides had something to gain; likewise, all sides also had something to lose. There's no perfect black or white when it comes to something like this, and even the shades of grey are hard to distinguish. In the years to come, historians would debate the outcome of what happened in the Mediation Room that morning, and they'd come to different conclusions. All I can say is that Carlos and I did the best we could, and leave it to future generations to determine the wisdom, or the error, of our actions.

When we were done, the Secretary-General told us that he'd present the draft of our agreement to both the General Assembly and the Security Council. We could expect further debate, of course, yet he was confident that this was an equitable solution. He passed his notes to his aide, who left the room while we were still bowing to one another. The delegates had already convened in the hall, so Sadat made haste in departing; Sir Ian made a point of shaking Carlos's hand, then he left as well.

That left us alone, for the moment, with Patriarch Amado. He dismissed his aide, and Carlos reciprocated by nodding Chris to the door. Now there were only the three of us.

"Mr. President . . ." Amado began.

"So pleased to hear you say that," Carlos replied. "Sounds better this way, doesn't it?"

Amado shrugged. "Perhaps it does, now that we've settled our differences. And I certainly hope that you'll no longer consider me your enemy."

"I never did. But friendship is something else we'll have to work out."

"Of course." Amado turned to pick up his notes. Then, as if a new thought occurred to him, he looked back at us again. "It's been suggested to me, by a mutual friend . . . Señor Goldstein, whom I believe you've met . . . that you might like to pay a visit to the Union before you return to your world. Perhaps to see your old country?"

"We'd be delighted, Patriarch."

"Very well." Amado smiled. "I'll have my people make the arrangements." A short bow. "Good morning, then. I look forward to seeing you again soon."

He walked out of the room, and Carlos let out his breath once he was gone. "What do you think?" he whispered. "Friend or foe?"

"Do you have to ask?" I suppressed a shudder. "This is Morgan's plan. Let's see where it takes us."

Soon we would know. Five days later, a private aerocruiser belonging to Janus Ltd., Goldstein's corporation, touched down in Grosvenor Square. We departed London with little fanfare; Sir Ian and Dieter came to see us off, but other than a few journalists and a handful of embassy staff members, few people watched as Carlos, Chris, and I boarded the aircraft. Its VTOL jets swiveled downward, and a few seconds later it lifted off from the landing pad.

By then we'd concluded most of our business on Earth. Acting on behalf of the European Alliance, Sir Ian had introduced a formal U.N. resolution, officially recognizing the Coyote Federation as an independent entity; once the Western Hemisphere Union withdrew its objections, several nonaligned countries signed on as cosponsors, and even the Pacific Coalition had given its tacit approval. Although the General Assembly had yet to vote upon it, Dieter was certain that it would pass. In the meantime, Carlos had conducted trade negotiations with several countries. The compromise we'd worked out several days earlier with the WHU had demonstrated that Coyote was serious about doing business with Earth; now it seemed as if everyone was lined up at the door, wanting a piece of the action.

We were exhausted. When Carlos and I hadn't been wrangling out the details of trade agreements, either one or both of us had conducted press conferences or granted interviews to individual reporters. And when we weren't doing that, we'd fulfilled promises to attend state dinners held in our honor at various embassies and consulates. By then we'd come to know most of the U.N. diplomatic corps on a first-name basis, along with a good part of London high society. Once our bodies had reacclimated to higher gravity, we didn't need to use canes to walk anymore; so many of our newfound friends had gifted us with clothes, we had a wardrobe of the latest fashions to choose from whenever we dressed to go out. Indeed, we'd become in demand as guests; everyone wanted to meet the President and First Lady of the Coyote Federation, and hear our stories of a world where strange creatures haunted its mountains and rivers.

After a while, though, the novelty started to wear thin, and when it did, I began to notice just how jaded this society had become. Although the embassy area surrounding Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace remained gentrified, sometimes our ride took us north of Mayfair and Bayswater or south of Belgravia and Knightsbridge, and then we'd find ourselves traveling through parts of the city where the buildings were noticeably decrepit. Few lights shone in the windows at night; armored vehicles were stationed at every block, with police officers standing watch, while shabby figures huddled in doorways or against the boarded-up storefronts. Every now and then, while I made small talk with the lords and ladies, I'd glance through a window to see the flickering glow of trash can fires, or spot the searchlight of a gyro flying low over a darkened neighborhood not far away. Yet none of that seemed to penetrate the conscience of the wealthy and privileged; shielded from the unpleasant realities of the world, they nibbled canapés and chatted about their country homes in the highlands, and made the occasional joke about a kitchen servant finding a rat the size of a beagle in the pantry.

So when Patriarch Amado extended a formal invitation for us to visit Atlanta, Carlos and I were all too ready to accept. We'd done as much as we could in London, at least for now, and we were hungry for a change of scenery. Dieter was reluctant to see us go, but he realized that we had to pay a visit to the Union, if only for the sake of fostering good relations. He offered to supply us with a security team, but after some consideration Carlos decided that it might send the wrong signal if we showed up in America with European bodyguards. Like it or not, we had to show that we were willing to trust the WHU just as much as the EA. Besides, Carlos, Chris, and I had all once been Americans; if we couldn't safely visit our native soil, then where on Earth could we go?

Nonetheless, shortly before we left the embassy, Dieter gave Chris a small satphone. It had been preprogrammed with an emergency prefix; all he had to do was enter 010 and the star key, then touch the SEND key. No verbal message was necessary; so long as the unit was kept active, someone would be able track the source of our transmission, and help would be on the way. Chris thanked him and put it in his coat pocket.

Morgan Goldstein's aerocruiser was a flying wing, with a ninety-foot wingspan and hydrogen-fuel turbofan engines mounted on either side of its fuselage. Its main cabin was even more luxurious than the one aboard the Von Braun; plush white carpets, swivel-mounted armchair seats, private cabins in the aft section, and a well-stocked bar. Morgan was waiting for us when we arrived; a steward offered us drinks while Mike Kennedy made sure that our luggage was safely loaded aboard, and a few minutes later the aerocruiser took off. A last glimpse of London and the inundated coast of southern England, and then we were airborne above the Atlantic.

"I hope you don't mind that we take the slow way home," Morgan said, "but I wanted us to have a chance to talk. A suborbital could have made the trip more quickly, but . . ." An offhand shrug. "Besides, I like to show off my toys. This one's an antique. Less than a hundred were manufactured before the company went under."

"Very nice. Nice indeed." Carlos jiggled the ice in the single-malt scotch he'd been given. He'd been drinking a little more often than usual these last few days; he'd never gotten drunk, at least so far as I could tell, but during all the dinner parties and receptions we'd attended he'd developed a taste for liquor more refined than the sourgrass ale and waterfruit wine he'd drink back home. I'd tried to chalk it up to pressure, but still it worried me. "So what do you want to discuss?"

"Nothing in particular." Turning his seat around, Morgan stretched out his legs, then used his toes to pry off his black felt moccasins. "It's just that this is first time we've had a chance to talk about stuff when we don't have to worry about who else might be listening." He glanced at his bodyguard. "Mike, the recorders are turned off, right?"

"We're clean, chief." Kennedy slid open a panel on the armrest of his seat, then turned around to let Chris take a look. "See?"

"We'll take your word for it," I said. "So what is it that you want to know?"

"The question is, what do you want to know?" Morgan massaged his toes against the carpet. "The way I see it, for the last week or so, you've been the ones on the spot . . . and, as I've said before, you handled the situation quite well. But I imagine there're things you'd like to know that no one has told you. So since you don't have to worry about anyone listening in, why don't you ask me?"

None of us said anything for a few moments. Carlos looked at me, and I looked at Chris, and Chris looked back at both of us. Morgan crossed his legs, patiently waiting for one of us to speak. "You like the scotch?" he asked, casually raising his glass to peer at it. "Hard to come by these days. I have it made for me in Edinburgh, but—"

"Whose side are you on?" Carlos asked. "The Union or the Alliance?"

"Neither. I'm on my side. I have substantial business interests in both the Union and the Alliance. That's why I maintain a dual citizenship in both the EA and the WHU, and have legal residences in both North America and Europe." He smiled. "In fact, we're going to pay a quick visit to my New England estate on the way to Atlanta. Hope you don't mind."

"So you're playing both ends against the middle," I said.

Morgan shook his head. "Not really, no. I take care that nothing I do hurts either the Union or the Alliance. That's one reason why I've cultivated contacts with the diplomatic community . . . getting invited to that reception last week, for instance, required little more than a couple of phone calls. But in the end, I'm looking out primarily for my own interests."

"So what's your interest in Coyote?" Chris asked. "You want to add us to your empire?"

Morgan grinned as he swiveled his chair to face him. "You know, Mr. Levin, you're very much like your friend Mike." He nodded toward Kennedy, who sat quietly nearby. "People think that because he's my bodyguard and doesn't say much, he's all muscle and no brain. But still waters run deep, as the saying goes—"

"You haven't answered the question."

"Mike, he's being rude. Break his legs." Kennedy hesitated, then started to rise. Chris's right hand drifted toward his jacket. "I'm kidding," Morgan added, and both he and Chris relaxed once more. "No, I'm not planning to 'add you to my empire,' as you put it. Certainly, I'd like to have my company be involved with whatever trade agreements you make, but that's not my principal goal."

"What is it, then?" Carlos asked.

Morgan didn't reply immediately. Instead, he gazed out the window next to his seat as he absently gnawed at a fingernail. "You've seen how bad things have become here," he said after a moment. "The planet is on the verge of environmental collapse . . . no, not even on the verge. It's already reached that point. Every scientist with whom I've spoken agrees that Earth is dying, slowly and by degrees. Within another generation or two, glaciers will cover most of northern Europe, and in the meantime North America is frying. Much of the Southern Hemisphere is already uninhabitable . . . what hasn't been flooded has turned into desert . . . and over half of the world's wildlife has become extinct."

He looked back at us again. "I don't intend to join them. I want to immigrate to Coyote."

Carlos shrugged. "That shouldn't be difficult. We've worked out immigration protocols for—"

"Yes, yes, of course you have." Morgan waved an impatient hand. "But do you really think I'm going to live in a log cabin and eat . . . what is it you call it? . . . creek crab stew for lunch?" He chuckled, shook his head. "Mr. President, I've become accustomed to certain comforts and privileges, and I'm not prepared to surrender them lightly. I want . . . well, concessions . . . to be made on my behalf."

"Concessions." Carlos raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing much, really. Just some real estate I can call my own, and the ability to do with it as I please. Perhaps a small island off the coast of Midland or Great Dakota. Minimal interference from the Colonial Council . . . I won't do anything to harm you, if you won't do anything to harm me."

"That's quite a bit to ask for."

"Not really. Only privacy. In return, you'll have my company's resources at your disposal. Janus quite diversified, with subsidiaries in many different areas. Shipping is our primary interest, but we're also involved in communications, construction, electronics, medicine . . . they're all yours for the asking, or at least at below-market prices. All I want is—"

"Privacy." Carlos glanced at me. We'd been prepared to deal with the Union's form of social collectivism, and over the last week we'd negotiated agreements with dozens of different countries. Yet this was something new: a billionaire capitalist who had everything we wanted, and was willing to exchange them for a private stake. Maybe this was the going price for forty acres and a mule. I didn't know whether to laugh, scream, or just throw up.

"Your offer is interesting," Carlos said, putting on a straight face. "Give us time to think about it."

"Of course. No rush." Again, Morgan favored us with his most charming smile. "When we land, though, I'll show you a gift that may help to persuade you."

"You said that before. What's—?"

"Shh." He raised a finger to his lips, gave us a broad wink. "A good gift is always a surprise. Be patient." The smug smile remained on his face as he glanced at his watch, then he shifted in his seat. "Almost time for my midday nap. Are there any more questions?"

"Just one," I said. "It has nothing to do with anything we've just discussed, but it's something I've wondered about ever since we got here. And since you say you have contacts with the Alliance government . . ."

"Ask."

"When we arrived at Highgate, we saw a new Alliance cruiser, the Francis Drake." Morgan nodded, and I went on. "We were told that it was a merchanteer, specifically built to carry freight and passengers through hyperspace, but I noticed that it had torpedo tubes. When I brought this up to Dieter Vogel, he said that they'd been installed to protect the ship."

"Of course, yes."

"But against whom? Union spacecraft? That makes sense if they're preparing for war . . . but despite a lot of chest-beating, I've seen nothing to suggest that the WHU and the EA are ready to start shooting at each other. And even if they were, for a ship designed for interstellar travel to be armed—"

"What happened to the Galileo?" Carlos interrupted. I glanced at him, and he raised a hand, hushing me. "It has to do with that, doesn't it? The Galileo was the first EA starship, and it disappeared when it went to the Kuiper Belt. The Columbus was the second, but it wasn't armed . . ."

"Because it didn't travel through a starbridge." Morgan cupped a hand against his face, hiding his expression. "You're on the right track. Go on."

"Now they've built the Drake, and it is. Armed, I mean." Carlos hesitated, then looked at me. "Ana told me about the Galileo, but she swore me to secrecy. I'm sorry, honey, but . . ."

"Never mind." This wasn't the first time Carlos had kept a secret from me; he'd also remained quiet about the chirreep until Susan had been abducted by them. That had happened many years ago, and it made me angry that he'd hide something from me again, but for the moment all I wanted was a straight answer. "Let's have it, Mr. Goldstein. Tell us what happened to the Galileo."

Morgan rose from his chair. "What I'm about to tell you is a secret," he said quietly, clasping his hands behind his back as he paced down the aisle between our seats. "In fact, it's classified information, known only by a handful of government and military officials within the Alliance. As I said before, though, I've managed to cultivate friends in high places, and every now and then something slips through the cracks that gets to me." He stopped to regard us with solemn eyes. "So I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourselves. No one must know what I'm about to tell you."

"We understand," Carlos said. "Go on, please."

"The first starbridge was experimental . . . KX-1, built by the ESA in the Kuiper Belt in 2288. Once Jonas Whittaker was revived, the EA encouraged him to revive his research into hyperspace travel, with the express purpose of developing a means of sending ships to 47 Ursae Majoris faster than the Union. By then, the necessary breakthroughs had become possible, and so it didn't take his team very long to devise a means of creating artificial wormholes. So an unmanned vessel utilizing diametric drive was launched to the outermost solar system, and once it arrived, robots aboard assembled KX-1 as a prototype starbridge."

Morgan paused by the bar to pour some more scotch. "The starbridge was still being tested when Patriarchs from the Union Astronautica made high-level contact with their counterparts in the European Space Agency. Their lunar radio telescope at Mare Muscoviense had picked up a very strong radio signal from outside the solar system . . . only two light-years from Earth, in fact, about halfway to Proxima Centauri. Not a message, but simply a regular, repeating signal, almost like a beacon. Since it came from interstellar space relatively close to Earth, it didn't appear to be a pulsar. The EA repositioned their own deep-space radio telescopes in the same direction, and came to the same conclusion—"

"A starship." Carlos said this flatly. "Not one of ours."

"Maybe." Morgan shrugged as he walked back toward us. "Maybe not. Further observations didn't detect anything that looked like engine exhaust, yet mass spectrometers revealed a large object containing traces of carbons, dioxides, various heavy metals. Whatever it was, it appeared to be bigger than a ship, but at the same time it was too small to be defined by planet-finders. But if it wasn't a vessel or a planet . . ."

He sat down again. "Well, of course, a mystery like this just has to be investigated. But the Union Astronautica didn't have anymore starships left in its fleet . . . in fact, they'd virtually bankrupted themselves building those five ships they'd already sent to Coyote . . . and they knew that the EA was building its first manned starship, the Galileo, and was preparing to use it to give KX-1 its first operational test. So, in a rare instance of détente, the WHU and the EA agreed to engage in a joint mission. Launch the Galileo through the starbridge, then send it out to intercept Spindrift."

"Spindrift?"

"That's what the object was code-named." Morgan absently swirled the ice around his glass. "Of course, what the public was told was that the Galileo was engaged in a scientific mission to explore Kuiper Belt plantessimals." A lopsided smile. "Not that many people cared. By then, things were going seriously downhill here on Earth, so most folks thought . . . well, it just wasn't worth thinking about."

He sighed as he stretched out his legs once again. "So, few people noticed or even cared when we lost contact with the Galileo. It went through the starbridge on this side, came out the starbridge on the other end, transmitted back some images of the Belt. And that was it . . . that was the last we heard of the Galileo. The public was told that it had suffered some sort of catastrophic failure, perhaps a collision with an asteroid, and that's what they believed."

"But you don't," Carlos said.

"From what I've heard, once the Galileo concluded its survey, its crew went into biostasis for the intercept mission to Spindrift. The onboard AI sent back a report indicating that all systems were nominal. After that . . ." Morgan shook his head. "Nothing. No one knows whether it even reached Spindrift. By then, though, construction of the Columbus had been completed. Its command crew was briefed about the loss of the Galileo, but they were instructed not to reveal anything of this to anyone on Coyote." He looked at Carlos. "Captain Tereshkova must think highly of you, if she told you as much as she did."

"We've become friends." Carlos gave me an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, dear. Ana let me know a little, but she made me promise—"

"Sure." I was still sore at him, yet there's a difference between pillow talk and state secrets. I was married to a chief of state; I was used to the idea that, every now and then, there were matters that I really had no business knowing about. Yet there was more to the disappearance of the Galileo than what Morgan had just told us.

Almost everyone on Coyote knew the story of Leslie Gillis: the chief communications officer aboard the Alabama, prematurely revived from biostasis only three months after the ship had left Earth. Very few people knew the reason why— that it hadn't been an accident, as everyone believed, but because his cell had been sabotaged by my own father— but what had happened afterward had become legend. Gillis had remained alive aboard the Alabama for the next thirty-two years, alone and without any company, writing The Chronicles of Prince Rupurt as his sole escape from his dreary existence. Those books had become required reading for every child on Coyote. Indeed, Carlos had read them to Susan when she was a little girl.

What was less known about those stories, though, was their source of inspiration. When Captain Lee had read the ledgers in which Gillis had handwritten his tales, he discovered a brief description of a mysterious light Gillis had spotted from the ship's wardroom window: a distant light that wasn't a star, passing the Alabama like a ship in the night without responding to any radio messages the communications officer had transmitted.

Leslie Gillis was convinced that he'd seen another starship. Some believed that it may have only been a hallucination. No one knew for sure. But now . . .

"Something to consider, isn't it?" Morgan glanced at his watch again, then yawned and stood up. "Well, we have a long flight ahead of us, and it's time for my siesta. See you all when we arrive."

With that, he went aft to his private stateroom, closing the door behind him. The steward offered me another drink, but I declined. Instead, I gazed out the window at the blue waters of the ocean, wondering if there was a connection between these two mysteries.

And realizing that, if there was, the consequences could be deadly.

Morgan Goldstein's estate was located in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts, in a remote valley northeast of Stockbridge. As the aerocruiser shed altitude, I peered out the window to see low mountains covered by forest, with small ponds and farm fields scattered among the hills. At first, it seemed as if this was one small part of the world that hadn't been affected by climate change, yet as we came closer, I saw vast blackened areas where fires had rampaged through the woodlands, and dry beds where there had once been rivers.

Here and there, too, were refugee camps: great settlements of tents and shacks, where those who'd been displaced from their homes were trying to make a last stand. The decadeslong heat wave that scorched the South had destroyed agriculture and ruined the watershed, forcing hundreds of thousands to flee to cooler regions. They'd made the right decision— for a time, the northern regions had relatively pleasant weather, with shorter winters and longer summers— but even that eventually changed, for when the meltdown of the Antarctic and Greenland ice packs reversed the Atlantic Current, the wind patterns of the Northern Hemisphere had reversed as well. Now New England, too, was rapidly becoming a hot zone; it wouldn't be long before its mountain forests died, leaving behind only barren highlands and mosquito-infested swamps.

But until then, Morgan Goldstein had his own private retreat nestled within the Berkshires. Once the aerocruiser touched down on a paved airstrip at the far end of the estate and Kennedy opened the hatch, Morgan led us down the stairs. For a morning in mid-November, the air was warm and humid; the driver of the electric cart that awaited us wore shorts and a T-shirt, and he regarded us with faint amusement as we pulled off the sweaters we'd been wearing when we left London. Two weeks before Thanksgiving, and I was sweltering; if I hadn't known better, I could have sworn we'd just landed in Jamaica.

Leaving Kennedy behind to bring our luggage from the plane, we climbed aboard the cart and headed down a gravel road leading away from the airstrip. Morgan took a moment to gaze at a datapad the driver handed him; he grunted quietly, either satisfied or dissatisfied with what he read, then he folded the pad and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

Morgan had done well with his little getaway. Three hundred acres of crops growing beneath elevated irrigation pipes, the water drawn from cisterns and artesian wells. Two wind turbines, along with a solar farm; all the electricity he needed came from his own energy sources. A large split-level hacienda, constructed of bird's-eye maple and granite fieldstone, with separate quarters for guests and a swimming pool where they could cool off. And a ten-foot chain-link fence around the entire area, patrolled round-the-clock by armed security guards; apparently Morgan was just as serious about maintaining his privacy as he was about self-sustenance.

Yet it wasn't until we approached the long pinewood shed that lay near the main house that he stopped showing off his wealth. "Here's where you'll see your gift," he said, then he looked at the driver. "Hit the horn, will you? I want Joe to know we're coming."

I noticed a large paddock adjacent to the shed. It was vacant, but hay bales were stacked nearby, and water troughs had been built within the wooden fence. The shed door opened as the cart came to a halt, and a tall, muscular man wearing bib overalls came out. A native American, his skin was red as copper, his eyes as dark as his long black hair.

"Mr. Goldstein," he said as we got out of the cart. "Good to have you back."

"Good to see you, too, Joe." Morgan offered his hand, which the man shook without hesitation; I'd become so used to bows that this simple gesture came as a surprise. Morgan turned to us. "Allow me to introduce you . . . Carlos Montero, the President of the Coyote Federation, his wife, Wendy Gunther, and their aide, Chris Levin. My friends, Joseph Walking Star Cassidy."

Cassidy nodded, then without another word he sauntered over to us. Carlos offered his hand, but for a moment Cassidy didn't accept it. Instead, he simply stared at my husband, a long and unblinking gaze as if he was searching for something in Carlos's eyes. Carlos didn't say anything; he stared back at him. For nearly a minute, neither man moved or said anything.

"Yeah, I knew it," Cassidy said at last, not looking away from my husband. "You're the eagle. You've got his soul." He clasped Carlos's hand in both of his own, gave it a hard squeeze; Carlos winced a little, but tried not to show it. "You chose well," Joe said to Morgan as he released Carlos, then he turned to the rest of us. "C'mon, let's go inside. Got something to show you."

Carlos glanced at me, but said nothing as he followed Cassidy to the door. Chris followed him, but I hung back a step to touch Morgan's arm. "Mind telling me what that was all about?" I whispered.

"Sorry," he murmured. "Perhaps I should have warned you. Joe's a Navajo. A shaman, in fact. He has . . . well, a certain way of doing things."

The shed's interior was cool and dark, filled with the rank scent of hay, manure, and animal sweat. My eyes were still adjusting to the gloom when Joe flipped a switch on the wall; lights along the ceiling came to life, and now I saw dozens of stalls, arranged in two long rows on either side of a sawdust-covered dirt floor. Bridles and reins hung from support posts, and well-worn saddles were slung across low beams just above our heads.

A loud snort from the stall next to me; I looked around to see a chestnut mare regarding me with solemn brown eyes. Just as startled as I was, she hastily backed away, tossing her mane as her hooves shuffled against the sawdust. It had been many years since the last time I'd seen a horse, but old instincts came back to me. "Hey, easy, easy," I said quietly. "It's okay, girl. You just surprised me, that's all."

The mare eyed me for a few seconds, probably trying to decide whether to trust a stranger. "Here," Cassidy said, stepping forward to give me a piece of dried apricot he'd taken from his pocket. "She'll like this. You feed her by—"

"I know. Thanks." Spreading my palm open, I placed the apricot slice in the center of my hand, then reached over the wooden gate. "C'mon, girl . . . I want to be friends." The horse gazed at me for another few seconds, then reluctantly ventured closer, tempted by the treat. Her coarse lips gently came down upon my hand, then she nibbled at the fruit, and allowed me to stroke the small white star on her nose.

"That's Lady Jane." Cassidy reached past me to give her a scratch between the ears. "She's sometimes skittish, but I guess she likes you." He looked at me. "You've been around horses before."

"A little." When I was a teenager, after my father had sent me off to a government youth hostel, I'd spent time cleaning out the stables at Camp Schaefly. One of the counselors had even given me a few riding lessons, but that ended when he'd tried to take advantage of what I'd first thought was kindness. "She's a sweetheart . . . Tennessee walker, right?"

"Uh-huh. So's Lord Jim, her mate." The equerry nodded toward the stallion in the next stall. "They're a matched pair . . . get one, take the other for free."

"In fact, they're all yours," Morgan said quietly. "Every single one."

"What?" I stared at him. "What are you . . . are you serious?"

"Very much so." Morgan strolled down the aisle, passing stalls occupied by horses that either watched us with equine curiosity or placidly munched at hay. "I told you I had a gift for your world. This is it. Quarter horses, Kentucky thoroughbreds, Percherons, Appaloosas, Arabians, Morgans, Shetlands, even a couple of donkeys . . . a little bit of everything, forty-eight in all. Some colts and fillies, of course, but all are good breeding stock. My most prized possessions. And yes, you heard me right . . . they're yours."

"And you want to . . . ?" Carlos's face showed astonished disbelief. "I don't understand . . . you say you just want to . . . ?"

"Give them to you. That's what I said." Morgan reached into a stall to gently stroke the neck of a dappled Appaloosa pony. "They're my most prized possession, so believe me when I tell you this isn't a casual gift. You're taking something very precious to me."

"I . . . I don't . . ."

"Whatever you're going to say next, please do not let it be 'no.' " Morgan rested against the gate. "Let me explain. So far as I know, this is the last known breeding stock known to exist. Most of their kind are virtually extinct, save for DNA samples. Starvation, heat stroke, disease . . . many have even been slaughtered for food. I've spent much of my fortune locating the survivors, bringing them here, keeping them alive."

He stopped. "For all intents and purposes, they're the last. In fact, you could say the same for Joe himself. It took almost as much effort to locate him as it did to find Billy here." He fondly patted the nose of the pony who nuzzled his shoulder in search of attention. "But they can't stay here much longer. You've seen how bad things have become, and I have no doubt that they'll get worse. On Coyote, they'd have a fighting chance. Maybe they can do what they're supposed to do, instead of spending the rest of their lives cooped up in this shed."

"But how are we supposed to get them to Coyote?" Chris stared at the dozens of horses standing within the stalls around us. "I mean, c'mon . . ."

"You've got the Alliance on your side, and you've negotiated an agreement with the Union. That'll do for a start." Morgan nodded in the direction of the landing field. "Shuttles can land there, and my vet tells me that if the horses are sedated and well-braced for the ride to orbit, we can load them aboard the Drake. It's a risk, certainly, and we may well lose a few in transit, but . . ."

"I don't know." Carlos rubbed at the back of his head. "I mean, I appreciate what you're trying to do, I just don't know if horses would be able to adapt to—"

"Of course they can." Cassidy walked forward, his hands in his back pockets. "I've seen the pictures of your planet. Grasslands, mountains, plains . . . everything they've lost here, you've got there. Adaptation has never been a problem for horses. In the Sixth World, they'd survive very well."

"Come again?" I asked. "The Sixth World?"

"There's a story among my people, about how we came to be here . . . this place, the Fifth World." Cassidy leaned against Lord Jim's stall. "You see, First Man and First Woman weren't born here, but in the First World, which they shared with Coyote . . . the trickster, the one you named your planet after. But that place was too small for them, and there was nothing but darkness, so they migrated to the Second World, where they found the Sun and the Moon . . ."

"That's all very interesting, Joe," Morgan said, "but I don't see how—"

"Bear with me, please." Cassidy held up a hand. "But then Sun tried to rape First Woman, so they had to move again. This time, Coyote took First Man and First Woman to the Third World, which was larger than the last two worlds, and there First Man and First Woman found a place of mountains and cool lakes. There were more humans there, so they had many children with them, and it seemed as if they'd be happy. But it turned out that the Third World was ruled by Tieholtsodi, the water monster. One day, Coyote happened to find his children, and he liked them so much that he wrapped them in his blanket and stole them away. When he discovered that his children were missing, Tieholtsodi became so angry that he flooded the Third World, and so the People were forced to leave again."

Cassidy scuffed at the packed dirt floor with the toe of his boot. "They built boats of reeds, and loaded all their children and animals aboard, and when the waters rose they were lifted into the sky, where they found the Fourth World. This, too, was a green and prosperous land, and again it seemed as if the People would be happy. But then men and women began to argue over who was in charge . . . who was responsible for planting crops, who was responsible for hunting, and so forth . . . and they got so carried away with their quarrels that nothing got done. The crops failed and the animals began to die, and soon the Fourth World, too, became uninhabitable.

"So once again, Coyote had them build reed boats, and once they did, he led them to another place, and that was here . . . the Fifth World. But by then Tieholtsodi had discovered where the People had fled and came after them, and when he found the People he told them that he'd destroy their world again unless his children were freed. So the People opened their packs and showed Tieholtsodi everything that they'd carried with them, until finally only Coyote was left. He unrolled his blanket and revealed the monster's children. Tieholtsodi took his children back and left us alone, and that's how we came to live in the Fifth World."

Attracted by the sound of his voice, Lord Jim prodded Cassidy's shoulder with his nose. "I know what you're thinking," Cassidy went on, reaching back to stroke the stallion's coarse brown mane. "Just an old injun legend, right? But what it means is that people . . . mine, yours, everyone else's . . . never stay in one place for very long. We run out of room, the sun gets too hot, the waters too high. That, or we fight with each other, or the monsters appear. Whatever the reason, sooner or later, we have to leave."

He paused. "Now it's that time again. Time to build the boats and pack up the animals, and follow Coyote to another world."

No one said anything. We'd fallen quiet while Joe told his story; now the meaning of the Navajo myth was beginning to sink in. We'd been so engrossed in the finer points of diplomacy, the paragraphs and subclauses of international treaties and trade agreements, that we'd all but forgotten that greater things were at stake. Humankind, along with its predecessors, had inhabited Earth for millions of years, yet our time was over. The waters were rising and there were monsters among us. We had to leave.

Carlos cleared his throat. "Maybe we can work something out," he said softly, taking my hand. "If we can build stables in Liberty so that . . ."

The door creaked open just then, and Mike Kennedy reappeared. There was a worried look on his face; without a word, Goldstein excused himself and headed outside. Cassidy waited until the door shut behind him, then he turned back to us. "Glad to hear that, but I kinda doubt anyone there knows much about taking care of horses." He caught my eye. "No offense intended, ma'am, but—"

"No, I agree." I stepped over to Lady Jane's stall, petted her neck. This time she didn't shy away from me. "All I know is how to muck out stalls. We've got shags . . . sort of like water buffalo . . . but we're going to need someone there who's got more experience with horses than I do." I gave him a sidelong glance. "Got a suggestion for someone who might want to bring these guys to Coyote?"

Cassidy's expression remained stoical, but a corner of his mouth ticked ever so slightly. "As a matter of fact . . ."

The door swung open again; we looked around as Morgan marched back into the shed. There was an expression on his face I hadn't seen before: anger, like someone who'd just been threatened and wasn't about to back down. "All right, fun's over," he said. "Time for you to get out of here, fast."

"What's going on?" Carlos asked. "Have we done something wrong?"

"You, no . . . me, maybe." Morgan took a deep breath. "One of my people in Atlanta just learned that the government has issued warrants for your arrest. Appears that, even though I'd cleared this side-trip with the WHU embassy in London, the police have been given instructions to take you into custody as soon as you arrive in Atlanta on charges of customs violation."

"Customs violation?" I was stunned. "But we were told we had—"

"Diplomatic immunity, of course. And you're also official guests of Patriarch Amado." Morgan shook his head. "Nonetheless, you're to be detained until further notice."

"What?" Carlos was just as shocked as I was. "But they can't do that! They—"

"Shut up and listen." Morgan's voice was cold. "My contacts got the whole story. The government wants to use customs violations as an excuse to lock the three of you away. Apparently someone high up wasn't satisfied with the deal you made in London. That, or Marcos set you up for a double cross. Either way, as soon as you arrive in Atlanta—"

"We're under arrest." Carlos's face was grim. "Let me guess . . . we'd be held until our government negotiates our release. And that, of course, would mean fine-tuning the trade agreement a little more in their favor."

"I don't know the details, but yeah, that sounds about right." Frustrated, Morgan pounded a fist against a post. "Damn it, I thought I had this whole thing worked out. They weren't supposed to—"

"You say a shuttle can land here?" Chris asked.

"Yeah, it can, but my cruiser can . . ." Morgan looked at the satphone Chris had taken from his pocket. "What's that?"

Chris didn't reply; he was already punching in the emergency prefix Dieter had given him. "Mike, tell your people to get word to Atlanta that we'll be there soon. Tell 'em to say that . . . I dunno, we're looking at horses."

"Don't say that!" Morgan's face went pale. "No one knows about them!"

"All right, then tell him we're having lunch. Dinner. Whatever. Just stall for time." Chris turned away from us; clasping the phone to his face, he murmured something we couldn't hear.

"Do it," Morgan said. Kennedy nodded, then hurried out of the shed. "That should buy us an hour or two. I'll have the field cleared for a shuttle touchdown."

I nodded. It would be close, no doubt about it, but with any luck an EA shuttle would be here before anyone. And I was more confident about making our getaway aboard an Alliance shuttle than Morgan's aerocruiser; the former could make a quick sprint for space, while the latter could be forced down by military aircraft.

"Sorry your trip has to end this way," Morgan said. "Believe me, this wasn't what I'd planned."

Carlos nodded, then he put a hand around my waist. "Don't worry about it," he said, giving both of us an unexpected smile. "This isn't the first time."

I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't help it. Once again, we were fleeing Earth, just one step ahead of the law.

Two days later, we were back on Highgate.

Little more than an hour after Chris made his call, an ESA military shuttle touched down on the landing field at Morgan's farm. Our rescue was a covert operation; the shuttle was a stealth spacecraft with chameleon outer-plating that allowed it to become virtually invisible, its crew trained for black-ops missions such as this. The pilot didn't even cut his engines; a couple of soldiers hustled Carlos, Chris, and me aboard, and we'd barely had a chance to buckle our harnesses before the bat-like craft took off again. Once the shuttle reached high orbit, it rendezvoused with a freighter bound for Highgate. The ride back to L1 was twice as long as the one to Earth, and the freighter's passenger cabin was considerably less comfortable than the one we'd enjoyed aboard the Von Braun, but it was far better than the treatment we would have received in Atlanta.

Besides, the long ride allowed the EA to concoct an alibi for our abrupt disappearance. While being shown around Morgan Goldstein's farm, it seemed that I had the misfortune of being bitten by a mosquito. Since none of us had been vaccinated for malaria— a lie; we'd received inoculations before leaving Highgate— and the hospitals in the area had been closed for some time, it seemed only prudent that we return to England at once, so that I could receive proper medical attention. To back up our story, Morgan even sent his aerocruiser back across the Atlantic. It was later announced that the Coyote delegation had decided to leave immediately for Highgate, in order to prevent being placed in quarantine before returning to our world.

As cover stories went, this one was pretty lame, yet the Union wasn't about to call our bluff. If they had, the Alliance could have produced their own intelligence reports regarding our planned arrest, and that would have been even more embarrassing. So we made apologies for cutting short our trip, and they expressed sympathy for my condition; no further questions were asked, and no more lies were given.

As it turned out, though, our sudden departure didn't hurt our mission. The day after we returned to Highgate, the U.N. General Assembly voted in favor of formally recognizing the Coyote Federation. There was a last-minute objection from the Western Hemisphere Union— Patriarch Amado wanted the World Court to take up the issue of the Alabama's hijacking— but that was overruled by the Secretary-General as a historical event that had little to do with current issues. The Union therefore abstained from the final vote, but otherwise it was unanimous.

Some people are just sore losers. It didn't stop us from opening a bottle of champagne. But we also decided that it would be a long time before the Coyote Federation signed any trade or immigration agreements with the WHU.

Carlos and I spent our remaining time aboard Highgate in the EA diplomatic suite, engaged in teleconference meetings with representatives from the various countries with whom we'd negotiated tentative agreements. While the Von Braun was being prepped for its trip to 47 Ursae Majoris through Starbridge Earth, thousands of pages of documents were transmitted to us; we went through each one, signed the less binding ones, and put aside the rest for the Colonial Council to ratify. In the meantime, we also received dozens of personal gifts— cases of wine, sculptures and paintings, rare books, clothes and jewelry— that we accepted on behalf of the Federation, then sent away to be packed aboard the Von Braun.

Dieter Vogel returned to Highgate, with a surprising bit of news: his government had asked him to be the European Alliance ambassador to Coyote. We gladly accepted his latest diplomatic post, and that called for another bottle of champagne to be uncorked: Coyote had its first official envoy from Earth.

Another surprise came only a few hours later, when Dieter's aide— soon to be former aide, since he refused to leave Highgate— escorted an old friend to our suite. Anastasia Tereshkova arrived wearing a new uniform, this time with a different patch on her right shoulder; she'd been reassigned as commanding officer of the Francis Drake, pending completion of its shakedown run. After that, her primary mission would be to ferry passengers and cargo between Earth and Coyote. Ana also told us that, although Highgate would be home port for the Drake, she'd been allowed to have a residence on Coyote.

The only sour note came when Ana told us that she and Gabriel Pacino had decided to end their relationship, both professional and personal. Pacino wanted his own command, and once the Drake's sister ship was christened, it was likely he'd be commissioned as its captain. But more than that, she'd discovered that her first officer had informed their superiors that Carlos had once been a guerilla known as Rigil Kent; she thought this piece of information was something that her government didn't need to know about the President of the Coyote Federation. That solved the mystery of how Marcos Amado had learned about Carlos's role in the revolution. One more thing we'd also have to get used to: espionage as a form of diplomacy.

Yet that was the least of our concerns. We spent one more night aboard Highgate; Chris accepted an invitation from the Pacific Coalition consulate to attend a zero-g handball game, but Carlos and I declined as graciously as we could. Instead, we unplugged all the phones and screens, then spent the evening making love while moonlight streamed through the windows of our bedroom. For a few hours, no one bothered us. No receptions or trade negotiations, no ambassadors or envoys. Just two people lonely for each other's company, even though we'd never been apart.

The next morning, with Dieter Vogel at our side, we boarded the Von Braun and made our departure from Highgate. I didn't look back at the station as the yacht slipped out of Alpha Dock and fell away from the Moon; I was tired, and all I wanted was to go home. Yet as the starbridge grew close, and the pilot announced the countdown to hyperspace insertion, I craned my neck to peer through the porthole by my seat, searching for one last glimpse of Earth.

My window faced the wrong direction. All I saw were stars, and the darkness of space. Perhaps it was just as well. I was one of Tieholtsodi's children, being carried away from the Fifth World to the Sixth.

Coyote was my stepfather now. This time, I'd never leave.