by Patrick Lundrigan, Larry Correia, Travis S. Taylor, Sharon Lee
Werle raised his magnification level a notch and tried to center on the forward wing. But the ships’ course was starting to cross their line of sight, and he was unable to make out any detail through the rippling of the slipstream. The convoy shot past a few kilometers ahead of them, still heading east toward the rising sun.
Abruptly, the car’s radio toned the emergency signal. Werle ducked back inside, still watching the convoy through the windshield, as de Portola punched the control. “Patrol Two.”
“Ishikuma,” the Cobra commandant’s taut voice came from the speaker. “What’s your twenty?”
“Half a kilometer south of Coline Trail,” de Portola said. “Listen, we’ve got some incoming ships—”
“Stay there,” Ishikuma cut him off. “No, better—go to ground somewhere. Aventine’s been invaded.”
Werle felt his jaw drop. “Invaded? By who?”
“Trofts,” Ishikuma said tersely. “Don’t yet know who. Until we do, you two stay clear of Archway. Having all our eggs in one—”
Abruptly, the voice cut off.
Werle looked out across the landscape again. In the past minute the Troft ships had dropped sharply in altitude, to the point where he could only get glimpses of them now between the trees. Definitely headed for Archway.
And as he strained his eyes, he thought he saw the faint flicker of reflected laser light.
De Portola saw it, too. “What the hell?” he murmured, sounding stunned. “Did they just—?”
“I don’t know,” Werle said, punching the car’s diagnostic key and scrolling though the screens until he reached the radio section. “The carrier’s still coming in, so they didn’t take out the comm tower. The question is—”
“Right,” de Portola cut him off grimly. “Get ready—here it comes.”
Werle froze, holding his breath and keying in his audio enhancers. Over the roar of the breezes rolling past their car, he heard a faint rumble in the distance through de Portola’s open window.
De Portola gestured, and Werle lowered his audios back to normal level. “Fifty seconds,” de Portola said grimly. “Sixteen and a half kilometers.”
“About that,” Werle confirmed, visualizing the layout of the fields and forests in front of them and the city beyond. Sixteen and a half kilometers put the blast… “They hit the Renking Center,” he breathed, a growing rage and horror twisting into his gut. The Renking Center, Ishikuma, and every other Cobra who would have been inside preparing for their shifts…
“Probably,” de Portola agreed. “But I don’t think they took down the whole building—the place may be falling apart, but it wouldn’t have collapsed that quietly. I’m guessing they just took down the link to the main tower.”
Werle ran the sound of the explosion back through his memory. “Maybe,” he said, feeling a little better. “But why the hell are the Trofts—any Trofts—attacking us?”
“No idea,” de Portola said. “But Ishikuma told us to stay clear of Archway, so that’s what we’re going to do. At least until we’ve figured out what’s going on.”
“Okay, but only until we figure it out,” Werle said, gazing toward the city and trying to think. At least there weren’t any more laser flashes coming from that direction.
Unless the ever-lightening sky was simply hiding the distant reflections. For all he knew, the invaders might be carrying out mass executions right now.
He took a deep breath. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to run the car back to power and go to the aid of his fellow Cobras and the rest of Archway’s citizens. But de Portola was right. Rushing blindly into the unknown wasn’t going to gain anyone anything.
“Don’t worry, I have no interest in sitting this one out, either,” de Portola assured him. “Any ideas?”
“Well, obviously we can’t stay here,” Werle said, pulling out his comm. “Matavuli’s place is closest—let’s try there first. You said the tower’s still running a signal?”
“Yes,” de Portola said, his voice suddenly odd.
“Great,” Werle said, punching in a number and then tossing the comm into de Portola’s lap. “We’ll try the Ranchers’ Center first—they’re big enough to have their own relay to the tower. I’ll head toward Matavuli’s while you see if they can tell you what’s going on in town.”
“No—wait,” de Portola said, punching the comm’s disconnect button. “We need to think this through.”
“What’s to think through?” Werle demanded as he drove back onto the pavement and leaned on the accelerator. “We’ve got signal. Let’s use it while we can.”
“That’s exactly my point,” de Portola said. “Why didn’t they hit the tower? One good blast would have knocked out half the province’s communications. Do they really not care if we talk to each—? Oh, hell.”
“What?” Werle demanded. He glanced over at de Portola.
Just in time to see the other throw his comm out the window. “Hey!” he said indignantly.
“Don’t worry, it’ll have company,” de Portola assured him, pulling out his own comm and tossing it out after Werle’s. “Don’t you see? They left the tower going so they can collect and backtrack signals from people outside the city. Ranchers, farmers—”
“And outriders like us,” Werle said, wincing. “Good idea, but a little late.” He pointed through the windshield at a dark sliver that had risen above the trees and was rapidly heading their direction. “I need to concentrate on these potholes. Tell me what that is.”
For a moment the only sound was the rumble of the car’s wheels against the ground. Werle kept his attention on the road, swerving around the potholes, wondering if there were more invading ships on the way. Archway was pretty small, with only ten thousand residents, but even so it really should take more than two warships’ worth of Trofts to beat them down. If there was a second wave, and if it followed the same incoming vector as the first, someone on the ground might be able to ambush them.
He felt his lip twist. An ambush. Right. The only weapons anyone out here had were handguns, rifles, shotguns, and a few lasers designed for hunting and defense against predators. Penetrating the outer hull on even a freighter would be well-nigh impossible, let alone the armor plating of something specifically designed to be shot at.
“It’s a drone,” de Portola reported tightly. “At least, I think it is—it’s too small to have someone inside.”
“Is it armed?” Werle asked.
“I don’t see anything obvious,” de Portola said. “But all the hardware could be recessed or behind doors.”
“Doesn’t matter whether it is or not,” Werle said, coming to a quick decision. “Even if it’s just an observer, we have to knock it out. Once it identifies us we might as well just walk into Archway and turn ourselves in.”
“Wait a second,” de Portola said cautiously. “Are you suggesting we don’t go back to Archway at all? That we stay out here and hide?”
Werle snorted. “No. That we stay out here and fight.”
“Just the two of us?”
“If necessary, yes,” Werle said firmly. “We’re Cobras. That’s what we’re supposed to do.” He squinted out at the rapidly-approaching drone. “Okay, here’s the plan. We lean back so that whatever cameras it has aboard can’t get a good look at our faces. When it gets close enough, I’ll spin the car around to the left, and you stick your leg out the window and lase the damn thing. How does that sound?”
De Portola hissed between his teeth. “Dangerously stupid, actually.”
“I agree,” Werle said. “Let me know if you come up with something better in the next thirty seconds.”
“Trust me,” de Portola said, unfastening his seat belt and swiveling partway around in his seat. “Give me a three-count.”
“Right,” Werle said, holding the car at an even speed and mentally counting down the seconds. Ten…five… “Three, two, one—”
He slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel. With a howl of protest from the tir
es and a cloud of flying dust the car swung ninety degrees around. It was still shuddering its way to a halt when de Portola swiveled the rest of the way around, propped his left leg up on the window frame, and fired his anti-armor laser.
The brilliant blue beam caught the drone just behind the nose. It held there for half a second, then slid back along the rounded side as de Portola searched for a vulnerable spot. Werle squeezed his eyes shut against the acrid light, switching to his opticals and trying to figure out what they were going to do if this didn’t work. The focal point of de Portola’s laser reached the drone’s midpoint—
And with a brilliant flash of yellow flame and a sputtering crackle like the sound of a falling tree, the drone exploded.
“Well, look at that,” de Portola commented, turning upright again and wrenching open his door. “Their grav lifts are just as vulnerable to expansion cracks as ours are. Come on.”
“Or else you got lucky,” Werle said as he opened his own door. “Where are we going?”
“I was thinking the woods,” de Portola said, pointing toward forested land to their left. “Whether they saw our faces or not, they definitely saw the car.”
“Not a lot of cover from infrared out there,” Werle warned.
“Sure there is,” de Portola called over his shoulder as he set off toward the trees at a full-out sprint. “Grav lifts mess up infrared fine-tuning something fierce. All we need to do is find a nest of something close to human-size to cozy up. The Troft drones will never know the difference.”
“Human-sized animals?” Werle asked as he sprinted off after his friend. “Like maybe spine leopards?”
“Yeah, that should work,” de Portola agreed.
Werle grimaced. “Terrific.”
It was about two kilometers to the edge of the woods, and their leg servos ate up the distance with the kind of speed and stamina that only Cobras could achieve. They were nearly to the edge of the forest when, as Werle had known it eventually would, their luck ran out.
De Portola spotted it first. “There,” he said, pointing toward the line of trees that lay between them and Archway. “Looks like another drone.”
Werle’s eyes flicked to the horizon where de Portola was pointing. The drone had disappeared behind the trees, but it would be clear again within seconds. They had to get under cover, and fast.
Only that option was rapidly evaporating. They could probably make it into the forest, but there was no way they could track down a group of large animals to hide themselves in. Not in the time they had left. Not this close to human civilization, where all such animals except spine leopards were increasingly rare.
De Portola was clearly thinking the same thing. “Okay—Plan B,” he said, veering suddenly to the right toward one of the fenced-in grazing fields. “What’s that thing over there, a livestock grain supply?”
Werle eyed the structure they were now heading for. It was small and low, encircled by shallow troughs, and about a dozen meters inside the perimeter fence. “A haylage feeder, actually,” he said.
“Close enough,” De Portola grunted. “It’s broken, and we’re fixing it. Last one there has to clean the manure spreader.”
He put on a burst of speed, bounded over the fence, and raced the rest of the way to the feeder. Werle was right behind him.
Just in time. Even as the two Cobras squeezed through the narrow gap between two of the troughs and opened the top of the feeder, the drone reappeared over the tops of the trees, heading in their direction at a high rate of speed. Werle held his breath, but the machine ignored them completely, ripping instead across the sky toward the spot where they’d destroyed the first drone and abandoned their car.
“I wonder how good its cameras are,” de Portola murmured as they leaned over the open feeder. “The first one may have gotten a clear view of my leg as I shot it down.”
“Take off your clothes and turn everything inside out,” Werle suggested, sidling around to the far side of the feeder and unfastening his shirt. The drone was dropping lower, and as he watched it disappeared behind another stand of trees. “And make it snappy.”
“Sounds pretty lame,” de Portola warned as he tore off his clothes.
“I know,” Werle conceded. “Let’s just hope they don’t know anything about human fashion. Smear on some of the haylage, too—that’ll help disguise everything.”
They’d finished with their makeshift disguises, and Werle was giving de Portola a quick lesson in the art of cleaning ranch machinery, when the other Cobra suddenly stiffened. “Uh-oh,” he muttered.
“What is it?” Werle asked, forcing himself to not look up.
“Don’t look now, but apparently the Trofts don’t like having their drones shot down,” de Portola said. “Looks like a small tank coming this direction.”
Werle felt his stomach tighten. “Maybe it’s just a patrol. Let’s try ignoring them and see if they’ll go away.”
“I don’t think so,” de Portola said, his voice darkening. “We’ve also got a rut-rider coming in from the southwest. I think that’s Matavuli himself at the wheel, isn’t it?”
Werle swiped at his forehead, using the gesture to turn his head far enough to put the rut-rider in view out of the corner of his eye. It was Matavuli, all right, riding on the spindly vehicle and looking angry enough to chew rocks.
And perched on top behind him were a pair of armed Trofts.
Not just armed, either. Notching up his telescopics, Werle saw that both aliens were wearing helmets and what appeared to be thick, probably armored versions of their usual leotards. Each was also carrying a large sidearm and wearing a long knife.
“Yes, that’s Matavuli,” he agreed heavily. “And from the look on his face, he’s not very happy to see us on his property.”
“He’s happy enough when we clear out the spine leopards for him,” de Portola said with an edge of bitterness. “What do you want to do?”
Werle hunched his shoulders, looking around and jerking a little as he pretended to catch sight of the Troft tank. It was more like an armored truck than a full-blown tank, actually, though the roof-mounted swivel gun looked more than capable of blasting through anything Archway could put in its way.
And from the changing pitch of the engine, it sounded like the thing was aiming for a halt right alongside the haylage feeder’s section of fence. Clearly, the tank wasn’t simply on patrol, but was here to backstop the Trofts riding with Matavuli.
“I guess we wait and see what’s going on,” Werle said, straightening up and keeping his eyes on the tank. “They might have grabbed Matavuli as a hostage to our good behavior.”
“And if they grabbed him so he could finger us?”
Werle felt his lip twitch. “Like I said, we wait. Look surprised and scared, will you? We don’t see alien armored trucks in DeVegas Province every day.”
“Yeah,” Werle grunted. “Let’s hope it’s not a trend.”
The armored truck rolled to a halt, its engine revving down to a low rumble. Werle waited, still watching it with a mixture of awe and uneasiness on his face, until the rut-rider coming up from behind them was close enough for a normal person to hear as it swished its way through the grass. “I guess we’d better see what Matavuli wants,” he murmured to de Portola. “Here’s the story. We were on a pre-dawn energy hike, we saw a bird caught in the feeder—that happens sometimes—and we came in to free it. If Matavuli is willing to play along, we may get away with it.”
“Assuming they don’t think to ask where we came from or where our car is,” de Portola warned.
“We came from the Ortez ranch,” Werle said. “That’s the next one over, and I know Jak will back us up.”
“Only if we can clue him in before the questioning starts,” de Portola warned. “Matavuli really does look furious, doesn’t he?”
“He’s always hated trespassers,” Werle said, his heart sinking as he studied Matavuli’s face. The man looked about two blood-pressure points away from a stroke.
The rut-rider jerked to a halt. Matavuli hopped down without even bothering with the steps and stalked toward the feeder. The two armored Trofts were right behind him, their sidearms ready. Werle took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Matavuli—”
“Don’t give me sorry, Hickory,” Matavuli snarled. “What the hell are you and Zeke doing here?”
Werle blinked. Hickory? Zeke? “We were just—”
“You were told to clear out the stickler-weed patch in east-two,” Matavuli cut him off, jabbing a finger across the road. “Instead I find you here?”
“We’re sorry sir,” de Portola said, with just the right mixture of humility and stubbornness. “But like we told you yesterday, this feeder’s been jamming up. I thought Hickory and I could—”
“And like I told you, I’ve got other people to fix the damn machines,” Matavuli bit out. “People who actually know what they’re doing.” Abruptly, he strode forward, brushing past both Cobras and looking down into the feeder. “Show me what you did.”
Werle moved to his side. “There,” he said, pointing to a random part of the machinery. “There was a calcified husk stuck—”
“Yeah, yeah, I see,” Matavuli muttered, leaning over and reaching in.
And with his hand out of sight of the Trofts, his fingers curled into a quick thumb’s up.
“Fine—so you fixed the damn thing,” he said, straightening up again and giving Werle one final glare. “But the next time you blow off a work order your butts will be flying from the flag post.” He transferred the glare to de Portola. “You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” de Portola said meekly.
Matavuli turned to the two Trofts. “My apologies,” he said in a slightly more civil tone. “Turns out that the men you saw were mine.”
One of the aliens stirred. “You said no one was in this field,” he said, the flat words coming from a round pin on his left shoulder.
“And if you’d been paying attention, you’d have heard just now that they weren’t supposed to be in this field,” Matavuli shot back, his patience cracking a bit. “You mind if we get back to work now? I’ve got a ranch to run.”