Cobra Guardian: Cobra War: Book Two

by Timothy Zahn

  Still, Lorne noticed there was less groaning and fewer under-the-breath complaints than there had been earlier. Possibly the brief aboveground break had given everyone's joints and muscles sufficient recovery time to ease the discomfort.

  Or maybe it was the thought of armed Trofts and hungry spine leopards roaming the landscape above that had given them all a new perspective on the advantages of this mode of travel.

  But the trip was still long and slow, and within the first hour they began to encounter additional complications as they reached a more modern section of the drainage system where many of the larger conduits had given way to smaller ones. Koshevski never got lost in the maze, but as the percentage of passable conduits steadily decreased, he was forced to lead them through extra turns and sometimes long detours in order to keep them moving westward.

  It was three hours past sundown by Lorne's nanocomputer clock when Koshevski finally came to a halt in a T-junction chamber. "End of the line," he murmured, gesturing to his right and left. "The only passable routes that are left lead northeast and straight south, neither of which will get you any closer to Crystal Lake or any facility or resource that might help you get there."

  "So where exactly are we?" Treakness asked. "What's around us right now?"

  "Okay, this is Duell Street," Koshevski said, pointing straight up. "It's a residential area two blocks west of Ridgeline. About three blocks north is Estes Park, five or six blocks south and a couple east is the Indus Entertainment Center, and about seven blocks west you hit the edge of the Vandalio Industrial Park."

  "What do they make there?" Poole asked.

  "Vandalio is mostly light industry," Treakness told him. "Electronics and small consumer appliances."

  "Right," Koshevski said. "If you need a drill or laser torch, that would be a good place to look."

  "What about the spaceport?" Treakness asked. "Where's that, exactly?"

  "It's ten, maybe eleven kilometers west and a little north of the industrial park," Koshevski said, pointing at the blank wall beside him where another westward conduit should have been. "You don't want to go there, though."

  "Why not?" Nissa asked.

  "Because the first thing a smart invasion force does is secure the local transportation centers," Koshevski said. "Here, that means Creeksedge."

  "Understood," Treakness agreed, nodding. "We'll be sure to give the place a wide berth."

  "Yeah, good luck with that," Koshevski said. "Good luck with the rest of it, too. I'm sorry I can't do more, but this really is as far as I can get you."

  "No apologies needed," Treakness assured him, offering his hand. "We're most grateful for your help. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," Koshevski said. He shook Treakness's hand briefly, then did the same with the others. "You going to be all right if I just leave you here?"

  "We'll be fine," Treakness said. "You just worry about getting back to your family."

  "No problem," Koshevski promised. "Again, good luck."

  With that, he slipped past them and headed back down the conduit, the faint glow from his flashlight just bright enough to show the footing ahead. A minute later, the bobbing light vanished around a turn.

  "So what are we going to do?" Poole asked hesitantly.

  "Well, we're not giving the spaceport a wide berth, if that's what you were wondering," Treakness growled. "Broom? You're up. What's the plan?"

  "First thing we need is a look outside," Lorne said, taking hold of the rungs and starting up the shaft. "Wait here, and be quiet."

  He reached the top of the shaft, and for a minute pressed his ear to the cover, his audios at full power. Nothing. Balancing his feet on the rungs, he eased the cover up a few centimeters and looked out.

  Somewhere along the way they'd moved from Capitalia's central section, with its taller buildings and denser population, into one of the more spread-out suburban areas. Lining both sides of the street, set back behind trees, walkways, and softly glowing streetlights, were rows of single-family houses, each surrounded by a modest lawn of blueblade or curly-grass.

  None of the houses showed any lights, and Lorne's first thought was that the residents had already fled to one of the safe zones. But his infrareds showed that all the houses were indeed inhabited, most of them by several people. Apparently, the occupants had decided to leave their lights off as a way of keeping a low profile.

  It wasn't hard to figure out why. Lorne could see a half-dozen spine leopards from where he stood, moving about like shadows among the houses and shrubbery as they hunted for prey. Three blocks to the north, probably settled into the middle of the park Koshevski had mentioned, one of the Trofts' tall sentry ships towered over the neighborhood.

  And drifting across the night sky were a handful of small grav lifts. Not transports--they were too small for that--which meant they were probably the observation drones Emile had told him about.

  For a moment Lorne watched them meandering their lazy circles, a sour taste in his mouth. Through the long walk through the drainage system he'd come up with a plan for getting Treakness and the others at least to the vicinity of the spaceport, though if the Trofts had the whole place locked down, getting them the rest of the way to the waiting freighter might prove to be tricky.

  But even the first part of Lorne's plan assumed that the Troft drones were only watching for moving cars and other powered equipment. If they were programmed to watch for all movement, pedestrian as well as vehicular, they probably wouldn't even get as far as the industrial park, let alone all the way to Creeksedge.

  What he needed was a technical readout or spec sheet for those drones. Would the Tlossies at the spaceport have such data, or at least an idea of the invaders' capabilities?

  Probably. But with the comm system still down, he had no way of putting that question to them. Even if the system was back in service, he couldn't trust it not to have Troft eavesdropping computers monitoring all of the planet's conversations.

  Somewhere in the distance, a hint of a deep throbbing sound caught his attention. He keyed up his audios, and the sound resolved into the soft, throaty growl of a heavy engine. Some Troft vehicle, obviously, probably one of the armored troop carriers he'd seen back in the safe zone.

  And as Lorne listened to the approaching vehicle, it occurred to him that he might not have to bother the Tlossies with this one after all.

  Lowering the cover back in place, he climbed quickly down to the others. "Well?" Treakness asked.

  "I'm going to have to go out for a while," Lorne told him. "All of you need to stay put until I get back." Reversing direction, he started back up again.

  "Wait a minute," Treakness said. "Going out where?"

  "If I'm lucky, I'll be back in an hour," Lorne told him. "But it could be two, or possibly three."

  "What if you don't come back at all?" Treakness demanded harshly. "How will we know if you've been killed?"

  "Just listen for laser fire and screaming Trofts," Lorne said impatiently. "That's usually a good clue. Just keep quiet--this is going to be tricky enough as it is."

  He reached the top of the shaft and again carefully lifted the cover. The rumble of the troop carrier was definitely getting closer, and he could now see the faint sheen of headlights flicking across the landscape to the south as the vehicle approached. If it was heading back toward the ship three blocks north, it ought to be turning onto Lorne's street any time now . . .

  And then, the headlights sharpened, and a large vehicle rolled into sight two blocks away. Lorne got just a glimpse of the vehicle's dark bulk before it finished its turn and the glare of the headlights washed out any hope of seeing anything more behind them.

  But the brief look was enough to show him that it was indeed one of the armored carriers. More importantly, it had also showed the top of the vehicle's silhouette to be smooth, with no sign of Troft soldiers sitting on top as they had been back in the safe zone.

  Which made perfect sense, of course. No sane soldier, no matter
how good his body armor, would voluntarily expose himself to spine leopard attacks. Not when he could ride in safety and comfort inside an armored vehicle.

  Quickly, Lorne lowered the cover back into place. The Trofts inside the carrier weren't likely to notice something as subtle as an askew drainage system cover, but there was no need to take that risk. Again pressing his ear against the metal plate, Lorne listened as the vehicle drew steadily nearer.

  And as the leading edge passed over him, he pushed up on the cover, extended the little finger of his right hand through the opening, and fired his arcthrower.

  The world around Lorne lit up briefly as the high-voltage arc slammed into the underside of the carrier. He fired again and again, aiming at the general area where the engine rumbling seemed to be loudest, trying to hit a vulnerable spot.

  He was starting to wonder if the carrier even had any vulnerable spots when the engine abruptly died and the vehicle rolled to a halt.

  Lorne took a deep breath, easing the cover all the way up and looking around. Most of the carrier had already passed him by, but the vehicle was long enough that its bulk still completely covered him. Equally important, the vehicle's designers had given it nearly half a meter of ground clearance, probably with the curbs and medians of a modern city in mind. There was plenty of room for Lorne to slide out of the shaft and get a grip on whatever convenient handholds the vehicle's underside presented him with.

  Only to his surprise and consternation, there weren't any.

  Frowning, he keyed his light-amps up a notch and looked again. No mistake: the long expanse of metal stretched out overhead was as solid as a family promise. There were a few small bulges and depressions, but no hooks, grilles, intakes, or knobs. Nothing that even servo-assisted fingers could get a solid hold on.

  Something caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see a new set of headlights coming toward him from the north. Apparently, the Trofts in the stalled vehicle had called for assistance, and that assistance was on its way.

  Lorne slipped back down into the shaft, pulling the cover into place above him, and climbed down three steps. Again straddling the rungs, he got a grip on the topmost rung on one side with his left hand, pointed his right little finger at the spot where the curved metal joined the shaft, and fired his laser.

  The shaft lit up with blue light, the metal sizzling as it disintegrated under the laser's heat. Droplets of metal scattered across his hands, and Lorne winced against the pinpricks of pain. A few seconds later the laser finished its work, and he shifted its aim to the other end of the rung. More sizzling, more tiny burns, and the rung came free in his hand. Tucking it under his arm, he got to work on the next rung down.

  Half a minute later, with both rungs free, he again eased the cover off and looked out. The second vehicle had come alongside the stalled carrier, and Lorne could hear snatches of cattertalk over the rumbling of the newcomer's engine as the Trofts discussed both the unexpected engine trouble and the question of how best to get the disabled vehicle back to the ship. Sliding out onto the pavement, Lorne set the cover back in place over the shaft and rolled onto his back. He was taking a risk, he knew--if the Trofts decided to examine the dead carrier's engine out here, they would surely realize that it was no mere malfunction, but deliberate sabotage. If any of them then took the obvious step of looking underneath the carrier, this whole thing would come to an abrupt and violent end.

  But chances were that none of them would want to linger in spiny-infested territory any longer than they had to. Listening to the ongoing conversation with half an ear, he set one of the rungs against the underside of the carrier and set to work.

  By the time the conversation ended and the second vehicle began maneuvering itself into pushing position behind the first, he had both rungs spot-welded to the featureless metal at the right locations to serve as hand- and footholds. A minute later, as he pulled himself up as close to the undercarriage as he could, there was a sudden lurch and the stalled vehicle was once again in motion. Gazing out at his truncated view of the pavement, walkways, and lower parts of trees, streetlights, and houses, Lorne wondered if this plan was really as insane as it seemed, or whether it was even more so.

  Two minutes later, they were there.

  Lorne hadn't had a chance earlier to see any of the Troft ships unload its complement of ground vehicles, but he'd assumed that they were housed on the lowest level and simply rolled out once the proper hatches were opened. He was, he now discovered, half right. As they approached the ship, he saw a long ramp swing down from the narrow end, leading up to a hatchway that wasn't in the ship's lowest section, but instead was a good two or three decks above it. The two vehicles angled up onto the ramp, the second carrier's engine straining with the double load, and Lorne could see the faint glow of standard dark-orange Troft nighttime lighting coming from the wide opening ahead. The two vehicles reached the top of the ramp and leveled out, traveling perhaps another twenty meters through some sort of equipment bay before grinding to a final halt. There was another subtle change in the engine tone, and Lorne watched as the second carrier reversed direction and backed out and down the ramp, apparently heading out to continue the rest of the stalled carrier's patrol. As the engine sounds faded away, Lorne could hear the faint straining of other, quieter motors as the ramp was pulled back up again into closed position. The last hint of city light faded away into the gloomy orange, and with a hiss of pressure locks the ramp sealed itself into place.

  And Lorne was alone. Inside an enemy ship.

  Surrounded by enemy soldiers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carefully, he took a deep breath. I planned this, he reminded himself. This was my idea, and it's working perfectly.

  So far.

  Above him, he heard a pair of dull thuds as the carrier's rear doors were opened and felt the slight rocking as the Trofts inside climbed out, their conversation revolving around the annoying engine trouble that had forced them to cut short their patrol. There were also several contemptuous comments about the lack of fighting spirit among Aventine's humans. Lorne watched their armored feet as the soldiers made their way across a floor crammed with machinery and other vehicles. They disappeared through a heavy door and headed one by one up a stairway. There was the sound of a hatch closing.

  And then, silence.

  Disengaging from his hand- and footholds, Lorne eased himself down onto his back on the deck, keying his audios to full power. The cold metal beneath him was an excellent conductor of sound, and he could hear a whole range of soft noises coming from deep inside the ship, everything from the hum of engines and ventilation fans to murmurs of distant conversation. But the vehicle bay itself appeared to be deserted. Fingertip lasers at the ready, he eased out from under the carrier and got to his feet.

  The bay, as he'd already noted, was crammed with equipment and vehicles, including several one-man floatcycles, two more troop carriers like the one he'd disabled, and an even more heavily armored vehicle that was probably the Troft version of a compact urban battle tank. There were also racks of extra guns, wheels, and other large replacement parts. At the far end of the bay, across from the hatch and ramp, was a doorway leading into what appeared to be a long, well-equipped machine shop. Also at the far end of the bay, near the entrance to the shop, were a pair of doors on opposite sides. The one on the left was the one all of the departing Troft soldiers had taken on their way out, with the other door directly across the bay from it.

  Lorne looked around the bay again. Everything here was ground vehicles, with no sign of the observation drones that he'd seen flying over the city. Assuming that they were based from these sentry ships, they must operate from a different deck.

  He turned back to the hatchways on the bay's two sides, keying in his telescopics and light-amps to try to read the markings on them. Unfortunately, all they said were deck 6-a and deck 6-b,with no indication as to the rooms or departments they connected to.

  Still, the soldiers had ta
ken the left exit, presumably heading to their quarters or to check in with a duty officer. Either way, that was definitely not a direction Lorne wanted to go. Mentally crossing his fingers, he headed to the right.

  Pressing his ear to the door again gained him nothing but another set of faint sounds. He pushed open the heavy door, a much quieter operation than he'd feared it would be, and found himself looking into a narrow staircase that switchbacked its way both up and down. Stepping onto the landing, he looked up.

  The stairs weren't solid, but were made of the same weight-saving metal gridwork used in the Cobra Worlds' own modest collection of starships. The interference between the sections of mesh kept Lorne from seeing more than about two floors up or down, but that plus his hearing was enough to show that the stairway was as deserted as the vehicle bay. On the assumption that flying equipment like observation drones would be located higher in the ship than ground vehicles, he started up, his ears straining, his fingertip lasers ready.

  And his heart pounding painfully hard in his chest. It was nerve-wracking enough to be wandering around a warship full of enemy soldiers. It was even more ominous when those soldiers inexplicably seemed to have vanished. Could they really all have retired to their quarters or wardrooms for the night? All of them?

  He was midway up the first flight of steps when it occurred to him that, yes, they really could have done that. The dawn landing had required everyone to be up early, and the invasion had been followed by a busy day of fence-building, negotiating, and spiny-unloading. Trofts could push themselves as hard as humans when they had to, but heavy physical labor took as much of a toll on them as it did on anyone else.

  And it wasn't as if they were facing any serious resistance out there. From the comments Lorne had overheard, it was clear that Emile had been telling the truth about Chintawa and the Directorate having essentially capitulated. The government was cooperating with the invaders, the Cobras and patrollers had been ordered to stand down, and the average citizens were either cowering in their homes or scrambling to grab extra food and supplies with no interest or energy to spare for making trouble. Why not simply give the bulk of the invasion force the night off to rest, safe inside their warships, and leave the dull task of monitoring the night to the roving carrier patrols, the flying drones, and the spine leopards? In their position, a human commander would probably do the same.