"You'll find yourself with a mutiny if you try it," the Prime warned. "Remember the thunder Speaker Cvv-panav brought down on the Overclan Seating when the Dhaa'rr Elder Prr't-zevisti was lost on Dorcas? You can bet he'll do the same if you put any of the Dhaa'rr Elders aboard theClosed Mouth at risk that way."
"This is war, Overclan Prime," the Supreme Commander said shortly. "We have no room for the Speaker for Dhaa'rr's delicate sensitivities." He looked around. "Speaking of whom, where is he? I thought he wanted to be here when the ship reached Mra."
The Prime grimaced. "He's still on Dharanv. I suspect he's arranged with the Dhaa'rr Elders to give him a private briefing there."
"He'd better not have," Prm-jevev said darkly. "Those Elders are warriors, under Warrior Command authority. I catch one of them making private reports, and I'll have him stricken from duty."
The Prime flicked his tongue sourly. It was the standard threat against Elders, and under most circumstances a highly effective one. No Elder with a useful job wanted it taken away from him, not with the possibility of hundreds of cyclics of boredom gazing back at him. But in this particular case the threat was effectively nonexistent. Warrior Command didn't have ships regularly going to Mra, any one of which could be ordered to collect the offending Elder'sfsss cutting and bring it back.
Which meant that the Elders on Mra were there for the duration, and about all Supreme Commander Prm-jevev could do by way of punishment would be to refuse to accept the offending Elder's reports. Not exactly an ideal state of affairs.
An Elder appeared. "Searchers Gll-borgiv and Svv-selic have arrived at the entrance to the rim fortress," he reported. "The other guide Mrachanis are coming forward to meet them."
Another Elder appeared. " 'Standing in the stead of the rulers of the Mrachanis,' " he quoted, " 'I welcome our brothers the Zhirrzh to Mra.' "
"You have seen the danger," Valloittaja said, his tone dark and grim as he waved an arm toward the map of the Human-Conquerors' domain. "The enemy is powerful and ruthless, with both the will and the means to utterly destroy both our peoples. Only by joining together can we hope to survive."
"We agree," Nzz-oonaz said, his tail bumping against the Mrachani-style seat with each of its rapidly spinning turns. "But how can we hope to stop them?"
"Have courage," Valloittaja said, his gaze shifting to each of the three Zhirrzh in turn. "With boldness and skill they may yet be defeated." He touched a blue patch on the control board, and the map faded as two of the stars simultaneously brightened. "These are the centers of Human-Conqueror warrior power," he identified them. "Their public center on their homeworld Earth; and their secret auxiliary center on Phormbi, a colony world of their allies the Yycromae. If the Zhirrzh warriors can destroy both these locations, the war may yet be won."
"That seems reasonable," Nzz-oonaz said.
"But we must consult with Warrior Command," Gll-borgiv put in.
Nzz-oonaz glared at him, his tongue stiffening with anger.He was the only one who was supposed to speak directly with Valloittaja. Even Gll-borgiv should know that.
"If you are not permitted to make such decisions yourselves, I understand," Valloittaja said, an edge of impatience in his voice that made Nzz-oonaz wince. "But I urge you to waste no time. With the Human-Conquerors preparing to assemble CIRCE, our fates hang by threads above the fire."
"I'm sure they will agree," Nzz-oonaz said, wording the sentence carefully. The Mrachanis were not to know that the Elders were relaying a real-time account of this conversation to Warrior Command. "I'll contact them as soon as this meeting is over."
"Then do so," Valloittaja said, the impatience in his voice growing stronger. "If it would save precious time, perhaps you would allow me to present the Mrach position to them directly."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Nzz-oonaz told him. "Our communication method must still remain our secret."
"If it must," Valloittaja said, a knife edge of scorn cutting through his impatience. "But remind your leaders that unnecessary secrets between allies are a poison that can destroy as surely as any outside enemy."
"I'll tell them that," Nzz-oonaz promised. He would, too. The time for distrust of the Mrachanis was clearly over.
"Go, then, Searcher Nzz-oonaz, Valloittaja said gravely. "And may it not already be too late."
10
With a hiss of released pressure the overhead seal lock irised open, flooding the fighter bay with cool air as the ladder slid down through the opening. Carefully, mindful of his head in the cramped space, Quinn started up, breathing deeply as he went. The air was just as he remembered it: sharp and tangy, a witch's brew of lubricants and warm electronics and the ubiquitous background of humanity that centuries of scrubber development had never entirely been able to get rid of. The smell of his past; the smell of bittersweet and conflicting memories.
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 theTrafalgar 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?"