Cobra Slave-eARC (7 page)

Meekan twitched his eyelid. “Thirty-seven minutes ago.”

“I see,” Barrington said, forcing his voice to remain calm. “See if there’s anything more on Lorne, and continue looking for Jody.”

“Yes, sir,” Meekan said.

Barrington keyed off, and for a moment he stared blackly at the Dome corridor in front of him. Then, spinning around in a parade-perfect one-eighty, he stalked back toward the conference room.

Meekan knew. And if a lowly captain’s aide could figure this out from a simple remote search of Aventine’s computer system, anyone could. Including Colonel Reivaro.

Including Commodore Santores.

Someone had lied to him. And Barrington Jame Moreau did not take kindly to being lied to.

Santores and Reivaro were still at the table, talking together in low tones. Both looked up as Barrington strode into the room. “We need to talk, Commodore,” Barrington said without preamble.

For a moment Santores eyed him in silence. Then, he inclined his head fractionally. “If you’ll excuse us, Colonel?”

“Of course, sir,” Reivaro said, his usual annoying bluster momentarily subdued beneath his instinct for self-preservation. Avoiding Barrington’s glare, he made a hasty exit.

“You have a question, Captain?” Santores asked.

“Lorne Broom hasn’t left Aventine,” Barrington said. “There are indications he’s in DeVegas province.”

“I know,” Santores acknowledged calmly. “He arrived at the Cobra station in Archway early this morning and reported for duty.”

“I see,” Barrington said stiffly. Other flag officers he’d worked with would have either dragged out the lie as long as they could or else tried to shift the blame elsewhere. At least Santores had opted for honesty. Eventually. “Do I assume you’re canceling my orders to take the Dorian to Hoibe’ryi’sarai?”

“Not at all,” Santores said. “You yourself pointed out that Broom’s sister is still unaccounted for.”

“We don’t need her,” Barrington said.

“Don’t we?” Santores countered. “Consider, Captain. Jody Broom heads for the Dome, allegedly hoping the governor-general can get her aboard a ship bound for Esquiline. When she’s intercepted, she tries to hide a device we’ve since identified as a recorder. After the Marines are ambushed, not only is Ms. Broom gone, but so is the recorder.” He cocked his head. “I for one am interested in knowing what’s on that recorder. Aren’t you?”

“I’m mildly curious, yes,” Barrington conceded. “But I was under the impression that our first priority was finding Qasama. Lorne Broom is still here. If you think the MindsEye can pull Qasama’s location out of him, why not just bring him back and put him under?”

“For how long?” Santores asked. “The six hours Captain Lij Tulu wanted?”

“I’d prefer the full week that’ll allow him to live through the procedure,” Barrington said stiffly. “Fortunately, as of now, that should be possible. With his sister’s disappearance you should be able to tag him as a material witness and announce you’ll be holding him aboard the Algonquin until Jody Broom surrenders herself.”

“I see your patron’s instructed you in the art of the convenient half-truth,” Santores said. “Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. As Colonel Reivaro said, there’s growing evidence of a conspiracy between the Aventinian government, the Cobras, and the Trofts. Lorne Broom’s open reappearance in DeVegas might be his attempt to draw our attention and make us forget about his sister. But it might equally well be his version of a challenge for us to come and get him.”

“So do it,” Barrington said, frowning. “What’s the problem?”

“The same problem we had earlier today,” Santores said, impatience creeping into his voice. “We still need Chintawa’s cooperation, and he’s made it clear that he won’t release any of the Broom family into our custody until the treason charges have been worked through. It could very well be that Lorne’s attempting to push us into trying to take over the Cobra Worlds before we have sufficient cause. If we react to his reappearance too hastily and without careful consideration, we could find ourselves having to choose between a planetary revolt or a public and embarrassing positional retreat.” He raised his eyebrows. “I have no interest in doing either.”

“Understood, sir,” Barrington said, trying without success to read what was going on behind Santores’s eyes. “I presume, then, that you’ve found another option?”

For a moment Santores’s eyes held Barrington’s. Then, to Barrington’s surprise, the commodore’s gaze drifted away. “You know, it’s really quite interesting,” he said meditatively. “I’ve been reading up on Cobra Worlds history, and it’s remarkable how often the Moreau family has ended up at or near the flashpoint of some critical moment.”

“It’s been the same with my branch of the family,” Barrington murmured, a shiver running up his back. “Am I to understand that they’re about to be the flashpoint again?”

“We’re three ships against an entire planet, Captain,” Santores reminded him. “Several planets, actually. We can’t bring Lorne Broom in for a week of interrogation against the wishes of a hostile government. We need for the government in question to voluntarily cede us that authority, or to make a flex-wrapped case to that government as to why we need to invoke martial law. And to bring that about—” His lips compressed. “Things may get a bit unpleasant.”

Barrington took a careful breath. “That’s the real reason I’m going to Hoibe’ryi’sarai, isn’t it? You don’t really care about Jody Broom and her recorder. You just want me out of the way so that I can’t object to what’s about to happen.”

“It’s for your own good, Captain,” Santores said. “Both for your career, and for your standing with your patron.”

“And if I refuse to be shunted to the side so that Lij Tulu has free rein to play with his MindsEye toy?”

“Walk carefully, Captain Moreau,” Santores warned, his voice and words suddenly gone formal. “The consequences of disobeying a direct order is something even your patron would be unable to remedy.”

“I don’t disobey, sir,” Barrington said, matching his tone. “I merely appeal the order in the strongest terms possible.”

“And that appeal is denied,” Santores said. “Never forget, Captain, that you’re not the only one with a patron. Mine also demands certain results. And he will have them.”

And whoever Santores’s patron was, he was probably higher on the political food chain than Barrington’s was. “Then I’ll content myself with pointing out that martial law is a twin-ended torch,” he said. “If we end up at war with these people, we might as well have stayed home.”

“I’m aware of that, Captain,” Santores said. “But whatever happens, at least you’ll be clear of any repercussions. That should keep you out of trouble with your patron.”

“My patron is not so easily beguiled,” Barrington warned. “And as long as we’re talking about trouble, remember that sending me into Troft space just to get me out of your way will reduce your fighting force here by a full third. That’s not a good position for any commander to be in.”

“If our ships’ weaponry is needed, we’ll have already lost,” Santores said heavily. “The decision has been made, Captain. My order stands.”

“Yes, sir.” Barrington straightened to full attention. “With your permission, Commodore, I’ll return to the Dorian and prepare for our departure.”

“Very good, Captain,” Santores said, just as formally. “And content yourself with the fact that things seldom turn out as badly as one anticipates.”

A minute later, Barrington was again striding down the corridor, his heart aching with anger and frustration and dread. Santores was right, of course. Things were seldom as bad as expected. Sometimes, they were better.

Sometimes, they were much, much worse.

CHAPTER FOUR

Merrick Broom had been through a war. He’d seen destruction and violence on a scale he’d never imagined. He’d seen men and women killed and maimed, soldiers and civilians alike. He’d been injured himself, badly, and in some ways was still not fully recovered. Even if a full healing somehow managed to happen, he knew there were physical and emotional scars that would be with him for the rest of his life.

Given all that, life aboard a Troft slave ship turned out to be almost like a vacation.

Not a perfect vacation, of course. Not the kind he’d gone on with his family when he was a boy, relaxing and comfortable and carefree. For one thing, it was hot and cramped down here at the lowest part of the ship. There was also the engines’ low and pervasive rumbling, which had just enough random variation in it that his brain could never quite learn to ignore it. The food, sleeping, and sanitary facilities were wildly inadequate for the sixty men and women who eventually ended up being crowded into the narrow spaces.

And as for his fellow travelers—

“Hey!” a deep voice growled from behind him. “You—Merk. You’re in my spot.”

Reflexively, Merrick curled his hands into fingertip laser firing position. Consciously, he uncurled them again. It was Dyre, of course. It was always Dyre.

“Merk!”

Not turning around, Merrick lifted a hand in silent acknowledgment.

“Yeah, put your wobble hand down and get your squatter out of there,” Dyre growled. “You’re in my spot.”

Merrick lifted his eyes from his shallow bowl to the slender woman seated across the narrow table from him. Anya Winghunter was gazing back, her pale eyes locked on his, her bright blond hair almost glowing in its contrast with her slightly darkened skin. Her lips parted a couple of millimeters, but she didn’t speak.

But then, she didn’t have to. She and Merrick had already been over this territory a hundred times, and they both knew what he had to do.

Which wasn’t to say that either of them liked it.

“I said move.”

A dozen sarcastic retorts flashed into Merrick’s mind. Once again, he forced it all back. The men and women of Anya’s world spoke an odd dialect, and while he was mostly able to understand it, he had a long way to go before he could speak it without drawing unwelcome attention. Anya had suggested early on that their safest course would be to pretend he was mute, and he’d reluctantly gone along with her reasoning.

“Merk—”

“Give him a moment,” Anya interrupted, her voice and expression stern as she stared up over Merrick’s shoulder. “His hearing is not so good.”

“He’s in my spot,” Dyre repeated.

Merrick clamped down on his teeth as he stood up and started working one leg out from under the table, trying not to jostle either of the two men sitting beside him on the long bench. There were no assigned seats, of course. Not that Dyre would have cared if there were. Merrick and Anya had tried several different spots over the course of the past few meals, and Dyre had claimed every single one of Merrick’s choices as his.

“Come on. Come on.”

Neither of the men beside Merrick was giving him so much as a millimeter of extra space, either, which made it twice as awkward. Either they were afraid of Dyre, or else they agreed with his assessment that Merrick was the person to pick on during this trip. Maneuvering carefully, trying to avoid kicking anyone, Merrick got one leg over the bench and was finally able to turn around.

And since there wasn’t much room between the bench and the wall, he found himself looking up into Dyre Woodsplitter’s glowering face.

Dyre was a big man, a good fifteen centimeters taller than Merrick, with a broad-shouldered fighter’s physique that filled out even the extra-large version of the slaves’ standardized gray jumpsuit. His hair wasn’t quite as blond as Anya’s, but it wasn’t far behind. As far as Merrick had been able to tell from their brief interactions, the man’s emotions had just two settings: silent brooding and loud anger.

So far that anger hadn’t actually overflowed into physical violence. But it never seemed far from the edge. The big man had joined the transport ship a week after the slaves from the Qasama invasion force had been put aboard, and for whatever reason he’d taken an instant dislike to Merrick.

“I’m sure he apologizes,” Anya continued. “We will find another place.”

“Just him,” Dyre said, not taking his eyes off Merrick. “You can stay where you are.”

“I choose to go with him.”

“And I choose that you don’t.” Dyre jabbed a finger toward the far end of the table. “Go. Now.”

There was nothing to do but obey. Merrick turned and picked up his bowl, sending a questioning look at Anya as he did so. Her face was puckered, but she gave a small confirming nod in the direction Dyre had indicated. Merrick nodded back, and with bowl in hand he headed down the line of other diners. He’d never liked bullies, and it galled him like a festering sore to have to back down in front of this one.

But he had no choice. Standing up to Dyre would probably precipitate a fight, and exposing even a hint of his Cobra strength and reflexes could prove fatal, not only to Merrick but also to Anya and the other slaves. For now, he had to swallow his pride, keep a low profile, and wait until this voyage ended and they reached Anya’s village.

Where he would do something. He still didn’t know exactly what.

He found an empty place near the end of the table, across from a couple and their five-year-old daughter. He worked his way between the men on either side of the narrow gap—again, without any cooperation from them—and sat down. Trying to ignore the sudden conversational silence that had settled around him, he returned to his meal.

It wasn’t supposed to have been like this. When Commander Ukuthi, the Troft in charge of the Balin’ekha’spmi contingent on Qasama, had come to Merrick with this plan it had looked a lot more promising. Ukuthi had told him about Anya’s people, apparently the survivors of another lost human colony, whom the Drim’hco’plai demesne had found and enslaved. Many of those slaves were tasked with fighting each other for the amusement of their owners, Anya and Ukuthi had told him, while others worked as house or outwork slaves.

But when the Drims had suddenly announced that all the slaves they’d sold to other Troft demesnes were to be immediately returned, Ukuthi had suspected their demesne-lord was up to something sinister. Given the sometimes intense rivalry between the demesnes—and probably given the Balin demesne-lord’s reluctance to stick his own neck out on this one—Ukuthi had come to Merrick and asked him to join with the returning slaves and find out what the Drims were planning. Merrick had tentatively agreed, provided Ukuthi got him some disguised combat and survival gear and added a few combat-suited Qasamans to the infiltration team.