Cobra Traitor Read online

  “You mean lure them into an attack?”

  Barrington nodded, his throat aching. “We were supposed to build a military presence on the Cobra Worlds,” he said. “More realistically, the appearance of a military presence. Certainly neither our task force nor Aventine has the resources or infrastructure to create a genuine threat. But the planners at Asgard—that’s where our military command is located—didn’t think that would matter. Once the enemy noticed the build-up—and we fully expected the word to get back to them quickly—it was hoped they would withdraw forces from the battle front and bring them here.”

  “And we would be left to their mercies?”

  “No, not entirely—” He broke off as the word suddenly penetrated. “You said we?”

  “Of course, we,” Omnathi said, his voice going dark. “It’s perfectly obvious what Commodore Santores’s new plan is. Instead of luring the Trofts to the Cobra Worlds, you intend to lure them to Qasama.”

  “I didn’t—” Barrington broke off. Tired of the lies. “Yes,” he confirmed. “For whatever it’s worth, I don’t like the plan. Any of it. I never liked it from the start. Neither did my patron back in the Dome.”

  “But you were desperate,” Omnathi murmured. “You of the Dominion. And desperate people do whatever is necessary to survive.”

  Barrington looked sideways at him. He’d expected the Qasaman to react to the revelation with blazing fury or at least a cold, bitter rage. But there wasn’t any such tone in the other’s voice. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. “Our culture—”

  “On the contrary—I understand all too well,” Omnathi interrupted. “We faced that same decision during the Troft invasion. Many times.” He shrugged. “Which doesn’t mean we agree with your conclusion or your plan, of course.”

  “Of course,” Barrington said. “As I said, I don’t like it myself.”

  “But you have no alternative to offer?”

  “No, I don’t,” Barrington said, frowning as a sudden thought struck him. Barrington himself certainly had no alternative plan…but sitting beside him was a man who was reputed to be the best strategist on Qasama. “But perhaps you do?”

  Omnathi gave a little snort. “You give me far too much credit, Captain. The finest minds in your Dominion of Man have puzzled at this problem for months without an alternative. Yet you expect me, who has only now heard the true situation, to find a solution all the others have missed?”

  “I don’t give you any more credit than you deserve, Your Excellency,” Barrington countered. “And to be perfectly honest, I don’t know how much effort those fine minds on Asgard and in the Dome put into this plan. The Cobra Worlds have been half history and half myth for so long I doubt the planners even thought of the citizens as human beings anymore. If they didn’t care to factor in the cost of colonist lives, the idea of luring a Troft force to their destruction may have looked good enough that they stopped right there with their planning.”

  “What about the lives of you and the others aboard your ships?” Omnathi countered “Don’t they matter?”

  “In a war, sacrifices have to be made,” Barrington said. “And this isn’t quite the straight-up suicide mission you’re probably thinking. There’s one more piece to the strategy that I hadn’t mentioned: there’s a second task force coming in behind us, and already on its way. Once the Trofts have launched their attack on us, the secondary force will suddenly appear behind them and catch them in a cross-fire. With luck, we’ll destroy them completely. At the very least, there should be considerably fewer ships to rejoin their allies on the Dominion front.”

  “Perhaps,” Omnathi murmured. “Though they would be fools to send so many ships to this battle that even their total loss would seriously diminish their efforts at the primary front.”

  “If the balance of power isn’t already right on the edge,” Barrington said. “It might be. And if they’re thinking tactically, which they may not be at that point. There are indications they may be on the edge of desperation.”

  “An ironic statement, if I may point that out.”

  Barrington winced. “No argument there,” he conceded. “But the number of ships lost or not lost may not matter. Troft alliances are notoriously fragile, and a solid defeat here might induce some of the members to withdraw and pursue a separate peace with the Dominion. At any rate, any uncertainty or chaos we can create in the Troft ranks is to our advantage.”

  “Even if it costs you your lives?”

  Barrington felt his throat tighten. “We’re the defenders of our worlds,” he said. “If by our deaths we can secure peace and freedom for those worlds, that’s our job. Yes, even if it costs us our lives.”

  For a moment the room was silent. Barrington gazed out at the empty operating room, wondering how many such rooms it would take to treat all the casualties if the Trofts took the bait.

  Too many, he suspected. Far too many.

  Beside him, Omnathi stirred. “I will consider the problem,” he said. “Perhaps there is another way.” He half turned toward Barrington. “My question is whether Commodore Santores would accept an alternative if it was offered to him.”

  The reflexive words—of course!—unexpectedly stuck in Barrington’s throat. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I personally would grab a better plan with both hands. But there are those who believe Asgard’s plans and pronouncements come straight from God’s mouth. They might require more convincing.”

  “Commodore Santores?”

  “Not so much him,” Barrington said, a small pang of guilt flickering through him. Dominion Fleet personnel weren’t supposed to talk about their fellow officers this way. Particularly not to outsiders.

  But with hundreds of thousands of civilian lives hanging over the chasm, propriety no longer seemed so important. And the more information Omnathi had, the better his chances of coming up with an alternative plan. “But Captain Lij Tulu is definitely one of them. So are a few of my officers.”

  Omnathi chuckled. “You might be amused, Captain, to know that throughout much of Qasama’s history the words of the Shahni were also considered to be on a level with those from heaven. Our peoples—or our cultures at least—are not so different than you might imagine.”

  “Perhaps,” Barrington said. “Though our military structure isn’t necessarily an accurate reflection of the Dominion in general.”

  “Your overall culture isn’t like that?”

  Barrington ran the question over in his mind. The Dominion’s strong centralized government; planetary and local governments whose job was largely to carry out the Dome’s orders; people who accepted those orders without complaint…

  “But of course, that’s not really relevant to the problem at hand,” Omnathi continued. “I appreciate your honesty, Captain. Though it’s no less than I would expect from a member of the Moreau family. I will consider our joint problem, and search to my fullest ability for a solution.” He gestured. “And now, your two Marine guards will have finished preparing themselves to join you in the operating room. You had best go and assure them that all is well.”

  “Before they start shooting,” Barrington agreed, standing up. “Thank you, Your Excellency. I’ll look forward to our next meeting.”

  “As will I,” Omnathi said, remaining seated. “Farewell, Captain Moreau.”

  Barrington again circled the line of seats, wondering distantly if the Qasamans were really going to just let him and the Marines leave. He had, after all, just threatened their entire world with destruction. There were plenty of war theorists on Asgard who would agree that this was practically the definition of a justifiable preemptive strike.

  He was still waiting for some kind of move against him when their shuttle settled back into its place in the Dorian’s hangar bay.

  Meekan was waiting for him outside the main hatch. “We received a call from the Qasamans half an hour ago, sir,” the lieutenant said as the two men headed for the elevator. “I understand Commander Kusa
ri is all right now?”

  “Yes, he’s fine,” Barrington said.

  “Ah,” Meekan said. “Did they tell you what the problem was?”

  “It seems to have been a false alarm,” Barrington said. Clearly, Meekan was hoping for more details.

  Barrington wasn’t about to give him any. Not yet. He would upload the bare bones of his visit into the data stream, but that was all. “Inform Commander Garrett that I’ll be taking back the watch as soon as I reach CoNCH,” he told Meekan.

  “Yes, sir,” Meekan said. “And I know he’ll be anxious to see you. He hasn’t put it on the data stream yet, but it looks like Ukuthi has left.”

  Barrington frowned, something cold running up his back. “Ukuthi’s gone? Where? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Meekan said. “Garrett said a first-approximation on the vector wasn’t very helpful—it didn’t point to any known system. He was going to keep fine-tuning the data in hopes of having something more useful before he released it.”

  “Good,” Barrington said grimly. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll go see how he’s doing.”

  He headed to the elevator, a hard knot forming in his stomach. Ukuthi, a senior commander of the Balin’ekha’spmi demesne, had worked very hard to nurture this arrangement with the Dominion on behalf of his demesne-lord. Why would he suddenly leave now, especially without telling Barrington what was going on?

  But the Troft was gone, and there was nothing Barrington could do about it. Which was just as well, given that he had a far more urgent matter to attend to.

  He had no illusions that he was smarter than the strategists on Asgard. Maybe there were no other practical alternatives to the plan they’d come up with to siphon off some of the forces threatening to overwhelm the Dominion.

  But he was damned if he was going to sacrifice the lives of fellow human beings—Cobra Worlds citizens or Qasamans—without at least taking a crack at it himself. And that meant pulling up and studying every detail of the task force’s plan.

  And if he or Omnathi did find some alternative…

  Barrington scowled. He’d told Omnathi that Santores wasn’t one of those who believed orders from Asgard carried divine weight. But that didn’t mean the commodore would violate them without a very good reason. If he or the Qasaman came up with an alternative, it would be up to Barrington to sell it to both Santores and Lij Tulu.

  But surely he could. After all, both of them were reasonable men.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The time for talk was over. The time for action had arrived.

  Or so Commodore Rubo Santores had told Paul Broom before he’d loaded Marines aboard six of the Megalith’s fighter-transports and launched them from orbit toward the Caelian capital of Stronghold.

  Seated in the command chair that had been wedged just behind the pilot and copilot, Paul gazed through the curved canopy, wondering uneasily what exactly the action Santores had promised was going to consist of.

  And wondering why a broken Cobra like Paul Broom was aboard.

  Santores had been talking about negotiation and conciliation while his men helped Paul into the fighter and strapped him in. The words had been soothing, and had made it sound as if Paul was the key to persuading Governor Uy to renounce his government’s decision to secede from the Dominion of Man and unite with Qasama.

  But those soothing words had come before six fully armored Marines climbed into Paul’s fighter behind him. The conciliation speech had come before Paul had seen the other five fighters being prepped and similarly loaded with Marines. And the negotiation talk had come before Santores had announced to the strike force that the time for talk was over.

  So why exactly was Paul here?

  Stronghold was a faintly glowing spot on the nighttime horizon when he finally found out. “Governor Uy, this is Commodore Santores,” Santores’s voice boomed from the flight-deck speaker. “I know you won’t answer, because you’re afraid we’ll backtrack your transmissions and find out where you’ve gone to ground. But I know you can hear me. So listen closely, and consider this your final chance to end this before more blood is spilled.

  “My troops are on their way. They’re accompanied by enough firepower to level your town and turn every one of you to blackened cinders. I don’t want to do that. But what you’re doing is treason, and treason against the Dominion of Man will not be tolerated.

  “I know you’ll have your Cobras on hand to protect you. Consider their lives forfeit. You can ask Cobra Paul Broom what happens when your hundred-year-old technology comes up against battle-ready Dominion Marines.”

  Paul stared out at the rapidly approaching spot of light. Stronghold was a little dot of civilization, a refuge that had been built in defiance of everything the planet’s hellish flora and fauna could throw against it, maintained by an underlying optimism that human beings could indeed live and thrive here.

  And now, Santores was preparing to wipe out everything the people had fought and struggled and died for.

  “You have one chance,” Santores continued. “The same chance you’ve had since the beginning. Renounce this insane secession document, return to the Dominion fold, and nothing more will be said.”

  Paul clenched his teeth. No, nothing more would probably be said about the Caelians’ attempt to secede. But that didn’t mean Uy would be free and clear. There was still the matter of the Squire, Captain Lij Tulu’s missing courier ship, and Paul had no doubt that Santores would pursue that question with as much vigor—and firepower—as he deemed necessary.

  On one level, Paul could hardly blame him. He’d caught a glimpse of the long canoe-shaped hole in the Algonquin’s side when he was taken aboard several days ago, and he could see why Lij Tulu wanted the ship back.

  The overall design made no sense to Paul. Why would anyone build a warship that lost a section of its outer hull every time one of its courier ships went for a spin? But apparently it was reasonable to someone in the Dominion, because all three of the war cruisers seemed to have that same design.

  Lij Tulu would certainly want the Squire secured in place before he headed into any real trouble. Santores strongly suspected the Caelians of having made the ship disappear, and he wasn’t going to let up until he got to the truth.

  On a purely theoretical level, Paul was mostly with the commodore on this one, too. Making a ship that size disappear without a trace was a good trick, and he was rather curious to see how the Caelians had pulled it off.

  “That offer ends when my fighters get within firing range of Stronghold,” Santores continued, his voice chillingly calm. “Once we engage, your choices will be to die or to surrender unconditionally.”

  “Wait for it,” the copilot murmured, just loudly enough for Paul to hear.

  “And in case you’re thinking about opening random fire on the fighters,” Santores said, “be advised that one of them is carrying your friend, benefactor, and deliverer: Cobra Paul Broom.”

  The copilot half turned, offering Paul a mocking smile. “There you go, Broom. Time to find out how much they really love you.”

  “You might be surprised,” Paul told him, a hard knot in his stomach. So that was it. No negotiations, no subtle but earnest attempt to barter Paul’s high standing with Governor Uy and the rest of the Qasamans for some kind of reconciliation. Santores had decided Paul’s best use was as a hostage and human shield.

  “Surprised how?” the copilot asked. “How much they do? Or how much they don’t?”

  Paul smiled. He had no idea what kind of response the Caelians were planning. There was no way to know whether Paul’s forced appearance in the battle zone had caught Uy by surprise, or whether he’d anticipated Santores’s ploy.

  But whichever it was, this was very likely going to be good. “Neither,” he told the copilot. “You’re just going to be surprised, that’s all.”

  The copilot gave him an odd look, and turned back to his board without further comment.

  Three minutes later—barely en
ough time for Uy to even get out of bed, Paul thought cynically, let alone surrender—the six fighters reached the city.

  They did a quick pass first, weaving a complicated pattern barely a hundred meters above the town. The section of the outer wall that had been breached during the Troft invasion was largely repaired, Paul noted as they went by, though there was still a small gap covered by the improvised barrier the Caelians had thrown together in the last days of the war. The fighters finished their swoop and swung wide of the city, then came back around and settled into a circular formation over the entire wall, completely surrounding the town, with their noses and weapons pointed inward. “Broom, this is Strike Leader,” a voice came from the speakers. “Where does Uy live?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Paul said. In fact, the governor’s residence was simply the top floor of the government building, a structure he was pretty sure Santores had already tagged. But the idea of a top official living in the same building where he worked apparently hadn’t occurred to them, and Paul was in no hurry to enlighten them.

  “Soldiers of the Dominion of Man,” Uy’s voice came from the speaker.

  Paul tensed. Against Santores’s prediction—and all tactical logic—the governor had indeed chosen to answer the commodore’s demand.

  “You have no right to be within Caelian airspace,” Uy continued. “You are ordered to leave at once, or you will be considered an invasion and met by force.”

  “Got him,” a different voice cut in. “Three-omicron, three-story building. Three men standing in the middle of the roof.”

  Frowning, Paul glanced at the grid overlay on the helm’s tactical display, found the proper square, and craned his neck to look out the canopy at the indicated spot. In the faint starlight he could see there were indeed three figures standing motionlessly in the center of the roof. He keyed in his telescopics, and in the zoomed-in view he could see that the three were Governor Uy and two of his Cobras, Popescu and Tammling.