Cobra Gamble (16 page)

For a few seconds Merrick frowned in puzzlement at the closed door. First a doctor's assistant, then a waitress. On the surface, it looked like whoever was pulling her strings was trying to create opportunities for the slave and the prisoner to interact.

But in that case, shouldn't the hidden puppet master have had her jump at Merrick's invitation to join him for a snack, thereby giving them even more time together? Either the Trofts were slow on the draw, or else Merrick was reading this whole thing completely wrong.

Which was, admittedly, the more likely scenario. Who really knew how Troft minds worked, anyway?

His stomach gave a long growl. "Right," Merrick muttered. "First things first." Turning to the tray, he lifted the cover and set it aside.

He wasn't really sure what he'd been expecting for his first meal as a Troft prisoner. But whatever that unformed anticipation was, this definitely wasn't it. There were three items on the oval plate: an angled piece of bone-in meat that might have been part of some creature's leg or wing, a greenish-yellow vegetable paste with red and off-white specks floating in it, and a small, lumpy loaf of bread shaped rather like a seashell.

Most of Merrick's brief time on Qasama had been spent in Sollas, eating ration bars or light and quickly prepared wartime meals. But he'd also had a slightly more leisurely meal at the Sammon residence in Milika, which had given him a general idea of what Qasaman cuisine was like. More importantly, he'd passed among the mix of cooking aromas in both Milika and Sollas, which had offered his self-trained cook's nose a range of the locals' cooking spices and condiments.

The aromas rising from his tray smelled nothing like any of those spices. And it was for certain that he'd never seen or smelled anything remotely like this with even the most exotic Cobra Worlds fare.

Either the Trofts were putting way more effort into this operation than anyone had any business doing, or else Merrick had been right the first time about Anya being from some distant and unknown world.

And if the meal sitting in front of him was from that same world, and if it contained spices or bacteria that didn't work and play well with his digestive system, this could be a very unpleasant evening.

The survival unit at the Cobra Academy had included a step-by-step procedure for finding non-poisonous plants in unfamiliar territory. But given that the Trofts obviously thought he would be able to handle this meal—and since they could poison him any time they wanted—it didn't seem worth the effort to run the checklist.

The Trofts hadn't provided any flatware with the meal, perhaps forgetting that keeping potential weapons away from a Cobra was wasted effort. The first challenge, therefore, was figuring out how to eat the meal while still maintaining a modicum of etiquette. After some trial and error he settled on the technique of tearing off chunks of the meat, picnic style, and using pieces of bread to scoop up the vegetable paste.

The blend of tastes was good and definitely exotic, reminiscent of various dishes Merrick had tried elsewhere but with enough of a twist to underscore the meal's alien origin. The effect on his digestive system was somewhat less positive, and he spent the next couple of hours lying on his bed listening to rumbles from his stomach and wondering if perhaps he should have gone through the food-testing procedure after all.

But nothing came back up, and his system eventually settled down. Merrick stayed awake for another two hours, just to be sure, before finally and wearily settling down for the night.

He'd been asleep for three and a half hours when he woke to stealthy sounds and the touch of surreptitious fingers on his forearms and shins. Before he could activate his opticals, he felt something close around his left forearm and heard the
snick
of a locking mechanism. The Trofts had apparently decided to put his restraints back on.

Merrick felt a snarl rising in his throat. Like hell they were.

With a jerk, he sat upright, simultaneously snapping open his eyes. The Troft who had been gently working his right arm toward its restraint made a desperate grab for the limb, missed, and gave an agonized grunt as Merrick hit him with a hard backhand punch across the helmet. The two Trofts at Merrick's feet likewise made desperate attempts to grab his legs. One of them flew backward as Merrick kicked him, the other jumped back before he could be hit. The latter grabbed for a belted laser—

And collapsed to the floor as a burst from Merrick's sonic slammed into him. The backwash bounced off the wall and echoed across Merrick, and he had a brief battle of his own for equilibrium as he turned to the two guards flanking the open door. Both were in motion, grabbing at their weapons as they sidled away from each other in an attempt to avoid a quick one-two attack.

Merrick tried to twist the sonic in his torso toward them, but with his left arm pinioned he couldn't turn far enough in that direction. Instead, he activated the capacitor connected to his right fingertip laser, firing a quick laser burst to ionize the air between him and the first guard and then sending a low-level jolt of current along the pathway. The Troft toppled unconscious to the floor just as his weapon cleared its holster, and Merrick's second stun blast took down the second Troft before he could bring his laser up into firing position. As the second guard hit the floor Merrick turned back to the restraint on his left forearm and fired a full-power fingertip laser burst at the clamps, blasting them into sprays of half-molten metal. He twisted his arm free, swung his legs around, and leaped off the bed onto the floor.

And as he finally paused from his reflexive attack in order to take stock of his situation, the possibilities of the open door and the deserted corridor beyond it abruptly flooded in on him.

This was probably the best chance he would ever have to escape.

But even as he lunged toward the door he discovered that he'd already missed his window of opportunity. From three different doorways down the corridor a Troft soldier leaned out into view, his helmet turned toward Merrick, his laser coming up to aim.

Cursing under his breath, Merrick ducked to the side of the door, using his last half-second of view to flick a target lock onto each of the weapons trained at him. So much for an easy exit. Now, he'd have to do it the hard way. He leaned out, keying his fingertip lasers.

Only to discover that all three Trofts had disappeared.

He had just enough time to frown in confusion when three more aliens poked their heads and weapons through an entirely different set of doorways. Quickly, Merrick cancelled his original lock and targeted this new group of weapons.

Only to have the Trofts again duck back through their doorways before he could fire. As they vanished, they were replaced by another trio, this group including one of the original three soldiers.

And Merrick finally got it. The target-lock system enabled his nanocomputer to aim and fire sequentially with a speed and accuracy no human gunner could ever hope to achieve. But it presupposed that all the targets in the sequence were still within firing range. If any one of them was no longer visible or accessible, the lock would simply pause and wait for it to reappear.

Which meant that by popping new targets in and out at random, the Trofts had effectively eliminated that particular tool from Merrick's arsenal. If he wanted to take out those soldiers or their weapons, he was going to have to do it without his nanocomputer's help.

Only it was already too late for that, he realized with a sinking heart. Whatever momentum and initiative his surprise attack had gained for him was now gone, and his captors' countermove was already up and running. Trying to escape now would do nothing but get him and a whole bunch of Trofts killed.

[Merrick Moreau Broom, I would have words with him,] an amplified Troft voice called from somewhere down the corridor.

Merrick sighed. It was over, all right. [Merrick Moreau Broom, he hears you,] he called back.

[Your captivity, you cannot end it this way,] the disembodied voice said. [Your cell, you will remain in it. Punishment for your actions, it will be not be given to you.]

Merrick pursed his lips. He already knew that his attempt had failed. But maybe the Trofts didn't. In that case, maybe he could still wangle a concession or two out of them. [The restraints, I do not want them,] he called. [Your pledge to not impose them on me, I seek it.]

There was a short silence. [Your pledge to not attempt escape, I seek it in return.]

Merrick felt his stomach tighten around his alien meal. His life literally depended on him finding a way to eventually get out of here. There was no way he could give the Troft that kind of promise.

Unless he did so knowing full well that he was lying.

Only he couldn't. Not just because it was unethical, but because a lie like that could come back to haunt him in a big and devastating way. Unless he could guarantee that his next escape attempt was successful, breaking his word would not only bring harsh reprisals but would forever eliminate any chance of making future deals with his captors.

He hunched his shoulders, feeling a brief ache from one of his still tender muscle groups. On the other hand, if he was clever, maybe he could have this both ways. [My pledge not to attempt escape until the Games, I give it,] he offered.

There was another pause. [Your pledge, I accept it,] the Troft said. [The restraints, until then they will not be used. Soldiers: the restraints, you will remove them from the prisoner's cell.]

Merrick eased an eye around the door jamb. Down the corridor, at least twenty armored Trofts had emerged from doorways, their lasers at the ready, while another smaller group of unarmed aliens marched in single file down the center of the hallway toward Merrick's cell. Merrick stepped away from the door, moving to the side of the room and placing his back against the wall. He kept his hands at his sides, but made sure his thumbs were resting on the fingertip laser triggers.

The caution proved unnecessary. In complete silence the Trofts unfastened the restraints from the bed and tucked them under their arms. Then they collected their injured and unconscious comrades, and the whole bunch retreated through the doorway.

And as the last Troft left the cell, Anya walked in. "What are
you
doing here?" Merrick asked, frowning.

"I brought you this," she said, holding out a small vial containing a light brown liquid. "It will aid in your healing process."

"Thanks, but the doctor already gave me stuff for that," Merrick reminded her.

"This will help more," she said. "Also, I have been sent to stay with you."

"Oh, no," Merrick said firmly, belatedly noticing the small bag slung over her shoulder and the bedroll bandoleered across her back. "No, no. This place is barely big enough—" He raised his voice. "This place is barely big enough for me," he shouted out into the corridor as he returned to the doorway. [This woman, she cannot—]

He broke off as the door slammed shut in his face.

For a moment he glared at the dull metal, wondering briefly how long it would take to slag the lock with his antiarmor laser. Unfortunately, there was no point in trying. If he wrecked this cell, they'd just find somewhere else to move him.

Or to move
them.

Slowly, he turned around. Anya was standing quietly by the bed, apparently waiting for orders. "So what now?" Merrick asked, for lack of anything better to say.

"You should take a few drops of the medicine," she said, again holding up the vial. "It will aid in—"

"In the healing process," Merrick cut her off. "Yes, I remember. I meant after that."

"I have been sent to stay here," Anya repeated. "I have been given to you, to serve you however you choose."

The obvious method by which a young woman could serve a young man flashed into Merrick's mind. Ruthlessly, he forced it back, feeling an unpleasant rush of heat in his cheeks. Getting involved in the middle of a war with someone—
anyone
—would be bad enough. But the absolute worst thing he could do would be to let himself get entangled with someone who was under Troft control. The minute he let that happen, they would have a lever they could use against him however they chose.

"Not much call for servants in a prison cell," he told her, trying to keep his voice light. "I could use a snack, though. Any chance they'll let you out to go get me something?"

"I will ask." Lowering her bag to the floor, she walked toward him. He stepped to the side out of her way and watched as she rapped lightly on the door. She called out, again using the strange cattertalk dialect she'd used earlier. This time, though, Merrick was able to pick out the words
master
and
food.
Maybe a little practice was all he needed to learn how to understand it.

There was no response to her question. She knocked twice more, repeating the message each time, and then turned to Merrick. "They do not seem willing to grant your request," she said.

"I'm not surprised," Merrick said. Bracing himself, he stepped up to her and held out his hand. "Your bedroll, please."

Silently, she slid it off her shoulder and handed it to him. "You can have the bed," he told her, moving to the narrow space at the foot of the bed and fumbling with the bedroll's fasteners. Like Anya herself, the clasps weren't quite like anything he'd ever seen before. "I'll sleep over here."

"Please," she said, crossing to him and taking the bedroll back. With three casually deft flicks of her fingers she undid the fasteners and spread the bedroll on the floor. A small hand pump was fastened to one side, and he watched in fascination as she gave it a few quick squeezes, inflating the roll into something that looked at least marginally comfortable.

And then, before he could do or say anything, she lowered herself onto the roll, stretching out across it. "Is there anything more you wish before I sleep?" she asked, looking up at him.

"No, no," Merrick said, pointing to the bed. "You sleep
there. I
sleep here."