CHAPTER THREE
They were ten minutes from Qasama when Dr. Glas Croi, who’d hardly showed his face since the departure from Caelian, finally appeared in the dining area where Paul, his wife and son, and Carsh Zoshak were finishing up their lunch.
Paul’s leg had been feeling better that morning, enough so that he’d taken only half of his prescribed painkiller dosage. He felt well enough, in fact, that Croi actually looked worse than Paul felt.
Jin noticed it, too. “Dr. Croi,” she said, gesturing him toward the empty seat beside Lorne. “Are you all right?”
“What?” Croi asked, blinking like someone still trying to pry sleep-goo out of his eyes. “Oh. Hello, Cobra Broom.” He frowned. “I guess that’s Cobra Brooms all around, isn’t it?”
“Except for me,” Zoshak said, lifting his hand a few centimeters. “Though perhaps someday soon I shall be Cobra Zoshak.”
It seemed to Paul that Croi’s jaw tightened slightly. “Yes. Perhaps.”
Lorne had picked up on it, too. “Something wrong?” he asked.
Furtively, Croi’s eyes flicked to Zoshak, flicked away again. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I hope not.”
Lorne glanced at his father. “Meaning?”
Croi’s jaw tightened again. “It’s just that Isis was never meant to be taken off Aventine,” he said reluctantly. “It was certainly never meant to be a secret installation.”
“We could throw a blanket over it,” Lorne suggested.
“This isn’t a joke,” Croi bit out, glaring at him. “It turns out there’s a substantial and highly distinctive radio leakage signal that comes from the assembly coordination computer.”
Paul felt Jin stir in the chair beside him. “Distinctive how?” she asked.
“Distinctive enough to show it’s coming from a manufacturing computer,” Croi said.
“Surely there are other manufacturing computers on Qasama,” Paul said, frowning. His wife’s reaction had been small, but still stronger than it should have been.
“You’re missing the point,” Jin said. “The Trofts monitor all radio usage here. Their antipersonnel missiles automatically target any transmissions within range.”
“We believe they also had some of their shipboard missiles programmed for larger-scale attacks,” Zoshak said. “Jin Moreau is right, Dr. Croi. Any radio signal on Qasama, distinctive or otherwise, will be an invitation to death.”
“So we’ll just have to make sure it’s well shielded,” Paul said, a lump forming in his throat. No wonder Jin had reacted to Croi’s news. Lugging Isis all the way here just to have it blown up would pretty much end it for all of them. “How do we do that?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Croi said heavily. “And the answer is, I don’t know.” He waved a hand vaguely aft. “Ingidi-inhiliziyo and I have spent the past five days working on it. The problem we keep coming up with is that even if we shield the main computer, there’s still leakage around the cable connections and from the intersect planes. I have a bad feeling that if the invaders return before we’ve finished equipping the new Cobras we’re going to have serious trouble on our hands.”
“I see,” Jin said. She turned to Zoshak. “Djinni Zoshak? May I?”
Paul looked at the young Qasaman warrior. His expression was tight, but he nodded. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “I think it acceptable that you tell them.”
“Perhaps we should consult Ifrit Akim first,” Jin suggested.
“No need,” Zoshak said, more firmly. “We’re allies now.” He gestured. “Go ahead.”
Jin nodded and looked back at Croi. “There shouldn’t be any problem with leakage,” she said. “The Qasamans have underground chambers deep beneath their cities. Between the steel, ceramic, and native rock, there should be enough material to block any signals from getting out.”
“Really,” Croi said, his voice a mixture of relief and chagrin. “You couldn’t have told me all this five days ago?”
“I didn’t know what you were working on,” Jin reminded him. “Besides, the subcities are as much a military secret as Isis.”
Croi took a deep breath. “Yes, of course. My apologies.”
There was a ping from the intercom system. [Jasmine Jin Moreau Broom, she will come immediately to the bridge,] a tight Troft voice called.
Jin and Paul exchanged looks. “That doesn’t sound good,” Paul said as Jin got to her feet.
“No, it didn’t,” Jin agreed. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“If you think you’re going anywhere without us, you’re nuts,” Lorne said, tapping Zoshak’s arm and standing up. He looked at Croi and crooked a finger. “You, too, Doc—come on.”
“But they only asked for her,” Croi objected.
“I must have heard it wrong.” Lorne looked at Paul. “You staying here?”
“Not a chance,” Paul said firmly, getting a grip on the arms of his chair and using his arm servos to lever himself upright. “Go—I’m right behind you.”
Jin had already disappeared through the forward door, with Zoshak close behind her. Lorne looked in that direction, then turned and rounded the table to his father’s side. “I said you should go ahead,” Paul repeated, trying to fend him off.
“I must have heard that wrong, too,” Lorne said. He evaded his father’s brushing movements with ease and moved up beside him, wrapping his arm around the older man’s waist. Paul tried to push the arm away, but Lorne had locked the servos and the arm wasn’t going anywhere. “Just relax and let me take the weight.”
“I thought we taught you to respect your elders’ wishes,” Paul grumbled as they headed toward the door. Still, he had to admit this was a lot easier than trying to limp around on his own.
“Stop having silly wishes and I will,” Lorne said. “Easy now, and watch the door jamb.”
Jin and Zoshak were standing behind the helm console when Paul and Lorne reached the bridge. Between them, Paul could see the Troft at the helm, and the fluttering arch currently being formed by his upper-arm radiator membranes. Something was wrong, all right. “What have we got?” he asked, glancing around at the other Trofts at their stations. All of them were showing the same degree of stress as the helmsman.
[The Drim’hco’plai invaders, they have returned,] a Troft voice came from the side of the room.
Paul looked toward the voice. The ship’s master, Ingidi-inhiliziyo—Warrior to all the humans aboard except Croi, who could actually pronounce the alien’s name—was standing by the communications board, resplendent in the red heir-sash that identified him as the second in line to the Tlos’khin’fahi demesne-lord. Unlike the other Trofts on the bridge, his radiator membranes weren’t fluttering, but were barely extended from his arms.
But then, a Troft of his rank and position was supposed to stay calmer than his crew. “How seriously have they returned?” Paul asked.
[A siege, they have mounted one at all Qasaman cities.] Warrior said. [Our presence, they demand an explanation of it.]
A hollow feeling formed at the pit of Paul’s stomach. He’d assumed the invaders would run home with their tails tucked, where they would regroup, restrategize, and collect fresh ships and soldiers before taking another crack at the Qasamans.
Yet here they were, already well into a fresh campaign. Clearly, they were more determined than he’d realized.
And with that, everything he and Jin and the others had discussed and thought about and planned over the past five days was gone. With the invaders already back and settled into siege mode, there was no way Ingidi-inhiliziyo could get his ship close enough to Sollas to offload the Isis equipment and hide it in the depths of the hidden subcity.
That was bad enough. But for Paul and Jin personally, it was even worse.
Because the Qasamans’ best medical facilities were in the cities. A siege of those cities meant that Paul’s ravaged leg would not, in fact, be healed. Not any time soon.
Nor would the tumor that was slowly killing his beloved wife be removed.
“Maybe there’s still a way,” Lorne murmured hesitantly from his side. “It’s possible Warrior can play the demesne-heir card and get us permission to land at least somewhere near Sollas. If the subcity extends outside the city wall, maybe we can get some of Isis into it without the invaders noticing.”
[The cities, permission to land there we may not have,] Warrior said. [Such instruction, it has already been achieved.]
“But you’re a demesne heir,” Lorne pressed. “Can’t you do something?”
“It would serve no purpose for us to land there, Lorne Moreau,” Zoshak said quietly, his eyes on one of the helm displays. “Sollas is gone.”
Jin caught her breath. “What?”
[The truth, show it to them,] Warrior ordered.
[The order, I obey it.] The helm officer touched a switch, and a section of the wraparound display changed from a view of the stars around the ship to a close-up of the planet ahead.
Paul felt his lips curl back from his teeth. Zoshak was exaggerating, but not by much. Probably a third of the city was still there, mostly the southern and eastern sections, snugged up inside their outer wall.
But the northern third was completely gone. The buildings there had been turned to rubble, the ground beneath them gouged out at least three or four stories deep. The third of the city in the middle was in transition, many of the buildings already down and the excavation below them just starting.
“They’re trying to destroy the subcity,” Jin murmured. “That’s where their defeat came from the last time. They want to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
“Terrific,” Croi said grimly. “What do we do now?”
“We figure out something else,” Lorne told him. “That’s a big planet down there. There has to be some other place you can set up shop.”
Croi snorted. “Where? We need power, Cobra Broom, power and buildings and people. We can’t just drop Isis in the middle of nowhere.”
Paul looked at Jin, a sudden thought stirring inside him. A bit of family history his wife and son seemed to have forgotten… “How many buildings would you need?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Croi said, turning puzzled eyes on him. “Someplace to set up the Isis machinery, plus a prep area, plus a post-operative recovery area. Three at least, or I suppose one really big building might do.”
“You have an idea?” Lorne asked.
“I think so,” Paul told him. “Remember, Jin, on your first visit to Qasama you saw a mine that Daulo Sammon’s family was operating inside Milika. Do you know if it’s still there?”
“No, I don’t.” She looked at Zoshak. “Carsh Zoshak?”
“Yes, it’s there,” the Qasaman said, his tone oddly hesitant. “It may work.”
“Except…?” Lorne prompted.
Zoshak’s lip twitched. “The people there are villagers,” he said reluctantly. “Not…”
“Not city dwellers?” Jin asked.
Zoshak’s lip twitched again. “Not soldiers,” he said. “It may be difficult to find the proper subjects for the Isis transformation.”
Paul looked at Jin. Over the years she’d talked about the political and philosophical divide between the Qasaman cities and villages, those conversations usually in the context of some policy the government geniuses at Dome were trying to inflict on Aventine’s own rural and expansion regions.
She’d always hoped the antagonism would fade with time. Apparently, it hadn’t.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find the right people,” he told Zoshak. “I doubt the villagers are any less patriotic than the city dwellers. There’ll be plenty of volunteers.”
“Perhaps we should call Siraj Akim,” Jin suggested. “He’s the senior here. He might have other ideas.”
[A response, the invaders await it,] Warrior spoke up. [Instruction, I await it.]
Zoshak took a deep breath. “Ifrit Akim’s presence is not required,” he said. “The idea is sound. We’ll use it.”
He turned to Warrior. “We go southwest of Sollas approximately twelve hundred kilometers,” he said. “Follow the Great Arc to Azras. Milika is in the forest approximately thirty kilometers northwest of Azras.”
“You could tell them you’re here looking for plants with possible pharmaceutical value,” Jin suggested.
“Isn’t that the story you spun the Trofts at Caelian?” Lorne asked. “I seem to remember it not working out so great.”
[A reason, it is still a logical one,] Warrior assured him, gesturing to one of the other Trofts. [The response, you will give it.]
[The order, I obey it.]
The Troft murmured the story into his microphone, and for a moment the bridge was silent. Paul gazed at the image of the ruined city far below, feeling his leg throbbing with fatigue and sympathetic pain. How many Qasamans, he wondered, had been killed in the invaders’ demolition? Was the destruction a genuine and reasoned reaction to the Qasamans’ hidden subcity arsenal, and a military desire to eliminate that threat? Or was it driven by a desire for revenge over the invaders’ earlier defeat?
The Troft at the radio had made his request, and the conversation had now switched over to some kind of oddly poetic give-and-take bargaining or posturing that Paul had never heard before between Trofts. He continued to study the image of the devastated Qasaman capital, his mind drifting away from the conversation.
Three months. That was what the Qasaman doctors had told Jin. Three months to get that tumor out of her brain before it killed her.
She’d accepted that diagnosis calmly, reminding Paul whenever he brought up the subject that if they couldn’t beat back the invaders within that timeframe that they weren’t likely to ever do so. Plenty of time, she continually reassured him, for her to go under the knife and be healed.
Only what if the doctors had been wrong? What if it was only two months, or one and a half? She’d already used up two weeks of that time flying from Qasama to Aventine to Caelian and now back to Qasama. What if there was only a single month left?
Even worse, what if the doctors were right about three months before the tumor killed her, but that there was only a month or two before the point of no return on an operation? Jin had always had a bad tendency to run medical things right up to the last minute. What if she pushed this one to the edge, only to discover that the edge had already been crossed?
[Warrior, an infrared scan of the ships, may I have it?] Lorne asked suddenly.
[The purpose of a scan, what is it?] Warrior asked.
[The invaders’ ships, I wish to know if they have been recently moved,] Lorne said. [Future movement, I wish to estimate its likelihood.]
With an effort, Paul dragged his attention back from a bleak future to the equally bleak present. “What for?” he asked.
Lorne pointed to the display. “You see that warship on the far left? It can’t be more than fifty meters from the edge of the forest. Once we have a few more Cobras, I’m thinking we could sneak up or even rush it, take over, then use its lasers and missiles to blast all the others. But that only works if it’s likely to stay put for the next few weeks.”
“Hence, the IR scan,” Paul said, nodding. “You want to see how cold the grav lifts and drive are.”
Lorne nodded back. “Exactly.”
[The floatators and drives, they are inactive and cold,] Warrior said. [But the plan, it will not succeed.]
“Sure it will,” Lorne said. “All we have to do is—”
[The plan, why will it not work?] Paul asked.
[Encrypted ally-identification systems, all Trof’te warships have them,] Warrior explained.
“Yeah, of course they do,” Lorne said sourly. “Damn.”
“What’s an ally-identification system?” Croi asked.
“Probably like an IFF,” Paul told him. “That’s short for Identify Friend or Foe. It’s a set of transponders designed to keep an army’s warships from accidentally firing on each other.”
“You sure they actually have something like that?” Lorne asked. “You saw how easily we got the armored trucks to fire on their ships on Caelian.”
[The ally-identification system, ground vehicles do not have it,] Warrior said. [The risk of enemy capture and deciphering, it is too great. But the ally-identification system, all air combat vehicles and sensor drones will carry it.]
[Certainty, you have it?] Lorne persisted.
[Certainty, I have it,] Warrior said, starting to sound annoyed. [The ally-identification system, I saw it when Harli Uy and I toured the Drim’hco’plai warship.]
“Give it a rest, Lorne,” Paul advised. “I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.”
“Fine,” Lorne growled. “It still might be worth taking that ship.”
“Let’s get safely down first,” Paul said. “Then we can discuss strategy.”
There was a ping from one of the consoles, and cattertalk script appeared on the display. [Official clearance, we have been given it,] Warrior announced.
“We’re going to Milika?” Paul asked him.
“We’re going close to Milika,” Lorne said, giving his father an odd look. “He already said that.”
“Oh,” Paul said with a flush of embarrassment. That must have happened while he was contemplating his and his wife’s medical situations. “Yes. Right.”
“You okay?” Lorne asked, still giving him that look.
“Of course,” Paul told him. “I got distracted, that’s all. How close—?”
“Is your leg hurting?” Jin put in. “Maybe you should go lie down.”
“I said I just got distracted,” Paul said, more firmly this time. “Is there a problem with Milika?”
[A problem, it has not been specified,] Warrior said. [The village, we must not approach it.]
“Which I just said sounds a little ominous,” Lorne said, “and asked if there was any way to get a look at the place.”
[The attempt, we will make it.] Warrior gestured to one of the other Trofts, and the image of Sollas suddenly disappeared into a dizzying flurry of forest. Hastily, Paul averted his eyes as a surge of vertigo threatened to overwhelm him. [The added distance, it may make seeing difficult,] Warrior added. Out of the corner of his eye Paul saw the image steady…
“No,” Jin breathed.
Paul snapped his eyes back to the display. For that first second all he saw was a hazy image of tangled Qasaman forest with an equally hazy walled village in the center.
And then, belatedly, he spotted what had sparked his wife’s reaction. There was a Troft warship squatting in the middle of the road outside the main gate, its stubby weapon-laden wings poised like hawk talons over the village.
For a long moment no one spoke. Then, Croi stirred. “So that’s it,” he said, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “We have a traitor aboard.”
Warrior’s radiator membranes fluttered. [Your words, explain them.]
“Isn’t it obvious?” Croi snarled. “Someone leaked the news that we were going to Milika.” He turned and looked pointedly at Zoshak. “Someone who knew how to privately contact the invaders.”
“You mean one of the people who helped us wreck one Troft warship on Caelian and capture the other one?” Lorne asked scornfully.
“If we hadn’t won on Caelian we wouldn’t have brought Isis to Qasama, would we?” Croi countered.
“They didn’t know about Isis until after we won the battle,” Lorne said.
“So they say.” Croi’s eyes narrowed. “So you say. You whose family is awfully cozy with the Qasamans.”
“Enough,” Paul put in. “With all due respect, Dr. Croi, you’re being an idiot. Look at the infrared display—that ship’s gravs are stone-cold. It’s been sitting there for hours.”
Still glowering, Croi looked at the sensor control board. Warrior pointed silently to the proper display, and there was another moment of silence. “Fine,” Croi growled, turning away again. “Whatever. In that case, what in hell are they doing there?”
“It’s Merrick,” Jin said, her voice so quiet Paul barely heard her. “He’s there.”
“You sure?” Lorne asked, frowning up at the display. “How do you know?”
“I just do,” Jin said, her voice filling with dread. “It’s the logical place for Moffren Omnathi to send him for his convalescence. Somehow, the Trofts found out he was there.” She exhaled in a painful-sounding huff. “And to get him…they’re going to destroy Milika.”
“No,” Paul said as firmly as he could with his own heart suddenly racing. She was probably right about Merrick being there. With Jin having left, he was the only Cobra on Qasama, and the invaders would be seriously motivated to find and neutralize him.
But there was still a ray of hope that Jin apparently hadn’t yet grasped. “I just said they’ve been there for hours,” he reminded her. “If they were going to destroy the village, they would surely already have started.”
“He’s right,” Zoshak said. “We still have time.”
“Time for what?” Croi asked glumly. “Milika was our last chance. Now it’s gone.”
“Not for long,” Zoshak said evenly. “First, we unload and secure Isis. Then we—”
“Secure it? Croi cut him off. “Secure it where? In the middle of the forest?”
“Yes.” Zoshak turned to Warrior. “Thirty kilometers west and south of the village is a clearing. It should be large enough for you to land. Can you take us there?”
Warrior’s arm membranes fluttered. [The clearing, we are familiar with it.]
“Wait a second,” Croi objected. “I was joking.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Zoshak assured him. “Thirty years ago, after Jin Moreau’s first visit to Qasama, the Shahni calculated that that clearing was where her team had intended to land.”
“Except that we were shot down,” Jin murmured. “But you’re right, that was our planned drop zone.”
“And so the Shahni prepared for the next expected incursion,” Zoshak said. “There’s a military watch station buried beneath the forest floor in sight of the clearing.”
“It’s buried?” Croi said, a fresh hope stirring in his voice. “How deep?”
“Not deeply enough, I’m afraid,” Zoshak told him. “Besides which, it’s almost certainly too small, and the generators are unlikely to still be functional. The station was abandoned over ten years ago.”
“But it should be a good place to stash the gear while we find out what’s going on in Milika,” Paul said. “Warrior?”
[Your analysis, I agree with it.] Warrior gestured to the helm. [The clearing, we will go there.]
[The order, I obey it,] the other Troft said.
Lorne took a step closer to his father. “Okay, we stash the gear,” he said quietly. “But then what? If they’ve really got Merrick pinned down in there—and if they know they’ve got him pinned—they aren’t going to be inclined to just give up and go away.”
“Do not fear, Lorne Moreau,” Zoshak said, a dark edge to his voice. “We’ve taken down Troft warships before. If necessary, we can do it again.”
Paul felt a fresh throbbing in his injured leg. They’d taken down Troft warships on Caelian, all right. Two of them, in fact.
But it had taken nearly the planet’s entire contingent of Cobras to do it. And even then, victory had come at a terrible cost.
But Zoshak was right. That was Paul’s son down there in danger. Whatever it took, they would get him out.