Coyote Rising by Allen M. Steele

Author:Allen M. Steele
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Space Ships, General, Science Fiction, Space Colonies, Fiction, Space Flight, Hijacking of Aircraft
ISBN: 9781841493688
Publisher: Ace
Published: 2004-01-02T02:00:00+00:00

Part 7 LIBERATION DAY

KAFZIEL, ASMODEL5,C .Y. 06/0503-WESTCHANNEL, NEWFLORIDA

Darkness lay heavy upon the north shore; sunrise was still a half hour away, and the stars had yet to disappear from the night sky. Bear hung low above the western horizon, its ring-plane rising above the channel. The winter snow had melted a few weeks earlier, and a cool breeze stirred the tall grasses of the marshlands surrounding the inlet of North Creek; the grasshoarders were still asleep in their nests, though, and the boids had yet to begin to hunt. A new day was coming to this part of Coyote as it always had, in peaceful serenity, heretofore untouched by the hand of man.

Now there were new sounds: murmured voices, wooden paddles faintly bumping against canoe gunnels.

From time to time, thin beams of light moved across black waters, briefly exploring the shoreline before disappearing once more. Tiny wavelets lapped against the sandy beach, forced ahead by low shapes that glided quietly toward shore.

As the lead canoe approached the inlet, the figure hunched in its bow stroked in reverse, gently slowing his craft. The keel softly crunched against sand, and he briefly thrust the paddle downward to test the depth. Then, carefully balancing himself upon the gunnels, he stood up and stepped over the side, his boots splashing through calf-deep water.

Pulling a light from his jacket pocket, Carlos aimed it toward the channel and flashed three times. A moment passed, then from the darkness there was a rapid succession of flashes in response. Putting the light away, he took a moment to look around. He was almost home. And this time, he was bringing a few friends with him. . . .

"I could use a hand here." Chris had climbed out and was wading ashore. "Unless you're too busy admiring the view, of course."

"Sorry." Carlos turned to help him haul the canoe ashore. "Never seen this part of the island before."

"Who has?" Chris bent down to loosen the ropes of the tarp covering their gear. "But you look like you're posing for a picture. Like Washington crossing the . . . y'know, whatever."

"Hey, if you've got a camera . . ."

"Left it behind, George. Maybe next time."

The rest of the flotilla was approaching the shore: canoes, pirogues, a couple of keelboats, more than three dozen boats in all. The thin light cast by masked lamps illuminated shadowed figures as they climbed overboard to pull their craft onto dry land. They moved quickly, wasting as little time as possible; with sunrise fast approaching, they'd have to hurry to make camp before daybreak.

Over the course of the last nine days, eighty-six men and women, from settlements all across Midland, had navigated the Medsylvania Channel from their departure point at New Boston. They'd traveled under the cover of darkness, sleeping during the day under camouflage nets so as not to be spotted by low-flying aircraft. Two nights ago, Red Company crossed the confluence of the East Channel, where the Medsylvania Channel became the West Channel, until they reached the northeastern tip of New Florida.

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