Cobra Gamble Read online

Merrick stared at the darkened buildings and homes stretched out beneath the window. It was a question he'd been struggling with ever since the ship had first appeared outside Milika at yesterday's dawn.

  On one hand, the answer was simple. He couldn't just sit here while the Trofts destroyed the village, or even started that process. With the first actual laser blast or missile he would have no choice but to leave the Sammon house and march toward the warship with his hands held high in surrender. Certainly that was the reaction the Trofts were counting on.

  But the more he dug below the surface of that supposedly simple answer, the more he realized things weren't nearly that straightforward. If the Trofts wanted to kill him, then they would kill him, and there was little Merrick could do except hope that his death would buy Milika a release from this siege.

  But what if the Trofts wanted to take him alive? As the hours shrank toward the deadline, that possibility seemed more and more likely. Especially after Fadil had pointed out that the aliens could have forced Merrick's death long ago by simply opening fire on the village and forcing him into a suicidal counterattack.

  So what did the Trofts want him for? There was only one reason Merrick had been able to come up with, and the very thought of it made his skin crawl.

  The invaders had been defeated once by a coalition consisting of hundreds of Qasaman Djinn and two Aventinian Cobras. They'd presumably captured enough Djinn combat suits along the way to know how they operated, and to counter future attacks.

  But that was the Djinn. So far, the Trofts hadn't been able to crack the full range of Cobra weapons and capabilities. Remedying that deficiency was very likely the goal of this current operation.

  They were hoping to take Merrick so that they could dissect him. Possibly while he was still alive.

  Merrick couldn't let them to that, of course. Personal dread aside, he had no intention of giving the invaders a head start in fighting whatever troops his mother succeeded in bringing back.

  Fortunately—or as fortunately as it got—he had ultimate veto over that particular scenario. Once the warship opened fire on Milika he could ensure that he ended up in the midst of their attack. With his speed, strength, and reflexes, he should be able to arrange a quick and mostly painless death for himself.

  And yet...

  He raised his eyes from the darkened village to the stars twinkling against the cloudless sky. Merrick's great-grandfather Jonny Moreau had also been taken alive during his war against the Trofts a century ago. He, too, had realized that the enemy planned to use him to glean information about Cobra abilities and equipment.

  But instead of simply sacrificing himself to keep that from happening, Jonny had found a way to turn his captors' plan against them.

  Shouldn't Merrick at least try to find a similar solution before he gave up?

  There was an urgent knock on the door. "Enter," Krites called softly.

  The door swung open to reveal one of the Sammon family servants. "Your pardon," the man panted, glancing at Fadil's closed eyes and then turning to Merrick. "I have an urgent message for Merrick Moreau. One of the wall guards has sighted a small light in the kundur trees to the east."

  Merrick frowned. And this had had to do with him how? "Okay," he said cautiously. "And?"

  "He speaks of the kundur grove to the east," Fadil said. Merrick jumped—he'd thought Fadil was still asleep. "A light shining into Milika from there would be invisible to the invaders' warship."

  "The light gives five short flashes, then a pause," the servant added. "Then five more flashes, then another pause."

  Merrick caught his breath. That was Dida code. Five flashes—dit dit dit dit dit—was the signal for calling—anyone there?

  His mother had returned. And she had indeed brought more Cobras with her.

  "I need a spot where I can see the light," he told the servant as he scrambled to his feet, a sudden surge of hope blasting away the fatigue hovering at the edges of his brain. "Someplace where I also won't be seen from the ship."

  "The meditation dome above the library should work," Fadil said. "Sharmal will take you there."

  "Yes, Master Sammon," the servant said. "If you'll follow me, Merrick Moreau?"

  Three minutes later, Merrick was in the dome, a small flashlight in hand, his light-amps at full power as he quickly but methodically scanned the area the servant had identified as the kundur tree grove.

  There it was, back against one of the tree trunks, between two leafy branches where not even a glint of reflection would be visible to the warship's cameras and sensors. Dit dit dit dit dit. Dit dit dit dit dit.

  Merrick keyed his flashlight to touch mode and pointed it at the tree. Dit dit dah dit dit dah, he sent. Ready—proceed.

  There was a short pause, and then the other light changed to a new pattern of flashes. Identify.

  Merrick smiled tightly. Like there was anyone else on Qasama who knew Dida code. Merrick Moreau Broom, he tapped out. Identify.

  Paul Broom.

  Merrick's smile vanished. His father? Here?

  But that was impossible. Jin Moreau Broom had gone to Aventine, not Caelian. This had to be some kind of trick by the Trofts, perhaps something designed to flush him out of hiding and then keep him in one place long enough for them to sneak an assault team into the village to nail him.

  But how could the invaders have learned Dida code?

  Merrick cranked up his opticals to full power, trying to pierce the gloom and rustling leaves. But whoever was back there was too well concealed. All he could see was a shadowy, indistinct form that could be anyone.

  Muttering a curse under his breath, he keyed his light again. Whatever was going on, he was not going to let his fathers name spook him. Prove it, he challenged.

  You're an excellent cook, the reply came. Especially when mixing drogfowl cacciatore with conversations of treason. Situation?

  Merrick felt some of the tension in his chest ease. Not only were his culinary skills his most closely guarded secret, but the figure behind the light out there had even described the meal the family had had the night this whole thing had first started. Impossible or not, that was definitely his father out there. Trofts demanding surrender by sunrise, he sent back. No clean exit available. Suggestions?

  One hour; north wall, his father signaled. Use Sammon family mine explosives to create exit hole in base. Grav-lift cycle will be waiting beside wall; evasive ride into forest. When pursuit has been lost, go to Shaga.

  Merrick nodded to himself. Shaga was the next village south along the road, about ten kilometers away. What about you?

  I'll leave the cycle by the wall and retreat to safety. Once the Trofts have left, I'll travel to Shaga and rendezvous with you there.

  Merrick pursed his lips. The plan was definitely on the dicey side, especially the dual questions of whether Fadil's people could come up with enough explosives fast enough to make the required exit and what the villagers were going to say about having a section of their wall blown to gravel.

  But it was probably the best plan they were going to come up with, given the time and resources they had available. Acknowledged, he sent reluctantly. One hour?

  One hour, his father confirmed. There was just the slightest hesitation. Good luck, Merrick. I love you.

  I love you too, Dad.

  The other light flicked the close-off signal. Merrick sent the proper countersign, then headed down the meditation dome's spiral stairway.

  Time to see how fast Fadil could get his people moving.

  Fadil's eyes were closed as Merrick related the conversation and described what he and his father needed. The eyes remained closed after Merrick had finished, and Fadil himself remained silent long enough that Merrick wondered if he'd fallen asleep again.

  He was just about to check when Fadil's lips puckered. "No," he said, finally opening his eyes.

  Merrick stared at him, his heart sinking. After everything else they'd gone through, a flat refusal to help was the last res
ponse he'd expected. "Is it about the wall?" he asked. "Because if it is, I make a vow right now that I'll come back to Milika personally and repair it."

  "It's not the wall," Fadil said, his voice thoughtful, "It's the plan. There's something wrong with the plan."

  Merrick looked at Krites, back again at Fadil. "I agree that it could be tricky to get the grav-lift cycle to the wall without the invaders seeing it," he said. "But—"

  "No, that shouldn't be a problem," Fadil said. "Not at the northern wall. There are several wooded approaches that would provide sufficient cover. Tell me, did your father explain why he wanted you to break through the wall?"

  "I assume so that I can get out of Milika without getting vaporized," Merrick said.

  "Yet there are guards even now walking the top of the wall," Fadil pointed out. "If you joined the patrol as one of them, you could simply drop through one of the many gaps in the wall's upper extension. You'd be beyond easy reach of the invaders' lasers before anyone aboard the warship could react to your action."

  Merrick felt a chill run up his back. Fadil was right. With razorarm attacks no longer a problem in the Qasaman forest, the metal mesh extension that had been long ago erected atop Milika's wall had fallen into neglect and disrepair. Merrick had seen the gaps Fadil was talking about, including a couple in the vicinity where his father had called for the blast. "But if the explosion isn't to get me out, what's it for? A diversion?"

  "Are you certain it was your father behind the signal light?" Krites asked.

  "I am," Merrick said firmly. "He knew things that only he would know. Including the code he used to speak to me."

  "Then the answer is clear," Fadil said. "The explosion isn't a diversion, nor is it intended to let you escape. Its purpose is to prevent your escape."

  Merrick blinked. "What?"

  "Consider," Fadil continued. "Where will you be when the explosion takes place? Somewhere under protection several meters away at the least. How long after the explosion will it take the debris to cease falling and for you to make your way across the rubble and out into the forest?"

  Merrick felt his stomach tighten. Now, of course, it was obvious. Painfully obvious. "He has no intention of letting me hop on any grav-lift cycle and get out of here, does he?" he said, hearing the dark edge in his voice. "He just wants me to draw the Trofts' attention to that part of the wall so that he can tear out of here like a bat out of hell and try to draw them away."

  "So I would read the plan," Fadil said. "Your father, Merrick Moreau, honors himself and you."

  "He is indeed an honorable man," Merrick said, taking a step back toward the door. "Thank you, Fadil Sammon, for your insights. I'll take my leave of you now."

  "What will you do?" Fadil asked.

  "What I have to," Merrick told him. "If I don't return, please accept my gratitude for all that you, the Sammon family, and the village of Milika have done for me."

  "I trust you remember that your body is still not at full capability and function," Krites warned. "Especially considering the internal injuries you reopened in the forest two days ago. If you start bleeding internally again, you could die."

  "I'll remember," Merrick assured him. "Thank you, too. Doctor Krites, for your assistance and care." He took a deep breath. "Farewell, Fadil Sammon."

  "Farewell, Merrick Moreau," Fadil replied gravely. "May God go with you."

  * * *

  Paul had said he would be waiting by the wall with the grav-lift cycle in an hour. Merrick's nanocomputer clock circuit showed ten minutes to that deadline as he joined the other guards walking the Milika wall and headed casually toward his chosen gap in the metal mesh.

  He tried to watch everywhere at once as he walked, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. There had been no way to physically rehearse what was about to happen, but he'd run the whole operation over and over in his mind as best he could, throwing in all the variants, possible problems, and potential obstacles that he could come up with.

  Time now to find out how closely his imagination and planning matched reality.

  The clock showed two minutes left as he approached his planned drop zone. A casual glance over the side of the wall showed that his father was already in position, seated on an unexpectedly large and intimidating grav-lift cycle about ten meters from where the explosion was supposed to happen, and about three from the gap Merrick was heading for.

  The clock had just passed one minute to zero when Merrick reached the gap. Without breaking stride, he half turned and dropped himself through it. He landed with a crunch of broken bushes, a controlled bending of knees to absorb the impact, and a look of startled consternation on his father's face. "Merrick?" Paul breathed. "You were supposed to—"

  "Hi, Dad," Merrick said. "Nice try."

  And with a flick of a target lock and a pair of bursts from his fingertip lasers, he neatly cut the wires leading to both of the cycle's left-hand stabilizer sensors. "Merrick—no!" Paul snapped.

  But he was too late. The big machine lurched beneath him, its left side canting twenty degrees downward as the grav lifts on that side lost the sensors' feedback.

  And as Paul scrambled for a grip on his now badly angled mount, Merrick heard the sounds of the warship's gravs as they revved to full power. "It's okay. Dad—I've got it covered," he said. He took a step toward the forest, then hesitated. "If this doesn't work, say good-bye to Mom and Lorne and Jody for me, will you?"

  "I will," Paul said. There was a deep sadness in his voice, and Merrick could hear the almost-echo of words still unformed, words that were still only thoughts and emotions deep within his father's soul.

  Words that would never be anything more than those feelings. From the other side of the village came the sibilant hissing of displaced tree branches as the warship lifted from the ground. "Stay safe, Dad," Merrick said quickly, and sprinted away from the wall. The reflected glint of the warship's grav lifts was just hitting the outer ring of trees as he slipped between them and headed into the forest. And the race was on.

  Merrick never knew afterward just how far from Milika he got during the chase. He wove back and forth between the trees and bushes, his light-amps at full power as he looked for the fastest route, his programmed reflexes working hard to maintain his balance on the treacherous footing. Swarms of insects and small groups of birds burst from concealment at various places along his path, and small animals scurried madly to get out of his way. Even the larger predators seemed to realize this was a phenomenon that should be steered clear of and crouched motionless as they watched him sprint past.

  All the while, the Troft warship stayed right on top of him, or just behind him, the hum of its gravs audible over the crash of his feet through the dead leaves, the gravs themselves occasionally glowing briefly through the canopy of leafy branches above him. It never opened fire, and none of Merrick's tricks ever lost it for more than a few seconds. The Trofts simply stayed up there, pacing his mad run, waiting for their quarry to finally exhaust his strength.

  On that count, at least, they were going to be in for a surprise. New Cobra recruits invariably tried to do this kind of long-range running on their own power, which inevitably led to muscle fatigue and exhaustion. Experienced Cobras like Merrick knew how to let their leg servos do all the work. He could probably run halfway to Sollas without serious problem.

  The other possibility, that the ship wasn't trying to run him to ground but was instead subtly herding him toward in a particular spot, never even occurred to him. Not until it was too late.

  Not until he hit the trap.

  It was a simple trap, really: a wall of thick, sturdy netting, laid flat against the ground beneath the leaves and spring-loaded to snap up in front of him at his approach. Almost before his eyes even registered the obstacle, certainly before his programmed reflexes could stop his forward momentum, he hit the wall, yanking the netting out of its frame and wrapping it securely around him.

  All three of his lasers flashed, but the bits of
netting vaporized were small and insignificant. He tried pressing outward with his arms, but the mesh was highly elastic and merely stretched without tearing. His legs could also stretch out the mesh, and for a few seconds he managed to keep going. But the netting was self-adhering, and his scissoring legs merely tangled it against itself, and a few steps later he found himself sprawled face-first onto the ground.

  He was firing his lasers again, trying to maneuver his hands enough to cut an actual tear in the material, when the world faded away into blackness.

  * * *

  The sky to the east was still dark with pre-dawn gloom as Jin walked tiredly through the gate into Milika.

  The first news was good. Paul was standing near a few silent villagers, clearly alive and no worse off than he'd been when he slipped away from their encampment a few hours ago.

  But Merrick wasn't with him. And the expression of guilt and of and pain on his face was all she needed to know that the worst had indeed happened.

  But something deep inside her still needed to make sure. "He's gone," she said as she came up to him.

  Paul nodded heavily. "I'm sorry, Jin," he said. "I tried to stop him."

  Jin took a deep breath. He had indeed tried. She knew him well enough to know that he'd done his very best to protect their son.

  And yet, if he'd succeeded, she would have gained her son and lost her husband. Or she might have lost them both.

  She'd been furious when Zoshak told her about Paul's unilateral decision on what to do about Merrick's situation. But the anger had long since evaporated. All that was left now was weariness and sorrow.

  And, to her own private shame, a small nugget of guilty gratitude that he'd taken the decision on his own shoulders instead of giving half of it to her.

  A woman should never be forced to choose between the lives of her son and her husband.

  "It's all right," she said, reaching up to rest her hand on his cheek. "Merrick's smart and clever, and he has his great-grandfather's genes. He'll get through this."

  "I know," Paul said.

  He didn't, of course, Jin knew. But then, neither did she.