Coyote Rising by Allen Steele Page B

night.”
    “Such as?”
    “Well, for starters, why he looks like a . . .”
    Greer’s hand darted forth to cover my mouth. Ian happened to be walking past at that moment; he cast a dark look in my direction, then hastened away, carrying an armload of fresh-cut sourgrass to a bonfire burning nearby. Greer watched him go, then removed her hand from my face. “We found something queer earlier this morning,” she said, her voice a little more loud than usual. “A plant of some sort. We were hoping you could tell us what it is.”
    I glanced again at Zoltan’s tent. He’d already demonstrated a keen sense of hearing. “Sure,” I said, picking myself off the ground. “That’s why I’m here.”
    Greer showed me where I could wash my plate and bowl, then led me through the camp, taking me toward the uncleared marshland. We walked slowly, avoiding the people working around us. “You must never speak of this in public,” she said, keeping her voice low. “It’s a sacred thing, the very root of our faith. In fact, I shouldn’t be telling you even this much . . . Zoltan will, when he feels that you’re ready.”
    I shrugged. “Maybe so, but yesterday you guys got off a shuttle in full view of several dozen people. They all saw him . . . and believe me, word travels fast in Shuttlefield. Even if I don’t ask, someone else will.”
    “I know. The same questions we faced back on Earth.” She shook her head. “Outsiders have a difficult time understanding theTransformation, how it’s central to our beliefs. That’s why we’re reluctant to speak of it.”
    “Sure . . . but Zoltan invited me to join you, right? Even though he knows I’m not a believer.” She nodded. “So if he did, and your people have accepted me, wouldn’t it make sense for me to know?” She frowned, her eyes narrowing as she considered my question. “I promise, it’s just between you and me. Besides, I’ve already brought my stuff over here. Take my word for it, I’m not going back anytime soon.”
    “Well . . .” She glanced around. “But only if you won’t tell anyone I told you.”
    I promised her that I wouldn’t. By then we were away from the center of the camp; no one else was around. Greer knelt down behind a vacant tent, and in a hushed voice she told me about the Holy Transformation of Zoltan Shirow.
     
    It happened during the Dixie Rebellion, back in 2241 when a small group of Southern nationalists, nostalgic for the United Republic of America—and before that, the Civil War of the 1860s—attempted to stage an insurrection against the Western Hemisphere Union. For several months, the Army of Dixie committed terrorist acts across the South, planting bombs in government offices in Memphis and Atlanta and assassinating government officials in Birmingham, until the Agencia Security succeeded in breaking up the network. With most of their leaders arrested, the surviving Dixies retreated to the hill country of eastern Tennessee, where they battled Union Guard troops dispatched to arrest them.
    One of the Guard soldiers sent in for the mop-up operation was one Corporal Zoltan Shirow, a young recruit who had never seen combat duty before. His patrol was searching for a Dixie hideout near the town of McMinnville when they were caught in an ambush that killed the rest of his team. Critically wounded, Corporal Shirow managed to escape in a maxvee, only to crash his vehicle in a patch of woods just outside town.
    “This is the First Station,” Greer said. “Zoltan the warrior, the sinner without knowledge of God.”
    “All right,” I said. “I got that part. . . .”
    She held up a hand. “It was then that he was discovered by the Redeemer, and brought to the Room of Pain and Understanding.”
    The Redeemer went by the name of Dr. Owen Dunn. The Universalists held a special place for him in their mythology roughly analogous to John the Baptist and Satan rolled into one, but the truth was much more prosaic,