Coyote Rising Read Free

was out there.
    “You won’t die there,” Baptiste said flatly. “You’ll be safe. You have my word.”
    He took the boy’s hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Tomas smiled and nodded slightly. In that instant a bond was formed between them.
    And then the train bumped and began to decelerate, and a few seconds later the ceiling lights brightened. Around them, passengers stirred from their sleep, yawning and stretching their cramped legs. Glancing out the window, Baptiste could make out a silver-blue aura upon the distant horizon, still many miles away but coming closer: Copernicus Centre, the largest spaceport on the Moon. A luminescent speck rose from within the crater wall, a shuttle lifting off for rendezvous with some vessel in lunar orbit.
    “My family will be waiting for me when I get in,” Tomas said. “Can I . . . would you like to meet them?”
    “That may not be such a good idea.” Baptiste shook his head. “I think this should be our secret.” Then he forced a smile. “Can we keep this between us, Senor Conseco? What we’ve talked about tonight?”
    “Sure.” The boy nodded, understanding the situation. “I can keep a secret, Fernando . . . Captain Baptiste, I mean.”
    “Thank you.” Baptiste looked away, yet he kept an eye on his traveling companion. And in the last few moments before the train trundled to a halt, he saw Tom’s hand steal toward the book Baptiste had placed in the seat pocket before him. Without making any fuss about it, Baptiste pulled out the book and put it in his own lap.
    Coyote still had its secrets. And he had one or two of his own.
     
    The lunar headquarters of the Union Astronautica was located within the north wall of Copernicus, with the office of the Patriarch occupying a suite high on the crater rim. The south wall was too far away to be seen, yet through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the suite Baptiste could nonetheless gaze out upon the vast spaceport spread out across the crater floor: hangars, dry docks, warehouses, fuel depots, the network of roads leading from one launchpad to another where moonships awaited liftoff.
    The Patriarch’s senior aide—a young lieutenant in silver-braided waistcoat, polite yet perfunctory—had greeted him, then requested that he wait there while he informed the chief of his arrival before vanishing through the door leading to the inner sanctum. That had been nearly twenty minutes ago, but Baptiste wasn’t impatient. This was only the second time he’d been there, and the view was spectacular. So he sat on a couch facing the windows and watched as a shuttle to Highgate silently rose into the black sky. Too bad he couldn’t have brought the boy he met on the train—Tomas, was it?—up here; he probably would have loved it.
    The door whisked open; the aide told him that the Patriarch would see him. Baptiste picked up his valise, stood up, and followed the lieutenant to the inner office. The aide stepped aside as Baptiste crossed the threshold, then turned and left, allowing the door to shut quietly behind him. Obviously, the chief wanted to see Baptiste alone.
    “Captain Fernando Baptiste, at your service, sir.” He snapped to rigid attention—spine straight, arms at his side, legs together—and locked his gaze upon the luminescent emblem of the Union Astronautica above the Patriarch’s desk. Indeed, it was one of the few things in the Patriarch’s office he could see; with ceiling lights dimmed, the office was illuminated by earthlight streaming in thin bars through the window slats.
    “Oh, come now, Captain. You’re behaving like an actor in some third-rate skiffy.” A dry chuckle from the other side of the room. “I hate those things, don’t you? Cheap melodrama, usually written by someone who’s only been a tourist . . . if that, even.”
    “I wouldn’t know, sir. I don’t watch skiffies very often.” Baptiste maintained his stiff posture.
    “Hmm . . . probably just as well. Still,