by Timothy Zahn
"Nice view," McCollom grunted as Lorne pulled out the first of the wide, long armored-truck door hinges that he'd taken from the vehicle bay's collection of spare parts. "Especially the part of the view where we can't see the weapons pylons."
"If we can't see them, they can't shoot us," Lorne agreed. Getting to his feet on the end of the ramp, balancing himself cautiously, he reached as far up as he could and slammed the edge of the hinge firmly against the hull.
There was a yellow flash, and Lorne felt a brief wave of heat on his hand as the highly exothermic adhesive inside the pellet was exposed to the air. He held the hinge in place a few seconds, then cautiously gave it a pull.
The hinge didn't budge. He pulled harder, and harder, until he was hanging free with his full weight being supported. "We're in business," he told the others. "I'm heading up. Follow as you can."
Pulling himself up, he worked his way into a crouching position on the hinge, stood upright, and reached up to glue his second hinge to the hull.
Four minutes later, he'd made it to the crest of the ship.
He was at the stern, using his antiarmor laser to burn away the radar-absorption coating from around the dorsal hatch, when the others caught up to him. "Okay, the rest should be just standard hullmetal," he said as McCollom laid the torch's fuel tank on the crest. "Anything we can do to help?"
"Just stand clear," McCollom said, lowering a set of slightly-too-small goggles over his eyes and igniting the torch.
Lorne stepped back, wincing as a glimpse of the cutting jet tried to burn its way into his retinas before he could look away. Blinking against the afterimage, he peered out toward Azras.
And felt his stomach tighten. The city had paid heavily for those diversionary missiles Ghushtre had launched earlier. A huge section of the outer wall had been disintegrated, turned by the warship's lasers and missiles into a sixty-meter-long ridge of broken steel and masonry. Beyond it, nearly all of the first row of buildings had likewise been turned to rubble.
Lorne and his mother had urged that the Qasamans move the civilians out of that part of the city before the attack. Ghushtre and Siraj had argued in turn that suddenly under-populated streets could tip off the invaders that something was about to happen.
As usual, the Qasamans had won the argument. Their sole concession had been to agree to put volunteers in the most dangerous zones, and to move them out as quickly as possible once the strike force and their commandeered trucks were on the move.
Distantly, Lorne wondered how many of those volunteers had made it out before the warship's lasers began collapsing the city around them.
Behind him, the acrid blaze of the torch winked out. "We're in," McCollom announced. "Who's going first?"
Lorne turned back, pushing the image of dead civilians out of his mind as best he could. McCollom had carved a groove in the hull around the hatch, burning through all three of its locks, and was carefully levering it open. "Definitely not you," he told the big Cobra, leaning over the open hatchway and listening closely. There were the sounds of laser and projectile fire down there, but it was all reasonably distant. Probably in the command section's main corridor. "You're way too easy a target."
"Besides which, Lorne Moreau and I are the only ones who've already fought inside one of these ships," Siraj added, handing McCollom the radio and starting down the ladder. "We'll be first and second. You'll be backup."
"Typical," McCollom grumbled. "Pick on the big guy, why don't you?"
"If it'll make you feel better, you can have first crack at getting the command room door open after we clear out the corridor," Lorne offered as he headed down behind Siraj. "Give Ifrit Ghushtre a call and warn him we're coming in."
The sounds of battle were much louder down here. As Lorne moved along the short corridor leading to the command area, he was able to pick out individual weapons as well as the sounds of grunted cattertalk, and tried to form a mental map of the enemy's deployment. All of the sound and fury was coming from the left, the direction to the stairwell the Qasamans had secured. He reached the corridor, motioned Siraj to stay back, and eased an eye around the corner.
The Trofts' defense was set up pretty much the way he'd envisioned it: a double row of armored aliens set up a few meters back from the stairway, one standing, the other crouching, all with lasers blazing toward the open door and the shadowy figures visible beyond. In the front-center of the group was a much larger wheel-mounted laser with a wide shield attached to protect its gunner. The Qasamans in the stairway were keeping up what Ghushtre had described during their practice sessions as a random-edge system: Djinn popping out at various places around the door edge, firing their glove lasers, and immediately withdrawing. A half dozen Trofts were lying motionless on the deck among the defenders, some of them surrounded by the scorch marks left by the handful of grenades the Qasamans had brought along. In the stairwell behind the Qasamans, he could see a pair of the hull plates Jennifer had found in the vehicle bay being readied for use as shields.
The right end of the corridor, in contrast, was silent. Lorne gave a quick look in that direction, expecting to find the area empty of both attackers and defenders. To his surprise, he found a mirror-image of the force currently engaging the Qasamans, this second force facing the other stairway with their backs to Lorne. Clearly, the Troft commander was expecting the attackers to eventually make a sortie through that door, and had laid out his forces in anticipation of that second front.
Lorne smiled humorlessly as he drew back again. Right idea. Wrong direction. Motioning Siraj forward, he gestured him to the right. Siraj glanced out, nodded acceptance of his part of the counterattack, and stepped fully out into the corridor, raising his glove lasers to the right. Lorne stepped out behind him, turning to the left, and flicked targeting locks onto the heavy laser's power pack and as many of the Troft hand weapons as he could see from his position.
And as Siraj's glove lasers began spitting fire behind him, he swiveled up on his right leg and fired his antiarmor laser.
The power pack went first, exploding in a burst of shrapnel that staggered the four aliens closest to it. A chopped second later Lorne's next group of shots took out the smaller weapons, their smaller blasts also sending their owners reeling. He heard grunts and screams of pain from behind him as he charged forward, targeting the rest of the aliens' weapons as he ran and firing his fingertip lasers to neutralize them.
And then he was in the middle of the rear line, jabbing at chests and throats with servo-powered fists and forearms, scattering the soldiers like sticks in a gale as they fell to the deck or first bounced off the walls before collapsing into individual heaps. There was a shout from in front of him, and he saw the Djinn from the stairwell rushing to his aid.
Bravely, but unnecessarily. By the time they reached him, it was all over.
"Very courageous," Ghushtre growled as he stepped over the stunned or unconscious Trofts. "Also very foolish. You have your lasers—why didn't you just kill them?"
"Because I'm hoping to talk the captain into surrendering," Lorne told him, breathing hard. His servos had done most of the actual work during the fight, but the adrenaline rush was still tingling through him. "Easier to do if we've demonstrated some restraint." There was the sizzle of a laser behind him, and he turned around.
Just in time to see McCollom vaporize the last of the hinges and throw himself shoulder-first against the command room door. With a teeth-aching sound of tearing metal the door collapsed inward and crashed to the deck.
And from the opening came a flurry of laser fire that once again lit up the corridor.
Cursing under his breath, Lorne sprinted for the door. He reached the open doorway, wincing at the laser shots flashing around him. Inside the room McCollom was on his back, his knees and torso curled inward toward his belly as he spun around in a circle, his antiarmor laser spitting fire across the command room.
Lorne glanced up, targeted the ceiling, and jumped.
The ceil
ing jump was one of a Cobras pre-programmed reflexes, and as usual Lorne's nanocomputer performed the stunt flawlessly. Before his feet even left the floor the computer had taken control of his servos, tucking his head inward and spinning him a hundred eighty degrees around just in time for his feet to be uppermost as he reached the ceiling. His knees bent, absorbing the impact, then straightened again, shoving him off at a new angle with enough spin to turn him upright again as he hit the deck between two banks of monitor displays. As his knees bent again with the impact, he glanced around the room, putting quick targeting locks on the weapons trying to track toward him. His fingertip lasers fired their scattered shots, and once again broken weapons went flying. [Your firing, cease it!] he shouted into the chaos.
For a moment the Trofts froze, their lasers still held ready, their radiator fins fluttering with stress. Lorne took advantage of the pause to target the rest of the weapons in sight, knowing that McCollom would be doing the same. [Your captain, I would speak with him,] he said into the frozen silence. [His surrender, I demand it.]
One of the Trofts stepped forward, senior officer insignia on his leotard, his radiator membranes stretched fully out. [Captain Vuma, his surrender you will not have it,] he bit out. [The Drim'hco'plai, they do not surrender to aliens.]
[Then the Drim'hco'plai, they will die at the hand of aliens,] Lorne said flatly.
Vuma looked at the line of Qasamans now standing just inside the door, their own weapons aimed and ready. [The disgrace of surrender, I will not accept it,] he insisted.
Defiant words... and yet he was still talking. If he'd really been insistent on going out in a blaze of glory, he should have already done so. [Useless deaths, they also bring disgrace,] Lorne pointed out. [Courage, a good warrior must have it. Wisdom, a warrior must also have it.]
Vuma looked at the Qasamans again. [Our lives, do you guarantee them?] he asked.
[Your lives, I guarantee them,] Lorne promised. [Your weapons, your soldiers will lay them down. The nearest quarters, they will go immediately to them.]
[The exits, we will instead leave by them,] Vuma offered. [The ship, we will give it to you.]
[The nearest quarters, your soldiers will go immediately to them,] Lorne said firmly [Three minutes, they have only them.]
Vuma's membranes fluttered. But he bowed his head and gestured to a Troft standing beside one of the consoles. [My words, broadcast them,] he ordered. [Soldiers of the Drim'hco'plai demesne, my surrender, I have given it. Your weapons, you must lay them down. Your quarters, you will return immediately to them.]
He gestured again. Silently, the Trofts in the command room laid their weapons on the deck. [Three minutes, you have only them,] Lorne reminded him. [Death, a Troft outside the quarters will receive it.]
[Your orders, we will obey them.] Turning, Vuma strode past the Qasamans and out into the corridor, the other Trofts following.
Lorne waited until they were all gone. Then, circling the console, he walked over to McCollom, who was still on his back on the floor. "I think that was the definition of damn fool," he commented, offering the big Cobra a hand.
"Hey, you said I could take out the door," McCollom reminded him, not taking the hand or getting up on his own. "Why should I let you and Akim have all the fun?"
"As long as you had a good reason," Lorne said, frowning down at him. "You all right?"
"Mostly," McCollom said. "A few small burns. Nothing serious."
"Except that you can't get up?"
"I'm sure I could," McCollom said in a dignified tone. "I just think it would probably hurt, and I don't want you to hear me swear."
Lorne looked over at Ghushtre. "Ifrit?"
"The medical area has been alerted," Ghushtre confirmed as he stepped to Lorne's side. "I'll have him carried there as soon as the invaders are clear of the corridors."
"Thank you," Lorne said, wincing as some of the pain from his own collection of laser burns started to throb their way through the fading adrenaline. "What do you think?"
Ghushtre looked down at McCollom, then back up at Lorne. "Too easy," he said darkly. "Far too easy."
"Agreed," Lorne said, nodding. "I'm guessing that he expects reinforcements any time now, and figures there's no point getting himself killed for nothing. Probably why he wanted to get out of the ship—he wanted the reinforcements to be able to come aboard with lasers blazing and not have to worry about hitting friendlies."
"Yes," Ghushtre said. "But as yet no other warships have left their positions."
"Probably still warming up," Lorne said. "If we hurry, we should still have time. I'll get downstairs and deal with the drones. You'd better call Azras and tell them phase two is on."
"Already done," Ghushtre said. "The explosives will be ready when you are."
"Good," Lorne said. "And have someone get Jennifer McCollom up here. I want someone who reads cattertalk script to look over the weapon firing systems."
"I'll send for her," Ghushtre said, frowning. "You do remember that we can't use those weapons, don't you?"
"Of course," Lorne assured him. "But we may be able to at least get the lasers and missile tubes to swivel a little." He shrugged. "With a plan like this, it's all in the perception."
"Perhaps," Ghushtre said. "Just don't forget that once the warships leave Purma you'll have no more than ten or twelve minutes until their arrival."
"Don't worry," Lorne said grimly. "We'll be ready."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It had taken a full day to get the new spore-repellent curtain set up at the south end of Strongholds landing area, and Jody Broom's friends Geoff and Freylan had insisted on giving it another two hours of testing to make sure that the transportation and setup hadn't knocked anything loose. Harli had had a chance to examine it as he oversaw the operation, and had quickly concluded that the curtain was the ugliest stretch of cloth he'd ever seen in his life.
It was even uglier on the inside, where the Trofts were now gathered. But it worked, and that was all that mattered.
Not that he was expecting Captain Eubujak to comment on either the aesthetics or the practicality. He was expecting Eubujak to be sputtering mad about the prisoners' new accommodations, and he was right.
"This is unacceptable," Eubujak said, the emotionless tone of his translator pin in sharp contrast to the violent fluttering of his radiator membranes. "It is barbaric. There is no space, there are no sanitary facilities, there is no proper bedding—"
"There are two square meters of space each," Harli interrupted the tirade. He really didn't have time for this. "Sanitary facilities are right outside the curtain if you want them. As for the rest of it, there should be Tlossie ships arriving any time now to take you to a proper prisoner-of-war camp."
Eubujak glared at him a moment, probably waiting for the running translation to finish. "There will be consequences," he warned, gesturing toward the crazy-quilt patchwork rising over the Caelian greenery behind him. "The Drim'hco'plai demesne will not accept such treatment of its citizens."
"The Drim'hco'plai demesne should have thought of that before they decided to invade other people's worlds," Harli said bluntly.
Eubujak continued to glare. But as his eyes shifted from Harli to the Stronghold wall, half a kilometer to the north, his radiator membranes settled lower against his upper arms.
Harli smiled cynically. The Troft had certainly noticed their warship ferrying the civilians out of the city over the past few hours. The final group, in fact, had left just as the prisoners were being marched across the overgrown field to their new open-air quarters. Apparently, Eubujak had just put the pieces together and realized that once the last few Cobras had also left he could simply march his troops back to the deserted city and settle into the far more comfortable homes of its residents.
It was almost a shame to have to burst his bubble. Almost.
"Oh, and there's one other thing," Harli said, keying on his field radio. "Popescu? You ready?"
"We're ready," Popes
cu's voice came, sounding every bit as pleased as Harli was feeling. "Got a really nice load, too."
"Great," Harli said. "Go ahead and drop 'em."
From one of the clearings east of the city, one of Caelian's two air-transport vans lifted into view. It flew across the forest to the field of knee-high hookgrass and razor fern that the Trofts had just slogged through to their new quarters. As it reached the area between the curtain and Stronghold, the rear doors opened and one of the Cobras started tossing out objects that sent ripples through the grasses as they thudded to the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harli saw Eubujak's radiator membranes starting to stretch out again. "What is this?" the Troft asked. "What do they throw from the vehicle?"
"Carcasses," Harli told him. "Dead animals. Hooded clovens, orctangs, giggers, maybe a saberclaw or two. Basically, everything they were able to hunt down and kill over the past couple of hours."
Eubujak looked at the transport, then at the ground, then back at Harli. "Explain," he demanded.
"Give it a minute," Harli said, keying his audios. Over the hum of the transport's grav lifts, he could hear the quiet whispering of small creatures moving through the flora around them.
And then, one of the bodies twenty meters away suddenly began writhing violently.
Eubujak's membranes snapped all the way out. "You said they were dead!"
"They are," Harli said as two of the other carcasses also began twitching. "Those are some of Caelian's scavenger animals—ratteeth and scrimmers, mostly, with probably some picklenose and a lot of different insects thrown in. We've just laid out the best buffet they've ever seen in their short, violent, miserable little lives."
He pointed to the edge of the forest, where his infrareds now spotted the tell-tale profile of a screech tiger. "And speaking of buffets..."
Right on cue, the screech tiger bounded from cover, driving a rippling shock wave through the grasses as it raced toward one of the twitching carcasses. Prom the other side of the forest, a pair of smaller wakes marked the arrival of giggers or saberclaws.