Free Coyote Rising by Allen Steele

figure came in sight; Allegra wasn’t surprised to see that he wasn’t much older than Carlos, also wearing a poncho and carrying a rifle. He grasped his friend’s arm, pulling him away. “Time’s up, man! Move or lose it!”
    “Cut it out, Barry.” Carlos shook off his hand, looked at Allegra again. “Tell her Susan’s all right, that she’s doing well, and so’s Wendy. Tell her that we miss her, and if she ever changes her mind, all she has to do is . . .”
    A brilliant flash from the direction of the landing field. For a moment Allegra thought someone was shooting off fireworks, then the hollow thud of an explosion rippled across the Shuttlefield as a ball of fire rose above the settlement. She suddenly knew what it was: one of the Long Journey shuttles blowing up.
    “That’s it! We’re out of here!” Barry turned to run, sprinting away into the dark marshland behind the shacks. “Go!”
    Yet Carlos lingered for another moment. Now Allegra could see him clearly; there was a ruthless grin on his face as he looked at her one last time. “And one more thing,” he said, no longer bothering to keep his voice low, “and you can pass this along to Chris or whoever else . . . Coyote belongs to us!” He jabbed a finger toward the explosion. “Rigil Kent was here!”
    And then he was gone, loping off into the swamp. In another moment he had vanished, leaving behind the shouts of angry and frightened men, the rank odor of burning fuel.
    Wrapping her arms around herself, Allegra walked back to the cabin. As she turned the corner, she was surprised to find Sissy standing outside the door. She watched the distant conflagration, her face without emotion. Allegra saw that she clutched her flute.
    “He returned.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I knew he would.”
    “I . . . I saw him.” Allegra came closer, intending to comfort her. “He was outside. He told me to tell you . . .”
    “I know. I heard everything . . . every word.”
    And then she raised the flute, put it to her mouth, and began to play the opening bars of “Jerusalem.” Flawlessly, without a single missed note.
     
    The shuttle burned all night; by morning it was a blackened skeleton that lay in the center of the landing field. Fortunately, the blaze didn’t spread to the rest of Shuttlefield; Allegra would later learn that the townspeople, upon realizing that their homes weren’t in danger, abandoned all efforts at forming a bucket brigade and spent the rest of the night dancing around the burning spacecraft, throwing empty ale jugs into the pyre. It was the highlight of First Landing Day, one people would talk about for a long time to come.
    Later that day, Chris Levin came out to check on his mother. She was through feeding the chickens, though, and didn’t want to talk to him. The door of her shack remained shut even after he pounded on it, and after a while he gave up and walked over to visit Allegra. She told him that they’d spent a quiet evening in her house and were unaware of any trouble until they heard the explosion. No, they hadn’t seen anyone; did he know who was responsible? Chris didn’t seem entirely satisfied by her answer, but he didn’t challenge it, either. Allegra returned the com he’d lent her, and he left once again.
    In the months to come, as the last warm days faded away and the long autumn set in, she continued to make flutes. Once she had enough, she began selling them to shops and kiosks. Most of those who purchased them didn’t know how to play them, so she began giving lessons, at first in Shuttlefield, then in Liberty. By midwinter she was holding weekly seminars in the community center, and earning enough that she was eventually able to quit her job as a dishwasher. Some of her students turned out to have talent, and it wasn’t long before she had trained enough musicians to form the Coyote Wood Ensemble.
    One morning, she awoke to see the first flakes of snow falling upon the