The Cobra Trilogy

by Timothy Zahn

  * * *

  The helicopters' early morning flyby hadn't gone unnoticed by the gleaner-team, of course. But it wasn't until the day's testing began that they discovered the villagers, too, had heard the overhead activity.

  "You can see it in their faces and body language as clearly as if they were wearing wraparound displays," McKinley told Winward tightly an hour into the interviews. "They know the government's on to us and they're fully expecting some kind of move soon, probably within a day."

  Winward nodded; York and the others aboard the Dewdrop had come to the same conclusion. "Well, we certainly can't sit put for a full-scale military operation here. What's the earliest time you can be finished?"

  "Depends on how much data you want to take back," the other shrugged. "We're already combining the original day two and day three schedules, taking half the data points we'd originally planned for each—"

  From one of the rooms down the hall came a muffled shriek and the crash of a falling object. "What—?" McKinley snapped, spinning around.

  Winward was already moving at a dead run, auditory enhancers keyed for follow-up noises. The sounds of a struggle . . . muffled curses . . . that door—

  He slammed it open to see one of the Cobras pulling a struggling Qasaman from the desk he'd apparently thrown himself across. The experimenter, picking himself up shakily from the floor behind his overturned chair, was white-faced with shock, the pale skin in sharp contrast to the oozing blood on his cheek. Beside him on the floor lay a dead mojo.

  The Cobra looked up as Winward strode in. "The mojo tried to attack, and I had to kill it. I was a little too slow to stop this one."

  Winward nodded as McKinley skidded into the room behind him. "Get him out of here," he told the Cobra.

  "Killers," the Qasaman spat toward Winward as the other Cobra hauled him toward the door. "Foulspring excrement vermin—"

  The door slammed on his tirade. "Loses a lot in translation, I'll bet." Winward and McKinley moved to the tester's side. "You okay?"

  "Yeah," the other nodded, dabbing with a handkerchief at his cheek. "Took me completely by surprise—his control just seemed to snap, and there he was on top of me."

  Winward exchanged glances with McKinley. "When was that? When his mojo was killed?"

  "Oddly enough, no. As a matter of fact, I think they both jumped me at the same time. Though I couldn't swear to that."

  "Um," McKinley nodded. "Well, the tapes will show the details. You'd better go to HQ, get those scratches looked at. No point taking any chances."

  "Yes, sir. Sorry."

  "Not your fault. And don't come back until you're sure you feel ready to continue. We're not in that much of a hurry."

  The tester nodded and left. "If he's too obviously nervous it could skew his results," McKinley explained.

  Winward nodded. He had the recorder box back on the table now and popped the rear panel. "Let's see what really happened."

  The tester, it turned out, had been correct. Bird and man had attacked at precisely the same moment.

  "You can see signs of agitation in both of them," McKinley pointed out, running the tape again. "The rippling feathers and snapping motions of the beak here; the shifting muscle lines in his face, here, and the hand movements."

  "This is all in response to ultrasonics that humans can't hear?" Something prickled on the back of Winward's neck.

  "Right. Just look at the tester here—he's in the same ultrasonic beam and isn't so much as sweating hard." McKinley bit at his lip. "But I wasn't expecting this much of a common reaction."

  "They're getting some of their courage back, maybe, knowing troops are on the way."

  "But the birds aren't supposed to be intelligent enough to pick up on things like that," McKinley growled.

  "Maybe they pick it up via body language from their humans. Maybe that's the way the mojos' agitation transmits in reverse, too."

  "Possible." McKinley sighed. "Unfortunately, the body language and telepathic theories are going to be very hard to distinguish between without long-term studies."

  "Which we don't have time for." Winward grimaced. "Well, do the best you can—maybe you and the bio people will be able to pull useful results out of the raw data. In the meantime, try to avoid pushing any more of your subjects over the brink."

  "Yeah."

  * * *

  Banyon took a deep breath, exhaled it carefully. At long last, paydirt.

  The three creatures eyeing the humans from the undergrowth were krisjaws, all right—surely no two creatures on Qasama could have those wavy, flame-shaped canine teeth. Nearly two meters long, with the lean musculature and stealth of predators, they eased toward the four humans, eyes fixed on their prey.

  And Governor Telek's theory had been correct. On the shoulder of each sat an equally attentive mojo.

  "Now what?" Hanford murmured, a bit nervously, at Banyon's side.

  "You have the recorders running?" The Cobra sensed rather than saw Hanford's nod. "Everyone else in position?"

  Three acknowledgments came through his earphone. The other Cobras had the krisjaws boxed up . . . and it was time to test the predators' reactions. "Get ready," he muttered to the zoologists grouped behind him. "Here goes." Raising his hands, he fired a salvo from fingertip lasers into the brush at either side of the stalking animals.

  The krisjaws weren't stupid. All three froze in place for a long minute and then began backing away as cautiously as they'd been advancing. They got barely a meter, though, before a second burst of laser fire from one of Banyon's hidden flankers traced a line of smoldering vegetation behind them. Again they froze, heads turning slowly as if to seek out their hidden assailant. "Well," Banyon said after a few seconds, "it looks like they'll be staying put for a bit. How close did you want to examine them?"

  "No closer than necessary," one of the zoologists muttered. "I don't trust a flash net to hold anything that size."

  "Nonsense," Hanford said—though not all that confidently, Banyon thought. "Let me take a shot at the one on the right. Everyone watch for trouble."

  There was a soft chuff of compressed air from behind Banyon's shoulder, a glimpse of a tiny cylinder arrowing toward the target krisjaw—and with an explosive crack the flash net blew out to tangle the krisjaw's head and forelegs. Screeching, the mojo on its back shot clear . . . and the krisjaw went berserk.

  Banyon had used flash nets against spine leopards on Aventine on numerous occasion—had trapped bigger and meaner-looking animals on the Menssana's five-world tour a couple of months ago—but never in all that had he seen such a violent reaction. The krisjaw screamed in rage, slashing as best it could with teeth and claws at the fine mesh clinging to its body, rolling around in the underbrush and occasionally even twisting itself entirely off the ground in its frenzy.

  And within seconds it had opened up tears in the net.

  Hanford stepped a pace forward, raising his air gun again, but Banyon had already made his decision. "Forget it," he called to the zoologist over the noise, pressing the gun barrel down. Targeting, he swung his leg up and fired his antiarmor laser.

  The landscape lit up briefly, and with one final scream the krisjaw collapsed among the ruins of the net.

  Someone swore feelingly under his breath. "No wonder the Qasamans organize hunts against these things."

  "Yeah." Banyon shifted his attention to the other two krisjaws, still waiting quietly. Waiting, but several meters further to the side than they'd been a minute earlier. A new line of blackened vegetation smoldered beside them. "What happened?—they try to slip away in the confusion?"

  "They thought about it," one of the Cobras replied dryly. "I think we've convinced them to cooperate for the moment."

  "Cooperate," Hanford mused. "I seem to remember the mayor of Huriseem mentioning the krisjaws were pretty peaceful when the Qasamans first got here."

  "He said it was a legend," one of the others reminded him. "I find it hard to swallow that an animal's behavior w
ould change that drastically."

  "What do you think we're looking at right now?" Hanford snorted. "Those two krisjaws are being about as peaceable as they come."

  "Only because they see they'll be cut to ribbons if they try anything."

  "Which in itself is highly suggestive," Banyon put in. "Remember the gleaner-team report this morning about the apparent transfer of aggression between mojos and humans?"

  "You think the mojo made the krisjaw fight back against the net?" Hanford shaded his eyes as he searched the trees for the escaped bird.

  "Just the opposite," Banyon told him. "I'm wondering if perhaps the mojo was sitting on the krisjaw's natural aggression, holding it in check until it was forced too far away."

  "That's crazy," one of the Cobras scoffed. "The krisjaws are sitting targets out there—their best survival tactic right now is to run or attack."

  "Except that we've demonstrated we can kill them if they try either," Hanford said thoughtfully. "Remember the spookies on Tacta? If the mojos have a similar sense for relative danger they may recognize that their best bet really is to sit and wait."

  There was a long moment of silence as the others digested that. "I suppose it's reasonably self-consistent, as theories go," one of the zoologists said at last. "Hard to see how a system like that would get started, though. Not to mention how you'd prove it."

  "Given a telepathic ability, it seems pretty straightforward to me," Banyon said. "The mojos need some predator strong enough to take on a bololin in order to get access to their embryo-hosts. Maybe the mojo acts as long-range spotter for the krisjaw in return or something."

  "Though with the mojo's control the relationship doesn't have to be particularly mutual," Hanford murmured. "The birds may be out-and-out parasites."

  "Yeah," Banyon said. "And as for proving it . . . Dale, target the mojo nearest you, all right? Head shot; fast and clean, without affecting the krisjaw directly."

  "Okay," the voice came in his ear. "Ready."

  Banyon targeted the appropriate krisjaw and eased his weight onto his right leg. If this worked he wanted his antiarmor laser ready to fire. "Okay: now."

  A flicker of light from beside and behind the krisjaw caught the mojo—and an instant later the krisjaw screamed and charged. Banyon leaned back as he activated the automatic fire control, his leg swinging up to fire point blank at the creature's face. There was a blaze of reflected light, and the krisjaw's fur blackened as the laser flash-burned it. The animal slammed heavily to the ground—

  And Banyon looked up just in time to see the remaining krisjaw's mojo streaking for his face.

  The landscape tilted crazily as his nanocomputer threw him out of the way of the bird's attack—but not before he saw the the krisjaw, too, was in motion. He hit the ground, rolling awkwardly on his left shoulder as someone screamed . . . and he came up into a crouch to see the krisjaw spring toward Hanford.

  Banyon snapped his hands up in a fast dual shot at the predator, but what saved the zoologist's life in that first half second was his own reflexive shot with his flash net gun. The krisjaw hit, slamming Hanford to the ground, but with claws and teeth temporarily blocked by the netting it could do little except gouge at its victim. Banyon scrambled to get his legs clear of the undergrowth . . . but before he could bring his antiarmor laser to bear two brilliant spears of light lit up the forest and the krisjaw collapsed in a charred heap.

  Banyon got to his feet, looking quickly around. The mojo was still unaccounted for . . .

  But not for long. The bird was perched atop one of the other zoologist's crossed forearms, wings beating at the man's head and shoulders as it tried to work its beak in to the face.

  Banyon was on it in a second, grabbing its neck with both hands and squeezing. The mojo released its grip, fluttering wildly as it tried to get at its new attacker. But Banyon's grip had Cobra servos behind it . . . and within a few seconds the bird lay limp in his hands. "You okay?" he asked the zoologist, wincing at the blood oozing through the other's sleeves.

  "Arms and head hurt like crazy," the other grunted, lowering his guard hesitantly. "Otherwise . . . okay, I think."

  His face, at least, was unmarked. "We'll get you right back to the aircar," Banyon told him, turning back to Hanford. The other Cobras had the krisjaw carcass off him now, and Dale was kneeling beside him. "How is he?" Banyon asked.

  "Might have a cracked rib or two," Dale said, getting to his feet. "Not a good idea to carry him far; I'll go bring the aircar here."

  Banyon nodded and knelt beside Hanford as Dale set off at a fast trot. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

  "Scientifically vindicated," Hanford murmured, managing a weak smile. "We've now proved that mojos in the wild serve the same role they do for the Qasamans. They help the krisjaws fight."

  "And apparently help decide when fighting's the best approach," Banyon nodded.

  "As opposed to simply getting out of the way?"

  Banyon looked up to meet the angry glare of the team's uninjured zoologist. "I wasn't running out on you," he said quietly.

  "Of course not," the other snorted. "Just getting to a place where you could line up a clear shot, right? While it was busy with the rest of us. Fine job—really fine." He turned his back.

  Banyon sighed, closing his eyes briefly. They would never learn—neither the people who assigned Cobras as bodyguards, nor the bodyguarded people themselves. In a pinch a Cobra's computerized reflexes were designed to protect him and him alone. There was no provision for heroic self-sacrifice in the nanocomputer's programming . . . and the civilians would never understand that, no matter how many times they were told.

  There was a quiet click in his earphone: a relay from the split-freq equipment in their aircar. "Banyon? This is Telek; come in."

  "Yes, Governor. What's up?"

  "Any results on your hunt yet?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. We can send them to you as soon as we get the recorders tied into the transmitter."

  "Don't bother," Telek said, and Banyon could hear a new undertone of tension in her voice. "Just get yourselves and the data back to the Menssana—you've got our current location?"

  "If you haven't moved since last night, yes. What's gone wrong?"

  "Nothing, really," she sighed. "At least nothing unexpected. But I want to be able to pull out quickly if we need to."

  Banyon grimaced as something tight took hold of his stomach. "The Qasaman convoy has reached outrider-one?"

  "Ten minutes ago. And the team's under attack."

  Chapter 29

  The forest was alive with the stutter of rapid-fire guns and the furious sleet of bullets tearing at leaves and undergrowth and blasting great sprays of splinters from tree trunks all around. Flat on his belly behind the largest tree he could find near his station, Justin hugged the ground and waited for the barrage to ease up or shift direction. It did, and he took a cautious peek around the bole. A hundred meters away six Qasamans were running back toward the convoy from the tree trunk the Cobras had felled across the road. They'd been placing explosives, Pyre had guessed . . . and even as Justin watched, the barrier erupted with yellow fire. The smoke cleared to show a section of the trunk had disintegrated.

  "Barrier down," one of the Cobras reported in Justin's ear. "Convoy starting up again."

  The hail of lead intensified, almost covering the sound of car engines, but little of the fire was coming in Justin's direction. "I'm on it," he said into his mike. Twenty meters closer to him was the next of the trees along the road they'd prepared so carefully last night. Raising his hand out of the matted leaves, he targeted carefully and fired.

  The rope holding the precut tree snapped; and with a crack of breaking wood audible even over the gunshots it toppled gracefully across the road. "Barrier replaced," he reported.

  "Stand by to pull back," Pyre said tersely. "Smoke . . . ?"

  In response, the forest on both sides of the road erupted with black smoke. "Lead team, pull back," Pyre o
rdered.

  Justin began backing away from his tree, balancing the need for speed with the need to remain low. The smoke would block visual and infrared targeting, but there were always lucky shots to worry about. So far the Qasamans' lack of experience with warfare had showed up clearly in their unimaginative tactics; but they more than made up for that with enthusiasm.

  He was midway to his new cover, smack in the middle of nowhere, when a new stutter opened up from above. He froze, muffling a curse.

  The helicopters were back.

  Or at least one of them was. It was off to the east a ways, he estimated from the sound, probably blowing up some of the hundred or so "warm-body" infrared decoys they'd spent the morning setting up. But the machine was drifting closer. Making a quick decision, Justin leaped to his feet and dashed for cover. The pitch of the helicopter's drone shifted as he did so, and a second later he got a glimpse of the craft through the trees . . . and a rain of bullets abruptly splattered at his heels.

  He put on a burst of speed, and was behind his target tree before the Qasaman gunner could correct his aim. "I'm okay," he called into his mike before anyone had to ask. "But I'm pinned down."

  "I'm on it," someone grunted. "Someone give me covering fire?"

  "Got it," Pyre said. "On three. One, two, three."

  The helicopter had swung around, trying for a clear shot at Justin, and was framed almost perfectly between tree branches as Pyre's antiarmor laser flashed squarely into the cockpit windows.

  The craft jerked, nearly destabilizing enough to slide into the treetops bare meters below. But the pilot was good, and within seconds the craft was nearly steady again . . . and from directly beneath, a figure shot upward through the leafy canopy to grab the helicopter's side door handle. Twisting his legs upward, the Cobra turned himself around his precarious grip to what was in effect a one-armed handstand along the helicopter's side . . . and with his feet barely a meter from the main rotor hub, his antiarmor laser blazed forth.

  The pilot did his best. Almost instantly the craft banked hard to the side, throwing the Cobra off in an action that should have killed him. But with the nanocomputer's cat-landing programming even that small satisfaction would be denied the Qasaman . . . and as he carefully righted the helicopter the stressed rotor metal gave way. Two seconds later the forest shook with the thunder of the crash.