Timothy Zahn - Conquerors' Legacy

"Should one of us stay with the aircar?" Cavanagh suggested. "Kolchin, maybe?"

"It'd be an instant tip-off that we know they're conning us," Bronski said. "We'll stand a better chance if they think we're walking in stupid."

The Mrach aircar put down beside the rim cliffs next to an inward cleft in the rock, at the end of which was an open doorway. The door itself, Cavanagh noted, had been camouflaged to look like the rock around it—a secret entrance, apparently, left over from the days when the facility served as a working fortress. The two Mrachanis were waiting beside it as the three humans joined them. "Four of the visitors' food animals have escaped," one of the Mrachanis said, his voice trembling with agitation. "They have claws and predatory teeth, and they are loose inside the fortress."

"Are all other exits covered?" Bronski asked, brushing past him and looking into the doorway. Up close now, Cavanagh could see that it led into a dimly lit tunnel of indeterminate length. Neither Bronski nor Kolchin had made any move to draw their flechette pistols; he took the cue and left his own weapon in concealment.

"All are covered," the Mrachani said, his body trembling along with his voice now as he jabbed a finger anxiously toward the doorway. "Please—you must find them before they harm someone, or before the visitors learn they are gone."

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly, the ominous old line flicked through Cavanagh's mind. Secret exits from fortresses, he remembered reading once, were nearly always booby-trapped to keep the enemy from coming in that way. He had no idea what the ancient Mrachanis had used for their security, and had no interest in finding out.

He looked at Bronski, hoping that the brigadier would decline the invitation and they could make a run for it. But— "Sure," Bronski grunted, waving a hand toward the doorway. "Show us where they were kept."

"All right," the first Mrachani said, stepping to the doorway and visibly bracing himself. "Follow me." Together, they stepped inside—

And taking a long step around behind them, Bronski got a grip on the stone-covered door and pulled his full weight against it. It swung ponderously past him and slammed with a thud, cutting off the Mrachanis' startled expressions. An instant later the thud was echoed by two sharper cracks as Kolchin fired a pair of precisely placed flechettes into the slender crack between door and frame, jamming the door closed.

"Changed my mind," the brigadier grunted. "That should slow them down a little. We'll take their aircar—Kolchin, you're on shotgun duty." He turned—

And froze.

Cavanagh spun around. Glowering at them from ten meters away, apparently materialized out of thin air, were six Bhurtala.

For a long moment no one moved or spoke. "Gentlemen, you have a choice to make," a disembodied Mrachani voice said. "You may surrender and become our guests for a while; or you may die here and now. Which do you choose?"

There was another short silence. One of the Bhurtala rumbled something impatient sounding under his breath and took half a step forward. "Gentlemen?" the Mrachani voice prompted. "I should perhaps mention that we've just received word of the fate of their companions on Granparra, and they're all rather upset with you. I would say they're looking for an excuse to make the decision for you."

"Such a gracious and congenial invitation," Bronski called, his voice thick with sarcasm. "How could we refuse?"

"Lay your weapons aside," the Mrachani instructed, "and step back."

"Do as he says," Bronski said, pulling out his flechette pistol and dropping it onto the ground in front of him.

Cavanagh and Kolchin followed suit. The overanxious Bhurt stepped forward and collected the weapons, glaring balefully the whole time. Then, brushing past them, he went to the camouflaged door and pulled the wedged flechettes out of the crack with his bare fingers.

"Excellent," the disembodied voice said; and to Cavanagh's surprise a section of rock beside the line of Bhurtala swung open to reveal a Mrachani in a small rough-hewn alcove. A camouflaged sentry hole, probably also how the Bhurtala had made their magical appearance. "Welcome to the Garden Of The Mad Stonewright," the Mrachani continued, stepping out of the sentry hole and swinging the door closed behind him. "Lord Cavanagh, Liaison Bronski, and Bodyguard Kolchin, I presume?"

"Yes," Bronski said, inclining his head slightly. "Ambassador-Chief Valloittaja, I presume?"

"Correct," Valloittaja said, returning the ritual nod. "Please—inside. Before any of our other guests see you."

"I congratulate you all on your ingenuity and persistence," he continued as they started down the tunnel Cavanagh had glimpsed earlier. "Also on your forged credentials. You very nearly succeeded."

"Fortunes of war," Bronski said. "What gave us away?"

"An old acquaintance of Lord Cavanagh's alerted us to your presence on Mra," Valloittaja said, his eyes glittering sardonically as he looked at Cavanagh. "Once we knew you were here, the rest was quite straightforward."

"More straightforward than your Mirnacheem-hyeea operations, anyway," Bronski said. "I imagine it's going to be quite a challenge to persuade the Zhirrzh to launch an all-out attack on a major Commonwealth world. What are you going to do, try to convince them you can sneak their warships in past the wake-trail detectors?"

Cavanagh stared at him in amazement. But Valloittaja merely gave the brigadier the Mrach equivalent of a smile. "You are amazingly insightful, Liaison Bronski," he said approvingly. "Very impressive indeed. Your conjectures are correct; it is merely your tense that is flawed."

"Meaning?" Bronski prompted.

"Meaning that I do not need to persuade the Zhirrzh to launch the Mirnacheem-hyeea Two attack," Valloittaja said, "because I have already done so. Here we are."

He gestured to an open door on their left. An old wooden door, Cavanagh noted, fitted out with an only slightly more modern mechanical lock behind riveted metal plates. "Go on in," Valloittaja said. "Unless you wish the Bhurtala to assist you."

Silently, Cavanagh stepped inside. It was a single square-shaped room, relatively small, apparently carved directly out of the rock of the cliffs. Carved into the wall at about knee height was a deep groove that had once held a Mrach ribbon candle, though the lighting now was being provided by a primitive incandescent electric-light rectangle set into the center of the ceiling, probably part of the same upgrade that had included the door lock. The furniture consisted of three Bhurtist military cots: liquid-filled floater-bag mattresses resting on bolted and wire-strung metal frames.

"I apologize for the accommodations," Valloittaja said as the others followed Cavanagh inside. "I'm afraid you caught us unprepared for extra visitors."

"Don't worry about it," Bronski assured him, looking around. "So when and where does the Mirnacheem-hyeea Two attack take place?"

Valloittaja smiled. "The when is as soon as the attack force can be assembled. The where... but you must forgive me if I choose to keep some matters secret. Good day, gentlemen."

He stepped back and gestured. One of the Bhurtala reached into the room and pulled the door closed.

It took nearly half an hour for Pheylan to get through a job he suspected a qualified tech could have knocked off in five minutes. But at last he was finished. "Okay, Max, I'm down to the cable," he informed the computer. "You ready?"

"I'm ready," Max said. "But again I urge you to reconsider. Once I'm disconnected from the fueler, I'll have access only to my internal audio and visual sensors, which are extremely limited. If you instead leave me connected, I'll be able to give you a more timely warning of approaching aircraft."