THOMPSON'S FERRY

"They're coming."

Lars's voice came to him as a whisper, carried by the subcutaneous implant within his left ear. Clark Thompson looked away from the windswept waters of the channel to peer up at the Eastern Divide. The limestone bluffs were slick with the rain that fell from the lead sky; he couldn't see his nephew, but he knew Lars was hiding somewhere up there, watching the entrance to the Monroe Pass, the narrow river gorge that led through the Divide. Good. If he couldn't see him, then no one else would either.

Thompson touched the side of his jaw. "On foot?"

"Skimmer. Too large to get through the pass, so they're hiking the rest of the way in."

"How many?"

"Ten . . . no, twelve. Wait a sec . . . make that fifteen."A pause, marred by a thin ripple of carrier-wave static. "We've got a clear shot. Want us to drop 'em?"

Fifteen Union Guard soldiers, arriving on an armored skimmer from Liberty. From their vantage point on the ridgeline, Lars and the four men with him could easily pick them off, no doubt about that. But the skimmer was doubtless equipped with a 30mm artillery gun, and the patrol was still on the other side of the Divide, well within radio range of Liberty; if Lars attacked too soon, the squad would have enough time to call for reinforcements while they turned the gun upon the ridge. Better to let them feel safe, at least until they made their way through the pass.

"Hold your fire," Thompson murmured, "but keep 'em in sight. Whatever you do, don't let 'em see you."

"Got it. Out."A thin beep as Lars disconnected.

Cold rain pattered against the wide brim of his hat and seeped into his thick beard; it pelted the waters of the East Channel, raising a thin mist that obscured the figures standing on the pier next to the anchored ferry. It seemed as if everything had been cast in monochrome hues of black and grey: the colors of early Hanael, with summer a distant memory and winter only a few weeks away.

Pulling his catskin poncho closer around himself, Thompson walked away from the town lodge, his boots crunching against sand and pebbles. The people gathered on the pier looked up as he marched down the wet planks toward them: four men and three women, with his younger nephew Garth standing nearby. Everyone looked wet and miserable, yet it wasn't discomfort that he saw in their eyes, but fear.

A tall young woman turned to him. "They're after us, aren't they?"

Thompson nodded. "There's a squad on the other side of the Divide. Guess the Matriarch doesn't want to be deprived of her dinner music."

A couple of wan smiles. This wasn't just another group of refugees from Shuttlefield, but the Coyote Wood Ensemble. Until a few days ago, they had been eight woodwind musicians, practicing their art together in peace, sometimes performing in public at the behest of the colonial governor. Then one of their group had made the mistake of composing a ribald song about Luisa Hernandez; someone had overheard the ensemble rehearsing it, with him singing the lyrics, and the following day he disappeared.

So now the remaining members were on the run, and when you're wanted by the Union Guard, there's only one place to go, and only one way to get there. Many people had come before them, yet the moment they arrived in town and told him their story, Clark knew that this time would be different.

Allegra DiSilvio shook her head within the hood of her waterlogged serape. "It's not us they want," the ensemble's leader said quietly. "It's her."

The older woman beside her didn't seem to hear. Frail and grey-haired, her thin arms crossed tightly against her patched secondhand parka, she stared at the channel with blank eyes. A bamboo flute was clutched within her left hand; it seemed to Thompson that she was holding it for comfort, a shield against a cold and threatening world.

"Sissy is . . ." Allegra hesitated, uncertain of herself. "Her son is Chris Levin, the Chief Proctor. If it weren't for her, they probably wouldn't care less, but . . ."

Thompson held up a hand. "We don't have time for this. My lookout says they're on the way. It won't take 'em long to get through the pass."

A small pile of duffel bags were bundled together on the raft next to the rotary winch. A canvas tarp had been laid across them; he stepped onto the ferry, knelt to tug at the rope that lashed them together. This was everything the group had with them when had they arrived in town early that morning, the sum total of their possessions. Stepping back onto the pier, Thompson looked at Garth. "Better get moving," he said, then pointed to the biggest man in the group. "You got a strong back?" He nodded. "Good. Then help my boy with the winch. Four arms are better than two. Everyone else, climb aboard. Stay close to the middle and don't rock the boat. Anyone who falls overboard is on their own . . . once you get going, he won't have time to stop and pick up anyone."

The passengers glanced nervously at one another, but no one objected; one by one, they stepped off the pier onto the raft, finding seats upon the wet stack of duffel bags, with the man Thompson had picked as copilot taking a position next to the upright wheel of the winch. Allegra was the next-to-last person aboard; she helped Sissy step onto the raft, then she paused to look back at Thompson.

"You still haven't told us what the fare is," she said.

For the last two years, Thompson had charged everyone who used his ferry. Colonial scrip was useless because no one ever went back to Liberty or Shuttlefield; you paid with whatever you brought with you that could be spared, whether it be hand tools or guns, sleeping bags or spare clothes. The barter trade of outcasts.

This time, though, Thompson shook his head. "Free ride," he said quietly. "Next time I see you, we'll work something out."

Allegra gazed back at him. "Is because we don't have anything you want," she replied, "or is it because we don't have anything you need?"

Thompson didn't answer that question. He impatiently cocked his thumb toward the raft; without another word, she climbed aboard, settling in next to Sissy Levin.

Garth was astonished. He'd never seen his uncle refuse payment. Before he could say anything, though, Thompson pulled his nephew aside, put his face next to the teenager's ear. "Whatever you see or hear," he whispered, "don't turn back. Just keep going, and don't turn back unless I tell you to."

The boy's eyes went wide. "But what if they . . . ?"

"You heard me. Rigil Kent will meet up with you on the other side. They know you're coming. Leave the raft and go with them."

"But what about you and . . . ?"

"We'll be along soon enough. Don't worry, we'll find you." Thompson clasped Garth's elbow. "We always knew it would eventually come down to this. Now get along, and don't come back unless you hear from me."

Garth's mouth trembled; there was wetness against his face that might have been tears or only rain. He knew better than to argue, though, so he nodded once, then stepped onto the raft, taking his place on the other side of the wheel. Thompson slipped the loops of the mooring lines off the pier cleats, then planted the sole of his right foot against the raft and kicked it off. Garth and the other man grabbed the wheel handle and began to turn it hand over hand.

Rainwater sluiced off the cable suspended six feet above the surface as it fed through the winch. A few seconds later, the raft was clear of the pier, slowly making its way across the channel toward the distant bluffs of the Midland Rise, half-seen through the rain and mist. The distance between New Florida and Midland was little more than two miles; with luck, the ferry would get across before the soldiers arrived.

Thompson didn't watch it go. Instead, he quickly walked down the pier, then broke into a run once he reached the beach.

He jogged up the back stairs of the lodge and pushed open the door. The main room was warm, a fire crackling within the stone hearth. It could have been lunchtime, with bowls of Molly's redfish chowder laid out across the long blackwood table that ran down the center of the room.

Yet there was no food today, only guns. On either side of the table, men and women were loading rifles they had taken from the hidden closet behind the bedroom where he and Molly slept. A few of the townspeople looked up as he came in, then they went back to fitting cartridges into the stocks and checking the sights of their scopes. No one said anything to him as he strode over to the storeroom that he'd made into his office.

As he expected, Molly was there. Calm as ever, she was selecting ceramic jars of pickled fish from the shelves, packing them into crates. "I don't know about these," she said, as her husband came in. "I mean, they're marked last April, but I opened one and it smells like it might have spoiled." She picked up a jar, held it out to him. "What do you think . . . good or bad?"

Molly. Good old Aunt Molly. She had never quite become accustomed to the LeMarean calendar, preferring to use the old Gregorian system. Yet nothing had ever spoiled while she was in charge of the community food supply, although she kept records only on strips of tape and within her own head.

Thompson took the jar from her, took a perfunctory sniff. "Okay to me. Now, look-"

"Oh, what would you know?" Molly took the jar away from him, sniffed it herself, then put it back on the shelf. "I swear, you'll eat anything. If it wasn't for me, you'd be sick as-"

"Will you just shut up a second?" Molly lifted her head, stared at him in shock; in all the years they had been married, there were very few times he'd ever told her to shut up. "The fish is fine," he continued, "We'll eat whatever you give us. Right now, I just want one thing from you. . . ."

"Clark . . ."

"Stay in here." He lowered his voice. "Bolt the door, lie down on the floor, and don't come out until I tell you to."

"Oh, for God's sake, Clark . . ."

"Honey, you're a great cook, but you can't shoot for squat, and I don't want to have to worry about you." He let out his breath. "I just told Garth to make himself scarce, and Lars can hold his own. Right now, what I need you to do is become invisible. Can you do that for me? Please?"

Molly's face betrayed no emotion, yet her hand trembled as she selected another jar from the shelf. "I'll stay here," she murmured, not looking at him. "Just be careful, all right?"

"I will. I . . ." He stopped himself. He had more to say, not the least of which was I love you , but the others needed him just then, so instead he gently lifted her chin and gave her a quick kiss. It was something, he realized, that he hadn't done enough lately; he felt her hand touch his arm, as if she was trying to hold him back, but he hastily withdrew from her. "Just stay out of sight," he added. "This'll be over soon enough." Then he left the storeroom, shutting the door behind him.

Thompson spent a few minutes with the militia, making sure everyone knew where they were supposed to be, what signals they would use. Only a few had implants, with the others relying on headsets, yet he warned them to keep radio communications to a bare minimum, to reduce the chances of being overheard by Guardsmen who might be scanning the same frequencies. Firepower, though, was the major concern; although everyone was armed, the seven who had semiauto carbines-Union Guard firearms, stolen or bartered over the last two years-only had one or two spare cartridges of ten rounds each, while the remaining twelve carried bolt-action rifles-crude arms bartered to them by Rigil Kent, handmade somewhere over on Midland-which carried only four rounds, plus whatever they had in their pockets. Thompson placed the ones with the carbines closer to the center of town, where they would have the minimum range and maximum efficiency, and posted the ones with the bolt-actions farther away to back them up.

"Don't waste a shot," he finished, "and don't fire until you get my signal." He paused. "And one more thing . . . let me handle the leader."

Everyone nodded, except for Lonnie Dielman. "Why not him? If you're pinned down, then . . ."

"If I'm pinned down, then take care of it. If the leader's who I think he is, though, then I want him alive." Thompson looked the younger man straight in the eye. "Just do as I say, okay?" Dielman shrugged, then nodded, and Thompson glanced at the others. "All right, then. Take your places . . . and good luck. Remember what you're fighting for."

Everyone nodded. They took a moment to shake hands with one another, knowing all too well that this might be the last time they saw each other alive, then they put on their jackets, pulled on their hats, picked up their guns, and stepped out into the rain.

Thompson was the last to leave the lodge. The rain was lightening up a little as he stepped out onto the front porch, but it was still coming down hard. From where he stood, he could see townspeople moving into position: behind the stilts supporting the blackwood cabins six feet above the ground, behind stone chimneys, behind chicken shacks and goat pens. The children had already been taken over to the other side of the channel, along with a couple of adults to shepherd them; the livestock remained where they were, if only to give the town some semblance of normality. He hoped none of them would be caught in the cross fire.

He checked his carbine, making sure that a round was chambered and the safety was off, then he opened the front door, propping it with a large geode one of the kids had given him as a First Landing Day present, and concealed the rifle behind it.

Thompson touched his jaw again. "Lars, where are they?"

"Coming through now."A pause. "Castro's with 'em."

Good. Just as he expected. "Stand by," he said, then he walked down the front steps and sauntered across the wet sand toward the center of town.

Company was coming. Might as well greet them.

The soldiers came out of the mist in triangular formation, fifteen men spread out across the rocky beach, marching into town with carbines in hand. Their rain-soaked fatigues were caked with mud up to the knees where they had waded across the North Bend after making their way single file through the pass; rain pattered off their helmets, and they slumped beneath the weight of their packs. A long time ago, he'd been one of them: just another grunt, sent out on yet another thankless task. Any merciful impulses he might have had, though, disappeared when he discerned the black shape among them.

Manuel Castro walked without the encumbrance of a pack; his mechanical body needed no rest or nourishment, so it wasn't necessary for him to carry a sleeping bag or food. Beneath his black cloak, his ceramic-alloy feet clicked softly against the pebbles, leaving deep impressions in the sand behind him. Although the squad surrounded him, none of the soldiers walked alongside the Savant; it might have been in deference to his position as lieutenant governor, but Thompson suspected that it was out of loathing, and not a little bit of fear.

The soldiers were uneasy; Thompson could see it in their faces as they surveyed the tiny settlement with quick, nervous glances, taking in the dark and silent cabins, the absence of motion upon the wharf where kayaks lay upended near the empty pier. In sudden hindsight, Thompson realized it might have been better to have a few townspeople visible, in order to help preserve the illusion that the soldiers' arrival was unexpected. Too late for that, he could only hope they didn't spot any of the snipers hiding beneath the cabins and on the rooftops.

The squad leader saw him, raised a hand; his men came to a halt, and he stepped forward, raising the carbine so that its barrel pointed toward the sky. "Good afternoon," he said. "I take it that you're in charge here?"

"Yes, I am." Thompson carefully kept his arms at his sides. "And you are. . . ?"

"Captain Ramon Lopez, Thirty-third Infantry, Western Hemisphere Union Guard." He hesitated. "If you say you're in charge, then you must be . . ."

"Clark Thompson, mayor of Thompson's Ferry."

Lopez raised an eyebrow. "Not Colonel Thompson? I was told you were . . ."

"Not anymore. I resigned my commission a long time ago." Long before he decided to immigrate to Coyote, in fact, bringing his wife and two adopted nephews with him. He'd tried to put the past behind him, but when they discovered that the Union was just as omnipresent as it had been on Earth, they and a handful of friends fled Shuttlefield, journeying on foot across the Eastern Divide to establish a small fishing village.

It wasn't long before others joined them, the lucky few who had managed to leave the inland colonies without being stopped by soldiers or Proctors. With fewer than forty people living there, Thompson's Ferry was more like a commune than a town. Thompson called himself mayor only when newcomers showed up. Most of them stayed just long enough to barter safe passage across the channel. They'd had a lot of passengers lately; the Matriarch was cracking down on dissidents.

"Sorry you've had to come so far, Captain," Thompson said. "In any other instance, I'd invite you and your men to stay for lunch. As it stands, I hope you won't consider me rude if I ask you to leave."

A soldier nearest the squad leader shifted from one leg to another, his left hand moving an inch closer to the trigger of his rifle. A faint smile danced at the corners of Lopez's mouth. "I appreciate your hospitality, Colonel . . . pardon me, Mr. Thompson. We don't want to cause any trouble." The smile faded. "But we believe that you've received some other visitors lately. We're here to take them home."

"Sorry, Captain, but that's not possible." Thompson pretended not to notice the restless corporal. "Again, I have to ask you to leave . . . please."

"Mr. Thompson, I don't think you understand. This isn't a . . ."

"Captain, if I may . . . ?" The Savant's voice was a modulated tonality from the grille-like mouth of his metallic skull, devoid of accent or even, Thompson imagined, a soul. "Perhaps I should explain matters to the mayor."

Lopez hesitated, then stepped aside, allowing Manuel Castro to step forward. "Mr. Thompson . . . or may I call you Clark . . . ?"

"No, you may not."

A discordant rasp, like coarse sandpaper rubbing across tinfoil; it might have been laughter. "Very well. In any case, the situation is simple. For the last two years, the Matriarch has graciously permitted your settlement to exist out here, even though it operates a ferry that regularly carries Union citizens over to Midland."

"No law against that." Thompson shrugged. "It's a new world. A lot of room here for people to come and go as they will. If some folks want to leave New Florida and set out on their own, I see no problem with that. Do you?"

"So long as they're not valuable assets to the Union, no." A softer rasp, one that might have been a sigh. "Until recently, we've allowed various . . . shall we say, undesirable individuals . . . to leave the colony, so long as they weren't necessary to our growth. Indeed, we even went so far as to construct a bridge across the channel earlier this year, which would have served much the same purpose until it was sabotaged by anticollectivist elements. . . ."

"Interesting way to describe the guy who built it." Thompson felt his throat go tight; he'd met James Alonzo Garcia, the architect of the Matriarch Hernandez Bridge, and had nothing but respect for him. "I understand he was executed."

"You have the facts wrong. He hanged himself." A moment lapsed, as if Castro was awaiting a rebuttal; when he didn't get it, he went on. "Even after the bridge was rendered impassable, we allowed your ferry to continue to siphon away those who didn't want to stay. . . ."

"Unless you stopped them first."

"Unless they were essential to New Florida's continued growth and stability . . ."

"That's not the way I've heard it. From what I've been told, Luisa's got her panties in a bunch over the bridge. Now she's looking for . . . what did you call them, anticollectivist elements? . . . under every bed. In fact, I hear you can't even sing a naughty little song about her without risking arrest."

"Oh, so you've heard about this already? Then someone who's visited here lately must have told you."

Thompson felt his face grow warm. He'd let slip more than he intended. Castro half turned away from him, raising a hand from beneath his robes to indicate the nearby pier. "A small group left Shuttlefield on foot yesterday, and we have good reason to believe they were headed here. They would have arrived either late last night or, more likely, early this morning. Musicians, mainly . . . and honestly, their departure is of no real concern to us, except that one of them is Cecelia Levin, the mother of the Chief Proctor of Shuttlefield. Mr. Levin is a close personal friend of the Matriarch. He's concerned about his mother's safety."

"If he's so concerned, then why isn't he here?"

"The Matriarch decided that this was a matter more suited for military intervention. As a former Union officer, I'm sure you understand."

Oh, indeed he did. "And you're here because . . . ?"

"As I just said, we've tolerated this settlement until now because it was harmless. Now, by your own actions, you've violated the terms of that understanding. I've come here in an attempt to . . . well, establish a better relationship."

Thompson knew what Castro was saying. Stop carrying refugees over to Midland, and the Matriarch would allow Thompson's Ferry to continue as a remote settlement. Otherwise, it would be placed under Union control. The Savant was her voice, the soldiers her fist.

"Yes, they came through here," he said. "They arrived early this morning."

"Ah. Very good. And where are they?"

"I imagine they're almost across the channel by now." Thompson couldn't help but smile. "Sorry, but you're too late."

Castro said nothing, yet his right hand made a small motion. Lopez said something beneath his breath; hearing his voice through their implants, the soldiers raised their guns ever so slightly. "Don't make this difficult," Castro said. "Contact the ferry, tell it to turn around and come back."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll suffer the consequences." Castro hesitated. "Colonel, there's no reason to ruin everything. Give us what we want, and we'll go away."

"Simple as that, huh?" Thompson sighed, looked down at the ground. Then, as if he was mulling it over, he reached up with his left hand to tip back his hat.

That was how the revolution began.

In years to come, historians would argue over who fired the first shot at Thompson's Ferry. Some would say that it was the Union Guard, while others would contend that it was the local militia. Culpability was the issue, yet the fact was that a misunderstanding was at the heart of the matter.

Thompson thought he'd made his signals clear to everyone. If he touched his hat with his left hand, it meant that negotiations had broken down, yet they weren't supposed to fire until they saw him reach up with his right hand and take off his hat. It was a good plan, one that allowed for a last-minute cease-fire; in retrospect, though, he realized that he hadn't counted on someone with an itchy trigger finger getting it wrong.

The first shot came from the right, from beneath the cabin where Lonnie Dielman was crouched behind the front porch stairs. The bullet went wild, striking no one; nonetheless, its effect was deadly. In the next moment, the soldiers raised their guns and locked their sights on the cabin. Lonnie never stood a chance; heat seekers ripped through the blackwood steps as if they were plaster, and Thompson caught a brief glimpse of the young man as he went down.

A half second later, the very air around him seem to explode. He threw himself to the ground as townspeople opened fire upon the soldiers. The Guardsmen, caught by surprise by gunshots from all sides, crouched on the beach and returned fire in every direction.

Lying on his stomach, stunned by what had just happened, Thompson heard a ziiiing! The sand a few inches from his face made a tiny implosion. That shook him out of his paralysis; he scrambled to his hands and knees, bolted toward the lodge. Within his ear he heard Lars yelling his name, but he didn't stop running until he was up the front stairs.

He'd just managed to grab his carbine when a fireball erupted a few dozen yards away. He whipped around, saw a cabin go up in flames. One of the soldiers had produced a mortar, launched an incendiary grenade through the window. He caught a glimpse of Todd Bishop on the rooftop, about leap to safety, only to be cut down before he could jump. Thompson raised his gun to his shoulder; he aimed in the general direction of the nearest Union soldier, pulled the trigger. Three shots and the Guardsman went down, slumping to the sand next to another corpse.

From somewhere behind him, he heard Molly scream. "Stay down!" Thompson shouted as he kicked the lodge door shut, then he kept firing, aiming at anyone who was wearing Union colors. Time itself seemed to expand, with seconds becoming minutes and everything collapsing into a surreal montage.

Two soldiers sprinted for the goat pen, only to be killed before they made it. One of the goats brayed as it caught a stray bullet, then toppled back on its hind legs and sprawled against a trough.

Another cabin exploded, scattering glass across the backs of two men standing on the front porch. The guardsman wielding the mortar lobbed another grenade at a third cabin. By a small miracle, it missed the target, careening between its stilts to explode harmlessly on the beach behind it. The soldier who fired it barely had time to curse before blood spurted from his neck and he fell to the ground.

Juanita Morales, who had refused to leave along with her two children, died while defending her home. She managed to take down two soldiers before a third put a bullet through her heart.

A lone Guardsman, finding himself separated from his fellows and with nowhere to run, abruptly dropped his rifle, flung up his hands. He might have been screaming for mercy, but it didn't matter, because his attempt to surrender was ignored. The back of his skull exploded and he fell backward, his hands still outstretched.

Captain Lopez, flanked by the three remaining soldiers, attempted to retreat to the safety of the Eastern Divide. One by one, they were cut down by the men standing upon the ridge high above. Lopez was the last to go; in the last moment of his life, he seemed to stare straight at Thompson, as if asking how a former Union officer could do this to another. Then a bullet caught him in the back and he keeled over facefirst.

Just as suddenly as it began, it was all over. Fourteen Union Guard soldiers lay dead within the town center, crumpled brown forms whose blood seeped into the sand, diluted by the cold rain. Through the crackling roar of the burning cabins, Thompson could hear distant reverberations, gunshots echoing off the bluffs of the Midland Rise. Within his ear, he heard Lars give a rebel yell, repeated a half second later from on top of the Eastern Divide. In town, though, everything was quiet, everything was still.

No. Not quite silent or still. A dozen yards away from where Thompson stood, Manuel Castro crawled on hands and knees across the beach. With his black cloak draped around him, he looked like a wounded slug that had emerged from the water, only to have a bag of salt dropped on it. As Thompson came closer, he heard a rasping sound, like a gear that had come loose and was grinding against metal.

The Savant had taken a bullet, he realized; he was dragging his right leg behind him, and he was unable to stand. As Thompson stopped, Castro arched his neck, peered up at him from beneath his hood.

"You planned this, didn't you?" Less a question than a statement.

"You had a chance." Thompson let out his breath, not willing to admit the truth. "You didn't take it."

"Yes, well . . . so did you." There was no pain in the Savant's voice; if there was any emotion, it was only resignation. "So what do you do propose to do now?"

Thompson didn't answer at once. Nothing would have given him any more satisfaction than to plant his gun barrel against Castro's head and squeeze the trigger, even though it wouldn't have done much good. The Savant was a cyborg, a human intelligence downloaded into a quantum comp contained within its chest, adjacent to the nuclear battery that supplied power to the body's servomotors. Castro's limbs were his weak points; even if Thompson tried to shoot him in the head, the bullets would probably ricochet. Unlike the flesh-and-blood soldiers he'd led here, the Savant was virtually immortal.

At least three of Thompson's people were dead, with no telling how many others wounded. Two cabins were ablaze, with black smoke funneling up into the grey sky, and it was only a matter of time before the others would catch fire as well. Even if no one from the squad had managed to transmit a message back to Liberty, it wouldn't be long before other Union soldiers would arrive to investigate their silence, this time in greater numbers.

His town was doomed. No option left except evacuation; load everything aboard the boats, call back the raft, and make for Midland as fast as possible. He'd known this might happen; that was why he'd told Molly to start packing up the food and Garth to remain on Midland.

His bets were covered . . . except for one detail.

The raft creaked softly, water spilling across the rough planks of its deck as it moved across the channel. The rain had stopped an hour ago; the sky had cleared above New Florida, and Uma had begun to set behind the vast wall of the Eastern Divide. Dark clouds remained above Midland, and in the waning hours of the day a rainbow had formed above the channel, a translucent arch of orange and purple that seemed to form a gateway from one world to another.

"Damn, that's beautiful." Clark Thompson stood at the front of the raft, one hand braced against crates of pickled fish. "I mean, I've lived here two years now, and I've never seen anything quite like this." He turned to look at Manuel Castro. "What do you think? Isn't that something?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." The Savant was seated awkwardly on the raft, propped up against a barrel. His cloak had been taken away from him, and without it he looked curiously naked: a robot with a thorax like an upside-down bottle, with narrow pipelike arms tied at the wrists behind his back and spindly legs thrust out before him, the broken one at an odd angle, its knee ruined. "Do you see something?"

"The rainbow." Thompson turned to look at him. "You don't see it?"

"Sorry, no. My vision isn't sensitive enough." Castro lifted his head; multifaceted red eyes peered unblinkingly from his metallic skull. "I can see colors . . . even ultraviolet and infrared wavelengths . . . but things like sunlight shining through water vapor elude me."

"So you've never seen a rainbow?" This from Lars; he and Garth stood at the winch, turning it hand over hand. The others aboard took little interest in the conversation; their attention was upon the receding New Florida shore, watching the flames that consumed the small village they had once called home.

"Oh, I've seen rainbows." Castro didn't look back at him. "A long time ago . . . a little over eighty years, by Earth's calendar . . . I was flesh and blood, just like you. But nature wasn't as kind to my body as it's been to yours, so when I had the choice of dying as a human or surviving as a Savant, I gave up watching rainbows."

"Do you miss them?" Thompson asked.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." Castro shrugged, an oddly human gesture. "Are we there yet?"

Thompson turned to gaze the other way. The eastern shore was still almost a mile away; the canoes and kayaks carrying Molly and the rest of the townspeople had nearly reached the Midland Rise, but it would take the slower-moving raft a little while longer to get across. "Almost. So what were you before you had yourself downloaded?"

"You'd never believe me if I told you."

"Try me. Besides, what do you have to lose now?"

Again, the queer buzz that approximated a laugh. "I was a poet."

"A poet?" Thompson looked back at him. "I don't believe you."

"Well, that makes two of us. I have a hard time believing that you were once a Union Guard officer."

Several people raised their heads. It wasn't something that Thompson kept secret. On the other hand everyone knew that he didn't like to talk about it, either. "We've all got our cross to bear," Thompson said, looking away once more. "Tell me something else . . . why did you do this?"

Castro didn't answer at once. "You know, I think I may be able to make out that rainbow. Not the same way you see it, of course . . . sort of as an atmospheric distortion. If you had my vision, you might be able to see it the same way that I do."

"Don't change the subject."

"I didn't." The Savant looked directly at him. "We see things differently, Colonel. You believe that you've just fought for your freedom. It cost many lives, and you even let the fire consume the rest of your town just to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. Nonetheless, you think you've won."

Thompson didn't reply. By then the fire had reached the lodge, its smoke rising as a thick brown plume that obscured the white bluffs behind it. Somewhere within those flames were the bodies of everyone who'd died that day, laid out upon the long table where he and the others had shared many meals together. He still felt the ache in his arms from hauling the blackwood logs he and his nephews had carried through the Monroe Pass. Sometimes freedom means giving up the things you cherish.

"But the way I see it," Castro continued, "you're only resisting the inevitable. Coyote belongs to the Union. That's a fact. You may not believe in collectivism, but it's here to stay, whether you like it or not. And so are we."

"And that's why you came here? Because of some goddamn political theory?"

"No. I came here because I want to see the human race expand into the cosmos, and because collectivism is the only social system that makes sense. What you call freedom, I call anarchy. And anarchy doesn't-"

"Can't we just get it over with?" Lars interrupted. "I'm sick of hearing him."

He and Garth let go of the wheel. The raft drifted to a stop as they stepped across the sacks and crates to stand on either side of the Savant. Castro heard them coming, but he continued to gaze at Thompson with eyes that could no longer see the colors of a rainbow but could make out the lines of a face.

"You think you've won," he went on, "because you've ambushed a Union patrol. But there are still more then two hundred soldiers where they came from, and another ship is on its way with even more. It's futile, Colonel. You're living on borrowed time and a few stolen guns. Give up now, and you may be able to get out of this with your lives."

Fists clenched at his sides, Thompson regarded the Savant with helpless anger. He didn't want to admit it, but Castro was right. They had managed to take down a squad of fourteen soldiers only because they knew they were coming. Next time, they might not be so fortunate. . . .

"You're wrong," he said quietly. "You know why? Because this is our home. . . ."

"How noble. Pathetic, but noble." Again, the eerie laugh. "I hope someone carves that on your tombstone."

"I hope so. At least I'll get a grave."

Thompson glanced at his nephews, then cocked a thumb toward the channel. Lars and Garth bent over, grasped Castro's arms from either side. They grunted as they hauled the Savant to his feet. His body was heavier than it looked, yet he didn't fight back as they pushed him to the edge of the raft. Its weight thrown off-balance, the ferry listed slightly, water sloshing across the planks.

At the last moment, Castro stalled, yet the deck was too slippery and the cords binding his wrists were too tight. Behind him, the other passengers silently watched; there was no emotion on their tired faces, save perhaps for resentment.

"Any last words?" Thompson asked. The Savant said nothing. "Write a poem about this. You'll have time." Then he nodded, and his nephews shoved him overboard.

Manuel Castro tumbled into the water with a loud splash. He sank quickly, without leaving so much as a bubble to mark his passage.

They were over the deepest point of the Eastern Channel between New Florida and Midland; his body would plummet more than a hundred feet before it came to rest upon the muddy riverbed. He couldn't drown, because he was incapable of such a death, nor would he be crushed by the pressure of all that water on top of him, yet he couldn't swim or even walk. Trapped in an immortal form, marooned in the lightless depths of an alien river, he would have plenty of time to contemplate the nature of freedom.

Thompson watched him long after he disappeared, then he picked up the black robe he'd taken from Castro. At first, he was tempted throw it overboard after him. Instead, he folded it under his arm. Someday, he promised himself, he would raise it on a pole above the ashes of the town he'd built, the day he returned to build it again.

The poet was gone, and so was the mayor. Now only the colonel remained.

"All right, let's go" he murmured. "We've got a war to fight."