Free Coyote Rising by Allen Steele Page B

in biostasis to get away from the Western Hemisphere Union, only to find that the same people who ran the show back there were also in charge out here. And that’s how I found myself huddled in a leaky tent, eating creek crab stew and wondering how a smart guy like me had been rooked so badly, when the fact of the matter is that I’m not very smart and the system is rigged to take advantage of losers. So screw social collectivism and the horse it rode in on. On second thought, let’s eat the horse—if we had one to eat, that is—and let the guys who came up with collectivist theory go screw themselves.
    When it was announced, in the first week of Barchiel, C . Y . 05, that the fourth Union ship from Earth—the WHSS Magnificent Voyage to the Stars in Search of Social Collectivism , or the Magnificent Voyage for short—had entered the system and would soon be making orbit around Coyote, I was the first person in line at the community hall in Liberty for the job of unloading freight from its shuttles. Literally the first; there were nearly three hundred guys behind me, waiting for a Union Guard soldier toopen the door and let us in. During the warm seasons, we would have been working on the collective farms, but it was the middle of Coyote’s 274-day winter and jobs were scarce, so I was willing to stand in the cold for three hours just for the chance to schlep cargo containers.
    And that’s why I was at the landing field in Shuttlefield that morning, stamping my feet in the snow and blowing in my hands as I watched the gangway come down from the shuttle’s belly. The first people off were the pilot and copilot; perhaps they were expecting a brass band, because they stopped and stared at the dozen or so guys in patched-up parkas who looked as if they hadn’t eaten a decent meal in six months. A Guard officer emerged from the crowd, saluted them, murmured a few words, then led them away. Poor bastards—nearly a half century in space, only to find starving peasants. I felt sorry for them, but envied them even more. As members of Magnificent Voyage ’s flight crew, they’d have the benefit of warm houses and good food before they reboarded the starship to make the long return flight to Earth. They were just passing through; the rest of us were stuck here.
    The passengers came next, a steady parade of men, women, and children, every one of them with the shaved heads and shuffling gait of those who’ve recently emerged from the dreamless coma of biostasis. Their duffel bags were stuffed with the few belongings they’d been allowed to bring from Earth, their parkas and caps were clean and new, and not one of them had any clue as to where they were or what they’d gotten themselves into. One by one, they stepped off the ramp, squinted against the bright sunlight, looked around in confusion, then followed the person in front of them, who didn’t have a clue as to where he or she was going either. Fresh meat for Coyote. I found myself wondering how many of them would make it through their first year. We’d already lost more than forty colonists to hunger, cold, disease, and predators. The cemetery outside Liberty had room for plenty more.
    About thirty people had come down the gangway when there was a pause in the procession. At first I thought everyone had disembarked, until I remembered that the shuttles had a passenger load of sixty. There had to be more; the shuttles wouldn’t fly down half-full. I had just turned to the guy next to me—Jaime Hodge, one of my camp buddies—and was about to say something like What’s the holdup? when his eyes widened.
    “Holy crap,” Jaime murmured. “Would you look at that?”
    I looked around to see a figure in a hooded white robe step through the hatch. At first I thought it was a Savant—just what we needed, another goddamn posthuman—but quickly realized I was wrong. For one thing, Savants wore black; for another, there was also a huge bulge on his back, as if he was