The Cobra Trilogy Page 16

  "Well . . . it's better than not getting any respect at all."

  Jonny snorted. "Thanks a lot," he said wryly. "I'd rather be picked on."

  A sign of life at last. Jame pressed ahead, afraid of losing the spark. "You know, Dader and I have been talking about the shop. You remember that we didn't have enough equipment for three workers?"

  "Yes—and you still don't."

  "Right. But what stops us from having you and Dader run the place while I go out and work somewhere else for a few months?"

  Jonny was silent for a moment, but then shook his head. "Thanks, but no. It wouldn't be fair."

  "Why not? That job used to be yours. It's not like you were butting in. Actually, I'd kind of like to try something else for a while."

  "I'd probably drive away all the customers if I was there."

  Jame's lip twisted. "That won't fly, and you know it. Dader's customers are there because they like him and his work. They don't give two hoots who handles the actual repairs as long as Dader supervises everything. You're just making excuses."

  Jonny closed his eyes briefly. "And what if I am?"

  "I suppose it doesn't matter to you right now whether or not you let your life go down the drain," Jame gritted. "But you might take a moment to consider what you're doing to Gwen."

  "Yeah. The other kids are pretty hard on her, aren't they?"

  "I'm not referring to them. Sure, she's lost most of her friends, but there are a couple who're sticking by her. What's killing her is having to watch her big brother tearing himself to shreds."

  Jonny looked up for the first time. "What do you mean?"

  "Just want I said. She's been putting up a good front for your sake, but the rest of us know how much it hurts her to see the brother she adores sitting in his room and—" He groped for the right words.

  "Wallowing in self-pity?"

  "Yeah. You owe her better than that, Jonny. She's already lost most of her friends; she deserves to keep her brother."

  Jonny looked back out the window for a long moment, then glanced down at the college applications. "You're right." He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Okay. You can tell Dader he's got himself a new worker," he said, collecting the magforms together into a neat pile. "I'll start whenever he's ready for me."

  Jame grinned and gripped his brother's shoulder. "Thanks," he said quietly. "Can I tell Momer and Gwen, too?"

  "Sure. No; just Momer." He stood up and gave Jane a passable attempt at a smile. "I'll go tell Gwen myself."

  * * *

  The tiny spot of bluish light, brilliant even through the de-contrast goggles, crawled to the edge of the metal and vanished. Pushing up the goggles, Jonny set the laser down and inspected the seam. Spotting a minor flaw, he corrected it and then began removing the fender from its clamps. He had not quite finished the job when a gentle buzz signaled that a car had pulled into the drive. Grimacing, Jonny took off his goggles and headed for the front of the shop.

  Mayor Stillman was out of his car and walking toward the door when Jonny emerged from the building. "Hello, Jonny," he smiled, holding out his hand with no trace of hesitation. "How are you doing?"

  "Fine, Mr. Stillman," Jonny said, feeling awkward as he shook hands. He'd been working here for three weeks now, but still didn't feel comfortable dealing directly with his father's customers. "Dader's out right now; can I help you with something?"

  Stillman shook his head. "I really just dropped by to say hello to you and to bring you some news. I heard this morning that Wyatt Brothers Contracting is putting together a group to demolish the old Lamplighter Hotel. Would you be interested in applying for a job with them?"

  "No, I don't think so. I'm doing okay here right now. But thanks for—"

  He was cut off by a dull thunderclap. "What was that?" Stillman asked, glancing at the cloudless sky.

  "Explosion," Jonny said curtly, eyes searching the southwest sky for evidence of fire. For an instant he was back on Adirondack. "A big one, southwest of us. There!" He pointed to a thin plume of smoke that had suddenly appeared.

  "The cesium extractor, I'll bet," Stillman muttered. "Damn! Come on, let's go."

  The déjà vu vanished. "I can't go with you," Jonny said.

  "Never mind the shop. No one will steal anything." Stillman was already getting into his car

  "But—" There would be crowds there! "I just can't."

  "This is no time for shyness," the mayor snapped. "If that blast really was all the way over at the extraction plant, there's probably one hell of a fire there now. They might need our help. Come on!"

  Jonny obeyed. The smoke plume, he noted, was growing darker by the second.

  Stillman was right on all counts. The four-story cesium extraction plant was indeed burning furiously as they roared up to the edge of the growing crowd of spectators. The patrollers and fireters were already there, the latter pouring a white liquid through the doors and windows of the building. The flames, Jonny saw as he and the mayor pushed through the crowd, seemed largely confined to the first floor. The entire floor was burning, however, with flames extending even a meter or two onto the ground outside the building. Clearly, the fire was being fueled by one or more liquids.

  The two men had reached one of the patrollers now. "Keep back, folks—" he began.

  "I'm Mayor Stillman," Stillman identified himself. "What can we do to help?"

  "Just keep back—no, wait a second, you can help us string a cordon line. There could be another explosion any time and we've got to keep these people back. The stuff's over there."

  The "stuff" consisted of thin, bottom-weighted poles and bright red cord to string between them. Stillman and Jonny joined three patrollers who were in the process of setting up the line.

  "How'd it happen?" Stillman asked as they worked, shouting to make himself heard over the roar of the flames.

  "Witnesses say a tank of iaphanine got ruptured somehow and ignited," one of the patrollers shouted back. "Before they could put it out, the heat set off another couple of tanks. I guess they had a few hundred kiloliters of the damned stuff in there—it's used in the refining process—and the whole lot went up at once. It's a wonder the building's still standing."

  "Anyone still in there?"

  "Yeah. Half a dozen or so—third floor."

  Jonny turned, squinting against the light. Sure enough, he could see two or three anxious faces at a partially open third-floor window. Directly below them Cedar Lake's single "skyhooker" fire truck had been driven to within a cautious ten meters of the building and was extending its ladder upwards. Jonny turned back to the cordon line—

  The blast was deafening, and Jonny's nanocomputer reacted by throwing him flat on the ground. Twisting around to face the building, he saw that a large chunk of wall a dozen meters from the working fireters had been disintegrated by the explosion. In its place was now a solid sheet of blue-tinged yellow flame. Fortunately, none of the fireters seemed to have been hurt.

  "Oh, hell," a patroller said as Jonny scrambled to his feet. "Look at that."

  A piece of the wall had apparently winged the skyhooker's ladder on its way to oblivion. One of the uprights had been mangled, causing the whole structure to sag to the side. Even as the fireters hurriedly brought it down the upright snapped, toppling the ladder to the ground.

  "Damn!" Stillman muttered. "Do they have another ladder long enough?"

  "Not when it has to sit that far from the wall," the patroller gritted. "I don't think the Public Works talltrucks can reach that high either."

  "Maybe we can get a hover-plane from Horizon City," Stillman said, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

  "They haven't got time." Jonny pointed at the second-floor windows. "The fire's already on the second floor. Something has to be done right away."

  The fireters had apparently come to the same conclusion and were pulling one of their other ladders from its rack on the skyhooker. "Looks like they're going to try to reach the second floor a
nd work their way to the third from inside," the patroller muttered.

  "That's suicide," Stillman shook his head. "Isn't there any place they can set up airbags close enough to let the men jump?"

  The answer to that was obvious and no one bothered to voice it: if the fireters could have done that, they would have already done so. Clearly, the flames extended too far from the building for that to work.

  "Do we have any strong rope?" Jonny asked suddenly. "I'm sure I could throw one end of it to them."

  "But they'd slide down into the fire," Stillman pointed out.

  "Not if you anchored the bottom end fifteen or twenty meters away; tied it to one of the fire trucks, say. Come on, let's go talk to one of the fireters."

  They found the fire chief in the group trying to set up the new ladder. "It's a nice idea, but I doubt if all of the men up there could make it down a rope," he frowned after Jonny had sketched his plan. "They've been in smoke and terrific heat for nearly a quarter hour now and are probably getting close to collapse."

  "Do you have anything like a breeches buoy?" Jonny asked. "It's like a sling with a pulley that slides on a rope."

  The chief shook his head. "Look, I haven't got any more time to waste here. We've got to get our men inside right away."

  "You can't send men into that," Stillman objected. "The whole second floor must be on fire by now."

  "That's why we have to hurry, damn it!"

  Jonny fought a brief battle with himself. But, as Stillman had said, this was no time to be shy. "There's another way. I can take a rope to them along the outside of the building."

  "What? How?"

  "You'll see. I'll need at least thirty meters of rope, a pair of insulated gloves, and about ten strips of heavy cloth. Now!"

  The tone of command, once learned, was not easily forgotten. Nor was was it easy to resist; and within a minute Jonny was standing beneath his third-floor target window, as close to the building as the flames permitted. The rope, tied firmly around his waist, trailed behind him, kept just taut enough to insure that it, too, stayed out of the fire. Taking a deep breath, Jonny bent his knees and jumped.

  Three years of practice had indeed made perfect. He caught the window ledge at the top of his arc, curled up feet taking the impact against red-hot brick. In a single smooth motion he pulled himself through the half-open window and into the building.

  The fire chief's guess about the heat and smoke had been correct. The seven men lying or sitting on the floor of the small room were so groggy they weren't even startled by Jonny's sudden appearance. Three were already unconscious; alive, but just barely.

  The first task was to get the window completely open. It was designed, Jonny saw, to only open halfway, the metal frame of the upper section firmly joined to the wall. A few carefully placed laser shots into the heat-softened metal did the trick, and a single kick popped the pane neatly and sent it tumbling to the ground.

  Moving swiftly now, Jonny untied the rope from his waist and fastened it to a nearby stanchion, tugging three times on it to alert the fireters below to take up the slack. Hoisting one of the unconscious men to a more or less vertical position, he tied a strip of cloth to the man's left wrist, tossed the other end over the slanting rope, and tied it to the man's right wrist. With a quick glance outside to make sure the fireters were ready, he lifted the man through the window and let him slide down the taut rope into the waiting arms below. Jonny didn't wait to watch them cut him loose, but went immediately to the second unconscious man.

  Parts of the floor were beginning to smolder by the time the last man disappeared out the window. Tossing one more cloth strip over the rope, Jonny gripped both ends with his right hand and jumped. The wind of his passage felt like an arctic blast on his sweaty skin and he found himself shivering as he reached the ground. Letting go of the cloth, he stumbled a few steps away—and heard a strange sound.

  The crowd was cheering.

  He turned to look at them, wondering, and finally it dawned on him that they were cheering for him. Unbidden, an embarrassed smile crept onto his face, and he raised his hand shyly in acknowledgment.

  And then Mayor Stillman was at his side, gripping Jonny's arm and smiling broadly. "You did it, Jonny; you did it!" he shouted over all the noise.

  Jonny grinned back. With half of Cedar Lake watching he'd saved seven men, and had risked his life doing it. They'd seen that he wasn't a monster, that his abilities could be used constructively and—most importantly—that he wanted to be helpful. Down deep, he could sense that this was a potential turning point. Maybe—just maybe—things would be different for him now.

  * * *

  Stillman shook his head sadly. "I really thought things would be different for him after the fire."

  Fraser shrugged. "I'd hoped so, too. But I'm afraid I hadn't really counted on it. Even while everybody was cheering for him you could see that nervousness still in their eyes. That fear of him was never gone, just covered up. Now that the emotional high has worn off, that's all that's left."

  "Yeah." Lifting his gaze from the desk, Stillman stared for a moment out the window. "So they treat him like an incurable psychopath. Or a wild animal."

  "You can't really blame them. They're scared of what his strength and lasers could do if he went berserk."

  "He doesn't go berserk, damn it!" Stillman flared, slamming his fist down on the desk.

  "I know that!" the councilor shot back. "Fine—so you want to tell everyone the truth? Even assuming Vanis D'arl didn't jump down our throats for doing it, would you really want to tell people Jonny has no control over his combat reflexes? You think that would help?"

  Stillman's flash of anger evaporated. "No," he said quietly. "It would just make things worse." He stood up and walked over to the window. "Sorry I blew up, Sut. I know it's not your fault. It's just . . ." He sighed. "We've lost it, Sut. That's all there is to it. We're never going to get Jonny reintegrated into this town now. If becoming a bona fide hero didn't do it, then I have no idea what else to try."

  "It's not your fault either, Teague. You can't take it personally." Fraser's voice was quiet. "The Army had no business doing what it did to Jonny, and then dropping him on us without any preparation. But they're not going to be able to ignore the problem. You remember what D'arl said—the Cobras are having trouble all over the Dominion. Sooner or later the government's going to have to do something about it. We've done our best; it's up to them now."

  Stillman's intercom buzzed. Walking back to his desk, the mayor tapped the key. "Yes?"

  "Sir, Mr. Do-sin just called from the press office. He says there's something on the DOM-Press line that you should see."

  "Thank you." Sitting down, Stillman turned on his plate and punched up the proper channel. The last three news items were still visible, the top one marked with a star indicating its importance. Both men hunched forward to read it.

  Dominion Joint Military Command HQ, Asgard:

  A military spokesman has announced that all reserve Cobras will be recalled into active service by the end of next month. This move is designed to counter a Minthisti build-up along the Dominion's Andromeda border. As yet no regular Army or Star Force reserves are being recalled, but all options are being kept open.

  "I don't believe it," Fraser shook his head. "Are those stupid Minthisti going to try it again? I thought they learned their lesson the last time we stomped them."

  Stillman didn't reply.

  * * *

  Vanis D'arl swept into Mayor Stillman's office with the air of a man preoccupied by more important business. He nodded shortly to the two men who were waiting there for him and sat down without invitation. "I trust this is as vital as your message implied," he said to Stillman. "I postponed an important meeting to detour to Horizon. Let's get on with it."

  Stillman nodded, determined not to be intimidated, and gestured to the youth sitting quietly by his desk. "May I present Jame Moreau, brother of Cobra-three Jonny Moreau. He and I have been di
scussing the Reserve call-up set for later this month in response to the alleged Minthisti threat."

  "Alleged?" D'arl's voice was soft, but there was a warning under it.

  Stillman hesitated, suddenly aware of the risk they were taking with this confrontation. But Jame stepped into the gap. "Yes, alleged. We know this whole thing is a trumped-up excuse to pull all the Cobras back into the Army and ship them off to the border where they'll be out of the way."

  D'arl looked keenly at Jame, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're concerned about your brother, of course; that's only natural," he said at last. "But your allegations are unprovable and come perilously close to sedition. The Dominion makes war only in self-defense. Even if your claim was true, what would such an action gain us?"

  "That's precisely our point," Jame said calmly, showing a self-control and courage far beyond his nineteen years. "The government is trying to solve the Cobra problem, clearly. But this isn't a solution; it's merely a postponement."

  "And yet, the Cobras were generally unhappy in their new civilian roles," D'arl pointed out. "Perhaps this will actually be better for them."

  Jame shook his head, his eyes still holding D'arl's. "No. Because you can't keep them there forever, you see. You either have to release them again someday—in which case you're right back where you started—or else you have to hope that the problem will . . . work itself out."

  D'arl's face was an expressionless mask. "What do you mean by that?"

  "I think you know." For just a second Jame's control cracked, and some of the internal fire leaked out. "But don't you see? It won't work. You can't kill off all the Cobras, no matter how many wars you put them through, because the Army will be making new ones as fast as the old ones die. They're just too blasted useful for the brass to simply drop the project."

  D'arl looked back at Stillman. "If this is all you wanted, to throw out ridiculous accusations, then you've wasted my time. Good day to you." He stood up and headed toward the door.

  "It isn't," Stillman said. "We think we've come up with an alternative."

  D'arl stopped and turned back to face them. For a moment he measured them with his eyes, then slowly came and sat down again. "I'm listening."