Cobra Gamble (8 page)

"We won't," Paul promised. "And you'll speak to your demesne-lord about sending ships back to Caelian and taking off the Drim prisoners?"

[The request, I will make it,] Warrior said. [Good fortune, I wish it for you.]

Ten minutes later, with the Cobras and Djinn gathered together at the clearing's edge, the demesne ship lifted on its gravs and rose swiftly into the darkening sky. "And with that," Paul murmured, "we're back where we started: humanity standing alone against the Trofts."

"Large bunches of Trofts, from the sound of it," Lorne said sourly. "Why did you cut me off back there? There have to be some interesting politics going on between the different groups of invaders. We might have gotten Warrior to tell us more about it."

"If he knew more of the situation, would he not have spoken of it in more detail during the voyage?" Siraj asked.

"Not necessarily," Lorne said. "We already know Warrior has at least one agenda of his own going, namely for us to kick the invaders hard enough that the Tlossies and some of the other demesnes can come in and hopefully stare them down. Warrior may have other cards he's not showing."

"In which case, more questioning wouldn't have gotten us anywhere anyway," Paul said. "More importantly. Warrior's new two-hour limit was about up. He had to get moving before the invaders—all of them—decided to come out here and shoo him off Qasama."

"I suppose," Lorne conceded reluctantly. "So what now? We head to Milika and find out what's going on?"

"Two of us will, anyway," Everette Beach, one of the two Caelian Cobras, put in. "Either Wendell or me to drive the spooker and Siraj, Zoshak, or Khatir along as native guide."

Jin looked up at the sky. No more than another hour until nightfall, she estimated. Predator-wise, nighttime travel on Qasama was more dangerous than doing so in the daytime, though it wasn't nearly as bad as it once was. "Not much time left before dark," she warned.

"Which will be perfect," Siraj said. "By the time we reach Milika the larger nocturnal predators will be out and about, which will help diffuse the attention of the invaders' infrared scans."

"So let's make it a party of four," Lorne suggested. "We've got two spookers, and two of you to drive them. That way I can go, too."

"No," Paul said before Beach could answer. "Let's keep it at two."

"But—" Lorne began.

"That leaves one spooker here in case there's an emergency," his father continued calmly. "Besides, it's only an assumption that the invaders won't wonder what Warrior and the Tlossies wanted out here. We need to keep as much of a force here as possible in case someone decides to come out and take a look."

"Agreed," Beach said before Lorne could say anything else. "You care which of us goes?"

"Not really," Paul said. "Jin? You have a preference?"

Jin eyed the two Caelians. Everette Beach was a big man, a couple of years younger than her own fifty-two, with a lot of gray sprinkling his brown hair and a seemingly permanent half-grin on his face. Wendell McCollom, who also happened to be Jennifer's husband, was even bigger, though he usually maintained a more serious air than his colleague. Possibly something that had rubbed off from his wife, who was apparently the closest thing Caelian had to an expert on matters Qasaman and Troft. Both men, Jin suspected, had probably been formidable fighters in their youthful days, even before they became Cobras. "Everette will go," she decided. "I'm also thinking Carsh Zoshak should be the one to accompany him. He's been inside Milika, and therefore knows both the area and the village layout."

"Your reasoning is sound," Siraj said, nodding. "Djinni Zoshak? Retrieve your outer clothing and two survival bags and meet Cobra Beach at the spookers."

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in Qasaman clothing and equipped with survival bags, the two men zoomed out of the clearing on their battered grav-lift cycle and disappeared into the forest.

"I'll take the first watch," Wendell volunteered. "The rest of you can head downstairs and get something to eat."

"I should probably stay with you," Jin offered. "I know the local predators. You don't."

"Don't worry about it," Wendell assured her. "Anything with teeth or claws gets too close, I'll just kill it. Once I've got a collection, you can come and tell me which is which."

Jin grimaced. Still, the razorarms were the most dangerous predators out here, and with mojos riding herd on them they should steer clear of human scent. "Just don't let them get too close," she warned. "And use your sonic whenever possible. Laser shots will start being more and more visible as the sun goes down."

"Thank you; I
had
figured that one out," Wendell said dryly. "One of you can relieve me in a couple of hours. Oh, and make sure Jennifer eats too, will you? She sometimes gets so busy she forgets."

"We'll force-feed her if we have to," Paul promised. "See you in two hours."

* * *

Jin, Lorne, and Wendell had unanimously decided that Paul and his damaged leg weren't fit to stand guard. They had thus taken it with varying degrees of consternation when he calmly pulled rank as senior Cobra present and added himself to the sentry rotation anyway.

He was midway through the third watch shift, shivering with the unexpected nighttime chill and wondering whether perhaps he should have just let the others give him a night off, when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.

He had levered himself into an upright position and had his thumbs resting lightly on the triggers of his fingertip lasers when the spooker floated into view between the trees and coasted to a haft.

"Over here," Paul called softly as Zoshak and Beach started to dismount. Beach nodded and kicked the spooker forward, crossing the clearing and bringing the grav-lift cycle to a second halt beside Paul. "I wasn't expecting you back until morning," Paul said, notching up his light-amps. There was a hard set to both men's faces. "Do they have Milika blocked off?"

"No, we reached the village just fine," Beach said grimly. "We also heard the Trofts' demands, which they seem to be blasting over a loudspeaker once an hour."

"They want your son, Paul Broom," Zoshak said quietly. "He's to surrender himself to them by dawn or they'll begin destroying the village."

"I see," Paul said, dimly surprised at how calm he sounded. Jin had called it, ah right. The Trofts had come to Milika for the express purpose of smoking Merrick out.

And now his earnest, conscientious son was being forced into the most horrible choice any human being could ever face: whether or not to offer himself in exchange for the lives of innocent people.

"The villagers are Qasamans, Cobra Broom, and they're at war," Zoshak said. "They know the risks and the sacrifices required. They won't give him up."

"Are you sure about that?" Paul countered, trying hard to think. What was Merrick going to do? What
could
he do? "Remember, Merrick's a demon warrior. Everyone in Milika probably grew up hating them."

"Perhaps," Zoshak said. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "But by now they surely hate the invaders far more."

"Don't forget that ship's been sitting there for hours," Beach reminded him. "I think Zoshak's right—if they were going to turn him over to the Trofts, they'd have done it by now."

Except that so far all the Trofts were doing was threatening, and threats by themselves were pretty easy to stand up to. Would that shoulder-to-shoulder human solidarity survive mass death and destruction when the deadline passed and the threats turned into violent action?

And even if the village didn't hand him over, what then? Would they all fight to the death as Milika was leveled around them?

And if
that
happened, what would happen to the mine where Dr. Croi was hoping to set up his Cobra factory?

Merrick was Paul's son, and dearer to him than his own life. But there were bigger things at stake here. If it cost Merrick's life to get the Trofts to leave Milika, that might very well be what he would have to do. Unless...

"I need to talk to him," Paul said. "Can you get me there?"

"It won't be comfortable," Beach warned, eying Paul's bandaged leg. "And I doubt we can get you inside. The ship's sitting in front of the gate, and the entire top of the wall is within their view."

"I just need to get close enough to see and be seen," Paul said. "If I can get his attention we can use Dida code to communicate."

"Okay," Beach said, sounding doubtful. "Is Wendell in the bunker?"

"Why?"

Beach frowned slightly. "Because we're going to need the second spooker and someone to drive it," he said.

"I'll go get him," Zoshak volunteered, hopping off the spooker.

"That's all right," Paul said quickly. "Don't wake him. We can manage with one."

"How you figure that?" Beach asked, his frown deepening. "You and Zoshak going to ride double?"

"We leave Djinni Zoshak here and you take me," Paul said. "I assume your stabilization computer's got an inertial track memory, so we should be able to find Milika again without him."

"Or you and I could go alone," Zoshak offered. Like Beach, there was something in the Qasamans voice that indicated he'd figured out something was going on, even if he didn't yet know what that something was. "I'm sure I could do an adequate job of driving the vehicle."

"And if he can't, I can," Paul said. "I've driven regular grav-lift cycles before. Whatever extra juice spookers have, I can handle it."

"Uh-huh." Deliberately, Beach folded his arms across his chest. "Okay, let's have it."

"Have what?" Paul asked.

"Whatever it is you're cooking up," Beach said flatly. "Come on, give."

"I agree," Zoshak seconded.

Paul sighed. "We need to get Isis into Milika," he said. "We can't do that while the Trofts are there. They aren't leaving without a Cobra." He braced himself. "So we'll give them one."

Beach's eyes narrowed. "You?"

"Me," Paul confirmed.

Beach looked at Zoshak, back at Paul. "And how exactly do you plan to explain to the Trofts how a young, fit Cobra inside the Milika wall managed to transmogrify himself into an older, half-crippled Cobra
outside
the wall?"

"I don't know yet," Paul said. "And I won't until I talk to Merrick and find out what exactly the Trofts know." He gestured. "So am I getting on that spooker with you? Or to I have to knock you off it and head out on my own?"

"I'd like to see you try," Beach said absently, gazing hard into Paul's face. "Okay, I'll go this far. I'll take you to Milika, but I want a decent plan on the table before you do anything. There's no point in losing both you
and
Merrick to the Trofts. And I still think I should wake Wendell and make this a foursome."

"There's no time," Paul said. "Besides, if we wake him, we'll probably also wake Jin and Lorne."

"Which we probably should," Beach pointed out. "They deserve to know what's going on."

"They'll find out soon enough," Paul said. "And if they find out now, they'll want to argue about it. As I said, we haven't got time."

"You should at least say good-bye," Beach persisted.

"You don't understand," Zoshak asked quietly. "The choice we would set before Jin Moreau would be that of giving the life of her husband or the life of her son. Do you really wish to force that decision upon her?"

Beach's lip twitched. "Yeah, I see your point," he conceded. "Fine. Go ahead and hop on." He shook his head. "Though it occurs to me that if I'm going to have to face her with this after it's over, maybe
I
should be the one the Trofts take."

"Don't worry about it," Paul said as he maneuvered himself carefully onto the spooker. "With two of us against a Troft warship, there's a good chance we'll both be killed anyway."

"Yeah, that's looking on the bright side," Beach said dryly. "Zoshak, mind the store. Broom, you just focus on hanging on."

* * *

From the southern edge of Milika the booming translator voice drifted over the village with the same message it had been delivering since the warship first appeared outside the gate.

"To the
koubrah
-soldier of Milika: you will surrender to this vessel by sunrise. If you do not surrender, the village will be destroyed and the people within the wall will be killed."

Merrick listened as the message repeated the usual three times, then, the loudspeaker fell silent, and the normal forest noises once again began to drift across Milika.

"Only two and a half more hours before sunrise," Dr. Krites commented from Fadil's bedside.

"Yes, I know," Merrick said. Either Krites or Fadil, before the latter had fallen asleep, had made sure to remind him of the approaching deadline roughly every hour since he'd sought refuge and counsel here a little after midnight.

"Knowledge is silver," Krites said tartly. "Wisdom is gold. What do you plan to do?"

Merrick stared at the darkened buildings and homes stretched out beneath the window. It was a question he'd been struggling with ever since the ship had first appeared outside Milika at yesterday's dawn.

On one hand, the answer was simple. He couldn't just sit here while the Trofts destroyed the village, or even started that process. With the first actual laser blast or missile he would have no choice but to leave the Sammon house and march toward the warship with his hands held high in surrender. Certainly that was the reaction the Trofts were counting on.

But the more he dug below the surface of that supposedly simple answer, the more he realized things weren't nearly that straightforward. If the Trofts wanted to kill him, then they would kill him, and there was little Merrick could do except hope that his death would buy Milika a release from this siege.

But what if the Trofts wanted to take him alive? As the hours shrank toward the deadline, that possibility seemed more and more likely. Especially after Fadil had pointed out that the aliens could have forced Merrick's death long ago by simply opening fire on the village and forcing him into a suicidal counterattack.