Cobra Slave by Timothy Zahn
“I see them, Lieutenant,” Barrington said, forcing calm into his voice. He’d never visited a Troft home world personally, but he’d seen the reports from scouts who’d successfully slipped into the core systems of some of the demesnes bordering the Dominion. None of those systems had ever had more than four capital warships on duty to support their orbital defense systems.
But not the Hoibe’ryi’sarai Trofts. Here, on the outer fringes of the Assemblage—with the Dominion a hundred and fifty light-years away and no other threats to speak of anywhere around—here, the Hoibe’ryi’sarai Trofts had sixteen of the damn things in place.
Sixteen.
They weren’t simple patrol ships, either. They were full-bore ships of the line, all of them frigate class at least, three of them fully half the Dorian’s size. They were arranged in a layered deployment, twelve spaced out more or less evenly along a common high equatorial orbit, the other four huddled more closely to the planet in a lower, atmosphere-skimming zone.
It was just as well, the thought flashed through Barrington’s mind, that they weren’t here to make trouble.
He keyed the radio. “This is Captain Barrington Moreau, commanding the Dominion of Man War Cruiser Dorian,” he called. “We’re on a peaceful mission from Cobra Worlds Governor-General Chintawa to the Hoibe’ryi’sarai demesne-lord. I respectfully request that a representative of the demesne-lord respond, that we may discuss our errand.”
The radio remained silent. Barrington looked back at his board, wondering if he’d forgotten to tie in the translator. But no, the message had gone out in both Anglic and cattertalk.
“Movement,” the tactical officer called tensely. “Multiple marks.”
Barrington looked over at the tactical display. All twelve ships in the outer orbital ring were on the move, the white circles marking their positions beginning to sprout multicolored vector arrows as they began to shift out of their orbits. Three of the ships were dropping inward, moving closer to the four already in low orbit, while the other nine were heading outward. From the angles of the vectors, it was clear their target was the Dorian.
And as the arrows lengthened and changed direction, the circles marking their positions began to turn yellow, then orange, and then bright red.
The Troft ships were powering up their weapons.
“Respectfully suggest that we go to BatPrep One, sir,” Garrett murmured.
“Easy, Commander,” Barrington murmured back, tapping the key that would send a repeat of his previous broadcast. “We’re on a peaceful mission. Let’s continue to look peaceful.”
There was a sudden burst of cattertalk from the CoNCH speakers. “Captain Barrington Moreau, this is Deputy Kopdji, speaker for the Hoibe’ryi’sarai demesne-lord,” the translation came. “Your presence is not desired in the Hoibe’ryi’sarai demesne. You are requested to depart immediately.”
Barrington frowned. Chintawa had assured him that the demesne-lord would welcome him with at least a modicum of hospitality. “Perhaps you misunderstood the reason for our visit,” he said. “My errand is one of peace. Moreover, I bring greetings and a personal request from Governor-General Chintawa, whom I’m told is well-known in the Hoibe’ryi’sarai court. All I ask is that you permit me to approach and present his request to you.”
There was more cattertalk— “My demesne-lord knows no human by that name,” Kopdji insisted. “Now be gone.”
One of the lights on the radio board went off as the Trofts broke transmission. “That’s a flat-faced lie,” Garrett said darkly, his eye twitching as he did a quick search through the ship’s data stream. “We’ve got records of at least three occasions where the demesne-lord personally traveled to Aventine and met with Chintawa.”
“Yes, I remember that report,” Barrington said, frowning at the ships still rising from their orbits. Why in space would Kopdji make a statement that could so quickly and easily be proven false? The demesne-lord had no need to make excuses or explanations to an intruding human ship. Especially not when he had as much firepower as he had backing him up.
Unless that firepower wasn’t his.
“Analysis of the Troft ship hull markings,” Barrington called across CoNCH, his stomach knot back to full strength. “Confirm they’re all Hoibe’ryi’sarai. If they aren’t, I want to know who they are.”
“Acknowledged,” the sensor chief acknowledged.
“Interesting,” Garrett said thoughtfully. “I thought everyone out here was more or less at peace with everyone else.”
“Chintawa may have oversimplified the situation,” Barrington said. “And being under siege would certainly explain Deputy Kopdji’s surliness.”
“And that lie about Chintawa was the demesne-lord’s attempt to tip us off that there was trouble?”
“Possibly,” Barrington agreed. “Let’s gather a little more data before we start speculating on motives.”
“Enemy weapons at full power,” the sensor officer called.
“At current rates of acceleration, estimate eight minutes thirty to effective laser range,” the tac officer added. “Ten minutes twenty to missile range.”
Assuming, of course, that the Dorian’s data on Troft weapons, defenses, and countermeasures that had been gleaned from the other end of the Assemblage also applied here. Unfortunately, there was no way to know for sure until someone actually opened fire.
Either way, it was time to stop looking peaceful. “Go to BatPrep One,” Barrington ordered. “Repeat, BatPrep One.”
There were a flurry of terse acknowledgments from across CoNCH. On the wall of displays, the nav and engineering system monitors flicked over to their alternate weapons and hull-integrity modes. “I need some answers on those hull markings,” Barrington called.
“They’re difficult to read at this distance,” the sensor officer called back as a graphic of three different lines of cattertalk script appeared on Barrington’s command display. “But those on the twelve outer ships appear to be the same, or at least very similar. No idea which demesne—they’re not markings we’re familiar with. Of the four inner ships, three carry Hoibe’ryi’sarai markings, while the fourth is again unknown, and of a different pattern than the outer group.”
“Interesting,” Barrington said. “So it’s not, in fact, one against sixteen. It’s four, possibly five, against twelve.”
“So you were right about the Hoibe’ryi’sarais being under siege,” Garrett commented. “I wonder what the story is on that sixteenth ship. Friend or ally?”
“Possibly,” Barrington said. “He could also be a hostage.”
“Seven minutes to laser range,” the tac officer called. “All weapons and defenses at full readiness.”
“Acknowledged,” Barrington said, keying his radio again. “Deputy Kopdji, this is Captain Moreau. There are nine ships from an unidentified demesne moving toward us with possibly hostile intent. Are they allies of yours, that we should leave them undamaged?”
The radio remained silent. “Sounds to me like he wouldn’t object to having them blown to dust,” Garrett suggested.
“Or at least chased away,” Barrington said. “Only he can’t say that on an open channel where they can hear him. Maybe showing we’re capable allies will loosen his tongue a little.”
“Yes, sir,” Garrett said reluctantly. “That of course assumes we want to be their allies.”
Barrington suppressed a grimace. That was the question, all right. And it was hardly a trivial issue. The Cobra Worlds might have a friendly trading relationship with these particular Trofts, but that didn’t mean they were the best choice of allies for the Dominion.
For that matter, there was no guarantee that the Dominion would be able to get any Troft allies, even if they wanted them.
But those were matters for the policy-makers of the Dome to work through at some future date. Barrington had neither the authority nor the training to make any long-term agreements or commitments.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to. The Ho
“Looks like they’re going for a straightforward flanking maneuver,” Garrett said, pointing at the diverging vector angles on the tactical. “Three per side low, three down the middle high. They might diverge into singlets somewhere along the line, but I’m guessing they’ll stick to triads for maximum fire support.”
“Weaponry?”
“No way of knowing what their missiles are capable of until they fire off a few,” Garrett said. “But from their engine power profile I don’t expect their lasers to be any stronger than those of other comparably-sized Troft warships.” He gestured to the aft display, currently showing nothing but the distant starscape. “The aft horizon still shows clear, which implies that our appearance here was a surprise.”
“Our appearance, or anyone else’s,” Barrington agreed thoughtfully. The lack of a backup force might imply that intruders had been expecting this to be a quick in-and-out snatch, not a prolonged siege. As Garrett had suggested, maybe Sixteen was a friend under Hoibe’ryi’sarai protection.
Or else they were simply holding him there while they bargained up the price for handing him over.
“Six minutes to laser range.”
“Stand by ECM,” Barrington ordered. “And lock a Pluto cone into all incoming ships.” There was only a slim chance, he knew, that electronic countermeasures designed to work against missiles and targeting algorithms at the other end of the Assemblage would work on this group of warships. Pluto cones, on the other hand, worked directly and physically to block incoming missiles. Between them and the point-defense systems, the Dorian should have a good chance of making it through the Trofts’ first salvo.
“ECM, Pluto cones, aye,” the weapons officer confirmed. “Targeting orders?”
Barrington studied the tactical. One of the smaller ships coming in directly in front of them, he saw, was lagging slightly behind the two others in its group. “Scrambler cone on Four,” he ordered. Scramblers, like ECM, were tuned to specific types of electronic firing mechanisms, and there was a good chance that it would be ineffective here. But if it worked, it might befuddle Four’s systems enough to get it firing at random, and some of those wild shots could hit its companions. “Laser locks on One, Six, and Eight; missile triads on One, Two, Five, and Nine. Hold for my order.”
There was another flurry of acknowledgments, and the weapons and tactical displays adjusted as the crews gave the targeting computers their orders. “Shall we prepare decoys, sir?” Garrett suggested.
“Not yet,” Barrington said. Decoys were the ultimate in missile defense, but they were expensive and the Dorian had a limited number of them. “Let’s give the ECM and Plutos a chance first.”
And with that, it was down to the waiting. With nine opponents on the way, a preemptive strike would be the most prudent course of action, especially since the Dorian’s reactor size probably meant its lasers had a greater range than those of her attackers, especially the smaller ships of the flotilla.
But the Dorian wasn’t here to make war. Not here and now, anyway. Barrington needed the attackers to make the first move, and to trust that his defenses would get it through that attack. Only then could he legitimately open up with the full power and fury of his massive arsenal.
“Movement!” the sensor officer snapped. “Sixteen is dropping orbit—moving in toward the planet.”
Barrington frowned as one of the displays shifted to a closer view of the four ships hugging the planet’s atmosphere. Sixteen had indeed dropped inward, where the physics of orbital mechanics gave it a boost in its speed and sent it shooting ahead of its three Hoibe’ryi’sarai watchdogs. The latter ships, for their part, seemed to be maintaining their original orbits, as if taken by surprise by the maneuver.
Not so the three siege ships above them. Sixteen was only a few seconds into his bid for freedom when they reacted, dropping inward and accelerating toward the fleeing ship. “Well, that was foolish,” Garrett murmured. “As long as Sixteen stayed with the Hoibe’ryi’sarai ships the others couldn’t make a move against him. Now, there’s nothing to stop them.”
“Yet they’re still not firing,” Barrington pointed out.
“They must want him alive,” Garrett said. “He must have thought that with nine of the siege ships moving out he had a chance to make a run for it.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the fleeing ship abruptly rolled up onto its stern and blasted full-power away from the planet, heading straight toward the three siege ships dropping down the gravity well toward it.
This time, the pursuers were caught flat-footed. Before they could do more than fire their engines, Sixteen had shot straight through their formation and was headed for deep space. The tactical’s vector arrows swiveled madly as the three ships tried to get back on target, but their momentum and inertia were working against them. By the time they would be in position to resume their chase, Barrington saw, the fleeing ship would be well beyond their reach.
“More movement,” Garrett called, pointing to the main tactical. “Four, Five, and Six are breaking off.”
Barrington looked back at the main tactical. Garrett was right: the three ships that had been heading for the Dorian’s bow were scrambling to decelerate and change direction. Falling back, abandoning their part of the attack and turning instead to try to intercept the fleeing ship.
And Sixteen was playing right into their hands. Instead of turning hard away from them, which he should have done as soon as he was clear of his original pursuers, he was cutting away at only a shallow angle. Worse, he wasn’t pulling anywhere near the acceleration necessary he needed to get clear of them.
“What the hell is he doing?” Garrett muttered, sounding bewildered. “He’ll never get away like that.”
Barrington leaned forward in his chair, as if moving a few centimeters closer to the displays would force them to make sense. What in hell was Sixteen’s commander playing at?
And then, suddenly, he got it. “Get me a reading on Sixteen’s engines,” he called. “I want to know if that’s the best speed he can make.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Are you suggesting he’s deliberately drawing them away from us?” Garrett asked.
“The only other explanation I can see is that he’s utterly incompetent,” Barrington said. “Given the slickness of his previous move, that one doesn’t seem likely.”
Garrett huffed out a breath. “They must really want him,” he said.
“And, as you said, want him alive,” Barrington said. “And he knows it. So instead of simply running, he’s decided to draw some of his enemies off our back.”
“Captain, I estimate Sixteen’s engines are running at about two-thirds capacity,” the sensor officer called. “Four, Five, and Six are still decelerating toward intercept courses on Sixteen. The other six ships are holding their previous vectors toward us.”
“He’s taking a lot on faith,” Garrett commented thoughtfully. “Not just that we’re people he wants to make friends with, but also that we’ll even survive this whole thing.”
“Agreed,” Barrington said. “Clearly, he understands the concept of the calculated risk.”
“Two minutes to laser range, Captain,” the tac officer called.
“Acknowledged,” Barrington replied. “Cancel scrambler cone on Four; shift scrambler to Two. Cancel Pluto cones on Four and Six, laser on Six, and missile triad on Five. Stand by to fire on my order.”
“Yes, sir.” the officer said. “What about the Pluto cone on Five? Shall I cancel and shift?”
“Hold that lock for now.” Barrington looked at Garrett. “Sixteen is trying to run us a little interference,” he explained. “We may want to return the favor somewhere down the line.
“Or he’ll just take off as soon as the shooting starts,” Garrett pointed out. “Nothing we can do to make sure that doesn’t happen, I suppose.”
“Not unless you want to try to talk the Hoibe’ryi’sarais into moving on him,” Barrington said. “Still, I’m guessing he’ll at least stick around long enough to thank us. We’ll just have to see where it goes from there.”
“Enemy ECM coming up,” the tac officer announced. “Primary projection cones from Two and Eight.”
“Profile?” Barrington asked. Figuring out what exactly the enemy counter-measures were designed to do would be crucial to neutralizing their effects and getting the Dorian’s missiles through those particular barriers.
“High-level,” the officer said. “Looks like navigational scrambler type.”
Designed, in other words, to affect missiles’ steering and tracking capabilities. Bad, but not as bad as the type that attempted to trigger premature detonations. “Tuning?”
“Very high, sir. About eighty percent.”
“Interesting,” Garrett murmured. “Looks like they’ve tangled with Dominion missiles before.”
“Or they know someone who has,” Barrington said, an odd thought striking him. Santores’s task force had been in space for eight months, but it was a considerably shorter trip from one end of the Troft Assemblage to the other. “We were given several sets of potential ECM upgrades before we left the Dominion,” he reminded the tac officer. “Run those against the Troft ECM and see if that raises the tuning.”
“Yes, sir.” A handful of seconds ticked by— “The overlays give a revised tuning of seventy-seven to eighty-nine percent.”
“Acknowledged,” Barrington called. “Activate ECM, stand by missiles, and prepare to fire Pluto cones.” He looked at Garrett. “So that’s it,” he said lowering his voice. “Our friends out there apparently have data on current Dominion missiles and ECM profiles. Data we don’t even have.”
“Yes, sir,” Garrett agreed grimly. “Question is, how big is this particular clubhouse?”