CHAPTER FIVE
Jin had wanted Warrior to fly the demesne ship over Milika as they headed out into the forest, arguing that they needed to get a better look at what the Trofts were doing in and around the village.
But Siraj had argued that such a move might be seen as provocative or at least suspicious, and that the last thing they could afford was to spark a reaction from one of the invaders’ warships. Warrior had agreed, and had ordered his pilot to give Milika a casual but wide berth as they headed to the drop point.
From Zoshak’s description of the clearing, and Warrior’s response to that description, Jin had already concluded that it was the same place where she and Merrick had been dropped on their clandestine arrival two and a half weeks ago. That conclusion turned out to be correct. The demesne ship was considerably larger than the freighter she and Merrick had traveled in, but Warrior’s pilot managed to squeeze it into the available space with only a single stand of crushed bushes at one end.
Having seen first-hand the extensive subcity the Qasamans had created beneath Sollas, Jin had expected Zoshak’s watch station to be a similarly extensive system of rooms and corridors and defenses, though of course on a much smaller scale. It was a slight disappointment to find that the station consisted of a single large room with living facilities at one end, an empty weapons rack at the other, and a set of blank monitors in the center.
But of course, the station was thirty years old. The Qasamans had probably been new at this whole rabbit burrow thing back then.
The watch station entrance was a simple trapdoor leading to a narrow fold-down stairway, the station itself wasn’t exactly spacious, and the Isis gear consisted of a hundred good-sized crates. But Jennifer McCollom, the amateur linguist that Harli Uy had sent along with the expedition, turned out to be a master of packing. With her diminutive frame darting around everywhere, directing the Cobras and Djinn as she just barely managed not to get trampled underfoot, they were able to fit everything inside.
And then, to Jin’s surprise and dismay, Warrior announced it was time for him to leave.
[Two hours on Qasama, the Tua’lanek’zia demesne has limited our stay,] he explained as his crew resealed the ship’s cargo compartments. [Our departure, we must take it immediately.]
“I don’t remember hearing anything about a time limit,” Lorne said. His tone was respectful enough, but Jin could hear the suspicion lurking behind the words.
[The limit, it was not imposed by the Balin’ckha’spmi demesne upon our arrival,] Warrior explained. [The limit, it was given later. The unloading, you were performing it at the time.]
“Wait a second,” Lorne said, frowning. “You just said it was the Balin demesne who we talked to, and that the Tua demesne is kicking you out. But on our way in you said it was Drim invaders who’d returned. Just how many demesnes have we got on Qasama, anyway?”
[Three demesnes at the least, they are represented here,] Warrior said. [The demesne that rules, its identity I cannot say.]
“But you must have some idea who’s—” Lorne began.
“However the order came, you’d better obey it before your time limit runs out,” Paul interrupted, shifting the arm he had resting for support on Jin’s shoulder. “Thank you for getting us here.”
[Your future, it lies now in your own hands.] Warrior’s arm membranes fluttered. [That future, do not allow it to slip and fall to destruction.]
“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—any 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 halt.
“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 tomorrow or they’ll begin destroying the village.”
“I see,” Paul said, dimly surprised at how calm he sounded. Jin had called it, all 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 Qasaman’s 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 to into a suicidal counterattack.
So what did the Trofts want him for? There was only one reason Merrick had been able to come up with, and the very thought of it made his skin crawl.
The invaders had been defeated once by a coalition consisting of hundreds of Qasaman Djinn and two Aventinian Cobras. They’d presumably captured enough Djinn combat suits along the way to know how they operated, and to counter future attacks.
But that was the Djinn. So far, the Trofts hadn’t been able to crack the full range of Cobra weapons and capabilities. Remedying that deficiency was very likely the goal of this current operation.
They were hoping to take Merrick so that they could dissect him. Possibly while he was still alive.
Merrick couldn’t let them to that, of course. Personal dread aside, he had no intention of giving the invaders a head start in fighting whatever troops his mother succeeded in bringing back.
Fortunately—or as fortunately as it got—he had ultimate veto over that particular scenario. Once the warship opened fire on Milika he could ensure that he ended up in the midst of their attack. With his speed, strength, and reflexes, he should be able to arrange a quick and mostly painless death for himself.
And yet…
He raised his eyes from the darkened village to the stars twinkling against the cloudless sky. Merrick’s great-grandfather Jonny Moreau had also been taken alive during his war against the Trofts a century ago. He, too, had realized that the enemy planned to use him to glean information about Cobra abilities and equipment.
But instead of simply sacrificing himself to keep that from happening, Jonny had found a way to turn his captors’ plan against them.
Shouldn’t Merrick at least try to find a similar solution before he gave up?
There was an urgent knock on the door. “Enter,” Krites called softly.
The door swung open to reveal one of the Sammon family servants. “Your pardon,” the man panted, glancing at Fadil’s closed eyes and then turning to Merrick. “I have an urgent message for Merrick Moreau. One of the wall guards has sighted a small light in the kundur trees to the east.”
Merrick frowned. And this had had to do with him how? “Okay,” he said cautiously. “And?”
“He speaks of the kundur grove to the east,” Fadil said. Merrick jumped—he’d thought Fadil was still asleep. “A light shining into Milika from there would be invisible to the invaders’ warship.”
“The light gives five short flashes, then a pause,” the servant added. “Then five more flashes, then another pause.”
Merrick caught his breath. That was Dida code. Five flashes—dit dit dit dit dit—was the signal for calling—anyone there?
His mother had returned. And she had indeed brought more Cobras with her.
“I need a spot where I can see the light,” he told the servant as he scrambled to his feet, a sudden surge of hope blasting away the fatigue hovering at the edges of his brain. “Some place where I also won’t be seen from the ship.”
“The meditation dome above the library should work,” Fadil said. “Sharmal will take you there.”
“Yes, Master Sammon,” the servant said. “If you’ll follow me, Merrick Moreau?”
Three minutes later, Merrick was in the dome, a small flashlight in hand, his light-amps at full power as he quickly but methodically scanned the area the servant had identified as the kundur tree grove.
There it was, back against one of the tree trunks, between two leafy branches where not even a glint of reflection would be visible to the warship’s cameras and sensors. Dit dit dit dit dit. Dit dit dit dit dit.
Merrick keyed his flashlight to touch mode and pointed it at the tree. Dit dit dah dit dit dah, he sent. Ready—proceed.
There was a short pause, and then the other light changed to a new pattern of flashes. Identify.
Merrick smiled tightly. Like there was anyone else on Qasama who knew Dida code. Merrick Moreau Broom, he tapped out. Identify.
Paul Broom.
Merrick’s smile vanished. His father? Here?
But that was impossible. Jin Moreau Broom had gone to Aventine, not Caelian. This had to be some kind of trick by the Trofts, perhaps something designed to flush him out of hiding and then keep him in one place long enough for them to sneak an assault team into the village to nail him.
But how could the invaders have learned Dida code?
Merrick cranked up his opticals to full power, trying to pierce the gloom and rustling leaves. But whoever was back there was too well concealed. All he could see was a shadowy, indistinct form that could be anyone.
Muttering a curse under his breath, he keyed his light again. Whatever was going on, he was not going to let his father’s name spook him. Prove it, he challenged.
You’re an excellent cook, the reply came. Especially when mixing drogfowl cacciatore with conversations of treason. Situation?
Merrick felt some of the tension in his chest ease. Not only were his culinary skills his most closely guarded secret, but the figure behind the light out there had even described the meal the family had had the night this whole thing had first started. Impossible or not, that was definitely his father out there. Trofts demanding surrender by sunrise, he sent back. No clean exit available. Suggestions?
One hour; north wall, his father signaled. Use Sammon family mine explosives to create exit hole in base. Grav-lift cycle will be waiting beside wall; evasive ride into forest. When pursuit has been lost, go to Shaga.
Merrick nodded to himself. Shaga was the next village south along the road, about ten kilometers away. What about you?
I’ll leave the cycle by the wall and retreat to safety. Once the Trofts have left, I’ll travel to Shaga and rendezvous with you there.
Merrick pursed his lips. The plan was definitely on the dicey side, especially the dual questions of whether Fadil’s people could come up with enough explosives fast enough to make the required exit and what the villagers were going to say about having a section of their wall blown to gravel.
But it was probably the best plan they were going to come up with, given the time and resources they had available. Acknowledged, he sent reluctantly. One hour?
One hour, his father confirmed. There was just the slightest hesitation. Good luck, Merrick. I love you.
I love you too, Dad.
The other light flicked the close-off signal. Merrick sent the proper countersign, then headed down the meditation dome’s spiral stairway.
Time to see how fast Fadil could get his people moving.
Fadil’s eyes were closed as Merrick related the conversation and described what he and his father needed. The eyes remained closed after Merrick had finished, and Fadil himself remained silent long enough that Merrick wondered if he’d fallen asleep again.
He was just about to check when Fadil’s lips puckered. “No,” he said, finally opening his eyes.
Merrick stared at him, his heart sinking. After everything else they’d gone through, a flat refusal to help was the last response he’d expected. “Is it about the wall?” he asked. “Because if it is, I make a vow right now that I’ll come back to Milika personally and repair it.”
“It’s not the wall,” Fadil said, his voice thoughtful. “It’s the plan. There’s something wrong with the plan.”
Merrick looked at Krites, back again at Fadil. “I agree that it could be tricky to get the grav-lift cycle to the wall without the invaders seeing it,” he said. “But—”
“No, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Fadil said. “Not at the northern wall. There are several wooded approaches that would provide sufficient cover. Tell me, did your father explain why he wanted you to break through the wall?”
“I assume so that I can get out of Milika without getting vaporized,” Merrick said.
“Yet there are guards even now walking the top of the wall,” Fadil pointed out. “If you joined the patrol as one of them, you could simply drop through one of the many gaps in the wall’s upper extension. You’d be beyond easy reach of the invaders’ lasers before anyone aboard the warship could react to your action.”
Merrick felt a chill run up his back. Fadil was right. With razorarm attacks no longer a problem in the Qasaman forest, the metal mesh extension that had been long ago erected atop Milika’s wall had fallen into neglect and disrepair. Merrick had seen the gaps Fadil was talking about, including a couple in the vicinity where his father had called for the blast. “But if the explosion isn’t to get me out, what’s it for? A diversion?”
“Are you certain it was your father behind the signal light?” Krites asked.
“I am,” Merrick said firmly. “He knew things that only he would know. Including the code he used to speak to me.”
“Then the answer is clear,” Fadil said. “The explosion isn’t a diversion, nor is it intended to let you escape. Its purpose is to prevent your escape.”
Merrick blinked. “What?”
“Consider,” Fadil continued. “Where will you be when the explosion takes place? Somewhere under protection several meters away at the least. How long after the explosion will it take the debris to cease falling and for you to make your way across the rubble and out into the forest?”
Merrick felt his stomach tighten. Now, of course, it was obvious. Painfully obvious. “He has no intention of letting me hop on any grav-lift cycle and get out of here, does he?” he said, hearing the dark edge in his voice. “He just wants me to draw the Trofts’ attention to that part of the wall so that he can tear out of here like a bat out of hell and try to draw them away.”
“So I would read the plan,” Fadil said. “Your father, Merrick Moreau, honors himself and you.”
“He is indeed an honorable man,” Merrick said, taking a step back toward the door. “Thank you, Fadil Sammon, for your insights. I’ll take my leave of you now.”
“What will you do?” Fadil asked.
“What I have to,” Merrick told him. “If I don’t return, please accept my gratitude for all that you, the Sammon family, and the village of Milika have done for me.”
“I trust you remember that your body is still not at full capability and function,” Krites warned. “Especially considering the internal injuries you reopened in the forest two days ago. If you start bleeding internally again, you could die.”
“I’ll remember,” Merrick assured him. “Thank you, too, Doctor Krites, for your assistance and care.” He took a deep breath. “Farewell, Fadil Sammon.”
“Farewell, Merrick Moreau,” Fadil replied gravely. “May God go with you.”
* * *
Paul had said he would be waiting by the wall with the grav-lift cycle in an hour. Merrick’s nanocomputer clock circuit showed ten minutes to that deadline as he joined the other guards walking the Milika wall and headed casually toward his chosen gap in the metal mesh.
He tried to watch everywhere at once as he walked, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. There had been no way to physically rehearse what was about to happen, but he’d run the whole operation over and over in his mind as best he could, throwing in all the variants, possible problems, and potential obstacles that he could come up with.
Time now to find out how closely his imagination and planning matched reality.
The clock showed two minutes left as he approached his planned drop zone. A casual glance over the side of the wall showed that his father was already in position, seated on an unexpectedly large and intimidating grav-lift cycle about ten meters from where the explosion was supposed to happen, and about three from the gap Merrick was heading for.
The clock had just passed one minute to zero when Merrick reached the gap. Without breaking stride, he half turned and dropped himself through it.
He landed with a crunch of broken bushes, a controlled bending of knees to absorb the impact, and a look of startled consternation on his father’s face. “Merrick?” Paul breathed. “You were supposed to—”
“Hi, Dad,” Merrick said. “Nice try.”
And with a flick of a target lock and a pair of bursts from his fingertip lasers, he neatly cut the wires leading to both of the cycle’s left-hand stabilizer sensors. “Merrick—no!” Paul snapped.
But he was too late. The big machine lurched beneath him, its left side canting twenty degrees downward as the grav lifts on that side lost the sensors’ feedback.
And as Paul scrambled for a grip on his now badly angled mount, Merrick heard the sounds of the warship’s gravs as they revved to full power. “It’s okay, Dad—I’ve got it covered,” he said. He took a step toward the forest, then hesitated. “If this doesn’t work, say good-bye to Mom and Lorne and Jody for me, will you?”
“I will,” Paul said. There was a deep sadness in his voice, and Merrick could hear the almost-echo of words still unformed, words that were still only thoughts and emotions deep within his father’s soul.
Words that would never be anything more than those feelings. From the other side of the village came the sibilant hissing of displaced tree branches as the warship lifted from the ground. “Stay safe, Dad,” Merrick said quickly, and sprinted away from the wall. The reflected glint of the warship’s grav lifts was just hitting the outer ring of trees as he slipped between them and headed into the forest.
And the race was on.
Merrick never knew afterward just how far from Milika he got during the chase. He wove back and forth between the trees and bushes, his light-amps at full power as he looked for the fastest route, his programmed reflexes working hard to maintain his balance on the treacherous footing. Swarms of insects and small groups of birds burst from concealment at various places along his path, and small animals scurried madly to get out of his way. Even the larger predators seemed to realize this was a phenomenon that should be steered clear of and crouched motionless as they watched him sprint past.
All the while, the Troft warship stayed right on top of him, or just behind him, the hum of its gravs audible over the crash of his feet through the dead leaves, the gravs themselves occasionally glowing briefly through the canopy of leafy branches above him. It never opened fire, and none of Merrick’s tricks ever lost it for more than a few seconds. The Trofts simply stayed up there, pacing his mad run, waiting for their quarry to finally exhaust his strength.
On that count, at least, they were going to be in for a surprise. New Cobra recruits invariably tried to do this kind of long-range running on their own power, which inevitably led to muscle fatigue and exhaustion. Experienced Cobras like Merrick knew how to let their leg servos do all the work. He could probably run halfway to Sollas without serious problem.
The other possibility, that the ship wasn’t trying to run him to ground but was instead subtly herding him toward in a particular spot, never even occurred to him. Not until it was too late.
Not until he hit the trap.
It was a simple trap, really: a wall of thick, sturdy netting, laid flat against the ground beneath the leaves and spring-loaded to snap up in front of him at his approach. Almost before his eyes even registered the obstacle, certainly before his programmed reflexes could stop his forward momentum, he hit the wall, yanking the netting out of its frame and wrapping it securely around him.
All three of his lasers flashed, but the bits of netting vaporized were small and insignificant. He tried pressing outward with his arms, but the mesh was highly elastic and merely stretched without tearing. His legs could also stretch out the mesh, and for a few seconds he managed to keep going. But the netting was self-adhering, and his scissoring legs merely tangled it against itself, and a few steps later he found himself sprawled face-first onto the ground.
He was firing his lasers again, trying to maneuver his hands enough to cut an actual tear in the material, when the world faded away into blackness.
* * *
The sky to the east was still dark with pre-dawn gloom as Jin walked tiredly through the gate into Milika.
The first news was good. Paul was standing near a few silent villagers, clearly alive and no worse off than he’d been when he slipped away from their encampment a few hours ago.
But Merrick wasn’t with him. And the expression of guilt and grief and pain on his face was all she needed to know that the worst had indeed happened.
But something deep inside her still needed to make sure. “He’s gone,” she said as she came up to him.
Paul nodded heavily. “I’m sorry, Jin,” he said. “I tried to stop him.”
Jin took a deep breath. He had indeed tried. She knew him well enough to know that he’d done his very best to protect their son.
And yet, if he’d succeeded, she would have gained her son and lost her husband. Or she might have lost them both.
She’d been furious when Zoshak told her about Paul’s unilateral decision on what to do about Merrick’s situation. But the anger had long since evaporated. All that was left now was weariness and sorrow.
And, to her own private shame, a small nugget of guilty gratitude that he’d taken the decision on his own shoulders instead of giving half of it to her.
A woman should never be forced to choose between the lives of her son and her husband.
“It’s all right,” she said, reaching up to rest her hand on his cheek. “Merrick’s smart and clever, and he has his great-grandfather’s genes. He’ll get through this.”
“I know,” Paul said.
He didn’t, of course, Jin knew. But then, neither did she.
Many of the families on Qasama and Caelian had lost loved ones to the Troft invasion. It was probably inevitable, she knew, that sooner or later her family would be one of them.
All she could do now was try her damnedest to make sure that Merrick’s sacrifice—that all of their sacrifices—weren’t wasted.
“Did you talk to Fadil Sammon?” she asked, giving Paul’s cheek one final caress and then lowering her hand back to her side.
“Yes, and it’s all set,” he said. “The foreman has three crews below ground right now, clearing out the mining equipment and checking the ventilation, safety, and power systems. By the time we get Isis here, it should be ready for us to move right in.”
“Good.” Jin took a deep breath, pushing the pain as far back as she could. It wasn’t far, but it would hopefully be enough to allow her to function. “Let’s see what progress the Djinn have made in organizing a vehicle caravan.” She glanced around, spotted Siraj and Zoshak talking to the gate guards while a circle of villagers stood quietly around them. Ghofl Khatir, the third Djinni, was nowhere to be seen. “Do you know what happened to Djinn Khatir?” she asked.
“He’s talking to Fadil Sammon,” Paul said. “Some high-level conference, I gather, from the way both of them looked when I left.”
Jin nodded. She’d wondered why Fadil hadn’t been down here to meet her and the others as they arrived. “Is Fadil doing all right?” she asked.
“Actually, no,” Paul said, a fresh edge of grimness to his voice. “But we can talk about that later. Right now, we have to get Isis here and get Dr. Croi started putting the pieces together.”
“While we meanwhile dig up some recruits,” Jin said. “I just hope we can find enough of them.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Paul assured her. “From what little I’ve seen of Milika, I think Siraj Akim and the others should have plenty of volunteers to choose from.”
“Assuming he can find whatever qualities the Shahni consider necessary for good Qasaman warriors.” Jin looked toward the east, where the sun would soon be coming up, and where the Troft invaders had long since settled in across the Qasaman landscape. “He’d just better find them fast,” she added. “Even starting right now, it’s ten days minimum before we can get any new Cobras into the field. That’s ten more days the invaders will have to work on consolidating their positions and wrecking Qasama’s infrastructure.”
“We’ll make it,” Paul said firmly. “Whatever we have to do, we’ll make it.”