by Timothy Zahn
"A nice speech, Jor," Telek said tartly, "but you're missing a few rather vital points. One: What if they hit Chata and the other worlds out there before they find the Trofts?"
"What of it?" Hemner replied. "If we quit the job now our people won't be out there, anyway."
Telek's lip might have twitched, but her voice was even enough as she continued. "Second is your assumption the Qasamans will forget us. Wrong. They'll remember, all right, and whether it's a year or a century they'll brace for war the minute they run into us again. You may not believe that," she added, glancing around the table, "but it's true. I was there; I saw and heard the way they talk. You wait until Hersh Nnamdi's final report is in, see if he doesn't agree with me on that. And third: We let them get off Qasama and we're in for a long and very bloody war indeed. Our current technological edge is meaningless with brain-boosters in the picture—a few months or years of warfare and they'll be at our level, whatever it is at the time. And if you think they're decentralized now wait'll they're dug in on Kubha and Tacta and God knows where else."
"Your points are certainly valid," Stiggur said as Telek paused. "But all your tactical arguments miss the one big emotional stumbling block we're going to face here. Namely, are the Cobra Worlds really going to fight as Troft mercenaries against other human beings?"
"That's a rather inflammatory way of putting it," Vartanson accused.
"Of course it is. But it's the way that side of the issue is going to present their case. And in all honesty, I have to admit it's a valid point. We started this whole affair worrying about looking weak in the Trofts' eyes, if you'll recall, and a world's ethics are certainly part of its total strength. Besides, wouldn't we actually be adding to our position to have other human allies on the Troft border?"
"You're ignoring history, Brom," Jonny put in quietly. "Having two human groups on their borders is precisely what got the Troft demesnes worried enough to jointly prepare for war fourteen years ago."
Fairleigh snorted. "There's a good-sized difference between the Dominion of Man and Qasama as far as border threats go."
"Only in magnitude. And remember that Trofts don't go in for mass destruction from starships. They make war by going in and physically occupying territory . . . and Qasama would not be a fun place to go in and occupy."
"Agreed," Telek murmured with a slight shudder.
"Or in other words," Hemner said, "the Trofts can't bring themselves to slaughter, so they're hiring us to do it for them."
Several voices tried to answer; Vartanson's was the one that got through. "Forget the Trofts for a minute—just forget them. We're talking about a threat to us, damn it. Lizabet is right—we've got to deal with them, and we've got to deal with them now."
For a long moment the small room was quiet. Jonny glanced at Hemner, but the old man was staring down at his hands, clenched together on the table. Stiggur eventually broke the silence. "I think we've done about as much as we can with the data at hand," he said, looking at each of the others in slow, measured turn. "The final geological, biological, and sociological studies are due in ten days; we'll meet then—prior to a full Council meeting—and try to come to a decision." Reaching to the side of his display, he shut off the sealed recorder. "This meeting is adjourned."
Chapter 25
Stiggur's prediction of the opposition's tactical methods took only a few days to be borne out; and as he had when the Qasaman story first broke weeks earlier, Corwin abruptly found himself in the middle of the whole public debate.
But with a difference. Before, Qasama had been seen as little more than a mathematical equation: an abstract challenge on one hand, with the very concrete hope of more than doubling the Cobra Worlds' land holdings on the other. Now the comfortable fog was gone. As details of Qasama's people and dangers were released, a growing emotional fire began to simmer within even the most logical and rational arguments, both pro and anti. Most of the antis Corwin talked to were only marginally mollified by the assurance that Jonny was also against a massive war with other humans, their attitude usually being that he should be doing more to bring the Council over to that point of view. The pros tended simply to ignore such sticky ethical questions while claiming that the Cobra Worlds' own safety should be Jonny's first priority. It made for a verbal no-win situation, and within three days Corwin was heartily sick of it.
But it wasn't until he got a call from Joshua that he realized just how much the phone and public information net had again taken over his life.
"Have you had a chance to see Justin lately?" Joshua asked after the amenities were out of the way.
"Not since the evening after your debriefing." Corwin winced at that sudden revelation. Four days, it had been now, without talking to anyone in his family except his father. He wasn't used to getting so far out of touch. "I haven't had much time lately."
"Well, I think you'd better find the time for this. Soon."
Corwin frowned. "Why? Something wrong?"
Joshua's phone screen image hesitated, shook its head minutely. "I don't know. It's nothing I can put my finger on, but . . . well, he hasn't come back from the Academy yet, you know."
Corwin didn't. "Medical observation?"
"No, but he's spending almost all his time alone in the room they've given him out there. And he's doing a lot of computer library searches."
Corwin thought back to Justin's report, which he'd hurriedly skimmed and filed away two days ago. His brother had gone through hell's own porch out there . . . "Maybe he's just killing time while the emotional wounds heal over a bit," he suggested. But even as he said them the words rang false in his ears. Justin simply wasn't the type to lick his wounds in private.
Joshua might have been reading his mind. "Then those wounds must be a lot deeper than he's letting on, because he's never holed up like this before. And the library search stuff bothers me, too. Any way for you to get a list of what he's been researching?"
"Possibly." Corwin scratched his cheek. "Well . . . did you remind him we're having a Moreau Family war council this evening?"
"Yes," the other nodded. "He said he'd try to make it."
"Okay," Corwin said slowly. "Okay. I haven't talked to you, so of course I don't know he's been reminded. I'll call him up like a good big brother should, and while I'm at it I'll see what else I can get out of him. All right?"
"Fine. Thanks, Corwin—this has been driving me just barely south of frantic."
"No problem. See you tonight."
Joshua disappeared from the screen. Scowling, Corwin punched up the Cobra Academy and asked for Justin. A moment later his brother's face came on. "Hello?—oh, hi, Corwin. What can I do for you?"
It took Corwin a second to find his tongue. Seldom if ever had he known Justin to be so coolly polite, so—the term businesslike leapt to mind. "Uh, I was just calling to see if you'd be coming to the family round table tonight," he said at last. "I presume Dad told you about it?"
"Yes, a couple days ago, and Joshua again today. I understand Aunt Gwen's going to be there too."
Nuts, Corwin thought with a mental grimace. He'd been planning to drop that tidbit on Justin himself as a surprise bonus incentive to attend. Aunt Gwen—Jonny's younger sister—had been Justin's favorite relative since childhood, but her visits had been few and far between since her move to Palatine six years earlier. "That's right," he told Justin. "She's one of the geologists working on the Qasama data."
Justin's lip might have twitched at the name Qasama; Corwin wasn't sure. "Yes, Dad mentioned that. Well, as I told Joshua, I'll try to make it."
"What's to keep you away?" Corwin asked, studiously casual. "You're still off-duty, aren't you?"
"Officially, yes. But there's something I've been working on lately that I'm trying to finish up."
"What sort of something?"
Justin's face didn't change. "You'll find out when it's done. Until then I'd rather not say."
Corwin exhaled quietly and admitted defeat. "All right, be m
ysterious; see if I care. But let me know if you need transport and I'll send a car for you."
"Thanks. Talk to you later."
"'Bye." The screen blanked, and Corwin leaned back in his seat. The trip to Qasama had definitely changed his younger brother—and not necessarily for the better. Still, as he'd told Joshua, some things simply took time to work out.
His intercom buzzed: Yutu with something new on the public net that needed an official response. Sighing, Corwin turned on the net and, pushing his worries about Justin into the background, got back to work.
* * *
For Pyre, it was just like old times. Almost.
An invitation to the Moreau family dinners had always ranked at the very top of his list, not only because he enjoyed their company but also because their tacit acceptance of him as part of the family was an honor bestowed on few other outsiders. Over the years he'd had the privilege of watching the three boys move from high chairs to boosters to full adult participation; had learned by osmosis some of the intricacies of Cobra World politics; had even gotten to know Gwen Moreau, barely three years his senior, well enough to seriously consider marriage to her. Tonight as he looked around the table, listening and contributing to the chitchat, he felt the memories of those happier times drifting like the scent of good cahve through his mind.
But tonight the warmth was chilled, and all their efforts could not dispel the cloud that Justin's empty chair cast over the proceedings. Jonny had assured them that Justin would be there in time for the discussion, but as dinner wore down to dessert and then cahve Pyre began to doubt it.
And worse than Justin's voluntary exile was the cold certainty in Pyre's gut that ultimately it was his fault.
Not just the fact that he'd been Justin's Cobra trainer, the one responsible for making sure the boy was ready for the mission. Pyre had trained Cobras before, and if Justin had failed to develop that touch of defensive paranoia a man in danger needed, that was simply the other's basic personality. Too, he could have forbidden Justin's participation on the mission; but the Council wanted the twins aboard and there was nothing Pyre could have pointed to to justify dropping them out.
But if he'd followed the armored bus when Moff had taken Justin from Sollas to Purma. . . .
It was a scenario Pyre had played over and over in infinite variation on the trip back to Aventine, and it still haunted the quiet times of his day. If he'd followed the bus he could have broken Justin out at that first stop, the two of them then freeing Cerenkov and Rynstadt. Or even have waited until the high-security building and then backtracked to the others' rescue. Justin would never have had to face the situation of being deep in enemy territory, abandoned by the outside assistance he'd counted on.
And he wouldn't have had to learn quite so hard the fact that even Cobras were allowed to be afraid. Allowed to panic.
Allowed to remain human.
Dinner ended, and the group moved into the living room. But Jonny had barely begun when there was a quiet knock on the door and Justin let himself in.
There was a brief, awkward moment as everyone tried for the right balance of greeting, interest, casualness, and solicitude. But then Joshua managed to break the ice. "About time," he growled, mock-seriously. "You were supposed to be bringing the main course."
Justin smiled, and the tension eased. "Sorry I'm late," he apologized, also mock-seriously, to his brother. "The gantua steaks will be along in a minute—and as partial compensation for the delay, the meat is exceptionally fresh."
He sat down beside Joshua, nodded to the others, and then turned his eyes expectantly to his father. "How much have I missed?"
"As a matter of fact, we were just starting." Jonny hesitated. "What I'm about to say—about to suggest—is going to sound pretty strange," he said, glancing around at the others. "What's worse is that I haven't got any solid evidence whatsoever for it. That's the main reason you're all here: to help me decide whether I'm actually on to something or just hallucinating." His eyes shifted to Chrys, seated on the couch between Corwin and Gwen, and stayed there as if seeking strength. "I asked you to read the report on the planet Tacta that the Menssana brought back, in particular the section on the bird we've nicknamed the spookie. What was in there wasn't much—mainly just a brief encounter we had with one near the ship's perimeter. What wasn't there was the strong suspicion I've had ever since then that the spookie is in some degree telepathic."
The word seemed to hang like smoke in the air. Pyre flicked his eyes around the room: at Chrys, who looked troubled; Corwin, Gwen, and Joshua, whose faces appeared to register astonished skepticism; at Justin, whose expression was closed but . . . interested.
"All my evidence is subjective," Jonny continued, "but let me describe exactly what happened and see what you think."
Carefully, almost as if giving evidence in court, he went on to tell of the spookie watching him from the low bushes; of its agitation when he called others over to see; of its deftly timed, deftly executed break for freedom; and of the mission's failure to locate any more of the species. When he finished there was a long silence.
"Anyone else come to this conclusion?" Gwen asked at last.
"Two or three others are wondering about it," Jonny told her. "Understandably, none of us put it in our official reports, but Chrys and I weren't imagining things out there."
"Um. Doesn't have to be a complete, mind-reading telepathy, does it?" Gwen mused. "With a spookie's brain capacity it shouldn't have the intelligence to handle input like that."
"Dr. Hanford made a similar comment at the time," Chrys said. "We've talked about the possibility the spookies might form some kind of group mind, or that the sense boils down more to a feeling for danger than actual mind-reading."
"I'd vote for the latter," Corwin put in. "A group mind, even if such a thing could exist, shouldn't worry too much about losing one of its cells. In fact, it might deliberately sacrifice a spookie or two to get a look at your weaponry in action."
"Good point," Jonny nodded. "I lean toward the danger-recognition theory myself, though it requires a pretty fine scale to have timed things that well."
"The fine-tuning, at least, could have been coincidental," Corwin suggested.
"Or the whole thing could have been coincidence," Joshua said hesitantly. "Sorry, Dad, but I don't see anything here that can't be explained away."
"Oh, I agree," Jonny said without rancor. "And if I hadn't been there I'd be treating it with the same healthy skepticism. As a matter of fact, I hope you're right. But one way or the other, we've got to pin this down, and we've got to pin it down fast."
"Why?" Pyre asked. "It seems to me Tacta's fauna is pretty far down the priority stack. What's the big rush for?"
Jonny opened his mouth—but it was Justin who spoke. "Because the Council's about to make a decision on war with Qasama," he said evenly, "and the mojos are related to these spookies. Aren't they."
Jonny nodded, and Pyre felt the blood draining out of his face. "You mean to say we were fighting telepathic birds down there?"
"I don't know," Jonny said. "You were there. You tell me."
Pyre licked his lips briefly, eyes shifting to Justin. The immediate shock was fading and he was able to think. . . . "No," he said after a minute. "No, they weren't strictly telepathic. They never recognized that we were Cobras, for one thing—never reacted as if I was armed until I started shooting."
"Did you ever see how they reacted to a conventional weapon, though?" Gwen asked.
Pyre nodded, "Outside the ship, the first contact. The team had to leave their lasers in the airlock."
"And Decker," Joshua murmured.
"And Decker," Pyre acknowledged, swallowing with the memory of York's sacrifice. "In fact, I'd go so far as to say the mojos don't even sense the presence of danger, at least not the way you claim your spookie does. When I climbed up a building at the edge of Sollas that last night I surprised both a Qasaman sentry and his mojo. The bird should at least have been in
the air if it felt me coming." He cocked an eyebrow at Justin. "You notice anything, one way or the other?"
The young Cobra shrugged. "Only that the group mind thing goes out the window with at least the mojos—none of them learned anything about us no matter how many of their friends we slaughtered." He paused, and a haze of emotional pain seemed to settle over his face. "And . . . there may be one other thing."
The others sensed it as well, and a silence rich in sympathy descended on the room. It took Justin a couple of tries to get started, but when he finally spoke his voice was steady and flat with suppressed emotion. "You've all read my report, I expect. You know I—well, I panicked while I was being taken underground in Purma. I killed all the mojos and some of the Qasamans in the elevator, and a few minutes later I killed another group in the hallway upstairs. What . . . what some of you don't know is that I didn't just panic. I literally lost my head when each set of mojos attacked. I don't even remember fighting them off, just sort of coming to with them dead around me."
He stopped, fighting for control . . . and it was Joshua who spotted the key first. "It was only when the mojos were attacking you?" he asked. "The Qasamans themselves didn't bother you?"
Justin shook his head. "Not to the same extent. At least not those in the elevator. The others . . . well, I don't remember killing them, either, I guess. I don't know—maybe I'm just rationalizing for my failure."
"Or maybe you're not," Jonny said grimly. "Almo, did you experience anything like that when you were fighting the mojos?"
Pyre hesitated, thinking back. He wished he could admit to such a thing, for the sake of Justin's self-esteem. If the mojos actually had been fueling the younger man's reaction. . . .
But he had to shake his head. "Sorry, but I'm afraid not," he told Jonny. "On the other hand, I never faced mojos who'd already seen I was dangerous, either. I was always in a position to target and eliminate them in the first salvo. Perhaps we could talk to Michael Winward, see what he went through."
