Free Coyote Destiny by Allen Steele Page A

nothing about the chaaz’maha , let alone the late-night arrival in Liberty of a group of Corpsmen and a member of the Order of the Eye.
    He’d just finished breakfast when there was a knock at the door: Sawyer, summoning him to the briefing. Like everyone else gathered in the hallway, the general was dressed as a civilian. Jorge had never seen Inez in anything besides a Corps uniform, although he tried not to look as if he noticed her appearance. But Melissa seemed pedestrian without her robe; like Inez, she wore a hemp sweater and an ankle-length dress that made both mother and daughter look like a couple of university academics, while Sawyer could have been an ordinary bureaucrat.
    The blueshirts stationed outside the guest quarters were still on duty. Without a word, the soldiers escorted them downstairs to the second floor, then led them to a conference room in the older part of Government House, a blackwood-paneled room downstairs from the president’s office. President Edgar was already there, waiting for them.
    “Gentlemen, ladies.” The president rose from his seat at the end of the conference table. “Thank you for coming on such short notice . . . particularly those of you who were on Algonquin.” He waved them to chairs on either side of the table. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your expedition, but . . .”
    “That’s all right, Mr. President.” Sawyer took a seat beside him. “I’m sure Lieutenant Montero and Corporal Torres . . . Corporal Sanchez, that is . . . don’t mind getting away from the subarctic for a while.”
    The president nodded as he sat down, yet he seemed uncertain whether General Lee was being sarcastic or not. A thin, rather ascetic young man in his early teens by LeMarean reckoning, Charles Edgar was the first president to come from the wave of immigrants who’d fled to 47 Ursae Majoris following the collapse of the Western Hemisphere Union. Although born on Earth, he’d adopted Coyote as his home and risen to high public office through the support of his fellow gringos—the old pejorative, now largely forgotten, for those who’d once lived in the New Brighton refugee camps. True, quite a few people detested having a leader who’d once been a WHU citizen; the scars left by the Union occupation had never quite healed, particularly among the old-timers who’d lived through those years. But Edgar was only a few Earth-years older than Jorge when his family had set foot on Coyote; he’d come of age in the refugee camps, and during his campaign his people had distributed an old photo of him shaking hands with the chaaz’maha .
    Although Edgar had carefully remained neutral on the subject of religion, that image had gone far to gain him the support of the Sa’Tong ians. He’d won the election, but there were still quite a few people who regarded Charles Edgar as little more than an opportunist, and at best a political hack. Jorge was aware that his own grandmother, herself a former Federation president, openly detested him.
    “Of course.” The president looked away from Sawyer. “I’m certain you have many questions as to why you’re here.” A wary glance at Melissa; he doubtless knew that she belonged to the Order and probably wondered whether she was searching his mind. A quiet nod seemed to reassure him, and he went on. “General Lee has already been told that we’ve received an unconfirmed report that the chaaz’maha is still alive. Now it’s time to let you know the rest.”
    Edgar reached forward to a comp embedded in the table’s polished surface. His index finger caressed its keypad, and a holo glowed to life above the table. Suspended within it was a miniature of a rather primitive-looking spacecraft. Little more than a collection of fuel tanks arranged around a fusion engine with a cylindrical cargo module at its bow, the vessel was clearly a deep-space freighter, yet one so old that it probably should have been decommissioned a long time ago.
    “This