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might actually have ordered some kind of lethal action against them for that? "I don't understand," he said carefully.
    "You said the launcher fired a random pattern," Fadil said. "How is it none of the missiles struck you?"
    Merrick frowned, thinking back. "Because we were flat on the ground," he said slowly, "and all the shots were over our heads."
    "Does that seem odd to you?"
    "Yes, now that you mention it," Merrick agreed. "I didn't even notice at the time."
    "Of course not." In the darkness, Merrick saw Fadil's bitter-edged smile. "You still have your arms and legs."
    Merrick felt a fresh ache in his heart. "Fadil Sammon—"
    "No, Merrick Moreau, don't speak," Fadil interrupted quietly. "That was unfair and cruel. My apologies. The decision that put me in this situation was mine and mine alone. And many others have suffered far worse." He gave a small nod toward the window. "And through it all, I did my part for the people of Qasama. My gamble and sacrifice were not for nothing."
    "I know," Merrick said, wishing he knew what that meant. Whatever Fadil had taken the mind-enhancing drugs for, it had apparently been secret enough that neither Merrick nor anyone else in Milika had heard anything about it.
    "No you don't," Fadil said, a touch of wry humor peeking through the depression. "But that's all right. Someday, if we win, all Qasama will know. And if we lose, no one will be left to care."
    "We're going to win," Merrick said firmly. "I know my mother. One way or another, she'll get Aventine to send the Cobras we need. The next time we throw the Trofts off Qasama, it'll be for good."
    "Perhaps." Fadil nodded again, this time toward Merrick. "You'd best get to bed. Though the invaders' missiles may not have harmed you, I doubt you made it through the mission unscathed."
    Merrick shrugged. "I'm mostly unscathed."
    But once again, Fadil was right. Merrick could feel fresh aches and pains in a couple of places where his not-entirely healed muscles and skin had taken fresh damage. Dr. Krites would undoubtedly find more small injuries in the morning when he did a complete exam, and Dr. Krites would be very unhappy about it.
    But that was tomorrow's trouble. Merrick had already had enough for today.
    "You'd better get some sleep yourself," he told Fadil, backing toward the door. "Maybe there'll be news in the morning."
    "Perhaps," Fadil said. "Good-night, Merrick Moreau. May God watch over you."
    "And you, Fadil Sammon."
    And with that, Merrick escaped from the room. And from the pitiful creature that Fadil Sammon had become.
    * * *
    After all the stress of the night's attack Merrick had looked forward to sleeping at least a little later than usual into the morning.
    He didn't. The sun was barely up when he was jolted awake by the sound of heavy grav lifts. Rolling out of his bed, wincing at the fresh strains in his muscles, he slipped over to the window and eased aside the curtain.
    To find a Troft warship like the ones he and the Djinn had fought in Sollas settling onto the road that led to the main Milika gate. 

CHAPTER THREE
    They were ten minutes from Qasama when Dr. Glas Croi, who'd hardly showed his face since the departure from Caelian, finally appeared in the dining area where Paul, his wife and son, and Carsh Zoshak were finishing up their lunch.
    Paul's leg had been feeling better that morning, enough so that he'd taken only half of his prescribed painkiller dosage. He felt well enough, in fact, that Croi actually looked worse than Paul felt.
    Jin noticed it, too. "Dr. Croi," she said, gesturing him toward the empty seat beside Lorne. "Are you all right?"
    "What?" Croi asked, blinking like someone still trying to pry sleep-goo out of his eyes. "Oh. Hello, Cobra Broom." He frowned. "I guess that's Cobra Brooms all around, isn't it?"
    "Except for me," Zoshak said, lifting his hand a few centimeters. "Though perhaps someday soon I shall be Cobra Zoshak."
    It seemed to Paul that Croi's jaw tightened slightly. "Yes.