Cobra Outlaw - eARC (18 page)
Read Cobra Outlaw - eARC Online
Authors: Timothy Zahn
Tags: #Fiction, #science fiction, #General, #Space Opera, #Action & Adventure
“Yes, I know,” Barrington cut him off. The med data stream now showed that Kusari had ordered temporary sheathing for his burned legs, plus injections of pain killers and stimulants, and was stretched out on a gurney at his station hammering at his board. Determined to get the
Dorian
out of here or else to die at his post.
Possibly to do both.
Barrington checked the timer. Four minutes to recalibration, if Kusari’s original estimate was still valid. Six minutes if they had to go with the book’s.
And with two enemy warships roaring into battle, those extra two minutes could mean the difference between survival and obliteration.
“Pluto cones away,” Castenello reported. “Missiles targeted and ready.”
With an effort, Barrington returned back to the tactical. Kusari was one of his senior officers, and after Garrett was probably his most loyal supporter amid the politics that always seemed to be a subtext to the
Dorian
’s officer contingent’s interactions.
But the engineering officer’s fate was out of his hands. The
Dorian
’s wasn’t. “Stand by missiles,” Barrington ordered, watching as the Pluto cones burst into their high-speed shrapnel loads. From Two came a burst of point-defense laser fire that flickered among the shrapnel, vaporizing the shrapnel— “Missiles:
fire
.”
The missiles shot from their tubes and accelerated toward the Troft ships, their vectors partially obscured by the light show from the Pluto cone shrapnel and also cloaked by their own ECM. Barrington watched their trails, mentally crossing his fingers—
“Incoming!” Filho snapped.
Barrington wrenched his eyes from his own missiles’ traces and looked to the
Dorian
’s flank. Yet another spider ship had slipped into attack range, its approach ironically masked by the debris of one of the attackers the
Dorian
had shattered. The tactical was marking five incoming missile traces, probably the spider ship’s entire load.
The point defenses were blazing away, throwing shrapnel, laser bursts, and ECM confusion at the attackers. But it was likely already too late. One of the missiles detonated…two…three…the last two were nearly past the defenses’ effective range—
And abruptly, both missiles exploded.
It took Barrington a second to realize what had happened. Then, feeling a tight grin creasing his cheeks, he punched the radio control. “Thanks for the assist,
Hermes
,” he said. “What’s your status?”
“Not good,” Lieutenant Commander Vothra’s tense voice came back. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t give a decent showing of ourselves. Our missiles are gone, but we’ve still got one-quarter power for the lasers. Targeting’s gone, too—we’ll need to stayed tied into your sensors if we’re going to do any good.”
Barrington nodded. He’d wondered how they’d managed that double-tap. Apparently, Castenello had done a quick sensor-link, which had not only given the
Hermes
the targeting control Vothra needed, but had also given the
Dorian
’s own fire control a wider parallax spacing.
Under some circumstances, Barrington would have been more than happy to utilize the tactical officer’s link and the
Hermes
’s remaining firepower. But today wasn’t about victory, but survival. For all of them. “Belay that,” he told Vothra. “We’re coming up on a zero-zero; prepare to dock.”
“Sir, with all due respect, you need us out here,” Vothra said. “I appreciate the rescue, but it’s not going to mean much if the
Dorian
gets hammered to pieces in the process.”
“I have no intention of losing the
Dorian
,” Barrington assured him. “And I’m only losing the
Hermes
if its commander is pig-headed enough to stay in the open while we jump. Prepare to dock, Commander—that’s an order.”
“Yes, Sir,” Vothra said. “Rotating into position. We’ll be ready by the time you get here.”
Barrington checked the timer. Thirty seconds to retrieval; another minute at least after that for recalibration.
And meantime, the
Dorian
was still being hammered by Troft lasers, its outer skin being systematically boiled off.
He frowned, focusing on the damage schematic. The enemy warships were taking the
Dorian
’s hull off, piece by piece, section by section, not starting at the sensor clusters like normal enemy tactics but simply starting at a convenient spot and burning the hull down to its inner skin.
They didn’t want the
Dorian
intact. But they apparently didn’t want it totally obliterated, either.
So what the hell
did
they want? Did they seriously think they could take it with the core intact?
He was startled out of his reverie by yet another dull thud from the depths of his ship.
But this thud was familiar, even comforting.
“The
Hermes
is secured,” Garrett confirmed. “Casualties being transferred aboard.”
Barrington scowled. Vothra hadn’t mentioned casualties, but of course there must have been some. The
Hermes
could hardly have been hammered that hard without someone aboard getting hurt or dead.
But again, all of that was out of his hands. He glanced at the timer—one to three minutes remaining until they could escape—and then focused on the tactical. A double barrage might keep the Trofts back long enough, but expending that level of firepower would all but drain the
Dorian
’s missile supply. That would bode ill for future combat.
Still, dying with missiles still in their tubes made even less sense. He opened his mouth to give the order—
“Recalibration complete,” Garrett snapped. “Jumping—”
Abruptly, the CoNCH external displays went dark.
The
Dorian
had escaped.
Barrington checked the timer, then looked at Garrett. “I’ll be damned,” he said.
Garrett shrugged, his face sagging visibly with relief and draining tension. “Well, you
did
tell him you wanted it done in nine,” he reminded Barrington.
“So I did,” Barrington agreed, tapping into the data stream. Sickbay was filling up with casualties, he saw, some from the
Hermes
, most from the
Dorian
.
And now finally, the check-in list included Commander Kusari.
“You have CoNCH,” he told Garrett, unstrapping and standing up. “Get us back on Ukuthi’s course. As much speed as we can handle.”
“Yes, sir,” Garrett said. “Sickbay?”
Barrington nodded. “Sickbay.”
#
Dr. Lancaster had always been a thin, almost gaunt man. Today, Barrington noted, his gaunt face looked almost skeletal.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” he said in a low voice. “There’s nothing I can do for him. Not here; not in the time I have. Both legs will have to be amputated.”
Barrington looked past the doctor’s shoulder toward the open door of the recovery room. There were nineteen other men in there along with Commander Kusari, with thirty-eight others either currently undergoing emergency surgery or in the intensive-care ward.
Fifty-eight injured, many of them badly. Ten others already dead.
More on the way.
Including one of the
Dorian
’s senior officers.
Barrington had seen men die before, many times. Sometimes they’d died because of orders Barrington himself had given; sometimes because of orders other men had given; sometimes simply through the ill fortunes of war.
But this one was different. It
felt
different. The Trofts’ tactics hadn’t fallen into any of their usual patterns. They’d been up to something.
But what? What had they hoped to gain by grinding the
Dorian
down instead of simply blasting it to atoms? They had to know that there would be no military secrets to be looted—there were whole systems aboard designed to do nothing but vaporize every cubic millimeter of high-tech equipment well before any boarding party could get through the hatches.
So why had the Trofts risked so much, and been willing to absorb so much damage of their own? Was a dead Dominion warship hulk worth that much to them? Were they hoping to find exotic materials or study the interior layout so as to better focus future attacks?
But a carefully surgical destruction of the
Dorian
would have provided the same opportunity. Especially since taking the ship apart would have the extra advantage of not leaving anyone alive able to shoot back.
Were they hoping to bag a ship’s worth of prisoners? Again, useless. Critical information was carefully doled out and compartmentalized so that the officers and crew of a given warship knew nothing beyond their own orders. Certainly nothing that would enable an interrogator to glean vital bits and pieces of Asgard’s overall campaign strategy. Besides, enough prisoners had been taken in this war that they were typically repatriated after a few weeks. Neither side wanted to feed and house the other’s soldiers any longer than they had to, and both apparently had political interests in getting their own people home.
Barrington had long since accepted the unpleasant fact that some of the men under his command would die. That was the way of warfare.
But he had never accepted the idea that they should die for nothing. At the very least, they shouldn’t die without someone knowing what the enemy had hoped to gain from their deaths.
Somewhere, there was an answer, and come hell or high water, Barrington was going to find it. That was not negotiable.
And speaking of non-negotiables… “How long can you hold off the amputation?” he asked Lancaster.
The doctor’s eyebrows rose up his wrinkled forehead. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question,” Barrington growled. “How long before you have to amputate?”
Lancaster’s mouth set itself in a firm line. “I know what you’re thinking, Captain,” he said, his tone a mix of compassion and firmness. “But I’m afraid it won’t work. A proper stem-cell regeneration will take far too long. The damage is too great, and it’s starting to spill into his lower abdomen. Even at its most accelerated, a safe and proper regeneration would require at least—”
“Yes, I know—four weeks,” Barrington interrupted. “My question is whether you can keep him safely on support another two or three days.”
The compressed line of Lancaster’s mouth opened a bit as his eyes did the same. “Three
days
?” he echoed. “Captain, I can’t possibly do a regeneration in that time.”
“No, you can’t,” Barrington agreed. “But I know someone who can.”
Lancaster shook his head. “Sir, with all due respect—”
“Data stream,” Barrington again interrupted, pointing at the doctor’s eye. “Cobra Paul Broom.”
Reluctantly, Lancaster twitched his eye. Barrington watched as he read, noting how the doctor’s frown deepened midway through. “Well?”
“I don’t believe it,” Lancaster said flatly. “Either the treatment and recovery time were grossly underestimated, or else the initial damage was grossly
over
estimated. There’s no known medical way this report could be true.”
“And if that turns out to be the case, you can go ahead and amputate,” Barrington said. “But not now. Not yet. If there’s even a chance of saving his legs, I want him to have it.”
Lancaster hissed out a sigh. “I can hold off the operation for another few days. But there’s a risk that he’ll end up dying. I accept the order, but be advised that I intend to put on the record that I take this course of action under protest.”
“So noted,” Barrington said. “Now, I believe you have other patients to attend to.”
He turned and started down the corridor. “And if the Qasamans refuse to help?” Lancaster called after him.
“They won’t,” Barrington said.
And they wouldn’t, he promised himself darkly as he headed back toward CoNCH. One way or the other, the Qasamans would heal Kusari, along with anyone else Lancaster and his top-of-the-line Dominion medical expertise couldn’t help. The Qasamans would help.
Or they would be sorry. Very, very sorry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kjoic had spent the night fitfully, the pain from his injured leg making him toss and turn and often waking him completely. The sudden movement within the cramped space of their shelter usually also startled Merrick awake, and he often lay that way for many minutes after Kjoic had once again fallen into his restless slumber.
Merrick had never done well with interrupted sleep cycles, and he knew he would pay for it in grogginess the next morning. But at least he was spared the frustration of the Troft demanding that his slave do something about his discomfort. Each time he woke, Kjoic merely shifted into a more comfortable position, or at least a less uncomfortable one, and settled down again.
Which was all to the best, because Merrick hadn’t the foggiest idea how to relieve a Troft’s pain anyway.
Through it all, Anya slept soundly. Or at least pretended to.
The grogginess Merrick had predicted was indeed fogging his brain by the time the eastern horizon began to brighten. Fortunately, it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. He must have gotten more rest during those nighttime cat naps than he’d realized.
Hopefully, it would be enough. The Muninn forest, with all its uncooperative flora and deadly fauna, was unlikely to go easy on him just because he was sleepy.
The day’s march quickly turned into a copy of the previous afternoon’s trek, except that it lasted all day instead of for only half an hour. Still, Kjoic showed some improvement. The previous afternoon, he’d been unable to limp unaided for more than a couple of minutes at a time before he needed to lean on Merrick’s arm. Now, in contrast, he was able to push himself for ten or even fifteen minutes at a stretch, though by the end of that time he was staggering and his radiator membranes were stretched out as far as they would go. Usually Merrick would then help him for another five minutes, after which the party would need to take a short rest.
When they weren’t walking, limping, or staggering, they seemed to be constantly facing off against predators. During the morning alone they had five run-ins; two against groups of fafirs, three against solitary hunters of a species Merrick didn’t recognize. Fortunately, between Anya’s acute sense of smell and Merrick’s enhanced vision and hearing they spotted each of the threats with enough time to prepare, and all the attacks were driven off more or less easily. Kjoic only had to use his laser twice, and even then the shots probably weren’t necessary.
But the stress and occasional sudden maneuvering of combat took their own toll on the Troft’s stamina. Gradually, his periods of unassisted walking became shorter, until by midafternoon he was back to the two- and three-minute stints he’d exhibited the previous day.
It was an hour before sunset when he finally gave up.
[The journey, I cannot continue it,] he said as he sank awkwardly onto a section of dead log. [The pain, it is too severe.]
[The village, it is not far,] Anya said as she and Merrick sat down near him. [Assistance, we may offer it to you.]
[The journey, I cannot continue it,] the Troft repeated, his radiator membranes fluttering with pain and fatigue. [A shelter for the night, you will build it.] He gave Merrick a sudden, sharp look. [An alternative, one occurs to me. A transport, can the village provide it?]
Out of the corner of his eye, Merrick saw Anya’s eyes widen. [A transport, I do not know if the village has one,] he said cautiously. [The forest, the villagers do not lightly enter it.]
[The forest, they will enter it for a master,] Kjoic said with ominous certainty. [The village, you will go to it now.]
Merrick stared. Was the Troft actually suggesting—? [Your safety, we cannot sacrifice it,] he protested. [The master, we may not abandon him.]
[The master, you will not abandon him,] Kjoic growled. [The village, alone you will travel to it. The female, she will remain with the master.]
A shiver ran up Merrick’s back. It was an opportunity he’d wished for a hundred times in the past two days: the chance for total freedom of action. Assuming he could find the village, he would be able to check things out without having to worry about giving away his capabilities to their new master.
But if the price of that freedom was to leave Anya alone with the Troft and the dangers of the Muninn night… [The forest, it is dangerous,] he pointed out the obvious. [The danger, it would be all around you. The risk, it would be great.]
[The risk, it would be small,] Kjoic disagreed. [The female, I have seen her battle.] He patted the laser at his side. [My weapon, I also have it.]
[Your words, I hear them,] Merrick said, carefully not pointing out that Kjoic had already shot himself once with that weapon. [But the dangers—]
[My words, you will obey them,] Kjoic cut him off. [The order, it is given. The village, you will travel to it.] He lifted his hand from his laser and pointed a finger at Anya. [A shelter, you will build one.]
Merrick frowned. If the Troft was expecting Merrick to bring back transport before nightfall, what need was there for a shelter?
[Caution, we must exercise it,] Kjoic said, as if anticipating Merrick’s unspoken question. [Other preparations, we must make them. A transport, the village may not be able to provide one until morning.]
Merrick looked at Anya. She didn’t look especially happy at the thought of spending the night alone with the Troft. But she clearly recognized the realities of a decision made and an order given.
As did Merrick. The patterns and habits of being a slave, he noted uneasily, were all too easy to slip into. [The order, we obey it, Master Kjoic,] he said. He levered himself up off the ground, remembering to make it look like his muscles were as tired and sore as they should be after a strenuous day. [This place, I will return to it soon.]
[A safe journey, may you have it,] Kjoic said.
[Your concern, I thank you for it] Merrick looked again at Anya. [The materials for the shelter, may I help collect them before I leave?]
Kjoic squinted toward the sunlight filtering through the western trees. [The materials, you may collect some of them,] he said. [Your journey, it must begin soon.]
[The journey, it will begin soon,] Merrick promised. He raised his eyebrows. “I think we just passed a patch?” he said in Anglic, pointing toward a spot just off their path and about twenty meters back.
“Yes,” Anya confirmed. “There will be more than enough there.” She bowed to Kjoic. [The materials, we will bring them.]
The patch of bamboo spikes was right where Merrick remembered it, and was indeed as extensive as Anya had suggested. There would be more than enough for the shelter she would be building. “Any trick to getting to Svipall?” he murmured as they began collecting the spikes.
“No,” she murmured back. “You must continue to the east until you reach a rapid-flowing river, perhaps six meters across. Follow it until you reach the village. The distance should only be three more kilometers. The village is on the northern bank of the river, with no need for you to cross it.”
“Sounds good.” Merrick peered off to the west. “
Could
we make it by dark if we start now?” he asked. “It’s not particularly smart to split up this way.”
“
We
could make it, yes,” Anya said. “But not with the master. Not with his injury.” She touched Merrick’s arm. “Do not worry about me. As the master says, I know how to fight.”
“As long as he doesn’t accidently shoot you,” Merrick muttered under his breath.
“The order has been given,” she reminded him. “The order must be obeyed.”
“I suppose,” Merrick conceded. “Anything else I should know about Svipall?”
“I have never visited it,” she admitted. “All I know is that it still exists, for I saw it when we were atop the mountain.”
“Ah,” Merrick said, wincing at the ridiculousness of his question. Of course she didn’t know anything about Svipall, having been off-world for the past twelve years. Even if she’d visited the place before then, any memories she’d had would be long out of date by now. “Sorry—stupid question.”
“Do not
say
that!” Anya snapped.
Merrick twitched back from the unexpected intensity. “Don’t say what?”
“That you are stupid,” she bit out. “You will not say such things about yourself. Ever.”
“All right, all right,” Merrick said, frowning. Where had
that
one come from? “I’ll be back as soon as I can. With or without transport.”
“You’re not going to ask them for help, are you?” Anya asked, eyeing him closely. Her anger had disappeared from the surface, but he could sense it still simmering just out of sight. “You’re a stranger, you still don’t speak with the correct accent—”
“And I’m on the run,” Merrick said patiently. “Yes, I know. And no, I’m not going to ask. If I find something that’ll serve as transport, I’ll just borrow it. Good enough?”
Her expression said that it most definitely
wasn’t
good enough. But she merely sighed and nodded. “Be safe,” she said.
“I will.” Merrick hesitated, then gently touched her cheek. “You, too.”
Ten minutes later, having gleaned enough spikes for Anya to build a two-man shelter, Merrick headed off alone into the forest.
Without Kjoic’s injured leg to hold him back, he made good time. After the first few minutes he settled into a travel pattern that consisted of half a minute of loping run, a brief pause to look and listen for danger, then another half minute of running.
Thirty minutes later he reached the river Anya had told him about and changed course to follow it. From that point on, mindful of how predators tended to gather around sources of water, especially at sunrise and sunset, he added more frequent stop-and-listen pauses to his routine.
As it turned out, Anya had underestimated the distance to Svipall by several kilometers. Even at Merrick’s enhanced pace, the sky was starting to darken when he finally arrived. He approached the village slowly and carefully, keeping to the trees, trying to get a feel for the place.
In some ways, it reminded him of Anya’s home village of Gangari. The two settlements were about the same size, a kilometer or so across, and both were surrounded by open fields where the forest had been cut back and the land cultivated. The modest buildings with their peaked roofs and decorative carvings would have fit right in with Gangari’s design, and the inhabitants he glimpsed between the buildings wore similar clothing, with the color palette running the same gamut of bright to muted.
But there were two major differences between the two villages. One of them was the large, gray, warehouse-like building pressed against Svipall’s northern border, the side opposite from the river. The other was the three-meter-tall chain-link fence that completely surrounded the village, cutting it off from the cultivated area.
Merrick hadn’t spent much time in Gangari, but he’d spotted a few storage areas in passing. The gray building didn’t look like any of them. It was two stories tall, windowless, with no carvings or artistic features that he could see. One hundred percent utilitarian, and a brooding utilitarian on top of it.
The fence was similarly plain and functional, except that it was an odd sort of functionality. Merrick had tangled with several of Muninn’s predators, and most of them had some version of claws or talons. A chain-link fence, certainly one with the loose mesh this one exhibited, would be only a minor obstacle for any clawed creature with even the most rudimentary climbing skills.
But the mesh
was
tight enough to be difficult for human fingers, and it would be impossible for human feet.
Which led to the intriguing conclusion that the fence wasn’t there to keep the predators out but to keep the villagers in.
Activating his telescopics, adding in some light-amplification to compensate for the waning daylight, he began to systematically scan the village.
Unfortunately, from where he stood there wasn’t much to see. There was a three- or four-meter-wide area between the fence and the nearest of the enclosed houses, but no one seemed to be using that area as a walkway. Probably never did, actually, if the undisturbed grass along the fence was any indication. Elsewhere in the village he could see people walking back and forth, but his glimpses were too brief for him to see anything about their expressions that might help him gauge their moods. If he ever made it back to Aventine, he told himself firmly, he would campaign for the next generation of Cobra opticals to be equipped with image-capture capabilities.
He shifted his attention back and forth between the gaps, frowning. There were plenty of bright-colored outfits over there, but so far he’d seen no sign of the copper-trimmed black clothing that the referees at Gangari’s version of the Games had been wearing. Did that mean Svipall didn’t go in for bloody combat among their children? Or were the referees just elsewhere in the village at the moment, out of Merrick’s sight? Another pair of figures swept into view past one of the houses—
Merrick stiffened. The two figures striding across his view were combat-clad Trofts.
There weren’t just two of them, either. the first pair was followed by a second, then a third, then a fourth. Eight warriors, marching in military formation through a human village.
Marching in the direction of the big gray building.
Merrick watched them go, following their progression through the gaps until the angles of the houses cut them off from his sight. There hadn’t been much to see except that they’d maintained their pace, apparently not stopping for anything or anyone.
And if they weren’t going to the gray building, they were going somewhere very close to it.
There hadn’t been any serious Troft presence in Gangari, at least none that Merrick had spotted. The two aliens who’d dropped in via aircar had seemed almost casual about their visit, at least until Merrick and Anya showed up.
Could he and Anya be the reason the soldiers were in Svipall? Merrick hadn’t spotted any sign of pursuit in the past couple of days, but it was certainly possible that someone had realized the fugitives would have to come out of the forest sometime, and had decided to focus the recapture effort on the towns and villages.
