As Djinn plans went, this one was fairly straightforward, certainly more so than the complexities and cross-city timing of Plan Saikah. It was actually feasible, Zoshak decided, that they could pull it off with only a day's worth of practice.
"Very well, then," Akim said after he'd finished and a few questions had been asked and answered. "The arena should be set up. We'll assemble there in ten minutes for practice. Djinni Zoshak, remain behind a moment."
Zoshak stayed seated, wondering uneasily what Akim wanted, as the rest of the Djinn and soldiers filed briskly from the room. Akim waited until they were all gone, then left the platform and came to stand directly in front of Zoshak. "I understand you were looking for Merrick Moreau this morning," the older man said. "Why?"
"I was concerned for his well-being," Zoshak said. "He fought bravely for Qasama, and I wanted to make sure he was being properly cared for."
"No other reason?" Akim persisted.
Briefly, Zoshak wondered if Moffren Omnathi was still sitting behind him. But he didn't dare turn to look. "I also wondered when he would be able to fight again," he said. "He's a powerful and capable warrior, a great asset to our effort against the invaders." He paused. "In fact, if I may speak freely, I would suggest he could be a great asset in the mission you have set before us."
Akim cocked his head. "Are you suggesting that Qasaman warriors and Djinn are not capable of dealing the necessary blow to our enemies' confidence?"
"I suggest only that the blow will be stronger and more memorable were he to assist us," Zoshak said, picking his words carefully. Usually, he had no trouble reading the thoughts and intentions behind people's words. But Akim's thoughts were hidden behind a mask he couldn't penetrate. "I also suggest that he is able and willing to serve Qasama."
"Merrick Moreau will indeed serve Qasama," Moffren Omnathi's voice came quietly from behind him. "But not in the way you suggest."
Zoshak swallowed. Senior Shahni advisors had better things to do with their time than sit in on the briefing of a single military mission. They certainly had better things to do than stay on after that briefing to watch a very minor warrior being lectured by the Djinn's supreme commander. "In what way will he serve, may I ask?" he said.
"That is none of your concern," Akim said stiffly. "The fate of Merrick Moreau and his mother rest now in the hands of the Shahni."
"And you will make no further inquiries as to their whereabouts or condition," Omnathi added. "Nor will you mention either of them again. Do you understand?"
A cold lump settled in Zoshak's chest. "Yes, Advisor Omnathi," he said.
"Good," Akim said. "Dismissed."
Making the sign of respect, Zoshak stood up and turned back toward the door. Omnathi was looking down at some notes, ignoring the Djinni, but Zoshak gave him the sign of respect anyway.
No, he wouldn't inquire about Merrick Moreau, Zoshak thought grimly as he hurried down the corridor. Nor would he mention either of the Cobras again. He was a good Qasaman, and obedient to his leaders.
But no one could stop him from thinking about the Moreaus. Or prevent him from wondering what exactly the Shahni were up to.
Chapter Seventeen
The sun had disappeared behind the western line of buildings, and the sky overhead was starting to take on a hint of darkness, when the loudspeaker in the center of the Freegate market area boomed the five-minute tone. "Five minutes," Zoshak said quietly to the young woman beside him as they pretended to search through the nearly empty bins of vegetables.
"I'm ready," the woman replied.
Zoshak studied her profile. She wasn't ready, of course. There was no way she could be. There were no female soldiers on Qasama, which meant Iuni hadn't had any training in combat technique or contingency thinking or any of the other skills that prepared a warrior for the sort of situation that was about to happen. Iuni was simply an average citizen who'd volunteered to risk her life today in defense of her city and her world.
Beyond that single fact, Zoshak knew nothing about her except her first name, and he wasn't even sure about that. The Shahni insisted that any soldier who might be captured was to carry as little potentially useful information within him as possible. Iuni might be just an ordinary citizen, but she could also be the daughter or wife of someone in authority. Either way, it wasn't something anyone wanted the invaders to learn.
Three minutes to go. Zoshak looked over at the baked goods booth next to the vegetable stand, to find the vendor looking back at him. Zoshak gave the other a microscopic nod, got one in return,
and touched Iuni's arm. "Hurry and make your selection," he told her. "I'll go get the bread."
He headed toward the booth, throwing a brief glower at the pair of armored Trofts standing ten meters away as he walked. A dozen of the aliens had been wandering around the edges of the market area for most of the hour Zoshak had been here, not quite intruding on the shoppers' space, but nevertheless keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.
From the snatches of conversation Zoshak had overheard from his fellow citizens, he gathered the prevailing theory was that the Trofts were playing mind games: trying to make their presence felt, or else emphasizing that the Qasamans no longer owned their city or their world. Zoshak's own theory was that the diversionary attack three days ago on the invaders in the Sunrise market area across town had led the aliens to believe there was something of military value hidden in all of Sollas's market areas.
In theory, that was all to the good. Forcing the Trofts to waste time and energy looking for soldiers among the vegetables was time and energy that couldn't be used elsewhere on Qasama. In practice, though, he wished that the Trofts had picked a different market area to concentrate on today.
The man at the baker's booth gave the sign of respect as Zoshak came up to his counter. "Good afternoon," he said as Zoshak returned the gesture. "How may I help you?"
"A loaf of bread, please," Zoshak said, making sure to pitch his voice at a normal conversational level. The idea was to keep all of this looking perfectly normal to any of the invaders who happened to be watching or listening.
"I'm afraid this is all I have left," the man said, stooping down behind the counter and bringing out a long, spindly, splotchy loaf of French bread. "Not one of our best, as you can see," he added, cradling the loaf almost tenderly in both hands. "It's four and a half, if you want it."
Zoshak hissed out a sigh. But after three days of alien occupation, that was indeed the current inflated price for a loaf that size, and any Trofts who'd been paying attention to the day's transactions would know that. "Very well," he said.
Pulling a handful of coins from his pocket, he sorted out the proper ones and laid them on the counter. "Careful, now," the baker warned, leaning the loaf over the counter to him.
Not careful because the loaf looked on the verge of shattering into a dozen pieces, Zoshak knew, but careful because the thing was far heavier than any actual bread could possibly be. Zoshak took the loaf, wincing a little as his wrists momentarily tried to bend the wrong way. He got the joints back under control, pulling his hands up and in where the servos in his combat suit could take more of the weight. "Thank you," he nodded to the baker, and retraced his steps to the booth where Iuni was waiting.
She looked up as he approached, only a slight tightness around her eyes betraying her tension. "You bought that?" she asked with obvious disapproval.
"And we were lucky to get it," Zoshak told her, wishing briefly he knew whether or not the Trofts were even paying attention to them. It would be a shame to go through this whole prearranged scene if they weren't.
The loudspeaker gave its final double boom, signaling the end of the shopping day. "Fine," Iuni said. "Better carry it like that—it's not going to fit in any of the bags. And don't let it break."
"I won't," Zoshak promised, pulling the loaf close in to his chest. "Come on, let's get home."
Iuni nodded and turned their collapsible shopping cart around, pushing it away fr
om the market plaza and toward the Troft sentry ship looming over the street to the northwest. Several of the other patrons, Zoshak noted peripherally, were heading in that same direction, some singly, others in couples. On the far side of the street, half a block ahead, two of the couples were chatting together as they pushed side-by-side baby carriers. Behind them, Zoshak could hear the sounds of moving boxes and closing doorways as the merchants closed up shop for the night.
Zoshak gave the sentry ship a casual once-over. It was a good three meters taller than the buildings immediately around it, dominating the entire area. Grouped around its base at both ends were squads of Troft soldiers, their laser rifles held ready across their armored chests. The ones nearest Zoshak and Iuni were giving a close look to each Qasaman who passed their positions. A few of the pedestrians returned the aliens' gazes, but most of the others just ignored them.
The apartment building Zoshak and Iuni had come out of earlier was across from the sentry squad and almost directly beneath the
ship's stubby starboard wing and its assortment of mounted weapons. Iuni pushed the cart to the building's outer doorway and stopped, digging through her handbag for the key. Zoshak, still clutching the loaf to his chest, turned a haughty look on the aliens.
The look didn't go unnoticed. Two of the Trofts shifted position slightly, turning their bodies so that they had merely to drop their muzzles from their cross-chest positions to target him. Zoshak responded by adjusting his own stance and hefting the loaf exactly the same way the Trofts were holding their lasers.
That earned him the attention of a third alien, this one not only turning in his direction but actually lowering his laser into firing position. Zoshak ignored the silent warning, his eyes still on the Trofts, his loaf of bread still held rifle-style across his chest. The more aliens who were watching him when the timer ran down, the fewer there would be to shoot at the Djinn working their way along the other side of the street.
From the receiver buried in the bone behind his right ear came the quick double-click of a fifteen-second warning. "You have that door open yet?" Zoshak called behind him, pitching his voice loudly enough for the Trofts to hear. "Hurry up—the air's starting to stink out here."
"I've got it," Iuni said, her voice suddenly taut as she caught the cue and knew the attack was about to begin. "Can you help me with the cart?"
Zoshak continued to stare at the Trofts for another few seconds, then turned his back on the aliens. Iuni was standing in the open doorway, tugging on the front of the cart as she tried to pull it over the threshold. Zoshak stepped up to the rear of the cart and began nudging it with his forearms as if attempting to help without breaking the loaf of bread.
With his body blocking the Trofts' view, he set the loaf upright in the cart. Keeping his movements small, he reached into his tunic and retrieved the combat suit gloves that had been hidden there. He slipped them on, feeling a brief tingle as the gloves' servos connected to the power and control surfaces in the sleeves, and this time he was able to pick up the loaf without any strain at all.
There was a final double-click from his implanted receiver. Turning back to face the Trofts, he stretched out his arms, holding the loaf vertically as if offering the bread to the aliens, and squeezed the center.
And as the street around him suddenly erupted in gunfire from the buildings and laser fire from the other Djinn surrounding the sentry ship, the missile burst from its bread coating and blasted upward toward the under-wing weapons cluster.
Zoshak leaped to the side as the brief jolt of exhaust fire washed across his face. Lifting his hands, he fired a pair of bolts at the nearest Troft sentry's laser. The weapon blistered and then shattered, blowing out a cloud of metal splinters and sending its owner staggering backward. Simultaneously, one of the other sentries jerked and fell to the pavement as a combination of projectile and laser fire took him down.
There was a brilliant flash from above him. Zoshak looked up to see the missile he'd just launched disintegrate five meters from its target, blown apart by one of the weapon cluster's point-defense lasers.
Unfortunately for the Trofts, Miron Akim and the other tacticians had anticipated that. Instead of the muffled pop of vaporized explosives and electronics, the missile erupted with a spray of evil-looking green liquid. Even as the lasers continued to fire uselessly at it, the liquid continued upward on the missile's original trajectory and splattered against the cluster.
Zoshak didn't wait, but leaped away to the side, pushing his leg servos to their limit. The liquid was reasonably viscous, but he had no intention of being anywhere nearby when it started dripping back to the ground. He landed fifteen meters away just as the first few drops began to rain onto the street, sizzling violently as the concentrated acid burned through the paving material.
A laser bolt burned past Zoshak's side. Dropping into a crouch, he snapped off a couple of shots of his own, catching the Troft soldier across his faceplate. At this range the bolts probably wouldn't penetrate the self-shielding, but at least the plastic's protective blackening would interfere with the alien's vision. Before the Troft could do more than fire off a couple more wild shots in Zoshak's general direction a heavy machine gun somewhere above him sent a short burst across the alien's helmet and torso, sending him flying backward to slam up against the sentry ship's bow. Another alien raised his laser toward the Qasaman gunner, and Zoshak stitched another pair of black lines across his faceplate.
And then, as Zoshak grabbed for one of the throwing weights at his belt, a brilliant beam of light slashed through the air above him, and the Qasaman machine gun went abruptly silent.
Reflexively, Zoshak threw himself sideways, looking up in disbelief and dismay as a second blast of laser light shattered the pavement where he'd just been standing. The acid wash had hit the cluster—he'd seen the impact himself. Every one of the weapons up there ought to be out of commission.
But they weren't. None of them. All six of the lasers were firing, targeting the Djinn still engaging the ground troops, as well as those running toward the ship's fore and aft hatches. The heavier missile launchers hadn't yet fired, but the tubes were tracking back and forth as if looking for a worthy target. One of the machine guns farther down the street shifted aim toward the weapons cluster, and once again the Trofts' lasers lashed out. For a long moment the machine gun continued to fire, and Zoshak held a brief hope that the gunner would survive. But the lasers continued to fire, and a few seconds later the machine gun finally went silent.
And then, Zoshak's receiver implant gave the triple-click order for retreat.
God in heaven, he thought viciously. But there was no other choice. With the weapons clusters still operational there was no hope of success, and to continue would simply cost more lives without any gain. He clicked back an acknowledgment and straightened up, looking around for any of his fellow Djinn who might need assistance—
His only warning was a slight flicker of motion from the corner of his eye. He threw himself to the ground beside the slabs of broken pavement the Troft laser had gouged into the street as a wave of tiny antipersonnel missiles shot past, exploding like a volley of firecrackers against the wall behind him. Another wave was right behind the first; grabbing the biggest piece of shattered pavement he could reach, he rolled half over, holding the slab up as a shield. A half-dozen of the missiles exploded against it, blasting off splinters and chunks. He rolled back to his feet, still holding the slab for protection, and began backing through the chaos toward the alley where the closest emergency exit was located.
He was the first of the Djinn to make it through the hidden door and into the safety of the subcity. A Djinni from one of the other squads was the second. Siraj Akim was the third.
There wasn't any fourth.
Jin was gazing up at the hospital room ceiling, listening to her rumbling stomach and wondering when the evening meal was going to be delivered, when she heard the sound of running feet outside her door.
She
frowned, activating her audio enhancers. There appeared to be two different groups of footsteps out there: one group running to her left, the other, heavier group heading to her right.
And the group heading right was accompanied by occasional metallic clinks. The kind of clinking that weapons and military equipment made as they bounced against belts and chests.
Reaching to her left arm, she carefully disengaged the two IV tubes that still remained after the battery of tests the doctors had put her through. Then, slipping into the soft boots and robe beside her bed, she padded to the door and opened it a crack.
A line of civilians was running to her left, some of them carrying small equipment consoles or record boxes. Others, mostly hospital staff, were pushing wheelchairs or assisting the more ambulatory patients. Down the hall, she could see other doors opening in sequence as the staffers systematically cleared out the rest of the patients.
On the opposite side of the hall, heading to Jin's right, was a line of grim-faced soldiers.
She pulled the door open all the way. One of the passing soldiers caught her eye and jerked his thumb silently in the direction the civilians were going. "Wait," Jin said quietly. "I can—"
He didn't even pause, but just kept going. "I can help," Jin muttered under her breath. She lifted a hand to the next soldier back, but he merely gave her the same thumbs-back gesture.
Jin grimaced. But there was clearly no time to argue the point, even if she could find someone to argue it with. Spotting a gap in the traffic flow, she left her room and joined the civilians heading to the left.
She'd gone only about fifty meters when she spotted a familiar face: Fadil Sammon, hurrying toward her behind two burly soldiers. "Fadil!" she called, holding out a hand toward him. "Fadil Sammon!"
He jerked at the sound of his name, then finally noticed her. "There you are," he said, stepping out of the soldiers' line and falling into step beside her. "I was on my way to see you. I can't—"