Cobra Traitor, page 39
part #3 of Cobra Rebellion Series
Ninety seconds later, with all Dominion personnel back inside, the shuttle lifted into the sky. Again, Jin noted, it was traveling far faster than any normal transport. “Now what?” she murmured.
“Now we do what we can,” Chintawa said. “Cobra Broom—and Cobra Broom—” he added, looking at Jin. “You two will assemble a Cobra escort for the diplomatic team I’m sending to the Tlossies. Grab your uncle, too—he’s had good relations with them. I want you and the Dewdrop ready to go in thirty minutes. Can you do that?”
Jin looked at Lorne. “How close is Uncle Corwin?”
“Close enough,” Lorne said. “And the Dewdrop’s been sitting on needles since the Reivaro pickup, waiting for the Dominion to try something, so it’s basically ready.”
“Good,” Chintawa said. “You’ll first go to the Hoibies and ask the demesne-lord for help. After that, you’ll take this to Qasama.” He handed Jin the cylinder.
“None of this will be in time to help the Algonquin,” Jin reminded him.
“I don’t care about the Algonquin,” Chintawa retorted. “My job is to care about Aventine.” He leveled a finger at Lorne. “Clock’s running, Cobras. Move it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“There’s no chance they’re someone else?” Paul asked, feeling the blood pounding in his ears.
“None at all,” Santores said grimly. “All four ships have the markings of demesnes who are at war with the Dominion. Those are our attackers, all right.”
Paul looked at the main CoNCH display, and the faint pinpricks of reflected light moving slowly toward them. “It’s only been five weeks since you arrived at Aventine. How did they get from the other end of the Troft Assemblage this quickly?”
“Good question,” Santores said. “The answer has to be that they didn’t. These must have been ships that were already traveling through the Assemblage, probably trying to recruit more demesnes to their side.”
“And when they heard that you were here, they got together and redefined their mission,” Paul concluded. “Terrific.”
“I suppose there’s one silver lining, though,” Santores continued. “The fact that they sent out warships to look for allies—even relatively minor warships like these heavy cruisers—suggests more of a strong-arm approach than persuasion or even bribery. That may mean they’re getting desperate.”
“Maybe,” Paul said. “On the other hand, if they can go back to those potential allies with a story of how the Dominion invaded this end of the Assemblage and they destroyed the intruders, they may not need nearly as much persuasion to get the demesne-lords to sign up.”
“True,” Santores said. “Which makes it that much more imperative that we don’t let them return.”
“Yes,” Paul murmured. “I don’t suppose the reinforcements you told me about could arrive in time to help?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Santores said. “The timing of the second wave assumed our enemies would need to first hear about our arrival at the Cobra Worlds and then assemble a force from the battle front to oppose us. This is all happening far too early.” He lifted a finger. “Shahni Omnathi is calling.” He touched a key on his board. “This is Commodore Santores, Your Excellency.”
“I’m told there are enemy warships approaching,” Omnathi’s voice came from the speaker. “Do you have the item I requested?”
“Yes,” Santores said hesitantly. “But I’m still not sure whether I should give it to you. The Trofts will certainly drop at least two shuttles to your location, more likely three or four. A single short-range missile isn’t going to make much difference.”
“Nevertheless, my plan requires one,” Omnathi said. “Your officer said the ships will be upon us very soon. If you mean to refuse my request, tell me so now. At the very least, I need you to send Cobra Paul Broom to us.”
Santores shot a frown at Paul. “Why do you need him?”
“For my plan,” Omnathi said. “I told your officer earlier that I would need him.”
Santores’s eyes defocused briefly. “That request isn’t in the data stream.”
“That fault is not mine,” Omnathi said. “Please send him at once. He must be here before the Trofts attack.”
Santores looked at Paul. “Did you know anything about this?”
“No,” Paul said.
“You have any idea how you could help?” Santores gestured to Paul’s body. “Especially like that?”
Paul felt a lump form in his throat. “You mean with my Cobra gear useless? With me useless?”
Santores didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”
Paul shook his head. “No idea.”
Which wasn’t entirely true. Very likely this was Omnathi’s way of getting him off the Megalith and to the relative safety of the planet before the fighting started.
Emphasis, of course, on the relative. If the Trofts decided to be satisfied with destroying the sham manufacturing complex the Dominion and Qasamans had put together, then the rest of the planet should be mostly safe. If they decided instead on a full-scale occupation, things would get very bad very quickly.
“Very well,” Santores said, turning back to his board. “I’ll put Cobra Broom aboard a shuttle and send him down.”
“Thank you, Commodore Santores,” Omnathi said. “In return, we shall do everything in our power to drain some of the strength from the enemy. I suggest you pull back once Cobra Broom’s shuttle has returned to you and allow them to make their landing in peace.”
“Not a good idea,” Santores warned. “They may not treat you as well as the last batch of invaders.”
“Nevertheless, it is a necessary part of my plan.”
Santores looked at Paul. “Broom?” he murmured.
Paul shook his head. “Sorry. I have no idea what he’s up to.”
“But you trust him?”
“It’s his world,” Paul pointed out. “If he’s wrong, he’ll pay the consequences.”
Santores’s lips compressed briefly. But he nodded. “Very well,” he said, turning back to the microphone. “The shuttle and Cobra Broom will be there as soon as possible.”
He keyed off the radio. “So is that the Qasaman answer for everything? ‘It’s all part of the plan’?”
Paul shrugged. “It is from Omnathi.”
For a moment Santores gazed at the main display. Then, he gave a sharp nod. “I suppose in the end it won’t matter where any of us are standing when we die.” He gestured to the Marines standing a few paces back. “Take Cobra Broom to the Number Four shuttle and put him on board. Quickly.”
“And the missile Omnathi asked for?” Paul asked as one of the Marines stepped forward and unlocked his chair from the deck.
“It’s already aboard the shuttle,” Santores said. “Might as well make it a package deal. Good-bye, and good luck.”
The trip to the surface was short, much shorter than any Paul had ever taken. Clearly, the shuttle’s pilot had also gotten the message that the clock was ticking down.
The Qasamans had been busy over the past two weeks, nearly filling the forest clearing with fake factories, barracks, and support buildings. There were only three open spaces where a space-capable shuttle could land: a strip of open ground along the western edge that could handle two or possibly three of them, and two smaller areas to the north and southwest that a good pilot could set down in. The Dominion pilot, presumably acting under orders, headed for the northern spot.
He was a good pilot, and made it down without trouble.
Omnathi and a pair of Djinni were waiting when Paul emerged from the shuttle. “Cobra Paul Broom,” the Shahni greeted him gravely. “It is good to see you again. I trust you are well?”
“Quite well, thank you,” Paul said, walking carefully toward him. He’d been working his muscles hard since losing his servos, but he was still far from casual in his movements. “Are you ready? The Trofts are attacking sooner than Commodore Santores expected.”
“Do not worry.” Omnathi raised his eyes to look at something over Paul’s shoulder.
Paul turned. A handful of Qasamans were maneuvering a small missile out of the shuttle’s cargo bay. “Can I help with that?” he asked, turning back to Omnathi.
“Can you help with that?” Omnathi countered.
Paul grimaced. He should have guessed that the Shahni would notice his new physical limitations. “No,” he admitted. “My servos don’t work anymore. My muscles now have to carry all my own weight, plus the added weight of the bone laminae and the servos themselves. There’s also a drag component in the artificial tendon system that makes everything feel even heavier.”
“I see,” Omnathi said, his voice going ominous. “How did it happen? Who is responsible?”
“It wasn’t deliberate, if that’s what you’re asking,” Paul said hastily. At least, he was pretty sure it wasn’t. Regardless, marking Santores or Lij Tulu for Qasaman vengeance wasn’t something he was prepared to do.
And he certainly didn’t want Omnathi to think he’d been hurt protecting the Shahni’s world and people.
There was a sudden rush of air behind him, and he turned again to see the shuttle disappearing into the sky. On the ground, the Qasamans were moving the missile on its grav lifts into the woods surrounding the complex.
Trees alone probably wouldn’t hide its presence from the Trofts. Hopefully, Omnathi had some other means of concealment set up back there. “What now?” he asked.
“You will accompany me to a point of observation,” Omnathi said. “Together we shall see if my plan succeeds.”
“Your Excellency?” a Qasaman called from beside a pair of heavy-duty off-road vehicles at the edge of the trees. “The Troft ships have reached their positions. Four landing craft have been launched and are approaching.”
“Has the Dominion of Man vessel retreated?” Omnathi asked.
“It has pulled back a short distance,” the man said. “But it still risks danger.”
“A courageous man,” Omnathi rumbled. “But perhaps a foolish one. We shall see. Is all prepared?”
“All is prepared, Your Excellency.”
“Then let us go,” Omnathi said, gesturing Paul toward the vehicles. “The volcano stands ready to protect its world.”
A moment later they were headed up the hill, entering the forest through the same gap the missile’s handlers had taken. The terrain was extremely bumpy, jolting Paul nearly out of his seat every couple of seconds. But the drivers had clearly already mapped out their routes, and while they came perilously close to many of the trees as they traveled they never actually hit one. “I hope you’re right about the volcano,” Paul commented as the cars came to a halt under a textured camo canopy beside a rotting log. “I was looking at it on the trip down, and it seemed quieter than usual.”
“It is,” Omnathi agreed. “We have sealed its cone.”
Paul stared at him. “You’ve sealed it? But that’s—” He broke off, stifling back his reflexive comment. Crazy and stupid weren’t words you threw lightly at a Qasaman Shahni. “I thought you were going to trigger an eruption to blanket the site with smoke and ash. I thought that was your plan.”
“The volcano is too far away for such an attack to be effective,” Omnathi said. “But it will serve in other ways.”
Paul was still wondering how a blocked volcano could possibly be of service when the Troft landing craft appeared.
They came in fast, faster even than the Megalith’s shuttle that had brought him down. They split formation as they approached the ground, disappearing behind the trees before Paul could see where they went.
“Here,” Omnathi said, gesturing to a display in the vehicle.
Paul focused on it. The image was a bird’s-eye view of the factory complex, with a gentle swaying that suggested the camera was mounted at the top of one of the nearby trees. The Troft pilots had clearly done the same topography analysis Paul had on his trip in, and had put down in the same three open areas he’d tagged. Two were settled at the compound’s western edge, one was in the southwestern slot, and the fourth was in the northern one directly below Omnathi’s current command post.
Pouring out of all four shuttles were lines of Troft soldiers.
Paul winced. From the size of the vehicles he guessed each could probably hold fifty or more combat-suited soldiers. And given the number of ships up there, this was probably only the first wave of what they had available.
What would they think, he wondered—more importantly, what would they do—when they found out the factory they were attacking was nothing but a decoy?
The Qasamans had done exceedingly well against the first Troft invasion of their world. But much of that success had been due to the carefully prepared city infrastructure and their heavily trained fighters. Now, most of that infrastructure was gone, and many of the soldiers dead. All the Qasamans had left were some Cobras, some Djinni—
“Now,” Omnathi said quietly.
One of the Djinni opened a protective cover on the car’s console and flipped a switch. There was a muffled explosion from the west, and on the display Paul saw a small geyser of dirt and dead leaves burst from beside the two landing craft on the settlement’s western edge.
And suddenly, the forest erupted with a violent roar as a roiling white cloud blasted from the ground behind the dirt geyser, knocking over trees and throwing the two nearby spacecraft into the air as if they were toys. Reflexively, Paul flinched back as a wave of foul-smelling gas washed up over them from the clearing, instantly turning the air almost hot enough to singe flesh. He threw up an arm to protect his face, squinting at the display in confusion.
And then, he got it.
The volcano might be too far away to be of any use. But that didn’t mean all of the volcano’s side vents were.
“A volcanic steam vent, close to the surface,” Omnathi confirmed Paul’s thought. “Deep enough to escape detection from above, should the enemy search for it, yet close enough for a small shaped charge to bring its fury to the surface.”
“And then some,” Paul said mechanically. The steam was still blasting from the opening, creating a plume he could see even over the treetops and sending an ongoing flow of heat and stink across the clearing and forest. The initial burst subsided a little, and as the tendrils evaporated he could see the Trofts who’d been scattered by the explosion starting to gather themselves back together.
And as the steam cleared further, the Qasamans appeared.
They came from inside the protection of the barracks and support buildings: Djinni in their combat suits, Cobras in light ablative armor, their lasers slashing out at the invaders. The Trofts by the western shuttles, still dazed or injured by the violence of the volcano’s attack, were easy prey; the aliens by the northern and southwestern shuttles, less damaged or shaken, were more quickly able to return fire.
“They have joined battle,” Omnathi said. “Our task now begins. Come, Cobra Paul Broom.”
The drive down the hill was somewhat slower than the trip up, but no less bumpy, and with the added distraction and discomfort of the foul-smelling steam still billowing from the vent. Paul’s light-amps were of no use in the cloud, and the cloud’s overall heat made his infrareds only slightly better. If the Trofts were running similar systems, they would be at an equal disadvantage.
Except that the Qasamans knew the territory. Hopefully, that would diminish the Trofts’ numerical advantage.
The cars emerged from the forest beside the flank of the northern Troft landing craft, its bulk shielding their view of the main battle as well as giving them partial protection from the billowing steam. Paul’s infrareds worked slightly better here, but only slightly.
And of course, being behind the landing craft didn’t mean they weren’t in danger. Far from it. The whole forest around them was flickering with reflected light from the laser fire, some of the flashes looking extra bright as they were diffused through the billowing clouds of steam and smoke that now filled the whole sky. Around the edges of the landing craft Paul could see more solid flashes as the two forces maneuvered around the buildings of the complex. Some of the nearby roofs were visible, and he could see that some of the Qasamans—and possibly some of the Trofts—had moved to the high ground.
Most dangerous of all were the two flat laser turrets on top of the landing craft itself. At the moment both were silent, but if the Trofts inside the vehicle spotted the humans moving down from the hills the laser could be trained on them at a second’s notice.
Or maybe not. Even as the car came to a bouncy stop two Qasamans stepped out of a half-open hatchway near the shuttle’s bow. Apparently, in the time it had taken to drive down the hill, the Djinni and Cobras had captured the Troft vessel.
Paul smiled tightly. Of course they had. After all, the vehicle had landed exactly where the Qasamans had planned for it to put down, and its occupants had been distracted by possibly the most unexpected attack weapon in the history of warfare. Why shouldn’t it have been swarmed and captured by now?
Certainly Omnathi’s expression showed no surprise. He got out of the car and motioned for Paul to join him, and together they walked to the waiting men. “The missile?” Omnathi asked.
“Inside,” the Qasaman reported, nodding toward a larger hatch near the shuttle’s stern. “It is being secured now.”
Omnathi nodded and gestured to the closer, forward hatch. With the two Qasaman warriors leading the way, they all went inside, walked through a large staging room filled with ceiling-mounted Troft landing harnesses, and continued forward to the command deck.
To find an extraordinary sight waiting for them. Two Trofts were in the pilot and co-pilot chairs, their eyes glazed, their radiator membranes limp, their hands moving over the control boards in response to half-heard commands from a pair of Qasamans standing over them. Two other Qasamans, their eyes disturbingly shiny, watched closely from the sides of the board. “What’s going on?” Paul asked softly.
“The Trofts are teaching our pilots to fly this vessel,” Omnathi murmured back.
Paul frowned. They were teaching—?
