Free Coyote Horizon by Allen Steele

learn that they’d just arrived to board a suborbital shuttle to Hammerhead, where they were to join the garrison at Fort Lopez. He stood quietly to one side and watched as one of the blueshirts aimed her carbine at Desilitz while her partner knelt beside him and used a plastic strap to tie his hands behind his back. By then, the proctor had retrieved the fléchette pistol; he clicked its safety in place, shoved it in his belt, and reached down to pick up the duffel bag.
    “Leave it alone,” the female soldier said. “No telling what’s in there.”
    The proctor hastily withdrew his hand. “Better clear these people out of here,” he murmured to no one in particular. “If he’s got a bomb in there . . .”
    “No bomb.” Facedown on the floor, his wrists lashed together, Desilitz turned his head to peer up at them. “Nothing in there but clothes. Swear.”
    The proctor and the soldiers glanced uncertainly at one another, then one of the militiamen turned toward the bystanders. “All right, everyone,” he called out, raising his hands above his head, “we need you to back up. Those of you who’ve already had their passports tagged and bags inspected, please leave the building through the doors to your left. Everyone who was waiting to be processed, leave through the doors to the right. Don’t rush, just . . .”
    The other inspectors came forward to ease the crowd toward the appropriate exits. Hawk started to join them, but the proctor shook his head. “Stay here. I’m going to need to get a statement from you.”
    “Yeah, do that.” The female soldier glanced at him. “And while you’re at it, give him a medal or something. He just saved your ass.”
    Hawk shook his head. “But I didn’t . . .”
    His voice trailed off; they’d stopped paying attention to him, at least for the moment. At the urging of the customs officials, the passengers shuffled out of the terminal, murmuring to one another as they tried to make sense of what had just happened. The proctor planted his boots on either side of Desilitz’s bag, making sure that no one touched it until it was checked for explosives. Somewhere in the distance, there was the high-pitched warble of a police coupe coming from town.
    The soldiers waited until the terminal cleared out, then the two of them reached down to Desilitz. Taking hold of his arms from beneath the shoulders, they hauled him to his feet. Desilitz was still groggy, but he was able to stand on his own two feet; he looked around as if searching for a way to escape, but seemed to give up when he saw the rifle pointed in his chest. The warble grew louder, then stopped abruptly as the coupe glided to a halt outside the front entrance.
    “Okay, let’s go.” The soldier who’d secured his wrists prodded him toward the door. “Take it easy, and we won’t have any problems. Understand?”
    “Sure. I understand.” All the fight had gone out of him; it appeared as if he’d given up. But before the soldiers took him away, Desilitz turned his head to look straight at Hawk. In his eyes, Hawk saw pure hatred . . . and the stark, unblinking gaze of a fanatic.
    “Consider yourself an enemy of the Living Earth,” Desilitz said, just loud enough for only Hawk to hear him. And the soldiers led him to the door.
     
     
     
    “Oh, God . . .” Melissa’s face had gone white, her voice little more than a whisper. “Hawk-Hawk, do you know who those people are?”
    “Not really.” He picked up the mug of coffee he’d just poured for himself. “Never heard of them before today . . . Some kind of group, right?”
    “Some kind of . . .” She shook her head, then leaned across the table to stare at him. “Don’t pay much attention to current affairs, do you?”
    Hawk shrugged. The pot of lamb stew she’d spent the afternoon preparing for their dinner simmered on her apartment stove, ignored for the time being. Hawk hadn’t yet changed out of his uniform; he’d come home to find her waiting