Coyote Destiny (4 page)

“Shh!” Jorge hastily reached forward to push Inez’s binoculars into the snow so that the sun wouldn’t reflect off their lenses. “Almost blind, but not entirely . . . and they’ve got very good hearing.”

“Sorry, sir.” Inez winced in embarrassment. But then she noticed Jorge’s gloved hand still resting atop her own, and she hastily pulled her hand away. He was about to move closer to her again, but she rolled the other way, artfully putting a few more inches of distance between them.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, pretending not to notice her withdrawal. He remained quiet for a few seconds, waiting until the polar cow calmed down enough to continue moving, her calves in tow, before he spoke again. “No, they’re not blind . . . but when they’re traveling across ice and snow, they might as well be. They keep their eyes shut as much as they can, so that they don’t lose their vision.”

“So the mother uses her snout to feel her way along, and her calves use theirs to keep up with each other.” Inez nodded, understanding now. “That’s also why they walk in tandem, isn’t it, sir?”

“Right. And also to fool predators.” Before she could ask, he shook his head. “Not necessarily on dry land, no. But once they get out on the ice, they run a real risk of being ambushed by medusas. Traveling single file like that, they don’t make as much sound. If they’re lucky, a medusa won’t swim beneath them at the wrong time.”

Inez grimaced. She’d seen a medusa already during this expedition, when a couple of Corps naturalists had managed to capture one by planting a seismic device on the offshore ice that duplicated the vibrations a herd of polar cows would make. The monster that broke through the ice beneath the waiting net wasn’t full-grown—which was probably just as well; it had taken eight men and women to haul the net onto the ice pack—nonetheless it was awesome to behold. Resembling a walrus of Old Earth save for the mass of tentacles around its mouth, medusas inhabited the waterways of northern polar regions. Although river horses and boids were still the most terrifying creatures on Coyote, an encounter with a North Sea medusa was nearly as scary.

“I guess that’s why she has so many.” Inez continued to study the cow and her offspring. “I read somewhere that it’s unusual for large mammals to give birth to more than one or two at a time. But in this climate . . .”

“Right. The more children she has, the more likely she’ll have survivors once she crosses the sea.” Jorge smiled again. “They’re really small when they come out, but once they fatten up on tundra grass and the lichen they scrape off rocks during the warm months, they’ll get pretty hefty.”

As they watched, the polar cows reached the edge of the shoreline. Once again, the mother stopped. Her head weaved back and forth for a moment, as if uncertain whether to proceed, then she carefully stepped out onto the ice. Her calves followed her, still keeping close to one another, and soon the procession was beginning its long march across the North Sea.

“Good-bye,” Inez said quietly. “Good luck. I hope you . . .”

She was interrupted by a double beep in the headsets of their balaclavas, then a voice came over:
“Algonquin Base to Sortie Two, do you copy?”

Rolling over on his side, Jorge reached beneath his cape to find the com patch attached to the outer shell of his parka. “Sortie Two to base, we read you.”

“What’s your present location, sir?”
Jorge recognized the voice as belonging to Greg Dillon, his second-in-command for the expedition. He touched the left side of his goggles, activating its heads-up display. The holographic dial of an electronic compass materialized in front of his face, a range finder appearing just below it.

“Three-point-two miles southwest of base,” he replied. “Just having a day at the beach.”

His remark earned a fleeting smile from Inez, one that disappeared so quickly that he barely had time to enjoy it. It wasn’t as if she lacked a sense of humor; she just seldom allowed anyone a chance to see it.
“Roger that,”
Greg replied.
“Hate to break up the party, sir, but we’ve just received a Priority One message from Fort Lopez. We need for you to return to base at once.”

Sitting up on the ground, Jorge pulled down his scarf to scratch absently at the beard he’d grown upon learning that he would spend the first four weeks of Gabriel in the subarctic. “What does the message say, Sergeant?”

“I have no idea, sir. As I said, it’s Priority One, for your eyes only.”
A short pause, then Greg went on.
“It may only be a coincidence, but we’ve also received another message from Hammerhead, informing us that the
Monroe
is on its way up here to pick up someone.”

Another surprise. The
Dana Monroe
was the Corps of Exploration airship that had carried the expedition from the Corps garrison on Hammerhead to Algonquin only ten days earlier; however, it wasn’t due to return for almost three more weeks. Although Jorge hadn’t yet read the message, he knew that Greg was wrong; this couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Understood, Sergeant. We’re on our way home. Sortie Two out.” He pressed the com patch again, then stood up from where he’d been sitting. “Hate to say this,” he said to Inez, offering a hand to help her up, “but it’s time to go.”

“I’m sure there must be a good reason, sir.” Ignoring his hand, Inez pushed herself to her feet. “Thank you for bringing me out here,” she added, brushing snow off herself. “I appreciate it.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” He meant every word of it. His only regret was that he had so little opportunity to spend time with the young woman, or that his means of showing the affection he felt for her was so limited. Not that Inez ever seemed to notice . . . or if she did, she continued to be unwilling to reciprocate.

As they turned to walk back down the hill to where they’d left their skis, Jorge again found himself regretting that he’d ever joined the Corps of Exploration. There were a few reasons why he felt that way; unrequited love was near the top of the list.

 

 

 

Lieutenant Montero could have requisitioned one of the expedition
skimmers to carry him and Corporal Torres to the seashore, but he’d decided to use skis instead. The practical reason, of course, was that skimmers made too much noise, and thus would have frightened away the polar cows. But the fact of the matter was that Jorge wanted an excuse to spend time alone with Inez, and a cross-country ski trip was the best way to accomplish this.

It took only a couple of minutes for them to fit the toes of their boots into the ski bindings. Picking up their poles, they shoved off, following the trail they’d broken earlier that morning. Jorge let Inez take the lead this time; although she had only recently learned Nordic skiing, he was impressed by how quickly she’d caught on. Besides, he enjoyed watching her body in motion, her long legs pushing first one ski forward, then the other, as she gracefully glided across the powdery snow.

Jorge knew that his infatuation was hopeless. Not only was it unseemly for a lieutenant to pursue a relationship with a corporal, but it was becoming increasingly clear to him that she felt nothing for him. Yet from the moment they’d met, when she had been assigned to 4th Company fresh out of cadet training, his emotions had threatened to overrule common sense. As beautiful as she was somber, with a face that reflected equal measures of sadness and joy, Inez had been noticed by every heterosexual male in the Corps. So far as he knew, though, she’d formed no relationships with any of them, nor was she attracted to any of the women. Corporal Torres was a reliable colleague, and that was all there was to it.

On the other hand, there was quite a bit about her that remained mysterious. Although Inez said that she was born and raised in New Boston, no one in the Corps who hailed from the same town had ever met her. She rarely spoke about her past, nor had Jorge ever heard her mention her family. He’d been told that she kept a printed copy of the
Sa’Tong-tas
on the bookshelf above her bunk in the barracks—not unusual, considering that more than half of the Corps were
Sa’Tong
ians—but she almost never said anything about this to anyone, apparently preferring to meditate in private.

Indeed, Jorge reflected, the only things that he really knew about Inez was that she was grimly determined to succeed in the Corps of Exploration and that he was madly in love with her. Of course, this was probably the very reason why she was keeping him at arm’s length. She probably realized that having an affair with a senior officer—particularly one who carried as much baggage as Jorge did—was a quick way of being expelled from the Corps. Which was why he hadn’t pushed the issue. As much as he desired her, Jorge didn’t want to do anything that would harm her chances of moving up the ranks, eventually to become an officer herself.

Nonetheless, there was nothing quite as painful as falling in love with someone who didn’t feel the same way.

Deliberately looking away from her, Jorge concentrated instead upon maintaining the rhythm—right leg and arm forward, pull, coast, left leg and arm forward, pull, coast—that ate up the miles. The mountains lay directly ahead, and he could already make out Algonquin Base, a collection of blue-and-brown-striped dome tents clustered around a central area where the expedition vehicles were parked. The flags of the Coyote Federation and the Corps of Exploration fluttered from a pole set up in the middle of the camp. At midday, the base was nearly deserted: the geologists had gone off to the mountains to collect rock samples—they were searching for evidence to support the theory that the North Sea was an ancient crater formed by an asteroid collision that, in turn, might have been responsible for Coyote’s chaotic terrain—while the cadets underwent arctic survival training with several other officers. Only Jorge and Inez had left the base on their own . . . and Jorge was aware that everyone had noticed the close attention Lieutenant Montero was paying to Corporal Torres.

Yeah, and so what if they do?
he asked himself.
If I can’t take advantage of the family name in such a small way, then I might as well drop out of the Corps.

This wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to him. And he knew that it wouldn’t be the last.

He followed Inez the rest of the way to the base, but once they entered camp he quickened his pace to catch up with her. “Go on ahead to your tent,” he said. “I’ll check us in.”

“Thank you, sir.” Inez glided away, heading toward the women’s quarters. Jorge skied toward the headquarters lodge on the other side of the compound. He unfastened his skis and parked them upright in a rack beside the tent, then opened the plastic door leading to the vestibule. A moment to unzip his parka and remove his balaclava and gloves, then he opened the inner door and entered the dome.

The lodge was vacant save for a couple of duty officers seated at folding tables. The tent was warm enough that, despite the chill temperatures outside, they were stripped down to the brown waistcoats and blue unitards that were the standard Corps uniform. Jorge noted that they’d removed their boots and were wearing cat-skin moccasins instead; perhaps not the wisest thing to do, in case there was an emergency that would force them to run outside in a hurry, but he wasn’t about to make an issue of it. After all, this expedition was largely a research-and-training mission; he could afford to let his people relax a little, and they seemed to appreciate the fact that their commander wasn’t a martinet.

Greg Dillon looked up as Jorge came in. “That was fast,” he murmured. “Didn’t take your time getting back, did you, sir?”

“You made it sound important. When is the
Monroe
due in?”

“They’re still an hour or so out. And don’t ask who they’re coming to get . . . you’ll have to read the message to find out.” Greg picked up a datapad. “I’ve already downloaded it. Just enter your code.”

Taking the pad from him, Jorge sauntered over to a vacant chair and sat down. His thighs ached, so he stretched out his legs, absently massaging them with one hand to keep the muscles from cramping. The message had the familiar-yet-seldom-seen security header of a Priority One dispatch; everything below it was an encrypted mess of random numbers and letters. He typed in his six-digit security prefix, then his name. The message immediately unscrambled, allowing him to read it.

Jorge read the dispatch twice, not quite believing what he was seeing. He knew that it couldn’t be a gag—he’d known the Corps’ commanding officer since childhood, and General Lee wasn’t inclined to make practical jokes—but nonetheless, there was a certain surrealism to this message that made him wonder, if only for a moment or two, whether he was suffering the effects of hypothermia and just didn’t know it.

But, no, the message was real. Sawyer Lee had sent the
Monroe
all the way up here to fetch a couple of Corps officers who, by odd coincidence, had been out in the snow together less than a couple of hours ago. Watching polar cows, of all things . . .

“Lieutenant?” Greg’s quiet voice broke into his train of thought. “Sir? Is something wrong?”

Jorge didn’t respond at once. He encrypted the message again, then relayed it to his own pad before deleting it from the one the sergeant had given him. “No,” he said, taking a deep breath as he stood up again. “Nothing wrong at all.” He forced a smile. “Guess what? You’re about to get your first field command.”