by Timothy Zahn
"Report," Pyre snapped as the explosion died into the dull crackle of burning fuel.
"No problem," the Cobra assured them all. "Watch the branches if any of you have to try that—the damn things scratch like hell."
Justin let out a relieved sigh . . . and suddenly became aware of the relative silence. "They've stopped shooting—"
"Almo, we've got a Qasaman on the road," one of the others interrupted. "He's alone—well, with a mojo—and he's holding a white flag."
A white flag. Winward had gone out under a white flag the last trip here and had been shot for his trouble. Justin's jaw tightened as he wondered if Pyre remembered that . . . wondered what the other's response would be.
"Okay," Pyre said after a moment. "Everyone keep looking sharp—they may be using him as a diversion while they sneak around to encircle us on foot. I'm going to call him over and see what he wants."
"Target the mojo right away," someone said dryly.
"No kidding. Here goes."
Pyre's voice continued normally in Justin's ear as, bullhorn amplified, the Qasaman translation echoed among the trees: "Continue forward. Keep your hands visible and your mojo on your shoulder. I'll tell you where to leave the road."
Quiet returned to the forest. Notching up his auditory enhancers, Justin settled down beside his tree to wait.
* * *
Telek rubbed her eyes with the heels of both hands. "The problem," she told Pyre wearily, "is the same one we've had ever since the convoy first appeared: namely, we simply don't have enough data yet to pull out."
"What you mean is that you haven't proved yet that the mojos are directly controlling the Qasamans," he retorted.
Probably true, she admitted to herself. "What I mean is that the gleaner-team hasn't finished its agenda."
"It may not get the chance," Pyre growled. "I don't think they're bluffing when they say this is our last chance to pull out before they turn up the fire. And if they don't mind how much it costs them we really aren't going to be able to hold them very long."
And that short reprieve would cost them ten good Cobras—and probably give the Qasamans reasonably undamaged Cobra equipment to study. "The last thing I want is a full battle with you on the losing end," Telek told him. "But I don't see the hook yet, and past experience tells me there's one somewhere in this offer."
"Maybe there isn't. Maybe Moff just wants to avoid bloodshed."
Telek's lip twitched at the name. Moff. Escort for off-world visitors, sharp-eyed observer who'd pulled the whole thing down on them last time, and now one of the leaders of this thrown-together task force. A man of many talents . . . and a man of luck, too, to have survived Justin's Purma rampage. She wondered how Justin was feeling about Moff's presence out there, chased the thought irritably from her mind. Moff. What did she know about him that might give her a clue as to what he was up to with this? Did he want to chase the invaders away from the village into an ambush where the Qasamans wouldn't be risking civilian lives? Was there something in the village they didn't want found? Could it really be as simple as an attempt to drag the two cultures back from an otherwise almost inevitable war?
But the gleaner-team needed more time.
"Governor?"
"Still here, Almo," she sighed. "All right, let's try an experiment. Tell them we'll pull out as soon as we've shown a representative that we haven't hurt or killed anyone in the village."
"Will that give outrider-three enough time to bring their bololin herd by the village?"
Telek checked her projections. "It might, if we take things slow enough. But we probably wouldn't have time after the hunt-stress test to remove the neck sensors the gleaner-team's got on the subjects."
"The Council was pretty firm on the point of not leaving any electronics behind," Pyre reminded her.
"I know, I know. Well, if we have to scrap that test, we scrap it, that's all. Look, just see if they'll buy the idea of a tour. I'll talk to Michael and McKinley while you do that, see if they have any ideas."
"All right." Pyre hesitated. "If it'll really help . . . we are prepared to die out here."
Telek blinked away sudden moisture. "I appreciate that," she managed. "But you also qualify as electronics I'd rather not leave behind. Talk to the Qasamans and call me back."
* * *
"Yes, I do have an idea," Winward told Telek with grim satisfaction. "I've been thinking about it ever since the psych people first started complaining that we needed to do long-term studies."
"And?"
"And if you can't do the studies themselves, the next best thing is to get the results," he said. "And I think I know just where to find them."
* * *
"We want it to be someone in authority, whose word the Qasaman leadership trusts," Pyre warned the messenger, watching his words carefully. "We want to prove our people have acted humanely."
"You invade our world and terrorize an entire village and then expect to earn a reputation as gentlemen?" the Qasaman spat. "You're in no position to make demands of us; but as it happens Moff is willing to accompany your escort to the village. As a gesture of good faith only, of course."
"Of course," Pyre nodded. Winward had called it correctly . . . and whatever Moff's own reasons for accepting the offer, he would soon be in their hands.
And at that point it would be up to McKinley and Winward. Pyre hoped they could pull it off.
* * *
"Two . . . one . . . mark." Dan Rostin flipped the aircar's huge electromagnet off as, in perfect synch, Parker swung the little craft into the air. Just in time: the flankers of the bololin herd thundering by grazed the aircar's underside with their dorsal quills. Parker grabbed some more altitude and blew a drop of sweat from the tip of his nose. "Outrider-three to Telek," he called toward the long-range mike. "Last course change complete. Can you confirm the direction is right?"
"Telek here," the governor's voice came back promptly. "Just a second—we're getting a reading from the Dewdrop." There was a short pause. "Yes; confirmed. Have they picked up speed for some reason?"
"They sure have," Parker told her. "I think all these direction changes and field strength fluctuations are starting to get to them. If they keep it up they'll pass the village in about fifty minutes."
"Dewdrop gives us essentially the same number. All right, I'll let gleaner-team know. I hope it doesn't ruin their schedule."
"So do I," Parker snorted. "There's no way we're going to slow them down, that's for sure."
Telek sighed. "Yeah. Well . . . get back here, preferably without drawing attention to yourselves. Don't worry about making good speed; it doesn't look like we'll be moving from here for quite some time."
* * *
Moff drove his car through the open village gate and then said his first words since leaving the Cobras' blockade: "Where now?"
"The mayoral building," Justin told him. "It's ahead down the street and to the left."
The other nodded, and Justin sent a sidelong look at the Qasaman's face. Moff hadn't seemed surprised to have Justin assigned as his escort; but then, little ever seemed to surprise him. Even now, entering an enemy-held village, his face was impassive, only his darting eyes giving any indication of concern or worry. "Where are all the villagers?"
Justin glanced around. Except for a Cobra at each end of the block they were approaching, the streets were indeed deserted. He put the question via communicator to Winward. "They're all outside in the north and central parts of town," he relayed the answer.
"I'd like to see them before I speak to your leaders."
Justin shrugged, striving for unconcern. They were on a tight schedule, but he couldn't tell Moff that. "Okay with me," he said. "Just don't take too long. I want the talks to get underway before anyone starts shooting out there again."
"Our people won't start more fighting if yours don't."
Justin shrugged again and settled back to endure the detour. He was supposed to try and get an inkling of what Moff wa
s up to, but aside from spotting a likely recording device built into the Qasaman's mojo perch he hadn't seen any sort of equipment that could give him any hints. The thought of the bacteriological attack on Cerenkov and Rynstadt on the last trip made his skin creep, despite the assurances by Telek and Winward that Moff was unlikely to risk his own life with such stuff when safer delivery methods existed. The Aventinians' logic, he kept remembering, was required by no law of nature to be the same as the Qasamans'.
Moff drove them around a couple of corners—and there, indeed, were the villagers.
It looked like a giant in-town picnic, to Justin's eyes, with most of the adults sitting around in small groups while children played games around and among them. At the edges of the square Cobras stood on guard.
"The remainder are through the archway there?" Moff asked, pointing.
"I think so, yes."
Without asking permission the Qasaman turned a corner and headed that way. The rest of the villagers were in a smaller open area a couple of blocks further north, and Moff stopped as they came within sight of the crowd. For a moment he looked them over, as if searching for mistreatment, and Justin noticed his shoulders turning slowly as he gave the recorder in his epaulet a sweep of the area. Allowing the troops back at the blockade to see the villagers were all right, if the recorder was transmitting a live picture—
Justin felt his body stiffen. No, not the villagers. He watched the other's eyes, noted where they paused. Moff was looking at the guards.
He was counting the Cobras.
Of course. It was the same trick, turned inside-out, that he'd used to view the Dewdrop's interior when Joshua and York were allowed back inside. Of the thirty Cobras in the village, Justin guessed about twenty were guarding the two groups of civilians—an absurdly small number for three thousand people, even given Cobra abilities. Moff had surely noticed that, and would just as surely conclude that the total number of Cobras wasn't much higher than the number visible.
Or, in other words, that the gleaner-team was a sitting target. Which implied . . . what?
Justin didn't know; but the others needed this information right away. Pressing his mike surreptitiously against his lips, he began to whisper.
* * *
York shook his head, eyes hard on the display before him. "No helicopter movement I can see," he told Telek. "You sure Moff's gadget isn't just recording?"
"We've found the transmission band it's using," she said tightly. "What about other aircraft? You said some fixed-wing craft had appeared on the Sollas airfield."
"They're still there. Almo still says no trouble at outrider-one's blockade?"
"Not unless they're sneaking troops in a wide circle around the area to head south on foot." Telek's image shook its head. "You think they're just waiting until we're clear of the village?"
York opened his mouth . . . and paused as a new thought struck him. "Tell me, does Moff seem to know his way around the village?"
"I'm sure they've got maps of the place in Sollas, yes," she said dryly.
"Right. Now tell me where there's enough room in the village for a landing shuttle."
"Why—" Telek broke off. "The area by the gate, and the two areas where we've got the villagers."
"And Moff's seen all three," York nodded grimly. "So he's now just confirmed what the helicopters last night probably reported: the gleaner-team has no ship standing close enough for a quick escape."
Telek let out a long, shuddering breath. "Damn. Damn, and damn again. No wonder he's not in any hurry to attack. He wants another crack at a starship, and he wants his task force in reasonable combat shape when it shows up. Hence the cease-fire. Captain, what's our best possible time to the village?"
"From here, no less than thirty minutes," Shepherd's voice came on. "The ship's not designed for extended high-speed atmospheric flight."
"Half an hour," York snorted. "We could drop down and reach them faster than that."
"Except that there's no way you could stuff the fifty people from gleaner and outrider-one aboard and still lift," Telek growled. "Well, gentlemen, we'd better figure something out, and fast. Our best chance at a diversion's due to hit the village in just under forty minutes now. Gleaner-team has to get out then."
Or, York added silently, they might not get out at all. Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, he stared at the display and tried to think.
* * *
The Cobra at the mayoral building's entrance stepped aside as Moff and Justin came up. "They're waiting in the first office on your left," he said, pulling open the door for them. Out of Moff's sight as the Qasaman passed, his hand made a quick brushing motion: the code sign for stay back. Justin nodded and drifted an extra half step behind Moff as they went to the office the guard had indicated. The door was open, and as they walked in Justin saw there were two men waiting for them: Winward and gleaner-team's head psychologist, Dr. McKinley. Both were standing in front of the room's low desk, and both looked vaguely tense.
"Good day, Moff," Winward nodded. "We've never actually met, but I've heard a great deal about you."
"And I you," Moff replied coolly. "You're the demon warrior who couldn't be killed. Or so it's said."
"Not by treachery, at any rate," Winward said, his tone chilling to match Moff's. "You'll note we treated your flag of truce more honorably."
"You speak of honor—"
"I speak of many things," Winward cut him off. "But before I do, I'd like to ask you to put your mojo in the next room."
Moff's back stiffened visibly. "So that I'll be totally defenseless before you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. If I wanted to harm you, both you and your damned bird would be stretched out on the floor there. You know that as well as I do. I'll ask you only once more."
"My mojo stays with me."
Winward sighed. "All right, have it your way." Reaching to the desk behind him, he scooped up a short-barreled, stockless rifle lying there and brought it to bear. With a screech the mojo leaped—
And shrieked again as the flash net caught it square across the beak.
"Here, Justin, put these in the next office," Winward said tiredly, handing the younger Cobra the immobilized bird and the net gun. "They don't show much capacity for learning, do they?" he remarked to Moff.
Moff's reply was lost to Justin as he deposited his charges next door; but by the time he returned Winward was speaking again. "Well, no matter. We have a pretty good idea of what the mojos do for you, and it's clear enough that if it comes to a full-fledged war we'll win easily."
"Because you cannot die?" Moff snorted. "Some may believe that; I don't. No demon protects you—or splits one mind into two men—" he added, throwing a baleful glare at Justin. "Your magic is simply science we have forgotten, and it will work as well for us when we've learned how it's done."
"Possibly," Winward shrugged. "But it's rather academic, because to learn how our magic works you'll need to kill some of us . . . and I doubt very much that your mojos will let you fight us face to face anymore."
Moff's mouth opened, but whatever he'd been planning to say apparently died on his lips. "What do you mean, won't let us fight?" he asked cautiously.
McKinley shook his head. "It's no use pretending, Moff. We've been taking data for less than two days and we already know how the mojos dangle you around like puppets. You've had three hundred years to study them—surely you know at least as much as we do."
"Puppets, you say." Moff's lip curled. "You understand nothing."
"Oh?" Winward said. "Then enlighten us."
Moff glared at him but remained silent. "The details don't matter," McKinley shrugged. "What matters is that the mojos have a vested interest in keeping their hunters—that's you—alive, and that they possess enough telepathic ability to back up their wishes. If they think you don't have a chance against us, they won't let you fight." He waved a hand. "The reactions toward us here in the village are all the proof we need."
"Oh, are they?" Mo
ff spat. He seemed to be rapidly losing control, Justin noted uneasily. Were McKinley's assertions really so hard for him to take? Or was this perhaps simply the first waking moment Moff had had in years without a mojo by his side? A mojo keeping his human aggression under control. . . . "Then what do you say about the fighters waiting to sweep down on you twenty kilometers north of here? Are they unable to fight?" He jabbed a finger at McKinley. "The villagers have a fear of you based on superstition—our fighters aren't so handicapped. And once we've proved you can be beaten—as we will within hours—the fear the mojos sense and are paralyzing them with will be gone. The next time you return, you'll find a world united to oppose you."
"You don't think the mojos will try and save your lives?" McKinley asked.
Moff smiled thinly. "They will protect us, certainly—by tearing the flesh from your bones in battle. This conversation is at an end."
Winward and McKinley exchanged glances, and the latter nodded fractionally. "All right, if that's the way you want it," Winward said. "We'll be out of your way within those few hours you mentioned; and if we're lucky, we won't have to come back."
"It doesn't matter if you do or not," Moff said quietly . . . and to Justin his voice had the feel of an open grave about it. "We will rediscover the secret of star travel someday. And we will then come and find you."
Winward's lips compressed and his eyes sought Justin's. "Return his mojo and escort him outside. He can stay with the rest of the villagers until we're ready to leave."
Justin nodded and indicated the door. Wordlessly, Moff strode past him and out into the hall, where he waited until Justin had brought him his mojo, still entangled in its net. "Just unwrap it carefully and the bird won't be hurt," he told the Qasaman, handing the creature into the other's arms.
Moff nodded, once, and stalked to the door. Justin watched him walk down the street toward the civilian holding area, then returned to the office. "He's on his way to the square," he told Winward.
