Spindrift

Prologue

PART ONE:
Transit of Centauri

PART TWO:
Beyond the Heliopause

PART THREE:
Dark Star

PART FOUR:
The World, the Flesh, and the Devil

PART FIVE:
The Secret of
Shaq-Taaraq

Epilogue

Timeline: Coyote History

Acknowledgments

Sources

FEBRUARY 1, 2344—HIGHGATE

A
leviathan from the ocean of space, the CFSS
Robert E. Lee
slowly entered the vast sphere of Alpha Dock. Spotlights reflected off its sleek hull as the massive starship glided toward its skeletal berth; when it was close enough, the podlike tugboats that had rendezvoused with the vessel five kilometers from Highgate detached their lines and peeled away, to be replaced by a squad of dockworkers. Tiny figures in hard-suits, they hauled behind them carbon-nanotube mooring cables as thick as their arms. One by one, the workers attached grapples to recessed ports along the hull, then moved away while the vessel was gradually pulled the rest of the way into dry dock.

From the window of an observation cupola, John Shillinglaw watched the
Lee
return to its home port. Correction—what used to be its home port. It had been over a year and a half since the European Alliance and the Coyote Federation signed the treaty that, among other things, had conferred ownership of the ship—formerly christened the EASS
Francis Drake
—to Coyote. No one in the European Space Agency had liked losing the
Drake
; it was a steep price to pay for continued use of the starbridge it had established in the 47 Ursae Majoris system. Yet the colonials had made it clear that they were willing to destroy that same starbridge in order to preserve their independence, and the ounce of flesh they'd exacted from the European Alliance was an armed starship capable of defending their world.

Damn these people
, he thought, observing the dock rats as they pulled umbilical lines to the ship and clamped them in place.
You'd think they'd be grateful…
He had to remind himself that Coyote's history was one of political struggle, and that the colonists had good reason to distrust the governments of Earth. Even so, he couldn't help but grimace as a worker's headlamp briefly illuminated the flag of the Coyote Federation—the Ursae Majoris constellation against horizontal bars of red, white, and blue—on the forward port side just below the hump of the command center, where the flag of the European Alliance had once been.

“Sir? Are you all right?” The aide who'd been assigned to him floated a little closer, his hands reaching up to grasp the rail running across the low ceiling just above their heads. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No. I'm fine, thank you.” Shillinglaw kept his temper in check. The young man meant well, yet Shillinglaw disliked this sort of deferential treatment. It came with the position of Director General of the European Space Agency, but Shillinglaw didn't enjoy being reminded of his age. He might be in his late nineties, yet gene therapy had kept his years in check; there was grey in his hair and beard, but regular exercise on a treadmill had tightened his stomach and strengthened his heart. Whenever he came up to Highgate, though, he was treated like a doddering old coot; those who'd been born and raised on the orbital colonies seemed to believe that anyone from Earth was a fragile doll, ready to break at any minute.

No matter. He had more important issues to worry about. Through the window, he could see the gangway telescoping into place against the portside crew hatch. A dockworker made sure that its collar was firmly in place, then raised a hand. “How long until I can see them?” he asked.

“I don't know. Let me ask.” The aide, whose name Shillinglaw had already forgotten, turned aside as he cupped a hand around his headset mike. As he waited for a reply, Shillinglaw leaned closer to the window, stretching his ankles against the floor-level bar of the foot restraint as he sought to get a better view of the ship. For an instant, he caught a glimpse of someone behind the porthole beside the hatch, yet he couldn't see who it was.

You can't be this anxious
, he thought, self-consciously backing away from the window.
Get hold of yourself.
And yet, the thing he wanted most just then was to see the three passengers aboard the ship.

Theodore Harker. Emily Collins. Jared Ramirez. The last time he'd laid eyes on them was fifty-six years ago. Shillinglaw remembered the date well. June 1, 2288: that was when the EASS
Galileo
had departed from Earth, never to be seen again. History long since presumed it to be lost with all hands. Over the years, the disappearance of the first ESA starship had become the source of legend and mystery.

And now, all of a sudden, these three had reappeared. Yet not aboard the
Galileo
, and not on Earth. There were those on Coyote who knew the whole truth; of that, Shillinglaw had little doubt. But the Coyote Federation didn't share its secrets with the European Alliance; indeed, it was another mystery why the three had even been allowed to return in the first place.

“They're still aboard ship, sir.” The aide turned back to him. “Next stop is the quarantine facility. Once they complete sterilization procedures and undergo the usual postflight physical, you'll be allowed to…”

“Oh, for the love of…” Shillinglaw glared at the young man. “I thought I issued a waiver.” Quarantine was required for the crews and passengers of all ships inbound from Coyote. The procedure could take hours, though, and Shillinglaw didn't have the luxury of time. Not if he wanted to interview Harker and his people before his counterpart from the Union Astronautica got to them. “Never mind. Tell someone to keep them aboard. I'm on my way over.”

Before the aide could object, Shillinglaw pulled his feet from the restraint bar. Grabbing hold of the ceiling rail, he pulled himself toward the nearby floor hatch. The younger man was still stammering into his headset as Shillinglaw pushed himself down the manhole to the deck below.

A short passageway brought him to the gangway leading to the ship. As Shillinglaw reached the hatch, a security officer moved to stop him. He'd barely raised his hand before he apparently heard something in his headset. Clasping a hand against his ear, the sentry listened for a moment; he took a closer look at the ID badge clipped to Shillinglaw's breast pocket, then reluctantly moved aside.

“Thank you,” Shillinglaw murmured. Behind him, his aide had just emerged from the manhole. “Don't let him through,” he added. “In fact, don't let anyone through without my authorization. Understood?”

The guard nodded, then twisted the hatch lockwheel. A brief rush of escaping pressure as he pushed it open; Shillinglaw ducked his head and entered the gangway. He waited until the guard sealed the hatch behind him before making his way down the tunnel.

He was halfway to the ship when he heard the klaxon of the gravity alert. Now that the
Lee
was safely berthed, a localized Millis-Clement field was being reactivated on this section of Alpha Dock. Grasping the handrails on either side of the gangway, Shillinglaw swung his feet down until they almost touched the floor. A minute passed, then weight gradually returned to him. Releasing the handrails, he let his feet drop to the deck; he took a second to straighten his cravat, then continued the rest of the way down the gangway.

Lee
's outer hatch was already open, but the woman waiting for him in the airlock wasn't about to let him pass. “Should've known it would be you,” she murmured, obviously displeased to see him.

“Welcome back, Commodore,” he replied, giving her a tight smile. “I trust you've had a good flight.”

Shillinglaw wasn't happy to see Anastasia Tereshkova either. Only eighteen months before, he'd recommended to the ESA directorate that the
Lee
's commanding officer, along with its senior crew members, be bound for courts-martial in absentia for their role in the
Drake
mutiny. Yet his colleagues had backed down, if only reluctantly; no one wanted to do anything that might harm diplomatic relations with the Coyote Federation. Nonetheless, Tereshkova was still a turncoat so far as he was concerned. The fact that her tunic was the same one she'd worn as an ESA officer, save for the different insignia and shoulder braid, only served to remind him of that.

Commodore, indeed
, he thought, trying not to smirk.
You're still no more than a captain, so far as I'm concerned.

“As always.” Tereshkova didn't bother to return the smile. “You understand, of course, that you're now on Coyote territory…and you've violated quarantine protocol. There's no reason why I should let you aboard.”

“I understand perfectly.” Shillinglaw stared back at her. “Just as I hope you realize that if you throw me off, I'll only go back the way I came, then issue orders that'll make your stay quite unpleasant.”

Tereshkova's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She knew exactly what he meant. Indefinite isolation for her crew and passengers, along with endless rounds of medical examinations, would be only the least of it; her cargo could also be impounded, hauled to the station's storage deck and left to collect dust while customs inspectors sent fiche upon fiche to the Coyote Federation consulate. Their ambassador would complain, of course, but the European Alliance wielded great influence on the Highgate bureaucracy. By the time everything was cleared up, there'd be enough red tape to stretch from here to 47 Ursae Majoris.

“
Da
. Perfectly.” Tereshkova still refused to budge. “You're taking quite a chance coming over here…you didn't even put on isolation gear.”

“Not really. I've been arguing that we should ease the quarantine procedures. If there's any contagious diseases over there that your people haven't been able to inoculate themselves against, we would've known about it by now.”

A brief nod. She knew that scare tactics wouldn't work on him. There may be no love lost between them, but the fact remained that they still had to work together. “So what is it you want?”

“You know.” Shillinglaw stepped a little closer. “Take me to them.”

Her gaze flickered. “And why should I?”

“I need to speak with them before anyone else does. And don't tell me I don't have that right…Harker and Collins are still ESA officers.” Once again, he locked eyes with her. “Don't fight me on this one, Ana. I guarantee that you'll lose.”

Tereshkova remained silent for a moment, as if weighing her options. Shillinglaw heard boots scuffle on the deck past the half-open hatch behind her; he didn't need to look that way to know that there were probably Federation Militia soldiers standing less than eight feet away, carbines in hand. The Coyote Federation might have signed UN-sanctioned treaties, but it would be a long time before the governments of Earth would be trusted again.

“All right,” she said, letting out her breath as if in resignation. “You get ten minutes…but only ten. Then I'm personally escorting them to quarantine, and after that you wait your turn along with everyone else.”

Meaning representatives from the Western Hemisphere Union, the Pacific Coalition, the unaligned nonspacefaring nations, the press corps, and anyone else who had an interest in speaking with the survivors of the
Galileo
expedition. Which was exactly why Shillinglaw had jumped a shuttle to Highgate as soon as he learned that the
Lee
was bringing them back to Earth; he had to get their story before anyone else did.

“I'd rather have fifteen, but”—he gestured toward the hatch—“your call. Lead the way.”

Without another word, Tereshkova turned away. As he followed her from the airlock, Shillinglaw did his best to ignore the soldiers standing just outside the hatch. One remained in position while the other fell in behind them. The captain was taking no chances.

They moved aft through the ship, making their way down narrow corridors just wide enough for two crewmen to squeeze past one another. They passed crew compartments, fire equipment lockers, and ladders leading to upper decks until they reached another airlock. The lamp above it was green; Tereshkova turned its lockwheel and pushed open the candy-striped hatch. Shillinglaw followed her inside and waited until she shoved the second hatch open. She stepped aside and motioned for him to go through.

The shuttle bay was as cavernous as the rest of the ship was cramped, its ceiling nearly sixty feet above their heads, the deck long enough to serve as a basketball court. Two skiffs were parked wing to wing on the other side of the bay, their tricycle landing gear chocked and tied down, and a repair pod rested within its cradle nearby. Yet it was the spacecraft in the center of the bay that caught Shillinglaw's attention.

The EAS
Maria Celeste
was an older shuttle, a model retired from active service nearly a generation ago. Downswept wings on either side of a broad aft section connected to a sleek forward crew module that vaguely resembled a cobra head; an access ramp had been lowered from beneath the hull. There was one much like it on display at the ESA museum at Elysium Centre, complete with stairs leading to the cockpit so that kids could climb inside and play with the controls of the craft that had once been the workhorse of the Mars colonies. Very sturdy, very reliable, and very obsolete.

This one might have just rolled off the assembly line, though, were it not for blackened carbon scores along the underside of its hull and the leading edge of its wings. Yet the wear and tear of atmospheric entry wasn't what made it unusual. In the stern section, where there had once been the twin bulges of its gas-core nuclear engines, were now a pair of oblong pods, fat and seamless, with no discernible features save for darkened plates along their sides. The old engines were missing; these contraptions were now in their place.