by Timothy Zahn
The other was looking pretty miserable. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have done it. They can still back down."
Jonny shook his head. "No, you did the right thing, all the way down the line. Putting the twins aboard could give us a key tactical advantage, and the full council probably wouldn't have gone for my proposal any more than Brom and company did. Especially with the cost estimates Cally and Almo provided." He shook his head. "Pity Cally's too old to go along—a Cobra with military experience would be awfully nice to have on the scene. . . ." He trailed off thoughtfully as an idea suddenly occurred to him.
"You're not planning to go yourself, are you?" Corwin asked suspiciously into his train of thought.
"Hm? Oh, no. Not really. I was just trying to think of a way to make this all up to your mother." Taking a deep breath, he let it out in a controlled sigh. "Well. I'll be out of here in the morning, or so they say—soon enough for us to break this to her. Why don't you talk to Joshua tonight, get his reaction. If possible, I think we should all be together when we tell Chrys."
"All except Justin," Corwin reminded him. "He'll be in surgical isolation for another week."
"I know that," Jonny said, a touch of asperity making it through the emotional damper around him. "But the three of us should be there."
"Right," Corwin nodded, standing up. "I'll let you get back to resting now and see you in the morning. I can check on my way out when you'll be released and be here to drive you home."
"Fine. Oh, and while you're checking that, would you ask the doctor to drop by when he's got some time? There are some things I want to discuss with him."
"Sure," Corwin said. He held his father's eye another second, then turned and left.
Shifting to a more comfortable position, Jonny closed his eyes and let all tensions melt away. Had there been another touch of suspicion in Corwin's face as he left? Jonny wasn't sure. But it didn't really matter. Unlike his son, he had several other governors besides Telek with whom he could cut a deal . . . and by the time Corwin found out about it, it would all be arranged.
And the other would surely approve, anyway. Eventually.
Chapter 5
The room they'd taken him to was the first surprise—Justin had had the impression that the new trainees would be kept together for their first postoperative orientation session. A quick glance around the office as his escort left him alone was a second shock: no Cobra training instructor could possibly have an office this ornate. The desk—had he seen its carved cyprene wood in the Cobra lecture tapes he'd studied before applying? If so, this was the private office of Coordinator Sun himself. Whatever was going on, this was not part of the published schedule.
Behind the desk, a private door opened. Justin tensed; and as a man stepped into the room, he felt a relieved grin spread over his face. "Almo! I thought you were still out in Syzra District hunting down spine leopards."
"Hello, Justin—no, please stay seated." Pyre sat down behind the desk.
And Justin suddenly realized the other hadn't even smiled in greeting. "What's up, Almo?" he asked, his pleased surprise evaporating. "Is something wrong? Good Lord—is it Dad?"
"No, no, your family's fine," Pyre hastened to reassure him. "Although in a couple of months—" He broke off. "Let's start over. How much do you know about the Qasama thing?"
Justin hesitated. Admitting to Pyre that his father had given the family confidential information was no big deal in and of itself . . . but under these circumstances. . . . "Just the basics of the Troft offer," he said. "My father wanted to discuss the ethical aspects with us."
"Fine," Pyre nodded. "Then I won't need to go over that with you. In the past three weeks there've been some twists added—by the Council and, believe it or not, your own brother."
Justin listened in silence as Pyre explained the Council's expeditionary plan and Corwin's suggestion, his emotions turmoiling between shock and excitement with very little room left amid it all for rational thought. "The Council's voted to put you two aboard if you're both willing to go," Pyre concluded. "Any immediate reactions?"
Justin took a moment to find his tongue. "It sounds . . . interesting. Very interesting. What's Joshua had to say about it, and where do you fit in?"
"Joshua you can ask yourself—I'll send him in when I'm done. As for me—" Pyre's lip twitched in something between a smile and a grimace. "I'm going to be head of the shipboard Cobra contingent—four of us in all. And if you choose one of those slots, I'll be handling all your Cobra training for the next few weeks."
Justin was suddenly aware of the neckwrap computer nestling around his throat—the programmable training computer that would be replaced by the implanted Cobra nanocomputer if and when he graduated. "Specialized training, I gather? Stuff you don't need to fight spine leopards?"
"And special-function programmed reflexes that are built into the standard nanocomputer but never needed in forest work," Pyre nodded. "Ceiling flips, backspins; that sort of thing."
"Won't your other Cobras need that, too?"
"They'll be joining us once your basics are out of the way, three to four weeks from now." Pyre leaned his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingertips in front of him. "Look, Justin, I've got to be honest with you. I can tell you're seeing this as a big fat adventure, but you have to realize the chances are fair we'll all wind up dying on Qasama."
"Aw, come on, Almo," Justin grinned. "You'll be there, too, and you're too lucky to be killed."
"Stop that!" Pyre snapped. "Luck is statistical chance, with a weak coupling to skill and experience. Nothing more. I've got a little of both—you'll have practically none of either. If anyone dies, it's likely to be you."
Justin shrank into his chair, taken aback by Pyre's outburst. The older man had been one of Justin's most admired role models when he was younger, the one who—as much as his father—had catalyzed his decision to become a Cobra himself. To be chewed out by that role model was more of a shock than he'd ever dreamed such a thing could be.
His expression must have mirrored his feelings; but Pyre nevertheless continued to glare for several more seconds before finally letting his eyes soften. "I know that hurt," he said softly, "but it didn't hurt nearly as much as a laser would. Get it into your head right now that this is a probe into enemy territory. Your father will tell you that fighting spine leopards is a picnic in comparison."
Justin licked his lips. "You don't want me along, do you?"
For the first time Pyre's gaze slipped away from Justin's face. "What I want personally is irrelevant. The Council made a decision, all the old war veterans concurred that it made good tactical sense, and Governor Telek persuaded them I was the man to lead the Cobra contingent. My job's been defined for me, and it's now up to me to carry it out. Period."
"And you're afraid I won't be able to handle it?" Justin asked, the first stirrings of anger starting to seep through the numbness.
"I'm afraid none of us will be able to," Pyre replied tartly. "And if the whole thing goes up, I don't like the fact that my attention will be split between the mission's safety and yours."
"Why should it be?" Justin retorted. "Because you've known me since I was in diapers? Because you've been Dad's friend even longer? I'm 22, Almo, old enough to take care of myself now—and if you want logic, how about the fact that I won't have to unlearn all the little tricks of fighting spine leopards that the rest of you will? You have any complaints about my youth, save them for after the training, all right? Then maybe we'll have some actual specifics to discuss."
Pyre's eyes were again locked with his and unconsciously Justin braced for a second outburst. But it didn't come. "Okay," Pyre said softly. "I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting into. Believe it or not, I do understand how you feel . . . though you'll find that others may not." He stood up, and a hint of the old Almo Pyre peeked through for an instant. "I'll let Joshua come and talk to you now. I'll be in the office across the hall; just come on over when you're finished
. Take your time, but try not to make this one of those wide-ranging starvation sessions you two are famous for." With a glimmer of a smile he left the room.
Justin let out a shuddering sigh of relief. His heartbeat was heading back toward normal when his twin arrived a minute later. "Almo told me to keep this talk under six months," Joshua said, seating himself in the recently vacated desk chair. "Do we really talk that much?"
"Only together," Justin said.
"Probably true," the other conceded, running a critical eye over his brother. "So. How do you feel?"
"From the surgery, fine. From Almo's little talk, like someone just threw an oversized gantua at me. Accurately."
Joshua nodded his commiseration. "I know how you feel. So . . . what do you think?"
"Sounds like something I'd really like to do—or it did before Almo went into an amazingly deep discourage mode. I gather you also have reservations?"
Joshua frowned. "Not especially, aside from the obvious aversions to getting myself killed. Who said I did?"
"Almo implied someone was having problems with the plan."
Joshua's frown became a pained grimace. "Probably referring to Mom."
"Mom." Justin ground his left fist hard into his right palm with chagrin at having forgotten all about her in the excitement—and an instant later the stab of pain from both knuckles and palm reminded him that, even with the limitations imposed on it by the neckwrap computer, his new strength-enhancing servo network wasn't something he could afford to ignore. Fortunately, the skeletal laminae had made his bones virtually unbreakable, which meant that this time he'd get away with only bruises. On his pride, as well as on his skin. "Grumfick it, I didn't even think of what this would do to her," he admitted to Joshua. "She been told yet?"
"Oh, yeah—and believe me, you were having lots more fun in surgery." Joshua shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe we ought to pass this up."
"What did she say?"
"About what you'd expect," the other sighed. "Dead set against it emotionally, only marginally more for it intellectually, and feeling generally betrayed that Corwin would even suggest such a thing. We tried to convince her that you were getting off easier than if you'd been assigned to Caelian, or even to the spine leopard extermination squads, but I don't think she believed us."
"Almo doesn't believe that," Justin pointed out dryly. "Why should she?"
Joshua waved a hand in futility. "I didn't invent the art of wishful thinking; I just market it locally."
"Yeah." Justin found a vacant corner to stare at for a moment, then returned his gaze to this brother. "So you really think we should pass this up?"
"To be brutally honest, no." Joshua began ticking off fingers. "Corwin's basic idea sounds good, and it's obvious we're the only two in the Worlds who could pull it off. We're likely to also be the only ones aboard who share Dad's view that hiring ourselves out is a dangerous precedent. And finally—" He grinned suddenly, shyly. "Heck, Justin, you felt it in school, too. We're Moreaus—sons of the Cobra, Troft War veteran, governor emeritus, original Aventinian pioneer Jonny Moreau himself. People expect something great from us."
"That's a pretty blithering reason to do something."
"By itself, sure. But combined with reason number two, it means our report and recommendations will carry a hefty bit of inertia when we get back from Qasama . . . and given the current Council leaning, Dad may need that extra bit of weight to keep them from doing anything stupid."
And on the other hand, Justin thought grimly, is what it'll do to Mom. Your basic no-win situation. But Joshua was right . . . and if there was one thing they'd learned from both parents, it was that personal comfort and preference were never to stand in the way of service to the whole. "All right," he said at last. "If you're game, so am I. 'Gantuas, hell: charge!' and all that."
"Okay." Joshua stood up. "Well, then, we'd better get to it. Almo's got some serious sweat waiting for you, I don't doubt, and I've got a couple of surgeons down the hall warming up an operating table for me."
"Surgeons?" Justin frowned, getting—carefully—to his feet. "What do they want you for?"
Joshua winked slyly. "You'll find out. For now, suffice it to say that it's something that'll let you be the best me possible when we get to Qasama."
"The best what? Come on, Joshua—"
"See you in a couple of months," Joshua grinned and slipped out the door.
You and your stupid guessing games, Justin thought after him, and for a moment considered chasing him down and badgering whatever this was out of him. But Almo was waiting across the hall; and we're not 16 years old anymore, he reminded himself. Squaring his shoulders, he headed out to confront his new tutor.
* * *
Telephone screens had never in their long history come anywhere near the fine-detail resolution even the simplest computer displays required. It was a failing deliberately built in, Jonny had once heard, not for financial reasons but psychosocial ones. Wrinkles, worry lines, minor emotional perturbations—all were edited out, to the point that if the picture on the screen was happy, sad, or angry, it could be safely assumed the person himself was deep into the corresponding state.
It was a shock, therefore, to see how utterly tired Corwin appeared.
"As of ten minutes ago we were back to deadlock, Dad," his eldest son told him, shaking his head. "Of course, the Tlossies are really bargaining for the Baliu demesne, and Speaker One has only limited flexibility to work with. Especially on the survey mission budget. Every time we try to add something he has to take something else away. Or so he claims."
Jonny glanced over the screen. Chrys, seated at the dining room table, was pretending to be engrossed in the collection of electronics parts she'd spread out there, but he knew she was listening to the conversation. "Maybe I'd better come back down there, then," he told Corwin. "See if I can help."
"Not worth it," the other shook his head. "Governor Telek's bargaining at least as hard as you could, and everyone's keeping out of each other's way for a change. Besides, the temp's dropped ten degrees since sundown."
Jonny grimaced; but it was just one more environmental factor he'd had to learn to live with. Capitalia was in the middle of the first cold snap of autumn, and moving in and out of heated buildings was more than his arthritic joints could stand. The only alternatives to hiding indoors were heated suits or extra pain medication, neither of which especially appealed to him. "All right," he told his son. "But if you guys don't break for the evening soon, call me back and I'll relieve you. You look beat."
"I'll be all right. The main reason I called was to check a couple of things on this parallel survey mission request you put in. How much of that are you willing for the Worlds to finance?"
"Not a single quarter," Jonny told him flatly. "At the bottom line this is a trade deal, Corwin, and no one trades for merchandise he hasn't even seen, let alone inspected. Of course, since it's the Pua demesne that's actually offering the five planets, you can probably insist the Speaker charge them the survey costs. All that'll ultimately do is throw the issue back to Pua and Baliu to work out between themselves, but at least it should get it out of our hair."
"Yeah." Corwin shook his head in bemusement. "Hard to believe this collection of business cutthroats actually got together long enough to fight a war."
"They did. Believe me, they did. And there's nothing that says they couldn't do it again."
"Point taken. Well . . . are you willing for us to use the Menssana for the survey mission if the Trofts—whichever Trofts—pay all the other expenses?"
Jonny bit at his lip. "I'd rather they provide the ship, too. But okay—if you have to fall back to that position, go ahead and do so. They pay for the fuel, though."
"Okay. Actually, I'll probably wind up holding that option against something the Qasama mission needs. Talk to you later."
They signed off, and for a moment Jonny gazed at the screen as he tried to visualize all the various lines the negotiations could
move along. But it was too much like an oversized game of trisec chess, with just too many possibilities to hang onto simultaneously. Getting to his feet—an easy enough operation in the overheated room—he went over to the table and sat down next to Chrys. "How's it coming?" he asked, eyeing the mass of wires, microcomponents, and centipeds set into her circuit board.
"Slow," she said, fiddling with the controls on her diagnostic display. "I'm beginning to see why everyone prefers buying finished Troft electronics to just getting the components and building things themselves. These centipeds in particular have a lot of odd and not entirely obvious response characteristics outside their quote normal unquote usage range."
"You'll figure it all out," Jonny assured her. "You were once the best electronics tech in—"
"In Ariel?" She snorted. "Thanks a spangle. There were only two of us there—I had to be best or runner-up."
"Best, definitely," Jonny said firmly. A touch of the old Chrys, the sense of humor that had been so muted lately . . . perhaps she was finally getting a grip on the turmoil of the past few weeks.
Or perhaps she was simply retreating into her own past. It had been years since she'd done anything serious with her electronics training.
"You realize, of course," she cut quietly into his thoughts, "that if you let the Menssana go on this survey mission, there'll be no backup ship available if the Dewdrop gets in trouble on Qasama."
Jonny shook his head. "We weren't going to use the Menssana for that anyway. There'll be one or more Troft warships hanging back from Qasama in case some extra muscle is needed."
"I thought the Trofts didn't want to fight the Qasamans."
"If the mission has any trouble, they'll damn well have to," Jonny said grimly. "But they shouldn't have any real qualms—a local commando-type strike is hardly the same as committing to a full-scale war."
