QUARTET FOR FOUR SEASONS

1. WINTER HORSES (BARCHIEL 37, C.Y. 14)

The approaching starship resembled a storm cloud as it passed over the Great Equatorial River, its smooth grey hull casting a long shadow across the waters. Then the roar of its descent engines reached the crowd; they nervously stepped back from the ropes separating them from the landing field, and watched the enormous vessel as it came closer, gradually increasing in size until it seemed to fill the sky above them.

When it was little more than five hundred feet above the ground, the ship's stern swung around, making a graceful ninety-degree turn that oriented its tapered bow toward the river, as recessed hatches along the underside peeled open to allow landing gear to unfold. By now the sound of its engines was so loud that everyone clasped their hands over their ears; awestruck, they watched the giant vessel as it slowly made its descent. A hot blast whipped snow from the grassy field, and in the last moments before touchdown, the starship was lost within a thin white haze. Then the ground quivered beneath their feet as the vessel came to rest, and cheers rose from the crowd when they realized the leviathan had landed.

Carlos waited until he heard the engines being cut back before he removed his hands from his ears. Although he'd known that the Francis Drake was capable of atmospheric entry, until this moment he'd thought it impossible that a spacecraft this big could be safely brought to the ground. Yet there it was: nearly six hundred feet long, its streamlined hull faintly scorched here and there, like a mountain that had come from the sky.

"Take a good look," Dieter Vogel said quietly. "You probably won't see something like that too often . . . if ever again."

"You don't think so?" Carlos asked, and Vogel shook his head. "But if they can do it once—"

"Too risky." Vogel shoved his gloved hands in the pockets of his parka, stamped his boots on the frozen ground. "And certainly not very efficient. The trick isn't getting something this big to land. The trick is getting it to take off again. It'll take almost a week for the fuel converters to extract enough atmospheric hydrogen to fill the port and starboard tanks, and they'll burn every liter of it just get to back into orbit."

"Then why—?"

"To demonstrate that it can be done." Then he glanced at Carlos, gave him a wink. "And, just incidentally, to impress your people."

Whether or not he was serious, Carlos didn't know. He didn't respond, though, but instead turned to gaze across New Brighton's landing field. When it became apparent that Shuttlefield wouldn't be large enough to handle the anticipated flow of passengers and freight— the Drake's maiden flight had proved that, one month ago— the Council decided to grant the European Alliance's request to establish a new colony, provided that it also serve as a colonial spaceport. Alliance surveyors scouted several possible locations, and finally settled upon the north shore of a small subcontinent across the Great Equatorial River from both Great Dakota and New Florida. Albion had the disadvantage of being on the other side of the equator, but it also enjoyed a couple of advantages; its equatorial location made it a prime spot for a large-scale spaceport, and its proximity to the river made it ideal for keelboats and barges traveling south from the northern colonies.

There wasn't much to New Brighton— a dozen or so log cabins, a meeting hall still under construction, a paddock for livestock and a couple of inflatable domes that served as temporary greenhouses until permanent ones could be built— yet Carlos had little doubt that would change soon enough. The presence of the spaceport alone would assure that the colony would grow very quickly. Although the Coyote Federation had imposed strict immigration limits— no more than a thousand new settlers per colony in a twelve-month period— it wouldn't be long before more ships began to arrive through the starbridge.

"We're impressed," he said, "but this can't be the only reason why you asked me to fly down here." Vogel had arrived last month to assume his post as the Alliance ambassador; the EA consulate was located in Liberty, but he'd spent the last two weeks in New Brighton, overseeing preparations for the Drake's arrival. Carlos glanced at his watch, thought about the gyro pilot waiting nearby. "If you've got something to show me . . ."

"I think they're ready to open the hatch." Vogel smiled. "If you'll lead the way, please?"

Carlos sauntered toward the safety barrier. The Proctor keeping the crowd away from the landing site recognized them immediately; he lifted the rope to allow them through. The engine-blast had melted the snow in a hundred-yard radius around the ship, and their boots stuck to the mud of the flash-thawed ground beneath. Eventually, Carlos mused, this entire area would have to be paved. Perhaps some walkways, too, and maybe even a control tower.

As they approached the Drake, Carlos saw that a long ramp was being lowered from the cargo hatch on the forward section. Several crew members had disembarked; Ana Tereshkova was among them, and Carlos walked over to her. "Welcome back, Captain," he said. "Hope you had a good flight."

Hearing him, Ana turned around. "Mr. President," she said, giving him a warm smile. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Thanks, but I'm no longer president. My term expired at the end of last month—"

"You're not?" Ana stopped smiling. "And you didn't run for reelection?"

"One term's enough, thank you. Besides, it's hard to run against your own wife." Carlos couldn't help but grin when her mouth dropped open. "Wendy's in charge now. I gave her my endorsement, of course."

"Of course. But I wonder how her opponents must have felt about that."

"There were none. She ran unopposed." Vogel shook his head. "Apparently politics here aren't as . . . shall we say, competitive . . . as they are back home."

Carlos decided to let the remark pass. He'd seen enough of Earth-style politics to last a lifetime. "The landing was magnificent," he said. "Your crew put on a real show."

"Thank you, but I doubt this will be a common occurrence. We mainly wanted to make sure that the Drake was capable of making landfall. From now on, it'll probably remain in orbit while we use shuttles instead." She glanced at Vogel. "Besides, as Dieter has doubtless told you, we have precious cargo aboard. Direct descent seemed prudent in this instance."

"Precious?" Carlos looked at him. "You didn't—"

"Forgive me. I wanted it to be a surprise." A sly smile. "Although this shouldn't be one, really. After all, you already knew it was coming."

Carlos was still taking this in when he heard the clomp of hooves against bare metal. Turning around, he looked up to see someone leading a chestnut mare to the open hatch of the Drake's cargo bay. The horse had blinders attached on either side of its bridle and a thick wool blanket; as the man holding the reins gently coaxed the animal toward the ramp, Carlos recognized him as Joe Cassidy, the equerry from Morgan Goldstein's estate in Massachusetts.

And then Goldstein himself suddenly appeared, with his bodyguard, Mike Kennedy, close behind. Spotting Carlos, the entrepreneur raised a hand in greeting, then the two men stepped around Cassidy and the horse to make their way down the ramp. About halfway down, Morgan suddenly stopped, apparently savoring his first look at Coyote. Then, mindful that important people were waiting for him, he continued the rest of the way down the ramp to the ground.

"My God," he murmured, his eyes wide with unabashed delight, "I can't believe how fresh the air is. And how beautiful . . ."

"Glad you approve," Carlos said evenly. "We had it made just for you."

The others chuckled, and even Kennedy briefly smiled. Morgan turned red for a moment, but then grinned at the joke made at his expense. "Thank you very much. Nice planet you've got here. Care to sell?"

Vogel laughed at this, but Carlos felt a touch of irritation. From the corner of his eye, he noted a frown on Ana's face; apparently she didn't appreciate Morgan's attempt at humor any more than he did. Yet if his term as president had taught him anything, it was the art of diplomacy. "Not really," he said dryly, then he glanced up at the cargo hatch, where Cassidy was still trying to lead the reluctant mare to the ramp. "I knew you were coming soon, but this—"

"We decided it was better to bring them sooner than later." Zipping up the front of his parka, Morgan pulled gloves from his pockets. "Seems that the Proletariat isn't very pleased with me just now. In fact, they've taken it upon themselves to annex my farm . . . for the welfare of the people, of course." He let out his breath in disgust, its steam rising from his mouth. "They can take my land, but I'll be damned if I'll give 'em my horses, too."

"But how . . . ?"

"I signed papers bequeathing the entire herd to the Federation. Once I did that, the Union couldn't touch them. At least not without a legal fight, and I didn't give their magistrates time to find a loophole."

"Two of our heavy-lift shuttles landed at his estate three days ago," Ana explained. "By then we'd outfitted the Drake with temporary stalls. Once the horses were sedated and blindered, my people loaded them onto the shuttles and transported them directly to the ship." She gazed at the mare Cassidy was carefully leading down the ramp. "I was worried how they'd handle the trip, but they managed to do better than I expected. A few of them are pretty skittish, but—"

"You've got forty-eight horses aboard?" Carlos felt his face lose color. He turned to stare at Morgan. "Have you lost your mind? It's the middle of winter. How do you expect to feed them until—"

"We brought as much hay as we could," Morgan said. "Three hundred bales. Should last them another month or two. By then, I expect you'll have found good homes for them within the colonies. A few here, a few there."

"But we're not prepared for—"

"You'd rather that we left 'em behind?" By then, Joe Cassidy had managed to lead the horse down the ramp. Stroking her mane to sooth her, he brought the mare over to them. "They've been very brave, Mr. President. Just as courageous as your own people have been. The least you can do is welcome them to their new home."

Carlos was about to object when he took a closer look at the mare. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like the same one Wendy had befriended while they were on Earth. "Is that . . . ?"

"Uh-huh. Lady Jane." Morgan took the reins from Cassidy, led the horse a little closer. "Lord Jim's aboard, too. They're yours now. My gift to your family." He paused. "If you'll accept them, of course."

The horse was still glassy-eyed from dope and the transition through hyperspace, and each step she took was tentative, as if trying to cope with the lighter gravity, the more rarified air. Yet she demurely allowed Carlos to pet her nose and didn't protest when Cassidy handed the reins to him. Another refugee, just as he'd been many years ago.

"Yeah, all right." How could he refuse? "Thank you. We'll find a way."

"I'm sure you will." Morgan took the reins back from Carlos and handed them to Cassidy. "And thank you, sir, for your hospitality," he added quietly. "I'm certain that we'll find our arrangement to be mutually beneficial."

It took Carlos a moment to realize what Morgan was saying. "You're immigrating? Now?"

"Do I have much choice? But I think you'll find that the Union's loss will be your gain." Taking Carlos by the arm, Morgan began to lead him away. "Now, if you don't mind, we have some other affairs that need to be discussed."

2. SPRING ENCOUNTERS (AMBRIEL 62, C.Y. 14)

How far they'd traveled, or in which direction, he didn't know. From the moment he was captured, he'd been at their mercy; he'd managed to put up a good fight, and the knuckles of his right hand were still sore from the punch he'd delivered to the jaw of the biggest one, but they outnumbered him by four to one, and in the end they'd won. They'd lashed his wrists together behind his back and thrown a burlap sack that smelled of old potatoes over his head, and then two of them had picked him up and thrown him belly-down over the back of a shag. Then the long ride into the night had begun.

At least the boy got away. The knowledge that whatever these men had in store for him— and he had little doubt that it would be unpleasant— wouldn't be inflicted upon the boy as well gave him some small comfort. It was just luck that he'd managed to escape when the ambush occurred. Yet he was still trying to figure out how the men would've known where they'd be when he heard his rider give a low whistle, then pull back on the reins.

The shag snorted, then came to a halt. Around him, he heard the soft creak of leather as his abductors dismounted from their own animals. The bag over his head had robbed him of most of his sight, yet through the coarse fabric he could make out the flickering glow of firelight, and his nose picked up the faint odor of woodsmoke. A bonfire.

Someone grabbed him by the back of his belt, hauled him off the shag. Ugly laughter as he fell to the ground; he tried not to yelp as his right knee struck a rock. Then someone nearby said something he could barely make out—"Get him up, bring him over here"— and two pairs of hands grasped his shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Stumbling, his boots shuffling through dry leaves and twigs, he was pushed and pulled a dozen feet or so until he felt the dry heat of the bonfire against his clothes.

"Stop," one of the men said, and he halted. "Now sit."

Not knowing where or how, he hesitated. A fist rammed into his stomach. He gasped as his knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed into the wicker chair that magically appeared behind him.

"Dumbass," the same man said. "I told you to sit."

More laughter, even more cruel than before. Pain lanced through his wrists as the rope sliced into his skin; although he was seated, his posture forced him to bend slightly forward. Taking deep breaths, trying not to retch, he fought to remain calm, yet there was a low roar in his ears as his heart hammered against his chest.

"All right," said the first voice, "take off his hood."

Someone behind him grabbed the top of the sack, ripped it from his head. He blinked a few times, blinded by the fire that snapped and burned only a few feet away. A half dozen men— loggers from the looks of them, big and tough-looking— stood in a semicircle around a stone-ringed fire pit. And on the other side of the fire, seated in a worn-out wicker chair with a jug of bearshine on a rickety wooden table beside him, was Lars Thompson.

"Howdy, Mr. Parson," he said. "Nice night for a cookout, ain't it?"

A couple of men chuckled at this. Although he was tempted to remain quiet, Parson knew that silence wouldn't get him anywhere. "At least it isn't raining," he replied. "Think the sun will come out tomorrow, or—?"

A sudden impact against the left side of his skull, as the man standing beside him slapped him across his head. "Just answer the question."

Parson tasted something like warm copper; he'd bitten his tongue. He spit out blood. "Yeah, sure . . . it'll do."

"Uh-huh." Thompson picked up the jug and pulled out its cork. "Mighty nice night for a fire. And for a little talk, too, wouldn't you say?"

"If you insist."

Another slap, this one almost hard enough to knock Parson from his chair. "Cut it out, James," Thompson said. "I think our friend gets the idea. Just a straight talk, man-to-man, y'know what I mean?" He was looking straight at Parson as he said this, and Parson reluctantly nodded. "Outstanding. I think we've opened the way to a deep and meaningful dialogue."

Parson didn't reply. He'd come to realize that anything he said was grounds for another beating. Not that it mattered very much; this place was somewhere deep in the woods of Mt. Shapiro, several miles from the logging camp, and he was among men who had no pity for him. Begging for mercy was out of the question, for they obviously had none to spare. They could cut his throat and bury him in an unmarked grave, and no one would ever know.

"Parson," Thompson said. "Jonathan Parson. First officer. . . . no, wait, second officer of the Columbus. At least until you decided to go native." He tilted back the jug, chugged some bearshine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bet you'd love to know how I know this, don'cha?"

Parson remained silent. Thompson stared at him, waiting for a response; getting none, he handed the jug to the nearest man. "Maybe I'm not making myself clear. We know who you are, and we know what you're trying to do. We caught you down by the dam tonight, on your way to try to knock it down again. You had someone with you, but they got away. You didn't, though, and that's what counts."

There was no sense in trying to deny any of this. They knew who he was, just as they knew that he'd been responsible for an earlier attempt to sabotage the spill-dam used to flood the log flume. How they'd arrived at such information was of little consequence just now. The only thing that mattered right now was getting out of here alive.

Parson was still trying to figure out how to talk his way out of this— or, failing that, somehow make an escape— when he heard a faint rustle from the trees behind them. It could have only been an errant breeze stirring the limbs of the mountain rough bark, yet James apparently heard it, too, for he nervously stepped away from him. Now was his chance; Parson cast a wary glance to the right. No one standing there. If he lunged straight for the trees, running as fast as he could, he might be able to . . .

"Keep an eye on him, now." Thompson's voice was calm yet mildly amused. "Our boy's thinking about making a break for it." He idly picked up a stick, used it to stir the fire. "Not that it'll do you much good. We use this camp for huntin', so trust me when I tell you we're miles and miles from anywhere else. No witnesses, no one to hear us." He grinned. "Just you and us, son. You and us."

James returned to Parson's side. He laid a rough hand on his shoulder, pulled him back against the chair. The jug finished making its way around the circle, returned to Thompson; he took another swig, put it back on the table again. "Now, just as I know you're thinking about running away, I also know you think we're planning to kill you. And believe me, we could, and no one would be the wiser. Hell, so far as your own crew's concerned, you're probably just a skeleton, rotting away God knows where."

He shook his head. "But that wouldn't serve no good purpose, now would it? Besides, the way I figure it, all you need is a good lesson. Some proper instruction about trespassing on other people's private property. 'Cause, y'see, this whole mountain belongs to the family business, and I'll be damned if—"

"You don't own this mountain," Parson said.

"Say what?" Thompson cocked his head. "Come again? I don't think I heard you quite right."

Too late, Parson realized that he shouldn't have spoken. Until now, his silence had been his only defense. Yet he'd let his anger get the better of him, and he'd unwisely blurted out his thoughts. But he couldn't take back what he'd said, so he might as well make a stand. "This mountain doesn't belong to you," he went on. "You're just visitors. You've no right to ruin—"

"Aw, dammit, Lars, do we have to listen to this crap?" The logger standing next to Thompson impatiently stamped his boots against the ground. "It's cold. I don't want to spend all night out here."

"Yup. Time's a-wasting. But lemme just make one more point before we get down to brass tacks." Lars picked up the jug, took another sip. "Mr. Parson, I don't give a swamper's ass who you think this mountain belongs to. Last week my family cut a deal with some people back home . . . Earth, that is . . . for the purchase of as much timber as we can cut and carry. That means we stand to make a lot of money, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you or anyone else get in the way."

He picked up the cork, inserted it into the neck of the jug, slapped it down firmly with the heel of his hand. "Now, I bet you've been wondering all this time how we knew where to find you, and what your story is. And I'd hate to leave you with any lingering questions, so before we get started, I just want to show you that blood runs thicker than water."

He looked past Parson. "Hawk? Come on out now."

Parson felt something grow cold in his chest. He turned his head, saw the boy step out of the darkness behind him, another logger beside him. Hawk was clearly frightened, but the fact that the boy couldn't meet his eye was worse than anything these men had planned for him.

"I'm sorry," Hawk whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Hawk had led him into the ambush. He'd told his father everything he knew about Jonathan Parson; the reasons he'd done so didn't matter, except perhaps that Lars Thompson was right. Blood was thicker than water, and in the end he'd been forced to make a choice.

"It's all right," Parson murmured. "You did what you—"

"That's enough," Thompson said. "James?"

James grabbed the back of Parson's jacket, wrenched him to his feet, then kicked the chair out of the way. Parson had only a second to steel himself before the nearest logger came forward and, pulling back his arm, drove his fist deep into his stomach. Parson's breath exploded from his lungs, but he'd barely doubled over when another fist came straight at his mouth.

"Stop!" Hawk yelled. "You promised you wouldn't!"

Yet it didn't stop, for now the men had begun to take turns— two men holding him while the others worked him over— and soon Hawk's voice came to him from a vast distance, like a fuzzed-out radio signal from a faraway world. Somewhere along the line, he lost his right front tooth; not long after that, his left eye swelled up and closed. By then, though, his pain had become a symphony; he was incapable of distinguishing which part of his body hurt more than the other. Soon they were no longer bothering to try to hold him up, but simply kicked at him as he lay upon the cold ground.

In his last moments of consciousness, before the darkness closed in upon him, he caught a glimpse of something through the blood that seeped down in front of his face. There, among the high branches of a nearby tree, tiny eyes reflected the firelight as they silently bore witness to his ordeal.

He wasn't alone . . .

3. SUMMER FIRES (HAMALIEL 12, C.Y. 14)

The smoke could be seen from many miles away, a thick brown column that billowed up from the burning grasslands, rising high into the blue morning sky before the wind caused it to flatten out like the anvilhead of a thundercloud. From the distance, it vaguely resembled a tornado, except that the destruction below was more widespread than even a twister could cause.

Susan bit the inside of her lip as the gyro came closer, its pilot bringing in the aircraft for a low sweep over Albion's coastal savannah. Through the thick haze, she could make out tiny figures moving along the periphery of the fire zone, using flamethrowers to put high grass to the torch. New Brighton was protected by the long trench that had been dug as a firebreak; otherwise, the rest of the savannah was being set ablaze. The fires would continue, day in and day out, until everything that lay within their path would be consumed. Acres upon acres of sourgrass, spider bush, ball plants, stands of faux birch and blackwood . . . all wiped out, with methodical indiscrimination.

"Some people down there," the pilot said, his voice in her headset breaking her train of thought. He pointed through the cockpit's glass canopy. "See 'em?"

Susan looked in the direction he indicated. Not far from the trench, a half mile upwind of the fire, she spotted a handful of figures standing beside a tent. A couple of skimmers were parked nearby, including one cargo flatbed, yet that wasn't their sole means of transportation; a few hundred yards in either direction of the camp, men on horseback patrolled the edge of the fire, maintaining a careful distance from the inferno.

"Set me down there," Susan said, pointing to the camp. "I'm going to have some words with these clowns."

The pilot gave her a dubious look, but didn't say a word as he pushed the yoke forward. The aircraft yawed to the left, then glided downward, its nacelles tilting upward as the props shifted to descent mode. Dust and scorched grass tapped lightly against the canopy, then there was a slight bump as the gyro's wheels made contact with the ground.

The stench of burning vegetation hit her as soon as Susan pushed open the passenger hatch, and her eyes started to water before she was ten yards from the gyro. Gagging against the haze, she held a hand against her nose and mouth. Everyone at the command post had seen the gyro come in for a landing; they silently watched as she marched toward them. No one moved to stop her, yet no one offered to help her, either. They knew who she was, and they knew why she was there.

Susan approached the first person she saw, a young man wearing goggles, a bandanna around the lower part of his face. "Who's in charge here?" she demanded, and he pointed to the nearer of the two tents. Not bothering to thank him, she headed toward it.

Rifle shots from not far away. Startled, she turned around, spotted one of the riders pointing a carbine at something in a patch of spider bush that the fire hadn't yet reached. A high-pitched avian screech caused his horse to nervously step back, but the rider kicked the heels of his boots against the animal's sides, then raised his rifle again. He fired once more into the thicket. Another harsh cry, then two more shots brought abrupt silence. Appreciative cheers from the men watching the fire. Susan scowled, then continued walking toward the tent.

The interior was cool and dark; a couple of portable fans had been set up, and several men and women loitered around a folding table covered with maps and aerial photos. A few observed the conflagration through binoculars, while others consulted the maps, coordinating the movements of those in the field and communicating with them via headset radio. No one noticed Susan as she pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside.

"Who's in charge here?" she demanded.

They turned to gaze at her, but no one spoke. Susan didn't recognize any of them until Morgan Goldstein put down his binoculars and walked over to her. "Ah, Ms. Montero. What a surprise."

"I can't imagine why. You knew I was coming." She made a pretense of snapping her fingers in sudden recollection. "Oh, wait, now I remember. You weren't supposed to start anything until I arrived. Wasn't that supposed to be next Anael, or was it sometime later next week?"

Goldstein shrugged. "My apologies. We decided to go ahead with the controlled burn a little earlier than planned. I know the government wanted to be informed, but—"

"But you decided that the less we knew in advance, the easier this would make things for your guys." Susan was having a hard time controlling her temper. "Did you really think we wouldn't notice?"

"Susan . . ."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" She pointed to the long line of fires. "You were supposed to clear just enough to make room for a spaceport, not burn down an entire savannah. From what I can tell, you've already torched two square miles!"

"We have certain requirements."

"Requirements?" She strode over to the table, impatiently pushing aside one of the men. A quick glance at the areas of the maps outlined in red marker confirmed her suspicions. "Good grief, you've got at least four, maybe five square miles marked for clearance!"

"Susan . . ."

"Don't try to play nice with me. You're friends with my folks, but that doesn't mean . . ." On impulse, she snatched up a headset someone had left on the table. "Never mind. I'm calling this off."

Before she could issue any orders— which doubtless would have been ignored anyway— Goldstein laid a hand upon her arm. "Susan, calm down," he said quietly. "Please. You're not doing any good, and you're just making a fool of yourself."

Another crack of a high-powered rifle. Two of the men standing nearby murmured to one another in German; they glanced over their shoulders at her, then one of them chuckled. Without asking, Susan knew what was going on. As the grasslands burned, so, too, did the habitat of every native creature that lived within them. Creek cats, swampers, grasshoarders, swoops . . . and in particular, boids. As they fled the fire, men waited to pick them off, one by one. Horses had given men an advantage above boids in particular; now they could sit up high above the grass where the giant avians lurked, able to see them long before they attacked. And as fast as boids were, a well-trained stallion was even faster.

"We've lost a couple of our people to boids already." As usual, Goldstein was uncannily perceptive. "Creek cats have been a nuisance, too. We can't expand the colony until we've eliminated their nests, and there's only one way we can do that."

"Oh, c'mon . . ." She gestured to the maps. "You're not doing this simply because you want to get rid of boids and cats. Once you've set up perimeter guns—"

"No. No, you're absolutely right. We also need land for crops, for building more houses, for establishing a spaceport."

"This much? What are you planning to do? Build a city?"

"In fact, yes." Morgan smiled as he looked away. "That's exactly what we plan to do."

She looked helplessly at the fountains of brown smoke rising from the grasslands. "You can't do this," she said, forcing herself to calm down. "You signed an agreement."

"The trade agreement the EA signed with the Coyote Federation places limits on immigration and export of raw materials, in exchange for territorial rights." Morgan folded his arms across his chest, his voice assumed a lecturing tone. "There's nothing there about importing raw material from other colonies, or limiting the expansion of our own colony." He gave her a sidelong glance. "Nor does it affect business arrangements made between companies here on Coyote . . . in this case, the one between Janus and Thompson Wood."

Susan's mouth fell open. "You're . . . ?"

"We've been contracted to develop this area on behalf of the EA." Morgan waved a hand at the burning grasslands. "A thousand new colonists a year . . . do you honestly think that they're going to want to live in grass huts or build log cabins when they arrive? Perhaps your parents did, but these people are used to a rather higher standard of living."

So her suspicions had been correct. The European Alliance wasn't content with only a small settlement. Jon had already discovered as much, the night he'd been beaten up by Uncle Lars's men; the last time she'd spoken with him, he was still recovering from his injuries at the farm he shared with Manny Castro. He'd assumed that the EA was purchasing timber from the Thompson Wood Company for export to Earth. So far, though, not so much as a stick had been loaded aboard the cargo transports that rendezvoused with the Drake during its now-frequent voyages through the starbridge. Yet seldom did a day pass when barges stacked high with lumber departed from the Clarksburg mills, southbound down the West Channel to the Great Equatorial and, beyond, the coast of Albion.

"As a matter of courtesy, we agreed to let a government representative come down here to witness our operation." Goldstein reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a piece of cellophane-wrapped candy. "So you're here. I didn't know you worked for the interior department."

"On temporary assignment." No sense in mentioning that the department consisted of exactly six people, including the commissioner and his personal staff. She'd volunteered her services while on summer sabbatical from the university.

"Ah, so." A noncommittal nod. "Any comments?"

"This . . . this is a . . . a disgrace." She struggled to find words for her outrage. "A complete catastrophe. You're destroying thousands of acres of native habitat—"

"On a world with tens of thousands of miles still unexplored." Goldstein unwrapped the candy, popped it into his mouth, let the wrapper fall to the ground. Noticing her expression, he self-consciously bent down to pick it up. "Your objections have been noted. I'll be happy to review your report, if you wish to forward it to me."

From the distance, she could hear more gunshots; the breeze had shifted, wafting more smoke toward the campsite, and she thought she heard of the crackle of the flames. "This isn't the end of this," she murmured.

"Well . . . no, I think it is." Goldstein hesitated, then stepped closer to her. "Susan, I know you're upset, but have a talk with your father. I think he may enlighten you."

She turned to stare at him. "What about my father?"

"Hasn't he told you?" Goldstein gave her a benign smile. "He's one of my major shareholders."

4. AUTUMN LEAVES (BARBIEL 29, C.Y. 14)

The wind was colder, this close to the top of the mountain. It moaned like a lost spirit as it roamed along the granite bluffs, scattering dry leaves from the branches of the rough bark and faux birch at its base. So late in the afternoon, there was little warmth to be found in the last rays of the autumn sun, now hovering less than a hand's-breadth over the summit. Soon it would be twilight, and the beginning of another long night.

Feeling the chill, Lars pulled up the collar of his shagswool coat. He gazed at the narrow crack within the escarpment, rising along a steep bluff just above the tree line. "This is it?" he asked. "You're sure there's no other way?"

"I'm sure." Hawk pointed to the top of the crevice. "This is the way Jon showed us to get to the ledge." He paused. "It's easier than it looks."

Lars absently sucked at the gap in his teeth where a dentist in Clarksburg had pulled a rotten molar last month. It didn't look easy at all; at least sixty feet, nearly straight up, and he couldn't see the ledge his son indicated. And the light was beginning to fade. If he had any sense, he'd mark this place, then send a couple of his men up here to do the job for them.

"C'mon. You can make it." Hawk cinched the straps of his backpack a little tighter, then stepped over the broken rubble that lay at the bottom of the cliffs. "You said you want to find where they live. Well, here it is."

"Yeah, but . . ."

"You coming?" The boy looked back at him. "Or is this just one more thing you're going to get James to do for you?"

There was contempt in the young man's voice, a mute challenge in his eyes. "Watch your mouth, boy," Lars muttered, pulling his pack tighter against his back. "There ain't nothing I can't do myself."

Hawk nodded, then stepped into the crevice. Without hesitation, he began to climb upward, bracing his back against one side of the fissure, while finding places to put his hands and feet along the other side. Lars watched his son until he was eight feet above the ground, then he took a deep breath, spit in the palms of his hands, rubbed them together, and followed him.

Hawk had turned eighteen only a couple of months ago; hard to believe the squirt grew up so fast. After their falling-out last year, he'd disappeared for a while before showing up at his mother's doorstep, asking to be taken in. But the kid had never been meant for books and school; six months in Clarksburg, then he'd left home again, hooking up with the logging crew when they returned to the Black Mountains for the spring season.

Lars had agreed to take him back, but only on condition that he help them track down the chirreep. The boy knew where they were hiding, but his damn cousin had caused him to mix up his priorities. It had taken a lot of persuasion before Hawk had come clean, or at least halfway clean: as it turned out, the chirreep hadn't been responsible for all their troubles, but instead shared the blame with someone else. An ex-spacer named Jonathan Parson, who'd moved into the mountains after he'd jumped ship from the Columbus, had been the one who'd tried to destroy the spill-dam.

Hawk insisted that he didn't know where Parson lived, but Lars managed to convince him that, if the boy would just bring Parson to some place near the logging camp where they could meet, perhaps the two of them could peacefully settle their differences. He even went so far as to promise that Parson wouldn't be harmed. Just a little parlay between two grown men.

Yeah, well . . . promises are like turds; just because you make 'em don't mean you gotta keep 'em. Maybe Hawk was irate because of what his father's men had done to Parson after they caught him at the spill-dam, but Lars had kept his word: he'd never laid a hand on him. And since then, no one had touched the spill-dam. But the damn chirreep had continued to pester the camp— knocking down flume supports, stealing supplies, harassing the big Percherons the company had recently bought to haul logs— until Lars decided that enough was enough.

His son knew where the chirreep were hiding. He'd kept that secret for much too long. And two days ago, Lars laid it on the line. Show me where they are, he'd said, or we'll go looking for your friend again. And when we find him, he'll find himself in a hole in the ground. And, of course, the boy had agreed. Because, after all, blood is thicker than water . . .

The climb was even worse than he expected. The years he'd spent in the mountains had toughened him, yet he'd spent too many days making his guys do all the work, too many nights drinking until he passed out in his bunk. There was a pot in his belly and flabby tissue in his arms and legs; he had to stop now and then to catch his breath, and despite the cold he found sweat running down his face. Meanwhile, his boy was scuttling up the crevice like a monkey in a tree. More than once, he thought he caught a smirk on Hawk's face, one which quickly vanished when he caught his old man's eye. When this was over and done, he'd have to teach the boy some discipline. Perhaps he was too old for lessons from Mr. Belt, but neither was he too young to be reassigned to the tree-topper crew. A few weeks hooked by a belt to the top of an eighty-foot rough bark would remind him to respect his father.

At long last, he reached the top of the crevice. Hawk was patiently waiting for him, sitting on a rock and having a drink from his flask. He didn't offer any water to his father as he silently watched Lars sag against a boulder. Lars glared at him, then pulled his own flask from his pack. "Think this is funny, don'cha?"

"Not at all." Hawk shrugged, put a stopper in his flask. "Kind of feel sorry for you, to tell the truth."

"If you think beating me to the top makes you a better man than me—"

"No, no . . . it's not that." Hawk looked away, gazing down the mountainside spread out below. Although they were many miles from the camp, the extent of the clear-cutting was plain to see: vast patches of naked terrain where dense forest once lay. "You don't have anything left but that, do you?" he asked. "Just a lot of stumps, and your drinking and womanizing."

"You got something against getting drunk and screwing?" Lars smirked at him. No sense in pretending that he had any affection left for his mother, and what a man did when he wasn't on the clock was no one's business. "And those stumps brought us a lot of money, boy. Don't forget that."

"I know." Hawk paused. "And I've tried to overlook it. But you've got a lot of hatred in you, Papa . . ."

"I don't hate no one." Still trying to get his wind, he drank too quickly. The water went down the wrong way, caused him to cough. "Hell, I love everybody."

"No, you don't." Hawk shook his head sadly. "You don't love my mother or my sister, and I know sure as hell that you don't love me. You're just a worn-out old bully, trying to force everyone to—"

"If that's what you think," Lars rasped, "then why'd you come back?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "If I'm such a mean ol' daddy, then what made you leave your mama and come back here? No one forced you."

Hawk didn't reply. Instead, he looked down at the toes of his boots, letting his flask swing back and forth by its strap between his knees. "I dunno," he said. "The last time I saw you, things went bad between us. But after I got away, I thought maybe . . . maybe if I gave you another chance, things would work out."

"I gave you your job back. What else do you want?" Lars didn't like the way the conversation was going. "You want me to say I love you? Yeah, well, okay, I love you. Happy?"

"Not really."

"Show me what you brought me up here for, and I'll give you a kiss."

Hawk said nothing for a moment. He sighed, stood up again. "Sure. If that's what you want."

The ledge was narrow, and didn't get any wider as they moved along it. Uma had disappeared behind the summit, taking with it what little direct sunlight they had left. Yet Hawk knew the way. He led his father along a trail that became more precarious with every step they took, until they were practically hugging the granite wall. Lars found himself regretting that they'd come up here. If they remained much longer, they'd have to camp overnight, and neither of them had brought bedrolls, food, or anything to drink except for water. The lack of liquor bothered him more than anything else. God, what he wouldn't give for a shot of bearshine just now.

They came around a large outcropping, and now Lars saw that they were in a broad hollow that erosion had carved within the face of the mountain. Sheer bluffs rose up around them; in the wan light, he could see what looked like piles of branches, stacked here and there around the center.

"Here it is." Hawk kneeled to the ground, motioning for his father to do the same. "There's a sinkhole in the middle. It leads down to a cave where they live."

"I don't see anything."

"Keep your voice down." He saw that Lars was reaching back into his pack for a flashlight, and quickly shook his head. "Don't use that. They'll know we're here."

Lars withdrew his hand. He squinted through the darkness. "I don't see it," he whispered. "You're sure it's there?"

"Of course, I'm sure." Hawk sighed in exasperation. He slipped off his pack, laid it on the ground. "I'll get you closer, but you're going to have to leave your pack behind."

Lars hesitated. His son didn't know it, but he'd brought a couple of bricks of plastic explosive, along with a coil of det cord and a battery-powered charger. He figured that once he found the chirreep cave, he'd plant the charges and run the cord to a safe distance. With luck, they might be able to bury the critters alive. "How come you want me to—"

"Because you'll make too much noise carrying it. They've got sharp ears." Hawk glared at him. "Just do as I say, all right?"

Lars thought they were being quiet enough already. Hawk had been here before, though, so he must know what he was doing. Besides, once he knew where the sinkhole lay, he could always come back and fetch the equipment. He took off his pack, placed it next to his son's. Hawk nodded in satisfaction; crouching low, he led his father into the hollow.

The first stars had begun to appear in the twilight sky. Bear hadn't risen yet, but if they waited a little while longer, Lars figured that they'd be able to use bearlight to set the charges. Maybe they'd have to spend the night up here— he didn't look forward to picking their way back across the ledge in the dark— but it would be worth the trouble if they got rid of those damn chirreep once and for all.

They made their way through the hollow, trying to make as little sound as possible, and before long Lars made out a patch of darkness within the floor of the cove. The sinkhole was smaller than he expected, yet as they drew closer, he spotted what looked like a pair of sticks sticking up from the opening. The top of a ladder, fashioned from pieces of wood lashed together along two long tree branches. That surprised him; he'd never thought the chirreep were capable of anything that sophisticated.

"Down there," Hawk whispered, crouching beside the hole. "That's where it is." He pointed to the ladder. "You first."

"You're kidding."

"You said you wanted to find 'em." He gestured impatiently toward the ladder. "C'mon. It's just a short climb."

Lars felt the hair rise upon the back of his neck. The hole was an abyss, leading into the unknown. "You didn't tell me—"

"Oh, for the love of . . ." Hawk let out his breath in disgust. "Just go, will you? We're running out of time."

Hawk was right. If he wanted to lay the explosives correctly, Lars would have to see how far down the sinkhole extended. He sucked at the gap in his teeth. All right, just a quick look-see; he wouldn't have to go all the way down to make an estimate. Then he could go back and grab his gear. And besides, he didn't want to show his son that he was a coward.

Swallowing his fear, Lars crawled around to the opposite side of the hole, then carefully stepped onto the ladder. It creaked under his weight, but it was sturdier than it looked. He lowered his left foot, then his right; now his hands were upon the top rungs, and he was into the sinkhole, his head just above the edge.

A couple of pebbles, dislodged by the ladder, fell past him. It seemed as if several seconds passed before he heard them make a hollow rattle somewhere far below. All right, that was enough. The hole was deeper than he thought. Courage fled him as he raised his left foot . . .

Then Hawk kicked the ladder away.

Lars didn't even have time to yell before he lost his grip. A glimpse of his son's figure, framed against the dim twilight, then he plummeted into hellish darkness.

For a timeless moment, he was suspended in freefall. Then solid rock rose to slam against him. A white-hot shaft of pain shot from his left hip to the center of his brain, and he screamed out loud, flailing helplessly in the cold black that enveloped him.

Obscenities swarmed from his mouth as he tried to clutch at his broken leg. Yet his agony was without mercy; he tried to roll over on his right side, only to discover that his muscles wouldn't obey his mental commands. His horror increased when he realized that his vertebra had been shattered as well. He was paralyzed, utterly helpless . . .

Tasting blood, his eyes swiveled to the mouth of the sinkhole, somewhere far above. For a second, he thought he saw Hawk, a thin silhouette against the stars. Then he vanished, even as Lars tried to cough out a plea for mercy.

By now, there were sounds around him. Things coming from somewhere nearby; voices that chirped and hooted, echoing from a tunnel he couldn't see. He managed to twist his head to the right, and that was when he saw, in dim light that seemed to come from the rock itself, the reflection of alien eyes.

A stray leaf, caught by the autumn wind, drifted down from the sinkhole. Dry and tender, it whisked against his face: a last touch of life. Lars barely felt it, for now the chirreep were upon him. He screamed, and continued to scream, until their tiny knives found his throat.

And that was when he discovered that blood wasn't so thick after all.