Cobra Alliance

by Timothy Zahn

  In fact...

  Jin felt her throat tighten. Miron Akim had been a young man when Jin had first visited Qasama, no more than ten years older than she was. Yet when they'd met again a few hours ago in the subcity, she'd guessed his age to top hers by at least thirty years.

  She turned her neck a little farther around, taking a good, long look at his profile. His face was calm enough, but now that she was looking for it she could see a brightness and intensity in his eyes that she hadn't noticed before.

  He hadn't come along on this trip just to play native guide to her and Merrick while they freed the trapped Shahni, she realized with a sinking feeling. He was here for some other purpose entirely.

  "So if we're not hostages, despite their words, we must assume we're here for some other purpose," Akim went on. "We must discover or deduce that purpose."

  I thought you already knew everything about Troft psychology. With an effort, Jin held back the words. "Let's start at the beginning," she suggested instead. "We were allowed in on the pretext of meeting their leaders, but were instead chained up without any of those leaders making an appearance."

  "Chained after our party had been split up," Akim said slowly. "And then locked in an empty room without guards but with hidden monitors."

  "And right in front of a window," Jin said as that odd fact suddenly struck her. "Where we can see across the whole city."

  "And can be seen in turn by everyone outside." Akim snorted. "We aren't hostages, Jin Moreau. We're bait. They wish to see what a Qasaman rescue operation looks like."

  "I think you're right," Jin agreed, her face warming with embarrassment that she hadn't figured that one out on her own. It was exactly the same trick the Trofts had pulled on her grandfather, after all, only in reverse: they'd set him up to escape from a fortified base so that they could gather data on Cobra weapons and techniques in a more or less controlled environment. "They're going to be sorely disappointed, though." She looked sideways at Akim again. "Aren't they?"

  "I don't know," Akim admitted. "Plan Saikah makes no provision for the rescuing of hostages. But in this case . . . some of the Djinn may take it upon themselves to seek us out."

  "Terrific," Jin muttered. "Either we let the Trofts see Djinn in action, or we tip them off that there are Cobras on Qasama."

  "Neither of which is acceptable," Akim said flatly. "We must find a third alternative."

  "I'm game," Jin said. "How much time do we have?"

  Akim hissed thoughtfully between his teeth. "From the time our forces are alerted as to the change in the operation . . . perhaps an hour."

  Jin grimaced. That wasn't much time. "Then we'd better get busy," she said. "Let's put our heads together and see what we can come up with."

  The room Daulo and Fadil were taken to was small but pleasant enough. There were three cushioned chairs, a water dispenser, a small fruit grouping, and an equally small basket of travel-style snack and meal packages. It was, for Daulo, an unexpected courtesy, given how less comfortable a cell the Djinn could have chosen to put them in.

  Fadil, though, didn't seem to see it that way. For the first hour of their incarceration he paced the room like a caged krisjaw, answering his father's comments and questions with terse replies just barely within the bounds of courtesy. A few minutes into their second hour he abandoned his pacing and dropped into one of the chairs, staring at the fruit as if he expected it to explode at any moment.

  Daulo's first thought was that his son was fighting between the desire to eat and the conflicting desire to avoid showing the weakness of hunger in front of the Djinn. It was only when the elder Sammon got up and picked out a pomegranate for himself that he discovered Fadil wasn't actually gazing at the fruit, but at something far more distant, something only he could see.

  In someone else, such a state might have indicated meditation or focused thought. But Daulo knew better. In Fadil, at least in his younger days, such concentration had usually followed a deliberate insult by a member of a rival family, and the concentration had subsequently led to the boy's carefully planned response to that insult.

  And villager that he was, he almost couldn't help but see their incarceration at the hands of city people as such an insult.

  But he'll think it through, Daulo tried to assure himself. He'll realize that behavior in time of war isn't the same as in time of peace.

  And if he didn't, it would be Daulo's job to convince him of that. Hopefully before the boy did something foolish.

  He had finished his pomegranate and was dozing in his chair when a sudden pounding startled him awake. He looked up to see Fadil standing at the door, pounding on it with the heel of his hand. "Someone!" he called. "Someone come!"

  "Fadil!" Daulo snapped. "What are you—?"

  "Someone come!" Fadil called again.

  There was the click of a lock and Fadil stepped back as the door swung inward to reveal a gray-clad Djinni. "What do you wish?" the Djinni asked.

  "I wish to see someone in authority," Fadil said, his voice respectful but firm.

  The Djinni shook his head. "All such are occupied."

  "Then let me see the man from the hospital," Fadil countered. "The one your companion Carsh Zoshak was so eager to free."

  "Just a minute," Daulo put in as he hastily gathered his robe about him and scrambled to his feet. He had no idea who the mysterious old man was, but the fact the Shahni had sent two Djinn to get him out ahead of the Trofts implied he was not the sort of person from whom a simple villager demanded an audience. "Fadil—"

  "Quiet, Father," Fadil said calmly. "We brought two Cobras here to help with the war, Djinni. You owe us for that."

  "And an audience with His Excellency is what you wish in repayment?" the Djinni asked. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Daulo could nevertheless hear a hint of amusement in the Djinni's voice. A city dweller, speaking down to a villager, and Daulo could only pray that his son wouldn't also hear the telltale tone.

  If the younger man did, he made no sign. "If that's how you choose to see it, yes," he said.

  The Djinni cocked his head. "Very well," he said, taking a step back out of the doorway and gesturing Fadil forward. "Do you wish to speak with him as well, Daulo Sammon?" he added as Fadil strode past and disappeared down the corridor.

  Daulo absolutely did not, and he very much wanted to say so. But Fadil was already on his way, and Daulo could hardly leave his son to face the results of this strange insanity alone. "Thank you," he said, and hurried from the room.

  He caught up with Fadil a few paces from a door flanked by two more Djinn, both of whom were eyeing the approaching villagers with uncomfortable intensity. "Fadil, what are you doing?" Daulo murmured tautly into his son's ear.

  "Showing these city dwellers that villagers will not simply stand by and take what is handed to them," Fadil said.

  Daulo winced. "Fadil—"

  And then there was no more time for talk, because one of the Djinn pushed open the door and Fadil strode inside. Cursing under his breath, Daulo followed.

  The room beyond the door was the same size as their cell, but much better furnished. Instead of chairs, the entire rear quarter of the room was piled with large cushions, on which sat a frail old man with a lined face and sunken cheeks. His piercing eyes were focused on a pair of computers sitting on a low table in front of him, and wafting through the air was the faint scent of a mild incense. "I bid you welcome, Fadil Sammon," the old man said, raising his eyes to his visitors as Fadil came to a halt a respectful three paces away from the computer desk. Like the guards outside, his gaze was intense, but he didn't seem bothered or even surprised by the intrusion. "And you, Daulo Sammon," he continued. "I am Moffren Omnathi, advisor to the Shahni. How may I be of service?"

  Daulo felt his breath freeze in his throat. God above. This wasn't just some important old man. It wasn't even some random Shahni advisor, or even one of the Shahni himself.

  This was Moffren Omnathi. The man assigned to escor
t the first Aventinian mission around Qasama, and the one who had first detected their deception. The man who had thrown together a plan for their capture on the fly, and had caught on to their second and more subtle deception, and who would have taken the entire group of them captive had it not been for the unexpected power and weaponry of the Cobras. The man whose quick military action years later had succeeded in capturing a great deal of Troft equipment after Obolo Nardin's failed bid for power.

  Moffren Omnathi was more than just a hero. He was a legend.

  And Daulo and his son had just barged in on him.

  Daulo looked sideways at Fadil. The other recognized Omnathi's name, all right, and for a second his resolve seemed to falter. But then he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Forgive the intrusion, Your Excellency," he said, making the highest sign of respect. "But a grave injustice has been done to us, which I pray you will see fit to rectify."

  "And what injustice is this, Fadil Sammon?" Omnathi asked.

  "Our home has been invaded, Your Excellency," Fadil said. "Yet my father and I have been forced to sit idly doing nothing."

  He drew himself up. "I request your permission to be given a weapon, assigned to a unit, and allowed to fight."

  Daulo stared at his son, feeling the universe tilt around him. Of all the things he had imagined Fadil might say, this was one possibility that had never even crossed his mind. "Fadil, what—?" He broke off, looking back at Omnathi. "I beg your pardon, Your Excellency—"

  "Peace, Daulo Sammon," Omnathi said calmly, his bright eyes boring into Fadil's face. "Yet you already provide an important service to Qasama, Fadil Sammon."

  "Only that of hostage, Your Excellency," Fadil said. "A guarantee for the behavior of Jin Moreau and Merrick Moreau."

  Daulo felt his throat tighten. He'd hoped Fadil wouldn't figure that out.

  "But two such hostages are hardly necessary," Fadil continued. "Especially since my father is the only one Jin Moreau truly knows and truly cares about. Let him stay here and be guarantee of her loyalty. Give me a weapon and let me fight for my world."

  Omnathi studied him a moment in silence, then shifted his gaze to Daulo. "You disapprove of your son's offer, Daulo Sammon?" he asked.

  "Not at all, Your Excellency," Daulo hastened to assure him.

  "You are surprised, then?"

  Daulo looked at his son. "Yes," he admitted. "But also proud."

  "Indeed." Omnathi looked back at Fadil. "You are willing, then, to give your life for your people?"

  "If need be, yes." Fadil drew himself up. "But hopefully not before I've given the Trofts ample opportunity to do the same."

  Omnathi smiled. "So be it. Can you handle a weapon?"

  "We of the villages still mount razorarm and krissjaw hunts," Fadil said with an edge of pride. "I've killed one of each within the past six months. I doubt the Trofts are nearly as quick on their feet."

  "We shall soon find out." Omnathi looked over Fadil's shoulder to the Djinni who had taken up silent guard in the doorway. "Take Fadil Sammon to the simulation range," he ordered. "Assess his ability with a weapon, and assign him accordingly."

  "Yes, Your Excellency." The Djinni stepped out of the doorway and gestured. "Master Sammon?"

  Fadil gave Daulo a brief nod. "Father," he said, and strode from the room.

  "And you, Daulo Sammon?" Omnathi asked.

  With a start, Daulo realized he was still staring at the doorway where his son had disappeared. "Your Excellency?" he asked, turning back to Omnathi.

  "Do you wish to follow your sun into combat and danger?"

  Daulo frowned. "I stand where the Shahni so order," he said formally. "But I understood I was to remain as hostage to the Moreaus' behavior."

  Again, Omnathi smiled. But this time, there was no humor there. "The Moreaus' behavior is based on their belief that you and your son are under threat of death," he said. "Whether such a threat actually exists is irrelevant."

  Daulo stared at the old man, his blood running suddenly cold as he focused on the other's shining eyes and the other marks of enhancement drug use. Omnathi was pushing his intellect to the fullest as he prepared Sollas for war.

  And if he was willing to give even a pair of untried villagers guns . . . "We don't have enough men, do we?" Daulo asked quietly. "This attack isn't going to succeed."

  Omnathi lowered his gaze to the computers in front of him. "Every hour we delay a response is an hour the invaders will use to settle themselves ever more firmly into their defensive positions," he said. "We have no choice but to attack as quickly as we can, with all the strength we have, and to trust to God for victory."

  "I understand," Daulo murmured. It wasn't, he noted, exactly an answer to his question. Or perhaps it was. "I haven't been on a hunt in several years," he continued. "But I still remember how to use a rifle."

  "Then the Djinni outside will take you to the range," Omnathi said gravely, his shining eyes still on the computers.

  Clearly, he was dismissed. "Your Excellency," Daulo said, making the sign of respect. Turning, he left the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  Merrick's first journey through the subcity earlier had left him with the impression that it had been designed by cross-eyed moles. Now, as he headed toward the Palace with Zoshak, he concluded that those same moles had also had one set of legs shorter than the other.

  Still, even as he privately cursed the unexpected jags in the passageway and the uneven footing, he could understand the military logic that had gone into the system. With all the curves, drops, and angles in the corridors, any enemy who got in here could be held off for days by a relative handful of defenders. The attackers would have to use explosives or smart missiles to break free, which Merrick guessed would merely collapse the local tunnel area, blocking further access to the system and possibly burying attackers and defenders alike.

  Twice along the way he heard Zoshak making the same odd teeth-clicking sound he'd heard while the group in the Sammons' truck was coming toward Sollas. Then, he'd assumed Zoshak was going into shock; now, he knew it was part of the Djinni's radio comm system.

  It was definitely a good thing to let any defenders in the subcity know that he and Zoshak were coming. It wouldn't be so good if the Trofts on the surface were able to pick up the transmissions, as well.

  But if the aliens heard the signals, they were too slow on the uptake to do anything about it. Eight minutes after leaving the airfield tower, the Cobra and the Djinni arrived beneath the Palace.

  The monitor room, a duplicate of the one beneath the tower, was deserted. "Where is everyone?" Merrick asked, looking around as Zoshak busied himself with the monitor.

  "Why would anyone be here?" Zoshak countered as he ran quickly through a set of images. "The Palace situation appears as we expected."

  "Trofts?" Merrick asked.

  "Didn't you see them?"

  "You went through the images pretty quickly," Merrick pointed out.

  "Yes, there are Trofts." Zoshak stepped over to the vertical cylinder. "Can you get this open?"

  "Sure," Merrick said, going over to join him. Curving his fingers over into firing position, he aimed at a spot about knee height and gave the cylinder a blast with his fingertip lasers. To his surprise, the metal merely sputtered and sizzled without breaking open. "Uh-oh," he murmured.

  "What do you mean, uh-oh?" Zoshak demanded. "Can't you cut through it?"

  "Not like this." Merrick backed up, targeting-locking a horizontal line across the tube at about waist height. "You don't care about the cables inside, do you? Never mind—the whole place is going to blow anyway. Move away and watch your eyes." Putting a forearm over his own face, he lifted his left leg and fired his antiarmor laser.

  A brilliant beam of blue light lit up the room, accompanied by a much louder sizzling from the cylinder. Merrick finished his sweep and shut off the laser, then lowered both his leg and his arm.

  The metal that had successfully resisted his smaller l
asers had succumbed without fuss to the larger one. The cylinder now sported a neat two-centimeter-wide gap, the cut edges glowing a dull red. "That's better," Merrick said as the stink of vaporized metal tingled his nostrils. "I'll make another cut, and we'll be good to go."

  "One moment." Stepping forward, Zoshak wrapped his arms tightly around the cylinder above the gap. "Sound carries well in confined places," he added. "We don't want something this heavy crashing to the floor."

  "Good point," Merrick agreed, targeting another cutting line half a meter above Zoshak's head. "I hope that suit of yours is good against hot metal sparks."

  "It is," Zoshak said dryly. "Do be careful not to miss."

  "Don't worry." Again protecting his eyes, Merrick lifted his leg and fired.

  Again, the room lit up with blue light, and with a muted clunk of breaking metal the section came free. "You need a hand?" Merrick asked.

  "No," Zoshak said. Sliding the section out of line with the rest of the cylinder, he set it down on the floor. Merrick stepped up beside him and peered into the opening.

  To his surprise, it was completely empty. "Aren't there supposed to be cables in here?" he asked quietly.

  "You mean the ones you just cut through?" Zoshak suggested as he straightened up.

  "I don't think so," Merrick said, stepping aside. "See for yourself."

  Zoshak ducked his head into the gap, shining his collar light upward. "You're right," he said. "The Shahni must have cut all of them."

  "Of course they did," Merrick said as one of Miron Akim's earlier comments suddenly came back to him. "The Shahni who were left behind were trying to sabotage the equipment. Cutting all the cables and letting them fall a hundred meters would pretty well cover that." He reached up into the cylinder, running his fingers along the slightly rough metal surface. "Should be able to get decent traction," he decided, looking over at Zoshak's gloved hands. "I don't suppose you have a spare set of gloves I could borrow?"

  "I'm sorry," Zoshak said. "Will your hands be all right?"