Coyote Horizon (8 page)

“Very good.” Any other time, Hawk might have asked him to be more specific. Yet he’d just pressed the button that would alert the proctor stationed nearby; now it was his job to distract the suspect long enough for help to arrive. “Are you importing any items valued at more than one hundred colonials?”

“No. None.” Desilitz patted the shoulder strap of his bag. “Just my clothes.”

“I see.” Stalling for time, Hawk pulled an immigration form from the stack and slid it across the counter. “Well, you’ll need to fill this out, please.”

Desilitz glanced at the form. “I think I already did that, while I was still aboard ship. I gave it to the steward just before we—”

“That was a different copy. This is the one you need to do for us.” It was an old feint, but Hawk was unsure how much longer he could play the persnickety bureaucrat. If Desilitz wasn’t already suspicious, he would be soon. Where was that proctor?

The passenger stared at Hawk through the window, as if trying to decide what sort of idiot he was dealing with. Hawk gazed back at him, his expression stoical; from the corner of his eye, he could see the proctor making his way past the passengers lined up at the inspection tables. Just another few moments . . .

“If you need a pen,” Hawk said, “I’ve got—”

Someone in line snapped “Hey!” as the proctor bumped against him. The voice caught Desilitz’s attention; looking around, he saw the proctor coming his way. His face went pale, and then his bag dropped to the floor as his right hand dived into his jacket pocket.

“Hold it!” The proctor had already unholstered his stunner; bringing it up in a two-handed grip, he pointed it straight at the young man. “Freeze!”

Desilitz hesitated, but only for a moment. Between him and the proctor were about a half dozen people, none of whom had the slightest idea what was going on, yet each a potential casualty. And Desilitz knew that the proctor didn’t have a clear line of fire.

His hand emerged from his Windbreaker pocket. Hawk caught a glimpse of a fléchette pistol, a weapon far more lethal than the one the proctor carried. Desilitz was no longer paying attention to the inspector, yet he was beyond Hawk’s reach, nor were there any heavy objects that he could throw through the window at him. Outside his kiosk, Hawk heard the frightened screams of other passengers; on the other side of the aisle, another inspector turned around to see what was going on. And in that instant of dilated time, Desilitz was leveling the pistol at the proctor . . .

“Hey!” Hawk yelled. “You forgot your form!”

Absurd, but it was the only thing he could think of to say or do. Yet it worked. Desilitz glanced at him, and when he did, he lost his aim. A moment of distraction was all the proctor needed; Hawk couldn’t hear the soft
zing
of the stun gun being fired, but he knew that the high-voltage charge had struck its target when Desilitz yelped in pain.

The suspect collapsed, falling from sight on the other side of the counter. More screams throughout the terminal as the proctor rushed forward, knocking bewildered passengers out of the way. Hawk stood up and, leaning through the window, watched as the proctor, still keeping his stunner trained on Desilitz, kicked the fléchette pistol away. Not that Desilitz was in any condition to use it; barely conscious, he was curled up on the floor, whimpering in pain.

“Nice work, Thompson.” The proctor, whom Hawk had spoken to only once or twice in the last six months, glanced up at him. “Thanks for the help.”

“Yeah . . . sure.” Hawk slowly let out his breath. It felt as if an hour had gone by since Desilitz first appeared at his window. Around them, other inspectors were doing their best to restore order. “Glad I could do something.”

The proctor nodded, not looking away from the semiconscious figure at his feet. “Well, it worked, that’s f’ sure.” He paused, then glanced up at Hawk again. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

Hawk shook his head. Everything happened so fast, he hadn’t a chance to read the rest of the data on his screen. For the moment, that would have to wait; the first priorities were making sure the guy was under control and calming down the bystanders.

Just as Hawk stepped out of his kiosk, the crowd parted to allow a couple of Colonial Militia soldiers to get through; he’d later learn that they’d just arrived to board a suborbital shuttle to Hammerhead, where they were to join the garrison at Fort Lopez. He stood quietly to one side and watched as one of the blueshirts aimed her carbine at Desilitz while her partner knelt beside him and used a plastic strap to tie his hands behind his back. By then, the proctor had retrieved the fléchette pistol; he clicked its safety in place, shoved it in his belt, and reached down to pick up the duffel bag.

“Leave it alone,” the female soldier said. “No telling what’s in there.”

The proctor hastily withdrew his hand. “Better clear these people out of here,” he murmured to no one in particular. “If he’s got a bomb in there . . .”

“No bomb.” Facedown on the floor, his wrists lashed together, Desilitz turned his head to peer up at them. “Nothing in there but clothes. Swear.”

The proctor and the soldiers glanced uncertainly at one another, then one of the militiamen turned toward the bystanders. “All right, everyone,” he called out, raising his hands above his head, “we need you to back up. Those of you who’ve already had their passports tagged and bags inspected, please leave the building through the doors to your left. Everyone who was waiting to be processed, leave through the doors to the right. Don’t rush, just . . .”

The other inspectors came forward to ease the crowd toward the appropriate exits. Hawk started to join them, but the proctor shook his head. “Stay here. I’m going to need to get a statement from you.”

“Yeah, do that.” The female soldier glanced at him. “And while you’re at it, give him a medal or something. He just saved your ass.”

Hawk shook his head. “But I didn’t . . .”

His voice trailed off; they’d stopped paying attention to him, at least for the moment. At the urging of the customs officials, the passengers shuffled out of the terminal, murmuring to one another as they tried to make sense of what had just happened. The proctor planted his boots on either side of Desilitz’s bag, making sure that no one touched it until it was checked for explosives. Somewhere in the distance, there was the high-pitched warble of a police coupe coming from town.

The soldiers waited until the terminal cleared out, then the two of them reached down to Desilitz. Taking hold of his arms from beneath the shoulders, they hauled him to his feet. Desilitz was still groggy, but he was able to stand on his own two feet; he looked around as if searching for a way to escape, but seemed to give up when he saw the rifle pointed in his chest. The warble grew louder, then stopped abruptly as the coupe glided to a halt outside the front entrance.

“Okay, let’s go.” The soldier who’d secured his wrists prodded him toward the door. “Take it easy, and we won’t have any problems. Understand?”

“Sure. I understand.” All the fight had gone out of him; it appeared as if he’d given up. But before the soldiers took him away, Desilitz turned his head to look straight at Hawk. In his eyes, Hawk saw pure hatred . . . and the stark, unblinking gaze of a fanatic.

“Consider yourself an enemy of the Living Earth,” Desilitz said, just loud enough for only Hawk to hear him. And the soldiers led him to the door.

 

 

 

“Oh, God . . .” Melissa’s face had gone white, her voice little more than a whisper. “Hawk-Hawk, do you know who those people are?”

“Not really.” He picked up the mug of coffee he’d just poured for himself. “Never heard of them before today . . . Some kind of group, right?”

“Some kind of . . .” She shook her head, then leaned across the table to stare at him. “Don’t pay much attention to current affairs, do you?”

Hawk shrugged. The pot of lamb stew she’d spent the afternoon preparing for their dinner simmered on her apartment stove, ignored for the time being. Hawk hadn’t yet changed out of his uniform; he’d come home to find her waiting for him on the front steps of their building. Melissa had already heard about what happened at the spaceport; indeed, it seemed as if everyone on the street was watching him as he climbed off his bike and carried it inside. News traveled fast in New Brighton, especially when it came to crime.

“Not really.” He saw the look of disbelief in her eyes, and shrugged again. “Look, if it’s something that doesn’t have anything to do with me, I just don’t care very much about—”

“Yeah, well, now it does, okay?” Melissa wasn’t about to let it go. “And Living Earth isn’t a social club. They’re a major terrorist organization . . .”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Remember the bombing of the New Guinea space elevator? They claimed responsibility for that. Same for the blowout of the Descartes City dome.” She saw the blank look on his face. “On the Moon, Hawk. Seventy-six people killed. You never heard about that?”

“Must have happened while I was . . .”
On the farm,
he was about to say, but stopped himself. He didn’t hear a lot of news while he’d been in rehab, and events back on Earth had never interested him very much in the first place. “Okay, maybe I haven’t been paying a lot of attention. So what’s their problem?”

Melissa stood up from the table. “Ready to eat? Don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.” He nodded, and she took a soup ladle down off its hook. “Living Earth is a group opposed to off-world colonization,” she went on as she scooped stew into a couple of wooden bowls. “They believe that the money spent to support colonies on the Moon and Mars would be better used to preserve what remains of Earth’s environment.”

“Little late for that, isn’t it?” Hawk might not pay attention to the news, but he’d learned Earth history in school and knew that lunar colonies had been around for nearly three hundred years, with the first outpost built by the old United States before the Liberty Party took over the country and renamed it the United Republic of America.

“Yeah, well . . . old grudges die hard, I guess.” Melissa carried the bowls over to the table, then went to the cabinet to fetch napkins and spoons. “They started as a legitimate environmental organization but went underground when their leaders opted for direct action instead of working through the system. Rumor has it that they’re secretly bankrolled by the Union—can’t be a coincidence that all their strikes have been directed at the European Alliance—but they deny that, of course.”

She put a spoon in front of Hawk, then sat down across the table from him. “Until now, they’ve had nothing to do with us . . . Coyote, I mean. But if you caught one of them trying to get through customs . . .”

“He was pretty stupid about it.” Hawk tried the stew. As usual, it was a little bland for his taste; he reached for the pepper mill. “Fake name, fake passport . . . nothing the biometrics couldn’t sniff out. Should’ve known better than to think he could get through customs without someone catching on.” He grinned. “I had him pegged the minute I spotted him.”

“All right, so he was stupid. That’s not the point. If there was one, then what’s to say that there haven’t been others before him?”

Hawk didn’t say anything for a moment. Like it or not, Melissa was right. Peter Desilitz—or rather, David Laird, his real name—had been caught, but there was no telling how many other members of Living Earth might have slipped through customs. True, he could have been only the first person to try . . . or he could have been the fifth, or the fifteenth, or the fiftieth. Hawk knew better than anyone that customs inspectors didn’t always pay as much attention as they should. On a busy day, they might process dozens of passports. And Laird might have been just the one guy unfortunate enough to have a face that was identifiable through biometric profiling.

“I don’t know,” he said at last, not looking up at her. “I’m just glad we managed to get him.”

“Hawk-Hawk . . .” Melissa sighed, then put down her spoon and reached across the table to take his hand. “I’m scared. What you told me he said . . . If there are others like him, they may come for you.”

That thought had occurred to him, although he’d tried to suppress it. Until now, he’d been safe in his anonymity: just another person living in the tenements, trying to get by as best he could. But he remembered the way everyone on the block had looked at him when he’d come home. If there were other members of Living Earth in New Brighton, and if they decided to take revenge upon him, he wouldn’t be hard to find.

“So what do you want me to do?” Hawk looked back at her. “I can’t just hide here all day, y’know. I’ve got a job to go to. And my uniform . . .”

“Leave.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “Get out of town.”

“I can’t just leave. I . . .” His gaze fell to his left wrist, and the bracelet wrapped around it. “You know that’s impossible.”

“No. Not impossible.” Melissa paused. “Hawk-Hawk, there’s nothing here for you . . . for either one of us. I haven’t wanted to tell you, but . . . I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and I want to get out of here. New Brighton’s a dead end. If I stay here, I’m just going to end up turning tricks again. I don’t want to do that. And I’ve heard about places a long way from here where people can . . . y’know, disappear.”

“Maybe you can.” He held up his left hand. “But I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” A smile crept across her face. “If you want to bad enough.”

 

 

 

Hawk was still thinking about what Melissa had said when there was a second incident at customs. It wasn’t violent, but it changed his life. After that, nothing was ever the same again.

A few days after David Laird was arrested at the spaceport, a
hjadd
vessel came through the starbridge. Its arrival wasn’t unexpected; once the aliens had an embassy on Coyote, ships from Hjarr had begun making occasional visits to 47 Uma. Before, their shuttles had landed at their compound in Liberty, touching down within the center of the odd doughnut-shaped structure that the
hjadd
had erected almost overnight from native materials. As a result, few people had ever met the denizens of Rho Coronae Borealis; their affairs were cloaked in secrecy, as mysterious as before.