Cobra Outlaw

by Timothy Zahn

  “If there was any doubt they’re gearing up for some big-game hunting, I think we can safely put those doubts to rest,” Barrington said grimly. “Have we been able to glean anything about their capabilities?”

  “Not really, sir,” Castenello said. “They’re too far out for us to get anything meaningful from the passives. However, from their sizes and acceleration profiles—plus the number of small craft they obviously have on board—they appear comparable to the larger ships of the Drim’hco’plai task force we tangled with over the Hoibe’ryi’sarai homeworld four days ago.”

  “In fact,” Garrett interjected, “it’s entirely possible they’re the exact same ships.”

  Barrington suppressed a grimace. Those Drim’hco’plai ships had been half as big as the Dorian, and nearly as well armed. And there were two of them here, plus whatever firepower the original spider ships had aboard.

  Back at the Hoibe’ryi’sarai homeworld, for whatever reason, the Drim’hco’plai ships had withdrawn after that first brief engagement, apparently unwilling to make a toe-to-toe fight of it. Whether they would be operating under the same orders or restraint out here was anyone’s guess.

  Worse, there was no guarantee that these two were it. Out here in deep space, far from any planetary masses, hyperspace was smooth and easily navigable, and microjumps were both safe and common. As the Dorian could do a quick jump and be in the midst of the net region within seconds, so too could any other Troft warships lurking in the area. Moreover, as long as the incoming ship avoided hitting the net itself, it could jump out just as quickly and easily. Battles in deep space tended to become free-for-alls, with every bit of chaos and risk that the term implied.

  “The point here, Captain,” Castenello said into Barrington’s thoughts, “is that we’re seriously overmatched. We need to think about our exit strategy.”

  “What about the Hermes?” Kusari spoke up. “You think we’re outmatched, what happens to them if they come charging in and hit the net?”

  “If we leave, they won’t have a chance,” Filho added the obvious.

  “You think they’ll have much more of a chance if we stay?” Castenello countered. “I don’t.” He looked at Barrington. “I know it sounds harsh, Captain. But such are the realities of war. The Dorian is vital to our mission. The Hermes is, ultimately, expendable.”

  Garrett stirred in his seat. “You’re assuming Commodore Santores will indeed send Hermes back to rendezvous with us,” he said. “But as I recall, there were suggestions on the table that he might instead send the Algonquin or even come himself with the Megalith. If he does either, they would be as outmatched as we would be on our own.” He gestured. “But if it were the Algonquin and the Dorian together . . . ?”

  “The commodore isn’t going to send another cruiser,” Castenello scoffed. “Not when he has no idea what kind of game Ukuthi is playing.”

  “Actually, that’s exactly what he might do,” Kusari murmured. “He wasn’t promoted to flag rank just because he could smile nicely at appropriations meetings.”

  “And if there’s even a small chance he can draw the heat off the Cobra Worlds and onto Qasama, I believe he’ll jump at it,” Garrett seconded.

  Castenello shook his head. “He wouldn’t risk the Megalith that way,” he insisted. “Not without a more reliable collection of facts to go on.”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Barrington said as Kusari drew a breath to reply. “We really have no choice for the moment but to stay put.”

  Castenello’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that while both of those warships are on this side of the net, we can’t risk bringing up the drive,” Barrington said. “They could be on us long before we could bring the weapons to power.”

  “You assume they would already have the necessary microjumps programmed into their helms,” Castenello countered. “If they’re not expecting company, but are just here to assist with the net extension, we might catch them flat-footed.”

  “I’d hate to bank on that,” Filho warned. “Especially since the spider ships routinely seem to be running preprogrammed jumps.”

  “Exactly,” Barrington said. “Unfortunately, that also leaves out the possibility of sending the Iris out to Ukuthi’s coordinates and seeing if he might like to join the party.”

  “So we just sit here?” Castenello demanded.

  “We just sit here,” Barrington confirmed. “But only until the net catches someone. Assuming that someone is coming from Aventine, they’ll drop out on the other side of the net.”

  “Ah,” Garrett said, nodding understanding. “At which point the warships head across to engage, leaving us free to do our microjump into the impending battle.”

  “They’ll still see us powering up,” Castenello pointed out. “And they’ll already have their weapons powered up, so it’s not like we’ll catch them completely off-guard. So what exactly is the point of waiting around?”

  “The point is that either the Hermes or the Megalith is heading into a trap, and that we’ll be here to assist,” Barrington said. “Other than that, what’s the point of any military?”

  Castenello’s lip twisted. But he remained silent.

  “Very well, then,” Barrington said, looking around the table. “Systems will remain in stealth mode, but with a ninety-second reactivation code. I’ll want a set of microjumps calculated and ready to execute, with options of dropping us into firing range of either of the two warships. I’ll be recording a set of warnings, which will be translated and likewise ready to transmit within that same ninety-second time frame. Commodore Santores’s envoy, whether it’s the Hermes or the Megalith, could be here as early as tomorrow, so we’ll be at BatPrep Three for the next twelve hours, then go to BatPrep Two, with BatPrep One again on a ninety-second timing. Questions?”

  Castenello opened his mouth, but closed it again without speaking. “Good,” Barrington said briskly. “Then I believe we all have our work before us. Dismissed, and good luck.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Back on Aventine, especially in Capitalia where Merrick had grown up, it had been more or less accepted that being “on time” really meant being within fifteen minutes of the agreed-upon hour. Though there were certainly people who tried to be punctual, for the majority a more casual approach seemed to be the order of the day.

  Qasama had been exactly the opposite. There, the people seemed to make a point of being punctual, right down to the minute. The military were even more obsessive about such things than the civilians, with the timing and coordination of their attacks scheduled sometimes within half a second.

  Kjoic would have gotten along swimmingly on Qasama.

  “Not exactly what I’d consider first light,” Merrick murmured to Anya as they finished checking the emergency travel packs Kjoic had found in a compartment near one of the airlocks. “I mean, really—you can still see stars in the western sky.”

  “But they have all vanished from the eastern sky,” Anya pointed out. “Is that not what first light means?”

  “I suppose,” Merrick grumbled. “I just hope the nastier nocturnals have started settling down for the day. I’d hate to trip over one of them while it was still hungry.”

  Anya frowned. “I thought you did not need sunlight to see.”

  “I don’t,” Merrick said. “But Kjoic doesn’t know that. I’d rather he not find out.”

  She flushed. “Oh, of course,” she said in a subdued voice. “I’m sorry.”

  With an effort, Merrick dialed back his grouchiness. It wasn’t Anya’s fault, after all, that he’d slept poorly and not nearly long enough. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Just nervous, I guess. Going on an intimate little road trip with a Troft wasn’t exactly what I’d planned for today.”

  Anya reached over and squeezed his hand. “We will be all right,” she soothed. “You have learned much about slave behavior. And as you said, he is inexperienced in such matters.”

  [Slaves,
they will approach me,] Kjoic’s voice came down the corridor from the rear of the ship. [Your presence, I require it.]

  [The order, we obey it,] Anya called back. She squeezed Merrick’s hand again, then picked up her pack and slung it over her shoulder. Merrick scooped up the other two packs and followed.

  Kjoic was waiting beside the gap in the bulkhead, which he’d used his cutting torch to reopen while the others were checking the packs. Laying across his hands was a heavy-duty military laser handgun, which he was peering at as if trying to figure out which was the business end. [Information, I require it,] he said, extending the weapon toward Merrick. [Firing, is it capable of it?]

  Merrick froze. A Troft, offering a slave a weapon? What in the Worlds did Kjoic think he was doing?

  For that matter, never mind what Kjoic was supposed to do—what was Merrick supposed to do?

  He had no idea what proper protocol was for this situation. And judging from Anya’s suddenly taut silence, neither did she.

  [That knowledge, I do not have it,] he improvised, making no move toward the weapon. [Such devices, slaves are not permitted to touch them. Information on its function, I do not have it.]

  [Knowledge, I must have it,] Kjoic insisted, still holding out the laser. [Danger, we may encounter it. The weapon, I must learn if it is functional. Shots, I must then number them.] He thrust the laser closer to Merrick. [The weapon, I insist you examine it.]

  Merrick clenched his teeth. Whatever the protocol or prohibitions might be concerning weapons, he’d now been given a direct order. [The order, I obey it,] he said with a sigh. Stepping forward, he gingerly picked up the laser.

  He’d seen many such Troft weapons during the Qasaman invasion, though he’d never spent any real time examining them. Still, the thing seemed straightforward enough: trigger, safety, power pack, sights, load indicator, fire selector.

  The question was whether a slave like Merrick should actually know what any of those were or what they did.

  It was a risk either way. Still, Merrick’s cover was that he’d been one of Ukuthi’s slaves, and that he’d been with the invasion force on Qasama. Such a slave would see armed Trofts around him every day. Besides that, even a local who’d never been above the atmosphere had probably seen the local Trofts carrying guns, possibly even using them.

  [Knowledge, do you have it?] Kjoic pressed.

  [Some knowledge, I have it.] Merrick turned the laser around and offered it, butt-first, to Kjoic, wondering briefly what the Troft would have done if he’d instead pointed the weapon at him. [An indicator, this appears to be one,] he continued, pointing at the load indicator. [Full, the status bar indicates it.]

  [Shots, how many does it contain?] Kjoic asked, taking the laser and studying the indicator.

  [That knowledge, I do not have it,] Merrick said, wondering if Kjoic was really that uninformed. Obviously, the number of shots would depend on the power level of those shots, with the life of the pack further dependent on whether the selector was set for semi or full auto. Did Kjoic really not know that?

  Maybe he was simply more accustomed to less complicated civilian guns. The Cobra Worlds had a whole range of different weapon types; presumably the Trofts did, too. [Forgiveness, I beg it,] he added.

  [Forgiveness, I grant it.] Kjoic took the laser and carefully slid it into the belt holster he’d already fastened around his waist. [That knowledge, it is of no immediate consequence. Protection against predators, we now have it.] He gestured to the packs on Merrick’s shoulders. [Supplies, we have sufficient?]

  [Supplies, we have sufficient,] Merrick confirmed.

  Kjoic turned to the opening, his radiator membranes fluttering. [The journey, let us begin it.]

  They worked their way out of the wrecked ship, picking carefully through the debris field surrounding it. Somewhere along the way, Anya managed to deftly take the lead, moving in front of Kjoic and leaving Merrick to bring up the rear.

  It was the ideal marching order, of course, given that Anya was the one who knew where they were going and Merrick’s Cobra gear could protect the group best from a rearguard position. But Kjoic had no way of knowing either of those facts, and Merrick spent the first half hour waiting tensely for the Troft to decide that he wanted the male slave breaking trail instead.

  Fortunately, he seemed alternately fascinated and intimidated by the forest around him, all of which left little attention to spare for mundane things like giving orders to his new slaves. Either his lack of expertise was once again showing or else he just assumed the locals knew best how to handle this part and had decided to let them sort it out as they chose.

  The crash site was about two kilometers south of the road Merrick and Anya and the others had taken when they’d first been dropped off on Muninn. Merrick had assumed that Anya would take them back up to that narrow strip of pavement, at least until they had to veer off again to head to Svipall. But instead of retracing their way north, she led them due east, paralleling the road but keeping to the wild. Clearly, her plan was to stay beneath the forest canopy and as far away from the search parties to the north as possible.

  Under the circumstances, it was probably their best strategy. But it also came with some risky drawbacks. This section of the forest seemed darker and older to Merrick, with a sense of tension and animosity quivering through it. A part of the planet where humans never ventured, perhaps, and where Trofts maintained their distance high above the treetops.

  But despite Merrick’s feelings of foreboding, the first three hours passed more or less uneventfully. There were a few incidents when small- and medium-sized animals came close, but all of them seemed more curious than hungry and were easily driven off with the thorn maces that Anya had torn from the trees and equipped them all with. Kjoic, in particular, seemed to take a perverse delight in swinging at the creatures with his club, and by the fifth such encounter wasn’t even bothering to draw his laser before wading into the brief battles.

  Merrick let him have his excitement, as an obedient slave should. Still, he was careful to put a targeting lock on every predator that moved within a dozen meters of the party. Much as he didn’t want to reveal his hidden weaponry to Kjoic, he was even less inclined to let any of them get killed to protect the secret.

  They were four hours into the march, and Kjoic was clearly starting to get fatigued, when the Troft finally called a break.

  [Svipall, how much farther is it?] he asked as they sat on a pair of dead logs, munching meal bars from their packs.

  [The journey, it is a long one,] Anya said. [One day beyond this one, the journey will require it.]

  [The journey, it is long indeed,] Kjoic said, his radiator membranes fluttering. [This information, you should have given it to me. A shelter, we will need it. A shelter, I could have searched the ship for it.]

  [A shelter, I searched for one,] Anya told him. [A shelter, there was not one.]

  [A shelter, you would not have recognized it,] Kjoic countered. [A search, I should have made it.]

  [A shelter, we can build it,] Merrick put in, trying to defuse the confrontation. This was going to be difficult enough without getting the Troft angry at them. [A shelter, we built one our first night returned to Muninn.]

  Kjoic’s membranes stretched out a little farther. [A return, you speak of it,] he said. [A journey, what kind was it?]

  Merrick winced. Stupid, stupid. But it was way too late to call back the words. [Slaves of a distant master, we were they,] he admitted. [Our world, we were returned to it five days ago. The reason, I don’t know it,] he added, to forestall the next question.

  [Svipall, you have not visited it in many days?] Kjoic asked.

  [Svipall, we have not forgotten its location,] Anya assured him.

  [My question, that is not it,] Kjoic said. [Svipall, could it no longer exist?]

  Merrick looked at Anya. Now that Kjoic mentioned it, that was a damn good question. With the Games presumably siphoning young people from the various villages, not to
mention whatever the Trofts were up to here, there was no guarantee that anything from Anya’s childhood was still the way it had been before she was taken off-world.

  Anya’s throat worked. [Svipall, we have not visited it in many days,] she conceded. [The village, I am yet certain it still exists.]

  For a long moment Kjoic was silent. Then, slowly, his membranes reseated themselves against his upper arms. [The dangers of the night, you can defend me against them?]

  Merrick pursed his lips, noting the irony. The Troft—the armed Troft, no less—was asking them for protection? [Protection, we will provide it,] he assured the alien.

  [Protection, to the best of our abilities we will provide it,] Anya corrected, flashing a look at Merrick.

  [Your abilities, I will rely on them.] Abruptly, Kjoic stood up. [The journey, we will continue it.]

  * * *

  For the next few hours the party continued to make good time. There were a few brushes with predators, some of which stopped being merely curious and turned nasty. But between the thorn maces and an occasional and reasonably well-placed shot or two from Kjoic’s laser, they managed to escape without injury. Whatever the Troft’s inexperience with military weapons might have been, he hit the learning curve with a will, coming up to speed faster than Merrick expected. Clearly, it was this specific model of gun that had confused him, not laser weapons in general.

  It was three hours until sundown, and they’d reached a more open area of the forest, when it all went to hell.

  For Merrick, it started with a tight feeling in his gut, a sense of dread he could neither identify nor explain. He found himself walking closer behind Kjoic, his eyes sweeping the woods around him, using his infrareds to try to pierce the larger clumps of bushes and low foliage around them. So far there was nothing they hadn’t seen and successfully tangled with before, but the sense of imminent danger remained.

  More ominously, Anya—who was far more attuned to this planet than he was—was evidently feeling it, too. She had slowed her pace, her eyes moving back and forth more frequently than before, her pair of thorn maces no longer hanging loosely at her sides but angled up in white-knuckled grips. Not just ready for trouble, but expecting it.