Coyote Rising by Allen Steele Page A

much to laugh about on Coyote. The batman’s followers joined in; they could take a joke. He let the laughter run its course, then he folded his wings and stood erect.
    “Now that we’ve met,” he said, speaking loudly enough for all to hear, “let me introduce myself. I’m Zoltan Shirow . . . the Reverend Zoltan Shirow . . . founding pastor of the Church of Universal Transformation. Don’t be scared, though . . . we’re not looking for donations.” That earned a couple of guffaws. “This is my congregation,” he continued, gesturing to the people behind him. “We refer to ourselves as Universalists, but if you want, you can call us the guys in the white robes.”
    A few chuckles. “We’re a small, nondenominational sect, and we’ve come here in search of religious freedom. Like I said, we’re not looking for money, nor are we trying to make converts. All we want to do is be able to practice our beliefs in peace.”
    “What do you mean, universal transformation?” someone from the back of the crowd called out.
    “You’re pretty much looking at it.” That brought some more laughs. “Seriously, though, once we’ve set up camp, you’re all welcome to drop by for a visit. Tell your friends, too. And we’d likewise appreciate any hospitality you could show us . . . this is all new to us, and Lord knows we could use all the help we can get.”
    He stopped, looked around. “For starters, is there anyone here who could show us where we can put ourselves? No need for anyone to haul anything . . . we can carry our own belongings. Just someone to show us around.”
    To this day, I don’t know why I raised my hand. Perhaps it was because I was charmed by a dude who looked like a bat and spoke like a stand-up comedian. Maybe I was just interested in finding out who these people were. I may have even wanted to see if they had anything I could beg, borrow, or steal. A few others volunteered, too, but Shirow saw me first. Almost at random, he pointed my way.
    And that’s how it all began. As simple as that.

 

     
    The Universalists had brought a lot of stuff with them, much more than they would have normally been allowed under Union Astronautica regulations. Their belongings were clearly marked by the stenciled emblem of their sect—a red circle enclosing a white Gaelic cross—along with their individual names. As I watched, each church member claimed at least two bags, and they still left several large containers behind in the shuttle’s cargo bay. True to Shirow’s word, though, they politely declined assistance from anyone who offered to help carry their stuff; two members stayed behind to safeguard the containers until someone came back for them. And so I fell in with the Universalists, and together we walked into town.
    It’s hard to describe just how awful Shuttlefield was in those days. Adjectives like stinking , impoverished , or filthy don’t quite cut it; slum and hellhole are good approximations, but they don’t get close enough. Zoltan didn’t seem to notice any of this. He strode through Shuttlefield as if he was a papal envoy, ignoring the hard-eyed stares of hucksters selling handmade clothes from their kiosks, artfully stepping past whores who tried to offer their services. At first I marched with him, pointing out the location of bathhouses and garbage pits, but he said little or nothing; his dark gaze roved across the town, taking in everything yet never stopping. After a while I found myself unable to keep up with him. Falling back into the ranks of his congregation, I found myself walking alongside a small figure whose hood was still raised.
    “Doesn’t speak much, does he?” I murmured.
    “Oh, no,” she replied. “Zoltan likes to talk. He just waits until he has something to say.”
    Glancing down at her, I found myself gazing into the most beautiful pair of blue-green eyes I’d ever seen. The girl wasn’t more than nineteen or twenty, only half my age, and so