Conquerors' Legacy

10

The smell of a Peacekeeper Rigel-class attack carrier. He reached the top of the ladder and the ready corridor—the "furrow," as the fighter crews always called it—and stuck his head up. The decor was a shock: flashes of angry eyecatching red and orange scattered seemingly randomly across the cooler light-blue background of the walls and ceiling.

"Welcome back, Maestro," a voice said from behind him. Quinn turned to see Clipper—Commander Thomas Masefield—climbing out of his own fighter bay into the furrow. "Like what they've done with the place?"

"Oh, it was done on purpose?" Quinn countered, looking around. More heads were appearing along the furrow now as Clipper's other seven Copperheads began climbing out of their bays. "I figured the captain's grandkids had gotten to it."

"It's the psych squad's latest brain-blizzard," Clipper said, hopping off the ladder and palming the bright-red touch plate set into the wall. The ladder telescoped back into the ceiling, the seal lock irising closed beneath it. "Some esoteric blend of color and shape-design that's supposed to inspire pilots to heroic acts of greatness while at the same time keeping them cool-headed enough not to just flash out there and get themselves vaporized."

"Does it work?" Quinn asked, sealing his own bay. A card with his name, he noted, had already been inserted into the slot over the touch plate. The slot over the tail man's touch plate was empty.

"Don't know as it's ever been rigorously tested," Clipper said, scratching vigorously at his lower back. "Not sure I'd want to be the guy they tested it on, either. Come on, Copperheads, fleet commander wants us on the bridge for intros."

The bridge, fortunately, had escaped the psych squad's ministrations. Quinn looked around as they made their way through the rings of perimeter consoles toward the command ring in the center, trying to will himself back into the role of a Peacekeeper Copperhead.

The effort was only partially successful. True, he'd Mindlinked a few times during Pheylan Cavanagh's rescue mission, both with the fueler and with his Counterpunch fighter, and had gotten through it all right. But those instances had all been short ones, no more than ten or fifteen minutes at a shot. The aftereffects, he knew, increased dramatically with the duration of the Mindlink connection... and the full-fledged military engagements he would be facing from now on were likely to be of extremely long duration.

The fleet commander and exec were waiting for them as they arrived in the command ring. "Commander Thomas Masefield and Copperhead Unit Omicron Four," Clipper identified them, throwing a parade-crisp salute. "Permission to report for duty, sir."

"Permission granted," the commander said, returning the salute. "I'm Commodore Lord Alexander Montgomery, commanding the Trafalgar task force. This is Captain Tom Germaine, fleet exec. Stand at ease, Copperheads."

Clipper dropped into parade rest, the rest of the Copperheads following suit. For a moment Montgomery surveyed them, gazing into each man's face in turn for a second. "So you're Adam Quinn," he said as his inspection reached Quinn. "Wing Commander Iniko Bokamba speaks very highly of you."

"Thank you, sir," Quinn said, wondering how Montgomery knew Bokamba. He'd been under the impression that Bokamba had retired from active duty fairly soon after Quinn himself had left the Copperheads.

Montgomery shifted his attention back to Clipper. "I presume, Commander, that you weren't informed as to why our rendezvous point was out here in the middle of nowhere."

"No, sir," Clipper said. "Though I assume that a task force sitting on the border between Mrach and Yycroman space is here to keep the peace."

"A reasonable assumption," Montgomery said. "But untrue. As a matter of fact, neither the Mrachanis nor the Yycromae even know we're here. Peacekeeper Command chose this system partly because there's an uninhabited Earth-type planet here for target practice, and partly because the Peacekeeper supply depot on Mra-ect is only seven light-years away."

His face settled deeper into its age lines. "The fact of the matter is that as soon as the damage from our last mission has been repaired, we'll be heading into enemy territory. For an attack on a Conqueror world."

He stopped, as if waiting for a response or reaction. But no one spoke, and after a moment he nodded. "So. There you have it. I'll turn you over to Captain Germaine now. Welcome aboard, gentlemen."

With another nod Montgomery turned and walked away. "You'll have the rest of the day to get settled in and acclimate yourselves to ship's time," Germaine said, stepping forward to take the commodore's place. "Tomorrow at oh-six-hundred Fighter Commander Schweighofer will be taking you and the other Copperhead squadrons out for a series of practice attack runs. The first five are on the computer—look them over after you've settled in. You're bunked in Ward Delta-Three; if you have any questions, the tac coordinator's in the squawk pit just off the dayroom. Any questions?"

"Yes, sir," Quinn spoke up. "If we're interested in the supply depot at Mra-ect, why not just go there? There must be empty spots on Mra-ect where we could do practice attack runs."

"Megahectares of them," Germaine agreed. "All I know is that we were specifically ordered to stay out of Mrach tachyon-detection range. I get the impression someone high up in NorCoord Intelligence doesn't entirely trust the Mrachanis these days. We've also got some kind of hot new black-secret equipment flying in from Palisades—that may be part of it. Something code-named the Wolf Pack. Other questions?"

There weren't any. "Right, then; see you tomorrow. Dismissed."

"At least we're not here just to baby-sit the Mrachanis," Clipper commented as they left the bridge and headed again into the maze of corridors and elevators leading outward toward their fighter-bay launch cluster. "That's what I was afraid Rudzinski had stuck us with."

"Right—we get to go deep behind enemy lines instead," Clipper's tail man, Delphi, said dryly. "Honor, glory, statues erected to us in town squares—"

"Some of those statues with their mouths open," Shrike muttered.

"Well, at least that'll provide a useful service," Harlequin put in helpfully. "Open statue mouths are great places for birds to build nests."

"Nice guy," Delphi said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "And to think I stuck up for you just last week."

"Oh, really?" Harlequin asked skeptically.

"Sure," Delphi said. "Someone said you weren't fit to live in a pig sty, and I said you were."

"Har, har," Harlequin said. "I've known that old joke from me cradle."

Clipper caught Quinn's eye, lifted his eyebrows. Quinn shrugged fractionally. It was a pattern any senior military man knew well: the slightly hyperactive chatter of soldiers who have seen the distant dust clouds of possible death rolling down the road toward them.

They would be fine, Quinn knew, once the actual combat began. It was the waiting and anticipation that drove everyone crazy.

"Interesting question you had, Maestro, about why we weren't refitting at Mra-ect," Shrike's tail man, Crackajack, commented as they reached the furrow again and walked along it toward their assigned ward.

"I thought the answer was even more interesting," Shrike put in. "I'd gotten the impression back on Edo that no one cared about the Mrach ship we saw on the ground when we grabbed Cavanagh back from the Conquerors."

"I had that same impression," Clipper agreed. "Maybe Commander Cavanagh had more to tell them in his private debriefing."

"Or maybe something else put a burr up headquarters' hindquarters," Paladin suggested. "I thought I heard something about Lord Cavanagh disappearing in Mrach territory."

"As far as I know, no one knows where he disappeared," Quinn said. Straight ahead, he could see where the furrow ended at a wide door marked WARD DELTA-3. Just ahead of it on the left, an open archway led off to the dayroom that served the four wards grouped around it. "According to Commander Cavanagh, a diplomat named Bronski saw him on Mra-mig—"

He broke off as a young man in a Copperhead uniform leaned out through the archway into the corridor. "Ah—the fresh blood has arrived," he said, waving a mug invitingly at them. "Come in, gentlemen—your compatriots wait to greet you."

Quinn glanced at Clipper, caught the slight tightening of the other's lips that echoed Quinn's own misgivings. The name Adam Quinn was not one held in high esteem among Copperheads these days. "I'll just go unpack," he suggested quietly. "The rest of you can join the others."

"Forget it, Maestro," Paladin said firmly. "We're going to be flying and fighting together. Might as well start by seeing what kind of friendly drink we can all have."

"He's right," Paladin's tail man, Dazzler, seconded. "If there's anyone in there who can't handle it, we want to find out now."

Unfortunately, they were right. "All right," Quinn said. "Let's do it."

The dayroom was larger than Quinn had expected it to be, even given that it was the main off-duty lounge area for up to forty-eight pilots and tails. It was also comfortably crowded, with perhaps thirty Copperheads sitting around tables or in lounge chairs, drinking, reading, or conversing. Apparently, the majority of the squadrons had been given the afternoon off in preparation for next morning's practice sessions.

"Here we go," their mug-carrying guide said as the Copperheads seated around the various tables looked up at the newcomers. "Introductions first. My name's Steve Cook—Cooker—with Sigma Five. That Russian over there's my tail man: Arutyun—Faker. You're Clipper and company of Omicron Four, right?"

"Right," Clipper acknowledged. "Just got in from Edo."

"So I hear." Cooker cocked his head. "I also hear you're a couple Corvines short of a full half squadron."

"Don't worry about that," a man seated with his back to them said before Clipper could respond. "I'm sure Clipper's friend will more than make up for it."

"Would you care to elaborate?" Clipper asked, his voice even.

The man swiveled around, revealing Oriental features set in hard lines. "What elaboration do you need?" he bit out. "You have Adam Quinn the Maestro with you. An excellent man with a knife, so I hear. Especially with regards to his comrades' backs."

The room had gone very quiet. "You have a grievance against Maestro, let's have it out," Clipper said. "Let's start with your name."

"Commander Rafe Taoka of Kappa Two," the other said. "Samurai. That's a tag name from an era where personal honor and unit loyalty still mattered. Values you NorCoord people seem to have forgotten."

"I think we can leave national pride out of it, Samurai," Clipper said. "Keep it within the Copperheads."

Samurai snorted. "Keep it within the Copperheads? Fine advice, but already wasted on your friend. He had complaints and ran off bleating to the NorCoord Parliament instead of taking them up with Copperhead Command as he should have. His words and actions have shamed us all."

"What I did saved Copperhead lives," Quinn said. "Possibly even yours."

"All of which brands him a traitor," Samurai snapped, his eyes flashing even as he ignored Quinn. "A traitor and coward both, whose presence here continues to shame us. I have no wish to fly with such a person."

"No one's asking for your wishes, Samurai," Clipper said, his voice icy. "This is a war, we're Peacekeepers, and we have a job to do."

"And I will do the job, Clipper," Samurai said softly. "Unlike Quinn, I still hold both honor and loyalty close to my soul. I don't wish to fly with him, but I will. I don't wish to speak with him, either. And I won't."

He swiveled his chair around again, putting his back to them. Clipper glanced at Quinn, nodded toward an unoccupied table across the room to their right, and headed that direction. Silently, Quinn followed, trying hard to avoid the eyes of the other Copperheads.

"Well, we were looking for a reaction," Clipper commented as they sat down. "I guess we got one."

"I guess we did," Quinn said, hearing an edge of bitterness in his voice. "I suppose it's better to have it out in the open."

"Don't let him get to you," Clipper advised, punching up two refreshers on the table's selector plate. "He's probably just annoyed that a truly honorable warrior like him has to share the glory of going down in flames with the likes of you."

Quinn threw him a sideways look. "So that's your reading of our orders?"

"What's to read?" Clipper shrugged as the ceiling conveyor delivered their refreshers. "This attack is a suicide mission, pure and simple. The Zhirrzh have been bulldozing their way across the Commonwealth for the past three weeks—bulldozing leisurely, maybe, but bulldozing nonetheless. We need a breather, and we need to grab some of the initiative back from them. Best way to accomplish both is to shock them into diverting some of their forces back to home defense. Ergo, we draw the short straw and go bloody their snouts."

"Hi," a tenor voice said over Quinn's shoulder. "Mind if we join you?"

"Sure," he said, mildly surprised that any of the other Copperheads was willing to be seen with him, at least so soon after Samurai's outburst. He turned around—

And felt his eyebrows lift. It was a young woman.

Or rather, three young women. All in Copperhead uniforms.

"Please—sit down," Clipper said, jumping into the conversational gap as surprise momentarily froze Quinn's tongue. "You'll have to excuse my friend—he's a little shy."

"That must be it," Quinn growled, throwing him an annoyed glare. The number of female Copperheads in the Peacekeepers could be counted on maybe two pairs of hands. To find three of them on the Trafalgar wasn't something he could reasonably have anticipated.

Clipper, on the other hand, had seen them coming across the room. He might at least have said something.

"Doesn't look all that shy to me," the first woman said, studying Quinn with an analytical eye as the three women sat down at the table. "More likely a little punch-drunk."

"We could hear Samurai taking you apart clear out in the corridor," the second woman added dryly.

"My reputation precedes me," Quinn murmured.

"Don't let it worry you," the first woman advised. "Samurai has a personal grudge against the Copperhead screening changes you helped institute. Most of the rest of us have pretty much come around to the idea that it was a necessary evil."

Which was not the same as saying they agreed with what he'd done. Or approved of his role in bringing the changes about. "If I hadn't thought it necessary, I wouldn't have done it," he told them.

"Of course," the first woman said. "I'm Commander Mindy Sherwood-Lewis of Sigma Five, by the way: Dreamer. This is my tail, Karen Thompson: Con Lady."

"I'm Phyllis Berlingeri: Adept," the third woman said. "I handle tail duty for Ed Hawkins: Hawk. He's off running some checks on our Catbird."

"Honored," Clipper nodded. "I'm Thomas Masefield—Clipper—commanding Omicron Four. Maestro here you already know. What's this personal grudge of Samurai's?"

"Oh, the sort of thing you'd expect from someone with Samurai's neo-Bushido philosophy," Dreamer said, waving a hand. "He was with Zeta Five when the new screening orders came down. You were in long enough to know about Zeta Five, weren't you, Maestro?"

"I would have to have been comatose not to have known about them," Quinn said. Copperhead Unit Zeta Five was a legend even in the rarefied atmosphere that public opinion reserved for Copperheads in general. They'd been the Peacekeepers' point men on Tal during the brief war against the Bhurtist Independists nine years ago. Even the Bhurtala generally credited Zeta Five's performance with convincing the Independist leaders that their escalating aggression toward Commonwealth citizens would gain them nothing but swift and ignominious defeat. "It was the best Copperhead squadron that ever flew."

"Won't get any arguments from me on that," Dreamer agreed. "Unfortunately, the new screening procedures bounced three of their pilots into noncombat jobs. Samurai's brother among them."

"I'm sorry." Quinn looked across the room, to where Dazzler and the rest of Clipper's squadron were mingling with tentative sociability with the other Copperheads, Samurai remaining conspicuously and scornfully aloof. Like Samurai, Dazzler too had had a brother dropped from Copperhead training by the new psychological restrictions. Unlike Samurai, Dazzler had come to realize that the cut had saved his brother from a life he wasn't suited for and didn't really want. "I don't suppose it matters that it might have saved his brother's life."

"Not to Samurai," Con Lady said. "Life means less to him than personal honor."

"But don't worry about him," Adept said. "He'll be fine once we get down to business. Anyway, the tac coordinator will sit on him if he gets out of line." Dreamer pointed over Quinn's shoulder. "Speaking of whom, here he comes now."

Quinn turned to look and for the second time in two minutes found his eyebrows lifting in surprise. The middle-aged man striding between the tables toward them—"Iniko!" he said, scrambling to his feet.

"Welcome aboard, Maestro," Wing Commander Iniko Bokamba said, his voice gravely official, his expression just short of a grin. "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise," Quinn assured him as they gripped hands. "When did they call you back to active duty?"

"About six hours after I sent Clipper off to join your quixotic rescue mission," Bokamba said, his grin turning into a wry smile. "I was sure they'd tumbled to the falsified orders and were there to haul my aged hide in front of a Peacekeeper firing squad. But luckily I kept my mouth shut; and lo and behold, all they wanted was to put me back in uniform. Congratulations on your success in finding Commander Cavanagh, by the way. All of you."

"Thank you, sir," Quinn said. "I'm relieved you didn't get into trouble over your part in it. They never even mentioned your name at the hearings—I was afraid they'd buried you away in a hole somewhere."

"Oh, they did," Bokamba countered, waving a hand around him. "What do you think the job of tac coordinator is, anyway? Glorified pack-mother, that's all. They might at least have given me something to fly."

"Uh-oh," Con Lady said, getting to her feet. "I sense a long reminiscence of past days of glory coming on."

"Me, too," Dreamer agreed as she and Adept also stood up. "Definitely guy talk. You'll excuse us?"

"If we must," Bokamba said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "It's sad, Maestro. These young folk—no deference to their elders. Have you ladies studied tomorrow's practice schedule?"

"We've gone over it twice," Dreamer said.

"Go over it again," Bokamba ordered. "All of you. I'll see you in the ready room at oh-five-thirty tomorrow."

"Right." Dreamer winked at Quinn. "Welcome to the slave ship Trafalgar, gentlemen. See you tomorrow."

"Good-bye," Clipper said with a nod.

The women threaded their way back between the tables and chairs, pausing to chat briefly with others along the way. "I'm surprised to see women aboard," Quinn commented, waving Bokamba to one of the vacant chairs. "Especially considering the Trafalgar's mission."

"Yes," Bokamba said, gazing down at the tabletop as he traced imaginary lines on it with a finger. "I must admit to certain personal reservations about women in combat positions. Particularly expeditionary forces like this one, as opposed to home or national defense. Cultural prejudices; I doubt you of NorCoord would understand."

"We do try to maintain a degree of chivalry ourselves, you know," Clipper reminded him. "Still, cultural biases or not, the Commonwealth's not in any position to play favorites. If the Zhirrzh are going to be stopped, it's going to take everything we've got."

"I suppose so." Bokamba looked up again. "Speaking of which, Adam, may I say how personally pleased I am that you've decided to rejoin the Copperheads? I'm looking forward to working with you again."

"Thank you," Quinn said. "I'll do my best to justify your confidence in me."

"I'm sure you will," Bokamba said with a mischievous smile. "Especially since I'll be riding tail for you tomorrow."

Quinn frowned. "They told me on Edo that they'd be providing me with a new tail man."

"He's supposedly on his way," Bokamba said. "Presumably he'll get here before we actually leave for Zhirrzh space. Until then I'm afraid you're stuck with me." He leveled a finger at Quinn. "All the more reason for you to show up tomorrow knowing what you're doing."

"Translation: get ourselves back to the ward and start learning the maneuvers?" Clipper suggested.

"Exactly," Bokamba said. "And take the rest of your squadron with you."

"Right," Clipper said, standing up. "Come on, Maestro. Mom says we have to study."

Bokamba shook his head. "These young folk," he sighed. "No deference to their elders."

There was no signal Aric was able to see or hear; but suddenly one of the two Yycroman males guarding the unmarked door shifted his rayslicer to point at the ceiling. He snapped his snout, clicking the long rows of teeth together. [Son of Lord Stewart Cavanagh,] he said. [You are summoned. Come.]

"Thank you," Aric said, standing up and stepping to the door, his heart pounding in his ears. He'd dealt with Yycromae before, certainly, in the normal course of CavTronics business operations. But never like this. "May I ask—?"

[You are summoned,] the male repeated.

Aric nodded silently, all the stories he'd ever heard about Yycroman males and their hair-trigger tempers flashing through his mind. The first male opened the door and stepped through. Aric followed, the second male falling in behind him.

He'd expected the door to lead into an audience chamber. To his mild surprise it opened instead directly onto a stone staircase leading downward. The first Yycroma led the way down and into a maze of narrow corridors, connecting with and branching off from theirs at seemingly random angles. A few minutes later they reached the end of a corridor and another door. The Yycroma opened it; lifting his rayslicer again, he stood aside. Swallowing, Aric stepped through the door.

And out onto the observation platform of a huge underground hangar.

He stopped just inside, gazing down in amazement at the perhaps fifty Yycroman freighters laid out in neat rows stretching back across the brightly lit work floor. Hundreds of Yycromae were moving purposefully around: carrying loads and driving lifters, working singly or in pairs beneath or on top of the freighters, conversing briefly in small groups before scattering their separate ways. The air was filled with the rumble of conversation, the flickering flash of welding torches, and the smell of hot metal and chemical affixers and sealants. The whole scene had the surreal atmosphere of a giant anthill populated by furry biped crocodiles.

Furry biped crocodiles busily converting freighters into warships.

There was no doubt about that. Those smooth multiple-cylinder modules being attached to some of the freighters' undersides were clearly space-to-space missiles. Probably of Russian or Nadezhdan manufacture—he could see Cyrillic characters on the spares stacked on the floor beneath his observation platform. Some of the ships were being fitted with antiquated but still lethal Celadonese shredder-burst guns; others already had ultramodern NorCoord 110 mm cannon mounted to them. Targeting lasers were all over the place, as were numerous oddly shaped modules Aric had never seen before but which were marked with Yycroman lettering.

[You are the eldest son of Lord Stewart Cavanagh?]

Aric jumped, spinning around to his left. A Yycroman female stood there, dressed in the elaborate ceremonial helmet and tooled cloak of a high-ranking government official. Flanking her were yet another pair of armed Yycroman males. "Yes," he acknowledged. "I'm Aric Cavanagh."

[I am Klyveress ci Yyatoor,] the female identified herself. [Twelfth Counsel to the Hierarch. I welcome you to the Yycroman world of Phormbi. I and the Yycroman people are in your debt.]

Aric grimaced. This was about to get very sticky. "No, actually, ci Yyatoor, I don't think you are in my debt," he said.

Her face changed subtly. [What are you saying?] she demanded. [That you did not bring the command/switching modules I requested?]

"I'm saying that, legally, I can't give them to you," Aric told her, knowing how ridiculous the words probably sounded. A lone human surrounded by Yycromae on one of their own colony worlds was hardly in a position to make lofty pronouncements of NorCoord law. "The Pacification treaty explicitly forbids NorCoord citizens from supplying items to the Yycromae that could be used for military purposes. This room makes it abundantly clear that that's precisely what you want the modules for."

[Your concerns are understandable,] Klyveress said, pulling a plate from a back-rib pouch. [But unnecessary. Your father has formulated an arrangement.]

"Yes, your message implied as much," Aric said. "I was rather expecting to find him aboard the diplomatic ship you sent for me, in fact. But he wasn't there, and I don't see him here."

[True. He is not here.]

"But he was here once," Aric countered. "He had to be. Your message to me came addressed to Asher Dales—that isn't a name you could have come up with on your own." He gestured toward the freighters. "What happened? Did he figure out what you were doing?"

[There was no need for figuring,] Klyveress said, offering him the plate. [It was he who helped create what we are doing. Please—read.]

Warily, Aric took the plate. It was opened to some kind of legal-looking NorCoord document. "What's this?" he asked.

[Read,] the ci Yyatoor repeated. [The information contained here is not yet public knowledge. Indeed, it may never be so. But you must be made an exception.]

Aric looked down at the plate, hoping he was just imagining the ominous overtones in that last sentence, and began to read.

There were two documents in the file. The first was a guarantee of Yycroman intent to use the warships they were creating exclusively for self-defense against the Conquerors. The second was a statement of Peacekeeper understanding that granted the Yycroman Hierarch this one-time exemption from the rearmament prohibitions of the Pacification treaty.

Aric read through the guarantee, carefully studying the form of the legal/contractual language. By the time he reached the end, it came as no surprise to discover his father's signature among those attached. He also noticed with some interest that the document had a signing date three days after the meeting his father had had on Mra-mig with Assistant Commonwealth Liaison Bronski—the same period, according to Bronski, when he and Kolchin had vanished from sight. The statement of understanding was next, which turned out also to have been signed by his father. As well as by—

Aric looked up sharply. "Brigadier Petr Bronski?" he asked.

[That is correct,] Klyveress said. [As you see, it is all very legal.]

"That wasn't what I meant," Aric said, a sudden knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Bronski, a senior Peacekeeper officer... and suddenly his father's disappearance had taken an abrupt and ominous turn. "My father hasn't been seen for nearly—well, apparently not since these were signed."

[Do not fear, Aric Cavanagh,] Klyveress said. [I have seen him since then. He and his guard, Kolchin, escaped from Brigadier Bronski on Mra-mig, returning here in an appropriated Mrach fighter spacecraft.]

"Escaped?" Aric echoed, the knot tightening another turn. "What happened with Bronski that he needed to escape?"

[I do not know,] Klyveress said. [He would say nothing other than that he was fleeing involuntary confinement. My suspicion is that it concerns the CIRCE weapon.]

"I see," Aric murmured. Had his father somehow learned where one of CIRCE's components was hidden? Or worse, found out where the weapon was being reassembled? Either one would have had Bronski immediately issuing quarantine orders.

But why had his father chosen to run from that? "What happened then?"

[We could not permit him to remain in Yycroman space,] Klyveress said. [Our relationship with the hierarchy of NorCoord is already overly strained. He asked then if I could exchange his fighter spacecraft for one less traceable. I expressed our need for CavTronics electronics modules, and he agreed to send them to me as payment.]

The ci Yyatoor snapped her snout. [But he did not. Yycroman Intelligence made quiet inquiries, but they could find no record of his reaching Avon.]

"Then where is he?"

[I do not know. Perhaps he changed his mind and chose a different hiding location.]

"He still would have tried to get you the modules he'd promised," Aric said, shaking his head slowly. "And there are CavTronics facilities everywhere. Sounds more to me like Bronski got him."

[Perhaps,] Klyveress said. [But do not deduce too much from his silence. Perhaps he is still free but for some reason unable to fulfill his promise.]

"Maybe," Aric said, trying to calm the vague fears swirling through him. Even if Bronski had him, surely it was just some kind of precautionary confinement. His father wouldn't do anything that would land him in really serious trouble. "So when the modules didn't show up, you decided I could bring them to you?"

[Yes,] the ci Yyatoor said. [Yycroman Intelligence reported that you were on Edo, and so I dispatched a diplomatic ship to bring you here.]

"Sending a message via skitter first so I'd have time to get the equipment together," Aric nodded. "Had Dad given you the Asher Dales name to use?"

[No, it was a location he had mentioned as a possible hiding place after he reached Avon. I took the chance that NorCoord Intelligence would not associate you with that name.]

"Why were you worried about NorCoord Intelligence?" Aric asked, eyeing her thoughtfully. "I thought all this was completely legal."

[It is legal. It is not widely known.]

"Or, in other words, Bronski's the only one in the Peacekeepers who knows you've been granted a rearmament exemption?"

The ci Yyatoor's claws scratched idly at the air. [You exaggerate, Aric Cavanagh. But not overly much.]

"Ah," Aric said, looking again at the bustling activity below them. At least that explained why Bronski had been on Edo—he'd probably gone there to brief Admiral Rudzinski on this private treaty he and Klyveress had worked out. A belated official approval-stamping, Aric suspected, of what the Yycromae had been doing anyway.

[What will you do now?] Klyveress asked.

Aric turned back to face her. There'd been something new in her tone just then.... "Go back to Avon, I suppose," he said. "With my father gone I'm more or less in charge of CavTronics Industries. I ought to be there."

[And what of the war?]

"What of it? Are you suggesting I enlist instead?"

[No,] the ci Yyatoor said. [I am asking for your assistance here.]

It was not exactly what Aric had been expecting. "What sort of assistance?"

Klyveress waved her snout at the hangar. [We have found that command/switching modules of the sort you have provided are often difficult to interlock,] she said. [Even more so when coordinating otherwise unmatched weapons systems.]

"I know," Aric said. "Celadonese and Nadezhdan logic structures are notorious for incompatibilities. You need to be careful how you tailor the overlays."

[You are familiar with the problem,] Klyveress said. [Will you help us?]

For a long minute Aric remained silent, gazing into Klyveress's dark eyes, mentally fighting through this sudden shift in his worldview. He'd grown up believing that the Yycromae were the most dangerous threat to peace within the Commonwealth, a threat that only the presence of Peacekeeper forces could restrain. And now here he was, being asked to help rearm them.

But the real danger out there right now was the Conquerors. And the Commonwealth needed all the allies it could get. "All right," he told Klyveress. "I'll do what I can."

"The three searchers have left the room," the Elder reported. "They're being led toward the tunnel leading to the hangar and the Closed Mouth."

The Overclan Prime nodded, tongue pressed hard against the side of his mouth as he gazed at the map of Human-Conqueror territory. The map that had been reconstructed from the recorder salvaged from that first space battle with the Human-Conquerors. The map they'd thought listed all the enemy targets to be dealt with.

They knew better now. The Human-Conquerors had allies in this war. Terrible, dangerous allies.

The Yycromae.

Supreme Warrior Commander Prm-jevev stepped over from his quiet consultation with the Elders. "We can do it," he told the Prime. "It'll mean stripping warships away from some of the beachheads, but we can put together a quick-strike assault fleet."

"Which beachheads?" the Prime asked.

"We'll take three of the five ships currently at Massif," Prm-jevev said, consulting his list. "Plus four of the six at Pasdoufat—those are already on their way. One of the three at Kalevala, and three of the four at Dorcas."

The Prime felt his tail twitch. Dorcas. The young searcher Thrr-gilag was on his way to that world, at the Prime's private request. "You're only leaving one at Dorcas?"

"Yes," the Supreme Commander grunted. "And only because that particular ship isn't in any shape to fly or fight. If the technics can repair it before the Phormbi attack, I'll pull it out, too. Why? Is Dorcas a problem?"

"I suppose not," the Prime said reluctantly. It probably didn't matter whether or not Thrr-gilag's proposed biochemical tests on the Human-Conqueror prisoner turned up anything. Matters were moving too fast now for that.

And there was certainly no reason to tie up precious resources at insignificant beachheads like Dorcas now that they knew they'd failed to trap any of the CIRCE components. "What do you think of the Mrachani plan?" he asked the Supreme Commander.

"I suppose it makes sense," the other said. "I agree with Valloittaja that knocking out the Human-Conqueror surveillance center on Phormbi should definitely be the first strike."

"Assuming Valloittaja's data on the range of these Human-Conqueror ship detectors is accurate," the Prime said.

"Assuming that, of course," Prm-jevev growled. "I'll want hard numbers on that before I'll commit my warships to any attack."

The Prime nodded, studying the map. "We may also want to request further confirmation that these are indeed the correct locations for the Phormbi bases."

"Most definitely," Prm-jevev agreed. "Searcher Nzz-oonaz is far too willing to take the Mrachanis' word for everything, in my opinion."

"Interesting," the Prime murmured. "I've been thinking the same thing. Do you suppose the Mrachanis could be using something on them?"

"Chemicals?" Prm-jevev asked doubtfully. "Would they know enough yet about our biophysiology to know what they could safely use?"

"I don't know. No, probably not," the Prime conceded.

"Still, it wouldn't hurt to mention the possibility to Nzz-oonaz," the Supreme Commander said. "If they aren't using chemicals now, there's no guarantee they won't in the future."

"True," the Prime agreed. "Whom have you chosen to command the attack force?"

Prm-jevev flicked his tongue. "Actually, I thought I'd take a flash-ship out to Mrachani space and take command myself."

The Prime frowned. "Isn't that rather unusual?"

"It is, but it shouldn't be," the Supreme Commander said flatly. "After all, Warrior Command is supposed to be made up of the best warriors in the eighteen worlds."

"Yet your expertise would be temporarily lost to us if you're raised to Eldership," the Prime pointed out. "The anchoring shock at such a distance is deep and profound. You could be twisted uselessly for many fullarcs."

"I admit it's a risk," the Supreme Commander agreed. "But it's also a risk to try to run a battle from here with only Elder reports to tell me what's going on. There's no substitute for seeing something with your own eyes." He grimaced. "Besides, if the Mrachanis are lying about any of this, I want to know about it."

An Elder appeared. "Searcher Nzz-oonaz and the others have reached the Closed Mouth" he reported. "They're going inside. Several Mrachani are loitering in the area."

Hoping to learn something about the miraculous Zhirrzh interstar communication method, no doubt. Well, they could poke around all they wanted. Any microphones the Mrachanis might have trained on the Closed Mouth would be unable to pick up the Elders' voices; and the delegation had already been instructed to gather around one of the ship's cookstoves while they held their conferences with Oaccanv. If the Mrachanis wanted to steal it and take it apart, they were welcome to do that, too. "I presume we'll tell Searcher Nzz-oonaz to conditionally accept the Mrachanis' proposal," he said.

"Yes," Prm-jevev said. "At least the first part, the attack on Phormbi. We'll need more time to pull together the ships necessary for an attack on Earth."

"Yes," the Prime murmured. An attack on the Human-Conqueror surveillance center would tie up a lot of warships. Warships no longer in prime combat readiness; warships that the precariously stretched Zhirrzh forces could hardly spare. But they had no choice. With the Human-Conquerors in the process of assembling CIRCE, the only course of action left to Warrior Command was to hit them as quickly and aggressively as possible. "How soon?" he asked Prm-jevev.

"Depends on how quickly the warships can be brought together and prepared for full combat," the Supreme Commander said. "Two fullarcs, perhaps three. Do I have your permission to personally command the attack?"

"I trust your experience with that decision," the Prime said. "Do what you feel necessary."

Prm-jevev bowed in old-world Cakk'rr style. "Thank you, Overclan Prime. I'll leave as soon as this conference is over."

In front of them an Elder appeared. " 'This is Searcher Nzz-oonaz, speaking from the planet Mra,' " he quoted. " 'I wish to speak to the Overclan Prime.' "

The Prime smiled tightly. Nzz-oonaz, playing his half of the charade for the Mrachanis' benefit. Valloittaja, he suspected, would be astonished to find out how these communications were actually being carried out.