Cobra Slave-eARC (33 page)

[The answer, I don’t have one,] Anya admitted.

Merrick frowned, notching up his opticals a bit more. The Troft was right—the trees at the edge of the gap did appear to have been scorched.

Abruptly, he stiffened. It hadn’t been a fire. It had been a crash. Some large aircraft or small spaceship had gone down at that spot, cutting a swath through the trees and scorching them as the ship itself burned or disintegrated.

Only it hadn’t been just a random spaceship, he realized suddenly. It had been one of the transports bringing in razorarms from Qasama. That was how the predators he and the group had encountered had ended up so far from Gangari. Some of them must have survived the crash and set up housekeeping right there.

He frowned. He’d solved the alleged puzzle from twenty-five kilometers away, in the darkness, after barely thirty seconds of study. Were these Trofts really so stupid that they couldn’t figure it out, too?

Unless they had figured it out, and this was a test to see if Merrick and Anya could do likewise. Or, worse, it was a test to see if they would give the true answer or else feign ignorance in hopes of hiding guilty knowledge.

And there was only one reason Merrick could think of for any such test.

Casually, he took a step backward, pretending he was trying to find a spot where he could see better. Out of the corner of his eye he could see now that both Trofts’ radiator membranes were quivering with suppressed excitement.

They knew about the crash, all right. This was a test to see how Merrick reacted to that knowledge.

They were on to him.

His first impulse was to run. To kill the Trofts, grab their aircar, and run. There was a whole forest out there where he could hide. Maybe even a whole planet.

Only he couldn’t. He couldn’t shoot down a pair of Trofts in cold blood that way, no more than he’d been able to do it back on Qasama. He could stun them, of course, but that would buy him even less time than killing them would.

In fact, as the adrenaline rush faded and his mind started working again he realized that running would be the absolute worst thing he could do. If this was a test to smoke out a possible spy they would surely have backup waiting for him to make his move. He would most likely barely get the aircar off the ground before he would surrounded and forced down again.

And even if he somehow got clear, what would happen to Anya and Gangari? Henson had warned them not to come back without the two Trofts. Did that mean there were already threats hanging over the village?

He took a second sideways look at the Trofts’ radiator membranes. They were still quivering.

But they weren’t stretched out the way he would have expected for a pair of aliens facing an enemy Cobra. That suggested they had no idea who he actually was.

In fact, as he studied the membranes and the Trofts’ infrared facial patterns more closely, he realized it wasn’t even clear that they knew for a fact he and Anya were spies.

Which made sense. The theft of the food bars aboard the slave ship might have been noticed without the aliens having any idea which human or humans had been responsible. These two Trofts might be nothing more than the first-pass investigators, sent here to poke around and see if there were any slaves they could definitely cross off the suspect list.

[The male human slave, he will look at it,] the first Troft said, taking the scope from Anya and thrusting it toward Merrick.

Merrick took a careful breath. Steady… Taking a step closer to the trees, deliberately putting the Trofts at his back like a slave with nothing to fear, he keyed off his opticals and pressed the scope to his eye.

The first decision had been made: he wasn’t going to run. Now for the second, equally crucial question: what exactly would a totally innocent, non-spy slave make of the gap in the woods? Especially a slave who had no idea that the Trofts had been importing razorarms onto Muninn?

Once again, the question turned out to have a straightforward answer. The Trofts’ nightscope had even better telescopics than Merrick’s own opticals, and seen through it the gash in the foliage was clearly and obviously the result of some cataclysmic event. Only a fool, and a blind fool at that, could conclude otherwise.

And no matter how innocent a slave he was, Merrick decided, he certainly wasn’t a foolish one. Handing the scope back to the Troft, he used his hands to pantomime an aircraft plowing through the trees on its way to a fiery crash landing.

[The answer, you are certain of it?] the first Troft asked, eyeing Merrick closely as he rolled the scope gently between his fingers.

Merrick shrugged, holding his hands palm upwards. [The answer, he is not completely certain of it,] Anya translated. [But the answer, it seems reasonable to him.]

For a moment the Trofts looked at each other in silence. Then, to Merrick’s cautious relief, their membranes folded back down onto their arms. If it wasn’t the exact response they were looking for, it was apparently close enough. [The answer, we will ponder it,] the first Troft said. [Your work, you may return to it.]

[The order, we obey it,] Anya said as she and Merrick both bowed to the aliens.

They returned to the fire pit and knelt down beside it. “I don’t understand,” Anya murmured as Merrick adjusted the chunks of wood on top of the kindling. “Why did they ask such a question of us?”

“I think one of their ships went down over there,” Merrick murmured back. “Looks to me like they wanted to see what we knew about it.”

“How could we know anything?” she asked, sounding bewildered. “Such an event would have left smoke and odor lingering in the air for days afterward. Yet we only arrived yesterday. Surely they know that.”

“One would certainly assume so,” Merrick agreed, casually turning his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the Trofts were working on their aircar, reconfiguring the couches into the flatter mode used for sleeping. Apparently, they were planning to spend the night up here instead of returning to their base and rejoining the winghunt in the morning.

On the plus side, he could see nothing in their movements or the positioning of their radiator membranes to indicate extra stress or excitement. “Even if they’re suspicious of us I doubt they’ll do anything until they see how we do at winghunting tomorrow,” he went on. “That’ll be the real test of whether we’re who we say we are.”

Anya was silent a moment. “Only you aren’t,” she said.

“Not yet,” Merrick admitted. “But hopefully, I will be by morning. Or at least good enough to fake it.”

“Without getting yourself killed?”

Merrick swallowed. “Definitely,” he agreed, still studying the Trofts. Everything seemed to have settled down.

But something still wasn’t right.

“Is there trouble?” Anya asked.

“I don’t know,” Merrick said, trying to chase down the troubled feeling whispering through him. “So there was a crash, and they wanted to see our reaction to it. But why? Usually there’s nothing all that noteworthy about a crash—equipment fails, the weather goes crazy when they’re trying to land, or the pilot just makes a mistake.”

“Yet this crash seems important to them,” Anya said slowly. “Could it have been something other than an accident?”

“You mean sabotage?”

“Sabotage from within, or destruction from without,” she said. “Perhaps it was attacked, either from the sky or from the ground.”

Merrick shivered. A successful attack deep in their territory would definitely get the Drims to stand up and notice.

And how and from where that attack had come was a bit of information that could end up being crucial. To the Trofts, but also to Merrick. “I need to get a look at the crash site,” he said, running the numbers through his mind. From the previous night’s encampment he knew the darkness would last about ten hours. Getting back down the mountain, a twenty-five-kilometer jog down the road, through the forest to the crash site, then reverse the process…

“No,” Anya said, her hand snaking out to grab his wrist. “Not now. Please. If they catch you—”

“Hey, relax,” Merrick said, reaching over to pull her hand off his arm.

“No,” she said, her grip tightening. “You can’t do this.”

“It’s all right, Anya,” Merrick soothed, wincing a little. He’d known she was strong, but she had some serious reserves in those slender fingers. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. I’ll wait until we’re off the mountain and the Trofts have left. Okay?”

She stared into his eyes, though how much she could see of his expression in the dim starlight he couldn’t guess. Then, slowly, the grip on his wrist eased and she took her hand away. “The dark memory the master spoke of earlier,” she said, her voice full of old and distant pain. “I don’t want my village to go through that again. Ever.”

“I understand,” Merrick said, wishing he actually did. Maybe it was just as well that he didn’t.

Abruptly, Anya stood up. “Finish the fire,” she ordered, pulling a knife from beneath her jacket. “I’ll go find us some food.”

“You want me to come with you?” Merrick asked, starting to also stand up.

“No,” she said tartly, her hand pressing down on his shoulder.

“You sure?” Merrick asked, eyeing her closely.

Her shoulders sagged a bit. “I’m sure,” she said again, more quietly this time. “I would like to have time alone.”

“Sure,” Merrick said, lowering himself back into a crouch as he keyed his infrareds. Once again, her face was a tangle of unreadable emotions. “If there’s any trouble, just give me a shout.”

“I will,” she promised. “Have the fire ready.” She shifted her eyes across the clearing to the Trofts. “After we eat, we’ll begin your instruction.”

Merrick felt his stomach tighten. Hanging beneath a piece of cloth hundreds of meters above the ground… “Sounds good,” he said. “Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It will.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The news filtered in slowly from Archway, in bits and pieces, half of them genuine news, the other half unfounded rumors. The fact that the comm connections between Bitter Creek and the rest of DeVegas province were running a fitful on-again-off-again pattern didn’t help.

But gradually the horrifying picture became clear.

Lorne was out in the forest, hunting spine leopard way stations, when the news of the mob action at Yates Fabrications came through. He was taking a short, restless nap when the factory’s sabotage was reported.

He was in Mayor McDougal’s store, reporting that the last way station had been cleared out, when he learned about the slaughter.

“I’m so sorry,” McDougal said quietly as Lorne stared at the report on the mayor’s comboard. “I’m so very sorry.”

Lorne nodded mechanically, his eyes frozen to the short list of names.

Bates. Jankos. Harper. Men he’d known. Men he’d worked and fought beside. Men with whom he’d shared meals, drinks, laughter, danger, and curses. Three Cobras dead.

Three Cobras murdered.

“Do we know what happened?” he asked, his voice sounding like a stranger’s in his ears. “I mean, what really happened?”

“Not really,” McDougal said, the anger in her voice a match for the fury roiling through Lorne’s gut. “And I doubt we will anytime soon. You can see the Dominion wrote that piece and just slapped it in under Harry’s name. They didn’t even bother to match his style. They’re in charge of all news. Probably all comm and radio activity, too.”

“First rule of conquest,” Lorne murmured, still staring at the names.

The deaths were bad enough. But what was worse were the two names that weren’t in the report.

Because they should have been. His parents had been on the outskirts of Archway when he last talked to them, heading in to check on the supposed riot that Sergeant Khahar had talked about, and neither of them was the sort to stay in the background when there was danger or trouble. An article that took the time to name all the so-called ringleaders of the so-called mob should certainly have included Paul or Jasmine Broom in that roster. The deliberate lack of such a mention could only mean one thing.

Reivaro had taken them.

In fact, the more Lorne thought about it, the more he wondered if the entire confrontation had been staged deliberately to draw his parents into a situation where the Dominion could manufacture an excuse for a grab.

But maybe it wasn’t too late for him to get them back.

“I have to go,” he said, looking up. “I have to get to Archway.”

“No,” McDougal said flatly.

Lorne stared at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? No?”

“It means you can’t help them,” McDougal said. “Your parents aren’t in Archway anymore.”

“And you know this how?”

“I know because the Dominion may be many things, but they’re not stupid,” McDougal said, nodding at the comboard. “Look at the time-stamp. It’s been hours since the riot. If this was an excuse to declare martial law and grab your parents, they’ve long since done it.”

“We don’t know that,” Lorne persisted. “And don’t forget Chintawa. He’ll be fighting this, fighting the whole martial law thing, at least fighting for jurisdiction over my parents. There’s a fair chance they’re still in limbo while Santores and the Dome thrash it out. If they are, I have to get down there.”

McDougal shook her head. “You’re not going.”

A red haze seemed to settle in between Lorne and the woman. “How are you going to stop me?”

“Hopefully, with reason,” McDougal said, the anger in her voice and face turned into something hard and cold. “First reason: as mayor of your assigned town, I’m still officially in charge of you. If I say you stay, you stay. Second reason—” A muscle in her jaw tightened. “I think that’s exactly what they’re hoping you’ll do.”

Lorne frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Think about it,” McDougal said. “The report comes in late and doesn’t mention your parents. That provides the illusion that you still have a window in which to act. At the same time, it makes that window so small you have to act immediately, without taking time to think, or you risk losing your chance.” She shook her head. “No, whatever it is they want your parents for, they want you, too.”