by Timothy Zahn
He was lining up on one of the other Trofts when a laser shot caught him in his stomach.
For that first frozen second there was no pain, only the horrifying realization that his luck had finally run out. His knees buckled as the shock swept through him, and he felt himself falling as if in slow motion. He heard a voice shout his name as he landed hard on his knees, and from somewhere behind him he saw a sudden barrage of brilliant blue laser shots flashing across the remaining Trofts, throwing clouds of vaporized metal from their armor and twisting and throwing them into little piles of death.
And then, suddenly, the pain was there, rushing through him like a flash flood in a mountain arroyo. He gasped, gripping his stomach with both hands, feeling himself swaying as his eyes dimmed and he started to fall over.
He was headed face-first toward the hull when a hand came from behind him and grabbed him beneath his left arm in a steadying grip. A second hand took his other arm, and suddenly he was being lifted upright again, swaying a little as the two people made a mad dash along the hull. Dimly through the pain he saw an open hatchway with another Troft helmet just emerging, and then a gray-suited figure leaped over him from behind and a blue laser bolt sent the Troft tumbling out of sight. The figure stopped beside the hatchway, sending a flurry of bolts down into the opening as Merrick's handlers hustled him past. Through his wavering vision he could see the sentry ship's aft wings looming ahead . . .
With a jolt, he snapped back to consciousness and found himself sitting in the middle of one of the aft wings. Crouching in front of him was Siraj Akim, sorting quickly through a set of small hypos. Behind him, Zoshak was crouching beside the hull end of the wing, more white smoke drifting around him as he poured acid into the metal. "What—?" Merrick croaked.
"Just sit still," his mother's taut voice came from behind him, and only then did he realize that her grip on his upper arms was what was holding him upright. "Siraj Akim is trying to stabilize you."
Merrick turned his head to look toward the forward wings, wincing as he spotted the motionless bodies lying there. "Where are the others?"
"Most gave their lives for Qasama," Siraj said grimly as he carefully stuck the needle into Merrick's side. "I've already ordered the survivors away."
"The Trofts started firing at us with the weapons clusters under these aft wings," Jin explained. "Must have done some quick recalibrating—usually you can't fire on your own ship that way."
"They seem to have managed it just fine," Merrick said, knowing that she was talking mostly to distract him. Or to distract herself.
He focused on Siraj's grim expression as the Djinni selected another hypo. Yet more Djinn deaths on the young man's conscience. He wondered how Siraj was feeling, but his mind didn't seem to be working very well. But at least the pain was fading. "Did we take the ship?" he asked. "I mean the ground troops. Did they get inside?"
"I don't think so," Jin said. "And it's about to be too late. You feel that?"
With an effort, Merrick concentrated what little mind he seemed to have left. "The vibration?" he asked.
"Right," Jin said. "The Trofts are about to—there we go."
Merrick blinked as the cityscape around them suddenly shifted. The sentry ship they were huddled on was lifting off the pavement on its gravity lifts, rising above the level of the surrounding buildings and starting to turn toward the spaceport.
"So once again we've failed," Zoshak said bitterly. "More lives lost for nothing."
"At least we chased them away," Merrick said, a fresh ache flooding through him at Zoshak's words. He tried to think of what they might have done differently, how they might have pulled out the victory that Zoshak and Siraj deserved and the Qasamans so desperately needed. But his mind was drifting. "Sends them a message, anyway."
Zoshak hissed between his teeth. "You'll forgive me if I don't find that message worth the cost."
"You are forgiven, Djinni Zoshak," Siraj said.
Merrick frowned, trying to focus his increasingly bleary eyes on the other. Siraj was actually smiling. A grim, vicious smile, but a smile nonetheless. "You all right?" Merrick asked.
"I'm quite well, thank you," Siraj said. "You speak of a message, Merrick Moreau. And you, Djinni Zoshak, speak of cost." Dramatically, he pointed toward the street below. "Behold."
Merrick turned his head. In the center of the market place that their particular sentry ship had been overlooking, a large section of pavement had opened up to reveal a dark, deep pit. Too big a hole for individual soldiers, his sluggish mind realized, but also with no visible ramp for ground vehicles.
Which left only . . . "Mom?" he croaked.
And caught his breath as a helicopter shot out of the opening. A slender helicopter, lean and deadly-looking as an Arkon's dragonfly, black and gray in the reflected light, clusters of weapons visible beneath its own set of stubby support wings as it climbed rapidly into the sky. Hard on its tail was a second gunship, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth.
Behind him, Merrick heard his mother gasp. "SkyJos?" she said.
"Indeed," Siraj confirmed, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice. "Trapped uselessly in their underground hangar until we drove their unsuspecting guardian away."
The words were barely out of his mouth when the SkyJos opened fire.
The earlier diversionary attack on the sentry ship had been loud. But it was nothing compared to this. Merrick gazed out across at the city, wishing he could close his ears against the hammering as the SkyJos fired lasers and heavy missiles and multiple hailstorms of armor-piercing rounds at their invaders.
The Troft sentry ships didn't have a chance. Caught on the ground, their weaponry designed for repulsing ground-based attacks, they began to disintegrate beneath the pounding. A few of the more distant ones made it off the ground, but by the time they did other hidden nests around the city, now likewise freed from their enemy guardians, were sending their own fleets of SkyJos to join in the attack.
Away to the north, Merrick could see the first signs of movement from the airfield as some of the larger Troft ships tried to beat the approaching Qasamans into the air. One of the heavy ships succeeded in its attempts, rising above the buildings and picking up speed as it turned toward the nearest group of incoming SkyJos.
An instant later it was caught in a terrifying pillar of fire as the control tower it was passing over disintegrated in a thunderous explosion. The crippled ship veered violently sideways, tried to back up, then crashed to the ground. From the multiple flashes of secondary explosions, Merrick guessed it had probably crashed on top of some of the other Troft ships.
He turned back to Siraj. "You're right," he slurred through suddenly numb lips. "That was one hell of a message."
The last thing he remembered as Siraj's face blurred and then faded into darkness was the sight of a pair of SkyJos coming up behind Siraj, their lowered grab nets fluttering in the breeze.
Chapter Twenty-one
The deep-forest village was quiet and dark as the SkyJo settled into the center square. "Where is everyone?" Jin asked as the pilot cut the engines.
"He's waiting," the other said tersely, pointing to one of the larger houses bordering on the square. "You go alone."
Jin unstrapped from her jumpseat, keying her optical enhancers as she did so. There were two men flanking the building's front entrance, standing with the stiffness of military guards. "Understood," she said, turning for a final look at Merrick. His eyes were closed, and even in the dim light she could see that his face was unnaturally pale. But his chest was rising and falling rhythmically, and the stretcher's readouts were showing a cautious stability in his other vital signs.
"He's waiting," the pilot repeated.
"Go ahead," Zoshak said. "Ifrit Akim and I will wait with him. Go and find out what this is all about."
"All right," Jin said, wondering what exactly she was going to tell the two of them when she came back. According to the plan, she and Merrick were to h
ave been brought out here alone, not with a pair of Qasaman hitchhikers in tow. Certainly not with Miron Akim's own son along for the ride.
But there was nothing for it now but to play it through and hope Akim was able to improvise. Opening the gunship's side door, she stepped out onto the wet grass and started toward the house.
From the air, the village had looked deserted. From ground level, it looked dead. There were no lights showing anywhere that Jin could see, and the only sound aside from the light wind rustling through the trees and bushes was the faint whooshing from the second SkyJo flying high cover above them. Even her infrareds were unable to pick up human heat sources in any of the buildings except the one she was heading for.
Had Miron Akim cleared out the entire village for this?
One of the two door guards stirred as she approached. "He's waiting," he said, leaning over and pushing open the door. "First room on the right."
"Thank you." Stepping between them, Jin walked into the house and turned into the indicated doorway.
And stopped abruptly in her tracks. "Good evening, Jasmine Moreau," Moffren Omnathi said gravely from the depths of an armchair in the center of the room. "How nice to see you again."
It took Jin two tries to find her voice. "And you as well, Advisor Omnathi," she said between frozen lips, her heartbeat thudding suddenly in her chest.
"Yet you seem surprised to see me," Omnathi said calmly. "Almost as if you were expecting someone else."
"Indeed," Jin said as calmly as she could. So it was over. Akim's plan, and her own hopes. Omnathi had found out about it, and it was all over. "Tell me, what have you done with Miron Akim?"
"I?" Omnathi asked, as if surprised she would even think such a thing. "I do nothing to anyone. Surely you know that."
"Of course," Jin said. "My mistake. You merely give the orders. Others carry them out."
"Yes," Omnathi said. It was a simple statement of fact, unencumbered by either embarrassment or pride. "But do not concern yourself," he continued. "As I'm sure Miron Akim himself told you, he is far too valuable to be disciplined."
"I'm relieved to hear that," Jin said. As if she actually believed it. "Do my son and I stand in similar positions?"
"You made an agreement with the Shahni," he reminded her, his voice going a shade darker. "Your nanocomputer for the chance to warn your people of the impending Troft attack. Despite that agreement, you and Miron Akim conspired to send both you and your son away without fulfilling your side of the bargain."
"Yes, I know what was said and done," Jin said, suddenly tired of playing games. "Whatever you're going to do to us, get on with it."
"Please; indulge me," Omnathi said gravely. "I lay out the facts solely to impress upon you the understanding that I know everything there is to know about the path you and Miron Akim have chosen." He paused. "So that you will know that I speak from full understanding when I tell you I agree with that path."
Jin's bewilderment must have shown in her face, because Omnathi actually smiled. "You doubt my sincerity?" he asked. "Or merely my sanity?"
"I'm . . . confused," Jin managed. Was this some sort of cruel joke? "If you disagreed with the original deal . . . ?"
"Why did I not speak up?" Omnathi sighed. "Because despite the firm belief of our people, the Shahni's decisions are not always wise. In this case, they completely failed to understand the realities of our situation. Even if I held your nanocomputer in my hand right now, it would take months to decipher the programming and weeks or months more to construct enough of them for our needs. After that it would be months before we learned how to create the fiber control network and the bone laminae, to say nothing of the necessary techniques for implanting the servos."
"None of which you've been able to do in thirty years of trying," Jin murmured. "Miron Akim told me."
"In fact, it has been far more than thirty years," Omnathi said. "We have been trying to reconstruct your weaponry ever since your people's first visit here six decades ago. Even with your wholehearted assistance, I fear we would still fail in our attempts."
His gaze drifted away from her, his eyes focused on infinity. "No, Jasmine Moreau," he said quietly. "The promise of your nanocomputer, even offered in good faith, is a false hope. The Trofts were handed a terrible defeat tonight, and indeed many of them have fled from our world in disarray. But if this is indeed a war against all humankind, they will not stay away for long. They will return, more cautious and more determined. And we will have no further surprises with which to shake them."
His eyes came back to her. "We can survive for a season. But barring a miracle, ultimate victory cannot and will not be ours. Not alone. Not without aid from your people. If you fail to fulfill your promise to Miron Akim, Qasama will die."
Jin swallowed hard. Never before had she seen a Qasaman leader stripped of his pride and bluster and supreme confidence in himself. It was eerie, and more than a little unnerving.
But as she looked into Omnathi's eyes, she felt her fatigue and uncertainty hardening into a brittle, ice-cold resolve. Behind the cultural arrogance were real, genuine human beings. Human beings worth saving. "I won't fail, Moffren Omnathi," she promised him quietly "Whatever help I can find, I will bring back to you."
"Then I will trust you." Omnathi smiled again, but this time the smile was edged with sadness. "For indeed, I have no choice."
Placing his hands on the armrests, he pushed himself carefully to his feet. "Come. Your departure is at hand."
He walked past Jin out into the hallway and turned toward the rear of the house. "Where are the rest of the villagers?" Jin asked as she moved up beside him.
"The women and children have moved to nearby mines or ravines for safety," Omnathi said. "The rest are out in the forest, either hunting wayward Trofts or guarding the transport we have captured for your use."
Jin pursed her lips. "You do know, don't you, that I don't know how to fly a Troft ship?"
"That is being taken care of as we speak." Omnathi stopped at a door and gestured to it. "Please; after you."
Jin opened the door and stepped through into a large, brightly lit dining room, to find herself facing an extraordinary sight. Seated at a long dining table was a bedraggled-looking Troft, wearing a standard, unarmored leotard. Behind him stood two Qasamans, a young man and woman, the former wearing a Djinn combat suit, both of them peering unblinkingly at the alien's every move. Off to the side was a third Qasaman, this one a middle-aged man. The latter looked up as Jin and Omnathi entered, but none of the others in the room seemed to even notice them. Omnathi flicked his fingers at the older Qasaman, who nodded and turned back to the Troft. [An attack, it comes from behind,] he said in cattertalk.
The Troft's hands reached to the table in front of him, his fingers darting back and forth across the smooth wooden surface. [A radio challenge, it requires a response,] the Qasaman said.
The Troft swiveled around in his seat and again drummed his fingers, this time on a different part of the table. Like he was punching actual buttons, Jin thought, and operating an actual control board.
Which was, she realized abruptly, exactly what he thought he was doing.
She looked sharply at Omnathi. "The pilot of the transport we have obtained," the other murmured. "He believes himself to be in his control room."
Jin looked at the two young Qasamans, a shiver running up her back. And even as the middle-aged man manipulated his drugged Troft puppet, the two observers were watching his every move, their own drugged minds recording every nuance of his actions.
"You do not approve?" Omnathi asked.
With an effort, Jin pushed the shivers away. "It'll get us home," she said. "That's all that matters."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Omnathi nod. "Good," he murmured. "They will be finished soon. Let us go examine your vehicle."
The Troft transport was parked about a hundred meters from the village, nestled into a small clearing that fit it so well that Jin suspected the tree
s had been cut down specifically for the purpose. "There were nearly a dozen razorarms in the cargo bay when we took the vehicle," Omnathi said as the two of them walked through a sentry line of grim-faced villagers. "We assumed you wouldn't wish to be bothered with their care and feeding during the voyage home and therefore released them back into the woods."
Jin nodded. It might have been smarter to leave the predators aboard in case they ran into an advance ship near Aventine whose crew decided to be suspicious and examine their cargo. But it was too late to do anything about that now. "How big a crew will we have?" she asked as Omnathi led the way through the open hatchway.
"Only the two you saw back there," Omnathi said. "The woman is Rashida Vil, the man is Ghofl Khatir."
"Who's also a Djinni," Jin murmured.
"Obviously," Omnathi said. "Interestingly, he was slated to lead tonight's attack on the sentry ship. The attack you weren't originally scheduled to take part in," he added offhandedly.
Jin swallowed. That had also been part of the deal she'd worked out with Miron Akim, something to give the attack better odds of success. Was there anything about her private conversations, she wondered, that Omnathi didn't know? "What happened?" she asked.
"Nothing mysterious," Omnathi assured her. "Miron Akim learned he was a qualified pilot and so pulled him off the attack so that he could be sent here to prepare for your flight to Aventine."
And put in his own son as second squad leader instead. Jin had wondered about that, especially so soon after Siraj's defeat the previous day. "And the young woman?"
"Rashida Vil is also a qualified pilot, and is furthermore fluent in the Troft language," Omnathi said. "That will be helpful if there are any sentries still in position over Qasama who will need to the pilot's pass codes and clearances. As to the rest of your fellow travelers, I presume you already know them."
Jin frowned. Fellow travelers, plural? "Isn't it just my son and me?"
