Allies?The Yycromae? "I'm afraid you've lost me, sir," Quinn said.
Germaine stirred. "Perhaps, Commodore, we should go ahead and show him the communiqu‚."
"I suppose we'll have to," Montgomery said reluctantly, reaching over to his command chair and pulling a plate emblazoned with the Peacekeeper insignia from a slot in one of the armrests. "You understand, Lieutenant, that this is strictly confidential."
"Yes, sir."
"All right." Montgomery keyed up a page on the plate and handed it to him.
It was a Secret-One message, routed through Edo ten days previously, and addressed to all senior Peacekeeper officers and all command-rank officers with forces stationed within thirty light-years of Yycroman space.
Describing a rearmament agreement between Peacekeeper Command and the Yycromae.
"As you see," Montgomery said, "Lord Cavanagh's name is mentioned as being on both the guarantee of Yycroman intent and the statement of Peacekeeper understanding. The question boils down to whether these are properly authorized documents, or whether they're something else entirely."
"Such as part of some private business scheme of Lord Cavanagh's," Germaine put in. "Or even something the Yycromae might have obtained under duress."
Quinn looked back down at the plate. "According to this a senior NorCoord Military Intelligence officer also signed the documents," he pointed out.
"Unfortunately, the officer isn't identified," Montgomery growled. "I understand there are security considerations involved; but, unfortunately, it also leaves me accepting this sudden de facto alliance with the Yycromae on blind faith. I don't like that."
For a brief moment it occurred to Quinn to remind the commodore that that was exactly how he and the rest of the lower ranks usually had to accept their orders. But he resisted the temptation. "Were copies of the actual documents included with this?" he asked instead.
"Yes," Montgomery said. "With the Intelligence officer's name blanked out, of course."
"May I see them?"
Montgomery's forehead creased slightly. "Why?"
"I may at least be able to tell you whether Lord Cavanagh's signature was obtained under duress."
The commodore glanced at Germaine, and Quinn caught the fleet exec's microscopic shrug. "It's a rather severe violation of military protocol," Montgomery commented, taking the plate back from Quinn. "But having come this far already, I suppose that hardly matters." He keyed the plate to a new position and handed it back.
It took Quinn nearly five minutes to wade through the three pages of thick legal wordage. But when he was done, he was convinced. "Lord Cavanagh was not coerced into signing either document, Commodore," he told Montgomery, handing him back the plate. "Furthermore, if there was any fraud or deceit on the part of the Yycromae, he was unaware of it. To the best of his knowledge both documents were written and signed in good faith."
"Amazing," Germaine murmured. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Quinn assured him. "There are special ways Lord Cavanagh will write a contract or document to indicate whether or not he's in full voluntary agreement. Particular phrasings, key words-that sort of thing." He nodded toward the plate. "All the proper cues are there."
"I see," Montgomery said. He gazed at the plate another few seconds; then-reluctantly, Quinn thought-he closed it and returned it to its slot in the armrest. "Then I suppose that's settled. We go in as allies, until and unless matters indicate otherwise. Thank you, Lieutenant: dismissed." He turned to Germaine-
"One other matter, Commodore, if I may," Quinn spoke up. "The last I heard, my new tail man still hadn't arrived."
Montgomery looked at Schweighofer, lifted his eyebrows. "That's correct, sir," the fighter commander confirmed. "He was promised for two days ago, but he hasn't shown up yet. I don't know what's happened to him."
"Some snarled order somewhere," Montgomery nodded. "I suppose that means you'll be sitting this one out, Lieutenant."
Quinn grimaced. "With all due respect, Commodore, I'd rather not. Not to seem immodest, but against eleven Zhirrzh warships, you're going to need me."
"We're going to need the Eighth Fleet, too," Montgomery countered dryly. "We'll just have to make do without them."
"You know the regulations, Lieutenant," Schweighofer put in. "We haven't got any spare Copperheads, and you can't fly combat without a tail. No exceptions."
"I understand the regulations, sir," Quinn said. "But in this case-"
"You've been dismissed, Lieutenant," Germaine cut him off sharply. "Return to your quarters."
Quinn didn't move. "You're going to need every resource you've got, Commodore," he said firmly. "Furthermore, youdo have a spare Copperhead aboard."
Germaine lifted a half-beckoning hand toward the Marine guards at the door. "If I have to have you physically removed-"
"At ease, Tom," Montgomery said mildly. "I presume, Lieutenant, that you're referring to Tac Coordinator Bokamba."
"Reserve Wing Commander Bokamba, sir, yes," Quinn said. "He could fly tail for me."
"Bokamba's been retired from active duty for five years," Schweighofer reminded him. "Retired for good and proper reasons, I might add. Furthermore, he was a pilot, not a tail man."
"He can handle the job," Quinn insisted. "And I think he'd like to get back in the cockpit."
"That's not the point," Montgomery said. "Using resources is one thing. Wasting those resources is quite another."
"You won't be wasting them, sir," Quinn assured him. He hesitated- "Please."
For a moment Montgomery just gazed at him. Then, with a sigh, he shook his head. "Commander Schweighofer, you'll inform Tac Coordinator Bokamba that he's been reassigned as Lieutenant Quinn's tail man."
Schweighofer cleared his throat. "Sir, if I may remind you of the reason why Bokamba was retired from active duty-"
"I'm aware of the reason, Commander," Montgomery said. "I'm also aware of Lieutenant Quinn's reputation as a pilot. And he's right: we can't afford to let him sit this one out. Tac Coordinator Bokamba is to be reassigned as ordered, effective immediately."
He looked at Quinn. "And you, Lieutenant Quinn, will get off my bridge. Now."
"Yes, sir," Quinn said, straightening to full attention. "Thank you, Commodore."
Montgomery's lip twitched. "Thank me when you and Bokamba come back alive," he said quietly. "Not before."
20
It was unbelievable, Aric thought in that first breathtaking second. Completely and totally unbelievable. Like something out of a lavishly budgeted thriller, created by a lunatic designer on a huge production stage with no regard for the rules of scale or even the laws of physics. Appearing from nowhere amid the flashing lasers and exploding missiles, it might even have been some fever dream from a dark and distant mythology: a vast, ghostly Flying Dutchman, blown up to the scale of the Greek Titans, with an ominous hint of the Norse Valkyrie thrown in. Such a thing couldn't possibly exist.
Yet there it was, drifting from its mesh-in point toward the raging battle, utterly dwarfing the Conqueror warships. And nestled within the gaps of the delicate-looking framework, pinned there like some grotesque butterfly collection, was what appeared to be an entire Peacekeeper fleet.
A fleet that, like a slowly awakening giant, was beginning to show signs of movement...
"I don't believe it," Cho Ming whispered, his voice somewhere between stunned and reverent. "What in God's nameis that?"
"You got me," Daschka said, shaking his head. "But I'd lay you odds it has something to do with that Lupis Project that's been drifting in and out of the Intelligence reports for the past six months. Let's get some IDs on these guys-that carrier first."
From behind Aric came a renewed tapping of keys. "It reads out as theTrafalgar," Cho Ming said. "Rigel-class attack carrier. Thirteen other ships with it. Just a second; I'm getting small explosions now at theTrafalgar's bow and stern. Looks like they're popping their tethers to that outer framework."
"What are the Zhirrzh doing?"
"Nothing yet," Cho Ming said. "They're probably as flabbergasted by it as we are."
"That won't last long." Daschka pointed out the canopy toward the Peacekeeper ships. "Look-you can see the flares.
"TheTrafalgar's launching its fighters."
"Alert all warships!" Supreme Commander Prm-jevev barked, staring in a mix of fascination and horror at the huge space vehicle that had suddenly appeared from the tunnel-line behind the Zhirrzh force. Awesome, terrifying, impossibly huge, like something out of ancient legend.
The Elder he'd sent to report to Warrior Command flicked back in. "Speaker Cvv-panav: 'It's a trap!' " he quoted. " 'Exactly as I warned you.' " His voice was harsh with the Speaker's anger, as if Prm-jevev had gotten himself into this predicament solely to spite him.
A second Elder appeared before Prm-jevev could respond. "The Overclan Prime: 'It does indeed appear to be a trap,' " he said. Unlike Cvv-panav's, his tone was calm, even matter-of-fact. " 'Can you handle it?' "
"Supreme Commander, they're launching their fighter warcraft," one of the warriors called.
And with that the fascinated horror seemed to dissolve from beneath the Supreme Commander's tongue. "Understood," he said, smiling grimly. The thing out there was merely a weapon of war, and he knew how to deal with weapons of war. "All warships: attack and defend at will."
A handful of Elders vanished, scattering to the other warships to relay his order. The Elders who'd come from Oaccanv remained where they were, still waiting for his reply. "To the Overclan Prime: I'll do my best," he said. "To the Speaker for Dhaa'rr-"
He looked at the displays, and at the fire trails that marked the Human-Conqueror fighter warcraft streaking toward his warships. Cvv-panav had been right about its being a trap, and no doubt would now be working to parlay that serendipitous guess to his own political advantage. That was how the Speaker worked; and Prm-jevev saw no need to help him. "To the Speaker for Dhaa'rr: no reply."
"All systems checks complete," Bokamba said briskly from the seat behind Quinn. "Straight green."
"Acknowledged," Quinn said, hunching his shoulders forward and resettling himself one last time against the contoured seat. He'd just felt the lurch a few seconds ago as the Wolf Pack meshed in. Any minute now they should be getting the order to launch.
Assuming there was still something here to fight. With a half-hour lead on them, the Zhirrzh fleet might well have already finished this particular slaughter and moved on.
And then an image flicked into view in front of his eyes, fed through his Mindlink and superimposed on the scorched and heat-stressed composite of the launch tube outside the Corvine's canopy. An image obviously being fed from theTrafalgar's external cameras.
There was indeed still something there to fight.
"I make it five Zhirrzh ships," Bokamba said. "No, make that ten; five more are coming in from outsystem. Drives are firing toward us-must be decelerating."
"Someone's putting up a pretty good fight against them," Quinn said, pulling up a vector map and an ID overlay. The small ships buzzing around the Zhirrzh warships-and being methodically blasted to dust-read out as Yycroman freighters, passenger shuttles, asteroid miners, and zero-gee construction drudgeships. Brave, foolish, or just plain desperate, the Yycromae were taking on the Conqueror juggernaut.
Not surprisingly, they were losing.
"This is it, Copperheads," Schweighofer's voice came tautly in Quinn's ear. "Go to Level X and launch at will. Warrior's luck to you all."
Schweighofer's last words were nearly swallowed up in the rumble of drives that suddenly reverberated from the rest of the launch tubes around him. Bracing himself, Quinn keyed the drive, joining in the mad rush. The Corvine leaped forward like a hungry predator, the acceleration shoving him back into the seat cushions as the fighter skimmed on superconducting magnetic bearings down the launch tube toward space. "Maestro?" he heard Bokamba call over the roar. "We were ordered to X."
Level X: the full Mindlink integration between the Copperheads and their fighters. The moment Quinn had been dreading ever since making the deal with the hearing board that had gotten Clipper and the others out from under their court-martial.
"Maestro?" Bokamba called again.
"Go ahead," Quinn called back. "I'll be right with you-"
And then the Corvine cleared the tube rim and they were in space, driving hard away from theTrafalgar. The rest of the Corvines and Catbirds were burning space beside him, an advancing battle line of the most awesome warriors and fighting machines the Commonwealth had ever produced.
And it was time for those warriors to go to work. All of them. Taking a deep breath, Quinn shifted his Mindlink to Level X.
And abruptly, all around him, the universe changed.
His vision changed, expanding from its usual boundaries to a full 360-degree wraparound, with only experience, kinesthetic awareness, and a hazy orange circle to indicate which way was forward. The dark and muted colors of the scene in front of him became a rainbow of vibrant color, with all spacecraft within his immediate strike zone turning a bright red, while those farther away shaded into yellow and green and finally blue for the most distant.
His hearing changed, the other Copperheads and command orders no longer voices in his ear but words and images in his mind. The vector overlay he'd called up earlier likewise became audible, pitches and tones in the background meshing with the visual color cues to give him complete information on where every ship out there was, and exactly what each ship's vector was relative to him.
And he himself changed. He was no longer Adam Quinn, Copperhead, piloting a Corvine Tactical Superiority attack fighter. Hewas that Corvine attack fighter.
His skin was the Corvine's hull, with the controlled heat of the drive's fury at his back and the faint brushing of friction with the tenuous medium of Phormbi's magnetosphere on his face and chest. His sense of smell was the Corvine's systems monitors, the steady almond aroma indicating all systems were primed and ready. His sense of taste was the damage monitors, the tang of cinnamon signaling that the Corvine was as yet uninjured. His stance-for even in this strange disembodied mental image he could still envision himself as having a physical stance-was the manifestation of the fighter's medical monitors as they in turn watched over his physiological status. He seemed to himself to be standing firm and alert and strong, his body twisted slightly into a taut martial-arts stance, his hands held ready for combat-a composite indicator that showed his oxygen, blood sugar, and adrenaline levels to be at optimal levels.