by Timothy Zahn
Lorne felt his stomach tighten. Jankos had been one of the three Cobras who’d been gunned down by Reivaro’s Marines in front of Yates Fabrications six days ago. “Yeah,” he said heavily.
“We all have stories like that,” Gary continued. “Everyone in DeVegas does. So this is for Jankos, and the others, and Archway.” The corner of his lip twitched in a small smile. “Oh, and a little of it’s for you.”
“I’ll take everything I can get at this point,” Lorne said as they all crowded together into the elevator. “Thank you. All of you.”
“Save your thanks until we see if this works,” someone advised dryly.
“That’s okay,” someone else said. “If it doesn’t, we’ll at least all get to be cellmates together.”
To Lorne’s mild surprise, not to mention probably everyone else’s, it worked.
The smoke from his grenade had dissipated by the time the group hit the street, the new clarity permitting a good view of the half dozen Dominion aircars circling the area like angry vultures. The group had made it half a block when the first ground vehicles roared up and skidded to a halt.
Only they skidded to a halt five blocks away.
“Ha,” Gary said with grim humor. “Looks like Reivaro outsmarted himself this time. They figure you hit the ground running and are trying to contain you.”
Lorne smiled tightly. “In one of the most densely populated parts of Archway.”
“Yes, indeed,” Gary agreed. “Nicely done.”
“Thanks,” Lorne said. Not that he’d considered that aspect when he threw this whole thing together, of course. All he’d really cared about was having a pair of buildings tall enough and close enough together to do a wall-bounce.
But, of course, in Archway tall buildings necessarily meant high population density. If Lorne couldn’t take direct credit for this one, he could probably allow his subconscious the honor.
“Happy hunting,” Gary said, throwing a mock salute at the distant Marines. “Here we are.”
“Wait a second,” Lorne said, slowing down. He hadn’t recognized Jonquil’s name when Gary said it earlier. But now that he saw where they were going— “This might not be a good idea. I’ve been here a few times, usually with other Cobras. They might recognize me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Gary said. “Quill’s a good friend—he’ll cover for us. That’s why we’re here instead of somewhere else.”
“See, we were all out of the office when you came bounding through the window,” Kath explained. “You propped that window back up, not us.”
“We were as surprised as anyone when we got back and found our office like that,” Fred added blandly. “Which’ll be in, what, about an hour?”
“Maybe an hour and a half,” Gary said judiciously. “We’ve got a lot of brainstorming to do about that new Balin proposal, and it’s cheap-drinks hour. An hour and a half be enough?”
“I’m sure it will,” Lorne said. “Thank you.”
“Come on, come on,” Ambrose chided. “I can smell the scotch from here.”
Lorne had been in Jonquil’s probably no more than twice in the past year—it was one of Badj Werle’s favorite spots, but Cobra salaries didn’t allow that kind of splurging very often. Still, he felt horribly conspicuous as Gary led the way through the smaller tables toward a back room set up for larger groups.
They were in the process of seating themselves when an older man in an apron embossed with the bar’s name came bustling up. “Hey, Gary,” he said in greeting. His eyes flicked across the group, pausing for just a fraction of a second on Lorne before continuing. “Another of your famous off-site business meetings?”
“Hey, as long as we discuss business, it’s a business expense,” Gary said. “You know Jankos’s cousin Peter, right, Quill?”
“I’ve seen him around,” Quill said, giving Lorne a long, cool look. “So, you folks ready for your third round yet?”
Lorne frowned. Their third round?
“Sounds great,” Gary said calmly. “We all had our usuals for the first two rounds, right?”
“Yep,” Quill confirmed. “I assume you’re all running tabs?”
“As always,” Gary said. “And make this third round on me.”
“That’s what people like to see in their boss,” Quill said dryly. His eyes flicked one last time to Lorne, and this time his head inclined microscopically. “And the second round was on me. Have a good meeting, folks.” He turned and headed back toward the bar.
“You two going to sit down?” Ambrose prompted.
“Sure.” Gesturing Lorne to one of the two remaining chairs, Gary pulled out the other and sat down. “Like I said,” he added in a quieter voice, “we’re not Capitalia.”
“So I see,” Lorne said as he sat down. The group’s third round . . . which meant that they must have been sitting here at least half an hour before Lorne burst through their office window. Assuming Quill was also able to fiddle his records, Reivaro would have to search long and hard for witnesses before he could prove otherwise.
And if Lorne did his job properly, the colonel wouldn’t have time to do that. He would, in fact, have considerably more pressing problems on his hands than a possible nest of uncooperative civilians.
“Of course, if they start a complete door-to-door, you might still be in trouble,” Gary continued as if their earlier conversation had never been interrupted. “Got any ideas about that?”
“Not really,” Lorne said. Though now that he mentioned it, something was starting to come together in the back of his mind. “Though I’m guessing he doesn’t have the manpower for that.”
“Not unless he whistles up a whole raft of reinforcements from the Dominion ships,” Gary agreed. “The Trofts did that, you know. We made such a screaming nuisance of ourselves they couldn’t keep a lid on us alone.”
“Easy, hero-boy,” one of the women said dryly. “It was the Cobras and the ranchers who did most of that screaming, remember? The rest of us didn’t do a whole lot except sit on the sidelines and cheer.”
“Hey, cheering is part of it,” Gary insisted. “Especially when we’re also not turning people in to the Trofts. Am I right, Broom?”
“Absolutely,” Lorne said. “It’s a lot more than Capitalia could manage to do.”
“There you go,” Gary said to the woman. “Though I suppose you could make a case that comparing us to Capitalia is damning with faint praise.”
“No damning or faintness intended,” Lorne assured him. “The way I see it, in war or any other kind of catastrophe, you have to do whatever the universe drops onto your plate. If you get thrown onto the front lines, you fight. If all you get is a support role, you support.”
“And sometimes that landing-on-your-plate thing happens literally,” Fred commented dryly.
“Hopefully not very often,” Lorne agreed.
“But seriously, a disguise would be good,” Gary said. “Quill isn’t the most politically astute person on the block, but he knew who you were the second he saw you. Most of Archway will, too.”
“Not to mention any Dominion man who spots you,” Kath warned. “They’ve downloaded the whole province ID listing, and they’ve got some kind of implant that lets them just twitch an eye and pull up who you are.”
“Yes, I know,” Lorne said. “What do you suggest?”
“False nose and beard,” Fred said promptly. “That always seems to work on Anne Villager.”
“And considering you don’t seem to have shaved for a couple of days, you’re already started on the beard,” Gary said, peering critically at his face. “Don’t know where you’d find a false nose, though.”
“I’ll think of something,” Lorne assured him. “And I’d better get going.” He started to stand up.
“Whoa, son, what’s your hurry?” Gary admonished. “You need to stay put for a while, remember?”
“Besides, the third round’s on the way,” Kath added. “You don’t drink, it just gets thrown away.�
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“I guess we can’t have that,” Lorne conceded. “Twenty minutes, no more.”
“Twenty minutes,” Gary promised. “Speaking of stuff getting dropped on your plate, who’s up for some appetizers?”
* * *
Lorne’s twenty minutes ended up getting stretched to an hour by the sudden appearance of a squad of Marines on the street outside.
Fortunately, they seemed to be searching mostly empty shops and apartments, and though one of them stepped into the bar, he left again after a quick word with Quill and an even quicker look at his notepad. Twenty minutes later, Quill came by the table to quietly inform Gary that the soldiers had left the neighborhood.
Still, there was no point in taking any more chances than necessary. Lorne gave it another twenty minutes, just to be sure, before heading out into the street.
He half expected a Dominion aircar to drop from the sky before he’d gone ten steps, with Reivaro and a squad of grinning Marines swarming out to make the arrest. But the sky was clear, the search having apparently moved elsewhere. Joining the crowds of pedestrians, he headed down the street.
He’d told his new drinking companions that he was heading to his apartment, which was four blocks east and two north from Jonquil’s. But in the intervening time he’d had time to reconsider his options and to come up with a new plan.
It was a risky plan. Worse, it relied heavily on the assumption that the vast majority of Archway’s citizens were as firmly behind the Cobras as Gary and his group. But he had little choice. With his face on the Marines’ files, he wouldn’t get very far unless he found a way to make that face unrecognizable.
And aside from Fred’s suggestion of a false nose and beard, there was only one way he could think of to do that.
The Malagar Building was one of three four-story structures at the edge of the southwest cluster. The bottom floor was taken up by shops, restaurants, and a small walk-in medical clinic, with the second and third floors containing offices of various sorts.
The fourth floor, however . . .
He entered via one of the restaurants, coming in the main entrance then moving straight through to the kitchen and the back elevator. He saw several people along the way, but if any of them recognized him, they made no sign. He took the elevator to the third floor, got out, sent the elevator back to the first floor, then forced open the doors and climbed up the cables to the fourth floor. All told, it was a transparent ploy, possibly even edging toward childish, but the more he could muddy Reivaro’s future investigations, the better.
The corridor he emerged onto was empty, but his audios could pick up the hum and muffled noises of activity. He walked toward the sound, turned a couple of corners.
And there it was, facing him from above a pair of double glass doors:
POLESTAR PRODUCTIONS
HOME OF TRIBECCA, GREENDALE, AND ANNE VILLAGER
The woman seated at the desk beyond the doors glanced up, did a double-take, and grabbed for her comm. She spoke urgently for a moment, got a reply, and buzzed Lorne in.
She’d gone quiet and goggle-eyed by the time Lorne joined her in the reception area. “Hello,” he said, shifting to his infrareds to try to read her emotions. She was nervous and stressed, but that was about all he could get.
Fortunately, the awkward silence didn’t last long. “Hello,” a middle-aged man said as he pushed open a side door and hurried across to the desk. “I’m James Hobwell, Greendale executive producer. This is a—” He broke off, harrumphed, and seemed to gather himself. “What can we do for you, Cob—young man?”
“That depends,” Lorne said, studying his face. At least as nervous and stressed as the receptionist. “What I need could be dangerous. Colonel Reivaro won’t like it if he finds out.”
Hobwell glanced at the receptionist, then drew himself up. “I’ve had better men than him mad at me. Tell me what you need.”
Lorne took a careful breath. He wasn’t reading any duplicity in Hobwell’s face, which was a good sign. But he also knew that promises made in a quiet place among friends could easily splinter when the going got rough.
Still, right now it was all he had.
Hobwell was still waiting. “What I need,” Lorne said, “is to talk to one of your makeup artists.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
During the three days the Dorian floated silently in the darkness nine million kilometers from the Trofts’ flicker-mine net, Barrington had spent some of his idle minutes running calculations on the likely moment when his ship would find itself plunged into battle.
Two of the numbers were straightforward. It was easy to calculate how long it would have taken the Hermes to arrive at Aventine from the point where the Dorian had dropped it, and equally simple to figure the time it would then take for the trip from the Cobra Worlds’ capital to the flicker net.
The other two numbers—how long it would take Commodore Santores to read Barrington’s report, and how long it would take him to decide on a course of action—were far softer numbers. Still, Barrington had spent a fair amount of time interacting with the commodore on the voyage from Asgard, and he had a pretty good feel for how his superior thought and acted. The timing would also depend on other factors, such as whether the commodore had been on duty when the report came in, and whether other matters on Aventine might be competing for his attention. Ultimately, he ended up with a probable six-hour range.
One hour before the shortest and most optimistic of his calculated times, he raised the Dorian’s readiness level from Battle Preparedness Two to BatPrep One.
Commodore Santores had apparently assigned a high priority to the Dorian’s situation. Exactly ninety-two minutes later, the Hermes hit the Trofts’ net and was yanked back into space-normal.
“It hit about fifteen percent off the center point,” Commander Garrett reported. “As close to a dead-center hit as I’ve ever seen. If we’re still looking for proof that the net was intended for us, this is as good as we’re likely to get. Range reads out at a hair over nine-point-three million kilometers.”
Barrington nodded, automatically converting the number to thirty-one light-seconds. Everything they were observing was therefore half a minute out of date. “Enemy response?”
“Both warships are moving in for the kill,” Castenello called. “Two is closest; it’s on the far side of the net and will be in laser range in six minutes. One is on our side and about four minutes behind it.” He threw Barrington a dark look. “Unfortunately, One is the closer target.”
Barrington stroked a finger thoughtfully on his lower lip. Unfortunate, because while One would be the easier of the two for the Dorian to tackle, it was also the smaller threat to the Hermes. If Barrington chose to engage One, Hermes would be alone as it faced off against Two.
There was, of course, a standard tactical response to this kind of situation. Barrington would normally bring the Dorian into the battle with a microjump that would take it into toe-to-toe range with Two and attempt to put Two out of action before One made it into range. If he succeeded, then it would be the Dorian and Hermes that would be double-teaming One instead of being on the receiving end of such firepower concentration.
The problem was that the geometry here made such a plan impossible. Two was on the far side of the net, where the Dorian couldn’t reach it. And as Castenello had already pointed out, tackling One would still leave the Hermes on the short end of the odds against Two.
“Picking up fire!” Garrett snapped. “The Hermes has engaged.”
Barrington cursed under his breath as he looked over at the tactical display. The images confirmed what logic had already told him: the Hermes was still well out of laser range of the approaching warship.
Which meant that Lieutenant Commander Vothra had just wasted energy and gained nothing.
Or had he?
Barrington twitched his eye, tapping into the tactical data stream, and keyed for a fine-tune filter. If he could get a view through the glare from One’s en
gines and cut through the sensor haziness created by the net itself . . .
And there it was. “Fresh movement,” he called. “Three spider ships engaging the Hermes—designate Three, Four, and Five.”
“Acknowledged,” Castenello called back. “The Hermes has fired on Three; Four and Five ten seconds from laser range.”
“The Hermes is engaging Five,” Garrett put in. “Damage unclear.”
“Two nearly within laser range of the Hermes,” Castenello said. “Captain, we need some orders here.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Barrington said, clenching his teeth as he studied the data stream.
“Captain, are we going to engage?” Castenello pressed. “The Hermes is facing annihilation.”
Barrington frowned, focusing on the beleaguered courier ship. Castenello was right. The Hermes was facing impossible odds. In fact, with a three-to-one advantage, the spider ships should already be blistering away the outer hull.
Only they weren’t. In fact, it didn’t look like they were even trying.
“Captain?” Castenello demanded.
Again, Barrington tapped into the data stream. All three of the spider ships were in range now, yet none of them had opened fire on the Hermes. They were taking the courier’s fire without replying, as if their goal was merely to drain its missile tubes and overheat its lasers.
And if they were genuinely reluctant to damage their prize . . .
“Helm: new course,” he ordered. “Take us into the net directly between—”
“Into the net?” Castenello interrupted. “Sir—”
“Directly between One and Two and as close to the Hermes as possible,” Barrington continued. “Tactical Officer: approach, please.”
“Yes, Sir,” Castenello said between obviously clenched teeth. Popping his straps, he stalked across CoNCH to Barrington’s station. “Permission to speak candidly, Captain?” he asked, his voice stiff but quiet enough that only Barrington and Garrett could hear. At least he had that much tact.
