by Timothy Zahn
"I see," Merrick said sourly. Four entire Troft demesnes, plus the implied threat of whoever had organized this military dogpile in the first place. No wonder the Tlossies and the Cobra Worlds' other trading parties hadn't lifted a finger to stop them. "I hope you're at least making a decent profit."
"Our profit is not to be made in currency," Ukuthi assured him. "My demesne-lord has other objectives in sight." He gestured to Anya. "Anya Winghunter, tell Merrick Moreau of your people."
Anya hesitated. Then, she got to her feet, bowed once to Ukuthi, and turned to Merrick. "We are slaves," she said. "We create sculptures, which our masters take for their enjoyment. We hunt rare animals and find rare plants, which our masters take for their tables." She lowered her gaze to the floor, then looked back up at Merrick. "But mostly we fight in the Games."
"What do you fight?" Merrick asked. "Animals like that jormungand?"
"Sometimes," Anya said. "Most times, we fight each other." Merrick looked at Ukuthi, his hands dropping into laser-firing position. "For you?"
Ukuthi's radiator membranes fluttered. "Not us," he said. "The Drim'hco'plai are their masters."
Merrick pointed to Anya. "Yet she's here. With you."
"She is," Ukuthi acknowledged. "Some years ago the Drim'hco'plai began selling human slaves to other demesne-lords for their amusement. My demesne-lord was intrigued, so he bought several to study." He cocked his head. "Yet now, within the past two months, the Drim'hco'plai demesne-lord has suddenly and urgently requested that all slaves be returned to him."
Merrick frowned. "Why?"
"We do not know," Ukuthi said. "I also note two other curious happenstances. First, the invasion of the Cobra Worlds is well advanced, yet the Drim'hco'plai continue to take razorarms from Qasama. Where do they take them? Second, their demesne-lord insisted that the Drim'hco'plai be solely responsible for the subjugation of the Cobra World of Caelian."
Where there were dozens of predators every bit as dangerous as razorarms. "Sounds like they're looking for new animals to throw at Anya's people on Game night," he said.
"That was also my thought," Ukuthi said. "But why keep that goal secret from the other demesne-lords? All four demesnes involved in this war have bought Drim'hco'plai slaves. Why not simply state that refreshed games are the purpose? And again, why does the demesne-lord spend the money necessary to buy back all his slaves?"
Merrick scratched his cheek. "Maybe they're worried that the Tua demesne won't like the Drim playing animal hunting games when they're supposed to be concentrating on fighting a war," he said slowly. "But that doesn't explain the slave recall."
"It does not," Ukuthi agreed. "It is a puzzle, one which my demesne-lord wishes to solve."
"Okay," Merrick said. "So why are you telling me this?"
Ukuthi cocked his head to the side. "I wish you to travel to Anya's world with her and seek truth for my demesne-lord."
Merrick felt his eyes bulge. "You what?"
"But we do not send you merely for information." Ukuthi gestured to Anya. "Anya Winghunter?"
"We need your help, Merrick Moreau," Anya said quietly. "My people do not wish to be slaves anymore."
"I sympathize," Merrick said. "But you're asking me—I don't even know what you're asking me."
"You are a koubrah-soldier," Ukuthi said. "I have seen you do remarkable feats."
"I'm one Cobra soldier," Merrick said tartly. "What you need is a battalion of us. Better yet, you need a battalion of armored troops and a Dominion of Man war fleet." He waved a hand. "Why are we even discussing this? The Drim will know what all their slaves look like. How do you expect to slip me into that group?"
"You are wrong," Ukuthi said. "They will not know each slave's appearance. Nor will they care. To them, one human slave is no different than any other."
"Well, then, the other slaves will know I'm not one of them."
"You will have nothing to fear from the other slaves," Ukuthi said. "They will listen to Anya, and will keep their silence concerning your true identity."
"The doctor might not," Merrick persisted. "The one who's been treating me. He comes from Anya's world, doesn't he?"
"No," Ukuthi said. "He is my personal physician. He spoke in the dialect of those of Anya's world because I wished to know if you understood that dialog, or could learn to understand it. Can you?"
"I don't know," Merrick said. "Probably. But that's not the point. The point is that there's no way I can fight a whole planetful of slave-owning Trofts alone."
"You will not be fighting alone," Anya said. "We too are fighters, and we yearn for freedom. We will fight at your side."
"With what, sticks and rocks?" Merrick demanded. "Swords and spears? No offense, Anya, but whatever you've got isn't going to be much good against Troft: lasers and body armor." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but it can't be done."
"It can be done," Ukuthi said firmly. "History has shown how successful revolutions are often started by a single spark. Anya's people are strong, but they require a leader who can fight. A leader with vision and the knowledge of strategy and tactics. You can be that leader."
"You don't know that," Merrick insisted. "You don't know that I have any of those skills."
"I am confident that you do," Ukuthi said.
"But you ran me through the Games to make sure anyway?"
"You misunderstand," Ukuthi said. "The test was not for my benefit, but for Anya's. It was she who needed to see your skills."
"Really." Merrick glared at the woman. "Are you satisfied?"
"I am," she said quietly.
"But more important than combat skill is an honorable character," Ukuthi continued. "That too is a quality I know you possess."
Merrick snorted. "Why? Because I haven't killed you yet?"
"Because you risked yourself to protect Anya in the arena," the Troft said. "And because you targeted the weapons and not the soldiers when you attacked them in the forest near Milika."
Merrick frowned. He'd forgotten all about that incident. He'd also forgotten Fadil Sammon's intriguing questions about it. "It seemed only fair, given that their missile launcher was aimed over our heads."
"Did you know they were on mercy setting before you chose to attack only the weapons?"
Merrick thought back. "No, I guess not," he admitted, frowning suddenly. "Wait a minute. I thought you said that was a Drim ship out there hunting for razorarms."
"The ship was Drim'hco'plai," Ukuthi confirmed. "But the tactics and weapons settings were mine." His beak cracked open. "After our coalition was temporarily thrown off Qasama, the Tua'lanek'zia ordered that tactical leadership on this world would henceforth be provided by the Balin'ekha'spmi."
"In other words, by you," Merrick said, nodding. He'd thought he'd sensed a new skill and subtlety in the invaders' techniques since their return to Qasama. Now he knew why. "So the Tua just handed their command over to you? Risky of them."
"The Tua'lanek'zia decision had little effect on their forces," Ukuthi said. "Their main strength is on the Cobra Worlds capital of Aventine, with only an observer force on Qasama. It is the Drim'hco'plai who have the strongest presence here, and it was they who spoke the strongest objections against the Tua'lanek'zia decision."
Merrick's mind flicked back to some of the conflicts he and his mother had had early in the campaign with Miron Akim and the rest of the Qasaman military. "I'm not surprised," he said. "No one likes to have someone else telling him what to do."
"Indeed," Ukuthi said. "Unfortunately, that is the situation a slave faces every day of his life."
Merrick sighed. "Look, it's not that I don't feel for them. I do. It's just that—"
"Will you at least think on my offer," Ukuthi asked.
"Like I've got anything else to do," Merrick growled. "Fine, I'll think. How long do I have?"
"You have one day." Merrick stared at him.
"One day?"
"I am convinced that the decisive battle will take place tomorrow i
n the city of Azras," Ukuthi said. "Whether the Qasamans succeed or fail, the Trof'te forces will be thrown into disarray. That confusion will give us the opportunity to collect whatever equipment from Qasaman stores that you wish to take with you when my demesne-lord returns you and the rest of his slaves to the Drim'hco'plai."
Merrick snorted. "Right. You're expecting the Drim to let their slaves just march back home lugging satchels full of weapons and explosives?"
"Grant the Drim'hco'plai a higher intelligence," Ukuthi said, and for the first time there was a hint of annoyance in his tone. "But also grant us the same. Our weapons smiths and technicians will naturally camouflage them first."
"You think there'll be time for that?"
"The Drim'hco'plai request specified all slaves would be returned within the next six weeks," Ukuthi said. "That will permit us adequate time."
"Probably," Merrick said, a sudden strange thought drifting up through the utter insanity of this whole thing. If Ukuthi was willing to collect weapons and supplies from Qasama... "What about more people?" he asked. "More soldiers, I mean. If you can slip one non-slave ringer into the Drim shipment, why not five or six or twenty?"
"That may be possible," Ukuthi said, eyeing Merrick thoughtfully. "Are there Qasamans here who you trust with such a mission?"
Merrick looked at Anya again. At her wooden, hopeful face. "There are a few," he said. "The question is whether you could camouflage their combat suits well enough to get them past the Drim."
"I am confident that can be done," Ukuthi said. "Do you then accept the mission?"
"Not so fast," Merrick warned. "So far all I'm accepting is the job of thinking about it. And my answer will probably also depend on the outcome of tomorrow's activity. If the particular Qasamans I'm thinking about inviting are killed, that'll change things. You'll want to keep that in mind when you're preparing your strategy."
"My strategy will be the same whether you accept or not," Ukuthi said. "The soldiers and warships of the Balin'ekha'spmi will remain at their current stations at Sollas and Purma. The Drim'hco'plai at Azras will be left to succeed or fail on their own strength."
"Or you could help the Qasamans more actively," Merrick suggested, feeling his heart beating harder. If he could actually create a rift in the Troft coalition and bring the Balins onto the human side, the Azras battle Ukuthi was anticipating might not even have to be fought.
But the Troft shook his head. "I cannot," he said in a voice that left no room for argument. "The Drim'hco'plai are still our contractual allies. Furthermore, they outnumber us greatly. I cannot and will not actively fight them. I can only deny them my skills and the resources of the Balin'ekha'spmi."
Merrick nodded. Not as good as he'd hoped, but better than he could have expected. "I have your pledge of that?" he asked.
"My pledge, I give it," Ukuthi said without hesitation. "And I will do more. If you wish, you may watch the battle unfold at my side in my warship's command center. You will see for yourself that I and the Balin'ekha'spmi are not aiding the Drim'hco'plai."
"You'd let me aboard your ship?" Merrick asked carefully, trying to keep his voice casual. To be inside a Troft warship's command center, with its weaponry right there at his fingertips...
"You will be required to pledge that you will attempt neither escape nor sabotage," Ukuthi added.
"Of course," Merrick said, suppressing a sigh. Once again, the temptation to lie tugged at him. Once again, he knew he couldn't. "Very well. I so pledge."
"Then I shall see you again tomorrow," Ukuthi said, taking a step back toward the door. "Together we shall watch the Qasamans make their final bid for victory."
Merrick grimaced. "Yes," he murmured.
Ukuthi paused with his hand raised to the door. "You fear for their lives," he said, almost gently. "And so you should, for warfare is too often a random destroyer. But I do not think you need worry about the final outcome. You humans are an inventive and determined and resilient species, superior in many ways even to the Trof'te."
"Maybe," Merrick said. "But we also play politics among ourselves at least as well as you do. Our internal conflicts and power games often weaken us and destroy that determination and resilience. Sometimes they even bring about our defeat without the actions of an external enemy."
"Let us both hope that will not be the case here," Ukuthi said. "For I feel in the deepest core of my being that whatever the Drim'hco'plai are planning will be of great evil, for human and Trof'te alike."
He rapped sharply, three times, on the door. [That danger, think on it as well,] he added in cattertalk as the door swung open. [Your presence, I will request it at the proper time tomorrow.]
[My presence, you will have it,] Merrick promised.
His last view of Ukuthi as the door swung closed was the commander standing firm and tall, with only a small flutter in his radiator membranes showing the stresses of his position and command.
And, perhaps, the looming betrayal that he was planning of his fellow Trofts.
"You will think on this?" Anya asked hopefully.
Merrick nodded. "As I promised."
He expected her to say more, either to continue Ukuthi's pleading of her people's case or else to launch into a showering of thanks they both knew was as yet underserved. But she merely nodded and sat down again on her bed.
With a sigh, Merrick climbed back onto his own bed and stretched out, staring at the plain concrete ceiling above him. Ukuthi wanted an answer by tomorrow. Merrick would give him that answer.
He just wished he had some idea what the hell that answer would be.
* * *
"Fadil Sammon?"
With an effort, Fadil forced his way out of the tortured dream and clawed his way toward consciousness. It was the same dream, the one he'd had so many times since the mind-enhancing drug had robbed him of the use of his body. He opened his eyes and turned his head, the only part of him he could still move.
Carsh Zoshak stood beside his medical bed, gazing at him with an odd expression. A few paces behind him was Dr. Krites. "Yes?" Fadil asked. "What do you want?"
Zoshak's forehead furrowed, and he looked back at Krites. "You don't already know?" Krites asked.
Fadil frowned in turn... and slowly—far too slowly—the truth dawned on him. "It's gone, isn't it?" he said.
Krites shrugged. "You've been all but reading everyone's expressions ever since your return to this house," he reminded Fadil. "If those powers of observation and analysis have left you, the rest probably has also."
Fadil swallowed hard. And so the glory passed. Fadil Sammon, super-genius, was no more. Only Fadil Sammon, cripple, remained.
In his mind, he closed his hands into fists. Laying motionless beside his body, his hands didn't even twitch. "Why have you awakened me?"
"Forgive me," Zoshak said. "I just wanted to tell you that they've arrived at Azras."
Fadil stared at him in disbelief, then shifted his eyes to the clock on the wall. He'd had no idea that he'd slept that long. "And Paul Broom has been taken to the hospital?"
"He has," Zoshak confirmed. "The regrowth treatments for his leg will begin shortly."
Fadil felt a cheek muscle twitch. And in two or three weeks, Paul Broom would have a brand-new, fully functional leg. For a moment, he felt a spark of envy.
But envy was a trap, and a sin, and an utter waste of energy. Ruthlessly, Fadil pushed it aside. "Jin Moreau is there with him?"
"The report didn't say, but I assume so," Zoshak said. "That was the arrangement you made with Ifrit Ghushtre, was it not?"
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Fadil had to smile. Zoshak was working hard at looking all solemn and professional now, but Fadil remembered the staggered expression on his face two days ago when Ghushtre first told him what Fadil had done. That look alone had almost made it worth what it had cost him.
But all that was in the past. This was the present. Miron Akim had done as he promised, sending Jin Moreau and Paul Broom
to Azras with the new Cobras so that they could begin their healing. Now, it was time for Fadil to fulfill his part of the bargain.
And despite Zoshak's emotionless expression it was clear he was ready, even eager, to carry it out.
"And Gama Yithtra played his part adequately?" Fadil asked.
"Again, the report didn't say," Zoshak said. "But since the passage at the Azras gate went smoothly, I think we can assume he did."
"Good," Fadil said, his final twinge of uncertainty fading away. "That's why I chose him to be one of the recruits, you know."
"Not because his father is an important village leader?"
"Partially," Fadil conceded. "But mainly because I knew what an accomplished liar he is. I knew he could manage any deception that was required of him."
"Apparently so," Zoshak said. "And now, it's time to go."
Fadil sighed. He'd argued against this path, argued and pleaded both. It was wrong to waste Qasaman resources like this, especially in the midst of war. But Miron Akim had refused to listen to reason.
And as Fadil had already noted, the Marid had fulfilled his part of the bargain.
"Could I wait one more day?" Fadil asked Zoshak, trying one last time. "I'd like to see the outcome of tomorrow's battle."
"No," Krites said firmly before Zoshak could answer. "I sympathize, Fadil Sammon. But we have our orders."
"And those orders state that the time is now," Zoshak said. "Is there anything you'd like before we go?"
Fadil turned his head back and gazed up at the ceiling. He'd seen that ceiling thousands of times growing up. Yet it was only now, in the three and a half weeks since his return from Sollas, that he'd actually looked at it.
And only at this moment did he suddenly realize that, in the midst of war and the lurking threat of despair, things of beauty were somehow made even more beautiful.
He took a deep breath. "No, thank you," he said.
He gave the ceiling one final lingering look, then turned back to Zoshak. "I'm ready."