The room around Merrick was ablaze with light as he dragged himself back toward consciousness. He winced away from the glare, trying to turn his head, trying even harder to close his eyes. But nothing seemed to do any good.
It was only as he untangled his arm from some kind of obstruction and brought his hand up in front of his face that he came awake enough to realize that his eyes
were
shut, and that the light was coming in via his optical enhancers. Apparently, he'd never gotten around to shutting them off after the battle.
He shut them off now and carefully opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in what seemed to be a long, wide corridor with rows of beds on both sides. Some of the beds were empty, but most were occupied by figures wrapped in the same kind of hospital gowns the old man they'd broken out of the Lodestar Hospital had been wearing.
And the obstruction Merrick had had to free his arm from turned out to be a small group of thin tubes and wires that were connected to various places on his arm and torso. He frowned down at them, trying to trace them out and hoping he hadn't pulled out anything important.
"Welcome back," a familiar voice said from his left.
Merrick twisted his head around. Carsh Zoshak was sitting on a chair behind him and beside a rolling equipment table. "Thanks," Merrick said. "How long was I out?"
Zoshak shrugged. "A couple of days," he said. "You were in pretty bad shape."
"I was, wasn't I?" Merrick agreed, the memory of all his injuries flooding back to him. He'd been so busy checking out his surroundings over the past minute or so that he hadn't even thought about checking out himself. Carefully, he touched his cheek where the Troft laser had burned it.
To find that it was completely healed.
He frowned, pressing a little harder against the skin, and then gently sliding the finger up and down. The skin felt a little leathery beneath the growth of beard stubble, but it wasn't the hard leather of scar tissue. More importantly, there was no pain.
Nor was there any pain in his chest where Shahni Haafiz had tried his best to knife him open. He slipped a hand beneath his gown and touched the skin, to find the same slightly leathery consistency and no sign of torn flesh.
He looked back to find an amused smile on Zoshak's face. "I gather you're impressed?" the Djinni suggested.
"Very much so," Merrick assured him, a sudden coolness dampening his initial excitement at his remarkable healing. For all this to have happened so quickly . . . "I assume this means you used some of your drugs on me?"
Zoshak's smile faded. "Of course we did," he said. "Would you have preferred to spend weeks in a recovery room?"
"No, of course not," Merrick said. He touched his cheek again, thinking about the stories he'd heard about the Qasamans' drugs and their sometimes dangerous side effects.
Still, the Shahni were surely taking care not to damage their soldiers.
Any
of their soldiers, even interlopers like himself and his mother.
Speaking of whom—"Have you heard anything about my mother and Miron Akim?" he asked.
A shadow seemed to cross Zoshak's face. "I have," he said. "They were both able to escape their captors and return safely to the subcity."
"How safely?" Merrick asked, something ominous stirring inside him as he tried to read the other's expression. "Were they injured? Lightly? Seriously? Dangerously?"
"Neither was injured in their escape."
"After their escape?" Merrick persisted. "Before their escape? Come on, Carsh Zoshak—I need to know."
Zoshak's lips compressed briefly. "Your mother may have some other medical problems," he said reluctantly. "Problems unrelated to their mission."
Merrick grimaced. She had medical problems, all right. All Cobras her age did. "Are they going to check her out?"
"I believe they've already done the tests and are studying the results," Zoshak said.
"Can I see her?"
"Certainly, after the doctors discharge you," Zoshak said. "That should be later today, or tomorrow at the latest."
"Can't we sneak over there right now?" Merrick asked. "I promise to be good and keep the meeting short."
"Not until you're discharged," Zoshak said firmly. "Until then, you must remain in the ward."
Merrick peered down the line of beds, hoping to spot a doctor or nurse with whom he could argue the point. But he couldn't see anyone who seemed to be in charge.
But he'd had enough experience with doctors on Aventine to know that he'd probably be wasting his breath anyway. "Fine," he said with a sigh. "Can you at least tell me how the battle went?"
A muscle in Zoshak's cheek twitched. "The part you and I played was very successful," he said. "Those we rescued are safely in the subcity, where they've joined in the fight against the invaders. Mali Haafiz, in particular, asked me to extend her gratitude for your service to her and her family. She was the older woman," he added. "The wife of Shahni Haafiz."
"Who was the one who tried to kill me."
Zoshak grimaced. "Yes."
"I take it he has no more doubts about me?"
Zoshak's eyes slipped away. "Shahni Haafiz is very busy with the city's defense," he said obliquely.
Merrick felt a stirring of anger. "Meaning he still thinks I'm your enemy?"
"Keep your voice down," Zoshak warned, glancing almost furtively at the nearby beds. "Keep your words and your identity to yourself."
Merrick's budding anger vanished. The look in Zoshak's eyes . . . "Did something go wrong?" he asked quietly.
For a moment Zoshak didn't answer. Then, his shoulders seemed to droop. "Everything went wrong, Merrick Moreau," he said quietly. "We thought we were prepared for anything. We weren't. We thought we could take on any enemy who dared attack us. We couldn't."
Merrick felt his throat tighten. "How bad?"
Zoshak seemed to brace himself. "Thirty percent casualties, killed and wounded, among the Djinn who were deployed." He hesitated. "Among the regular soldiers, sixty percent."
Merrick stared at the Djinni in disbelief. Even in his great-grandfather's war against the Trofts the casualties hadn't been
that
bad. "But some of the wounded are going to recover, aren't they?"
"If their lives on the other side can be considered recovery," Zoshak said, an edge of bitterness in his voice. "Many will be crippled, or at the very least severely limited in what they can do. But that's not the point. The point is that what should have been a staggering blow against the invaders failed."
"I'm sorry" was all Merrick could think of to say.
"As are we all," Zoshak said with a sigh. "Ironic, isn't it, that the only clear successes all day were those that you and your mother were involved in." His gaze flicked to Merrick's left leg. "Those long lasers give you a strong advantage over even the Djinn."
"They're definitely handy," Merrick agreed. "But your glove-mounted lasers are no slouches, either. They're certainly stronger than our fingertip versions."
Zoshak hissed. "For all the good that did us."
"It did a lot of good," Merrick insisted. "For starters, I can't shoot through the Trofts' faceplates, with that instant black-block system of theirs. You can."
"The faceplates, perhaps," Zoshak conceded. "But our glove lasers aren't nearly powerful enough to penetrate their main armor." He snorted again. "I'm told the designers of our combat suits considered putting such a laser along the left calf, but ultimately rejected it as being too difficult to aim."
"It
is
a little tricky," Merrick agreed. "But you already have implants on your eye lenses for targeting, right? Couldn't they have tied an antiarmor laser into that system?"
"I don't know," Zoshak said. "Perhaps it wouldn't work because our system requires both eyes to be on target. The positioning of a calf-mounted laser would normally require us to fire it with only one eye on the target."
So either the Qasamans' computers couldn't handle the kind of targeting system Cobras routinely used, or else their power suits' servos weren't up to the necessary fine tuning. "So we got nothing out of the attack except a couple of the Shahni and their families?"
"The invaders took casualties," Zoshak said. "But we didn't permanently recover any buildings, nor did we inflict any serious damage on their weaponry or ships before we were pushed back. Particularly the ships."
"Yes, I saw what those sentry ships could do," Merrick said, grimacing at the memory of Djinn Baaree's fiery death.
"Yet the shipboard and vehicle weaponry was only a small part of our defeat," Zoshak said. "Many of our casualties were caused by small, self-homing missiles that seemed to seek out the sound of the soldiers' gunfire."
"I remember stories about things like that from my great-grandfather's war," Merrick said ruefully. "Not much you can do about them except try not to let the Trofts get close enough to use them."
"What do you mean, close enough?" Zoshak asked, frowning. "Some of the missiles were launched from over two blocks away."
"Two
blocks?
" Merrick asked, frowning. "They were able to lock on to gunfire noise from that far away? Accurately?"
"Accurately enough to kill and wound our soldiers," Zoshak said grimly.
Merrick scratched at his cheek stubble, trying to remember everything he'd ever learned about what little the Cobra Worlds' trading partners had let slip about Troft weaponry. Gunshots
did
have a fairly unique sound pattern, he knew. But for a missile to make that identification, then have enough sensor scope and memory to figure out the proper vector and guide the weapon there was starting to sound awfully complex. Especially for something small enough for antipersonnel use.
Unless the gunfire had come as a barrage, which would give the missile current-time data and allow it to take its electronic time locking in on the sounds. "Were the soldiers using machine guns or single-shot weapons?" he asked Zoshak. "And do we know how big the missiles were?"
"I don't," Zoshak said, standing up. "But if you feel up to a short walk, we could go speak to one of the field officers."
"I thought I wasn't supposed to leave the ward."
"You won't," Zoshak assured him. "Several of the wounded officers are in this facility. Perhaps one of them will be awake and willing to speak to you."
"It's worth a try," Merrick said, eyeing the tubes still poking into his arm. "Though come to think of it, I'm not sure how portable I am at the moment."
"Very portable," Zoshak assured him as he walked around the end of the bed. "Give me a moment, and I'll extend the medical stand's wheels."
A minute later they were walking down the corridor between the twin lines of beds. Merrick found himself feeling a little light-headed, and made sure to keep a firm grip on the rolling stand to help maintain his balance. At the end of the corridor they turned in to a much longer corridor that had likewise been equipped with beds and patients. As in Merrick's ward, most of the beds were occupied, and Merrick found his stomach churning as he noted how many head and chest wounds seemed to be in evidence.
He was passing yet another bed when the occupant's half-bandaged face suddenly leaped out at him. "Hold it," he said, grabbing Zoshak's arm and peering at the sleeping man. "Is that—?"
"Merrick Moreau?" a strained but familiar voice spoke up from the next bed over.
Merrick tore his eyes away from Daulo Sammon's closed eyes. Sure enough, Daulo's son Fadil was peering up at him from the next bed. He didn't look much better than his father, but at least his face seemed mostly undamaged. "What in the Worlds are you doing here?" he demanded as he stepped to the young man's side.
"What does it look like we're doing?" Fadil countered. "We're two of the casualties of the great Plan Saikah."
"Yes, but—" Merrick shot a look at Zoshak, who was standing a couple of paces away with a stony expression on his face. "I meant, why were you wounded in the first place," he said, turning back to Fadil. "Miron Akim told us the Shahni were keeping you and your father as hostages for our good behavior."
"And so they were, until I asked permission to join in the battle." Fadil smiled weakly. "They graciously allowed us to do so."
Merrick winced. "I'm sorry."
"You need not apologize, Merrick Moreau," Fadil said. "It was my decision, and that of my father, that put us here." He looked over at Zoshak. "And I would make the same decision again," he added, an edge of pride or challenge slipping into his voice.
"You may yet have that opportunity," Zoshak said. "You and every other villager on Qasama."
"We stand ready," Fadil assured him.
For another moment the city dweller and villager continued to stare at each other. Then, Zoshak stirred. "Merrick Moreau wishes information about the invaders' anti-personnel missiles," he said.
"They were fast, and they were deadly," Fadil growled. "What more do you need to know?"
"I want to figure out how they were aimed," Merrick said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Djinni Zoshak suggested they might have homed in on the sounds of your gunfire. Were you actually shooting when the missiles arrived?"
"We opened fire on the sergeant's command," Fadil said with the air of someone who's told the same story way too many times already. "The first missile struck him—I don't know how soon afterwards. Not long. The rest of the missiles came in a group. One of them hit my rifle, and then my father pulled me down on the floor as all the rest began exploding. Everyone was killed except us. Does that tell you anything?"
"Maybe," Merrick said. "You say the sergeant was hit first. Was he firing like everyone else?"
"I already said he was."
"And how far away were the Trofts you were shooting at?"
"We were in the hospital from which you and I escaped earlier," Fadil said. "Top floor. Our targets were the Trofts on the Palace grounds. Do a calculation, or ask someone to loan you a measuring tape."
Merrick scratched his cheek thoughtfully. At least a block's worth of distance, then. "And the main group of missiles arrived together?"