"Should one of us stay with the aircar?" Cavanagh suggested. "Kolchin, maybe?"
"It'd be an instant tip-off that we know they're conning us," Bronski said. "We'll stand a better chance if they think we're walking in stupid."
The Mrach aircar put down beside the rim cliffs next to an inward cleft in the rock, at the end of which was an open doorway. The door itself, Cavanagh noted, had been camouflaged to look like the rock around it-a secret entrance, apparently, left over from the days when the facility served as a working fortress. The two Mrachanis were waiting beside it as the three humans joined them. "Four of the visitors' food animals have escaped," one of the Mrachanis said, his voice trembling with agitation. "They have claws and predatory teeth, and they are loose inside the fortress."
"Are all other exits covered?" Bronski asked, brushing past him and looking into the doorway. Up close now, Cavanagh could see that it led into a dimly lit tunnel of indeterminate length. Neither Bronski nor Kolchin had made any move to draw their flechette pistols; he took the cue and left his own weapon in concealment.
"All are covered," the Mrachani said, his body trembling along with his voice now as he jabbed a finger anxiously toward the doorway. "Please-you must find them before they harm someone, or before the visitors learn they are gone."
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,the ominous old line flicked through Cavanagh's mind. Secret exits from fortresses, he remembered reading once, were nearly always booby-trapped to keep the enemy from coming in that way. He had no idea what the ancient Mrachanis had used for their security, and had no interest in finding out.
He looked at Bronski, hoping that the brigadier would decline the invitation and they could make a run for it. But- "Sure," Bronski grunted, waving a hand toward the doorway. "Show us where they were kept."
"All right," the first Mrachani said, stepping to the doorway and visibly bracing himself. "Follow me." Together, they stepped inside-
And taking a long step around behind them, Bronski got a grip on the stone-covered door and pulled his full weight against it. It swung ponderously past him and slammed with a thud, cutting off the Mrachanis' startled expressions. An instant later the thud was echoed by two sharper cracks as Kolchin fired a pair of precisely placed flechettes into the slender crack between door and frame, jamming the door closed.
"Changed my mind," the brigadier grunted. "That should slow them down a little. We'll take their aircar-Kolchin, you're on shotgun duty." He turned-
And froze.
Cavanagh spun around. Glowering at them from ten meters away, apparently materialized out of thin air, were six Bhurtala.
For a long moment no one moved or spoke. "Gentlemen, you have a choice to make," a disembodied Mrachani voice said. "You may surrender and become our guests for a while; or you may die here and now. Which do you choose?"
There was another short silence. One of the Bhurtala rumbled something impatient sounding under his breath and took half a step forward. "Gentlemen?" the Mrachani voice prompted. "I should perhaps mention that we've just received word of the fate of their companions on Granparra, and they're all rather upset with you. I would say they're looking for an excuse to make the decision for you."
"Such a gracious and congenial invitation," Bronski called, his voice thick with sarcasm. "How could we refuse?"
"Lay your weapons aside," the Mrachani instructed, "and step back."
"Do as he says," Bronski said, pulling out his flechette pistol and dropping it onto the ground in front of him.
Cavanagh and Kolchin followed suit. The overanxious Bhurt stepped forward and collected the weapons, glaring balefully the whole time. Then, brushing past them, he went to the camouflaged door and pulled the wedged flechettes out of the crack with his bare fingers.
"Excellent," the disembodied voice said; and to Cavanagh's surprise a section of rock beside the line of Bhurtala swung open to reveal a Mrachani in a small rough-hewn alcove. A camouflaged sentry hole, probably also how the Bhurtala had made their magical appearance. "Welcome to the Garden Of The Mad Stonewright," the Mrachani continued, stepping out of the sentry hole and swinging the door closed behind him. "Lord Cavanagh, Liaison Bronski, and Bodyguard Kolchin, I presume?"
"Yes," Bronski said, inclining his head slightly. "Ambassador-Chief Valloittaja, I presume?"
"Correct," Valloittaja said, returning the ritual nod. "Please-inside. Before any of our other guests see you."
"I congratulate you all on your ingenuity and persistence," he continued as they started down the tunnel Cavanagh had glimpsed earlier. "Also on your forged credentials. You very nearly succeeded."
"Fortunes of war," Bronski said. "What gave us away?"
"An old acquaintance of Lord Cavanagh's alerted us to your presence on Mra," Valloittaja said, his eyes glittering sardonically as he looked at Cavanagh. "Once we knew you were here, the rest was quite straightforward."
"More straightforward than yourMirnacheem-hyeea operations, anyway," Bronski said. "I imagine it's going to be quite a challenge to persuade the Zhirrzh to launch an all-out attack on a major Commonwealth world. What are you going to do, try to convince them you can sneak their warships in past the wake-trail detectors?"
Cavanagh stared at him in amazement. But Valloittaja merely gave the brigadier the Mrach equivalent of a smile. "You are amazingly insightful, Liaison Bronski," he said approvingly. "Very impressive indeed. Your conjectures are correct; it is merely your tense that is flawed."
"Meaning?" Bronski prompted.
"Meaning that I do not need to persuade the Zhirrzh to launch theMirnacheem-hyeea Two attack," Valloittaja said, "because I have already done so. Here we are."
He gestured to an open door on their left. An old wooden door, Cavanagh noted, fitted out with an only slightly more modern mechanical lock behind riveted metal plates. "Go on in," Valloittaja said. "Unless you wish the Bhurtala to assist you."
Silently, Cavanagh stepped inside. It was a single square-shaped room, relatively small, apparently carved directly out of the rock of the cliffs. Carved into the wall at about knee height was a deep groove that had once held a Mrach ribbon candle, though the lighting now was being provided by a primitive incandescent electric-light rectangle set into the center of the ceiling, probably part of the same upgrade that had included the door lock. The furniture consisted of three Bhurtist military cots: liquid-filled floater-bag mattresses resting on bolted and wire-strung metal frames.
"I apologize for the accommodations," Valloittaja said as the others followed Cavanagh inside. "I'm afraid you caught us unprepared for extra visitors."
"Don't worry about it," Bronski assured him, looking around. "So when and where does theMirnacheem-hyeea Two attack take place?"
Valloittaja smiled. "Thewhen is as soon as the attack force can be assembled. Thewhere... but you must forgive me if I choose to keep some matters secret. Good day, gentlemen."
He stepped back and gestured. One of the Bhurtala reached into the room and pulled the door closed.
It took nearly half an hour for Pheylan to get through a job he suspected a qualified tech could have knocked off in five minutes. But at last he was finished. "Okay, Max, I'm down to the cable," he informed the computer. "You ready?"
"I'm ready," Max said. "But again I urge you to reconsider. Once I'm disconnected from the fueler, I'll have access only to my internal audio and visual sensors, which are extremely limited. If you instead leave me connected, I'll be able to give you a more timely warning of approaching aircraft."
"Except that if those aircraft are Zhirrzh, I won't have time to get you out," Pheylan pointed out. "We're going to need you to work out the details of that sonic hull-cracking technique Williams came up with. Here we go."
Carefully, he cut through the final cable. Just as carefully, he lifted the meter-long silver cylinder out of the interlock chamber. "Still with me?" he asked, balancing the cylinder on the floor as he snagged the carrying case he'd rigged out of a pair of b
ackpacks.
"I'm here," Max's voice came from the speaker in the cylinder. "Or at least most of me."
"Sorry," Pheylan apologized. "I wish I could bring your peripherals and libraries along, but I can't handle all that alone. Next time we do this, I'll bring along a couple of pack animals."
"I would hope so," Max said. "Incidentally, I'm not nearly as fragile as you seem to think. My casing and component placement have been designed to withstand reasonably severe mistreatment."
"Glad to hear it," Pheylan said, stuffing the cylinder into the carrying case and fastening it securely in place. "Let's hope we don't wind up pushing the design specs."
Hoisting the cylinder onto his back, he settled the straps in place and picked up his own survival pack. Heavy and awkward-he hoped he wouldn't have to walk all the way to the Peacekeeper base. "Let's make tracks."
Max had set them down on a small knoll that jutted up through the tree-covered landscape around it. The knoll itself was free of both trees and large bushes, but there was a fair amount of ankle-high vegetation underfoot consisting of interlocking vines that threatened to tangle his feet with each step. Pheylan had picked his way through perhaps thirty meters of the stuff and was nearing the edge of the knoll when he heard the distant sound. "Max?"
"Approaching air vehicle," the computer said. "Only one, I believe, though with only my internal sensors I can't be certain."
"Never mind how many," Pheylan said, throwing a quick look around the sky as he picked up his pace. Nothing visible yet. "Is it ours or theirs?"
"I can't tell," Max said. "But from the drive pitch I'd say it's more likely a space vehicle than an aircraft."
Pheylan swore under his breath, kicking into a flat-out run toward the edge of the knoll. The only people in this system who had spacecraft to spare for a rescue search were the Zhirrzh. "What direction is it coming from?" he asked, scanning the sky again. A few more steps and he'd be to the edge of the knoll and the partial cover of the trees.
And then, suddenly, one of the vines caught his ankle, pitching him forward toward the ground. He threw out his arms, his hands hitting the ground-
And with a crash and flurry of tearing leaves and vines they went straight through the layer of interlocked vegetation and into empty space.
Two meters sooner than he'd expected to, he'd found the edge of the knoll.
The next few seconds were a disoriented tangle of movement and pain as he rolled and tumbled down the slope, slamming into rocks and stiff plant stalks with the repetitive impact of Max's cylinder pounding against his back. He fought unsuccessfully for balance, hands scrabbling for a grip on the plants as they rushed past, legs flailing as they tried for enough friction to at least slow down his mad slide. Something hit his head hard enough for him to see stars-
He awoke slowly, vaguely aware that someone was softly calling his name. "Commander Cavanagh? Commander Cavanagh?"
"I'm here, Max," he said, his voice sounding distant and slurred in his ears. His left leg was throbbing strangely; absently, he reached down to rub it.
And gasped in pain, coming fully awake in an instant as a stab of agony ripped through the leg.
"Keep your voice down, please," Max said. "Is it broken?"
"Oh, yes, definitely," Pheylan managed, clenching his teeth hard together. Gasping in pain was undignified enough without adding flat-out screaming to it.
He paused, listening, the throbbing in his leg abruptly pushed into the background of his thoughts.
The sound of the incoming aircraft, which had sparked his disastrous rush toward cover, had stopped.
"Are they here?" he whispered.
"Yes," Max confirmed. "I've counted five separate voices; there may be more."
Pheylan grimaced. "Not human voices."
"No."
Carefully, Pheylan turned his torso and head to look above him. He was about two thirds of the way down the slope, wrapped around the tree trunk that had probably been responsible for breaking his leg. Behind him the false ground cover hung a couple of meters off the end of the knoll, giving him partial concealment from the view of anyone up there. Aside from that, though, he was about as exposed as he could possibly be.
"Can you move at all?" Max asked. "Two meters downslope is a large bush that would provide you with concealment."
Gingerly, Pheylan tried it. He got about five centimeters before conceding defeat. "I can't do it," he panted, wiping at the sweat dripping into his eyes. "The pain's too much."
"Can you tell how bad the break is?"
"No," Pheylan said. "Bad enough."
For a minute Max was silent. Pheylan could hear the voices himself now, chattering quietly away above him on the knoll.
And, no, they weren't human.
"I don't think you have any choice, Commander," Max said at last. "Whatever the Zhirrzh do here, the probability is high that the Peacekeepers will assume all survivors have been captured and won't come themselves to search. Even if you could get to your survival pack, the medical pack would be of limited help with a broken leg."
Pheylan hadn't even missed the survival pack yet. He looked around, but wherever it had ended up, it was out of his immediate sight. "You're suggesting I surrender."
"I see no other alternatives. I'm sorry."
Pheylan sighed. So much for his big grandstand scheme to come here and help his sister. And to wind up a Zhirrzh prisoner again on top of it. If he lived through this, he was never going to live it down. "I'm sorry, too, Max," he said.
He took a deep breath. "Hey!" he shouted. "Down here!"
Parlimin VanDiver was halfway through his third glass of claretee when the word finally came through. "Ah," Paallikko said, looking at the terminal at his side. "At last. Yes, Parlimin VanDiver, Lord Cavanagh and Liaison Bronski were indeed here on Mra. Unfortunately, that is no longer true. It appears they both left five hours ago for Mra-mig."
VanDiver swallowed a curse. That figured. Once again, regular as nuclear clockwork, Cavanagh had found a way to waste some of his precious time. "Where on Mra-mig were they going?"
"The information does not say," Paallikko said, his voice heavy with regret and an echo of VanDiver's own irritation. At least he understood that a NorCoord Parlimin didn't have this kind of time to squander. "We only know their destination from the fact that the servicer who refueled their spacecraft happened to overhear them discussing it."
VanDiver tapped at his glass with a fingernail. "What about a skitter? Can we send a message ahead asking them to hold him?"
"The scheduled message skitter has already left," Paallikko said. "I could of course send a diplomatic skitter, but I'm afraid it would be of only limited benefit. Liaison Bronski's ship is courier-class, which means the skitter would still arrive at Mra-mig behind him."
"That figures," VanDiver growled. A courier-class ship: twice as fast as a normal stardrive, at five times the cost. Undoubtedly at government expense, too. Just one more irritation, plus one more charge to add to the mental list he was preparing for the prosecutor general.
"Shall I order your ship to be refueled?" Paallikko asked. "A courtesy, of course, with no cost to the NorCoord Parliament."
"Yes, thank you," VanDiver said. If Cavanagh was gone, there was no sense hanging around Mra anymore. "I'd also like you to send that diplomatic skitter on ahead, just in case they're planning to stay on Mra-mig for a while. At my personal expense, of course."
"The skitter will be prepared," Paallikko said, tapping keys on his terminal. "But at Mrach expense. I insist."
No doubt about it, these Mrachanis knew how to treat visiting dignitaries. "Again, I thank you," VanDiver said, setting down his glass and climbing to his feet. "And for your hospitality, as well. I'm in your debt."
"Not at all," Paallikko assured him, standing up as well. "It is always a pleasure to deal with men like you. A very great pleasure, indeed."
24
The Human-Conqueror prisoner Srgent-janovetz straightened up, turni
ng his head back and forth to the side. "What can you tell me?" Thrr-mezaz asked him.
The optronic speaker on his shoulder gave the translation, and Srgent-janovetz replied. "The left leg's definitely broken," the Zhirrzh words came from the translator link in Thrr-mezaz's ear slits. "Was he unconscious when you found him?"
"I'm told he was conscious then, but that he lost consciousness when they moved him into the transport," Thrr-mezaz said. "Can you heal him?"
Srgent-janovetz looked down at the injured Human-Conqueror as he spoke. "No," the translation came. "I'm not that skilled a healer."
"Mm." Thrr-mezaz looked over at Thrr-gilag. "What do you think? Should we turn him over to our own healers, or ask the Human-Conqueror commander to send us one of theirs?" But Thrr-gilag wasn't looking at him. He was instead staring intently into the unconscious alien's face. "Thrr-gilag?" Thrr-mezaz said, slapping at his brother's spinning tail. "You want to join in this conversation?"
Timothy Zahn - Conquerors 03 - Conquerors' Legacy Page 40
