by Timothy Zahn
"What's going on?" Jin interrupted. "Are the Trofts coming in?"
"Sounds that way, yes," Fadil said grimly. "There's been some kind of breach, anyway. The Shahni have ordered this area evacuated."
Jin half turned to look at the departing soldiers. She should be back there, she knew. She should be on her way to the breach, helping to defend the people of Qasama—
"No," Fadil said firmly, grabbing her arm and turning her back around front. "They can do it themselves."
"Who can?" Jin asked. "The Qasamans? Or the city people?"
Fadil muttered something under his breath. "Come on—the seal is just ahead."
Jin had noticed several seals during her travels around the sub-city. They would have been hard to miss, actually: red-rimmed slabs of stone or reinforced concrete set into the sides of strategically placed corridors or doorways, ready to be slid into position to block off any further access. Some of them had gunports or firing niches nearby that guards could use, others had red-striped ceilings just behind the slabs marking something ominously labeled as avalanche zones.
This particular seal had no such backups, just a pair of Qasaman soldiers waiting tensely by the slab as the refugees streamed past. One of them, a few years older than the other and wearing sergeant's insignia, frowned hard at Jin as she and Fadil slipped through with the others—
"Jasmine Moreau?" he called suddenly.
Jin stopped, stepping to the side out of the way of the hurrying civilians. "Yes," she confirmed.
"A message from Miron Akim," the sergeant said. "He asks if you will remain here until all have passed."
"Why?" Fadil demanded. "She's not a soldier."
"It's all right," Jin said, touching his shoulder. "Go on."
Fadil hesitated, then gave a snort and rejoined the line of civilians. "Did Miron Akim say what he wanted me to do?" Jin asked the sergeant.
"The seal will need to be closed when everyone's past," he told her, his voice tight. "That duty usually goes to a Djinni, but we've received word that none are available in this sector."
A cold knot settled into Jin's stomach. "Did they say why not?"
"No," the sergeant said. "Just that none was available." He looked back over his shoulder at her. "Miron Akim said that you were here, and that we were to stop you when you came through and ask for your assistance."
"No problem," Jin assured him.
The flow of refugees had faded to a trickle of hospital workers when the faint sound of gunfire began to echo down the hallway.
The other soldier snarled something under his breath. He was young, Jin noted as she studied his profile. Actually, neither of the two was all that old. Certainly neither could have had any experience in the sort of warfare their world had suddenly been plunged into.
Or had they? The city/village rivalry that Jin had seen and heard of on her first visit to Qasama was clearly still going strong three decades later. Could that rivalry have occasionally boiled up into actual shooting combat?
Daulo hadn't even hinted at any such violence on his world during their conversations. But then, he wouldn't have. Not to her and Merrick.
"It's time," the sergeant said quietly.
Jin frowned. The gunfire was still going strong. "What about the soldiers?" she asked.
"They will return to the subcity by a different route." The sergeant hesitated. "Or not at all."
Jin clenched her teeth. Let me go to them, the words and plea flashed through her mind. I can help.
She took a deep breath. "What do I do?" she asked instead.
"Pull up on this," the sergeant said, indicating a long lever set into the wall just inside the slab. "More than once, I think."
With Jin's first tug on the lever it became clear why Djinn were generally tasked with this job. Even with the gearing that was obviously built into the system the lever took a lot of effort to pull. The first hundred-eighty-degree rotation moved the slab perhaps a centimeter into the corridor; ratcheting the lever back down, she hauled up on it again, and again, and again, until the slab completely blocked the corridor.
"What now?" Jin asked as she released the lever and stepped away from it.
Both soldiers were staring at her with a mixture of awe and uneasiness. But the sergeant merely nodded back down the hallway. "This way," he said. "Miron Akim wishes to speak with you."
Given all the civilians and medical personnel that had just come through the area, Jin had expected it to be crowded with masses of displaced people. To her surprise, though, the corridors didn't seem much busier than she'd usually seen them. Wherever the refugees had gone, they'd gone there quickly and efficiently.
The soldiers led her through the usual maze of corridors to a door guarded by a single soldier. "Jasmine Moreau?" the guard asked formally as Jin and her escort came up to him. "Miron Akim offers his regrets, and states that he was called away on urgent business," he continued, reaching over and opening the door. "He asks that you wait for him inside, and that you examine a file he has left for you."
"Thank you," Jin said. "And thank you," she added to her escort, giving them the sign of respect.
Neither of the soldiers returned the gesture. Either she'd done it wrong, or else word had spread that the visitors from the Cobra Worlds weren't worthy of the sign.
The room was typical of what she'd seen in the subcity: small and sparsely furnished, with a desk and computer terminal and two wooden chairs. Lying beside the terminal was a single dusky-red file folder. Circling around behind the desk, wondering briefly if the door would be locked from the outside, she sat down and opened the folder.
The sheet of paper on top was a report of some sort, a listing of Troft activities from one of the villages, complete with alien troop numbers, types of air—and spacecraft observed, and a time-line that indicated it was a single day's report. She leafed briefly through the rest of the papers, noting the differing times and village names but that all of them followed essentially the same format. Leave it to the Qasamans, she thought with a touch of grim amusement, to be organized even down to their paperwork.
She was skimming the fourth page when a particular entry belatedly caught her attention: razorarms captured.
Frowning, she settled down to read.
It was an axiom of war, she'd heard once, that numbers quoted in the heat of battle or delivered by civilians should never be taken entirely at face value. But if the numbers in the various villager reports were even halfway accurate, the Trofts had been incredibly busy. In the three days since their invasion they'd already hauled nearly four hundred razorarms out of the forest and loaded them aboard cargo carriers. The reports were a bit vague on the techniques involved—apparently none of the observers had managed to get very close to the scene of the action—but it seemed to include multiple small aircraft as spotters and some kind of tranquilizer gas bombs.
Of even more interest was the fact that the Trofts were apparently leaving the razorarms' mojos behind.
She was midway through the papers when Akim arrived. "My apologies," he said as he closed the door behind him. He had a folder of his own, Jin noted, a light green one. "No—please" he added, waving Jin back to her seat as she started to rise and seating himself in one of the other chairs facing her. "Did you finish reading the file?"
"I only made it through about half the reports, but I was able to skim the rest," she said, studying his face. His expression was under rigid control, but there was a dark tightness around his eyes, a darkness she hadn't seen even on the day of the invasion itself. "They've been busy, haven't they?"
"That they have," Akim said. "The question remains: why?"
"I see two possibilities," Jin said. "One, they mostly want the razorarms. Two, they mostly want to leave mojos in the forests without symbiotic companions."
"An interesting possibility, that last," Akim said. "Yet if they wanted the mojos to be alone, why not simply kill the razorarms out from beneath them? Why bother taking the animals away alive?"<
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"A good point," Jin conceded. "Are we sure the razorarms haven't shown up in any of Qasama's cities or villages?"
"Not that we know of," Akim said. "Of course, there are many smaller villages and settlements outside our communication range. Still, if sending razorarms into those villages was the goal, why not do their hunting in those same areas? Why choose animals from near Sollas and transport them the entire distance?"
"No reason I can see," Jin agreed. "So it would seem they're simply taking the most convenient animals, the ones that are near where all their heavy transports are already located."
"Here at Sollas," Akim said, nodding.
"Right," Jin said, frowning as something else occurred to her. "The transports do leave those areas once they have their razorarms, don't they?" she asked. "I didn't see that in the reports."
"Yes, they invariably leave," Akim confirmed. "But where they go, we have no idea." He cocked his head, and Jin thought she saw a subtle change in the man's expression. "Could it be that the invaders want them for the same reason you brought them to Qasama in the first place? That they wish to seed an enemy's land with quick-breeding predators?"
Jin stared at him, a horrible sensation rippling through her. There it was, staring her suddenly in the face.
And it was so terribly obvious. How in the Worlds had she missed it? "That's it," she said, her throat tightening against the words. "You're right, Miron Akim. That's exactly what they're doing.
"Only the enemy you mention isn't Qasama. The enemy is us."
Akim nodded, his expression going even darker. "So indeed I have suspected from the first," he said, an edge of accusation in his tone. "All the more so since you never suggested the possibility."
"Because I didn't think of it," Jin said, embarrassment and chagrin flowing in around the sudden heartache. Her worlds—her people—her family, under Troft attack. "I don't know why not. It's so obvious."
"Perhaps," Akim said, his voice a shade less angry. "But even if true, it cannot be the entire truth. If your world is their target, why invade Qasama at all? There are many unoccupied territories where they could hunt razorarms with little effort and less resistance."
Jin sighed. "They invaded you because you're here," she said quietly. "And because you're humans."
Akim's eyes bored into hers. "Explain."
Jin took a deep breath. "A century ago there was a war between the Dominion of Man and an alliance of demesnes at that end of the Troft Assemblage. The reasons for it are muddled, but they don't really matter. What matters is that the first the Dominion knew about Troft animosity was when the alliance's troops landed and occupied two of our worlds." She lifted her arms slightly. "We were the Dominion's response."
"Forces who could move easily among the occupied peoples," Akim said, nodding. "And could fight back from that concealment."
"Keeping them distracted and softening them up until they could be ultimately driven off," Jin said. "The problem was that once the war was over, there was nowhere for the surviving Cobras to go. They didn't really fit in with their old homes anymore, a good percentage of the general populace was terrified of them, and the political leaders simply wanted them to go away." She smiled tightly. "It was my grandfather's brother, actually, who came up with the answer: send the remaining Cobras past the Assemblage as guardians and police for a new group of human colonies."
Akim frowned. "And the Trofts actually agreed to this?"
Jin shrugged. "The demesnes who'd lost the war didn't have a lot of say in the matter," she reminded him. "The rest of them didn't seem to particularly care one way or the other whether humans went zooming back and forth through their space." She grimaced. "Or maybe they all just recognized the opportunity buried inside the apparent humiliation."
Akim straightened suddenly, as if a missing piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. "Because you were now hostages to the Dominion's good behavior."
"Exactly," Jin said. "The Dominion's idea, I think, was that having a group of Cobras out here would be a nice two-front threat against the Trofts to keep them from further mischief. But if it was, it backfired. Badly. Barely twenty years after we got here the corridor we'd been using was closed, cutting us off from the Dominion."
"You must have been perturbed, to say the least," Akim murmured.
"Actually, it was our idea," Jin told him. "My grandfather's, to be specific, worked out along with his brother. They forced the closure of the corridor, ending the Dominion's threat of a two-front war."
"So the Dominion lost the lever it had hoped for," Akim murmured. "But the Trofts didn't."
"The Trofts didn't," Jin agreed, her stomach tightening. "And apparently someone's decided it's time to cash in."
"Apparently," Akim said grimly. "I wonder what the Trofts have done to your Dominion this time."
"Or what the Dominion has done to them," Jin said. "But from this end of the universe, it doesn't much matter who started it or why. What matters is that someone has decided we're a potential threat that needs to be neutralized."
"And they believe Qasama to be your allies?"
"They probably don't care whether you are or not," Jin said. "Remember, these are most likely Trofts from the Dominion side of the Assemblage who don't care a damn about our political relationships. They've come here to punish the Dominion by suppressing human colonization, period."
"I see," Akim said. "It would have been nice to have known this sooner."
Jin winced. "I know," she said. "I'm sorry, Miron Akim. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. I just can't seem to think like I used to. Old age catching up with me, I guess."
"No apologies needed," Akim said, an odd tone in his voice. "And I wish it was merely old age." Reaching to his lap, he picked up the green folder. "I have the results of your last group of tests."
"And?" Jin asked carefully.
Akim visibly braced himself. "You have a brain tumor, Jasmine Moreau," he said quietly. "A highly virulent one.
"In two months, perhaps three, you will die."
Chapter Eighteen
Jin stared at him, feeling the blood draining from her face. Her strange inability to think straight, her unexplained blackouts ... "Are you sure?" she heard herself ask.
"Very sure," Akim said. "I'm sorry. I wish it were otherwise."
"Is there anything that can be done?"
Akim pursed his lips. "The doctors will study the data and see if there are any options." He hesitated. "But you have to understand that they have other matters occupying their attention at the moment."
"Of course." Jin took a deep breath. Two months. "All right," she said. "What can I do until then?"
"There are dietary techniques that may slow the process," Akim said. "Bed rest may also be of some use."
Jin shook her head. "You misunderstand. What I meant was, until the doctors have time to study my case—and probably haul me in for more tests—what can I do to help in the war?"
A muscle in Akim's cheek twitched. "I appreciate your offer," he said. "But I'm afraid your service to Qasama is at an end. Aside from anything else, we can hardly risk you having a blackout during a combat operation."
"I suppose," Jin conceded, marveling at how calm she was. Or perhaps how numb she was would be a more accurate description. Even on Aventine, doctors had little chance against a brain tumor. On Qasama, in the middle of a war, the odds were undoubtedly
far worse. "I'll need to tell Merrick. Can I see him? Or hasn't he recovered yet from his injuries?"
"No, he should be recovered by now," Akim said, the odd note back in his voice. "I'll see if I can locate him. Wait here, please, and continue reading through the file."
Like she would really be able to concentrate on Troft troop movements now. Two months to live . . . "All right," she said.
She'd been trying to focus on the papers for nearly an hour when a knock finally came on the door and a tall young man in a gray Djinni combat suit and shocking—for a Qasaman—r
ed hair stepped into the doorway. "You are Jasmine Moreau?" he asked formally.
"Yes," Jin said.
"Marid Miron Akim sent me to bring you to him," the Djinni said shortly. "Follow me."
"May I know your name?" Jin asked, making no move to stand up.
The other glared. Perhaps he didn't like being in the presence of an enemy of Qasama. "I am Ghofl Khatir, Djinn Ifrit of Qasama," he said shortly.
"Honored to meet you, Ifrit Khatir," Jin said, nodding to him as she got to her feet. "Please; lead the way."
She crossed the room, but to her mild surprise, Khatir remained in the doorway blocking her exit. "We will be meeting with your son on a matter of intense importance," he said. "Miron Akim requests that you do not speak of personal matters at this time."
"Will there be a time provided for such a conversation?" Jin asked, resisting the impulse to simply pick him up by the arms and move him out of her way.
"You must ask Miron Akim about that," Khatir said, finally stepping back out into the corridor. "Follow me."
The room he took her to was larger than the one she'd just left but only slightly better furnished. Three men were waiting: Miron Akim, Carsh Zoshak, and Merrick.
Merrick was on his feet even before she was all the way into the room. "Mom!" he said, hurrying toward her and gripping her arm. "Are you all right?"
Jin glanced at Akim, noting the stiffness in his face. "I'm fine," she said, giving her son a quick once-over. "You're the one who got all shot up."
"I'm fine," Merrick assured her, dismissing his condition with a quick wave of his hand. "They did a good job of patching me up."
"Save your personal conversation for another time," Khatir said brusquely as he stalked past them. "We have work to do."
"Courtesy, Ifrit Khatir," Akim admonished him mildly. "But he's correct. The hour is late, and we have much to discuss. Please; be seated."
Gripping Merrick's hand, Jin stepped to the row of chairs in front of Akim and sat down in one of them. Merrick sat beside her; to her mild surprise, Zoshak took the seat on Merrick's other side. Khatir, in contrast, pointedly moved one over from Jin's other side, leaving an empty chair between them.