by Timothy Zahn
"You could tell them you're here looking for plants with possible pharmaceutical value," Jin suggested.
"Isn't that the story you spun the Trofts at Caelian?" Lorne asked. "I seem to remember it not working out so great."
[A reason, it is still a logical one,] Warrior assured him, gesturing to one of the other Trofts. [The response, you will give it.]
[The order, I obey it.]
The Troft murmured the story into his microphone, and for a moment the bridge was silent. Paul gazed at the image of the ruined city far below, feeling his leg throbbing with fatigue and sympathetic pain. How many Qasamans, he wondered, had been killed in the invaders' demolition? Was the destruction a genuine and reasoned reaction to the Qasamans' hidden subcity arsenal, and a military desire to eliminate that threat? Or was it driven by a desire for revenge over the invaders' earlier defeat?
The Troft at the radio had made his request, and the conversation had now switched over to some kind of oddly poetic give-and-take bargaining or posturing that Paul had never heard before between Trofts. He continued to study the image of the devastated Qasaman capital, his mind drifting away from the conversation.
Three months. That was what the Qasaman doctors had told Jin. Three months to get that tumor out of her brain before it killed her.
She'd accepted that diagnosis calmly, reminding Paul whenever he brought up the subject that if they couldn't beat back the invaders within that timeframe that they weren't likely to ever do so. Plenty of time, she continually reassured him, for her to go under the knife and be healed.
Only what if the doctors had been wrong? What if it was only two months, or one and a half? She'd already used up two weeks of that time flying from Qasama to Aventine to Caelian and now back to Qasama. What if there was only a single month left?
Even worse, what if the doctors were right about three months before the tumor killed her, but that there was only a month or two before the point of no return on an operation? Jin had always had a bad tendency to run medical things right up to the last minute. What if she pushed this one to the edge, only to discover that the edge had already been crossed?
[Warrior, an infrared scan of the ships, may I have it?] Lorne asked suddenly.
[The purpose of a scan, what is it?] Warrior asked.
[The invaders' ships, I wish to know if they have been recently moved,] Lorne said. [Future movement, I wish to estimate its likelihood.]
With an effort, Paul dragged his attention back from a bleak future to the equally bleak present. "What for?" he asked.
Lorne pointed to the display. "You see that warship on the far left? It can't be more than fifty meters from the edge of the forest. Once we have a few more Cobras, I'm thinking we could sneak up or even rush it, take over, then use its lasers and missiles to blast all the others. But that only works if it's likely to stay put for the next few weeks."
"Hence, the IR scan," Paul said, nodding. "You want to see how cold the grav lifts and drive are."
Lorne nodded back. "Exactly."
[The floatators and drives, they are inactive and cold,] Warrior said. [But the plan, it will not succeed.]
"Sure it will," Lorne said. "All we have to do is—"
[The plan, why will it not work?] Paul asked.
[Encrypted ally-identification systems, all Trof'te warships have them,] Warrior explained.
"Yeah, of course they do," Lorne said sourly. "Damn."
"What's an ally-identification system?" Croi asked.
"Probably like an IFF," Paul told him. "That's short for Identify Friend or Foe. It's a set of transponders designed to keep an army's warships from accidentally firing on each other."
"You sure they actually have something like that?" Lorne asked. "You saw how easily we got the armored trucks to fire on their ships on Caelian."
[The ally-identification system, ground vehicles do not have it,] Warrior said. [The risk of enemy capture and deciphering, it is too great. But the ally-identification system, all air combat vehicles and sensor drones will carry it.]
[Certainty, you have it?] Lorne persisted.
[Certainty, I have it,] Warrior said, starting to sound annoyed. [The ally-identification system, I saw it when Harli Uy and I toured the Drim'hco'plai warship.]
"Give it a rest, Lorne," Paul advised. "I'm sure he knows what he's talking about."
"Fine," Lorne growled. "It still might be worth taking that ship."
"Let's get safely down first," Paul said. "Then we can discuss strategy."
There was a ping from one of the consoles, and cattertalk script appeared on the display. [Official clearance, we have been given it,] Warrior announced.
"We're going to Milika?" Paul asked him.
"We're going close to Milika," Lorne said, giving his father an odd look. "He already said that."
"Oh," Paul said with a flush of embarrassment. That must have happened while he was contemplating his and his wife's medical situations. "Yes. Right."
"You okay?" Lorne asked, still giving him that look.
"Of course," Paul told him. "I got distracted, that's all. How close—?"
"Is your leg hurting?" Jin put in. "Maybe you should go lie down."
"I said I just got distracted," Paul said, more firmly this time. "Is there a problem with Milika?"
[A problem, it has not been specified,] Warrior said. [The village, we must not approach it.]
"Which I just said sounds a little ominous," Lorne said, "and asked if there was any way to get a look at the place."
[The attempt, we will make it.] Warrior gestured to one of the other Trofts, and the image of Sollas suddenly disappeared into a dizzying flurry of forest. Hastily, Paul averted his eyes as a surge of vertigo threatened to overwhelm him. [The added distance, it may make seeing difficult,] Warrior added. Out of the corner of his eye Paul saw the image steady...
"No," Jin breathed.
Paul snapped his eyes back to the display. For that first second all he saw was a hazy image of tangled Qasaman forest with an equally hazy walled village in the center.
And then, belatedly, he spotted what had sparked his wife's reaction. There was a Troft warship squatting in the middle of the road outside the main gate, its stubby weapon-laden wings poised like hawk talons over the village.
For a long moment no one spoke. Then, Croi stirred. "So that's it," he said, an edge of bitterness in his voice. "We have a traitor aboard."
Warrior's radiator membranes fluttered. [Your words, explain them.]
"Isn't it obvious?" Croi snarled. "Someone leaked the news that we were going to Milika." He turned and looked pointedly at Zoshak. "Someone who knew how to privately contact the invaders."
"You mean one of the people who helped us wreck one Troft warship on Caelian and capture the other one?" Lorne asked scornfully.
"If we hadn't won on Caelian we wouldn't have brought Isis to Qasama, would we?" Croi countered.
"They didn't know about Isis until after we won the battle," Lorne said.
"So they say." Croi's eyes narrowed. "So you say. You whose family is awfully cozy with the Qasamans."
"Enough," Paul put in. "With all due respect. Dr. Croi, you're being an idiot. Look at the infrared display—that ship's gravs are stone-cold. It's been sitting there for hours."
Still glowering, Croi looked at the sensor control board. Warrior pointed silently to the proper display, and there was another moment of silence. "Fine," Croi growled, turning away again. "Whatever. In that case, what in hell are they doing there?"
"It's Merrick," Jin said, her voice so quiet Paul barely heard her. "He's there."
"You sure?" Lorne asked, frowning up at the display. "How do you know?"
"I just do," Jin said, her voice filling with dread. "It's the logical place for Moffren Omnathi to send him for his convalescence. Somehow, the Trofts found out he was there." She exhaled in a painful-sounding huff. "And to get him... they're going to destroy Milika."
"No," Paul said as
firmly as he could with his own heart suddenly racing. She was probably right about Merrick being there. With Jin having left, he was the only Cobra on Qasama, and the invaders would be seriously motivated to find and neutralize him.
But there was still a ray of hope that Jin apparently hadn't yet grasped. "I just said they've been there for hours," he reminded her. "If they were going to destroy the village, they would surely already have started."
"He's right," Zoshak said. "We still have time."
"Time for what?" Croi asked glumly. "Milika was our last chance. Now it's gone."
"Not for long," Zoshak said evenly. "First, we unload and secure Isis. Then we—"
"Secure it?" Croi cut him off. "Secure it where? In the middle of the forest?"
"Yes." Zoshak turned to Warrior. "Thirty kilometers west and south of the village is a clearing. It should be large enough for you to land. Can you take us there?"
Warrior's arm membranes fluttered. [The clearing, we are familiar with it.]
"Wait a second," Croi objected. "I was joking."
"This isn't a joke," Zoshak assured him. "Thirty years ago, after Jin Moreau's first visit to Qasama, the Shahni calculated that that clearing was where her team had intended to land."
"Except that we were shot down," Jin murmured. "But you're right, that was our planned drop zone."
"And so the Shahni prepared for the next expected incursion," Zoshak said. "There's a military watch station buried beneath the forest floor in sight of the clearing."
"It's buried?" Croi said, a fresh hope stirring in his voice. "How deep?"
"Not deeply enough, I'm afraid," Zoshak told him. "Besides which, it's almost certainly too small, and the generators are unlikely to still be functional. The station was abandoned over ten years ago."
"But it should be a good place to stash the gear while we find out what's going on in Milika," Paul said. "Warrior?"
[Your analysis, I agree with it.] Warrior gestured to the helm. [The clearing, we will go there.]
[The order, I obey it,] the other Troft said.
Lorne took a step closer to his father. "Okay, we stash the gear," he said quietly. "But then what? If they've really got Merrick pinned down in there—and if they know they've got him pinned—they aren't going to be inclined to just give up and go away."
"Do not fear, Lorne Moreau," Zoshak said, a dark edge to his voice. "We've taken down Troft warships before. If necessary, we can do it again."
Paul felt a fresh throbbing in his injured leg. They'd taken down Troft warships on Caelian, all right. Two of them, in fact.
But it had taken nearly the planet's entire contingent of Cobras to do it. And even then, victory had come at a terrible cost.
But Zoshak was right. That was Paul's son down there in danger. Whatever it took, they would get him out.
CHAPTER FOUR
The evacuation warning was so subtle that at first Daulo Sammon didn't even notice it. He was still lying in his recovery room bed, wondering what the gentle warbling meant, when a doctor hurried in, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. "What is it?" Daulo asked. His own voice sounded odd, deep and strangely distant. "Speak up. Speak up!"
The doctor came to a halt beside the bed, his hand reaching up to touch something in Daulo's right ear.
And suddenly the warbling exploded into a howling roar.
"Ahh!" Daulo gasped, grabbing for his ears.
The doctor was faster, doing something else with his ear that brought the howl down to something much more manageable. "Apologies," the man said, his voice carrying easily over the din. "Your hearing hasn't fully recovered. That's an evacuation order. We need to leave here at once."
Daulo frowned. Then, suddenly, it all flooded back in on him. That first, failed counterattack against the invading Troft forces—his own severe wounding—doctors and drugs and foggy images of faces and noise and fury—
"Come," the doctor snapped.
With another jolt, Daulo realized that the tubes connecting him to the feeders and other devices by his bedside had been removed from his arm. "Where are we going?" he asked as the doctor swung his legs off the bed and slid wraparound shoes over his feet.
"To a departure area," the other said, steadying Daulo with one hand as he pulled over a wheelchair with the other. "We're leaving the city."
"Now?" Daulo looked at the dangling tubes as he settled into the chair. "But I'm not healed yet." A sudden, horrible thought blew away some of the cobwebs still filling his brain. If this was as good as he was ever going to get—"Am I?"
"I don't know," the doctor said, and Daulo had to grab for the armrests as the chair suddenly took off toward the door. "It all depends."
"On what?"
"On how long the Trofts let us live," the doctor said grimly. "Hang on."
Daulo had expected the corridor outside to be buzzing with activity as doctors and attendants wheeled out the sick and injured. But to his surprise, the two of them were the only ones in sight. Thankfully, the alarm that had been rattling his room was also barely audible out here. "Where is everyone?" he asked, grabbing for the armrests again as the doctor took a corner way too fast.
"All those who remain should already be gathering at the staging area," the doctor panted. "But there was someone who wished first to say farewell to you."
Whether from the fresher air, the lack of medicine being pumped into his body, or the sheer adrenaline-driven fear caused by the doctor's reckless driving, Daulo's head had mostly cleared by the time they reached their destination. It turned out to be a medium-sized conference room equipped with a table, a dozen chairs, and a line of blank monitor screens. Seated at the table were three older men, while six younger men dressed in the gray Djinni combat suits stood silently at the ready around the room's edges.
The three older men looked up, and with a jolt Daulo realized he knew two of them. One was Moffren Omnathi, special advisor to the Shahni and a legend among the Qasamans. The other was Miron Akim, who with the rank of Marid was overall commander of the planet's entire Djinni combat force.
"Daulo Sammon," Omnathi said gravely as the doctor wheeled Daulo's chair up to the table. "My apologies for bringing you here instead of letting you go directly to your departure area."
"No apologies needed, Your Excellency," Daulo said, making the gesture of respect and throwing a furtive glance at the unknown man. From the look on his face, it was clear he wasn't happy with this interruption to their meeting. "But what is this departure area business? Why is everyone leaving in such a hurry?"
"The invaders are destroying Sollas," Omnathi said, "and that destruction is nearing this area."
Daulo winced. No wonder the doctor had been in such a hurry. "Then you're right, we'd best get moving," he said, glancing down at his robe and recovery jumpsuit. "It would be very embarrassing to die looking like this."
"No fears of that," Omnathi assured him. "Some of the earlier refugees were met with violence, but the later groups have been allowed to leave unharmed." He gestured at Daulo's clothing. "And more suitable travel clothing is waiting at the departure area. The doctor will help you change before you go."
"Thank you, Your Excellency, that will be very helpful," Daulo said, a small relief trickling into the simmering darkness of fear and uncertainty. At least they weren't going to be shot the moment they reached the outside air. "My apologies for the impertinence, but may I ask why exactly I'm here?"
"Marid Miron Akim and I wished to say a final farewell," Omnathi said. "You and your family have served Qasama well, and we wanted you to know how grateful we were for that service. May God watch over you, and may you win through to see your village again."
"Thank you, Your Excellency," Daulo said, again making the sign of respect. "To both Your Excellencies," he added, this time including Miron Akim in the gesture. "But if we're all leaving the city together, it would seem to me that your farewells are premature." He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "Or won't we be traveling together
?"
"Our paths will lead—" Omnathi's lip twitched "—along different roads. When you and the remaining civilians from this sector depart from the subcity, the invaders will learn the location of one more hidden passageway. With that knowledge, they'll undoubtedly enter to explore for data or useful items that may have been left behind. We will remain behind to make one final assault upon them."
Daulo looked at the six gray-suited men standing silently against the walls. "What, six of you against the entire force of invaders?"
"Seven," Akim corrected calmly. "Though I'm a civilian, as Marid-commander I also count myself among the Djinn."
"My apologies, Marid Akim," Daulo said. "But I fail to see how one extra Djinni will tip the military balance. In fact, I can't see how you can accomplish anything but a waste of all your lives."
"Your impertinence is not welcome, villager," the third man said brusquely. "These men are warriors of Qasama. They'll attack the invaders because it's their duty to do so."
"Their duty is to die uselessly?" Daulo countered.
The man's eyes narrowed. "You've said your farewells, villager. Now leave."
There was something in his tone and manner that told Daulo the smart thing to do would be to close his mouth and obey. But just as he had thirty years earlier, when Jin Moreau came to Milika and asked for his help, he ignored the quiet warning. "Not until I understand why you're doing this," he said firmly. "I've faced the invaders' weapons. You may be able to kill a few of them, but you can't prevent them from ultimately winning through. Is there something in here of military value that can't be removed or destroyed?"
"No, nothing," Akim said.
"Then why not just leave with us?" Daulo pressed. "Out in the forest, you can regroup and choose a better time to resume the fight."
"You will be silent, and you will leave," the third man repeated, and this time there was no mistaking the authoritative anger in his tone. "Or I will order you to stay and fight alongside them."
Daulo snorted. "And who are you who presumes to order me and the Djinn?"