Cobra Guardian: Cobra War: Book Two

by Timothy Zahn

  "So all those apartments and homes are outside the fences," Nissa said. "How are the people in there supposed to get to the fenced-in areas the Trofts are setting up?"

  "Oh, hell," Lorne said as it finally clicked. "You're right, they aren't going to get there. Not without help." He hissed contemptuously. "Brilliant. Carrots, sticks, and bludgeons."

  "What do you mean?" Brander asked, frowning.

  "He means they're expecting the Cobras to go in and get the people out," Nissa murmured.

  "Thereby giving the Trofts yet another free shot at them," Lorne said. "If the spinies don't get them first."

  He took one final look at the fence construction going on along the street, then took Nissa's arm. "Come on," he said. "We need a consultation."

  The restaurant had filled up in the time they'd been upstairs. There were upwards of twenty people in the dining room, a few still in nightdress and robes but the majority properly dressed. They were mostly clumped together in small groups, as had been the case back in the lobby of Treakness's apartment building, whispering nervously among themselves as they gazed out the windows at the construction going on outside.

  All eyes turned to Lorne and Nissa as they came though the door, and for a moment the whispering went silent. But Lorne merely nodded a wordless acknowledgment to them and headed across the room toward the rear corner table where Treakness and Poole had taken up residence. A moment later, as it became clear that the newcomers had no fresh information to share, the whispering resumed.

  "You enjoy your snack?" Lorne asked as he and Nissa sat down in the table's two empty seats.

  "It was adequate," Treakness said coolly. "I presume you heard the announcement. How did things look from up there?"

  "About like they do from down here," Lorne said. "The Trofts are busy fencing off this street and Broadway. Probably others, too, but Broadway was as far as we could see."

  "Wait a minute," Poole said, frowning. "Just this one and Broadway?"

  "And others they already said they couldn't see," Treakness growled. "Pay attention."

  "No, no, that's not what I meant," Poole said, fumbling the words. "I meant what about the streets between here and Broadway?"

  Treakness rolled his eyes. "They already said--"

  "What Poole means," Lorne cut him off, "is whether the people living on those other streets are being thrown to the wolves. The answer is, yes, they are."

  Treakness's lips compressed into a thin line. "I see," he said grimly. "So in other words, the Trofts are letting us choose between hundreds of civilian casualties and sending our remaining Cobras back out into the open."

  "That about sums it up," Lorne agreed. "So what do we do?"

  Treakness hissed thoughtfully. "Well, for the next three hours, at least, we do nothing," he said. "We're pretty well stuck here until the Trofts' quarantine period is up. After that . . ." He shrugged. "I suppose that particular decision will be landing in Chintawa's lap. Lucky him."

  "Shouldn't we at least alert him as to what's going on out here?" Lorne asked. "And while we're at it, we should also find out what's happening back at the Dome. It might be nice to have some idea about the tactical landscape once we are able to move."

  "My, aren't we enjoying our military jargon," Treakness said with an edge of sarcasm. "Unfortunately, the Trofts have jammed the comm system. Until they unjam it--if they ever do--the tactical landscape is going to be a discover-as-we-go proposition."

  Poole stirred uneasily. "This isn't good," he murmured. "I don't think we can afford to just sit here for three hours."

  "Good point," Treakness said. "Maybe we should try jogging in place."

  "Please stop that," Nissa said suddenly.

  "Stop what?" Treakness asked, frowning at her.

  "Stop treating Poole that way," Nissa said. "I know you're frightened. We're all frightened. It doesn't help for you to keep picking on him."

  "You think that my ignoring stupidity will be an asset in getting us through this?" Treakness countered.

  "Your disagreeing with something doesn't make it stupid," Nissa said stubbornly. "And in fact, I agree with him. I don't think we can afford to just give up the next three hours."

  Treakness looked at Lorne. "Well?" he challenged.

  "If you're looking for support, look somewhere else," Lorne said. "I agree with them."

  Treakness lifted his hands, palms upward. "Strength, resolve, and unanimity. How wonderful for us all. But unless you also have a cloak of invisibility, none of that will get us a single meter outside that door."

  "There must be a way," Nissa insisted. "Maybe we can building-hop. You know: go in the front door, through the building, and out the back."

  "And how exactly will that get us across Cavendish Boulevard?" Treakness asked, waving at the activity taking place outside the restaurant's windows. "You think that if we walk nonchalantly enough, the Trofts won't notice us?"

  "What about the storm drain system?" Lorne asked. "That runs under the streets, right?"

  "Yes, it does," Treakness said. "Do you have any idea how the system is laid out?"

  Lorne grimaced. "No," he conceded.

  "I do," a voice said from behind Lorne.

  Lorne turned around, startled. While the four of them had been talking--reasonably quietly, or so he'd thought--all other conversation in the restaurant had once again ceased.

  And to his uneasy surprise, he found that the whole crowd was silently watching them.

  He focused on the man who'd just spoken. He was middle-aged and bulky, with a lined face and a rigid expression. "I beg your pardon?" Treakness asked.

  "I said I know the drainage system," the man told him. "Been working down there for most of the past twenty years."

  "You could show us how to get through it?" Treakness asked.

  "I could, sure," the man said, eyeing Lorne. "The question is, should I?"

  Lorne frowned. "Meaning . . . ?"

  "Meaning he wants payment," Treakness said calmly. "A reasonable enough request. How much?"

  "See, it's not so much quick cash as a long-term investment that I really need," the man said, still looking at Lorne. "Boils down to who pays better. You, or the Trofts."

  "What, that thing about rewards and punishments?" Treakness scoffed. "You really think you can trust anything they say?"

  "Yeah, actually, I can," the man said, finally turning his eyes away from Lorne and looking at Treakness. "See, I've read my history, Governor Treakness. I've read about the Troft occupation of Silvern and Adirondack during the Dominion-Troft war. Seems to me that when they promised something to the people there, they delivered on it."

  "I wouldn't put a lot of weight on that if I were you," Lorne warned. "There are hundreds of Troft demesnes in the Assemblage, each with its own way of doing things. Just because the group that attacked the Dominion played by those rules doesn't mean this bunch will."

  "I think it's worth the risk," he said. "Especially since they can get me something that maybe you can't."

  "And what would that be?" Treakness asked.

  The man looked behind him. "You folks mind?" he asked, raising his voice. "This here's a private conversation."

  For a moment, no one moved. Then, a white-haired, leathery-skinned man in the middle of the group snorted and turned away, heading toward one of the tables by the windows. As if on signal, the others followed suit, moving back and re-forming themselves into their conversational clusters closer to the windows.

  The man watched until they had all moved out of earshot. Then, grabbing a chair from one of the nearby tables, he pulled it over, nudging it in between Poole and Nissa. "Let's start with what exactly you want," he said as he sat down. "Then I'll tell you what I want."

  "Actually, let's start with your name," Treakness said, pulling a small comboard from his jacket pocket. "No offense, but I want to make sure you can do what you claim you can."

  The man gave him a twisted smile. "Aaron Koshevski," he said. "Address,
apartment two-oh-one right above you. Occupation, mechanical and structural maintenance engineer."

  Treakness nodded and started punching in the data. As he did so, Lorne looked back at the other people in the dining room, wondering what they were making of all this. But they seemed to have already lost interest, their attention back on the Troft soldiers working on their fencing project.

  "All right, Mr. Koshevski," Treakness said, setting his comboard down on the table. "You do indeed appear to be who you say you are. What we want is to head west, obviously without interference from the Trofts. How can you help us do that?"

  "How far west?" Koshevski countered. "Creeksedge Spaceport? Crystal Lake? The corner of Twenty-Eight and Panora? I need some idea of where exactly we're going."

  "To the lake," Treakness said without hesitation. "Though I'm obviously not expecting the drainage system to get us that whole distance."

  "You got that one right, anyway," Koshevski said with a grunt, his eyes narrowing with concentration.

  Lorne looked at Nissa, noted her compete lack of expression, and adjusted his own face accordingly. Of course they weren't going to Crystal Lake--that area with its expensive houses and rolling parklands was a good thirty kilometers past the spaceport. But Treakness obviously had no intention of giving a total stranger their actual destination. Especially a total stranger who'd already hinted that he might prefer making a deal with the Trofts.

  "Okay, here's what I can do," Koshevski said. "I can get you about nine kilometers west through the system, to somewhere around Ridgeline Street. Past that point, with the lower water table and better drainage, they put in smaller conduits that you won't be able to get through."

  "Nine kilometers will be a good start," Treakness said, nodding. "What do you want in return?"

  Koshevski pursed his lips. "My brother's family lives in an apartment building on West Twenty-Third, between Toyo and Mitterly," he said. "It's a residential area, not very fancy, about four kilometers southwest of here. From the way you were talking earlier, I'm guessing their block's going to end up in one of the unfenced zones."

  He folded his arms across his chest. "Here's the deal. You get them to one of the safe areas, and I get you to Ridgeline Street."

  "Can we get close to their building through the drainage system?" Treakness asked.

  "I can get you practically to the front door," Koshevski said. "But Danny's wife has Jarvvi's Disease and won't be able to get through the conduits. You'll have to get them to the safe zones at street level."

  "Fair enough," Treakness said. "Very well, you have a deal."

  "Uh . . . sir?" Poole spoke up hesitantly. "Are you sure--?"

  He broke off at an almost casual glare from his boss. "We'll want to leave as soon as possible," Treakness said. "How do we get in?"

  "There's an access point right out there," Koshevski said, jabbing a thumb toward the rear of the restaurant. "Mid-block, about fifty meters north."

  "Any special tools necessary for opening it?"

  Koshevski shook his head. "All it takes is muscle." He looked Lorne up and down. "You got muscle?"

  "We have muscle," Treakness confirmed, pushing back his chair and standing up. "Let's go."

  The others followed suit, and as Lorne stood up he glanced one last time around the dining room.

  And felt a shiver run up his spine. He'd been wrong earlier about everyone's attention being on the Trofts outside. One of them, the white-haired man who'd led the group retreat earlier at Koshevski's insistence, was sitting alone at one of the tables.

  Watching them.

  The man's gaze flicked to Lorne, and for a moment they locked eyes. Then, casually, the other turned away, as if there was nothing of interest there, that he'd just happened to be looking in that direction.

  "Coming?" Treakness asked.

  Lorne gazed at the white-haired man for another moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned away. "Yes," he told Treakness. Whether the other man had recognized Treakness, or whatever else his interest in the group might be, there was nothing Lorne could do about it now. At least the other had been too far away to eavesdrop on the critical parts of their conversation.

  "Good," Koshevski said, taking Lorne's arm and pointing down the corridor toward the rear door. "After you."

  There was a lone spine leopard wandering the street when Lorne eased the rear door open and stepped outside. The predator turned at the sound of the door, or possibly at the scent of fresh prey, and for a moment it eyed the rash human who had invaded its territory. But either it wasn't yet hungry, or else it hadn't finished staking out that part of the block as its territory. With a sniff and a brief flaring of its foreleg spines, it turned and walked away. "Clear," Lorne murmured over his shoulder, stepping aside and giving the rest of the street a quick look. No one was visible, human or Troft. "Where's this access point?"

  "Right there," Koshevski said, pointing toward a round metal cover set flush into the street midway down the block, colored and textured to match the pavement around it. "Gripper holes in the edge--just grab them and pull straight up."

  Lorne nodded and headed off down the walkway at a quick jog. He reached the cover, got his fingers into the gripper holes, and pulled. The cover was heavier than it looked, but his finger locks and arm servos were more than up to the task, and with a little effort he levered it up.

  Treakness and the others were there by the time the way was clear. "You first," Treakness murmured, gesturing Koshevski down into the dank-smelling hole.

  Koshevski nodded. Sitting down on the edge of the hole, he found one of the two sets of embedded rungs with his feet and started down. Treakness was right behind him, followed by Poole, followed by Nissa. Balancing the cover on its edge, Lorne stepped into the opening and worked his way a couple of rungs downward. Then, spreading his legs and balancing himself, he picked up the cover and lowered it back into place, plunging them all into nearly total darkness. Keying in his opticals, he got his hands on the rungs and started down.

  He'd gone only a few steps when, warned by the sound of footsteps and rustling cloth, he was able to key down the enhancers just as Treakness turned on the flashlight from his pack.

  A minute later he arrived at the bottom, and found himself in a small chamber with meter-and-a-half-diameter cylindrical conduits leading off horizontally in four directions. "We go this way," Koshevski murmured, taking the flashlight from Treakness and shining it down the southward conduit.

  "Why can't we just go west?" Treakness asked.

  "Could, but won't," Koshevski said. "My brother is on West Twenty-Third, remember? Follow me. And be quiet--sound travels real good in here."

  Bending over, he stepped into the conduit and headed off, the light bobbing drunkenly as he walked along the curved surface. Treakness followed, his hands splayed awkwardly to both sides for balance. Poole was again close behind him. Nissa paused long enough to give Lorne a strained smile, then followed.

  Grimacing, Lorne watched them go, feeling a sudden twinge of claustrophobia as he eyed the narrow opening. But it was better than facing Troft lasers. Bending at the waist and the knees, he eased his way into the conduit. If this worked, he reminded himself firmly, they were going to gain almost half the distance to the spaceport and get a significant jump on the Trofts' efforts to lock down the city.

  If it didn't work, this was going to be a very uncomfortable place to get caught in an ambush.

  But there was nothing to do now but see it through. Keying up his audios as much as he dared, keeping a wary eye on their rear, he hurried to catch up.

  Chapter Six

  It was five kilometers back to Stronghold as the aircar flew. By foot, Jody knew, it would be seven or eight. On Aventine, even the longer trip would be no more than a brisk two-hour walk. With a good nine hours remaining until sundown, she had wondered earlier what her father had meant with his comment about pushing their available daylight.

  Within the first fifty meters of their journey,
she'd figured it out.

  The spores and other tiny plants that rode the Caelian wind were bad enough inside Stronghold. Here, away from the protection of the town's high wall, they were far worse. They whipped across her face and hands, tickling her ears and neck, and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

  There were larger versions as well, versions that seldom made it into Stronghold. Some of those had tiny hooks designed to catch on something--anything--that would provide an opportunity for growth. They could actually sting if one of the hooks managed to snag a particularly sensitive section of skin, reminding Jody of her first experience on an Aventinian beach, when a rising wind had whipped sand across her face.

  And of course, the eddy currents created by the trees and landscape meant that the whole spectrum of airborne plants could come from any direction, not just that of the prevailing wind.

  The insects were out in force, too, following right behind the spores. In theory, since the spores didn't attach to living skin, the insects didn't have any reason to land on Jody's face or hands and try to take a bite. In actual practice, a lot of them did anyway. Others, the clumsier ones no doubt, simply lumbered into her, bouncing off and continuing on their way. The majority, content with merely swarming around the intruders, added their own layer of distraction and irritation.

  Jody had known about all that from their previous times outside the town, and had mentally prepared herself for it. What she hadn't expected was the ferocity of Caelian's larger forms of plant life.

  Stronghold was kept largely devoid of native plants, except for the handful that had been cultivated or were in the process of becoming so. She'd seen some of those, and of course she'd also seen the vegetation that had covered their testing area landing site before she and the others had burned it off.

  It somehow had never occurred to her that perhaps Geoff and Freylan had chosen that spot precisely because of its lack of the nastier forms of Caelian plant life.

  But all those forms were here now, splashed across the ridge that her father had chosen as their path. There were plants that tried to tangle her feet, and others that grabbed onto her trouser legs with tiny or not-so-tiny hooks, barbs, and thorns and tried to either trip her or shred the silliweave material. Other varieties exuded poisons or skin irritants or adhesives, the latter rather like Aventine's native gluevines, only worse. And even the innocuous plants did their bit to conceal tangled tree roots, ground insect mounds, or more dangerous plants.