So while the two men observed the priorities of rank while in public, when they were alone their respective insignia were ignored more often than not. Yet Jorge couldn’t help but notice a certain reticence on Sawyer’s part as he poured a couple of fingers of bearshine into each of their glasses. It was as if Sawyer, despite the many years he’d known Jorge, was having trouble expressing his thoughts.
“Jorge”—Sawyer hesitated, then let out his breath—“you know that I’ve always been candid with you, or at least about most things. And I think you’ve usually been honest with me.”
“About most things, yes.” Jorge hated to lie to him, but there were certain matters he’d never discussed with Sawyer, not the least of which was his growing reluctance to remain in the Corps.
Sawyer nodded as he walked over to the table and placed a drink in front of Jorge. “So you’re going to have to trust me when I tell you that, even though there’s one thing . . . well, maybe two . . . that I’ve always kept from you, it’s only because I’d been sworn to secrecy about it, and so I couldn’t tell anyone. Not you, not Jon or Susan, not the rest of the Corps . . . no one.”
Jorge didn’t pick up his drink. He could understand him not confiding in his mother—Susan Montero actively despised Sawyer Lee even though he was carrying out her father’s legacy—but his father, Colonel Jon Parson, was Sawyer’s chief of staff, and therefore the person Sawyer was supposed to trust the most. Jorge didn’t say anything, though; instead, he toyed with the rim of the glass and let Sawyer go on.
“Let me ask you something,” Sawyer said as he walked around the table to take a seat in front of the windows. “How do you feel about Inez?”
Jorge felt a chill. Of all the questions Sawyer could have asked him, this was the one he least expected. “She’s . . . a very good Corpsman, sir.” Sawyer’s eyes narrowed at the uninvited formality, and Jorge realized that he’d inadvertently displayed his nervousness. “She’s a capable explorer,” he added. “Learns quickly and well. Has the makings of a senior officer . . .”
“Good to know, but that’s not what I mean.” Sawyer hesitated, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “I’ve heard scuttlebutt . . . not formal reports, mind you, but just hearsay . . . that you’re . . . well, rather affectionate toward her. That you’ve been spending a lot of time with her since she was assigned to your company. Is this true?”
Jorge fixed his gaze upon the glass. He knew his face must be turning red, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sawyer was staring straight at him; if he lied, the old man would pick up on it in a heartbeat. “I like her, yes. Corporal Torres is a . . . well, she’s very attractive. But I’ve been careful not to let my feelings get the better of me.” He hesitated. “I’ve certainly never touched her, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Sawyer slowly nodded, but didn’t respond at once. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” he said after a moment. “And although I’m disturbed to hear that you’re attracted to her, at least you’ve kept her at arm’s length. That’s going to make the rest of this . . . well, maybe a little easier for both of us.”
Jorge looked up at him. “I don’t understand. What does my relationship with Corporal Torres have to do with . . . ?”
“First, her last name isn’t Torres. Or at least that’s not the name she was born with. It’s really Sanchez . . . Inez Sanchez. And as you’ve probably surmised by now, she isn’t really from New Boston, but from The Sanctuary.” He cocked his head toward the door. “Her mother came in from Medsylvania when we received the news about her father, and this is the first time the two of them have seen each other since she joined the Corps . . . against her mother’s wishes, I might add, although that’s another matter entirely.”
“Melissa Sanchez.” Something tugged at Jorge’s memory. “I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t quite place it.”
“Haven’t converted to
Sa’Tong
, have you?” Sawyer swirled the liquor around in his glass, sniffed it as if it were fine wine. “Neither have I. But if you had, you’d recognize the name at once. Melissa Sanchez was the
chaaz’maha’s
partner . . . his common-law wife, really.”
Jorge stared at him; it took several seconds for the knowledge to sink in. Sawyer waited patiently, a soft smile upon his face as he sipped his bearshine. “Oh, my god,” he murmured at last. “You’re telling me that Inez is . . . ?”
“Uh-huh. Inez Torres is really Inez Sanchez, and she’s the daughter of the
chaaz’maha
.”
Jorge sank back in his seat, stunned by what he’d just heard. In the six and a third Coyote years that had passed since the destruction of the
Robert E. Lee
, the
chaaz’maha
had become a martyr. Even though
Sa’Tong
wasn’t a religion, he had become revered as a spiritual leader struck down in the prime of his life; in many ways, the story of his life and death had helped spread
Sa’Tong
across the new world, with countless inhabitants reading the
Sa’Tong-tas
and ultimately deciding to adopt it as their own philosophy. There were now more
Sa’Tong
schools on Coyote than there were churches or temples of traditional Earth religions; although priests and ministers of the older faiths initially distrusted or resented the introduction of the alien creed, they’d gradually come to realize
Sa’Tong
made allowances for other religions. Besides, speaking out against
Sa’Tong
was not in their best interests; after all, it had been a fanatical deacon from the Church of the Holy Dominion who’d smuggled a bomb aboard the
Lee
, and thus was responsible for the greatest disaster in recent Coyote history.
“But . . . the
chaaz’maha
is dead.” Sitting up straight again, Jorge stared at Sawyer. “He was on the
Lee
, same as my grandfather. No one survived that.”
“It’s always been assumed that he was still aboard the
Lee
when it was destroyed, yes.” Sawyer swiveled his chair around to gaze out the wardroom windows; the clouds had broken, allowing them to watch the frozen expanse of the North Sea as it passed beneath the airship. “Remember, though . . . just after the explosion, before the
Lee
collided with the starbridge, something was jettisoned from the ship. No one has ever been sure, but it’s been thought that it might have been a lifeboat.”
Jorge nodded. Like everyone else on Coyote, he’d seen the vid of the disaster, taken by a camera aboard the nearby gatehouse. Enhanced images of a few frames showed something that looked like a lifeboat being ejected from the doomed starship during the last seconds before the
Lee
slammed into the ring, destroying both the vessel and the starbridge. The meaning of these precious few images had been widely debated ever since, but even though a few eager
Sa’Tong
ians persisted in believing that the
chaaz’maha
had somehow escaped, most assumed that even if the object was, in fact, a lifeboat, it was probably jettisoned by accident, with no one aboard. After all, the last radio message sent from the
Lee
had given no indication that the ship was being evacuated, or that any effort had been made to send the
chaaz’maha
to safety.
“I always thought that was . . . y’know, wishful thinking.” Jorge shook his head. “You’re telling me it isn’t? The
chaaz’maha
is still alive?”
“As I said, we have reason to believe that he survived, and that he’s alive and well on Earth.” Sawyer turned his seat back around. “That’s the part of this whole thing that is still classified, and which I haven’t received clearance to discuss with you quite yet.”
Jorge raised an eyebrow. “Sir, you’re the Corps’ commanding officer. You’re . . .”
“Sworn to silence until we reach Government House.” Sawyer smiled slightly, apparently relishing the expression on the young man’s face. “Oh, no, we’re not heading back to Fort Lopez, if that’s what you thought. It’s straight to Liberty for us, for a private meeting with . . . well, you’ll find out soon enough.”
Jorge checked his watch. It was almost 1400; if the
Monroe
’s destination had been Hammerhead, he could have expected the airship to reach the Corps home base by late afternoon. But New Florida was much farther away; they probably wouldn’t arrive until sometime after midnight. Not soon enough, so far as he was concerned.
“Guess I’ll have to be patient,” he murmured, leaning back in his seat again. Then a new thought occurred to him. “I don’t get it. I can understand why you’d want Corporal Torres . . . Inez, I mean . . . to be there. But why me?”
Sawyer didn’t respond at once, yet there was a quizzical look on his face. “You still haven’t figured that out yet, have you?” he said after a moment. “Are you telling me you’ve forgotten your family history?” When Jorge shook his head, Sawyer let out his breath. “C’mon, son . . . think. What’s the
chaaz’maha’s
real name? The one he was given at birth?”
“He was . . . is . . . Hawk Thompson.” Jorge hadn’t forgotten. It was simply that this was something his family had always been reluctant to discuss. “He’s my . . .”
In that instant, the revelation struck him with the force of a hammer. Unable to breathe, he sagged in his chair. The drink that Sawyer put before him had been untouched until now; all of a sudden, he found himself wanting it, yet when he reached out to take it, the glass slipped from his fingers, spilling bearshine across the fine-grained wood of the table.
“That’s right.” Sawyer’s voice was low, sympathetic. “Hawk Thompson . . . the
chaaz’maha
. . . is your mother’s cousin. Which means that Inez is your second cousin.”
The
Monroe
’s observation lounge was located on the upper deck
above the gondola. Wide, downward-angled windows arranged in a semicircle afforded a sweeping view of everything below; the lounge was furnished with swivel-mounted armchairs, with a small telescope anchored to the floor between the seats. During expeditions, the lounge was frequently used by naturalists taking advantage of the dirigible’s ability to hover silently above the terrain in order to study the wildlife below, but mainly it served as a place for crewmen and passengers to relax.
Jorge found Inez in the lounge, seated beside the telescope. The compartment was empty except for her, and she’d switched off the ceiling lights, allowing the darkness of the night to surround her. Bear had risen several hours earlier; at a quarter past midnight, the giant planet was at its zenith, its cool blue radiance the lounge’s only illumination. She didn’t look around when he came up the ladder, so at first he thought she hadn’t noticed his entrance. But then she spoke, and he realized he should have known better than to believe that he could ever sneak up on her.
“Hello, Lieutenant.” That was all she said: a simple acknowledgment of his presence.
“Hello, Inez.” He hesitated. “Mind if I join you?”
She didn’t respond with anything save a quiet nod as she continued to gaze out the windows at the dark landscape several thousand feet below. The
Monroe
was somewhere above Midland; when he came closer to the windows, Jorge saw that he was able to make out the northwest side of the Gillis Range, its snowcapped peaks resembling white papier-mâché beneath the pale blue bearlight. He’d never seen the mountains quite this way before. It was a stunning view, and yet he realized, too late, that he probably should have let her enjoy it on her own.
“Sorry to intrude,” he said, not taking a seat. “If you’d rather be alone . . .”
“No, sir, that’s fine. I think I’m ready for a little company, anyway.” Inez was sitting cross-legged in the chair, her legs curled up beneath her and a mug of hot chocolate nestled in her lap. She wore only the blue unitard of her Corps uniform, apparently having decided to leave the waistcoat and boots in her cabin; Jorge noticed that she’d unzipped it to her sternum, exposing the white tank top she had on underneath, and quickly looked away. There were things about her that he couldn’t allow himself to contemplate anymore.
“Thanks.” Jorge settled into a chair on the other side of the telescope. “I didn’t see you at dinner, and when I stopped by your cabin a little while ago, I found your mother had already gone to bed.” He sighed in embarrassment. “I’m afraid I woke her up, but . . .”
“That’s okay, sir. Mama’s always been a light sleeper anyway.” She smiled. “Let me guess . . . you were about to knock on the door when she called you by name and told you where I was.”
Jorge looked at her sharply. Was that only a guess, or had she read his mind? “Yeah, that’s pretty much what happened.”
Inez took a sip of hot chocolate. “Members of the Order usually don’t sleep very soundly. Too many distractions, especially if there’s someone nearby.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Never had that problem myself . . . but then again, I didn’t inherit all of my parents’ gifts.”
Jorge didn’t know quite what to say to this. “Umm . . . does that mean you’re not . . . ?”
“Telepathic?” She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m what the Order calls a ‘feeler’ . . . a low-level empath. Which means I’m able to pick up on people’s emotions but not their thoughts. Something I was born with, for better or worse, but since I’ve never been indoctrinated into the Order, mind-reading is something I can’t do.”
Thank God for that!
Jorge tried not to show his relief, although she doubtless sensed it anyway. “So . . . ah, I take it that this was something you inherited.”
“As I said, I got it from my parents, so I’ve had it since birth.” Inez returned her gaze to the windows. “Shortly after my fifth birthday, the Order invited me to undergo the ritual that would’ve turned me into a high-level telepath.” She glanced at him again. “And before you ask . . . no, I can’t tell you what that is. That’s a secret we keep in The Sanctuary that very few outsiders know about.”
“That’s all right. I don’t have to know. But . . . you turned them down, I take it.”