Cobra Traitor, page 44
part #3 of Cobra Rebellion Series
And, of course, the not-so-distant crack and sizzle of Troft lasers scouring the sensors off the Dorian’s starboard hull.
Merrick half turned to look behind him. Even in the couple of minutes since he’d arrived the sizzling had faded a little. Hopefully, that was an indication that the real attack was about to begin.
He hoped so. The Marine tunic he’d been ordered to wear wasn’t particularly heavy, but the sleeves were more confining than he’d expected, and all his upper body movements felt slow and somewhat awkward.
He frowned. Were those footsteps in the distance?
He keyed his audios up another notch. Definitely footsteps. More than one set, too—at least two, possibly more.
And they were definitely coming this way.
He looked around. Behind him was the big cargo hatch; sealed, no chance he was hearing the boarding Trofts through all that metal. To his left and right were wide corridors designed to handle the grav-lift lorries that would normally haul incoming cargo to their designated holds. He could see a good fifty meters along each, but there were a couple of cross corridors into each passageway that the intruders could be approaching along. Directly in front of him, perpendicular to the cargo passageways and heading inward toward the ship’s core, was a narrower corridor, about forty meters long, its size scaled for foot and small-cart traffic. All the ceilings here were higher than those he’d seen in the rest of the ship, again with the thought of bulky cargo loads in mind. Three meters in front of him, set into both the ceiling and the deck, were another pair of airflow gratings.
No one was visible in any direction. But the footsteps were getting closer.
He was just wondering if he should move to the partial protection of a corner when one of the sets of footsteps suddenly changed from a stealthy walk to a flat-out run.
Merrick clenched his teeth, trying in vain to sort out where the steps were coming from. But the echoes were confusing his sense of direction. Still, it had to be either one of the corridors crossing the passageway ahead of him or else one of the side corridors leading into the cargo passageways to his right and left.
But why would anyone run toward him down any of them? Extra speed wouldn’t help an attacker. In fact, it would be completely counterproductive. No matter where they were coming from, once they emerged into his sight they would have to slow down for a right-angle turn before continuing toward him. The faster they were going when they hit the intersection, the more awkward that turn would be.
He was still trying to figure it out when a figure wearing a Marine tunic shot into view from the nearest cross-corridor ahead of him.
Merrick snapped his hands up into firing position, thumbs on the third-finger triggers, his eyes ready to put a target-lock on the attacker as soon as he made that hard-left turn. But to his surprise, the man simply raced through the intersection with no attempt to turn or even slow down. A fraction of a second later he disappeared into the other side of the corridor.
A fraction of a second after that, Merrick slapped the next patch on his arm and charged full speed down the corridor.
Because he’d seen this trick before. Back on Qasama, after his capture by the Balin Trofts, Commander Ukuthi had thwarted one of his escape attempts by putting three soldiers in different doorways, popping them out at random to shoot at Merrick, the unpredictability of the attack making his target-lock system useless. The Marine who’d just run past, plus the one or more right behind him, were setting up for the same randomized pop-and-shoot gambit.
A cautious Cobra would take cover behind one of the nearby corners and hope he could take the attackers out one at a time. But that would allow the Marines pin him down, and with two more corridors leading to him that kind of single-minded focus could be fatal. A clever Cobra would burn open the ceiling grate and find a way to attack his enemies from behind. But that would mean abandoning the hatch and the masters who were coming to join him, and he had orders not to do that.
When defense and escape weren’t possible, all that remained was attack.
He was halfway down the corridor when, just as he’d predicted, the second Marine poked his head around the corner and sent a quick salvo toward him. Merrick dodged to the right, and the laser fire burned harmlessly past his shoulder. He fired a return shot, but the Marine had already pulled back, and the lasers merely scorched the metal of the corner.
Both Marines were in position to start their game. But so was Merrick. He target-locked the ceiling just in front of the cross corridor, took two more steps, and jumped.
This time there was none of the possible ambiguity that had accompanied his leap into the spaceport battle back on Muninn. This was a straightforward ceiling jump, something his nanocomputer was more than capable of executing. His servos took over, doing their programmed magic to flip him over, hit the ceiling with his feet, push off and send him back down toward the corridors’ intersection, and turn him back over again in time to slam onto the deck directly between his attackers. He caught a glimpse of two men crouching behind their respective corners—so there were only two, after all—and did a pair of quick target-locks on each. He let one of his legs collapse, giving himself a slight sideways shove as he did so, then rolled over to drop onto his back.
And as the fall and the sideways momentum sent him spinning like an upside-down turtle, he fired his antiarmor laser.
The flickering blasts briefly lit up the corridor as his optics and servos lined up the shots perfectly. Merrick got a glimpse of both Marines collapsing to the deck, fired a stunner blast at each of them just to make sure, then rolled back up to his feet and hurried over to check them out.
The second Marine, the one who’d fired at him earlier, wouldn’t be giving him any more trouble. He backtracked across the main corridor to the Marine who’d run past.
And felt his eyes widen. The man lying on the deck was Gunnery Sergeant Plaine.
For a long second Merrick just stared, his mind spinning. Plaine was supposed to be on his side. His side, and the masters’. Wasn’t he?
Of course he was. Plaine himself had said so when he and Kemp got to the Dorian. And he’d had the definitive facial glow…
Frowning, Merrick keyed in his infrareds. The glow was gone.
He was still gazing at Plaine’s face, wondering what could have gone wrong, when he suddenly noticed a quiet hiss coming from somewhere in the distance.
He spun around, dropping into a crouch, looking along the corridor behind him. No one. He spun back, looking past Plaine down that side of the corridor. No one that direction, either.
But he could still hear the hissing. He notched up his audios, trying to locate the sound.
And for the second time in ten seconds felt his eyes widening. The hissing was coming from the cargo hatch.
Cursing under his breath, he leaped back to his feet. He was supposed to be there to open the hatch when the Trofts arrived. If they’d been forced to cut their way in, they would be very unhappy with him. He tore around the corner—
And froze. A figure was lying on the deck, leg raised, antiarmor laser fire blazing into the edge of the hatch.
The Trofts weren’t trying to break in. Someone—a Cobra—was trying to weld the hatch shut.
Well, Merrick could deal with that. The Cobra’s head was toward him; Merrick flicked a target lock onto the top as he raced down the corridor. If he got close enough, he could manage this with a stun blast. If not, his antiarmor laser would end things more permanently.
Even with the Dorian’s other noises, vibrations, and thumps Merrick’s approaching footsteps apparently were able to penetrate the Cobra’s concentration. Merrick was halfway there when the other’s laser shut off and the figure rolled over and shoved off the deck, springing back to vertical—
Merrick stumbled to a halt. He’d assumed the Cobra was Smitty, recovered somehow from his injuries, or possibly Kemp, if the same drug malfunction that had affected Plaine had also affected him. But it was neither.
It was Jody.
* * *
For a long moment they just stood there, staring at each other. Merrick’s face was rigid, his eyes looking Jody up and down as if it was the first time he’d ever seen her.
Or maybe as if he meant it to be the last time he would ever see her. She was, after all, standing between him and his new allies.
So far he hadn’t made any moves against her. But that wouldn’t last. If the Drim war drug was as powerful as Plaine had warned, there was no way Merrick could let her bar him from the hatch. He might try to order her away, or stun her, or pick her up bodily and throw her down the corridor.
Or he might skip all the subtleties and simply kill her.
But he wasn’t going to do any of it without at least talking. On that point she was determined. “You all right?” she called.
He blinked. “What?”
“I asked if you were all right,” Jody repeated. “You’ve been running around the whole ship stirring up trouble and having people shoot at you. I wondered if you’d been hurt.”
“No,” Merrick said, sounding confused. Maybe Troft victims weren’t supposed to talk to their executioners that way. “No. I’m fine.”
“I’m glad,” Jody said, feeling a fresh layer of sweat breaking out on the back of her neck. Merrick was talking, but he’d started moving toward her again. Slowly, one step at a time, but still moving. He hadn’t shot her out of hand—yet—but he clearly hadn’t lost sight of his primary mission. He would stun her, or move her.
And then he would die.
Because death was already waiting for him. Pressed against the wall by the corner to Jody’s right, the sound of her approach and Jody’s masked by Merrick’s earlier running attack at Plaine and Oponn, Rashida was standing ready to act the instant Merrick came around the corner into view.
And with the war drug enhancing his resistance to attack, Captain Moreau’s orders had been crystal clear. Here at the cargo hatch was their best chance of stopping or containing the Troft incursion. The man who stood in the way of that containment had to be neutralized.
Rashida wasn’t to use her stunner or her sonics, or to try any other nonlethal attack. The second Merrick came into sight, she was to use her arcthrower or her antiarmor laser and kill him.
Jody had until then to somehow talk her brother down.
“I’m glad,” she said again. “Mom always told me I was supposed to look after you.”
His forehead wrinkled, then cleared. “Mom…no,” he said slowly. “No. Mom always told us to look after you.”
“Us?” Jody asked. “You mean you and Lorne?”
Again, the wrinkled forehead. “Yes. Lorne and…and me.”
“Ah,” Jody said. “Really does go both ways, though. You must have had a hard time down there. You must be really tired. I’m so sorry we couldn’t get to you sooner. But we did come, right? We are bringing you home.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Jody…” He stopped, his eyes flicking around him as if he was seeing the Dorian for the first time. “I can’t betray them, Jody.”
“Can’t betray whom?”
“The—” He looked around again. “They gave me orders. They told me to help them. I…promised to help them. I can’t be a traitor.”
“You aren’t betraying them,” Jody said, feeling her heart speeding up. Plaine had never gotten to the point of even questioning the Trofts’ orders before she and Rashida took him down. Was Merrick actually starting to break free of the drug? “You’re helping them. You’re helping everyone.”
His eyes went to the hatch, and the section of spot welding he’d interrupted. “They need to get aboard,” he said. “They told me to help them get aboard.”
“But if they get aboard they’ll all die.”
Merrick’s eyes jerked back to her. “What? No. They’ll get aboard and…and then they’ll make me new friends.”
Jody shivered. So Captain Moreau had called it correctly. The Trofts were going to come in, take over the ship, and use their drug on everyone. And then send them back to the Dominion to kill. “They’ll get aboard and die,” she repeated. “The Dorian is on to them, Merrick. Captain Moreau will have Marines and heavy weapons here any minute, and they’ll kill them as they come through the hatchway. They can’t escape.”
Merrick looked at the hatch again. “They can,” he said. “They must.”
“Besides, you don’t need any new friends,” Jody continued, daring to take a step toward him. “You have us. You have your family.” She took a second step. “You have me.”
Again, he just stared at her. Jody took another step, aware that she was getting dangerously close to Rashida’s line of fire. Merrick didn’t move. Struck by a sudden thought, Jody keyed in her infrareds.
Merrick’s face was a little flushed, whether from exertion or churning emotion she couldn’t tell. But it wasn’t the heat signature of the drug, the signature she’d seen in Plaine and the men on Muninn. Was it somehow wearing off?
If so, he had surely already noticed, which meant he could hit the next patch any moment. She looked down at his arm, searching for signs of inflammation.
But there was nothing. Probably the implants had been done long enough ago that his skin had recovered.
Carefully, wincing at the thought of what she was preparing to do, she ran a target lock along his whole forearm. At his first move toward the patches, she would have no choice but to burn the whole area and hope she got the rest of the implants. Then a stun blast, hopefully knocking him out. Hopefully before Rashida got in her own killing shot.
Merrick was on the move again, slowly walking forward. A few more steps and he would be at the corner. “Merrick?” Jody said, forcing back her fear and desperation as she took another step of her own toward him. One more step and she would completely block Rashida’s line of fire…
And suddenly, Merrick’s knees wobbled, and his torso started to shake. He looked at Jody, again as if seeing her for the first time, and stumbled forward. “Jody?”
Stumbled past the corner.
Jody had only a split second to act. But she had no choice. She leaped forward one last step, forward and to her right, putting herself directly between Merrick and Rashida. Merrick started to fall; snapping out her arms, Jody caught him, locking her servos around him. If this was a trick, now would be the perfect time for him to spring it.
But he didn’t suddenly leap into action, throwing off her grip and blasting them both into eternity. He sagged in her arms, still shaking, muttering incoherently. “It’s all right,” Jody soothed, turning her grip into a hug. “It’s all right—”
Her only warning was a footstep behind her; a footstep, and a small and incautious shuffling of feet. But it was enough. Before the sounds had even consciously registered her nanocomputer took control, throwing her and Merrick forward back into the corridor.
As the blazing fury of an antiarmor blast sizzled across the back of her left shoulder.
She clamped down hard on the yelp of pain that tried to burst out. Dropping Merrick, catching a glimpse of Captain Moreau and Lieutenant Meekan at the corridor’s far end kneeling over Sergeant Oponn, she dropped to her stomach and eased an eye back around the corner.
Rashida was lying on her side on the deck, her back to the wall. Her left leg was tucked to her chest and she was gripping her left ankle with both hands.
Beyond her, striding toward them, was Kemp. His eyes were narrowed and grim, his expression impassive.
His face blazing with war drug heat.
That one glimpse was all Jody saw before she was forced to duck back again as Kemp sent a second burst of laser fire at her, this salvo from his fingertips. Jody got up into a crouch, glancing behind her again and measuring the distance with her eyes. If she could get Merrick down there, at least he would be safe.
But there was no way to do that. Not before Kemp could reach her current corner and burn down both of them.
And after that he would take up where Merrick had left off, cutting out her spot-welds and reopening the Dorian to Troft attack.
She couldn’t let that happen. No matter what it took—her life, or Merrick’s or both—she had to stop him.
From around the corner, Rashida gave a gasp. “Kemp—please,” she pleaded. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”
“Get out of the way,” Kemp called back, his voice as emotionless as his face. “Get out of the way, or I’ll burn you.”
“All right—all right,” Rashida said, and Jody heard the scrabbling as she got awkwardly to her feet. “Please—don’t hurt me. My ankle—God in heaven, it hurts. It hurts.”
A sudden cold chill wrapped around Jody’s heart. Rashida’s ankle…but there was no way anything that had just happened could have damaged a Cobra that way. She was fine and uninjured.
Only Kemp didn’t know that.
Cautiously, Jody eased her eye around the corner again. Rashida had made it to her feet, her left hand pressed against the wall for balance, her face turned toward Kemp.
Her body directly between him and Jody.
And with a flash of premonition, Jody knew what was about to happen.
Kemp didn’t know Rashida was a Cobra. He also didn’t know, or more likely didn’t care, what his and Merrick’s attack in the conference room had done to Smitty. With the carelessness of someone who knew he had nothing to fear, he would ignore Rashida until he was closer.
And Rashida would kill him.
Kemp was Jody’s closest friend, with a trust and loyalty between them that had been forged in combat. Whether she meant anything more to him, or whether he meant more to her, she still didn’t know. If Rashida killed him, Jody would never know the truth.
But Merrick was her brother. If Rashida didn’t stop Kemp, Merrick would probably die at Kemp’s hand for his treason against their new Troft masters.
Where did Jody’s allegiance lie? Where did her duty lie?
