The Cobra Trilogy

by Timothy Zahn

  Chandler asked something and was answered, but Corwin didn't really hear any of it. A horrible shimmer of unreality seemed to have fallen between him and the rest of the room. Between him and the rest of the universe. That last image of Jin as she'd waved to them from the Southern Cross's entryway hovered ghost-like in front of his face . . . in front of the computer-enhanced image of the shuttle's death still displayed on the conference-room wall. I sent her there, the thought swirled like a bitterly cold tornado through his mind. I pushed it through. I forced them to make her a Cobra. And then I sent her off to Qasama . . . all in the name of thwarting political enemies.

  In the name of politics.

  Someone was calling his name. He looked over to see Chandler eyeing him. "Yes?"

  "I asked if you had any comments or suggestions," the governor-general repeated evenly.

  For a moment Corwin locked eyes with him. Chandler returned the gaze steadily, without so much as flinching. It was the statesman look that Corwin had seen on him so often . . . and always hated. It inevitably appeared at those times when Chandler wanted to appear above politics, or to disclaim all responsibility for something he'd had a hand in. So that's how it's going to be here, too, is it? Corwin thought silently toward that look. Not going to accept any more responsibility than you absolutely have to? Well, we'll just see about that.

  But first there was a question he had to ask. Shifting his eyes to Koja, he took a deep breath. "Captain, is there . . . ?" He licked his lips and tried again. "Is there any indication as to . . . which of the Cobras might have survived?"

  A muscle in Koja's cheek twitched. "I'm sorry, Governor, but there isn't," he said, almost gently. "We've gone over the data a hundred times in the past eight days. There just isn't any way to tell."

  Corwin nodded, feeling the others' eyes on him. "Then it could be Jin who's still alive down there, couldn't it?"

  Koja shrugged fractionally. "It could be her, yes. Could be all the Cobras, for all we can tell."

  No false hope, Corwin warned himself. But the admonition wasn't serious, and he knew it. Without hope, he could already feel his mind turning inward again, away from the wave of guilt threatening to overwhelm him. But with hope . . . that same wave could be turned outward. Turned outward to claim vengeance for what had happened to his niece. Alive or dead, he owed her that much. "For the moment," he said, looking back at Chandler, "we can skip over any recriminations as to why the Southern Cross wasn't carrying any emergency equipment for just such a disaster as this. Right now our first priority is to get a rescue team together and out to Qasama as quickly as possible. What steps have you taken toward that end?"

  "I've spoken to Coordinator Maung Kha," Chandler replied. "The Academy directors are going to assemble a list for us."

  "Which will be ready when?" Corwin asked.

  Priesly shifted in his seat. "You want it fast or you want it good?" he asked Corwin.

  "We want it both," Telek snapped before Corwin could respond.

  "I'm sure you do, Governor—" Priesly began.

  "Mr. Chandler," Telek cut him off, "do I assume I've been included in this council of war because of my first-hand expertise on Qasaman matters? Fine. Then kindly pay attention to that expertise when I tell you that Moreau's right. If you want your Cobra back alive, minutes could literally count. The Qasamans are fast and smart, and once they make their move they don't leave a whole hell of a lot of room to maneuver in."

  "I understand," Chandler said with clearly forced patience. "But as Governor Priesly points out, to do the job properly takes a certain amount of time."

  "That depends on how far into complicated channels you insist on dragging the process," Corwin told him.

  "Channels exist for a reason," Priesly growled. "The Academy has the computers and lists you'd need to find the best people for the job. Unless you'd rather just toss some ragtag collection of Cobras together on your own?"

  "I won't have to," Corwin said calmly. "It's already being done."

  All eyes turned to him. "What's that supposed to mean?" Chandler asked cautiously.

  "It means that before I left home this morning I called Justin and told him something had gone wrong with the mission."

  "You what?" Priesly snarled. "Moreau—"

  "Shut up," Chandler cut him off. "And . . . ?"

  "And I told him to organize a rescue mission," Corwin said calmly. "He should have a list ready in an hour or so."

  For a long moment the room was filled with a brittle silence. "You've overstepped your bounds rather badly," Chandler said at last. "I could have you removed from office for that."

  "I realize that," Corwin nodded. "One other thing: Justin will also be leading the team."

  Priesly's mouth fell open. "Justin Moreau is under house arrest," he bit out. "In case you've forgotten, there are charges of assault pending against him."

  "Then those charges will have to be summarily dropped, won't they?"

  "Oh, of course," Priesly snarled. "What, you expect us to just roll over—?"

  "Justin's been to Qasama," Corwin said, his gaze on Chandler. "He's seen the Qasamans up close, both in combat and non-combat situations. There's no one else anywhere in the Worlds who has those same qualifications."

  "There were forty-eight Cobras who participated in the second Qasaman mission," Chandler pointed out. His face was a mask, but Corwin could sense the anger behind it . . . and perhaps a growing resignation, as well. "One of them could lead the mission."

  "Except that none of them have anything near Justin's experience with Qasaman society," Telek shook her head. "He's right, Mr. Chandler. The best choice for team leader is someone from our first spy mission. And there's only one other person young enough even to be considered."

  "Well, let's get him, then," Priesly demanded.

  Telek turned glacial eyes on him. "Help yourself. His name's Joshua Moreau."

  A second silence fell over the room. "I don't have to let you get away with this, you know," Chandler told Corwin at last, very softly. "I can ignore your brother's unauthorized recommendations and take those of the Academy directors instead. And Mr. Priesly's correct—we can get someone else to lead the mission."

  "And can you also hear what the people of Aventine will say," Corwin returned, just as softly, "when they learn that their leaders wasted time wrangling over fine details. And then settled for second best."

  "That's blackmail," Priesly snapped.

  Corwin looked him straight in the eye. "That's politics," he corrected. Getting to his feet, he looked back at Chandler. "If we're done here, sir, I'll be going to my office—Justin'll be contacting me there when he's finished. I'm sure he'll want to personally organize the team as the members arrive in the Capitalia; can I assume you'll have his release papers filed by noon or so?"

  Chandler gritted his teeth. "It can be managed. I suppose you'll want a full pardon?"

  "That or a formal dropping of the charges. Whichever you and Mr. Priesly decide to work out."

  He started for the door, but Chandler stopped him. "You realize, of course," the governor-general said darkly, "that as of right now you've taken this entire rescue mission onto your own head. If it fails—for any reason—it'll be you who bears the brunt of that failure."

  "I understand," Corwin said between tight lips. "I also understand that if it succeeds Mr. Priesly and his associates will do their best to make sure I get as little of the credit as possible."

  "You understand politics very well," Telek murmured. "I'm almost sorry for you."

  Corwin looked at her. "Fortunately, I understand family loyalty, too. And know which one's more important."

  He nodded to Chandler and left.

  * * *

  Corwin had seen Justin's organizational skills many times in the past; but even so he was astonished by the speed with which his brother got the rescue team assembled in Capitalia. By eight that evening—barely fifteen hours after the Southern Cross had reentered Aventine's system—the
Dewdrop was loaded and ready to lift.

  "You sure you've got everything you'll need?" Corwin asked as he and Justin stood together a little way from the Dewdrop, watching the last load of equipment disappear into the cargo hatch.

  "We'll make do," Justin replied, his voice glacially calm.

  Corwin threw him a sideways glance. For a man who'd just lost a daughter—either dead or captive—Justin was far too calm, and it was making Corwin more than a little nervous. Whatever the other was feeling about his daughter's fate, it wasn't healthy to keep it bottled up forever. Somehow, it was going to have to come out . . . and if Justin was saving up the anger to dump on the Qasamans, it would be a very bloody purging indeed.

  "Something?" Justin asked, his eyes still on the loading.

  Corwin pursed his lips. "Just wondering about your people," he improvised. "You put the list together pretty quickly—you still sure they're the ones you want?"

  "You've seen the profiles," Justin said. "Four vets of the last Qasaman mission, eight young but experienced Cobras with impressive spine leopard hunting records."

  "But without any military training," Corwin pointed out.

  "We've got six days to change that," his brother reminded him.

  "Yeah." Corwin took a deep breath; but Justin got in the next word.

  "I don't think I thanked you yet for getting Chandler to let me off those trumped-up charges," he said calmly.

  "No problem," Corwin shrugged. "They didn't have a lot of choice, actually."

  Justin nodded, agreement or simple acknowledgment. "I also appreciate what you've done in putting your neck on this fresh block for me. If I'd had to sit around for the next two weeks . . . it would've been pretty hard. At least this way there's something I can do."

  "Yeah. Well . . . I expect you know that if Jin's—if she didn't make it, I mean . . . that extracting vengeance from the Qasamans isn't going to help any."

  "That depends on what happened to her, doesn't it?" Justin countered. "If she died in the crash . . . well, I'll hold the Trofts partly to blame for that. They're the ones who claimed their shuttle would get through the Qasamans' detectors. But if Jin was captured—" His face hardened. "Teaching the Qasamans a lesson won't bring Jin back, no. But it might prevent someone else's child from dying at their hands."

  Corwin bit at his lip. "Just remember that you have two other daughters," he reminded Justin quietly. "Make sure you come back to them, all right?"

  Justin nodded solemnly, and his lip twitched in a faint smile. "Don't worry, Corwin; the Qasamans won't even know what hit them." Across the way, the Dewdrop's cargo hatch swung shut with a muffled thud. "Well, that's it—time to go. Hold the fort here, okay?"

  He gave Corwin a brief, almost perfunctory hug, and a moment later had vanished up the ramp into the Dewdrop's main entryway.

  They won't even know what hit them. Justin's statement echoed through his mind . . . and standing there alone, Corwin shivered at the lie in those words. Justin would make sure the Qasamans knew what had hit them, all right. What had hit them, and why.

  And he wondered if he'd now sent his brother to die on Qasama. Just as he'd done his niece.

  Chapter 25

  Jin had never been one to make snap judgments of people. But in the case of Radig Nardin she was severely tempted to make an exception.

  "Overbearing sort, isn't he?" she murmured to Daulo as they stood a short distance from where Nardin was loudly supervising the loading of his metals.

  "Yes," Daulo said tightly. His eyes and most of his attention, she saw, were on Nardin; his arms, at his sides, were rigid.

  Jin licked her lips. The tension in the air around them seemed almost thick enough to cast a shadow, and her stomach was beginning to tighten in sympathetic reaction. Whatever it was that was happening here, things seemed to be rapidly building up to a head, and she found herself easing away from Daulo just in case she suddenly needed room to maneuver. Nardin's two drivers and aides were somewhere off to the side . . . there. Nowhere near cover, should Nardin decide to pick a fight—

  "Stop!" Daulo snapped.

  Jin whipped her eyes back to Nardin. Almost leisurely, he turned around to face them, his hand raised in striking pose above one of the sweating Sammon workers. His gaze flicked measuringly across Daulo's clothing, returned to his face. "You tolerate insubordinate attitudes in your workers, Master Sammon?" he called.

  "If and when such insubordination is seen," Daulo said evenly, "it will be punished. And I will do the punishing."

  For a moment the two young men locked eyes. Then, breathing something inaudible, Nardin lowered his arm. Turning his back on Daulo, he stalked a few meters away from the loading area.

  Jurisdictional dispute? Jin wondered. Apparently. Or else Nardin just liked going out of his way to irritate people. "You all right?" Jin asked Daulo quietly.

  The other took a deep breath, seemed to relax a bit. "Yes," he said, exhaling in a hiss. "Some people just can't handle power this young."

  Jin glanced at him, wondering if he noticed the irony of those words coming from a nineteen-year-old heir. "Radig Nardin is high in the Mangus hierarchy?" he asked.

  "His father, Obolo Nardin, runs the place."

  "Ah. Then Mangus is a family-run operation like yours?"

  "Of course." Daulo seemed puzzled that she'd even have to ask such a question.

  Across the way, the last few crates were being loaded onto the trunk. "How often does Mangus need these shipments?" she asked Daulo.

  He considered. "About every three weeks. Why?"

  She nodded at the truck. "Riding inside a crate might be the simplest way for me to get inside Mangus."

  Daulo hissed thoughtfully between his teeth. "Only if you had time to get out before they locked all the crates away somewhere."

  "Do they do that?"

  "I don't know—I've never been there. Mangus always sends someone to pick up their shipments."

  "Is that normal?"

  "It is for Mangus. Though if you're right about what they're doing in there, it makes sense for them not to let villagers in."

  The qualifier caught Jin's attention. "Only villagers? Can city people get in?"

  "Regularly," Daulo nodded. "Mangus brings in work parties from Azras every two to three weeks for one-week periods. Simple assembly work, I gather."

  "I don't understand," Jin frowned. "You mean they import their entire labor force?"

  "Not the entire force, no. They have some permanent workers, most of them probably Nardin family members. I assume their assembly work comes in spurts and they'd rather not keep people there when they're not needed."

  "Seems inefficient. What if some of those workers take other jobs in the meantime and aren't available when they need them?"

  "I don't know. But as I said, it's simple assembly work. Training newcomers wouldn't be hard."

  Jin nodded. "Do you know anyone personally who's been in one of the work parties?"

  Daulo shook his head. "For city people only, remember? We only know about it through my father's relationship with Mayor Capparis of Azras."

  "Right—you've mentioned him before. He keeps you informed on what Azras and the other cities are doing?"

  "Somewhat. For a price, of course."

  That price being preferential access to the Sammon family mine, no doubt. "Do the rest of Azras's political leaders share in this tradeoff?"

  "Some." Daulo shrugged, a bit uncomfortably. "Like everyone else, Mayor Capparis has enemies."

  "Um." Jin focused on Nardin's arrogant expression again; and, unbidden, an image popped into her mind. Peter Todor, early in their Cobra training, visibly and eagerly awaiting the moment when Jin would finally give up and quit. The moment when he'd be able to gloat over her defeat. "Is there any reason," she asked carefully, "why Mangus or Mayor Capparis's enemies should resent Milika in particular?"

  Daulo frowned at her. "Why would they?"

  She braced herself. "Could you be charging m
ore for your goods than they consider fair?"

  Daulo's eyes hardened. "We don't overcharge for what we sell," he said coldly. "Our mine produces rare and valuable metals, which we purify to a high degree. They'd be costly no matter who sold them."

  "What about the Yithtra family, then?" Jin asked.

  "What about them?"

  "They sell lumber products, right? Do they overcharge the cities?"

  Daulo's lip twisted. "No, not really," he admitted. "Actually, most of the lumber business out there bypasses Milika entirely. The Somilarai River, which cuts through the main logging area to the north, passes directly by Azras, so much of the lumber is simply floated downriver to processing areas there. What the Yithtra family has done has been to specialize in exotic types of wood products like rhella paper—things the more wholesale lumbering places can't do properly. You probably saw a few rhella trees on your way in from your ship: short, black-trunked things with diamond-shaped leaves?"

  Jin shook her head. "Afraid I was looking more at what might be crouching up there than I was at the trees themselves. These rhellas are rare?"

  "Not all that much, but the paper made from the inner pulp is the preferred medium for legal contracts, and that creates a high demand. Writing or printing on fresh rhella paper indents the surface, you see," he added, "and that indentation is permanent. So if the writing is altered in any way, it can be detected instantly."

  "Handy," Jin agreed. "Expensive, too, I take it?"

  "It's worth the cost. Why are you asking all this?"

  Jin nodded toward Nardin. "He has the air about him of someone who's getting all ready to gloat," she said. "I was wondering if he's looking forward to gloating over the villages in general or Milika in particular."

  "Well . . ." Daulo hesitated. "I'd have to say that even among Qasama's villages, we're considered somewhat . . . not renegades, exactly, but not quite part of the whole community, either."