It took Merrick eight steps to get to the bed. Fadil watched him the whole way in silence, then turned away. "No news," he said quietly.
"No," Merrick said. So much for lying to the other. The powerful mind-enhancing drugs that Fadil had taken back in Sollas still saturated his brain, giving him powers of observation and analysis well beyond those of normal human beings. The effect was usually temporary, Krites had told Merrick, but sometimes could be permanent.
There was no such uncertainty about the drugs' side effects. The paralysis that had engulfed Fadil's body below his neck barely an hour after the mind-enhancement procedure was permanent.
Fadil's contribution to the war effort had made him a quadriplegic. Forever.
"What's happening in Sollas?" Fadil asked.
Merrick wasn't even tempted to lie. "According to the last report, the Troft ships spent most of the day blowing up more of the western and northeastern parts of the city," he said. "They've probably stopped now—so far their pattern's been to break off the demolition work at nightfall."
"They want to see what it is they're destroying," Fadil murmured. "They don't want to risk missing something when they have only infrared and light-amplification to see by."
"Probably," Merrick said. "It still seems like they're taking an awfully long time to destroy a single city."
"Because they're not really interested in Sollas itself," Fadil told him. "Their goal is to destroy the subcity—all of its levels, all of its chambers. The part that's aboveground is merely in the way."
Merrick nodded. That last part was sadly obvious. What wasn't obvious was whether or not the Shahni and the Djinn would be able to mount any sort of defense or counterattack before Sollas, and all the rest of the cities had been turned to rubble and dead bodies.
"And you've heard nothing about my father?" Fadil asked into Merrick's thoughts.
"No," Merrick said. Fadil had already concluded that, of course, from his reading of Merrick's face and body language. But even so, he asked the question.
As he always did, every time he saw Merrick. Always at least twice. Sometimes three or four times.
For a moment Fadil was silent. "Perhaps tomorrow there'll be news," he said at last. "I'm told the invaders launched a missile attack on you tonight. Were there casualties?"
"None," Merrick said. "And it wasn't exactly an attack. I blew up the guidance section of one of their antipersonnel launchers, and the thing went berserk. Probably programmed to shift to a random, rapid-fire spread within a defined arc to try to drive away whoever's attacking them."
"Thus giving themselves time to regroup for counterattack or escape."
"In this case the latter," Merrick said. "They were in the air before the rest of the team even caught up with us."
"Did they leave with razorarms?"
"I don't know," Merrick said. "But if they did get any, I'm guessing they didn't get the number they were hoping for. I think we can claim at least half a victory on this one."
"Indeed," Fadil said. "Now tell me: why are you still alive?"
Merrick felt an unpleasant tingle run up his back. Gama Yithtra, after the rest of the team had belatedly arrived, had been furious that Merrick and Kinstra had taken on the Trofts all by themselves. Was Fadil suggesting that Yithtra might actually have ordered some kind of lethal action against them for that? "I don't understand," he said carefully.
"You said the launcher fired a random pattern," Fadil said. "How is it none of the missiles struck you?"
Merrick frowned, thinking back. "Because we were flat on the ground," he said slowly, "and all the shots were over our heads."
"Does that seem odd to you?"
"Yes, now that you mention it," Merrick agreed. "I didn't even notice at the time."
"Of course not." In the darkness, Merrick saw Fadil's bitter-edged smile. "You still have your arms and legs."
Merrick felt a fresh ache in his heart. "Fadil Sammon—"
"No, Merrick Moreau, don't speak," Fadil interrupted quietly. "That was unfair and cruel. My apologies. The decision that put me in this situation was mine and mine alone. And many others have suffered far worse." He gave a small nod toward the window. "And through it all, I did my part for the people of Qasama. My gamble and sacrifice were not for nothing."
"I know," Merrick said, wishing he knew what that meant. Whatever Fadil had taken the mind-enhancing drugs for, it had apparently been secret enough that neither Merrick nor anyone else in Milika had heard anything about it.
"No you don't," Fadil said, a touch of wry humor peeking through the depression. "But that's all right. Someday, if we win, all Qasama will know. And if we lose, no one will be left to care."
"We're going to win," Merrick said firmly. "I know my mother. One way or another, she'll get Aventine to send the Cobras we need. The next time we throw the Trofts off Qasama, it'll be for good."
"Perhaps." Fadil nodded again, this time toward Merrick. "You'd best get to bed. Though the invaders' missiles may not have harmed you, I doubt you made it through the mission unscathed."
Merrick shrugged. "I'm mostly unscathed."
But once again, Fadil was right. Merrick could feel fresh aches and pains in a couple of places where his not-entirely healed muscles and skin had taken fresh damage. Dr. Krites would undoubtedly find more small injuries in the morning when he did a complete exam, and Dr. Krites would be very unhappy about it.
But that was tomorrow's trouble. Merrick had already had enough for today.
"You'd better get some sleep yourself," he told Fadil, backing toward the door. "Maybe there'll be news in the morning."
"Perhaps," Fadil said. "Good-night, Merrick Moreau. May God watch over you."
"And you, Fadil Sammon."
And with that, Merrick escaped from the room. And from the pitiful creature that Fadil Sammon had become.
* * *
After all the stress of the night's attack Merrick had looked forward to sleeping at least a little later than usual into the morning.
He didn't. The sun was barely up when he was jolted awake by the sound of heavy grav lifts. Rolling out of his bed, wincing at the fresh strains in his muscles, he slipped over to the window and eased aside the curtain.
To find a Troft warship like the ones he and the Djinn had fought in Sollas settling onto the road that led to the main Milika gate.
CHAPTER THREE
They were ten minutes from Qasama when Dr. Glas Croi, who'd hardly showed his face since the departure from Caelian, finally appeared in the dining area where Paul, his wife and son, and Carsh Zoshak were finishing up their lunch.
Paul's leg had been feeling better that morning, enough so that he'd taken only half of his prescribed painkiller dosage. He felt well enough, in fact, that Croi actually looked worse than Paul felt.
Jin noticed it, too. "Dr. Croi," she said, gesturing him toward the empty seat beside Lorne. "Are you all right?"
"What?" Croi asked, blinking like someone still trying to pry sleep-goo out of his eyes. "Oh. Hello, Cobra Broom." He frowned. "I guess that's Cobra Brooms all around, isn't it?"
"Except for me," Zoshak said, lifting his hand a few centimeters. "Though perhaps someday soon I shall be Cobra Zoshak."
It seemed to Paul that Croi's jaw tightened slightly. "Yes. Perhaps."
Lorne had picked up on it, too. "Something wrong?" he asked.
Furtively, Croi's eyes flicked to Zoshak, flicked away again. "I don't know yet," he said. "I hope not."
Lorne glanced at his father. "Meaning?"
Croi's jaw tightened again. "It's just that Isis was never meant to be taken off Aventine," he said reluctantly. "It was certainly never meant to be a secret installation."
"We could throw a blanket over it," Lorne suggested.
"This isn't a joke," Croi bit out, glaring at him. "It turns out there's a substantial and highly distinctive radio leakage signal that comes from the assembly coordination computer."
Paul felt Jin stir in
the chair beside him. "Distinctive how?" she asked.
"Distinctive enough to show it's coming from a manufacturing computer," Croi said.
"Surely there are other manufacturing computers on Qasama," Paul said, frowning. His wife's reaction had been small, but still stronger than it should have been.
"You're missing the point," Jin said. "The Trofts monitor all radio usage here. Their antipersonnel missiles automatically target any transmissions within range."
"We believe they also had some of their shipboard missiles programmed for larger-scale attacks," Zoshak said. "Jin Moreau is right. Dr. Croi. Any radio signal on Qasama, distinctive or otherwise, will be an invitation to death."
"So we'll just have to make sure it's well shielded," Paul said, a lump forming in his throat. No wonder Jin had reacted to Croi's news. Lugging Isis all the way here just to have it blown up would pretty much end it for all of them. "How do we do that?"
"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Croi said heavily. "And the answer is, I don't know." He waved a hand vaguely aft. "Ingidi-inhiliziyo and I have spent the past five days working on it. The problem we keep coming up with is that even if we shield the main computer, there's still leakage around the cable connections and from the intersect planes. I have a bad feeling that if the invaders return before we've finished equipping the new Cobras we're going to have serious trouble on our hands."
"I see," Jin said. She turned to Zoshak. "Djinni Zoshak? May I?"
Paul looked at the young Qasaman warrior. His expression was tight, but he nodded. "Under the circumstances," he said, "I think it acceptable that you tell them."
"Perhaps we should consult Ifrit Akim first," Jin suggested.
"No need," Zoshak said, more firmly. "We're allies now." He gestured. "Go ahead."
Jin nodded and looked back at Croi. "There shouldn't be any problem with leakage," she said. "The Qasamans have underground chambers deep beneath their cities. Between the steel, ceramic, and native rock, there should be enough material to block any signals from getting out."
"Really," Croi said, his voice a mixture of relief and chagrin. "You couldn't have told me all this five days ago?"
"I didn't know what you were working on," Jin reminded him. "Besides, the subcities are as much a military secret as Isis."
Croi took a deep breath. "Yes, of course. My apologies."
There was a ping from the intercom system. [Jasmine Jin Moreau Broom, she will come immediately to the bridge,] a tight Troft voice called.
Jin and Paul exchanged looks. "That doesn't sound good," Paul said as Jin got to her feet.
"No, it didn't," Jin agreed. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
"If you think you're going anywhere without us, you're nuts," Lorne said, tapping Zoshak's arm and standing up. He looked at Croi and crooked a finger. "You, too, Doc—come on."
"But they only asked for her," Croi objected.
"I must have heard it wrong." Lorne looked at Paul. "You staying here?"
"Not a chance," Paul said firmly, getting a grip on the arms of his chair and using his arm servos to lever himself upright. "Go—I'm right behind you."
Jin had already disappeared through the forward door, with Zoshak close behind her. Lorne looked in that direction, then turned and rounded the table to his father's side. "I said you should go ahead," Paul repeated, trying to fend him off.
"I must have heard that wrong, too," Lorne said. He evaded his father's brushing movements with ease and moved up beside him, wrapping his arm around the older man's waist. Paul tried to push the arm away, but Lorne had locked the servos and the arm wasn't going anywhere. "Just relax and let me take the weight."
"I thought we taught you to respect your elders' wishes," Paul grumbled as they headed toward the door. Still, he had to admit this was a lot easier than trying to limp around on his own.
"Stop having silly wishes and I will," Lorne said. "Easy now, and watch the door jamb."
Jin and Zoshak were standing behind the helm console when Paul and Lorne reached the bridge. Between them, Paul could see the Troft at the helm, and the fluttering arch currently being formed by his upper-arm radiator membranes. Something was wrong, all right. "What have we got?" he asked, glancing around at the other Trofts at their stations. All of them were showing the same degree of stress as the helmsman.
[The Drim'hco'plai invaders, they have returned,] a Troft voice came from the side of the room.
Paul looked toward the voice. The ship's master, Ingidi-inhiliziyo—Warrior to all the humans aboard except Croi, who could actually pronounce the alien's name—was standing by the communications board, resplendent in the red heir-sash that identified him as the second in line to the Tlos'khin'fahi demesne-lord. Unlike the other Trofts on the bridge, his radiator membranes weren't fluttering, but were barely extended from his arms.
But then, a Troft of his rank and position was supposed to stay calmer than his crew. "How seriously have they returned?" Paul asked.
[A siege, they have mounted one at all Qasaman cities.] Warrior said. [Our presence, they demand an explanation of it.]
A hollow feeling formed at the pit of Paul's stomach. He'd assumed the invaders would run home with their tails tucked, where they would regroup, re-strategize, and collect fresh ships and soldiers before taking another crack at the Qasamans.
Yet here they were, already well into a fresh campaign. Clearly, they were more determined than he'd realized.
And with that, everything he and Jin and the others had discussed and thought about and planned over the past five days was gone. With the invaders already back and settled into siege mode, there was no way Ingidi-inhiliziyo could get his ship close enough to Sollas to offload the Isis equipment and hide it in the depths of the hidden subcity.
That was bad enough. But for Paul and Jin personally, it was even worse.
Because the Qasamans' best medical facilities were in the cities. A siege of those cities meant that Paul's ravaged leg would not, in fact, be healed. Not any time soon.
Nor would the tumor that was slowly killing his beloved wife be removed.
"Maybe there's still a way," Lorne murmured hesitantly from his side. "It's possible Warrior can play the demesne-heir card and get us permission to land at least somewhere near Sollas. If the subcity extends outside the city wall, maybe we can get some of Isis into it without the invaders noticing."
[The cities, permission to land there we may not have,] Warrior said. [Such instruction, it has already been achieved.]
"But you're a demesne heir," Lorne pressed. "Can't you do something?"
"It would serve no purpose for us to land there, Lorne Moreau," Zoshak said quietly, his eyes on one of the helm displays. "Sollas is gone."
Jin caught her breath. "What?"
[The truth, show it to them,] Warrior ordered.
[The order, I obey it.] The helm officer touched a switch, and a section of the wraparound display changed from a view of the stars around the ship to a close-up of the planet ahead.
Paul felt his lips curl back from his teeth. Zoshak was exaggerating, but not by much. Probably a third of the city was still there, mostly the southern and eastern sections, snugged up inside their outer wall.
But the northern third was completely gone. The buildings there had been turned to rubble, the ground beneath them gouged out at least three or four stories deep. The third of the city in the middle was in transition, many of the buildings already down and the excavation below them just starting.
"They're trying to destroy the subcity," Jin murmured. "That's where their defeat came from the last time. They want to make sure that doesn't happen again."
"Terrific," Croi said grimly. "What do we do now?"
"We figure out something else," Lorne told him. "That's a big planet down there. There has to be some other place you can set up shop."
Croi snorted. "Where? We need power. Cobra Broom, power and buildings and people. We can't just drop Isis in the middle of nowhere."
>
Paul looked at Jin, a sudden thought stirring inside him. A bit of family history his wife and son seemed to have forgotten... "How many buildings would you need?" he asked.
"I don't know," Croi said, turning puzzled eyes on him. "Someplace to set up the Isis machinery, plus a prep area, plus a postoperative recovery area. Three at least, or I suppose one really big building might do."
"You have an idea?" Lorne asked.
"I think so," Paul told him. "Remember, Jin, on your first visit to Qasama you saw a mine that Daulo Sammon's family was operating inside Milika. Do you know if it's still there?"
"No, I don't." She looked at Zoshak. "Carsh Zoshak?"
"Yes, it's there," the Qasaman said, his tone oddly hesitant. "It may work."
"Except...?" Lorne prompted.
Zoshak's lip twitched. "The people there are villagers," he said reluctantly "Not..."
"Not city dwellers?" Jin asked.
Zoshak's lip twitched again. "Not soldiers," he said. "It may be difficult to find the proper subjects for the Isis transformation."
Paul looked at Jin. Over the years she'd talked about the political and philosophical divide between the Qasaman cities and villages, those conversations usually in the context of some policy the government geniuses at Dome were trying to inflict on Aventine's own rural and expansion regions.
She'd always hoped the antagonism would fade with time. Apparently, it hadn't.
"Don't worry, we'll find the right people," he told Zoshak. "I doubt the villagers are any less patriotic than the city dwellers. There'll be plenty of volunteers."
"Perhaps we should call Siraj Akim," Jin suggested. "He's the senior here. He might have other ideas."
[A response, the invaders await it,] Warrior spoke up. [Instruction, I await it.]
Zoshak took a deep breath. "Ifrit Akim's presence is not required," he said. "The idea is sound. We'll use it."
He turned to Warrior. "We go southwest of Sollas approximately twelve hundred kilometers," he said. "Follow the Great Arc to Azras. Milika is in the forest approximately thirty kilometers northwest of Azras."