Coyote Rising by Allen Steele

carrying an oversize pack beneath his robe. He kept his head lowered, so I couldn’t see his face.
    And right behind him, a long line of men and women, each wearing identical robes. A few had their cowls pulled up, but most had let them fall back on their shoulders; unlike the other passengers, they weren’t carrying bags. What really set them apart, though, was an air of implacable calm. No hesitation, no uncertainty; they followed their leader as if they knew exactly where they were going. Some actually smiled. I’d seen all kinds come off the shuttles, but never anything like this.
    The first guy stepped off the ramp, stopped, turned around. Everyone behind him halted; they silently watched as he bent over. The shuttle’s thrusters had melted away the snow, exposing charred grass and baked mud; he scooped up a fistful of dirt, then he rose and looked at the people behind him. He said something I didn’t quite catch—“the promised land” was all I heard—before everyone on the ramp began to yell:
    “Amen!”
    “Thank you, Reverend!”
    “Hallelujah!”
    “Praise the Lord!”
    “Oh, yeah. Go tell it on the mountain.” Jaime glanced at me. “All we need now, a bunch of . . .”
    Then his mouth sagged open, and so did mine, for at that instant the leader opened his robe and let it drop to his feet, and everyone got their first good look at who—or what—had just come to Coyote.
    Two great wings the color of brown suede unfolded from his back. They expanded to full length, revealing serrated tips and delicate ribbing beneath the thin skin. Then he turned, and his face was revealed. Narrow eyes were sunk deep within a skull whose jaw had been enlarged toprovide room for a pair of sharp fangs; above his broad mouth, a nose shortened to become a snout. His ears were oversize, slightly pointed at the tips. Like everyone else’s, his body had been shaved before he had entered biostasis, yet dark stubble was growing back on his barrel chest. His arms were thick and muscular, his hands deformed claws with talons for fingers.
    A murmur swept through the crowd as everyone shrank back; only the gargoyle remained calm. Indeed, it almost seemed as if he was relishing the moment. Then he smiled—benignly, like he was forgiving us—and bowed from the waist, folding his hands together as if in supplication.
    “Sorry,” he said, his voice oddly mild. “Didn’t mean to shock you.”
    A couple of nervous laughs. He responded with a grin that exposed his fangs once more. “If you think I’m weird,” he added, cocking a thumb toward the hatch behind him, “wait’ll you get a load of the next guy.”
    Revulsion gave way to laughter. “Hey, man!” Jaime yelled. “Can you fly with those things?”
    Irritation crossed his face, quickly replaced by a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know,” he said. “Let me try.”
    Motioning for everyone to give him room, he stepped away from his entourage. He bent slightly forward, and the batlike wings spread outward to their full span—nearly eight feet, impressive enough to raise a few gasps.
    “He’s never going to make it,” someone murmured. “Air’s too thin.” And he was right, of course. Coyote’s atmospheric pressure at sea level was about the same as that of Denver or Albuquerque back on Earth. Oh, swoops had no trouble flying here, nor did skeeters, or any of the other birds and bugs that had evolved on this world. But a winged man? No way.
    If the gargoyle heard this, though, he didn’t pay attention. He shut his eyes, scrunched up his face, took a deep breath, held it . . . and the wings flapped feebly, not giving him so much as an inch of lift.
    He opened one eye, peered at Jaime. “Am I there yet?” Then he looked down at his feet, saw that they hadn’t left the ground. “Aw, shucks . . . all this way for nothing.”
    By then everyone was whooping it up. It was the funniest thing we’d seen in months . . . and believe me, there wasn’t