“What?” Greg blinked in confusion, and the other officer in the tent turned around in his chair to look at both of them. “I . . . sir, what are you . . . ?”
“Word from on high. I’m being recalled. Flying out as soon as possible.” He fumbled with his gloves, not quite knowing what to do next. “Call Torres, tell her to come here at once.” He hesitated, then added, “And tell her to pack her gear. She’s going, too.”
The sergeant stared at him. “What in the world . . . ?”
“Damned if I know.” Jorge felt a surge of irritation; this was the last thing he’d ever expected, and he hated questions that he couldn’t answer. “Just do it, all right? And then get started on the paperwork.”
Without another word, Jorge left the lodge, feeling the eyes of the two junior officers at his back. Inside the vestibule, he took a minute to collect his thoughts while he closed his parka and put on his gloves and balaclava again. Then he opened the door and marched back out into the cold, heading for his tent to pack his belongings.
A distant purr of turboprops, then what looked like an airborne
catwhale emerged from the low clouds above the base. Nearly six hundred feet long, with an elliptical frame tapering to horizontal stabilizers at its stern, the CES
Dana Monroe
resembled a leviathan that had magically found a new home in the skies of Coyote.
The airship was coming in from the southwest; watching it approach, Jorge realized the
Monroe
must have set out from Hammerhead at first light this morning, the pilot keeping the engines at full throttle all the way across Highland and the North Sea. That was the only way the dirigible could have reached Algonquin so soon after the messages had been sent.
He stood at the edge of the landing field, stamping the soles of his boots against the ground to keep frostbite at bay. Knowing that he’d soon be returning to a slightly more temperate climate, he’d shucked most of his arctic gear while in his tent, relying instead on his Corps field uniform and an
arsashi
cape to keep him warm for the last hour or so that he and Inez would still be on Algonquin. Corporal Torres had done the same; beside him, the young woman huddled within her own cape, its hood pulled up around her head. Once again, Jorge was grateful for the alien technology that had given humans self-heating garments. The
arsashi
might look like the yeti of Earth legend, but they knew something about keeping warm.
Inez had said little to Jorge when she saw him again and had remained silent during the entire time they’d waited for the
Monroe
to arrive. Indeed, the girl seemed reluctant even to look at him; there was a tense air about her that Jorge had never seen before, as if she was anticipating bad news. Several times already, Jorge had almost given in to the urge to ask the obvious questions but had refrained from doing so. If this was any of his business, he’d learn soon enough.
The engines rose to a loud roar as the
Monroe
came to hover sixty feet above the ground. Doors beneath its underbelly opened, allowing mooring lines to drop. Corpsmen rushed to grab the lines; gathering them in their arms, the ground crew pulled the lines taut, then carefully walked backward as the airship slowly descended upon the landing field.
The ground crew was still lashing the cables around metal stakes hammered into the frozen ground when a forward hatch opened beneath the gondola. A gangway ladder came down, barely touching the snow. Although the airship’s ducted turboprops had been throttled down, the pilot apparently wasn’t shutting them off entirely; the
Monroe
was staying only long enough to pick up a couple of passengers and drop off a few supplies.
“All right, let’s go.” Jorge bent down to pick up the duffel bag at his feet, then led Inez across the field to the waiting airship. A cargo hatch near the stern opened, and a pallet loaded with crates was being winched down to the ground. A crewman came down the gangway; he wore only a light parka over his field uniform, and Jorge could practically hear his teeth chattering as he impatiently gestured for the two outbound Corpsmen to hurry up and come aboard. Jorge was barely able to keep from smiling as they passed the crewman. Probably a new recruit who hadn’t yet undergone winter training; he’d get his chance next year, and if he wasn’t lucky, he might draw an expedition to Inca instead. If he thought Coyote’s northern subarctic regions were bad, just wait until he got a taste of the little-explored territory below the South Circumpolar River.
All the same, the warmth of the
Monroe
’s interior came as welcome relief. As soon as they climbed aboard, Inez threw back her hood and unfastened her cape, and Jorge did the same. They waited while the crewman came up the gangway behind them; cranking up the ladder, he knelt to slam the hatch shut, then stood up and touched his headset mike. “They’re aboard, Captain. Forward hatch is sealed.” He listened for a second, then turned to them. “Lieutenant, Corporal . . . this way, please.”
As Jorge and Inez followed the crewman up a companionway from the gondola, then down a central passageway leading through the dirigible’s interior decks, the engines throbbed a little louder and a vibration passed through the airship. Without notice, the
Monroe
had lifted off again. The crewman came to a halt before a pocket door marked WARDROOM; he knocked twice, waited a moment, then slid open the door. “Please go in,” he said, stepping aside to let them pass. “You’re expected.”
The wardroom was a large compartment on the starboard side of the airship, with broad, louvered windows overlooking a polished faux-birch dinner table. The wardroom was vacant save for two individuals seated in armchairs at the far end of the table; they stood up as Jorge and Inez walked in, and Jorge was stunned to see that one of them was Sawyer Lee.
Middle-aged, with dark skin and close-cropped black hair becoming frosted with white, General Lee had been a constant presence in his life; because of that, Jorge had never felt intimidated by him, unlike other Corps officers. The other person was someone he’d never seen before: a woman wearing a dark brown robe, its hood pulled up around her head. In her midforties, by Gregorian reckoning, with a few strands of blond hair falling out from beneath the hood; her face was vaguely familiar, yet Jorge couldn’t quite place it. Nonetheless, her cloak was familiar: it was the kind worn by the Order of the Eye, an enigmatic collective who had established The Sanctuary, a remote settlement on Medsylvania devoted to the study of
Sa’Tong
.
This was more surprising. Members of the Order were seldom seen outside The Sanctuary, but their existence was known across Coyote. It was rumored that they possessed the original
Sa’Tong-tas
, the holy book given to the
chaaz’maha
, which was the basis for the
Sa’Tong
spiritual movement. It was also said that they could read people’s minds, and even though Jorge personally doubted this, unexpectedly finding himself in the company of one of them made him uneasy.
Jorge was about to say something when he heard a quiet gasp from behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he found Inez staring at the woman standing beside General Lee, her mouth fallen open in obvious shock. For a moment, there was only silence, then the woman reached up to lower her hood.
“Hello, Inez,” she said quietly. “Good to see you again.”
Another second or two passed, then Inez let her bag fall to the floor. She said nothing, but instead rushed across the wardroom. As she fell into the older woman’s arms, Jorge realized that this was the first time he’d ever seen Inez express any unguarded emotions. Then she murmured the one word that explained everything:
“Mama.”
My God,
he thought,
that’s her mother
. And then, another realization:
She’s not from New Boston, is she? Not if her mother is from The Sanctuary . . .
Even as these thoughts crossed his mind, Inez’s mother raised her eyes from her daughter, and Jorge was startled to find her staring straight at him. A disapproving frown crossed her face, and he felt the hairs of the back of his neck begin to rise. Could she have . . . ?
“You must be Jorge,” she said. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”
“I . . . I didn’t know she . . .”
Sawyer cleared his throat before Jorge could stumble through the rest of his reply. “By reputation, of course,” he murmured, stepping around the end of the table. “You should be used to that by now.”
Jorge felt his face grow warm; with stiff formality, he extended a hand to the Corps’ commanding officer. As if he needed any more reminders of who his parents and grandparents were; it was something he’d spent his entire life trying to deal with. “Welcome to Algonquin Base, sir,” he said, even though, from the corner of his eye, he could see through the windows that the
Monroe
had already left the camp far behind. “Sorry you couldn’t have stayed any . . .”
“Been here before, son. Don’t need to see it again.” Sawyer Lee briefly clasped his hand. “My apologies for showing up without warning, but I knew I wasn’t going to stay long, and I didn’t want anyone to know that I was coming.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” Jorge glanced at Inez and her mother. “Your message said that this is classified. Is this why . . . ?”
“It is, but . . .” Sawyer sighed, stepped back from him. “It’s rather complicated and involves matters about which you haven’t been i nformed.”
“You need to tell him.” Inez’s mother had let go of her daughter, and now Jorge was surprised to see that Inez’s face was as red as his own. “The time has come, I’m afraid, but he needs to know the truth.”
“The truth?” Jorge caught Inez’s eye, but only for a second; she quickly glanced away, as if reluctant to look at him. “What are you . . . ?”
“Let’s take this a little at a time.” Sawyer raised a hand, beckoning everyone to be quiet. “In fact, maybe we shouldn’t do this when we’re all in the same room. Melissa, if you could take Inez to your cabin . . .”
“No.” For the first time since she’d come aboard, Inez seemed to assert herself. Moving away from her mother, she stared at Sawyer. “Sir, I’ve . . . forgive me, but I’ve picked up something from you. I’m not sure what it is, so you’re just going to have to say it out loud.” She hesitated. “This is about my father, isn’t it?”
“‘Picked up something’?” Jorge couldn’t help himself; he was becoming more confused by the minute. “Would someone please tell me what’s . . . ?”
“Lieutenant, shut up.” Sawyer cast him a stern look. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” Then he turned to Inez again. “Corporal . . . Inez . . . yes, this is about your father.” He took a deep breath. “We have reason to believe that he’s still alive.”
Inez’s eyes widened, her mouth opening in a silent exclamation. She trembled, and for a moment it seemed as if her legs would give way beneath her. Melissa reached out to steady her, but instead she grabbed the back of the nearest chair. Inez took a deep breath; a furtive glance at the two senior officers, then she hastily ran the back of her hand across her face, wiping away tears that had appeared at the corners of her eyes.
“How do you know?” Her voice was low; she was plainly trying to keep her emotions under control. “Are you . . . are you sure?”
“To tell the truth . . . no, we’re not. But something has happened that . . .” Sawyer shook his head. “Perhaps your mother should talk to you in private while I have a word with Lieutenant Montero.”
“I think that would be best, yes.” Once again, Melissa gave Jorge a discomfiting look, as if she knew things that he’d rather keep secret. “Come along, dear,” she said softly, putting an arm around Inez’s shoulders. “Let’s go to our cabin.”
Still wiping tears from her face, Inez nodded, then allowed her mother to lead her from the wardroom. As they walked past, Jorge remembered the duffel bag Inez had dropped. He picked it up and handed it to her. Inez took it from him, and for an instant their eyes made contact, yet there was something in her expression that he couldn’t read. Then the two women left the compartment, closing the door behind them.
Sawyer Lee waited until they were gone before he spoke again. “Have a seat, Jorge,” he said, patting the armrest of a chair as he turned toward the nearby galley. “There’s some coffee in the urn, but it may be a few hours old . . . and I think there may be some bearshine stashed away somewhere.”
It was a little early in the day for corn liquor, but Jorge noticed that Sawyer ignored the urn and instead was opening an overhead cabinet. “If you’re drinking, sir . . .”
“Yes, I am, and I think we’re going to need something stiffer than coffee.” Sawyer located a small ceramic jug; pulling it down from the cabinet, he fetched a couple of water glasses from beneath the counter. “And knock off the ‘sir’ routine, all right? It’s just the two of us now, and I’m putting rank on hold for the time being.”
Jorge nodded. He had known Sawyer Lee since he was six Earth-years old, when the two of them had shared a cabin aboard the
Ted LeMare
during the First Exploratory Expedition. Jorge’s parents and grandfather had led the ExEx, and Sawyer had been hired as a wilderness guide by Morgan Goldstein, the late founder of Janus Ltd., who had been the expedition’s principal backer. The friendship between the hunter and the shy young boy Jorge had once been nearly ended when Jorge accidentally fired Sawyer’s rifle in their cabin. This was Jorge’s first brush with death, and his mother had retaliated by having Sawyer thrown off the expedition. In the years that followed, though, Sawyer had renewed his relationship with Jorge, eventually becoming his mentor after Jorge grew up to join the Corps of Exploration. Indeed, since the Corps had been brainstormed by Sawyer and Carlos Montero during their return from the ExEx—legend had it that the two men first discussed the Corps after crash-landing on Vulcan during a hurricane—it only made sense that the grandson of Coyote’s most famous explorer would be taken under the wing of the Corps’ founder and commanding officer.