Cobra Gamble Read Free Page B

it.
    He slowed to a halt, signaling for Kinstra do the same. "There," he whispered, pointing.
    "I see them," Kinstra whispered back as he unslung his rifle from his shoulder. "We need to get closer."
    Merrick considered suggesting the other stay back while he scouted, decided it would be a waste of breath, and nodded. "Quietly."
    A minute later, they had reached the last line of big trees at the edge of the clearing. They took up position behind two of the largest and Merrick cautiously peered out.
    The freighter was a bit smaller than some he'd seen the Trofts use. But it looked more than capable of the task of hauling predators across the forty-five light-years separating Qasama and Aventine. There were four Trofts on guard duty, their laser rifles held ready, a compact missile launcher squatting on the ground in front of them like a short cylindrical guard dog. Four more of the aliens were off to the side, maneuvering a sleeping razorarm onto a cart for transport through the open hatchway behind them.
    Kinstra leaned close. "Launcher."
    Merrick nodded. The Trofts' tiny antipersonnel missiles had proved to be one of the invaders' most devastating weapons. Their primary targets were always Qasamans radio transmitters, after which they were designed to home in on the sounds of gunfire and the heat signatures of large lasers. Daulo Sammon, Merrick's mother's old friend from her first covert visit to this world some three decades ago, had been severely wounded by one of those missiles during the Qasamans' first counterattack back in Sollas.
    Throughout the twelve days of Merrick's own recovery the Qasaman doctors had pumped him full of their exotic rapid-healing drugs, one side effect of which had been to leave his memories of his convalescence extremely hazy. Still, he could distinctly remember several occasions where he'd asked about Daulo. What he couldn't remember was whether he'd ever gotten a straight answer back.
    With an effort, he shook away the thought. His recovery was still incomplete, and while his current regimen of drugs didn't make him go all loopy the way the last batch had, they did have a tendency to encourage mental wandering.
    He focused again on the enemy encampment. The missile launcher was definitely the first thing on their to-do list. Merrick keyed a target-lock onto the launcher's base, where the weapon's sensor/guidance array was located, then turned to the roving soldier patrol. They were wearing full armor, but at this range a shot from the antiarmor laser running down Merrick's left leg should cut through the aliens' neck protection with ease and rack up a couple of quick kills.
    Four guards, plus the launcher. Five shots in all. With the task of aiming and firing controlled by Merrick's nanocomputer, he could probably get off that many blasts before the Trofts even had time to react. He targeted the nearest soldier, moved on to the second.
    And paused. For no particular reason, a story about his great-grandfather Jonny Moreau floated up from his memory. How the legendary First Cobra and revered Cobra Worlds statesman, when faced by a ship full of Trofts, had chosen to merely neutralize instead of kill.
    Of course, that situation had been entirely different. Jonny had been alone and hoping to make a deal with his captors. Merrick was in the midst of an invasion, facing attackers who were currently running a grinding machine across Qasama's capital city and probably killing untold numbers of citizens in the process.
    Merrick had already killed in this war. He'd taken more lives than he'd ever dreamed would fall by his hand. But all of those enemies had been already shooting at him or other humans, or had been in the process of taking civilian hostages whom Merrick was committed to rescuing. These particular Trofts weren't doing any such thing.
    But they were collecting predators to use against Merrick's own people. Wasn't that just as bad?
    He grimaced, his sudden indecision both unexpected and