by Timothy Zahn
At last the lopsided duel was over; and it was with mild surprise that Jin discovered she'd been watching for less than five minutes. Taking a deep breath, she blew at the drop of sweat on the tip of her nose and tapped on the window.
Below, her father looked up, surprise creasing his face as he saw her. Can I come down? she hand-signed to him.
Sure, he signed back. Main door.
She took the stairway down, and by the time she pushed open the heavy door he had a towel wrapped around his neck and was dabbing at his face with it. "Hi, Jin," he greeted her, coming forward for a quick hug. His expression, she noted, was the flat-neutral one he always used when he was trying to bury some strong emotion. "This is a surprise."
"Thena called an hour ago and said you were on your way home from the hospital," she explained. "When you didn't show up, I decided to come and find you."
He grunted. "I hope you didn't drive all over Capitalia looking for me."
"Of course not. Where else would you be?"
"Visiting my past?" He glanced around the room.
"Working out tension," she corrected him. "Come on, Dad—I know you better than that."
He gave her a half-hearted smile, the mask sliding from his face as he did so to reveal the hidden ache behind it. "You do indeed, my little Jasmine," he said quietly. "You always have."
She put her hand on his arm. "It's a mess, isn't it?"
He nodded. "Yeah. How are you and your sisters holding up?"
"Oh, we're doing all right. The real question is how are you doing?"
He shrugged. "As well as can be expected. Better, after this," he added, waving a hand to take in the Danger Room. "How much did Thena tell you?"
"The condensed version only. What happened, Dad?"
His eyes held hers for a minute, then slipped away to look around the room. "It was the stupidest slop-headed thing you've ever seen," he sighed. "On my part, I mean. This guy—Baram Monse, the hospital ID'd him—just burst in and started yelling and cursing—anti-Cobra stuff, mainly. I tried stunning him, but he was moving and I turned too slowly to get the sonic lined up properly." He shook his head. "Anyway, he reached into his pocket and I figured he was going for a weapon. It was too late to physically jump him . . . so I used my lasers."
Across the room a maintenance robot trundled in through an access door and began picking up one of the "dead" target robots. "And he didn't have a gun?" Jin ventured at last.
"You got it," Justin said, a touch of bitterness seeping into his tone. "No gun, no spray, not even a tangler reel. Just a simple, harmless, unarmed crank. And I shot him."
Jin looked past him at the maintenance robot. "Was it a setup?" she asked.
From the corner of her eye she caught her father's frown. "What do you mean?" he asked carefully.
"Was Monse trying to goad you or Uncle Corwin into attacking him? Trying to make you look bad?" She turned back to face him. "I don't know if you've seen the net yet, but an absolute flood of condemnation hit the thing practically from the minute Monse was taken off to the hospital. That wasn't reaction—those people had their rhetoric primed and ready to go."
Justin hissed through his teeth. "The thought has crossed my mind, I'll admit. And you haven't even heard the best part yet: the fact that Monse is going to live despite taking a pair of setting-two fingertip laser blasts square in the center of his chest. Want to hazard a guess as to how he managed that?"
She frowned. Body armor was the obvious answer . . . but it was clear from her father's tone that it was something more interesting than that. Monse would have needed some kind of protection, though—at short range, a twin laser burst at number-two setting would have been perfectly adequate to cut through bones the thickness of ribs or breastbone and take out the lungs or heart beneath them.
Adequate, at least, to cut through normal bones . . . "The same reason Winward lived?" she asked hesitantly.
Justin nodded. "You got it."
A shiver went up Jin's spine. Michael Winward, shot in the chest by a projectile gun during the first Qasaman mission twenty-eight years ago . . . surviving that attack solely because the bullet was deflected by the ceramic laminae coating his breastbone and ribcage. "A Ject," she murmured. "That little phrijpicker Monse is a lousy Ject."
"Bull's-eye," Justin sighed. "Unfortunately, that doesn't change the fact that he was unarmed when I shot him."
"Why not?" Jin demanded. "It means I was right—that the whole thing was a setup—and it means that Priesly is behind it."
"Whoa, girl," Justin said, putting a hand on each of her shoulders. "What may look obvious to you or me or Corwin isn't necessarily provable."
"But—"
"And until and unless we can prove any such connection," he continued warningly, "I'll thank you to keep your allegations to yourself. At this stage it would hurt us far more than it would hurt Priesly."
Jin closed her eyes briefly, fighting back sudden tears. "But why? Why is he picking on you?"
Justin stepped to her side, slipping his arm tightly around her shoulders. Even full-grown, she was a few centimeters shorter than he was—the ideal height, she'd always felt, to nestle in under his arm. "Priesly's not after me in particular," Justin sighed. "I doubt he's even especially after Corwin, except as he's an obstacle that's in Priesly's way. No, what really after is nothing less than the elimination of Cobras from the Cobra Worlds."
Jin hugged him a little closer. She'd heard all the rumors, arguments, and speculations . . . but to hear it said in such a straightforward, cold-blooded way by someone in a position to know the truth sent a chill up her back. "That's insane," she whispered. "Totally insane. How does he expect Esquiline to expand without Cobras leading the way into the wilderness?—Esquiline or the other New Worlds? Not to mention the Caelian Remnant—what's he going to do, just throw them to the peledari and let them get eaten alive?"
She felt his sigh against her side. "Jin, as you grow older you're going to run into a surprising number of otherwise intelligent people who get themselves trapped into some single-rail goal or point of view and never get out of it. Caelian is a perfect example—the people still living there have been fighting that crazy ecology for so long they can't break the habit long enough to back out and accept resettlement somewhere else. Some of the Jects—not all, certainly, but some—are equally single-minded. They wanted to be Cobras—wanted it very badly, most of them—but were deemed unfit, for one reason or another . . . and the love they had has been twisted into hatred. Hatred that demands revenge."
"No matter what the consequences are for the rest of the Cobra Worlds?"
He shrugged. "Apparently not. I don't know—maybe some of them genuinely think the need for Cobras has passed, that everything the Cobras do can be done more efficiently by ordinary men with machines or enhancement exoskeletons. And I'll even admit that some of Priesly's complaints may not be entirely unreasonable—maybe we have picked up a little too much elitist attitude than is good for us."
A maintenance robot passed them, heading toward another of the target robots. Jin's eyes followed it, came to rest on the target . . . and somewhere in the back of her mind a synapse clicked, and for the first time in her life she suddenly realized what those hulking machines she'd been watching all these years really were. "My God," she whispered. "They're Trofts. Those target robots are supposed to be Trofts."
"Don't be silly," Justin said; and his voice made her look sharply up at him. On his face—
The expression was blank. Like someone playing poker . . . or someone denying all knowledge of a secret he wasn't allowed to divulge. "I just meant—" she began awkwardly.
"Of course it's not a Troft," Justin cut her off. "Look at the shape, the size and contours. It's nothing but a generic practice target." But even as she looked at him his face seemed to harden a fraction. "Besides, the Trofts are our trading partners and political allies," he said. "Our friends, Jin, not our enemies. There's no reason for us to know how to fight the
m."
"Of course not," she said, trying hard to match his same neutral tone as she belatedly caught on. No, certainly the robots didn't look much like Trofts . . . but the shape and positioning of their target areas were too accurate to be accidental. "And I don't suppose anyone really wants to be reminded that they were once our enemies," she added with a touch of bitterness. "Or that it was the Cobras who kept that war from even starting."
He squeezed her shoulders. "The Cobras remember," he said quietly. "And so do the Trofts. That's what really matters . . . and that's why we'll find a way to stop Priesly and his lunatic gang." He took a deep breath. "Come on; let's go home."
Chapter 3
Tamris Chandler, Governor-General of the Cobra Worlds, had come into politics from a successful legal career, and Corwin had noted more than once at Council and Directorate meetings that Chandler seemed to relish his occasional opportunities to play at being prosecuting attorney. He was doing so now . . . but for once, he didn't seem to be enjoying it very much.
"I hope you realize," he said, glaring out from Corwin's phone screen, "how much of a mess your brother has gotten all of us into."
"I understand the mess, sir," Corwin said, keeping a tight rein on his temper. "I contest, however, the assumption that it's Justin's fault."
Chandler waved aside the objection. "Motivational guilt aside, it was he who fired on an unarmed man."
"Who was technically trespassing in my office and threatening me—"
"Threatening you?" Chandler cut in, raising his eyebrows. "Did he say anything specifically that applied to you?"
Corwin sighed. "No, sir, not specifically. But he was vehemently denouncing the Cobras, and my pro-Cobra views are well known. It may not technically be assault, but any jury would agree that I had cause to fear for my safety."
Chandler glared a moment longer. Then his lip twitched and he shrugged. "It'll never reach a jury, of course—we both know that. And just between us, I think your scenario here is probably correct. Priesly's had you in his sights ever since he joined the Directorate, and to get both you and the Cobras in trouble with a single move is just the sort of sophistication I'd expect from him."
Corwin gritted his teeth against the sarcastic retort that wanted to come out. Sniping at Chandler's thinly disguised admiration of Priesly the Bastard would feel good, but Corwin needed the governor-general's support too much to risk that. "So we both agree the Monse affair was deliberately staged," he said instead. "The question remains, what is the Directorate going to do about it?"
Chandler's eyes drifted away from Corwin's gaze. "Frankly, Moreau, I'm not sure there's anything we can do about it," he said slowly. "If you can prove—not allege, prove—that Monse came in there trying to goad your brother into opening fire, and if you can prove that Priesly was involved in it, then we'll have something we can hook onto. Otherwise—" He shrugged. "I'm afraid he's got too much of a power base for us to throw unsubstantiated accusations at him. You've seen what his people are doing to your brother on the net—he'd flay all the rest of us, too, if we moved against him at this stage."
Or in other words, the governor-general was going to react to this blatant power bid by simply ignoring it. By letting Priesly play out his gambit and hoping he wouldn't bother Chandler himself in the process. "I see," Corwin said, not trying to hide his bitterness. "I presume that if I am able to get some of this proof before the Directorate meeting tomorrow that you'll be more supportive of my position?"
"Of course," Chandler said immediately. "But bear in mind that, whatever happens, we won't be spending a lot of time on this incident. There are more important matters awaiting our discussion."
Corwin took a deep breath. Translation: he'll do what he can to cut Priesly's tirade to a minimum. It was, he supposed, better than nothing. "Understood, sir."
"Well. If that's all . . . ?"
"Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir."
The screen blanked. Corwin leaned back in his chair, stretching muscles aching with tension and fatigue. That was it: he'd talked to all the members of the Directorate that he had a chance of bringing onto his side in this. Should he move on to the Council and the lower-ranking syndics there? He glanced at his watch, saw to his mild shock that it was already after ten. Far too late to call anyone else now. No wonder, in retrospect, that Chandler had been a little on the frosty side.
A motion off to his side caught his eye, and he looked up as Thena MiGraw put a steaming cup of cahve on his desk. "You about finished for the night?" she asked.
"I don't know if I am, but you sure should be," he told her tiredly. "Seems to me I told you to go home a couple of hours ago."
She shrugged. "There was some busywork I had to do, anyway," she said, seating herself with her usual grace in a chair at the corner of the desk.
"Besides which, you thought I might need some moral support?"
"That and maybe some help screening out crank calls," she said. "I see that wasn't necessary."
Corwin lifted the cup she'd brought him, savoring for a moment the delicate aroma of the cahve. "The Moreau name's been an important one on Aventine for a long time," he reminded her, taking a sip. "Maybe even the more predatory of the newswriters figure the family's earned a little respect."
"And maybe a little rest, too?" Thena suggested quietly.
Corwin gazed at her, eyes tracing her delicate features and slender figure. A pang of melancholy and loss touched his heart, a pang that seemed to be coming more and more often these days. I should have married, he thought tiredly. Should have had a family.
He shook off the thought with an effort. There had been good and proper reasons behind his decision all those years ago, and none of those reasons had changed. His father's long immersion in Cobra Worlds' politics had nearly destroyed his mother, and he had sworn that he would never do such a thing to any other human being. Even if he could find a woman who was willing to put up with that kind of life . . .
Again, he forced his mind away from that often-traveled and futile path of thought. "The Moreaus have never been famous for resting when there was work to be done," he told Thena. "Besides, I can rest next year. You ought to get on home, though."
"Perhaps in a few minutes." Thena nodded at the phone. "How did the calls go?"
"About as expected. Everyone's a little uncertain of how to handle it, at least from the perspective of practical politics. My guess is that for the time being they'll all keep their heads down and wait for more information."
"Giving Priesly free rein to plant his version in their minds tomorrow." She snorted gently. "Uncommonly nice timing for him, having all this happen just before a full Directorate meeting."
Corwin nodded. "Yeah, I noticed that myself. As did, I'm sure, the other governors. Unfortunately, it doesn't exactly count as evidence."
"Unless you can use it to find a connecting thread—" She broke off, head cocked in concentration. "Was that a knock?"
Frowning, Corwin hunched forward and keyed his intercom to a security camera view of the outer corridor. "If it's a newswriter—" Thena began ominously.
"It's Jin," Corwin sighed, tapping the intercom and door release. Probably the last person he felt up to facing at the moment . . . "Jin? Door's unlocked—come on in."
"You want me to leave?" Thena asked as he switched the intercom off.
"Not really," he admitted, "but it'd probably be better if you did."
A faint smile flickered across Thena's face as she stood up. "I understand. I'll be in the outer office if you need me." Touching him on the shoulder as she passed, she headed toward the door.
"Uncle Corwin?"
"Come in," Corwin called, waving to the girl—no; she's a young woman now—standing in the doorway.
Jin did so, exchanging quiet greetings with Thena as the two women passed each other at the doorway. "Sit down," Corwin invited, gesturing to the chair Thena had just vacated. "How's your dad doing?"
"About as you'd expect," she said, sinking into
the chair. "Uncle Joshua came over a while ago and they spent a lot of time talking about other problems the family's had in the past."
Corwin nodded. "I remember similar trips down memory lane. Pretty depressing to listen to?"
She pursed her lips. "A little."
"Try not to let it bother you. It's one of the methods we Moreaus have traditionally used to remind ourselves that things usually wind up working out for the best."
Jin took a deep breath. "Dad told me my application for the Cobra Academy's been rejected."
Corwin's jaw tightened; with a conscious effort he relaxed it. "Did he explain why?" he asked.
She shook her head. "We didn't really discuss it—he had other things on his mind. That's one reason I came to see you."
"Yeah. Well . . . to put it bluntly, you were rejected because you're a woman."
He hadn't really expected her to looked surprised, and she didn't. "That's illegal, you know," she said calmly. "I've studied the Academy's charter, the official Cobra Statement of Purpose, and even the original Dominion of Man documents. There's nothing in any of them that specifically excludes women from the Cobras."
"Of course there isn't," he sighed. "There isn't anything that excludes women from the governorship, either, but you'll notice that there aren't very many women who make it to that office. It's a matter of tradition."
"Whose tradition?" Jin countered. "Neither of those unspoken rules started with the Cobra Worlds. We inherited them from the Old Dominion of Man."
"Sure," he nodded. "But these things take time to change. You have to remember that we're barely two generations removed from the Dominion and its influence."
