Allen Steele - The River Horses

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THE RIVER HORSES

by Allen M. Steele

* * * *

“I read the first issue of Asimov’s when I was a high school senior, and, since even

then I was an aspiring science fiction writer, I looked forward to the day that I’d

find my own stories in this magazine. Thirty years later, I’ve had more than

three-dozen stories published here, including two Hugo winners and four that

have received the annual Readers’ Award. So it’s a quite an honor to be back for

the thirtieth anniversary issue.”—Allen M. Steele

“The River Horses” is a stand-alone Coyote story that takes place after

“Home of the Brave” (December 2004)—the story that comprises the last

chapter of Coyote Rising (the second volume of the Coyote trilogy), and

precedes the events of Coyote Frontier, the third volume. The author’s latest

novel, Spindrift, which is set in the same universe, is just out from Ace Books.

* * * *

The shed’s wooden doors rumbled as they were pushed apart by a couple of

proctors. Early morning sun flooded the barnlike interior, causing Marie to raise a

hand to her eyes. About thirty yards away, her brother walked up the dirt path that

would lead him back to town. For a moment she thought Carlos would turn to wave

goodbye, but he’d turned his back upon her, and there was nothing more to be said

between them.

The proctors finished opening the vehicle shed. Neither of them spoke as they

turned toward her, but the one on the left tucked a thumb in his gun belt, his hand

only a few inches from the butt of his holstered flechette pistol, while his companion

nodded toward the skimmer parked behind her. A wayward grasshoarder fluttered

into the building; Marie’s eyes followed the small bird as it alighted upon the

floodlight rack mounted above the glass hemisphere of the hovercraft’s cockpit.

Then Lars started the twin duct-fan engines; alarmed by the abrupt roar, the

grasshoarder flew away.

“Time to go, Ms. Montero.” Manny loaded the last crate of supplies aboard

the skimmer; grasping the hatch-bar of the starboard cargo bin and pulling it shut,

the savant walked over to her. “We have to leave.”

Marie didn’t respond. Instead, she glanced back toward where she’d last seen

Carlos, only to find that her brother had already disappeared into the tall grass that

lay between Sand Creek and Liberty. She’d expected him to watch her leave, at

least; finding that he wasn’t going to do even this, she felt something cold close

around her heart.

“Ms. Montero...”

Something touched her left shoulder; looking around, she saw that Manny had

laid one of his clawlike hands upon her. “Get away from me,” she snapped as she

tried to swat it away. The four-fingered claw was made of ceramic carbon, though,

and was hard as steel. Flesh met unresisting metal, and she winced in pain.

“Sorry.” As always, the savant’s face registered no emotion; it was only a

silver skull, a death’s head shrouded by the raised hood of his black cloak. His

remaining eye, the right one, emitted a faint amber hue; the left one was covered by a

patch. His hand disappeared within the folds of his robe. “I didn’t mean to...”

“Just stay away, all right?” Marie had spent the last several years of her life

learning how to hate Manuel Castro; just because he’d volunteered to accompany

her and Lars didn’t give her any reason to make friends now. Massaging her

fingertips, she stepped around him and marched toward the skimmer. Within the

cockpit, Lars waited for her, his face impassive as he kept the engines at idle. Marie

glanced up at him and he gave her a quiet nod. No point in standing around, and they

had no choice; it was time to go.

She was about to mount the ladder to the skimmer’s middeck when Chris

Levin came up behind her. “Marie...”

She paused, her hands on the ladder’s bottom rung. The Chief Proctor held

out a satphone, wrapped in a waterproof catskin packet. “In case the com system

goes down,” he said, his voice barely audible above the muttering engines. “Don’t

use it unless...”

He stopped, not needing to finish the rest: Unless you’re in so much trouble

that you can’t get yourselves out of it. Then we might come get you, but only if it’s

a life or death situation. Otherwise, you’re on your own.

She wondered if he was embarrassed by what was happening here. After all,

he himself had been made an outcast once, many years ago. Marie took the

satphone, hooked it to her belt. She thought to say something, then realized that any

words from her would be pointless. Behind Chris, another proctor watched her; his

eyes were hidden by a pair of sunglasses, yet his expression was unkind. Not

wanting to give anyone the satisfaction of hearing her beg forgiveness, she simply

nodded. Chris gave her a tight-lipped smile, then offered his hand. Marie chose to

ignore the gesture, though; the last thing she wanted was belated sympathy from her

brother’s best friend. Turning away from them, she grasped the ladder rungs and

climbed up onto the skimmer.

The top hatch was open; she climbed down into it and, ducking her head,

clambered through the narrow aft compartment into the cockpit. The skimmer was

an Armadillo AC-IIb, a light assault vehicle left behind by the Union Guard after the

Revolution; there were four seats within the bubble, two forward for the pilot and

co-pilot, two in back for the gunner and engineer. The 30mm chain gun and rocket

launchers had been removed, though, and only a few capped wires showed where

the weapons-control panel had been dismantled. Seeing this, she wondered whether

the skimmer’s armament had been taken out before now, or if the magistrates had

decided that they didn’t want to risk giving her and Lars enough firepower to level

most of the colony. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

“Ready to go?” Lars glanced over his shoulder at her. Marie didn’t say

anything as she squeezed past him, making her way toward the bucket seat on the

right forward side. “Okay, then let’s go....”

“You’re not forgetting someone, are you?” Castro’s leaden footfalls had been

lost in the growl of the idling engines; Marie looked around to see the savant’s head

and shoulders emerge through the hatch leading to the aft compartment. “I’d be

insulted if you did.”

Lars didn’t reply, yet his hands fell from the control yoke and his head fell

back on his neck. “I wouldn’t be ... never mind.” Then he turned to look at the

savant. “Look, we’re going to get along fine if you’ll just keep your mouth shut.”

“My mouth is shut, Mr. Thompson.” Castro’s voice emerged from the

vocoder grille on the lower part of his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way ... and

you?”

Lars slowly let out his breath. He turned back around, but when he grasped

the yoke again, Marie noticed that the knuckles of his hands were white. “Keep

pushing it,” he murmured. “Just keep pushing it....”

“Let’s just go, okay?” Through the curved panes of the canopy, she could

see the proctors watching them, their hands never far from their sidearms. Chris had

stepped away from the vehicle; she briefly met his eye, and saw that any vestige of

their childhood friendship had been lost behind an implacable mask of authority.

Suddenly, she was sick of Liberty and everyone who lived here. “C’mon. I just want

to get out of this place.”

A grim smile crept across Lars’ face. “Your wish is my command.” He

reached to the twin throttle bars, gently slid them upward. The engines revved to a

higher pitch, and the hovercraft rose upon its inflatable pontoons and began to ease

forward ... and then, obeying a sudden, violent impulse, Lars shoved the bars the

rest of the way into high gear.

“Hang on!” he yelled, as the skimmer lunged for the shed doors.

The proctors standing at the entrance were caught by surprise. For a moment,

they stared at them in shock, then threw themselves out of the way. Marie caught a

brief glimpse of the proctor to the right as he tripped over a barrel and fell to the

concrete floor. For a moment, she thought Lars would run over him, but the proctor

managed to scramble out of the way before the Armadillo swept out of the shed.

“Yeee-haaah!” Lars’s rebel yell reverberated within the cockpit, almost

drowning out the engines. “Run, you sons of bitches! Run!”

Once the skimmer was clear of the shed, he twisted the yoke hard to the right,

aiming for the nearby creek. Pieces of grass and flecks of mud spattered the bottom

part of the bubble; Marie clung to her armrests as her body whiplashed back and

forth in her seat.

“Gangway!” Lars shouted. “Mad driver! Run for your...!”

“Stop it!” Marie reached forward, grabbed the throttle bars. “Stop it right

now!”

She yanked the throttle back in neutral. The back end of the skimmer lifted

slightly as it coasted to a halt, less than a half-dozen yards from the creek. Through

the tall grass, she caught sight of a canoe drifting near the shore; two teenagers,

neither much younger than her or Lars, stared at them in horror, their fishing poles

still clutched in their hands. In another second or two, Lars would have mowed them

down.

Lars’s laughter died, the ugly amusement in his eyes suddenly turning to

frustrated anger. “You said you wanted to get out of here,” he said, grabbing her

hand and trying to pry it away from the throttles. “I was just doing like you...”

“That’s not what I meant!” Wincing against his grasp, she wrapped her

fingers more firmly around the bars. “I don’t want to leave this way,” she added,

speaking more softly now. “I just want to...” I want to come backsome day when no

one is afraid of me anymore, or at least when my own brother can look me in the

eye. “Just take it easy,” she finished, struggling for words that might get through to

him. “Show a little class, y’know what I mean?”

Dull comprehension crept across her boyfriend’s face. “Yeah, sure,” he

murmured. He released his grip from her hand, and it wasn’t until then that she

realized how much he’d hurt her. “Just take it easy,” he said, repeating what she’d

said as if the idea was his own. “Show a little class....”

“That’s it.” Marie let go of the throttles. “Be cool. That’ll really bug ‘em.”

The outlaw smirk reappeared on Lars’s face. He laid his right hand on the

throttles again, and for a moment Marie thought he’d jam them forward once more.

But instead he eased the bars up just a half-inch, and the skimmer responded by

sluggishly moving forward. The teenagers in the canoe had already paddled out of

range by the time the Armadillo entered the narrow river; there was a mild splash as

the pontoons drove water against the cockpit, rinsing away torn-up grass and mud.

“So,” Lars asked, “which way you want to go?”

“To.... “Marie hesitated. “I don’t know.” She pointed downstream, south

from where they were now. “That way, at least until I can get our bearings.”

“Our bearings?” He glanced at her. “What, you don’t know where you are? I

mean...”

“Just go that way, okay?”

She pushed herself out of her seat. Castro’s skeletal face raised slightly as she

brushed against him; for a brief instant, as the multifaceted ruby of his right eye

gleamed at her, she caught dozens of tiny reflections of herself, each tinted the color

of diluted blood. Yet the savant said nothing as she ducked her head to make her

way through the aft-section hatch, and anything else Lars might have said to her was

lost in the thrum of the skimmer’s engines.

The day was a little older when she climbed out through the topside hatch.

Grasping the slender handrails, she stood upon the middeck, feeling the engines

vibrating beneath the soles of her boots as she gazed back the way the way they’d

just come. The wood-shingled rooftops of Liberty were already lost to her; she

caught a last glimpse of the grange hall, the tall mast of its adjacent weather tower

rising above the treetops. A minute later, the faux-birch cabins and shops of

Shuttlefield went by; the shadow of Swamp Road Bridge fell across her, and Marie

looked up to see a little girl, not much older than she herself had been when she’d

come to Coyote, waving to her from its railing. Marie lifted her hand to wave back,

and the girl beamed at her, delighted to be acknowledged by a woman traveling

down Sand Creek, bound for glories that she could only imagine.

Marie stood on the deck until the last vestiges of human civilization

disappeared behind her. Then, wiping tears from her eye with the back of her hand,

she climbed back down the hatch.

* * * *

From the journal of Wendy Gunther: Uriel 47, c.y. 06

Today was First Landing Day, our first since the Revolution. I should be

happy, but it’s hard for me to join the celebration: we sent Marie and Lars into

exile today.

That’s not the official term, of course. The magistrates are calling it

“corrective banishment,” and claim that it’s a more benign form of punishment

than sentencing them to a year in the stockade. Perhaps this bends Colony Law a

bit, but count on Carlos to come up with a new idea; he didn’t want to see Marie

do hard time, so he used his mayoral influence to convince the maggies that his

sister and her boyfriend would benefit from being sent to explore the wilderness.

And since Marie and Lars are former members of the Rigil Kent Brigade, no one

wanted to put a couple of war vets on the road crew. Better for them to do

something that might serve the community more than digging ditches and hauling

gravel.

I thought Clark Thompson would object. After all, he’s not only a member of

the Colonial Council, but Lars is also his nephew. From what I gather, he and his

wife Molly raised Lars and his brother Garth as their own children after their

parents were killed (never got the full story on that—wonder what happened?).

But Clark is as tough as Molly is gentle, and he was furious when he learned that

his boy held a man’s arms behind his back while Marie slashed his face with a

broken bottle, the outcome of a tavern brawl that should have been settled with

fists and nothing worse. Like Carlos, Clark figured that statutory reform was

preferable to penal time, so he agreed not to stand in the way while the

magistrates sent Lars and Marie into exile ... pardon me, “corrective

banishment.”

They may be right. Marie and Lars aren’t hardened criminals, nor are they

sociopaths (or at least Marie isn’t—I’m not too sure about Lars). Yet the fact

remains that both of them came into adulthood fighting a guerilla war against

Union forces. In a better world, Marie would have spent her adolescence knitting

sweaters and fidgeting in school, while Lars might have done nothing more

harmful than pestering the neighbors with homemade stink bombs. But they were

deprived of that sort of idyllic fantasy; they grew up with rifles in their hands,

learning how to shoot enemy soldiers from a hundred yards away with no more

remorse than killing a swamper. Their first date should have been a shy kiss and a

furtive grope behind the grange hall, not a quick screw somewhere in occupied

territory, with one eye on the woods and their weapons within arm’s reach.

So this morning, just before sunrise, Chris had his proctors release them

from the stockade. They were marched down to the vehicle shed, where they were

given a decommissioned Union Guard skimmer, along with rifles, ammo,

wilderness gear, and enough food to last them a month. And then Carlos told

them to get lost ... literally. Go out and explore the boonies, and don’t come back

for six months. If they show up in any of the other colonies—Defiance, New

Boston—they’ll be arrested and sent back here to serve out the rest of their

sentence, plus six months, in the stockade. Until then, they’re expected to survey

the wilderness and use the skimmer’s satphone to make a report every couple of

days or so on what they’ve found.

I have to hand it to my husband: as solutions go, it’s not such a bad one.

The Union occupation pretty much forestalled further exploration of Coyote, or at

least beyond what we found on Midland while we were hiding from the Union.

Once the Revolution ended, we had our hands full, dealing with the climatic

after-effects of the Mt. Bonestell eruption. So nearly eight-tenths of this world have

never been seen except from space; the maps we have, for the most part, are little

more than composites of low-orbit photos.

Time to send out the scouts, even if they’re conscripts. Carlos spent several

months alone on the Great Equatorial River, so he knows it’s possible to live off

the land. And I know how he changed for the better from that experience. He left

Liberty as an irresponsible, reckless boy, and came back as the man I was willing

to marry and be the father of my child. Why not have his sister and her boyfriend

have the same benefit?

And it isn’t as if they’re completely on their own. Manny Castro has

volunteered to go with them. To be sure, this is a calculated risk. Manny isn’t just

a savant—he was also the lieutenant governor of Liberty during the Union

occupation. Lars even attempted to drown him after he was captured during the

Thompson’s Ferry massacre. But Manny is trying to find his place in the world, I

think, now that the Matriarch is gone and the Union has fled Coyote ... and

perhaps Lars should learn what it’s like to live with someone whom he once tried

to murder.

So it’s all very logical, all very sane, all very benign. Everything we’ve done

today is in keeping with the sort of society we aspire to create on this world. And

yet ... I’m still not certain whether we’ve done the right thing. We can justify our

actions with our choice of words, yet the fact remains that we’ve just sent three

people into exile.

I’ve never been much of a religious person. My faith is in the human spirit,

not in what most people call God. Nonetheless, if there are angels in the heavens, I

pray that they guard and protect those whom we’ve made outcasts.

* * * *

They made camp late that afternoon downstream from Liberty, on a

brush-covered spit of land formed by the divergence of Levin Creek from Sand

Creek. This was boid country; they were near the place where, four Coyote years

ago, Jim Levin and Gil Reese had lost their lives in a fateful hunting expedition. Marie

knew the story well; Carlos had been on that same trip, back when he was a

teenager. She was reluctant to spend the night there, but Lars was nonchalant about

the risk they were taking.

“Look, we’ve got rifles,” he said, “and we’ve got it.” He pointed to Manny,

who’d undertaken the task of unloading their gear from the skimmer, now floating

next to the gravel beach where they’d dropped anchor. “Better than perimeter guns

... it can stay awake all night, and shoot anything that moves.”

“I can do that, yes.” Manny walked down the lowered gangway, aluminum

food containers clasped within each claw. “That is, if I don’t put myself in rest

mode. Helps to conserve power, you know....”

“Shut up.” Lars lay on the beach where he’d thrown down a thermal blanket,

his back propped against the still-folded dome tent. He unwrapped a ration bar,

carelessly tossing the wrapper into the cloverweed behind him. “When you get done

unloading everything, you can set up the tent. Then you can get started on dinner.”

He glanced over at Marie. “What do you want to eat tonight?”

Before Marie could reply, Manny dropped the containers. “Mr. Thompson,

I’ll tell you this once, and once only. Appearances notwithstanding, I’m not a robot,

and I refuse to be treated as such. If you want anything from me...”

“You’re our guide, Robby. You volunteered for the job, remember?”

“A guide, not a slave ... and as I was saying, if you want anything from me,

then you’ll treat me with common human respect. That begins with not calling me

‘it’ or ‘Robby’ or anything other than...”

“I dumped your metal ass in the river once.” Lars stared at him. “Give me a

reason to do it again ... please.”

Manny gave no answer. Instead, he strode across the beach to where Lars lay,

until he was close enough for his shadow to fall across the young man. Lars hastily

scrambled backward on his hands and hips, as if afraid that the savant was about to

attack him. But Manny merely regarded him for a moment before he slowly turned

his back upon Lars and, ever so deliberately, lowered himself to the ground, folding

his legs together in lotus position. As Marie watched, the savant rested his hands

upon his knees, lowered his head slightly, and became silent.

And there he remained for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening,

motionless and quiet, even as daylight faded away and darkness came upon the tiny

island. Lars kicked at him, swore at him, even pulled out a rifle and threatened to

shoot him. Yet Manny refused to budge; the multifaceted corona of his right eye,

now dimmed ever so slightly, reflecting the setting sun a dozen different ways as he

meditated upon whatever it was that savants thought about when they entered rest

mode. By then it’d become obvious that they would receive no cooperation from

him; Marie pitched the tent while Lars was still throwing his tantrum, and she finally

managed to get him to help her gather driftwood for a campfire. Dinner came late,

and was little more than sausage and beans warmed in a skillet above the fire; when

they finished eating, Marie coaxed Lars into gathering the plates and utensils and

washing them in the shallows. And still Manny remained inert and silent.

Bear was rising to the east, the leading edge of its ring-plane a spearhead

against the gathering stars, when Marie lighted a fish-oil lamp and used it to illuminate

the map she’d spread out on the ground next. “We’ve got to figure out where we’re

going,” she said, kneeling over it. “We can’t keep going down Sand Creek....”

“Why not?” Lars pointed to where it flowed into the East Channel. “Look,

that’s only a day away or so. Once we make the channel, all we have to do is follow

it until we reach the big river.” By that he meant the Great Equatorial River, which

encircled Coyote like an endless, elongated ocean. “Get there, and we can go

anywhere.”

“Not the way we’re going, we can’t.” Marie tapped a finger against the

Eastern Divide, the long, high ridge that separated the New Florida inland from the

East Channel. “The only way through is the Shapiro Pass. Carlos went through that

in a kayak, and it almost killed him.”

“But we don’t have a kayak. We’ve got that big mother over there....”

“Even worse.” Marie let out her breath, looked up at him. “I’ve been through

it, too, remember? In a keelboat, back in ‘03 when we evacuated Liberty. That was

in mid-winter, when the water was high, and even then we nearly ripped out the

bottom of the boat. The rapids ... trust me, this time of year, the rapids are murder.

We’ll never make it.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Lars had learned not to argue with Marie about the terrain

of places where she’d already been. He pointed to the Garcia Narrows Bridge,

northeast of their present location, where it crossed the East Channel to Midland

from the Eastern Divide. “So we cut across country, take the bridge....”

“Can’t do that either. That’ll take us into Bridgeton and Forest Camp—” she

indicated the settlements on the east and west sides of the bridge respectively

“—and we were told to stay away from the other colonies.”

“C’mon ... you’re not taking that seriously, are you?” A smirk came to his

face. “I got friends in Bridgeton. Lester, Tiny, Biggs ... I’m sure any of them would

put us up for a few days.” He gave her a wink. “Maybe even six months, if we play

our cards right....”

“Or they would turn you in as soon as they saw you, and avoid jail time

themselves.”

Startled by the unexpected sound of Manny’s voice, Marie looked up to see

the savant gazing at them. Sometime during the last few minutes, he’d risen from his

perch at the water’s edge and turned to face them, a black specter half-visible by the

firelight.

“No one will help you,” Manny went on, as if he’d been part of the

conversation all along. “The word is out, or at least it will be by the time you make it

to the next town. You’re persona non grata. Bad company. Anyone who associates

with you risks stockade time. I wouldn’t count on...”

“I thought I told you to shut up.” Lars scooped up a handful of gravel, flung it

at the savant. It clattered off his metal chest, ineffective as it was impulsive; Manny

didn’t move, but simply stood there. Lars shook his head and looked down at the

ground. “God, I need a drink. Didn’t we bring any booze?”

“Did you ever stop to consider that drinking may be the source of all your...?”

“If you want to help,” Marie said, “you can start by not lecturing us.” Picking

up the map, she stood up and walked over to him. “We need a place to go. If we

can’t go south or east, and north takes us back to Liberty...”

“Then it’s obvious, isn’t it? You should follow Horace Greeley’s advice.”

“Who the hell is Horace Greeley?” Lars muttered.

“‘Go west, young man, go west.’” Taking the map from Marie, Manny

studied it for a moment. She was surprised that he could see it without the aid of a

flashlight, then remembered that he was gifted with infrared vision; bearlight was

sufficient for his electronic eyes, even if one of them was permanently damaged. “If

we cross Sand Creek and go west by southwest for about fifty miles, we’ll arrive at

the confluence of North Creek and Boid Creek. And if we follow Boid Creek

upstream for another hundred and twenty miles, we’ll reach the West Channel, just

past the mouth of the Alabama River. From there...”

“Wait a sec.” Marie held up a finger, then dashed back to the campfire to pull

a pocket light from her pack. Bringing it back to where Manny stood, she switched it

on and held it over the map so that she could read it as well. “Oh, no ... no, that’s

no good. That’s almost two hundred miles through back country, with the first fifty

across dry land.”

“The skimmer is designed for all-terrain travel. Deflate the pontoons, and it’ll

operate just as well in high grass. It’ll run a little slower, granted, and we’d do well to

avoid heavy brush, but once we reach Boid Creek, we’ll make up for lost time.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Robby?” Still not rising from where he sat,

Lars snapped a branch in half and fed it into the campfire. “Back country means

boid country. Maybe you don’t have anything to worry about, but us flesh ‘n blood

types...”

“I have no more desire to encounter boids than you do, Mr. Thompson. I

doubt they’d distinguish very much between a savant and a baseline human ... and

I’ve asked you not to call me Robby.” He returned his attention to Marie. “The first

fifty miles will be the toughest, I grant you that, but, with luck and skillful driving, we

can probably travel the distance in only a day or two. Once we reach Boid Creek,

we’ll be on water again. After we reinflate the pontoons, we should be able to

cover....”

A harsh scream broke the quiet of the evening, a high-pitched howl that drifted

across the savannah and caused the hair on the back of Marie’s neck to stand. She

immediately switched off her light, even as Lars looked around for where he’d left

his rifle. Only Manny was unperturbed; pulling back the hood of his cloak, he turned

his head toward the direction from which the sound had come, as if searching for its

source.

“It’s not close,” he said. “No less than two miles, at least. But...”

“But what?” Marie peered into the darkness. Once again, she became aware

just how vulnerable they were. The narrow creeks on either side of the island offered

little protection from what was out there.

“Wait,” Manny said softly. “Just wait.... “Then they heard another boid cry,

this time from a slightly different direction, and a little louder than the first. “Ah, so,”

he added. “That would be the mate. They work together, frightening their prey into

making them run first one way, then another, until they become disoriented. Then...”

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摘要：

THERIVERHORSESbyAllenM.Steele****“IreadthefirstissueofAsimov’swhenIwasahighschoolsenior,and,sinceeventhenIwasanaspiringsciencefictionwriter,IlookedforwardtothedaythatI’dfindmyownstoriesinthismagazine.Thirtyyearslater,I’vehadmorethanthree-dozenstoriespublishedhere,includingtwoHugowinnersandfourthatha...

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Allen Steele - The River Horses

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