by Timothy Zahn
Jonny was silent for a moment. "Most military plans wind up being changed somewhere along the line," he said at last. "I wish I could offer some words of comfort about the casualties, too, but only the inadequate line about them sacrificing themselves to save everyone else comes to mind. That one never satisfied me, either."
"So they sacrifice themselves for the mission, and the next thousand sacrifice themselves for the Worlds. Is that how it goes?" Justin shook his head. "Where do you draw the line?"
"Anywhere you can," Jonny said. "And the sooner the better. Which is why I want you to come back to the house tonight."
"A family round table?"
"You got it. We have until the Council meeting to come up with an alternative to war."
"Like a blockade or something?" Justin sighed. "It's no good, Dad—I've tried already to come up with a way to do that. But a planet's just too big to surround." He stared down at his hands. His Cobra-strong, Cobra-deadly hands. "We just don't have any other choice."
"We don't, huh?" Jonny said, and Justin looked up at the unexpected fire in his father's voice. "People have been saying that ever since the Trofts first suggested this mess. As a matter of fact, people have been telling me that for most of my life."
Carefully, Jonny got to his feet and walked to the window. "They told me the Trofts had to be thrown bodily off Adirondack and Silvern. Maybe they were right that time, I don't know. Then they said we Cobras had to stay in the Army because we wouldn't fit into Dominion society. Instead, we came to Aventine and built a society that could live with us. Then they said we had to fight the Trofts again or Aventine would be destroyed . . . and with a little work we proved them wrong that time, too. Don't ever accept that something bad has to be done, Justin; not until you've explored all the possibilities yourself." He coughed, twice, and seemed to slump as he turned back to face his son. "That's what I want you to help me do tonight."
Justin exhaled quietly. "What about Mom?"
"What about her? She doesn't want war, either."
"You know what I mean." Justin tried to get the words out, but his tongue seemed unwilling to move.
"You mean volunteering for the second mission without consulting with the family?" Jonny walked back to his chair and sank into it. "She was hurt by that, yes. We all were, though I think I understand why you did it. But watching her children go their own way has been one of the silent aches of being a mother since the beginning of time." He sighed. "If it helps any, I can tell you her fears and worries about you aren't entirely based on what you yourself have done. She's been . . . well, haunted, I guess, by the memories and bitterness of the path I took after I'd done my service as a Cobra."
Justin frowned. "You mean politics? I know Mom doesn't care that much for politics, but—"
"You understate the case badly." Jonny shook his head. "She hates politics. Hates the time it's taken from us these past couple of decades. Hates what she sees as a wastefully high work-to-result ratio."
"But you were needed. She's told me herself you helped integrate the Cobras into the political system."
"Maybe I was needed once, but not any more. And with you seemingly determined sometimes to be a replay of me—well, it's brought things to a head."
"Well, she doesn't have to worry about me in that area," Justin said emphatically. "Corwin can have Aventinian politics, as far as I'm concerned. I'd rather hunt spine leopards any day."
Jonny smiled slightly. "Good. Why don't you come with me and tell her that yourself?"
"And while I'm there, come up with a way to stop a war?"
"As long as you're there anyway, why not?"
Justin shook his head in mock exasperation and got to his feet. "Dad, you have definitely been in politics too long."
"So I've been told. Let's go; it's likely to be a long night."
* * *
The transfer module beeped its indication that the magdisk copying was complete. Stifling a yawn, Telek turned back to the phone and Jonny's waiting image. "Okay, I've got it," she told him. "Now you want to tell me why you had to wake me at—uh—"
"Four-forty," Jonny supplied.
"—at four-forty in the morning to receive a magdisk you could have sent to my office four hours from now?"
"Certainly. I wanted you to have those four extra hours to see if we've come up with an alternative to war."
Telek's eyes focused hard on his. "You've got a viable counterproposal?"
"That's what you're going to tell me. And the Council, if the answer is yes."
She licked her lips. "Jonny . . ."
"If it works, we will get the new worlds," he added quietly. "Corwin and I have already worked out how to sell the whole thing to the Baliu demesne as a reasonable fulfillment of their contract."
"I see. Thank you, Jonny. I'll get on it right away."
* * *
The Moreau Proposal, as the plan came to be called, eventually was given an eighty percent chance of success by the experts who studied it. Lower by several points than a properly managed war . . . but with vast savings in human and economic costs. After two weeks of public and private debate, it was accepted.
And two months later, the Menssana and Dewdrop, accompanied by two Troft troop carriers, once again headed for Qasama.
Chapter 31
Night on Qasama.
Again they dropped down silently, with only gravity lifts visible; but this time there were three ships instead of just one. The Troft transports set down in two widely separated wilderness areas along the inner curve of the Fertile Crescent, while the Menssana landed near the top of the Crescent's arc. For York, aboard the latter ship, it was a significant location: barely ten kilometers from the road connecting Sollas and Huriseem. A suitable place indeed for him to repay the Qasamans for his lost arm.
There was a crackle of split-frequency static from the bridge speaker. "Dewdrop to Menssana; hurry it up. We've got some very nasty-looking supersonic aircraft coming your way. ETA no more than fifteen minutes."
"Acknowledged," Captain Shepherd said calmly. "The Trofts drawing similar attention?"
"Not specifically, but we've got other aircraft scrambling in what looks like a search pattern toward their general location. They've been alerted."
"Better anti-radar equipment," York grunted.
"There they go," someone said from the bridge's left viewport.
York stepped to his side. The Menssana's outer floods had been dimmed to a soft glow, but there was enough light for him to see the silent exodus from the ship's cargo holds.
The mass exodus of spine leopards.
Most of the animals paused a moment as they stepped out onto the unfamiliar soil, looking around or visibly fighting for balance as the effects of their long sleep dissipated. But none lingered long by the ship. They loped off into the darkness of the forest, the mass already beginning to spread out as they vanished from view, and York could almost sense the eagerness with which they set out to study their new home. However they knew such things, they must surely know this was a world literally full of unclaimed territory. How large would their first litters here be, he wondered. Fifteen cubs? Twenty? No matter. An ecological niche existed, and the spine leopards would do what was necessary to fill the gap.
And with luck, the mojos would soon find they again had a choice of partners. York hoped to hell Telek was right about the birds' distaste for cities.
"All out," a voice came from the intercom. "Hatches sealed, Captain."
"Prepare to lift," Shepherd said. "Let's head home."
A moment later the ship was floating toward the stars. Peering out into the darkness, York sought one final glimpse of the almost literal seeds of discord they'd just sown on an unsuspecting world. Be fruitful and multiply, he thought the ancient command toward the spine leopards below, and replenish the land. And subdue it.
Chapter 32
"I understand," Joshua remarked, "that the Baliu Trofts weren't exactly overwhelmed by our solution to the Q
asaman problem."
Corwin shrugged, his eyes lingering on the starfield for another second before turning to face his brothers. The Menssana was due to load at any minute and he didn't want to miss seeing that. "They weren't at all sure it was going to work, if that's what you mean," he told Joshua. "We had to pull out disks and disks of data that showed how really uncooperative humans normally were and how any progress toward space would be dramatically slowed or even halted altogether once the mojos deserted them."
"If they do," Justin murmured, his own attention still directed out the window.
"There is that," Corwin admitted. "Actually, the Trofts were more convinced that would happen than we were—it was the results of the change they weren't sure of. I get the feeling their biopredictor methods are a bit ahead of ours."
"Like everything else," Joshua agreed wryly. "Hey—here come Almo and Aunt Gwen."
"There you are," Gwen said as they came up through the milling crowd to the others. "I thought you'd be watching from around the other corridor."
"You get a better view of the passengers here," Corwin explained. "I was starting to think you were going to miss the event entirely."
Pyre shook his head. "We just came from saying goodbye. Everyone else had been shooed out already, but they made an exception for us. Amazing what being a hero will do for you."
The others chuckled—all except Justin, Corwin noted, who merely smiled slightly. Still, that was progress of a sort. The scars of his failings—real or perceived—were still visible, but at least they weren't bleeding any more. For his brother's sake alone Corwin could hope the Moreau Proposal succeeded.
"Jonny tells me you persuaded the Trofts to lend some troop carriers for the Caelian evacuation," Pyre continued. "How'd you sell them that one?"
Corwin shrugged. "Wasn't really hard. If the Qasamans do manage to get into space the Baliuies would just as soon they were as immediate a threat to us as to them. It's to their advantage to let us have the new worlds and help us a bit in settling them. Especially considering they've just saved themselves the cost of financing a war."
"There they go," Justin said suddenly.
Everyone turned to look. The line of passengers for the trip to Kubha—or Esquiline, as it'd now been officially renamed—were crossing the short distance from the old entrypoint building to the waiting ship. Near the front of the column Corwin spotted his parents, Chrys supporting Jonny with an arm around his waist but both walking with a firm tread. Bound for a new world. . . .
Behind him, Gwen sighed. "This really is crazy, you know," she said to no one in particular. "Emigrating in his condition—and to an untested world, yet."
"Not entirely untested," Pyre reminded her. "Besides, the hot climate there will be better for him than anything the civilized areas of Aventine have to offer."
"And there're no politics there, either," Justin murmured.
Corwin looked at the other, wondering how much he knew of that old parental sore spot. But Justin's face was giving nothing away. Doesn't really matter, Corwin thought with a mental shrug. What mattered was that his parents would have their last two or three years together away from the worst of Aventine's memories. Away from Aventine—and in precisely the same sort of culturally uncluttered world in which they'd first fallen in love. It was, Corwin thought, perhaps their best shot at happiness. He hoped it worked.
Together, the five of them watched Chrys and Jonny board the Menssana. Then Joshua let out a quiet breath and craned his neck to look down the hall. "I think we'll get a better view of the launch path from the gallery over there," he said, pointing. "Anyone want to come?"
"Sure," Gwen said. "Come on, Almo."
"I've seen enough lifting ships to last me both this life and the next," Pyre grumbled. But he nevertheless allowed her to steer him away.
Justin remained gazing out the window as the three left, and for a few heartbeats Corwin wondered if the other hadn't realized that he, too, had stayed behind. Then Justin stirred and glanced down the hallway. "You think they'll ever get together?" he asked.
"Who—Almo and Aunt Gwen?" Corwin shrugged. "Don't know. I guess it depends on whether Almo ever allows himself to give up the responsibilities of being a Cobra long enough to accept someone else into his life. You know better than I do how seriously he takes his job."
"Yeah." Justin was silent a long moment. "You realize if it doesn't work . . . well, Dad will be dead before the Qasamans can find the new worlds, but Mom might not be."
Corwin understood. "I don't know, Justin. But if the mojos really do leave them there'll be nothing in particular to unite them into a common front, warlike or otherwise. Especially since they'll probably flounder around for a while just getting used to the new competition. And if they're broken up into smaller states or factions they're as likely to open trade as to take shots at us."
Justin shook his head. "You're forgetting what they're like. I've seen them, Corwin, and I know they'll hold the grudge they have against us until their sun burns out. That kind of hate and fear will keep them working together against us, no matter what other competition arises."
"Perhaps," Corwin nodded. "But only if their paranoia level stays as high as it is now."
"Why would it change—?" Justin broke off as a look of disbelief crossed his face. "You mean . . . the mojos might have been behind that?"
"Why not? We know they can amplify human emotions when they want to."
"But what does it gain them to have their hunters jumping at shadows?"
"Well . . ." Corwin's lips twitched in a secret smile. "If you were convinced the universe was out to get you, where would you rather live? A city on a plain, or a village in the middle of a forest?"
Justin opened his mouth, blinked . . . and abruptly laughed. "I don't believe it."
"Well, maybe I'm wrong," Corwin shrugged. "But maybe in a couple of generations we'll find the Qasamans have become a perfectly reasonable society, ripe for trade and diplomacy."
"We can hope so, anyway." Justin sobered and turned again to the window. "It's so hard when the old folks leave the nest."
Corwin laid a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We'll all miss them," he said quietly. "But . . . well, they're old enough to make these decisions for themselves. Come on, let's get over to the others. Traumatic times like this are what families were made for." Together, they headed down the hallway.
Cobra Bargain
Chapter 1
"Governor Moreau?"
Deep in personal combat with the official bafflegab staring out at him from his reader, Governor Corwin Jame Moreau switched mental gears with an effort and turned his attention to his intercom. It made for a pleasant change; Thena MiGraw's face was a lot nicer to look at than Directorate papers. "Yes, Thena?"
"Sir, Justin is here. Shall I have him wait a few minutes?"
Corwin grimaced. Shall I have him wait. Translation: should she give Corwin a few minutes to prepare himself. Typically perceptive of Thena . . . but Corwin had already stalled this confrontation off a couple of days, and if he wasn't ready now, he never would be. "No, go ahead and send him in," he instructed her.
"Yes, sir."
Corwin took a deep breath, straightening himself in his chair and reaching over to shut off the reader. A moment later the door opened and Justin Moreau strode briskly into the room.
Strode briskly; but to Corwin's experienced eye the subtle beginnings of Cobra Syndrome were already starting to show in his brother's movements. The ceramic laminae coating Justin's bones, the implanted weaponry, servos, and joint strengtheners—after twenty-eight years his body was beginning to react to all of it, precipitating the arthritis and anemia that would, a decade or two from now, bring his life to a premature end. Corwin winced in sympathetic pain, wishing for the millionth time that there was something he could do to alter the inevitable. But there wasn't. Like his father before him, Justin had chosen this path willingly.
And like the late Jonny Moreau, he had also ch
osen to accept his fate with quiet dignity, keeping his pain to himself whenever possible and quietly deflecting any offers of sympathy. In Corwin's opinion, it was a counterproductive approach, serving mainly to increase the Moreau family's collective sense of frustration and helplessness. But he understood his brother well enough to know they had to grant him his choice of how to face the long and painful path ahead.
"Justin," Corwin nodded in greeting, reaching across the desk to offer his brother his hand. "You're looking good. How are you feeling?"
"Pretty good," Justin said. "Actually, I suspect that at the moment you're suffering more from Cobra Syndrome than I am."
Corwin felt his lip twist. "Caught the debate on the pub/info net last night, I see."
Justin made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "All of it I could stomach, anyway. Which wasn't very much. Is Priesly as much of a phrijpicker in private as he is in public?"
"I almost wish he was. I'd actually be happier if he and the rest of the Jects were simply the frothing idiots they look like on the net—if they were we'd have found their strings years ago." Corwin sighed. "No, unfortunately Priesly is as sharp as he is gantua-headed, and now that he's finally hammered the Jects into a real political force he sees himself as holding the balance of power in both the Council and Directorate. That's heavy stuff for someone who considers himself an outcast, and he sometimes goes a little overboard."
"Does he?" Justin asked bluntly. "Hold the balance of power, I mean?"
Corwin shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "With his pack of sore losers trying to stir up a full-fledged crisis none of the Syndics or Governors seem quite sure of how to handle him. If Priesly offers them a deal that would henceforth keep him quiet . . ." He shook his head. "It's conceivable they might go for it."
"We still need the Cobras," Justin interjected with some heat. "Need them more than ever, in fact. With Esquiline and the other New Worlds expanding like crazy, they need a steady supply of Cobras. Not to mention the need to keep a credible Cobra force here in case some group of Trofts decide to—"
