Cobra Guardian: Cobra War: Book Two

by Timothy Zahn

  [Foolishness, you speak it,] the Troft said contemptuously. [The suppressor's crew, their lives you think so valuable that concessions, you expect us to make them?]

  "Well-trained soldiers are a valuable commodity," Treakness said. "A wise commander doesn't simply discard them for no reason. Especially since all I want in exchange for their lives is to borrow that transport we're heading toward, the one just past the fueling station."

  [The planet, you cannot be permitted to leave it,] the Troft insisted.

  "I have no intention of leaving Aventine," Treakness said stiffly. "My government-in-exile will dedicate itself to continuing the fight until every last one of you has been thrown off our world."

  There was a brief silence. Lorne kept going, pushing the carrier for all it was worth, trying to watch everywhere at once. A small part of his mind wondered if the Tlossie freighter might have given up and left Aventine while they were nearly killing themselves wading through the creek, and wondered what he and the others would do if that were the case.

  [The transport, you may go to it,] the Troft said suddenly.

  "And you'll keep your people strictly away," Treakness warned. "Remember, we'll be able to see it the whole rest of the way. If anyone approaches it--anyone--I'll order the destruction to begin."

  [The transport, no one will approach it,] the Troft promised. [In peace, you may board it and your departure, you may make it.]

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lorne saw Treakness step from the rear into the carrier's cab and crouch down beside him, the helmet he'd been wearing no longer over his head. "What do you think?" he asked quietly.

  "I don't like it," Lorne said, shaking his head. "They gave in way too easy."

  "Agreed," Treakness said. "Fortunately, whatever they're planning to do once we're inside the transport is irrelevant. When you reach it, just circle around it and head for the Tlossie freighter."

  "What if the Trofts decide to take us out before then?"

  "How?" Treakness countered, waving a hand around them. "The armor on this thing is damn thick, probably thick enough to take a few shots from even ship-based lasers."

  "Except for the windshield."

  "Which is already at too low an angle for all but maybe one of the ships to hit it." Treakness pointed at the unconscious Troft sharing the driver's seat with Lorne. "Besides, you've cleverly set it up so that killing you would mean killing him, too. If Trofts hesitate to kill conquered peoples without reason, they certainly ought to hesitate even more before killing one of their own. Not until they're desperate."

  "I hope you're right." The cluster of outbuildings was looming ahead on their left, and Lorne turned slightly to the right to give them an extra-wide berth. He didn't really think the Troft commander would have a group of soldiers lurking among the buildings ready to leap onto the captured carrier and try to force their way inside, but he had no interest in finding out the hard way. "I still think they've got something in the works," he added. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a brilliant flicker of blue light out the side window--

  And with a blast of billowing blue-yellow fire, the cluster of outbuildings exploded.

  The carrier caught the full brunt of the shock wave, skidding violently sideways for a few meters before toppling over onto its right side. Lorne, wedged in place between the seat and the unconscious Troft's rigid body armor, stayed in place just long enough for him to grab the edge of the seat before he and his living shield came loose and tumbled out to fall the full width of the carrier. The Troft fell straight down, landing with a sickening thud on his shoulder and back, while Lorne was able to hang onto the seat long enough to turn himself vertical and land instead on his feet.

  For a moment he crouched there, his brain spinning with the aftereffects of the explosion. Behind him in the carrier's main section, Poole and Nissa were struggling to extricate themselves from the limp Troft bodies that had been thrown all around them when the vehicle was pushed over. Straight above him, through the driver's side window, he could see yellow flame and roiling clouds of smoke from the burning fuel station and other buildings.

  And at his feet, twitching like an injured insect, was Treakness.

  Blood running down the side of his head.

  "Poole!" Lorne snapped as he dropped down beside the governor, his fingers probing gently at the blood flow. The cut didn't seem too wide, but he could feel the skin around it starting to swell. He must have hit his head when the carrier was blown over. "Poole!" he called again. "Nissa! Damn it, somebody get over here."

  "What is it?" Nissa asked, her voice shaky as she worked her way to her feet. "What happened?"

  "The governor's hurt," Lorne gritted out, pulling open his belt bag and hunting through it for his share of the group's medical supplies. "Looks like he hit his head."

  "They fired on us?" Nissa said incredulously.

  "On the fueling station," Lorne corrected tightly. "Probably figured the soldiers we were holding were armored and we weren't. Worth the gamble." He found a package of compression bandages and tore off the wrapping. "Here--lift his head for me."

  "No, don't," Poole said as he came up unsteadily behind Nissa. "It's dangerous to move a head-injury patient unless you know what you're doing."

  "You want to just leave him here?" Lorne demanded, glaring at him.

  "The Trofts will take care of him," Poole said. "They want the governors and syndics as hostages or figureheads, not corpses."

  "I don't care what the Trofts want," Lorne bit out. "If he doesn't get on that Tlossie freighter, the rest of us might as well not go, either."

  "Leave me."

  Lorne looked down. Treakness's eyes were open, gazing up at Lorne and the others with determination. "Hold still," Lorne ordered, unfolding the bandage and easing it into place over the wound as best he could without moving Treakness's head. "Don't worry, we'll get you out of here."

  "Are you deaf?" Treakness continued. "I said go. Take Poole and Ms. Gendreves and get out."

  "You don't understand," Lorne said, looking around for something they could use to immobilize his head in case Treakness had also suffered neck injuries. The benches fastened to the floor--the wall, now--were pretty narrow, but they were the best he was going to get. He started to stand up.

  And stopped as Treakness reached up and grabbed his arm in a weak but determined grip. "I gave you an order, Cobra Broom," he wheezed out. "The Trofts could be here any time. Leave me and go."

  "He's right," Poole said quietly. "We have to go."

  Lorne twisted around to look at him. In the few seconds he'd been concentrating on Treakness, the nervous, mousy Poole they'd all spent the day with had vanished. In his place was a new Poole, a Poole who wore a quiet confidence and professionalism that Lorne hadn't even guessed might be lurking beneath the surface.

  He turned back to Treakness. "What the hell is going on?" he asked quietly.

  "I lied to you, Broom," Treakness said. He let go of Lorne's arm and touched the bandage on his head, wincing as his fingers brushed the injured skin. "Poole's the one who has to get on that Tlossie freighter, not me." A faint smile touched his lips. "I'm just the camouflage."

  "I'll explain later," Poole added, his eyes aching as he gazed down at Treakness. "The question is whether we can get to the Tlossies before the other Trofts get here."

  "I don't know," Lorne said. "Look, I don't care what you say. Either of you. We can't just leave him here."

  "I'll stay with him," Nissa volunteered, her voice shaking.

  "No," Treakness said. "If you're caught . . ." He gestured weakly toward her. "You're the new camouflage, Nissa Gendreves. As the highest-ranking Dome official still known to be free, I hereby grant you full authority of negotiation and treaty. You're the Cobra Worlds' representative to the universe at large." He shifted his pointing finger toward Lorne. "Remember that," he added. "If you're caught, she's the one you were trying to get off Aventine. Not Poole. Her." His finger flicked toward the carrier's rear d
oors. "Now go," he said. "If I'm to die, don't let me die having failed in my last attempt to serve my world."

  Lorne felt his throat tighten. He still had no idea what was going on, but Treakness was right. Whatever was at stake here, if they stayed they would lose by default. "Promise to be a rotten prisoner for them," he told Treakness, and got to his feet. "You two, come on."

  The rear doors hadn't been damaged or even bent out of true by the carrier's crash. Lorne popped them without trouble, letting in a cloud of acrid black smoke as the lower door dropped to the ground with a thud. "Close your eyes," he ordered Poole and Nissa as he squeezed his own eyes shut and keyed in his opticals. Grabbing them around their waists, he headed out.

  The smoke was even more intense outside, burning into his nose and lungs, and the angry crackle of the flames drowned out every other sound around him. Clutching his companions close to his sides, he led the group around the rear of the carrier and toward its front. The air was churning violently as the fire sucked in air from everywhere around it, and Lorne could feel the heat of the flames prickling at his skin. So far the carrier was blocking the worst of the heat, but that protection was about to end. Through the smoke, his infrareds could pick out the transport fifty meters ahead, the vehicle Treakness had theoretically bargained away from the Trofts.

  He could also see the shadowy figures of Troft soldiers hurrying toward it, moving under cover of the smoke to prepare an ambush for the arrogant humans should they somehow manage to survive the crash and the fire.

  Lorne grimaced, the smoke burning his lungs now starting to seep in around his tightly closed eyelids. In theory, the Trofts may very well have outsmarted themselves, with the smoke from their fire hiding their quarry from unaided eyes and the fire itself blanketing even their infrared signatures. In actual practice, though, the path in front of them was a horrendously daunting one. They would need to get away from the fire without succumbing to either the heat or the smoke, then get past the transport and the ambush the Trofts were setting up, and finally cover however much open ground remained before they reached the Tlossie freighter. If, indeed, the freighter was even still there.

  He was still crouched by the front of the carrier, still trying to find a way to get his charges through all of that, when something large lifted into view above the Troft transport.

  It was the Tlossie freighter.

  And it was leaving.

  Lorne's heart seemed to seize up. No! he shouted silently toward it. We're here! Come back!

  And then, even as he stared helplessly at the departing freighter, it came around in a sharp right turn and headed straight toward the three humans hunched beside the downed carrier.

  Lorne stiffened, the heat and smoke abruptly forgotten in a rush of hope and apprehension. The Tlossies were coming to them, all right--there was no reason for them to pass so close to the fire otherwise. But diplomatic immunity or not, they surely weren't going to be so brazen as to land under the invaders' guns. Did they have a plan? Or were they expecting their would-be passengers to come up with one?

  Lorne was staring at the incoming craft, trying to come up with something, when the freighter's starboard bow hatchway ramp flipped down and what appeared to be a weighted cargo net rolled out.

  The Tlossies had a plan, all right. The question was, would it work?

  "Get ready," he shouted over the roaring of the fire, his opticals counting down the distance to the fluttering net, his brain whirring with the logistics. Nissa, the lighter of the two, would have to go first. "Nissa, I'm going to throw you into the air toward a hanging net," he told the young woman. "When I shout open, you open your eyes so that you can see to grab it. Got that?"

  "What do--?" Nissa began, breaking off in a fit of coughing.

  "I said got that?" Lorne snapped, his own lungs feeling like they were rapidly becoming coated with tar.

  Still coughing, she nodded.

  "Poole, you'll be next," Lorne said, letting go of Poole's waist and getting a two-handed grip on Nissa's belt and left leg. "Same deal. Ready?"

  "Ready," Poole said.

  The freighter and net were still coming. Lorne braced himself, tightening his grip on Nissa as he gauged the distance. Nearly in position . . .

  And with a surge of servo-powered strength, he hurled her upward.

  She might have gasped something, but with the roar of the fire he couldn't be sure. Turning to Poole, he got the same grip on his belt and leg as he watched Nissa hit the top of her arc and start down again. "Open!" he shouted.

  There was no way to tell if she had actually opened her eyes or, if she had, whether she could even see the net sweeping toward her amid all the smoke. Lorne held his breath as the mesh slammed into her, slapping out of her ballistic path. Her hands scrambled wildly for purchase, and then her fingers slipped into the net and she was hanging on for dear life, her body bouncing wildly in the wind. An instant later Poole was flying through the air after her, and half a second later he also had grabbed solidly onto the mesh.

  And as the freighter and net shot past overhead, Lorne turned and charged after them, driving his leg servos as hard and as fast as he could. Five seconds later he'd closed the gap enough to make a leap of his own for the netting. He caught the edge of the mesh, wincing as the full blast of heat from the fire burned momentarily into his skin. The freighter cut sharply to the left and angled up toward the sky, and as he again squeezed his eyes tight against the sudden roar of wind he felt the vibration of the net being reeled in. He held on tightly, watching Nissa and Poole, wondering if either of them would lose their grip as they were buffeted around and wondering what he could do if that happened.

  But they didn't, and he didn't, and a handful of long, terrifying, agonizing seconds later they were hauled up onto the ramp and through the hatchway into a large airlock vestibule. As they sprawled on the deck, the hatchway closed behind them, and they were safely aboard.

  "Lorne?" Nissa breathed, her reddened, squinting eyes staring at something behind him. Blinking some moisture into his own smoke-burned eyes, Lorne turned to look.

  Behind them stood a semicircle of silent Trofts, each armed with a hand-and-a-half laser.

  All of them leveled and pointed at the three humans.

  [Your hands, you will raise them,] the Troft in the middle ordered sternly.

  "I don't think that will be necessary," Poole said calmly. "It certainly won't be very effective."

  For a moment the Troft eyed him. Then, gesturing to the others, he raised the muzzle of his laser to point at the ceiling. [The koubrah-soldier, you are he?] he asked Poole.

  "No, this is the Cobra," Poole said, pointing to Lorne. "Cobra Lorne Moreau Broom, as your shipmaster requested."

  [The koubrah-soldier Lorne Moreau Broom, you are he?] a new voice asked.

  Lorne turned around again. Another Troft had stepped into the vestibule from the door leading forward toward the freighter's bridge and control areas. The newcomer was clothed in the same style of leotard as the others, but wrapped around his abdomen was the distinctive red sash of an heir of the Tlossie demesne-lord. [Lorne Moreau Broom, I am he,] Lorne confirmed in his best cattertalk as he climbed to his feet. The task was harder than he'd expected, and he had to use his servos to keep from dropping back to the deck halfway up. Clearly, the ordeal of fire and water had drained him more than he'd realized. [My deep and humble thanks for this rescue, to whom do I owe it?] he asked.

  The Troft inclined his head. [The language of the Trof'te, you speak it well,] he said approvingly. [Ingidi-inhiliziyo, second heir of the Tlos'khin'fahi Demesne, I am he.] He gave a sort of clicking laugh. [Warrior, instead you may call me,] he added. [My full and proper name, it is difficult for humans to pronounce.]

  Lorne bowed, his servos once again keeping him from falling onto his face. [Graciousness, it is yours,] he said.

  Warrior's gaze brushed past Poole and settled on Nissa. [Three passengers, there were to be,] he said. [But males, they were all to
be.]

  "There was a last-minute alteration in the plan," Poole said, his voice low and strained. Unlike Lorne, he and Nissa weren't even trying to stand up. "Senior Governor Treakness was unable to join us." He gestured to Nissa. "This is Nissa Gendreves, assistant to Governor-General Chintawa. In Governor Treakness's absence, he's given her full diplomatic authorization."

  [Authorization, we know not for what,] Lorne put in. [This mystery, will you not explain it?]

  Warrior gestured at Poole. [The explanation, Dr. Glas Croi will provide it.]

  Lorne frowned at Poole. "Who?"

  "Me," Poole said gravely. "I'm sorry, Broom, but I couldn't let you know my true identity. Neither of you," he added, nodding to Nissa. "We couldn't take the risk that the invaders would capture us and figure out who I was. That's why Governor Treakness and I came up with the plan for me to play the part of a kicked-around aide. We hoped that if we were caught they would concentrate on him and ignore me."

  "How clever of you," Lorne growled. "It never occurred to you that it might be useful if the man who was supposed to be guarding you knew exactly who he was guarding?"

  "It did, and we decided against it," Croi said evenly. "My life, in and of itself, wasn't important. What was important was that we delay my identification long enough for Ingidi-inhiliziyo and this freighter to get safely off Aventine."

  Lorne looked at Warrior. "I thought you had diplomatic immunity."

  [To a point only, my safety lies there,] Warrior said.

  "And still does," Croi said. "Tell me, Broom, how long did it take the surgeons to turn you into a Cobra?"

  Lorne frowned at the sudden change of subject. "What?"

  "Your Cobra surgery," Croi repeated. "How long?"

  "Same as everyone else's," Lorne said. "Two weeks."

  "How much of that was actually spent on the operating table?"

  "I don't really remember," Lorne said. "Something like ten hours a day for eleven of those fourteen days. Call it a hundred-ten hours, I guess."