Cobra Alliance-Cobra War Book 1 (39 page)

"Father?" Fadil Sammon called gently.

For a moment the man lying on the hospital bed made no reaction. Then, to Fadil's relief, Daulo Sammon's eyes opened a bit. "Fadil?" he murmured.

Fadil breathed a quiet sigh of relief. At least his father was lucid this evening. With the array of healing drugs coursing through his veins, that wasn't always the case. "I came to say good-bye, Father," he said. "I'm going off for a while, and I don't know when I'll be back again to see you."

He waited patiently while his father's sluggish mind processed the words. "Where is it you're going?" the elder Sammon asked, frowning. "Back to war?"

"Not exactly," Fadil said, wondering if he should tell his father that the Trofts had left. Probably not, he decided regretfully. The invaders would be back—everyone he'd spoken to agreed on that. Best not to confuse the issue while his father wasn't thinking straight. "But it is related to our defense," he continued. "Anyway, I just wanted to say good-bye, and to tell you that the doctors say you're doing well. Another two or three weeks and you should be completely healed."

Daulo smiled weakly. "Three more weeks, is it?" he murmured. "I must have been hurt more badly than I thought."

Fadil swallowed hard. He'd been hurt, all right. In fact, he'd nearly died in that first failed attack against the Trofts. Even now, there was some serious reconstruction going on within his right shoulder and arm. "There were others hurt worse than you who are also going to be fine," he assured his father. "And before that you'll be well enough for me to take you home." Assuming, he added silently, that the Trofts didn't launch their next attack before then.

"Good." Daulo's eyes flicked upward to the feeding tube attached to his arm. "I do so dislike hospital food."

"I'll get you home as soon as I can," Fadil promised. "Until then, you just rest, do what they tell you, and concentrate on getting well." He looked at the bedside clock. "I need to go now, Father. Farewell."

"And to you, my son," Daulo said. His left arm twitched, and Fadil reached down to take his father's hand. "Whatever you're doing, I know you'll make our family proud."

"I'll do my best," Fadil promised. Giving his father's hand a final squeeze, he turned and walked away.

Daulo's breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep even before Fadil had made it out of earshot.

Miron Akim was waiting in the treatment center's anteroom when Fadil arrived. "You said your farewells?" Akim asked, gesturing Fadil to the chair in front of him.

"To my father, yes," Fadil said, settling gingerly into the chair. This was it, he knew, an unpleasant tingling sensation running up his spine. This was his last chance to turn back. "I was wondering if I might also be permitted to say good-bye to Merrick Moreau and his mother."

Akim shook his head. "Unfortunately, neither is available at the moment."

"Because the Shahni have sent them home?" Fadil asked.

For the first time in their admittedly brief acquaintance Akim actually seemed taken aback. "Why do you say such an outrageous thing?" he asked cautiously.

"Because I've noticed their absence these past few days," Fadil said. "Yet there's no report of their deaths, which would certainly be on public record with so distinguished a pair of warriors."

"Perhaps they've simply been assigned to a different area," Akim suggested.

"Perhaps," Fadil said. "But I note also the absence of Carsh Zoshak and your son Siraj Akim. From that I deduce that Merrick Moreau and his mother didn't simply flee Qasama, but have been sent back to their home for some other purpose."

Akim eyed him in silence for a few heartbeats. "They're off Qasama," he conceded at last. "That's all you need to know." He raised his eyebrows slightly. "It's also far more than you
should
know."

"I understand," Fadil said. "Please forgive any impertinence. I mention it only to remind you that I
am
able to think deeply and logically, and am therefore worthy to participate in this experiment."

"An experiment which may seriously and permanently damage you," Akim reminded him in turn. "I'm required by law to confirm your acceptance of that risk this one final time."

Fadil suppressed a grimace. The drugs and medicines the Qasaman scientists and doctors had so painstakingly developed over the centuries were highly useful, both to individuals and to the society as a whole. But each of those drugs also carried its own set of risks, risks that increased in direct proportion to its power. Fadil's family had historically chosen to err on the side of caution, avoiding all but necessary medical drugs.

But Qasama was at war, and the alien antipersonnel missiles targeted the very radio signals that her defenders needed to coordinate both attack and defense. Somewhere, Fadil knew, there had to be a solution to that problem. But so far none of the techs had been able to come up with one.

It was time to try something more drastic. And since the true experts were far too valuable to risk this way, someone else would have to step up to that duty. Someone who was otherwise expendable to the war effort.

Someone like Fadil Sammon.

"I understand fully the risks inherent in the use of chemicals of mental stimulation," he said, quoting the words of the formal agreement. "I accept those risks, and am prepared to proceed."

"Then proceed you will," Akim said. Standing up, he opened the door to the treatment room proper and gestured.

Fadil stood up, feeling a slight trembling in his arms and legs. The die was cast, and there was no turning back. Whatever happened over the next few hours and days, whether his gamble succeeded or failed, he would willingly bear the cost.

And win or lose, at least the people of Qasama would never again look quite so condescendingly upon villagers. That alone made the risk worthwhile.

Squaring his shoulders, he followed Akim through the doorway.

"One minute," Khatir called from the pilot's seat.

"Acknowledged," Jin said. It was an unnecessary announcement, really, given that all five of the ship's complement had been gathered here in the transport's command room for the past half hour.

Surreptitiously, she looked around at each of the others, wondering what was going on behind all those dark eyes. Carsh Zoshak had taken the news of his new assignment very well, almost eagerly. But over the course of the past five days he'd grown quieter and more distant. Perhaps he was having second thoughts.

Siraj Akim didn't need to have second thoughts. It had been clear from the beginning that his first thoughts were bad enough. The fact that it was his own father who'd come up with this gamble was probably at the heart of his attitude, and Jin had never quite decided whether Moffren Omnathi signing off on it had made Siraj's discomfiture better or worse. Still, he was polite enough, and followed Jin's orders without question or argument.

Ghofl Khatir, in contrast, had not only started the mission eagerly but had managed to hold on to that cheery outlook. Talkative by nature, he nevertheless seldom spoke to Jin herself unless required to by his duties. Her best guess was that he was mostly excited by the chance to actually fly a starship, even if it was one his own people hadn't designed or built.

And then there was the young woman Rashida Vil. She said little to anyone, maintaining a rigid professionalism at all times

that Jin sometimes found almost painful to watch. Perhaps as a female pilot from a male-dominated world she felt she had to continually prove herself and her abilities.

It was a challenge, and an attitude, with which Jin could definitely sympathize.

"Here we go," Khatir said, resettling his hands on the control yoke.

Jin grimaced. Because looming on the horizon was the biggest wild card of all: the leaders and people of the Cobra Worlds. What would they say, she wondered uneasily, when she landed a stolen Troft vehicle full of Qasamans on the Capitalia landing field and asked for help? Would they ignore her? Would they cry treason and try to lock her up? They'd nearly done that the last time she'd come back from Qasama, and she hadn't brought any visitors with her that time.

Or would they actually see the logic and humanity in her plea?

On the control board, the timer ran down and the stars burst into view through the command room viewport. A hundred thousand kilometers directly in front of them, a glorious visual symphony in white and blue and brown, was Jin's home.

It was only as she tore her eyes from the planet itself that she saw the ring of ships floating in a lazy orbital ring above Aventine's equator.

The Troft attack had already begun.

For a long minute no one spoke. Jin stared at the fleet, her heart aching, her stomach wanting to be sick. It was over. Aventine had been invaded, and her mission was over before it had even begun. There would be no help for Qasama from here. The people of the Cobra Worlds were in their own war for survival.

Beside her, Zoshak stirred. "What now?" he asked.

"We go back," Siraj said before Jin could find an answer. "It was a fool's notion to hope for any help from here anyway. We go back, and we fight the invaders with whatever strength we have, until that strength is gone."

"You can't win a war of attrition," Jin told him, trying desperately to think. But her brain was as frozen as her heart. "Neither can we. We have to come up with something else."

"Like what?" Siraj countered. "Unless you're prepared to run that gauntlet—"

"Signal!" Khatir snapped, swinging around to the communications part of his board. "We're being hailed."

"I'll take it," Rashida said, her voice glacially calm. "What do you want me to say?"

Jin pursed her lips. "Let's start by finding out what they want," she told the younger woman as Khatir half turned in his seat and tossed translator earphones to Zoshak and Siraj. "As far as they're concerned we're just the latest in a long line of transports coming from Qasama."

"Should I transmit the clearance codes we used to leave Qasama?" Rashida asked.

"Let's wait until someone asks," Jin said. "There might be different codes for landing on Aventine that we didn't get."

Rashida nodded and keyed the transmitter. [The signal, it is acknowledged,] she said in flawless cattertalk. [Assistance, how may we render it?]

[Your cargo bay, analysis shows it to be empty,] a Troft voice came back. [The predators, why have you none?]

Jin winced. So the Troft ship out there had decided to take the time to give their harmless little transport a deep scan. "Tell them—"

Rashida silenced her with an upraised hand. [The predators, all died en route,] she said. [A disease, it was apparently brought aboard.]

Zoshak nudged Jin's side. "How good are these sensors of theirs?" he murmured. "Will they be able to tell we're not Trofts?"

"I don't know," Jin murmured back. "Probably depends on how much effort they're willing to put into this."

[The message, it is understood,] the Troft replied. There was a short pause. [Jasmine Jin Moreau, is there word from her?]

Jin felt her heart seize up in her chest. So it really
was
over. The ship had scanned them and had spotted the humans. Now, they wouldn't even have the option of returning to Qasama.

And then, suddenly the obvious fact struck her.
How had the Trofts come up with her name?

She frowned, peering at the display. The only ship close enough for that kind of scan appeared to be a simple freighter, not any kind of warship. More than that, as near as she could tell from the cattertalk curlies on the hull, it was not only a freighter, but a

Tlossie
freighter. A ship from one of the Cobra Worlds' longtime trading partners.

Abruptly, she realized that all four Qasamans were looking expectantly at her. "What kind of signal are they using?" she asked quietly.

Khatir took a quick look at his board. "It looks like a tight beam."

[Jasmine Jin Moreau, is there word from her?] the Troft asked again.

Jin braced herself. [Jasmine Jin Moreau, it is I,] she called toward the microphone.

If the Troft in the other ship was surprised to hear from Jin herself, it didn't show in his voice. [The news from Qasama, what is it?] he asked.

The news from Qasama?
What in the Worlds did he mean by that? [The battle, it has been won,] Jin said cautiously.

[Yet the war, it has been lost?]

[The war, it is not yet over,] Jin corrected.

There was a long silence. [Then our mission, it has failed,] the Troft said sadly.

"What mission?" Siraj muttered.

[Your pardon, I crave it,] Jin said. [Your mission, what is its purpose and meaning?]

[The mission, it is of no matter,] the Troft said. [Its failure, that is all I need know.]

Jin felt her mouth fall open as the last piece finally fell into place. [The message, from
you
it came,] she said. [To Qasama, you wished me to go.]

"
They
sent you the message?" Siraj demanded, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Apparently so," Jin said as it all suddenly made sense. "Disguised to look like it came from someone on Qasama, of course, in case it was intercepted."

"But why?" Zoshak demanded.

Jin lifted a finger and switched back to cattertalk. [Your mission, I understand it now,] she said. [War with Aventine, your demesne-lord does not wish. Yet a stand against the attacking demesnes, he dare not take alone. A victory against them, one must first exist.]

"I'll be damned," Khatir murmured.

[The truth, you speak it,] the Troft said. [A stand, other demesne-lords wish to make. But a stand against a victorious army, one cannot be made.]

[The reality, I understand it,] Jin said grimly. [But hope, do not abandon it.] "Djinn Khatir, what's our fuel situation?"

Again, Khatir studied his displays. "We're down about one-third," he reported.

Jin did a quick calculation. Probably enough, but better to err on the safe side. [Refueling, our transport needs,] she said. [Extra fuel, can you supply it?]