Cobra Bargain Read online

  Well, that's certainly clear, Corwin thought. He glanced across the table at

  Telek, saw a sour expression flicker across her face. As a former academician herself, Corwin knew, she had even less patience with flowery fence-straddling than he did. "Suppose you elaborate and let us judge," she invited.

  That got her a frown from Chandler, but Barynson didn't seem insulted. "Of course, Governor Emeritus," he nodded. "First, since all of you may not be familiar with the background here-" he glanced at Priesly-"I'd like to briefly run through the basics for you.

  "As most of you know, in 2454 the Council had a series of six spy satellites placed into high orbit over the world of Qasama for the purpose of monitoring their technological and societal development following the introduction of

  Aventinian spine leopards into their ecological structure. In the twenty years since then the program has met with only limited success. We've noted that the village system has expanded beyond the so-called Fertile Crescent region, indicating either that the Qasamans' cultural paranoia has eased somewhat or that they've given up on keeping their long-range communications immune from interception. We've spotted evidence of some improvement in their aircraft and ground vehicles, as well as various minor changes you've had full reports on over the years. Nothing, so far, that would give us any reason to believe the

  Qasaman threat vis-a-vis the Cobra Worlds has in any way changed for the worse."

  He cleared his throat and tapped a button on the reader. A series of perhaps fifty dates and times appeared on Corwin's reader-the earliest nearly thirty months ago, he noted, the most recent only three weeks old-under the heading

  Satellite Downtimes. A quick scan of the numbers showed that, for each downtime listed, the affected satellite had lost between three and twelve hours of its record. "As you can see," Barynson continued, "over the last thirty months we've lost something on the order of four hundred hours of data covering various parts of Qasama. Up until recently we didn't think too much about it-"

  "Why not?" Urbanic Bailar of the newly colonized world Esquiline cut in. "I was under the impression that the main duty of your Monitor Center was to keep the planet under constant surveillance. I wasn't aware that leaving twelve-hour gaps qualified as constant."

  "I understand your concern," Barynson said soothingly, "but I assure you that

  Esquiline was-is-in no danger whatsoever. Even if the Qasamans knew your world's location-which they don't-there's simply no way they could create an attack fleet without our knowing it. Remember that they lost all their interstellar capability shortly after they reached Qasama-they'd be starting from literal step zero." Something flicked across his eyes, too fast for Corwin to read. "No, none of us are in any immediate danger from the Qasamans-that much we're certain of."

  "Well, I for one don't see what the fuss is," Atterberry snorted.

  "Self-repairing machinery like satellites are supposed to fail occasionally, aren't they?"

  "Yes, but not this often," Governor Emeritus David Nguyen put in. "Both of you are correct, actually," Barynson nodded, licking briefly at his lips. "Which is why we hadn't paid the gaps any real attention. However, a week ago one of our people, more on a hunch than anything else, tried running location and vector correlations on them. It turned out-well, here, you can see for yourselves," he said, pushing another series of keys.

  A map of the Fertile Crescent region of Qasama, home to virtually all the humans on that world, appeared on Corwin's reader. A series of colored ovals and arrows had been superimposed on the landscape.

  "Interesting," Telek growled. "How many of these gaps are missing that same chunk of the Crescent's western arm?"

  "Thirty-seven of the fifty-two," Barynson said. "All but two of the others-"

  "Lose some of the territory directly to the east of that section," Priesly interrupted him.

  Corwin felt something cold crawl up his back. "You have any small-scales of that place?" he asked.

  A slightly grainy picture replaced the map. "This is a photo taken three years ago, before the rash of malfunctions," Barynson said. "For those familiar with the Qasaman landscape, the city in the left-center of the picture is Azras; the one northeast of it, near top-center, is Purma."

  Involuntarily, Corwin glanced up at Telek, to find her eyes likewise on him.

  Purma-the city where the Qasamans had tried their damnedest to kill three members of Telek's original spy mission... one of those three being Justin.

  "Now here-" the photo changed "-is that same area as of the last satellite collection two weeks ago."

  Azras and Purma were essentially unchanged. But in the center of the screen-

  "What's that thing in the middle?" Gavin asked.

  "It appears to be a large compound or encampment or something." Barynson took a deep breath. "And from all indications, it's not only encircled by the standard

  Qasaman defensive wall, but is also completely covered on top."

  Protected from overhead surveillance... "And those areas on either side of it?"

  Corwin asked.

  "Those could have been blanked out by accident," Barynson said carefully. "But if they're not... we think it significant that east-parallel to the planet's rotation-is the obvious direction for practice in firing large, long-range rockets."

  There was a long moment of silence. "Are you telling us," Bailar said at last,

  "that that covered compound is the center of a Qasaman missile base?"

  Barynson nodded grimly. "The probability seems high that the Qasamans are attempting to rediscover space travel. And that they may be succeeding."

  Chapter 5

  For a long minute there was silence in the room. Then Atterberry stirred.

  "Well," he said to no one in particular, "so much for that one."

  "So much for that one what?" Telek growled at him.

  "That attempt to keep the Qasamans down," Atterberry amplified. "Trying to break their intersocial cooperation by tricking the mojos off the people and onto spine leopards-the whole Moreau Proposal, in other words."

  "Who says it's been a failure?" Corwin put in, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He and his family had sweat blood over that proposal... and in the process had saved the Cobra Worlds a long and costly and possibly losing war. "All we have here is an inference from a possible assumption based on questionable data. With that underground communications system of theirs we have no way of really knowing what's going on down there."

  "All right," Atterberry snorted. "Let's hear your idea of what that compound is for, then."

  "There could be hundreds of explanations," Corwin shot back. "Ninety percent of which would have nothing to do with any spaceward expansion."

  "Such as a new test facility for the air-to-air missiles they've already got, for instance," Telek said. "Or longer-range ones for use against each other."

  Chandler cleared his throat. "I think you're both missing the point," he said.

  "Whatever they're doing down there, the fact is that if Dr. Barynson and his colleagues are correct about the satellite malfunctions, then we're already talking a serious threat. Am I correct, Dr. Barynson, in the assumption that those satellites aren't easily knocked out?"

  "Without our realizing that they had been deliberately hit?" Barynson nodded.

  "Most definitely. That's one of the reasons we were so slow to notice the pattern of the downtimes, in fact-with no obvious physical damage anywhere, there was no reason to assume the Qasamans were responsible."

  "Have we established the Qasamans were responsible?" Vartanson spoke up. "You haven't yet suggested a mechanism for this purported sabotage, Doctor, and until you do I don't see how this can be treated as anything but an admittedly odd coincidence."

  Barynson scratched at his cheek. "That's the dilemma we're in, all right,

  Governor," he admitted. "As I said, there hasn't been any obvious physical damage to any of the satellites. We've checked into some of the oth
er possibilities-high-powered lasers blinding the lenses from the surface, for example-but so far none of the simulations give us the right kind of damage profile."

  "How about ionizing radiation?" Vartanson persisted. "And I don't necessarily mean radiation from Qasama."

  "Solar flares?" Barynson shrugged. "It's certainly one possibility. But if we assume random flares or ionosphere shifts we're still left with the question of why only that one area was so often left unmonitored."

  "It seems to me," Nguyen spoke up quietly, "that we could argue about this forever without getting anywhere. Mr. Moreau is correct: we have insufficient data for any solid conclusions. The only way we're going to get the kind of information we need will be to go back down there."

  "In other words, send in another spy mission," Atterberry said with undisguised distaste. "The last one we sent in-"

  "Wound up buying us nearly thirty years of peace," Telek put in tartly.

  "Postponing a war that's going to have to be fought anyway, you mean-"

  "Who said it's going to have to be fought?" Telek snapped. "For all we know, that compound has nothing to do with us-it could just as well be part of the preparations for an all-out internecine war that'll blow the Qasamans back to a pre-metal culture."

  "I hope," Priesly said quietly, "that you aren't as eager for that result as you sound."

  Telek's jaw tightened visibly. "I don't particularly want to see the Qasamans destroy themselves, no," she growled. "But if it comes down to a choice between them and us, I want us to be the ones who survive."

  Chandler cleared his throat. "It should be obvious that, whatever reservations we might have, Mr. Nguyen is correct. Another mission to Qasama is called for, and the sooner we get it underway, the sooner we'll find out what's going on."

  He tapped a key on his reader, and the telephoto on Corwin's reader was replaced by a list of nine names. "Given the experience of the first Qasaman mission,"

  Chandler continued, "it would appear to make more sense to start primarily with new Cobra recruits than to try and retrain older frontier-duty Cobras for the different kind of action they might face on Qasama. I've taken the liberty of running a preliminary sort-through of the latest acceptance list; these are the names that fell out."

  "Sorted how?" Gavin asked.

  "Particular emotional stability, ability to mix well and comfortably socially-that sort of thing," Chandler replied. "It's just a preliminary sorting, of course."

  Vartanson straightened up from his reader. "How many Cobras were you planning to send on the mission?" he asked Chandler.

  "The initial plan is calling for one experienced Cobra and four fresh recruits-"

  "You can't have them," Vartanson said flatly.

  All eyes turned to the Cobra. "What in the worlds are you talking about?" Bailar asked, frowning.

  Vartanson gestured at his reader. "Six of these recruits are from Caelian. We need them back there."

  Chandler took a deep breath. "Mr. Vartanson... I understand the close community feeling the people of Caelian have-"

  "There are barely three thousand of us left, Mr. Chandler," Vartanson said, his tone icy. "Twenty-five hundred civilians, five hundred Cobras-all of us fighting for our lives against Hell's Own Blender. We can't afford to let you take even one of those Cobras away from us... and you're not going to."

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Caelian was a dead-end world, in every sense of the word-a planet abandoned after years of struggle against its incredibly fluid ecology had bought the colonists nothing but a stalemate. Most of the population, when offered transport to the new world of Esquiline a quarter-century ago, had jumped at the chance... but for a small fraction of that populace, the mindless Caelian ecology had taken on the status of a powerful and almost sentient enemy, and to run from that enemy had seemed to them to be an acceptance of defeat and dishonor. Corwin had visited Caelian once since that remnant had dug in for the battle, and had come away with the uncomfortable picture of the people of Hell's Blender as rafters on a raging river. Drifting away not only from the rest of the Cobra Worlds community, but possibly even from their own basic humanity.

  All of which made Vartanson a very wild card indeed... and a man no one else in the Directorate ever really liked to cross.

  Not even the governor-general. "I understand," Chandler said again to Vartanson.

  Soothingly. "Actually, I think that even if we don't find another good candidate, these three new Cobras plus the experienced one ought to be adequate for the mission's needs."

  Corwin took a deep breath. "Perhaps," he said carefully, "we ought to see this lack of a fifth Cobra not as a problem but as an opportunity. A chance to throw the Qasamans a curve."

  He looked over to see Telek's eyes on him. "You mean like that switch your brothers pulled back on the first mission?" she asked. "Good idea, that-may even have saved the entire mission."

  Silently, Corwin blessed her. She couldn't know what he was about to propose, but by reminding the others of how well that other scheme had worked out she'd weakened the automatic resistance his enemies would almost certainly come up with. "Something like that," he nodded, unconsciously bracing himself. "I'd like to suggest that we create, solely for this mission, the first woman Cobra. Now, before you voice any objections-"

  "A woman Cobra?" Atterberry snorted. "Oh, for- Moreau, that is the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard."

  "Why?" Corwin countered. "Just because it hasn't ever been done?"

  "Why do you suppose it has never been done?" Priesly put in. "Because there are good reasons for it, that's why."

  Corwin looked over at Chandler. "Mr. Chandler?"

  There was a slightly sour look on Chandler's face, but he nodded. "You may continue," he said.

  "Thank you." Corwin's gaze swept the table, settled on Priesly and Atterberry as the two most hostile-looking. "One reason that the idea of women Cobras sounds so outlandish is that the Old Dominion of Man had a fairly strong patriarchal orientation. Women simply weren't considered for elite military troops-though

  I'll point out that during the Troft War there were a large number of female resistance fighters on both Adirondack and Silvern."

  "We all know our history," Nguyen put in gruffly. "Get to the point."

  "The point is that even what little we know of Qasaman society paints it as even more patriarchal than the Dominion was," Corwin told him. "If the thought of female warriors strikes you as ridiculous, think of how they'll see it."

  "In other words," Telek said slowly, "they're not likely to even consider the possibility that a woman along on the mission could be a demon warrior."

  "A demon what?" Priesly frowned.

  "It's the Qasaman term for Cobras," Chandler told him.

  "Appropriate," Priesly grunted.

  Vartanson threw him a cold look. "Being borderline demonic is often part of our job," he said icily.

  Priesly's lip twitched, and he turned abruptly back to Corwin. "Your assumption, of course, is that the mission will be caught," he said. "Isn't that being a little pessimistic?"

  "It's called being prepared," Corwin said tartly. "But assuming they won't get caught brings me to my second point: we want people who can fit in well enough with the Qasamans to poke around for answers without being immediately branded as foreigners. Correct?" He looked at Chandler. "Can you tell me, Mr. Chandler, how many of the Cobra candidates on your list can speak Qasaman?"

  "All of them," the governor-general said stiffly. "Give me a little credit, Mr.

  Moreau-Qasaman may not be an especially popular language course to take, but there's a reasonable pool of proficient people out there to choose from."

  "Especially since most young men with Cobra ambitions try and learn it," Gavin pointed out.

  "I understand that," Corwin nodded. "How many of this pool can speak it without an Aventinian accent?"

  Chandler's brow darkened. "Everyone who learns a foreign language speaks with an accent," he
growled.

  Corwin looked him straight in the eye. "I know someone who doesn't," he said flatly. "My niece, Jasmine Moreau."

  "Ah-well, there it is, everyone," Atterberry put in sardonically. "That's what all this is about-just another blatant grab for power by the Moreau family."

  "How does this qualify as a grab for power?" Corwin snorted. "By sending my niece out to possibly get herself killed?"