The three interrogators didn't come again for seven full days. But that was all right, because it took Pheylan that long to come up with another plan. By the time they arrived, he was ready to give it a try.
"I was starting to wonder if you weren't going to come back," he commented as the four of them walked out into the bright sunshine. "This would be better for me if I could go out every couple of days, you know."
"Pleased you go out at all," Thrr-gilag said. "You try take that stone."
Pheylan shrugged. Actually, under the circumstances, he was a little surprised that Thrr-gilag hadn't been summarily demoted from his spokesman duties the way Svv-selic had been earlier. Did that imply Thrr-gilag had more clout in the Zhirrzh hierarchy? Or was it because this latest incident hadn't involved that mysterious white pyramid? "I didn't mean anything by that," he told them.
"Perhaps," Thrr-gilag said. "Or not. But no purpose. We walk this way today." His tongue snaked out, pointing directly away from the pyramid toward a clump of turquoise-tinted bushes at the edge of the forest.
"Fine," Pheylan said, heading obediently in the indicated direction. He'd been wanting to take a look in this area, anyway.
"Explain to us about weapon called Copperhead."
Deliberately, Pheylan counted to two before turning to look at Thrr-gilag. "What?"
"Copperhead," the Zhirrzh repeated. "Explain to us."
Pheylan shrugged. "It's a snake from our homeworld. Venomous, lives mostly in the Confederate region of North America—"
"It is weapon of war," Thrr-gilag interrupted. "Explain about Copperhead. Or go inside."
Pheylan grimaced, but there really wasn't any way around it. "The Copperheads are humans like me," he said. "Specially equipped to handle a particular type of attack fighter."
"How equipped?"
"They have direct brain-to-computer linkages," Pheylan said, feeling his forehead wrinkling. As far as he knew, there hadn't been any Copperheads aboard the Jutland. Had the Zhirrzh found some reference to them in Commodore Dyami's computer? "That gives them faster response time and better control of their ships. Why the sudden interest?"
"Zhirrzh interested in all things human," Thrr-gilag said.
"You've run into some of them, haven't you?" Pheylan accused him. "Where? What happened?"
"I ask questions," Thrr-gilag said. "What more about Copperhead?"
"I don't know anything more than that," Pheylan said, fighting back a fresh surge of frustration with this situation he was in. Either the war had started in earnest, or it hadn't, and either way emotion wasn't going to do him any good.
"Where Copperhead located?" Thrr-gilag asked.
"I don't know that, either," Pheylan said, squinting at the bushes ahead. Were those long thorns nestled in among the blue-green leaves? "Peacekeeper Command's undoubtedly been shifting men and ships around like crazy since you attacked the Jutland."
They had reached the bushes now, and Pheylan discovered that he'd been right: their branches were indeed covered with thorns. Big ones, too. "Interesting plant," he commented, stepping toward it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nzz-oonaz half lift the black trigger gadget warningly. "We've got thorn bushes back on some of our worlds, too," he added, crouching down for a closer look. "You have any on your world?"
"Thorns common plant defense," Thrr-gilag said.
"Ah," Pheylan said, shifting his weight and easing his left hand carefully into the limited space between the thorns. His attention, though, was not on his hand, but on his upper left arm. Specifically, on the small glassy disk embedded in the material of his obedience suit halfway between elbow and shoulder. He'd been planning to find a sharp stick to use for this gambit, but if he could get it to work with these thorns, so much the better. "Are any of your thorn bushes poisonous?" he asked Thrr-gilag. "Some of ours are, though they're mostly just irritants. Barbed points, mildly acidic chemicals—that sort of thing."
"We have both kinds," Thrr-gilag said, and Pheylan could imagine he could hear a note of uneasiness in the alien voice. "We do not know about this plant."
"It's okay, I'm being careful," Pheylan assured him. He was in position now: his hand with a more or less clear path back out of the bush, an inward-pointing thorn pressing a millimeter or so into the material of his suit just beneath the edge of the glass disk. "I used to play around this sort of bush when I was a—ouch!"
He yanked his hand out of the bush, feeling a slight jab in his upper arm as the thorn there poked briefly into the material before being torn from its stem. Rocking back on his heels, he gripped his hand, cursing under his breath.
"What?" Thrr-gilag demanded, stepping closer.
"Got me a little," Pheylan growled, making a show of rubbing his hand as he surreptitiously glanced at his upper arm. It had worked: the thorn had pried the glass disk a millimeter or so out of its niche in the suit material. Enough, maybe, for him to get his fingernails under the edge.
"Where hurt?" Thrr-gilag asked.
"Here," Pheylan said, uncovering the hand and peering closely at it. "Right there," he added, pointing to the white indentation he'd just made with his fingernail as he brought his hand away. "Looks like it didn't break the skin. Sure hurt, though."
Thrr-gilag jabbered something in the Zhirrzh language, and Svv-selic stepped forward. "Svv-selic take sample of thorn," Thrr-gilag said. "Examine for poison."
"Thank you," Pheylan said. So they didn't know anything about the plant. That implied that this was probably some kind of forward base, without a full-fledged colony attached to it. A potentially useful bit of information.
"Feel ill?" Thrr-gilag persisted.
"No, I'm fine," Pheylan said, focusing his attention for a moment on the pinprick he'd taken in his upper arm and belatedly recognizing the risk he had in fact taken here. If these thorns were poisoned, he could be in trouble. "Seems a little odd that the plant has thorns at all," he added, to change the subject. "Usually that sort of thing is a defense against plant-eating animals. But there don't seem to be animals of any sort around here."
"There many animals," Thrr-gilag said. "They kept away by outer fence."
"Kept away?" Pheylan asked pointedly. "Or attacked and killed?"
All six pupils in Thrr-gilag's eyes seemed to contract a little. "Zhirrzh not attack first, Cavv'ana," he said.
But to Pheylan's ears the response lacked any real conviction. "Of course," he said, putting as much sarcasm into his voice as he could manage. "I forgot. Your Elders told you that. And of course, your Elders wouldn't lie."
"You not speak evil against Elders," Svv-selic snapped. "You warned before: not speak evil."
"Perhaps the Elders are wrong," Pheylan countered. "Or were themselves lied to."
"Not possible," Svv-selic insisted. "All Elders present."
Pheylan cocked an eyebrow. "All the Elders were there?"
"Not all Elders of Zhirrzh," Thrr-gilag said. "Elders of Kee'rr and Too'rr and Flii'rr clans there."
"Then they were lied to," Pheylan said. "I was there, remember—"
"Elders not lied to," Svv-selic insisted. "Elders there."
"But the commanders of the fleet—"
"Elders there."
Pheylan sighed, recognizing a dead end when he was on one. Clearly, clan loyalty was going to prevent the Zhirrzh from asking awkward questions about the Jutland battle, even in the face of clear evidence to the contrary. Probably why these particular three had been given the job of interrogators in the first place.
But even the most monolithic lie could be broken if you hit it hard enough and often enough. And in Thrr-gilag the cracks were already beginning to show. "Fine," Pheylan said. "You believe whatever you want to." He pointed past the bushes toward the edge of the forest. "Is it okay if we walk over there?"
It was by no means easy to pry the tiny disk out of the arm of his obedience suit; and doing so while in the process of removing the suit—and under a half-dozen Zhirrzh gazes, yet—was even trickier. But Pheylan managed it. Possibly he was starting to get good at this skulduggery stuff; more likely, the fact that the Zhirrzh had no fingernails had left a blind spot where this sort of thing was concerned.
He set the shower for hotter than usual and waited until he had a thick coating of condensation on the walls before examining his prize. The disk's upper surface, as he'd already noted, was composed of a dark glassy substance. The underside was lighter-colored, with what looked like a tiny patch of circuitry in the center, and a short pair of trailing wires that ended where he had torn them out of the suit.
No. He squinted closely at the disk as he rubbed soap across his forehead. No, they weren't wires, but another glassy substance. Optical fibers, then, unless the Zhirrzh had developed some sort of exotic field-effect or tunneling-control circuitry.
Which meant that he'd been right about the trigger gadget that Nzz-oonaz carried. Glassy sensors—and, moreover, glassy sensors scattered around different parts of the obedience suit—meant that the Zhirrzh were using a directional signal to trigger the thing. Almost certainly an infrared or ultraviolet pulse, though it was possible they could have drifted into the X-ray bands of the spectrum. Not that it mattered.
He frowned, palming the disk again as he scrubbed soap into his hair. No, he was wrong. The type of signal they were using was not simply of academic interest. If he could block enough of the sensors on his suit without the Zhirrzh noticing, he might have the opening he'd been searching for; but the type of light involved would be an important consideration in figuring out what to block the sensors with. Infrared or ultraviolet could be handled with mud or leaves. For X rays nothing short of lead foil would do him much good.
An examination of the disk might give him some clues; but that examination would have to wait. This shower had already lasted as long as usual, and he didn't want to arouse suspicions by breaking routine. Carefully, using steady pressure, he worked the disk into the slab of soap built into the shower wall. It wasn't a perfect hiding place, but it had the advantage of that extra shower wall's worth of thickness with which to block his captors' sensors. With luck maybe this time he'd get away with it.
He got the disk all the way in, smoothed over the spot as best he could, and shut off the water. Brushing the excess water off his arms and torso, he stepped out.
It was like a not-quite instant repeat of a week earlier. The four Zhirrzh standing outside his cell with gray sticks or flashlights at the ready; the two unarmed Zhirrzh inside the opened door; Thrr-gilag standing off to one side, his tongue flicking in and out, watching the whole operation. "What's going on?" Pheylan asked, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"You walk away," Thrr-gilag said.
So they'd done it again. With a quiet sigh Pheylan moved away from the shower. One of the unarmed Zhirrzh left the door, passing him and stepping into the stall. Producing a small tool, he proceeded to dig into the soap where Pheylan had hidden the disk.
"Not proper," Thrr-gilag said. "You claim not know?"
Pheylan turned to look at him. "It came loose somehow," he said. "I thought I'd take a look at it. As I told you before, we humans are curious."
For a long moment the only sounds were the quiet hum of the air system and the soft scraping noise of the Zhirrzh tool. "The Zhirrzh wrong," Thrr-gilag said at last. "You not unthinking predators. You think and plan. Too much. Tomorrow not go outside."
"That's not fair," Pheylan protested, the bitter taste of stomach acids boiling up into his throat.
"Speak fair?" the Zhirrzh in the shower retorted, emerging from the stall with the soap-covered disk held in his hand. "No fair to animal."
Deep inside Pheylan something snapped; and for that single heartbeat he didn't care anymore if he lived or died. "You want animals?" he snarled. "I'll show you animals." He took a step toward the Zhirrzh, his hands curling into fists, dimly aware that Thrr-gilag was shouting something, and that the Zhirrzh directly behind Pheylan's intended target had raised his flashlight weapon—
And without warning the whole world exploded into a flash of brilliant white light in front of him.
Pheylan staggered back, stifling a curse as he threw his hands up to his face. Across the room he heard the Zhirrzh scuttle across the floor, the door slamming hastily shut behind him.
"You not unthinking," Thrr-gilag said from behind Pheylan. "But you still predators. You create war."
Carefully, Pheylan blinked his eyes open again. Aside from some residual stinging and a massive purple blob blocking the middle of his vision he seemed all right. Around the edges of the blob, he could see the group of Zhirrzh headed for the outer door. "We don't always create the wars," he told Thrr-gilag. "But whether we do or not, we always win them. Tell your Elders that."
There was a short pause. "I will tell them," Thrr-gilag agreed.
He turned and crossed the room, and a minute later Pheylan was alone. Except, as always, for the handful of Zhirrzh techs manning the outer room's monitors.
Slowly, blinking at the ache in his eyes, feeling drained, Pheylan picked up his jumpsuit and started getting dressed. So Act One was over. That little show of submissive naivete he'd pulled early on had gotten him this far, but now they were onto him. But that was okay. The gambit had gotten him a lot further than he'd expected it to, and he'd gathered some useful information along the way.
Among other things, that the time for subtlety was over. Whatever form his escape attempt took, it was going to have to depend heavily on simple, raw brute force.
Lying down on his bed, allowing himself to look demoralized, he closed his eyes to aid in their healing and got to work on his daily isometrics.
It seemed as if he had just closed his eyes when Lord Cavanagh awoke, once again, to a gentle shaking of his shoulder. "Lord Cavanagh?" a voice murmured. "It's Hill, sir. Keep your voice down."
"All right," Cavanagh murmured back, forcing sandpapery eyes open. "What is it?"
"Time to leave, sir. You need to get dressed."
Cavanagh squinted toward the window. The leaf-filtered sunlight that had been there when he'd gone to bed had been replaced by the brighter haze of artificial lighting. Apparently, the Yycromae were running their armory around the clock. "All right."
"We'll be in the cleansing room when you're ready," Hill said, stepping back and disappearing out the door.
The cleansing room was an odd melding of human and Yycroman designs: a water-efficient staggered system of slickglass sink and toilet facilities, juxtaposed with a typically open Yycroman cloudburst-shower compartment. The walls and floor were done in layers of thin gray stone crisscrossed with living moisture vine, with a cloudy sky design imprinted on the ceiling. The whole thing left Cavanagh with the strange impression of a human bathroom stuck out in the woods somewhere, which was probably not exactly what the designer had had in mind.
But, then, the designer probably hadn't intended to have a large hole picked in his slate wall between the slickglass system and the cloudburst shower, either.
"Lord Cavanagh," Kolchin nodded in greeting as Cavanagh came in. He was covered in grime and dust, with a sheen of sweat mixed in on his forehead. "Sorry to wake you, sir."
"That's all right," Cavanagh said, frowning at the damage to the wall. "How on Earth did you manage all this?"
"A Peacekeeper commando is never entirely without resources," Kolchin said, looking rather grimly satisfied with himself. "What do you think?"
Cavanagh stepped to the hole and looked in. At one edge was a rectangular duct that ran vertically inside the wall, with a parallel set of pipes running along the other edge. The space between them was filthy and discouragingly narrow. "I think it looks rather cramped," he said. "Is this supposed to be our exit?"
"Yes, sir," Kolchin said. "We can climb down the pipes to the subbasement, and from there out to the work field."
Cavanagh looked at Kolchin's grimy outfit, noting for the first time that the other seemed to be breathing a little heavily. "I take it you've already checked this out?"
"Yes, sir. Don't worry—it's easier going down than coming back up."
Cavanagh eyed the hole again. "What about Fibbit?" he asked. "I don't think she's going to fit in there."
Kolchin and Hill exchanged glances. "No, she won't," Hill said. "That's why she and I are staying here."
Cavanagh shook his head. "Out of the question. We all go or none of us does."
"We don't have any other choice, sir," Kolchin said, his tone respectful but insistent. "Fibbit can't get through the wall; and by herself she can't keep up the illusion that all of us are still here. Hill and Fibbit together can. The local government center, Vind Kaye, shouldn't be more than three thousand kilometers away from here. If we can make it down there and get in touch with the NorCoord consulate, we should be able to get a skitter message out under diplomatic seal. But we need time to do that."
Cavanagh looked at Hill. "Hill?"
"I agree with Kolchin, sir. And we really don't have time to argue about it."
Cavanagh sighed. They were right, of course. But that didn't mean he had to like it. "The Yycromae are going to have a fit when they see this wall," he said, shaking his head. "All right, Kolchin. Let's go."
The climb wasn't nearly as difficult as Cavanagh had feared it would be. Kolchin had rigged a sling sort of arrangement out of his tunic, which allowed Cavanagh to descend with less muscular exertion than would otherwise have been needed. And with Kolchin directly beneath him in case of a slip, there was little actual danger involved.
That didn't stop the climb from being thoroughly unpleasant. The dankness and musty odor kept his nose on the edge of a sneezing fit the whole way, the dust and filth made his skin crawl, and every few seconds some form of insect or other multilegged creature skittered away into the deeper recesses of the opening or into the cover of the moisture-vine roots that continually brushed against his hands and face. The trip seemed to last forever, and by the time Kolchin's hands reached up to help him down the last meter, he was half-convinced they'd missed the subbasement entirely and were tunneling their way into the planetary crust.
"This way," Kolchin whispered as Cavanagh freed himself from the tunic sling and handed it back. "Service entrance, with two aircars parked a quarter of the way around the building. There's a low decorative wall that runs most of the way—a little crawling, and we should make it."
After the musty grit of the climb, the clean dirt of the steppe ground was almost a vacation. Within minutes they had reached the end of the decorative wall; beyond it Cavanagh could see a half-dozen ground vehicles parked in a neat row near the hotel's main entrance. "Where are the aircars?" he asked.
"They're gone," Kolchin said grimly. "Must have just been couriers. Damn."
Cavanagh glanced over the wall. All around them, to the horizon and beyond, the Yycroman military preparations were buzzing along under the blazing lights. "We're not going to get very far on foot," he said.
"I know." Kolchin hissed gently between his teeth. "Change of plans: back inside."
He eased past Cavanagh and led the way back into the building and down to the subbasement. "All right," Kolchin said, slipping out of his tunic again. "I did a little looking around before Hill woke you up, and it looked like the main Yycroman business offices were one floor above us. I'm going to sneak up there and see if I can get some information on their courier schedule. If we can hop one while the pilot's inside delivering his package, we'll have our exit route."
Cavanagh looked up into the maze of pipes and ductwork. "You think you can get in there without being caught?"
"Well, if I can't, I'm sure the Yycromae will send someone to let you know," Kolchin said dryly as he got a grip on one of the pipes. "Sit tight; I'll be right back."
There wasn't really anywhere to sit comfortably among the maze of pipes and ducts, but Cavanagh found a place a couple of meters away where he could rest some of his weight against a support stanchion. He'd changed position five times and was getting ready to do so again, when there was a muffled thud and Kolchin was back. "Here," the other said, definitely breathing heavily this time as he pressed a plate into Cavanagh's hand. "Hope it's in here—had to grab what I could and get out."
Cavanagh opened the plate and turned it on. Glowing swirls of lacy Yycroman script appeared on the screen, laid out in what seemed to be a standard index pattern. He scanned down the swirls, searching for something having to do with messages or couriers.
And as he did so, something else caught his eye. He keyed for it, fumbling a little with the unfamiliar Yycroman board layout....
"Looked like they had two separate file listings," Kolchin commented, his face hazily visible in the glow from his own plate. "I grabbed a copy of both... here it is: courier-service schedule. Lot of flights here—I guess they're not trusting any of this to radio or laser transmission. Let's see...."
The file Cavanagh had called came up; and there it was. Maps, listings, timetables—the whole works. "Kolchin."
"Looks like the next scheduled flight will be here in about twenty minutes," Kolchin said, peering at the plate. "That wall should give us enough cover if we leave in, say—"
"Kolchin," Cavanagh said again.
"What?"
"I've found their battle plan."
In the faint glow of the plate he could see Kolchin's face tighten. "Let me see."
Wordlessly, Cavanagh handed him the plate. Kolchin took it, exchanging it for his, and for a few minutes he flipped through the pages in silence. Cavanagh waited... and finally Kolchin looked up at him again. "How much of this did you read?"
"Just some of the part dealing with Mra-ap," Cavanagh told him. "It didn't make any sense to me."
"That's because it doesn't make any sense, period," Kolchin said. "They're hitting all the Mrach spaceport and shipbuilding facilities, but completely ignoring the rest of their transportation and industrial networks. Communications, too—they're taking out skitter launch sites but not the ground relay stations or even the satellites."
Cavanagh shivered. "Maybe they're not expecting any Mrachanis to be left to use them."
For a long moment both men were silent. "Yeah," Kolchin said at last. "CIRCE. I didn't want to believe it."
"Maybe I'm wrong," Cavanagh said. "I hope to God I am. But either they've got something unbelievably clever in the works, or else they've forgotten everything they ever knew about warfare."
Kolchin closed the plate, shutting off the glow. "We'd better get moving," he said. "We need to be ready when that courier gets here."
"Right," Cavanagh said, closing his plate as well. Somehow the darkness in the subbasement seemed more stifling now than it had earlier. "Lead the way."
"Stay close and quiet," Kolchin said, brushing past him in the darkness. Cavanagh turned to follow, and as he did so, there was an insect-light touch at the back of his neck. He reached up to brush it away—
[You will not move,] a Yycroman voice ordered softly.
Cavanagh froze, his fingertips touching cold metal pressed to the back of his neck. "Kolchin?"
There was no answer. [You will not move,] a second Yycroma said. [You have no possibility of esca—]
The word was cut off by a flash of light, lightning-bolt brilliant in the darkness. Cavanagh flinched back, squeezing his eyes shut against the afterimage of two figures struggling together. Strong hands gripped his arms—another flash burned through his closed eyelids—more Yycroman voices—the dull thud of a body hitting the floor—
And then, silence.
Cavanagh braced himself. "Kolchin?"
To his great relief the other's answer was immediate. "Here, sir. Sorry."
"That's all right," Cavanagh said, his muscles starting to shake with reaction. Their escape attempt had failed, but at least Kolchin hadn't been killed in the process.
There was a click, and a dim light filtered into the subbasement from some distant source. Three meters in front of Cavanagh, Kolchin stood motionless in the center of a group of armored Yycromae, the muzzles of two Yycroman rayslicers pressed into his stomach and up under his jaw. All around them another dozen Yycromae stood with weapons ready. Males, all of them.
Cavanagh sighed. So that was it. They'd taken their best shot, and they'd failed. "Well," he said. "Back to our room, I take it?"
[The warrior Kolchin will be returned to a new place of confinement,] a Yycroma standing off to one side said. [You will be taken to the Klyveress ci Yyatoor.]
Cavanagh frowned. "Alone?"
[Yes.]
Cavanagh threw a glance at Kolchin. There was a look in the other's eyes; a tightening of the muscles in his jaw—"It's all right, Kolchin," he said quickly. "I'll be fine. You go on back upstairs."
Kolchin's eyes flicked to his guards. "Sir—"
"Go with them," Cavanagh said, making it an order. "Fibbit's likely going crazy up there. Hill's going to need help calming her down."
Some of the tightness went out of Kolchin's shoulders. The moment had passed, and he knew it. "Yes, sir."
Cavanagh looked at the Yycroma who'd spoken. "I'm ready," he said. "Lead the way."
Considering the late hour, Cavanagh had expected to find the ci Yyatoor wearing the Yycroman equivalent of a dressing gown and looking at least slightly disheveled. To his mild surprise she was instead dressed in full diplomatic regalia, complete with ceremonial helmet and tooled cloak. [Lord Cavanagh,] she greeted him gravely as he was ushered into her suite and taken to a chair facing her. [I would speak with you.]
"I'm here," Cavanagh said, sitting down and trying to ignore the armed Yycroman males towering over him.
Klyveress opened her mouth slightly, the crocodile teeth glittering. [Guards: wait outside,] she ordered.
Silently, the males turned and left, sealing the door behind them. Cavanagh kept his attention on Klyveress, painfully aware of just how classic this setup was. She would know by now that he and Kolchin had seen their battle plan... and a healthy Yycroman female hardly needed male assistance to kill an unarmed middle-aged human. Quick, clean, and without the potential embarrassment of witnesses.
Also dreadfully melodramatic. Somehow he doubted that aspect would bother her any.
[I am told that in the service area you discussed the Yycroman battle plan with the NorCoord warrior Kolchin,] Klyveress said.
For a single, frantic second Cavanagh thought about denying it. But with the plates Kolchin had borrowed already in their hands, that would be as stupid as it would be futile. "We discussed it briefly," he admitted.
[I am also told you spoke of the weapon called CIRCE.]
Cavanagh felt his chest tighten, a premonition of his death flashing before his eyes. Of course—that was what this was all about. The Yycromae knew he and Kolchin suspected them of planning to steal CIRCE... and the last thing they could afford would be for even a whisper of such a possibility to get back to the Commonwealth. "Did we?" he said between dry lips. "I don't recall."
For a long moment Klyveress just sat there, staring unblinkingly at him. Cavanagh gazed back, listening to his heart pounding in his ears, wishing he knew how to read Yycroman faces. Or maybe it was better that he didn't. However it happened—a sudden leap with tearing teeth, a deathly silent walk to an execution chamber, or something else—perhaps it would be easier not to see it coming.
Abruptly, Klyveress rose to her feet. Cavanagh shrank back in his seat, tensing himself for the leap. [I will tell you this, Lord Cavanagh,] the ci Yyatoor said. [We will not stand idly by and allow you to slaughter our children as you did the Pawolian warriors. If CIRCE is used, we will fight you to the last Yycroman warrior. You will take that message back to the hierarchy of NorCoord.]
She sat back down, turning her face ninety degrees away from him. [Your people approach,] she said, picking up a plate from the table beside her. [You are free to leave with them.]
Cavanagh frowned at her profile, his heart still pounding, a drop of sweat trickling down his temple. Something here was not playing according to script. Unless they planned to jump him as he walked out of the room... but that didn't seem like something Yycromae would do. "Excuse me," he said carefully. "I think I missed something."
Klyveress looked at him again. [The words were clear enough,] she said. [If the hierarchy of NorCoord uses CIRCE against the Yycromae, they will do so at high cost to themselves. You must make certain they understand that.]
Cavanagh shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I still don't understand. NorCoord isn't going to use CIRCE against the Yycromae. If we use it on anyone, it'll be the Conquerors."
Klyveress stared at him, her eyes darkly suspicious. [Yet you talked of CIRCE with the warrior Kolchin.]
"Yes, we did," Cavanagh acknowledged, watching her closely. This could still be a trick, he knew; a roundabout method of getting him to tell what he knew or suspected about their intentions concerning the weapon. But his instincts were belatedly kicking in... and what he could see in her face and manner seemed to be not so much aggression and triumph, but fear. "But we weren't discussing any NorCoord use of it. We were considering the possibility that the Yycromae might have... created... a CIRCE of their own."
Klyveress's pupils widened, an unmistakable Yycroman reaction of shock. [The Yycromae would never seek such a weapon,] she insisted. [What torn logic would bring you to think otherwise?]
"We watched your war preparations out on the steppes," Cavanagh said, nodding behind him. "And we saw your battle plan. It didn't look to us as if you had nearly enough firepower to destroy the Mrachanis. Not without a weapon like CIRCE."
She gazed at him, her pupils again dilating. [And is that what you think of the Yycromae?] she asked softly. [You, personally, Lord Stewart Cavanagh? That we would seek such total annihilation of another people?]
"Well, they're your enemies," Cavanagh pointed out, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. The expression in her eyes... and the worst part was that she was right. He'd done nothing less than accuse her and her people of planning genocide. An appalling insult to anyone, made all the worse by the fact that he'd done so without even a shred of evidence. Evidence, or even rational thought. "In my experience enemies generally seek each other's destruction," he added, a bit lamely.
[Such pride,] Klyveress said, her voice still soft. [Such very human pride. Do you truly believe that all the universe can be understood through the filter-glass of human experience and knowledge? That what you choose to believe must then carry the strength of truth for all time and all peoples?]
"I'm afraid that some humans do indeed act as if that's the case," Cavanagh conceded. "I don't consider myself among them. Tell me what filter-glass I am mistakenly using."
[You assume as do all humans,] Klyveress said, laying down her plate. [You see machines of war among the Yycromae and no such machines among the Mrach. From this you conclude that the Yycromae seek war and destruction.]
"And you do not?"
[We do not. Nor did we when humans first came to Kammis. Then, as now, we seek only to protect ourselves from destruction at the hands of the Mrach.]
At the hands of the Mrachanis? "I don't understand."
[The Mrach seek our subjugation,] Klyveress said. [As they seek the enslavement of all peoples. They use the manipulation of words and the twisting of emotions instead of machines of metal, and so you do not recognize their attacks. But they are no less real. Nor less potent.]
Cavanagh rubbed at the stubble on his cheek. Absurd, on the face of it... and yet, hadn't he only hours ago been wondering what on Earth had possessed him to fly all the way out here to Phormbi just because some Mrachani had suggested he do so? "Tell me more."
[What do you wish to know? The Mrach had been attacking Yycroman culture for eight years before we awoke to the threat and tried to counter it. But such were not our abilities. After four years more we were forced to the conclusion that we could stop their attacks only by destroying their ability to come to our worlds. We were preparing that strike when the humans found Kammis and intervened.]
"Why didn't you say anything about this then?" Cavanagh asked. "Or during the Pacification?"
[At first we believed you to be subjects of the Mrach. Even after we learned our mistake, we feared you were already too heavily under Mrach influence to listen to our words against them.] Klyveress's mouth opened slightly. [You yourself, Lord Cavanagh—did you not automatically assume the Yycromae sought to inflict mass destruction? What else could that be but years of Mrach twisting of your attitudes toward us?]
Cavanagh grimaced. "I see your point."
[Besides which, your misdirected solution was precisely in accordance with our own wishes,] Klyveress continued. [Your interdiction zone was intended to protect the Mrach and hierarchy of NorCoord from Yycroman aggression, but it also served to deny Mrach access to our worlds. In protecting them from us, you also protected us from them.]
"I see," Cavanagh nodded. A spin on the interdiction zone that he doubted anyone in the Peacekeepers had ever thought of. "That probably irritated the Mrachanis no end. I'm surprised they didn't try to get the interdiction lifted."
[And risk raising doubts about how dangerously threatened they were?] Klyveress hissed between her teeth. [Even Mrach powers of persuasion have their limits. They can make blue seem green; they cannot make white seem black. At any rate, they now had an abundance of interesting challenges stretched before them. Through the Commonwealth they had been introduced to other races and peoples, all of whom they could now seek to twist to their purposes.]
Cavanagh thought back to his years in Parliament, to the numerous times the Mrachanis had brought requests before the NorCoord government. A number of the petitions had been granted; others—many of the most important—had not. "I don't think they've succeeded in twisting humanity," Cavanagh said. "At least not completely."
[The Yycroman hierarchy would agree with you,] Klyveress said. [But do not think this due to cleverness or superior resistance. You have been saved only because of the multitude of human cultures that exist among you, each markedly different from all the others. To the Mrach such cultural anarchy is bitterly confusing. But they are patient warriors. If you permit them the necessary time, they will succeed.]
"They're obviously making progress elsewhere," Cavanagh said grimly. "I suppose this explains how they persuaded those Bhurtala to work for them back in Mig-Ka City."
[They have worked hard to learn control of the Bhurtala,] Klyveress agreed. [As haters of humans, the Bhurtala are strong potential allies to them. They have also breathed strongly on the flames of old Pawolian resentments, and sought to plant antihuman feelings in the Meert-ha and Djadar.]
"They've certainly got enough material to work with," Cavanagh agreed soberly. "Humanity hasn't always been the most enlightened or benign of neighbors."
[You have too often been tyrants,] Klyveress said bluntly. [The NorCoord hierarchy has too often served your own interests at the cost of the weaker among you, human and nonhuman both. Without the threat of Peacekeeper might, your pride and arrogance would long ago have driven others to violence against you.]
"Yes," Cavanagh murmured, wincing. To see ourselves as others see us... and it was not a pretty sight. He'd known there was a certain amount of resentment against NorCoord's leadership role, but he hadn't realized it was this deep or widespread.
He looked sharply at Klyveress, a sudden and discomfiting thought striking him. Fibbit, whose presence on the Mra-mig street had gotten them out here to Phormbi in the first place. "What about the Sanduuli?" he asked. "Are they under Mrach influence?"
[The Sanduuli?] Klyveress echoed. [For what reason would the Mrach bother with them?]
"Perhaps to use as lures," Cavanagh said. "It occurs to me that we wouldn't have been so easy for the Mrach to maneuver to Phormbi if we hadn't involved ourselves with Fibbit first."
[She is not a tool of the Mrach,] Klyveress assured him. [Or, rather, not in the way you imagine. I have looked into her case, and I do not believe she is more than she appears. The Mrach have lured several threaders such as she into similar entrapment on their worlds. Duulian threaders have an impressive natural ability to express and influence emotion in their work, an ability the Mrach hope can be learned from observation of threading techniques and added to their arsenal of weapons.]
"I see," Cavanagh said slowly. But if that was the case—if Fibbit wasn't simply a Mrach plant—then it followed that the human in her threading was still the key to something important. "Ci Yyatoor, how extensive is your Commonwealth database?"
[Very extensive. Why do you ask?]
"Fibbit was going to do another threading of the man we came here to find. If it's finished, I'd like you to scan it into your system and see if we can find out who he is."
[Those soon to arrive will surely have a more complete database,] Klyveress said. [Would it not serve you better to wait for them?]
Cavanagh frowned. "What do you mean?"
[The human ship that will soon reach orbit,] Klyveress said. [Their representatives will be here within the hour. Surely you were expecting their arrival.]
"No, I most certainly was not," Cavanagh said, feeling a stir of annoyance. The Cavatina was supposed to have gone directly to Dorcas, not come out here looking for him.
The annoyance evaporated. It couldn't be the Cavatina. Captain Teva hadn't known he was coming to Phormbi. "What kind of ship is it?" he asked carefully. "Civilian? Diplomatic?"
[It is a Peacekeeper warship,] Klyveress said. [Under the authority of a human named Taurin Lee.]
Taurin Lee. Of Bronski and Lee and early-morning hotel intrusions. Except that Bronski had been the one in charge on Mra-mig.
Or at least the one nominally in charge. "Did Mr. Lee give himself a title or rank?"
[He said only that he traveled under the authority of the NorCoord Parlimin Jacy VanDiver.]
Cavanagh's stomach tightened. VanDiver. He should have guessed. "Did he say why he was here?"
[To take you and your associates from Yycroman space,] Klyveress said, watching Cavanagh closely. [I do not understand, Lord Cavanagh. Is this not an ally of yours?]
"Not in the least," Cavanagh said, trying to think this through. "He works for one of those humans who seek to destroy their enemies. Or those he perceives to be enemies."
[Among whom are the Yycromae?]
Cavanagh thought about it. Yes, down deep VanDiver probably didn't think much of the Yycromae. He probably didn't think much of any nonhuman, for that matter. "Is Lee coming here to the steppes?"
[Yes. He insisted that you not be allowed to move or communicate from this spot until he arrives.]
"Then you're going to have to disperse those armed merchant ships before he gets here," Cavanagh said.
[Impossible,] Klyveress said. [The warship is already too close. It would easily detect so many movements.] She cocked her head. [I do not understand, Lord Cavanagh. Do you seek to help us against the Mrach?]
"At the moment I'm not interested in helping either of you," Cavanagh said bluntly. "You've presented me with a new perspective on what's been happening out here for the past twenty-five years, and I appreciate that. But I'm going to need time to think it through. What I want right now—what we all want right now—is to keep the Commonwealth from getting distracted with internal bickering while we've got the Conquerors breathing down our necks. That means no Yycroman attack on the Mrachanis, and no Peacekeeper sanctions against you."
[But we cannot risk the divisiveness of Mrach poison,] Klyveress protested.
"We're going to have to," Cavanagh said. "Right now the Conquerors require every bit of our attention."
He took a deep breath. It was unfair, really. He'd left politics six years ago; had left the military thirty years before that. None of this was supposed to be his job. But here he was, and he would just have to do the best he could. "We need to talk with Kolchin and Hill right away," he told Klyveress. "Pool what we know and come up with some ideas. And I want to find out once and for all who that man is in Fibbit's threading."
[I will give the orders.] Klyveress paused, her eyes boring into his face. [What will you say to Taurin Lee when he sees the armed merchant vessels outside?]
"I don't know," Cavanagh admitted. "But we've got an hour. We'll think of something."
"Clipper here, Maestro," Clipper's voice said in Aric's ear. "We're all set."
"Acknowledged," Quinn said. "Okay, Max, start your scan."
"Yes, Commander," the computer said. "Beginning sectoring pattern."
Aric took a deep breath, exhaled slowly against his faceplate, his eyes tracing the curved edge of the planet outside the Counterpunch's canopy as it cut a boundary between the dull metal of the fueler's hull above and the scattering of stars below. The first system they'd hit had been the worst: the nerve-racking wait in the close confines of the fighter cockpit, wondering when Quinn would kick the release and send them spinning out into combat with an enemy whose existence Aric wouldn't even know about until that instant. The second system hadn't been much better, but he'd permitted himself to hope that he was adapting.
He wasn't. Now, the third time around, he was just as nervous as he had been at the beginning. Sitting here in a Copperhead fighter, staring at the back of Quinn's helmet, he felt as out of place as he had as a child in his father's office, waiting for that last phone conversation or meeting of the day to be over. Beside him the Mindlink jack was a gaping reminder of just how out of place he was; the meager row of status lights beside it an even more pointed reminder that if and when that combat situation arose, he would be nothing but deadweight.
And topping it all was the fact that this was their midway point: the third system of the five the other Copperheads had agreed to help search. Three more blanks, and they would be returning to the Commonwealth, to face whatever charges Peacekeeper Command decided to throw at them.
And to abandon Pheylan to the Conquerors.
"Report, Commander," Max's voice cut into Aric's gloom. "I've located a substantial region of refined metal. Feeding location and specifications."
Aric felt his stomach tighten. Could this be it? "Where is it?" he asked.
"About a quarter of the way to the eastern horizon," Quinn said. "Looks too spread out to be a ship. Maybe a base or sections of a small city. Continue scan, Max—keep a sharp watch for vehicles. What do you think, Clipper?"
"Sounds worth taking a look at," Clipper said.
"Agreed. I'll take center; form up around me."
"Acknowledged. Let's go, gentlemen. Paladin, take point; Shrike, take portside flank. Harlequin, you're on high cover."
There was a jerk of released clamps, and the fueler bounced up and away as the Counterpunch dropped free. "What do you want me to do?" Aric asked, trying to keep the quavering out of his voice.
"Just sit back and enjoy the ride," Quinn said, his voice suddenly vague and distant as a small green light appeared on Aric's board. Quinn had engaged the Counterpunch's Mindlink. Together he and the fighter were now a single, living entity.
With Aric as little more than excess baggage. Grimacing, he hunched his shoulders inside his flight suit and settled down to sweat it out.
The minutes dragged by. The five ships reached atmosphere without provoking any response and started down, the fighters' wing and tail-line positions continually reconfiguring as they drove through increasingly thicker air. "Got visual," Paladin's voice came. "Looks like a city, all right. Or what's left of one."
"Battle damage?" Harlequin asked.
"Or just natural deterioration," Dazzler, Paladin's tail, put in. "Can't tell which from up here. It's definitely more ruins than city, though."
"Let's take a closer look," Quinn said. "Keep the formation loose."
More minutes dragged by. The Counterpunch passed through a layer of cirrus clouds, heading down toward rolling wooded hills below. In the distance to the left Aric could see the sparkle of sunlight on water—a river or the edge of a lake; he couldn't tell which—with a suggestion of taller hills on the horizon in the other direction. Ahead, the hills they were traveling over seemed to be giving way to a flatter terrain, the trees similarly giving way to a wide grassland. Far ahead he could see the sparkle of another body of water.
"Maestro, we're over the city," Dazzler reported. "Lots of broken stone and metal, but it's all scattered around through big patches of vegetation. Looks pretty old."
"What about the ground itself?" Quinn asked.
"No obvious pits or burn marks," Dazzler said. "If there was a battle here, it must have happened a long time ago. Wait a minute."
For a moment there was silence. "Interesting," Dazzler said at last. "What do you think, Maestro?"
"Interesting, indeed," Quinn said. "Worth a closer look. Bookmaker, how's the high ground look?"
"Still showing clear," Bookmaker said. "If there's anyone here, they don't seem to have noticed us."
"Max?"
"I concur, Commander," the computer replied. "Continuing scan, but so far I've found nothing but the city."
"Must have been some war," Aric murmured uneasily.
"Not necessarily," Quinn said. "The city could have been nothing more than a base. A first-stage colonization effort someone put in and then gave up on. Clipper, form up a screen; El Dorado and I are going in."
"What are we going in to see?" Aric asked as the Counterpunch rolled partway over and dropped toward the ground.
"It's some sort of odd pyramid thing," Quinn told him. "About three meters high, white with lots of black speckles across the surface." His helmet bobbed as he nodded. "It'll be coming up on our left. Take a look."
The side of the Counterpunch dipped again, and Aric looked out. There it was: a triangular shape of glistening white, looking garishly out of place among the darker oxidized metal and broken masonry and pale-green plants. The spots Quinn had mentioned were closely but irregularly spaced, starting about a third of the way up from the bottom. Aric looked at it, lifted his gaze farther out—"Is that a fence over there?" he asked.
"Where?"
"Out there—that thick dark line a couple hundred meters away." He peered forward over Quinn's helmet. "There—straight ahead now—there's a section of it."
"It's a fence, all right," Quinn acknowledged, pulling a sharp turn that threatened to leave Aric's stomach behind. "Close mesh, but it's not metal, Can't get a clear reading on what it is at this distance."
"Definitely looks like they're not encouraging visitors, anyway," Aric said, feeling a queasiness in his stomach that wasn't entirely due to Quinn's flying. "You suppose there might be other defenses?"
"Fair chance of that," Quinn conceded. "I'm not reading anything, but the sensors I've got aren't really designed for this sort of thing. It's your call—you want to just skip it?"
Aric grimaced. "No," he said. "It's the first lead we've had. We can't afford to pass it up. Let's go down."
"Okay," Quinn said. "Clipper, we're going in. Keep a sharp eye."
The Counterpunch swung back around toward the pyramid, its nose swinging up and then dropping again as Quinn switched to vertical landing mode and set them down. "I won't be long," he told Aric as the canopy slid back. "Stay put and keep watch."
"No," Aric said, punching his restraint release. "You stay here. I'll go."
Quinn twisted back around, a startled look on the part of his face Aric could see. "Mr. Cavanagh—"
"It's El Dorado here," Aric told him firmly, pulling himself up out of his seat and hoping sheer momentum would get him out of the fighter before he could change his mind. "And this isn't open to argument."
"It could be dangerous—"
"It sure could," Aric grunted. "And if there's trouble, whoever's out there is going to need backup. You can fly this thing. I can't. So I'm elected."
He dropped over the side of the fighter to the ground before Quinn could protest further, staggering a bit after the zero-gee of the past two days. Carefully, trying to watch every direction at once, he started toward the pyramid.
The ground was soft and uneven, with a large assortment of obstacles created by the half-hidden pieces of twisted metal and broken masonry. But no spears or snares or explosives kicked in. A nerve-racking but uneventful minute later, he had reached the pyramid.
It was, as Quinn had estimated, about three meters high, its surface a brilliantly reflective and unstained white. And as for the spots they'd seen—
"They're not spots," he said, peering closely at one of them. "They're holes. Squashed oval shape, about four centimeters across and two high and two or three deep."
"Odd sort of erosion pattern," Harlequin commented.
"More likely a shaped gunfire charge," Clipper suggested.
"It's neither," Aric told them. "For one thing, the holes are too smooth and too neatly shaped. For another, each one's got a little cover door built over it."
"A door?" Delphi echoed. "What kind of door?"
"A mesh of some kind," Aric said. "Extremely fine fibers, with a very tight weave. The material's shimmery, but I don't think it's metal. Could be spun glass, I suppose."
"You're right, it's not reading as metal," Quinn confirmed. "Neither is the pyramid itself."
"The final report on the Jutland attack indicated the Conquerors use little or no metal in their construction," Shrike pointed out.
"True," Clipper said. "Though that's hardly proof that this is a Conqueror construct. El Dorado, can you see through the mesh at all?"
"Quite well, actually," Aric said, moving around the pyramid and looking through the various doors. "Most of the holes seem to be empty. Wait a minute; here's one—" He frowned. Looked again. "With a thin slice of dried meat inside it."
"A what?" Paladin demanded.
"Well, that's what it looks like," Aric said. "A very thin slice off a small dried sausage, just lying there on the floor. Dark brown in color; about the diameter of my little finger." He glanced through several of the other doors. "There are a couple more like that, too. Most look pretty much the same, though the color varies a little. Wait; here's one slice that's a lot thicker than the others. Maybe three or four times as thick."
There was a long pause. Aric leaned close to the mesh covering that last hole, trying for a better look at the thing inside. Just like a slice of cured sausage, all right: dark brown with a hint of red, slightly wrinkled, looking old and dry. The breeze rustling through the trees grew louder for a moment, and he saw the sausage slice rock gently as an eddy current slipped through the mesh door. The breeze faded away....
And Aric stiffened. Without the wind whistling past his helmet, he could hear something now. Quiet and vague, almost at the edge of his imagination. But definitely there.
A long, wailing scream.
"How are the doors sealed?" Delphi asked.
Aric jumped, the other's voice somehow startling coming in on top of that distant scream. "Sorry. What?"
"I asked how the doors are sealed."
"Uh..." Aric prodded the edge of one with a gloved finger. The pyramid material itself was exceptionally slippery, he noted. "They seem pretty solid," he said. "They're hinged at the top, with some kind of locking catch at the bottom. You want me to try to open it?"
"I don't think that would be a good idea," Quinn warned. "Anyone who would put protective doors on something like that might have put in other defenses against tampering. Besides, we've still got a lot of ground to cover. Max? Anything new from up there?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," the computer answered. "I should point out, however, that the fueler's sensors haven't been designed for long-range detection of the sort of materials the Conquerors seem to favor."
"We're not much better down here," Quinn said. "You just keep watching the infrared and motion sensors. Come on back, El Dorado, and we'll get out of here."
"All right," Aric said, starting back toward the Counterpunch. "One other thing that might or might not be important. A minute ago, when everything else was very quiet, I thought I heard a faint scream."
"What sort of scream?" Clipper asked.
"I don't really know," Aric said. "Just your basic generic scream, really. If I had to guess, though, I'd say it sounded more like pain than anger."
He was at the top of the Counterpunch's flowmetal ladder before anyone spoke again. "You sure you didn't imagine it?" Quinn asked.
"I'm not sure, no," Aric admitted as he dropped into his seat. "But it sure sounded real at the time."
"None of the rest of us heard it," Clipper said. "But that doesn't mean anything, not with the cut-rate helmet mikes they've stuck us with these days."
"We can have Max scrub through the cockpit recordings when we get back to the fueler," Crackajack said. "Maybe he can dig something out."
"Maybe," Aric murmured, strapping in again. A scream of agony. Or maybe a chorus of screams—several of the niches had had sausage slices stashed away in them.
Stashed away... or locked away. Could the pyramid thing be a prison of some sort?
He snorted under his breath. A prison for sausage slices. Right. Clearly, there had to be a better explanation.
Only problem was, he couldn't think of one. The Counterpunch lurched back into the air. "Evaluation?" Quinn asked as he swung the nose away from the pyramid.
"I was afraid you'd ask me that," Aric said. "I don't have one. Nothing that makes any sense, anyway."
"Well, if it helps, you've got plenty of company," Quinn said. "I can't begin to think why anyone would put something out in the middle of nowhere like that."
"Unless it's some kind of warning," Aric said as an unpleasant thought suddenly occurred to him. "You know—that old barbarian technique of impaling your victims' heads on poles to warn off other enemies."
"You know anyone who makes war on sausages?" Bookmaker put in dryly.
"Besides, why go to the trouble of protecting something like that with mesh doors and a perimeter fence?" Crackajack added. "You want people to get close enough to see it."
"Point," Aric conceded with a sigh. "Where are we going to look next?"
"There's a large river about a hundred klicks to the east," Quinn said. "We'll start there."
"Commander, this is Max," the computer voice cut in. "I'm picking up a group of incoming tachyon wake-trails. Preliminary analysis indicates it to be two Conqueror ships."
Aric felt his heart skip a beat. "You sure?"
"The wake-trails match the baselines from the Jutland attack."
"Interesting timing," Clipper said. "Warrior's luck, Maestro. Max, what's their ETA?"
"Approximately two hours until mesh," Max said.
"Have you got a clear vector?"
"Assuming my baseline data is accurate, the vector is quite clear," Max assured him. "Sending to you now."
There was a moment of silence. Aric swallowed, looking up at the high clouds overhead. It was all right. They had two hours to get out of here before the Conquerors arrived.
Or two hours to find Pheylan. If this was, in fact, where he was being kept.
"Max, are you sure about this vector?" Delphi asked.
"Quite certain," the computer said. "Again, presuming the accuracy of my baseline information."
"What's wrong?" Aric asked.
"The vector makes no sense, that's what's wrong," Delphi said tartly. "There's not a system on that line for nearly a hundred fifty light-years."
Aric frowned. "That seems a little high."
"And nothing within ninety light-years inside a three-degree uncertainty cone," Crackajack added.
"Maybe they're coming from a station," Aric suggested hesitantly. "Something in deep space, between two solar systems."
"That doesn't make a lot of sense, either," Harlequin said.
"Maybe not to us," Dazzler reminded him. "These guys are aliens, remember?"
"Let's cut the chatter," Clipper cut them off. "Maestro, what's the plan?"
"We've got two hours," Quinn said. "We'll use the first one to continue our search. Wide spread, no overlap, and cover as much territory as you can. Harlequin, you join the pattern; I'll take over high cover for you."
"Delphi will feed you your vectors," Clipper said. "Let's get to it, gentlemen."
The final red light on the auxiliary board winked to green. "That's the last of the refuelings," Aric reported tightly. "How are you doing there?"
"All set," Quinn said from his seat at the fueler's main control board. "Ready to go as soon as Max gets all the numbers he can."
"Good," Aric said. He turned back to the fighter-status board, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. They'd reached the fueler with a good twenty minutes to spare, and he'd naturally assumed they'd be heading out as soon as the fighters were berthed. Plenty of time to avoid the potential nastiness of an encounter with the Conquerors.
Quinn had had other ideas. The incoming ships' heat-emission numbers, he'd pointed out, were likely to be the only clue they would get as to how far the ships had come. The fueler had the proper instruments to get those numbers, and Max had the proper programming to sift through and interpret them.
And so here they waited. Sitting ducks, waiting for the Conquerors to arrive. Hoping that the newcomers would mesh in close enough for them to get a good reading, but far enough away that they wouldn't spot, track, and summarily vaporize the fueler.
"I wonder if we should change our orbit again," Aric said, drifting over to hover at Quinn's shoulder. "Moving higher up in the gravity well would let us mesh out a little faster."
"We're fine right where we are," Quinn soothed him. "That last shift should get us to apogee just about the time they mesh in." He glanced up at Aric. "Look, relax, all right? Odds are they won't even know we're here until we're long gone. Max, any change in their vector?"
"No, Commander. Still as originally computed."
"Watch out for a shift right at the end," Quinn warned. "They might have a specific approach they like to come in on."
"Acknowledged," Max said. "They'll be meshing in in approximately one minute."
Aric looked at the display, and the hazy horizon of the planet beneath them. "What do we do if they come out on the far side of the planet?"
"We'll have to see what their orbit insertion looks like," Quinn said. He was holding the end of his Mindlink cable in his hand; with only a slight hesitation he plugged it into the jack beside the main display. "If it looks like they might come into Max's range within a couple of minutes, we'll probably hang around and try to get a reading. Get ready; here they come."
Aric held his breath, unconsciously bracing himself as he watched the displays. The timer counted down....
"Vector shift!" Quinn snapped. "Coming around toward us—"
And then, suddenly, there they were: two ships, milky-white, the same linked-hexagon configuration that the Jutland watchships' records had burned into Aric's memory. A little below them, falling into an orbit roughly parallel to theirs.
Barely two kilometers away.
"Quinn!" Aric barked. Practically right on top of them—!
Quinn didn't answer. Aric looked down at him, a hand reflexively coming up to point at the display.
He froze, finger still pointed at the board. Quinn was sitting motionlessly in his seat, his forehead creased with concentration, his eyes staring with a chilling blankness at the display and the Conqueror ships visible there.
And on the board beside the computer-link jack, two pale-green lights had come on.
Aric looked back at the display, a tingle of eerie unreality clouding over the surge of panic. The Conqueror ships were starting to rotate their edges toward the fueler, the Corvines in sight now as they darted toward the alien ships like angry hawks defending their nest. Deadly silent, deadly serious, deadly precise. Four fighters, one fueler, working now as a single unit.
Copperheads.
Out of the corner of his eye Aric saw a light flick on beneath the display—
And with a suddenness that made him jump, the display shimmered and the Conquerors and planet vanished. "Quinn! What—? Did we mesh out?"
For a half-dozen heartbeats there was no answer. Then, slowly, Quinn's eyes came back to focus. "Yes," he said, his voice sounding strange. "We got the readings we needed and left. No damage."
"Ah," Aric said, feeling oddly out of breath. "What about the Corvines?"
"Should be right with us," Quinn said. The two lights beneath the jack had gone out; reaching over, he pulled out the Mindlink cable. "We're doing a two-minute parallel jump."
"I see," Aric said. He'd seen people try parallel jumps on occasion, never with optimum results. The twin problems of timing and drift... but then, those pilots hadn't had Copperhead synchronization. "Did anyone get a static bomb off?"
"No," Quinn said, his voice a little grim. "There wasn't enough time. That's why we're just doing two minutes."
Aric looked at the display, now functioning as the fueler's main status board. "What happens if they track us?"
Quinn shrugged, pulling the other end of the cable out of the jack hidden under the hair beneath his right ear. "We fight, I guess. Don't worry, though—there's a good chance they won't be able to find us. Two minutes is considered optimum timing for the enemy to get a track on your wake-trail and mesh out after you. Since we'll be meshing in about that same time, they should wind up shooting right past us."
"That assumes they can't track a wake-trail while in stardrive," Aric pointed out. "Or that they won't wait that extra minute and notice that we've meshed in again."
Quinn shook his head. "Doubt it. So far their stardrive seems to work the same way as ours. It's unlikely their tracking system would work any differently."
"As unlikely as their meshing in only two kilometers away from us?"
For a moment Quinn was silent. "You're right," he conceded. He sat there another moment, then picked up the connector cable and reinserted it into the jack behind his ear. "Max, I want an immediate tactical scan as soon as we mesh in," he ordered, plugging in the other end of the cable.
"Yes, Commander."
One of the two green lights beside the jack came on. "Stand ready, El Dorado," Quinn said. "Here we go."
Once again the seconds counted down; and with another shimmer the stars were back. Holding his breath, Aric stared at the display. "I don't see them," he murmured. "The Corvines. Where are they?"
Silence. "Quinn?" Aric demanded. "Where are they?"
"There," Quinn said, relief evident in his voice. "There, and over there. Just had a little drift problem, that's all. They're on their way. Damage... not reading any."
"Great," Aric said, rubbing his hand across his forehead. It was like coming off one of those terrifying amusement-park gravity rides that he'd always hated. The kind Pheylan and Melinda had always tried to drag him onto when they were kids.
Unfortunately, this ride wasn't over yet. "What do we do if the Conquerors show up? Run for it?"
"Immediately," Quinn nodded. "Don't worry, the others all have the contingency rendezvous point. Max, how's the analysis on those ships coming?"
"It's finished, Commander," the computer said. "I'm afraid it's not going to be as useful as you hoped."
"They never are," Quinn said. "Let's hear it."
One of the side displays lit up with a false-color diagram of the two Conqueror ships. "Here are the raw data," Max said. "You'll see that aside from the beginnings of edge-effect dissipation, the infrared pattern is remarkably uniform. This implies either an extremely cool drive mechanism or else a highly efficient heat-redistribution system."
"Hull-based superconductors?" Aric suggested.
"That's one possibility," Max agreed. "Unfortunately, that uncertainty coupled with our lack of data on the hull material itself leaves us with a considerable margin of error for any distance calculation. It will be better than the Jutland was able to obtain, though, given the immediacy of these readings."
"Bottom line, Max," Quinn said. "Let's have it."
The false-color images were replaced by a star chart, with a vector marked in red. "I estimate the ships had traveled between twenty-five and seventy light-years," Max said.
Quinn snorted. "Twenty-five to seventy?" he echoed. "Why don't you make it an even zero to one billion while you're at it?"
"I'm sorry, Commander," Max said, sounding genuinely regretful. "Without better data that's the best I can do."
"I know," Quinn sighed. "Forget it."
Aric looked at the chart. Delphi's estimate had been right: there wasn't a single system on or near that line for nearly a hundred light-years. "It has to be a space station," he said. "That's the only way it can make any sense."
"I know," Quinn said. "I know. The problem..." He broke off, waving a hand helplessly at the chart.
Aric nodded, a hard knot of gloom settling into the pit of his stomach. To find a single deep-space station along a line forty-five light-years long... "It can't be done, can it?" he asked quietly.
"No," Quinn said. "There's not a chance in hell. Not if we had every ship in the Commonwealth to help us."
Aric looked at the red line. "So what do we do?"
Quinn looked up at him. "We go home, sir," he said. "There's nothing else we can do."
The control room was suddenly as silent as a tomb. Pheylan's tomb. "Not yet," Aric said. "We can't go yet. We can do two more systems—the others promised they'd help us search that many."
Quinn waved again at the chart. "Fine. Which two do you want?"
Aric shook his head. All those stars. Where even to think about beginning?
"It's over, Mr. Cavanagh," Quinn said into the silence. "We did everything we could. It wasn't enough. It's time to go home."
"You that eager to face trial?" Aric bit out.
"No," Quinn said. "I'm not eager to prepare for war, either. But we'll probably have to do both."
Aric grimaced. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean it that way."
For a minute Quinn was silent. "We need to release the others to go back," he said at last. "That was our agreement. But if you want to continue... I guess I'm willing to keep going. We could probably go another month on our own before we had to turn back."
"And where would we look?" Aric countered.
Quinn shrugged slightly. "Wherever you wanted."
Aric turned away from the chart, his mind churning with anger and frustration. But Quinn was right. They literally had no place to start looking. "No," he said. "You're right. There's nothing more we can do." He took a deep breath. "When do we leave?"
"The Corvines will be back here in about four hours if they stick with their current minimal-fuel course," Quinn said. "We'll get the fighters berthed and refueled and then head home. Either to Dorcas or straight on to Edo."
Aric nodded. The plan made sense, of course—they had no reason to hang around here once they'd made the decision to leave. But still... "Maybe we should all get some rest first," he said over his shoulder. "Could be the Conquerors just weren't able to track a tachyon wake-trail this short. They might be waiting for us to mesh out and start after us then."
"Not if we drop a static bomb first," Quinn pointed out.
"We could all still use some rest," Aric insisted. "All of us need it."
He could feel Quinn's gaze on the back of his head. "All right," the other said. "How much time do you want?"
Or in other words, how much time did he need to reconcile himself to abandoning Pheylan to the Conquerors. "Let's make it ten hours from now," Aric said. "That'll give everyone about six hours of sleep."
"Agreed," Quinn said.
Aric took a deep breath. So that was it. He had ten hours in which to pull a miracle out of a hat.
Or to find the courage to do what had to be done. And to say a final good-bye to his brother.
"All right," Melinda said, easing off the clamps that had been holding the Conqueror's torso open and dropping them back onto the tray. "That part's done. How are you holding up, Hobson?"
"I'm okay, ma'am," her assistant said from across the makeshift autopsy table. Words aside, he was looking a little green above his breather mask. "We almost done?"
"With this session, yes," Melinda assured him. "I'm going to have to scrounge up some specialized instruments before I can do anything with the cranium. We'll look at the tongue and then take a break."
"Yeah, I heard about that tongue," Hobson said darkly. "That's how that one iced Bremmer and Ranjithan."
"Yes," Melinda nodded, moving to the other end of the table and picking up a probe and clamp. "Open his mouth, will you? Carefully."
Hobson complied. Easing the probe under the tongue, Melinda lifted the tip out into the open and clamped it in place. "Interesting," she murmured, touching the edge.
"What are those things?" Hobson asked, leaning in for a closer look. "Look like little shark teeth."
"They're pieces of bone, I think," Melinda said, wiggling one of the dark-white triangles with her probe. "Fastened directly to the tongue muscle. Definitely sharp."
"How come they don't cut themselves?"
"They probably don't normally protrude quite this far out," Melinda said, picking up a scalpel and making a small incision between two of the bone teeth. "The muscle tissues have likely contracted somewhat over the past forty hours. Ah."
"What?" Hobson asked.
"Blood vessels," Melinda said, easing the incision open. "A fairly major set, right here at the edge."
Peripherally, she saw Hobson glance away. "Major Takara's coming," he said.
Melinda straightened and looked behind her. Takara was coming toward them through the deepening dusk, picking his way carefully around the boxes of equipment and supplies that had been piled beneath the wide rock overhang. "Major," she nodded as he stepped up to the plastic bubble of their makeshift autopsy room. "Anything from the biochem people?"
"Yes," Takara said, "and you can both relax. Turns out the Conquerors' genetic pattern isn't even remotely similar to ours. That apparently means that any viruses or bacteria associated with your subject there aren't going to have the slightest idea what to do with human body chemistry. Shouldn't be able to bother any of the native Dorcas ecosystem, either."
"And vice versa, I suppose?" Melinda asked.
"Right," Takara said, unsealing the bubble's flap door and stepping inside. "So much for any War of the Worlds scenarios we might have hoped for. How are you doing, Hobson?"
"I'm holding up, sir," Hobson said. "This isn't exactly my usual specialty, though."
"Consider it part of the exotic life your Peacekeeper recruiter promised you." Takara nodded at the Conqueror corpse on the table. "Looking at the tongue?"
"Yes," Melinda said. "And I think I know how he killed those two men." She touched one of the sharp bone fragments with her probe. "These bone teeth are attached to what seems to be a ridge of erectile tissue just beneath the tongue's surface. Normally, the tissue is soft and pliable, which lets the teeth float loosely. Keeps them from scratching or cutting anything in the inside of the mouth. When the tissue engorges, though, the teeth stiffen into place, turning into a sort of serrated knife along each edge. They might physically interlock, too, which would give the arrangement more structural strength. I'll have to poke around a little more to see if that's the case."
"Well, be careful while you do it," Takara warned. "The autopsy on Bremmer indicated there might have been some kind of poison in that wound. You at a break point here?"
"We could be," Melinda said, glancing past Takara's shoulder at the fading light past the overhang. Evening was coming, and they would have to quit soon anyway. "Do you need me somewhere else?"
"Colonel wants to see you in his office. Could take a while."
"All right," Melinda said, stripping off her gloves and breather mask and dropping them into the prep tray. "Hobson, can you get the body back into storage by yourself?"
"No problem, ma'am."
"And then get cleaned up and report to Lieutenant Gasperi in Command Three," Takara added. "Whenever you're ready, Doctor."
Holloway's "office"—a chair and computer desk in a corner of the tactical-equipment section of the overhang—was buzzing with activity when Melinda and Takara arrived. Holloway himself was standing in front of a map that had been fastened to the rough rock of the wall, holding a discussion with several of his men. Other Peacekeepers were moving back and forth between the desk and the other workstations, dropping off reports and picking up new orders. And off to one side, standing or sitting on the uneven floor, were a half-dozen tired-looking men in camouflage outfits.
The group by the map broke up. "Dr. Cavanagh," Holloway greeted her, stepping back to his desk and sitting down. "Sorry I can't offer you a chair, but we're a little short of furniture here. How's the dissection coming?"
"We've made a start," Melinda told him, stepping up to the desk and giving Holloway a quick once-over. He looked as tired as the men by the other wall. Maybe more so. "I've done a preliminary examination of the exterior and a closer study of the torso area. I need to do the head and the limbs, and then we'll move on to microscopic tissue studies."
"I see." Holloway picked up a small plastic sample box from the scattered electronic equipment and stacks of paper cluttering the desk and handed it to her. "Take a look. Tell me what you think."
Melinda took the box and looked through the lid. Inside, nestled in the palm of a camouflaged glove, was a thin, dark-brown disk, slightly curled at the edges. "It looks like a slice of sausage," she said. "Where did it come from?"
Holloway gestured to the camouflaged men. "Sergeant Janovetz?"
"We found it just north of the settlement," a raw-boned man near the middle of the group said. "In a little cubbyhole built into a sort of white pyramid thing the Conquerors have got set up on Overview Ridge."
Melinda frowned at Holloway. It had been barely two days since the Conquerors had invaded. "They're moving equipment in already?"
"They moved these in, anyway," Holloway said. "There appear to be four of them: one each north, south, east, and west of the settlement."
"Pretty good-sized, too," Janovetz said. "The one we saw was about three meters tall and a couple wide at the base, with probably a couple hundred of these cubbyholes cut into it."
"Some kind of defense station?" Melinda suggested. "Or a sensor array?"
"The positioning's right for either one," Holloway agreed. "Only problem is that the pyramids seem to be completely inert. No active or passive electronics, no power sources, no metal. Nothing." He nodded at the box. "Except those things."
Melinda looked into the box again. "How many were there?"
"There were four others in the cubbyholes we could see," Janovetz said. "Could have been more—we couldn't see into the top ones. Most of the holes were empty, though."
"Plenty of room for expansion, then," Melinda said.
"My thought exactly," Holloway nodded. "Means we'd better find out what the hell those things are. Preferably before the Conquerors get a whole shipment of them in."
"I understand," Melinda said. "I'll do what I can."
It was after midnight when she finally unsealed the flap door of the biochemical bubble and stepped wearily out into the dim nighttime lighting of the main medical ward. To her complete lack of surprise, Holloway was waiting there for her.
"Doctor," he murmured, getting up from where he'd been sitting against the rock wall and shutting off his plate. "Any progress?"
"Some," Melinda said, glancing at the rows of sleeping injured. Burn patients, most of them, victims of the Conquerors' laser weapons. "Can we talk somewhere else?" she whispered. "I don't want to wake them."
"Sure," Holloway whispered back. "This way."
He led her past the cots and the medic's duty station to the huge curtains that had been rigged at the edge of the rock overhang to keep light from leaking out. Holloway found an edge and a minute later they were outside in the cool mountain air. "What did you find out?" he asked.
"Not very much, I'm afraid," Melinda said. "It definitely follows the same genetic plan as the Conqueror tissue. But all that means is that it probably originated on the Conquerors' homeworld. The cellular structure is extremely tight-packed, which in humans might suggest either part of a sensory cluster or the central nervous system."
"Sensory cluster," Holloway murmured thoughtfully. "Maybe we were right about the pyramids being sensor stations."
"Maybe," Melinda nodded. "Again, that's what it might suggest in humans. We don't know what the Conquerors' patterns are like yet. One other thing: the cellular structure appears to be extremely uniform, with only the edge being made of a different material. Again, in terms of Earth biology that would suggest it's not an egg."
"Could it be a cutting or budding of some kind? I seem to remember that some plants and animals reproduce that way."
"Some do, yes," Melinda agreed. "Most of the ones we know about are fairly primitive, but that doesn't necessarily mean it can't occur in more advanced animals. I don't think the pyramids are Conqueror nurseries, though, if that's what you're getting at."
"Why not?"
"For one thing, I think I've got a good candidate for sexual organs in our Conqueror specimen," Melinda said. "If I'm right, it means they shouldn't reproduce via unisexual buds or slices or whatever. For another, why would anyone put a nursery out in the open like that? Especially in the middle of a war zone?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of an incubation site for one of the Conquerors' homeworld animals," Holloway said. "Something vicious that would help distract us from our fight against the Conquerors themselves. These things were pretty well protected—I don't think you heard, but each of the holes was covered by a little mesh door. Janovetz had to break a catch to get it open."
"No," Melinda said, suppressing a shiver. "I hadn't heard that."
Suppressed or not, Holloway noticed. "You cold?" he asked. "We could go somewhere else to talk."
"I'm all right," Melinda said, looking up at the stars and the thin clouds drifting across them. "I was just wondering whether it's safe to be out in the open like this."
"We're all right," Holloway assured her. "I don't think the Conquerors have anything that can still fly at the moment. Whatever their expertise at full line-ship combat, they don't seem nearly as adroit at this close-in planetary work. I'll have to thank your brother someday for his thoughtfulness in providing us with those Copperheads."
Melinda winced. "I'm sorry, Colonel. The idea was never to cause this much trouble for anyone."
"It's all right," he said. "I just hope they're able to find your brother Pheylan."
Melinda twisted around to stare at his silhouette. "How did—? Did the Copperheads tell you?"
"Actually, they were even more closemouthed about it than you were," Holloway said. "But it's been simmering in the back of my mind for a couple of days now. A private rescue mission into Conqueror space was the only halfway reasonable thing I could come up with. I assume from your reaction that I was right."
"Yes." Melinda looked up at the stars again. Wondering what their chances really were of finding Pheylan. Or whether he and Aric would both disappear into the darkness.
"You can't fight their part of the war for them," Holloway said quietly into the silence. "All you can do is try to handle your part, and let them be free to do theirs."
"That's easy for you to say," Melinda said.
"You think so?" he countered, his voice suddenly hard. "I have friends and family, too, you know. They're sitting in ships and ground stations all over Lyra and Pegasus Sectors, waiting for the Conquerors to attack. I can't do their worrying for them. Neither can you."
Melinda took a deep breath. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about," Holloway said, his voice calm again. "I've been in the Peacekeepers for twenty years now. It took me the first ten to learn how to let go. Anything else you can tell me about the sausage slice?"
"Not really," she said, forcing her mind away from Aric and Pheylan and back to the task at hand. "What I need to do now is run biochem tests on both the slice and the Conqueror body and do some comparisons. Do you suppose there's any chance of getting another slice, perhaps from one of the other pyramids? Or are the Conquerors protecting them too well?"
"Interesting you should bring that up," Holloway said. "Janovetz's team came under assault about three klicks out from the pyramid. It was his opinion that trying to get that close in again would be suicide unless we were willing to risk sending in some serious air cover, which I'm not. But I was looking over the recorder report just now, and I noticed that it was only on their way in toward the pyramid that the team encountered any real resistance. Once they were right there beside it, the attacks stopped."
"Sounds like the Conquerors didn't want to risk damage to the pyramid," Melinda suggested.
"I agree," Holloway nodded. "What's more curious is that the team was then also allowed to leave the pyramid without coming under any further fire."
Melinda frowned. "Are you sure about that?"
"It's right there in the recorder," Holloway said. "There were still bursts of laser fire chasing them away, but nothing that even came close."
"Seems odd," Melinda said, staring into the darkness. "Why would the Conquerors want to just let them go?"
"I come up with three possibilities," Holloway said. "One, the Conquerors didn't want anyone coming close to the settlement; two, they didn't care where we went as long as we didn't damage their pyramid; or three, they cared about both of the above but didn't want to risk damaging the sausage slice the team had appropriated. If Janovetz had tried going forward instead of turning back, we might have a better idea which it was. Too late now, of course."
"Yes." Melinda hesitated. "Colonel—no offense—but why are you telling me all this?"
"Mainly because you're not military," he said. "You've got an entirely different background and point of view, and that might let you see things the rest of us miss." He paused. "Besides, given that you're the one who brought it up, I thought you deserved to be kept up to date on the situation regarding the tectonic-monitoring station."
For a moment Melinda didn't understand what he was talking about. Then, suddenly, it all came back. "Is that what Janovetz was trying to get to?"
"It was one of their objectives," Holloway said. "They didn't get anywhere near it, though. And until that defense force Command promised us gets here, we're not going to get another shot at it. If the force gets here at all, of course."
So that was that. If the tectonic station was harboring one of the CIRCE components, it was likely going to stay buried awhile longer. Locked away from both NorCoord and the Conquerors. If they were lucky. "What happens if the Conquerors find it?"
Holloway shrugged. "In theory a single component's of no use to anyone. If there is one there and they get it, we wind up in stalemate mode."
For a minute they stood there in silence. "What do you think our chances are?" Melinda asked at last.
"Against the Conquerors?" Holloway shrugged again. "Probably going to depend on how well we can dig in for the long haul. Like I said, they don't seem all that good at ground fighting; and if they were going to nuke or fry us from orbit, you'd think they would have tried it by now."
Melinda thought back to that short battle after the Conquerors had shot down their aircar. "Maybe the Copperheads took them by surprise," she suggested.
"That could be part of it," Holloway agreed. "But if you add up what we've seen of their basic armament and tactics, you don't see anything very impressive. Especially for what one would expect to be their elite shock troops."
"Maybe we don't rate anything that elite," Melinda said, a shiver running up her back. "Maybe their shock troops are busy somewhere else. On one of the more important Commonwealth worlds."
"That's possible," Holloway said soberly. "If so, we could be a long time getting any help here."
Melinda blinked away sudden tears. Her father and brothers, all separated from each other... "But that's their part of the war," she said. "Right?"
"That's right," Holloway said. "Save your mental energy for our corner of it." He hesitated. "If it helps any, try remembering how well we did against them after they shot us down. If they were that badly prepared to deal with us, they ought to be completely out of their depth on Edo or Avon."
He twisted his wrist up, and Melinda caught the flicker of pale glow as he checked his watch. "Anyway, I've kept you out here too long already. What with the rest of the dissection and probably another round of surgery, your day's going to be as busy as mine."
Surgery... "Yes, it will," Melinda said mechanically as an odd thought suddenly occurred to her. Something half-remembered from her preliminary examination of the Conqueror corpse. "I'll try to have reports ready on both the slice and the Conqueror body by tomorrow evening."
"All right," Holloway said, finding the break in the curtain and guiding her through out of the darkness into the dim light of the medical ward. "You know where you're supposed to sleep?"
"Yes, I'm fine," she assured him. "I want to check something first, though."
"All right. Good night, Doctor."
"Good night."
The Peacekeeper engineers had rigged a storage box for the Conqueror corpse put of an empty transfer pod and the refrigeration unit from a spare Icefire engine. It had been set up in an out-of-the-way spot a few meters from the autopsy area. A dark out-of-the-way spot, unfortunately, a factor Melinda hadn't properly appreciated when she'd headed off on this little side trip. But it couldn't be helped. This section of the overhang area wasn't yet screened from view from the outside world, and Holloway had expressly forbidden lights here until it was. She would have to make do with the diffuse starlight filtering through the trees or forget the whole thing until morning.
But she reached the storage box without anything worse than minor damage to her toes and shins. Hobson had pushed the spare equipment cart right beside it, and with a little cautious feeling around she located a breather mask and fresh pair of gloves. Putting them on, she popped open the cover.
The Conqueror body was lying faceup on the metal slab the engineers had spot-welded into the pod. Easing the head over to face away from her, she ran a hand up the neck beneath the backward curve of the cranium. If she was remembering correctly...
And there it was: the telltale smoothness of scar tissue. A vertical incision, slightly off center, extending most of the way between the skull and the top of the bony ridge that topped the alien's spine. Smooth, very professionally done, about five centimeters long.
And just about the right size for the removal of something the diameter of that sausage slice.
Slowly, carefully, she returned the head to vertical and closed the cover of the storage box. It was ridiculous, she knew. Completely ridiculous. And yet...
Behind her mask she snorted. No; it was ridiculous. The Conquerors had sexual organs—surely they didn't reproduce by budding. And they certainly didn't reproduce in any way that required surgery to function. Turning away, she lifted her gloved hand to the seal on the breather mask—
And froze. There, no more than ten meters away, something was floating slowly through the air across the storage area. Something pale white in color, insubstantial in form, moving between the piles of boxes and equipment.
A ghost.
Against her cheek Melinda felt her hands begin to tremble, every ghost story Aric and Pheylan had inflicted on her as a child surging back in a bubbling flood of panic. She took an involuntary step backward, coming up short as the small of her back rammed into the cold storage box. The ghostly figure paused, seemed to turn its head toward her—
And with a flash of horror she saw that the face turned toward her was that of a Conqueror.
It vanished at that moment, disappearing instantly into nothingness. But it didn't matter. Melinda's scream was already on its way.
"I'm all right," she said, taking one last sip of hot liquid and handing the cup back to the medic. Her hand, she noticed, was still trembling slightly. "Thank you."
"You sure?" Holloway asked.
"Yes. I'm sorry, Colonel."
"It was a perfectly reasonable reaction," Holloway assured her. "I'd probably have emptied a full clip into it, myself. Is there anything else you can tell us about it?"
Melinda shook her head. "Not really. It was definitely there, definitely three-dimensional, and definitely a Conqueror. And definitely looked like something straight out of a ghost story."
Beside Holloway, Major Takara shook his head. "This doesn't make sense, Cass. Even begging the question of how they did it, why bother running a hologram into the base in the first place?"
"Maybe to shake us up," Holloway said. "Create a ruckus so they could get an idea of personnel and weapons placement by seeing how and where we react. If all it was was a hologram."
"What else could it have been?" Takara asked.
"I don't know," Holloway said. "But we're dealing with aliens and unknown technology. And a slice of something that Dr. Cavanagh suggested might be part of a sensory cluster."
Takara frowned at him. "You're not suggesting that sausage slice is part of a high-tech retrieval system, are you? With a hologram as the far end of it?"
"Yes, it's a ridiculous idea," Holloway nodded. "I agree. But Dr. Cavanagh said it was floating around the equipment dumps; and at this point I don't care about looking ridiculous. Have we got anything out here with half a chance of blocking whatever sensor system the Conquerors might be using?"
Takara already had his plate out. "Well, we could rig another pod like the one holding the body back there. But that wouldn't—wait a minute. Here we go: the darkroom."
"What's that?" Melinda asked.
"Electronics reconfiguration chamber," Holloway told her. "Multilayered steel, lead, soft iron, and a couple others. Designed to block out anything that might damage unshielded crystallines, up to and including a fair percentage of cosmic rays. That's perfect, Fuji. Get the slice moved over there right away."
"Got it," Takara said. "What about the body? You want that moved in there, too?"
"Yes," Holloway said. "Dr. Cavanagh can continue her dissection work in there tomorrow." He looked at her. "If you feel up to it by then."
"I'll be fine," she promised.
For a moment his eyes searched her face. "All right," he nodded. "But don't push it."
He glanced toward the overhang. "Chances are we're going to have plenty of time out here to get things done."
"So nice to see you again, Lord Cavanagh," Taurin Lee said, positively radiating self-satisfaction as he and his entourage passed between the silent male Yycroman guards and crossed to where Cavanagh and Klyveress sat waiting for them. "You know, I would have sworn you told Bronski you were going to be staying in Mig-Ka City."
"I changed my mind," Cavanagh said, glancing at each of the other six men now spreading out behind Lee. One of Bronski's men was among them—Garcia, if Cavanagh remembered his name correctly. Bronski himself was nowhere to be seen. "Shifting circumstances and all that. Speaking of Mr. Bronski, where is he?"
"I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind," Lee said. "You made quite a mess getting out of that hotel. The Mrachanis were absolutely furious."
"Given that they intended all along to maneuver me here, I hardly think they have any right to complain." Cavanagh caught Garcia's eye. "Garcia, where's Mr. Bronski?"
"I told you, Cavanagh—"
"He's out inspecting that little impromptu shipyard outside," Garcia said.
"Shut up, Garcia," Lee snapped, throwing the other a knife-edged look as he pulled a card from his tunic. "This is a NorCoord Parliament carte blanche, Lord Cavanagh," he identified it. "I'm in charge here. As I was on Mra-mig, if that matters to you."
"I see," Cavanagh nodded. He'd already figured that part out, but it was useful to know what authority Lee was operating under. "So what great leadership act are you here to perform?"
"For starters, I'm going to put you under arrest," Lee said. "You and your journalist friend both."
"You mean Ezer Sholom?"
Lee lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. "I thought you didn't know who he was."
"I didn't," Cavanagh said. "I identified him the same way you did: by scanning one of Fibbit's threadings of him into a computer. Did you take the time to read his complete record?"
"He was once a journalist," Lee said, looking at one of his men and nodding sharply toward Cavanagh. "That's all I need to know," he continued as the man stepped forward.
[What do you intend to do?] Klyveress asked.
"I intend to put him under arrest, Klyveress ci Yyatoor," Lee said as the man moved to Cavanagh's side. "Either he's already broken the Official Secrets Regulations or is intending to break them. Either way, that's adequate cause for a presumptive arrest."
[He is on Yycroman soil,] Klyveress pointed out. [Is he not bound therefore by Yycroman rather than NorCoord law?]
"If I were you, ci Yyatoor, I'd stay out of this," Lee said, his voice deadly quiet. "That shipyard out there is a serious and blatant violation of the Pacification treaty. Trying to defend Lord Cavanagh will simply buy you more trouble than you and the Yycroman Hierarchy are already in.
[Commonwealth interdiction forces have been withdrawn from Yycroman space,] Klyveress reminded him. [We thus lie undefended beneath the Conqueror threat. Would you have us sit idly by and allow our worlds to be destroyed?]
Lee snorted. "Do you really expect me to believe that's what all those ships are for?"
[Do you call me a liar?] Klyveress countered.
A couple of the other men seemed to wince. Lee either didn't notice or didn't care. "I call you a twister of the truth," he said bluntly. "I don't believe for a minute the Hierarch would be foolish enough to send barely armed merchant ships against an enemy like the Conquerors."
"What else do they have?" Cavanagh put in, watching Garcia. "The Commonwealth took all their real warships away from them."
Garcia's lip twitched. Not much, but enough to show he knew about the Yycroman warship out there.
A fact that apparently had been kept from his temporary boss. "Maybe the Hierarch will hire you to defend them before the NorCoord Parliament," Lee said sarcastically, no hint of Garcia's reaction registering on his face. "Otherwise, I suggest you start cooperating. Before I slap a charge of treason on top of the Official Secrets violations. Now, where's Sholom?"
"He's not here," Cavanagh said, feeling a ring of sweat beginning to collect beneath his collar. Treason. Did Lee know about the fueler he'd sent to Melinda? Or about the Peacekeeper fighters Aric and Quinn had borrowed?
Or could that even have fallen through right at the beginning? Were Melinda and Aric even now in custody, with Lee simply playing a spider's game with him? "I think he's still on Mra-mig, unless the Mrachanis have moved him. And there's a good chance he's in trouble."
"He sure is," Lee said grimly. "All right, let's go."
"No," Cavanagh shook his head. "I mean real trouble. If I could talk to Bronski—"
"I already told you I'm in charge," Lee cut him off. "Daschka, take him to the shuttle. We'll finish up here and—"
"There," Cavanagh said, pointing to the doorway as Bronski and two other men walked into the room. "Mr. Bronski, I need to speak to you. Immediately."
"You can talk to him aboard ship," Lee said. "What are you waiting for, Daschka? Get him moving."
"This can't wait," Cavanagh insisted as Daschka took his arm and levered him to his feet. "It's absolutely vital to Commonwealth security."
"Save it for your hearing," Lee said. Across the room, behind Lee's back, Garcia had stepped over to Bronski's side and was whispering in his ear. "Get him out of here, Daschka. And put him under communications quarantine—he's not to talk to anyone aboard ship without my permission. Now, as for you and the Hierarch, ci Yyatoor—"
"Just a minute," Bronski said.
Slowly, deliberately, Lee turned to look at him. "What did you say?" he demanded, his voice deadly.
"I said just a minute," Bronski told him. "I'd like to hear what Lord Cavanagh thinks is this vital to Commonwealth security."
"In private, Mr. Bronski," Cavanagh added. "For the moment I think this should be for your ears only."
"Cavanagh—"
"It's all right, Mr. Lee," Bronski cut him off. "There's nothing he can tell me I'm not cleared to hear. Where to?"
[There,] Klyveress said, gesturing toward one of the other doors leading from the main room of the suite. [It is private, and there is no other exit.]
The room was a small sleeping chamber, with a Yycroman bed pushed all the way to one wall and two human-sized chairs facing each other in the center. "Interesting," Bronski commented as Cavanagh sealed the door behind them. "Human chairs and everything. You and the ci Yyatoor had this already set up, didn't you?"
"As I said, this is something that needs to be discussed privately," Cavanagh said, taking one of the seats and gesturing Bronski to the other.
"What, with an assistant liaison from a small Commonwealth diplomatic outpost?" Bronski asked, pulling the chair a few centimeters back.
"No," Cavanagh said. "With a senior member of NorCoord Military Intelligence."
For a second Bronski seemed to freeze halfway down into the seat. "That's an interesting accusation," he commented, continuing the rest of the way down. "Totally ridiculous, of course."
"Of course," Cavanagh agreed. "All Commonwealth diplomatic personnel routinely carry concealed flechette pistols. Just in case they should happen to find themselves in an unexpected face-off with Bhurtala on a Mrach world. It was also just coincidence that your assistant Garcia happened to twitch a few minutes ago when I suggested all Yycroman warships had been taken away from them after the Pacification, which you and he know is not strictly accurate." He cocked an eyebrow. "And, of course, all Commonwealth diplomatic liaisons are issued with forged Mrach red cards. I'd guess that would make you—what? A colonel? Senior colonel?"
For a long moment Bronski just looked at him. "Brigadier," he said at last. "Let's hear about this threat to Commonwealth security."
"Ezer Sholom," Cavanagh said. "The man Fibbit made a threading of in Mig-Ka City. What do you know about him?"
Bronski shrugged. "Ezer Ronel Sholom. Born May twenty-second, 2234, in Crane City, Arcadia. Joined the StarNet News Service in 2257 and became one of the most popular journalists of his day. Covered the Pawolian war and guerrilla insurrections on Tal from the front lines and did daily analysis during the Yycroman Pacification. Wrote about a dozen books, did the lecture circuit, hobnobbed with the rich and famous. Retired about fifteen years ago to a small estate on Palisades."
"Is he still there?"
"It's still his official residence. Whether or not he's there at the moment I don't know. What's this about?"
"It's about a book he set out to write but which was never published," Cavanagh said. "I don't know if it's even in his file, but right after the Pawolian war he was appointed by the head of NorCoord Command to write the history of the CIRCE project. The official history, including everything that wasn't classified."
A muscle in Bronski's jaw seemed to tighten. "No, that wasn't in his file," he said. "I've never heard anything about it."
"As I said, it was never published," Cavanagh said. "It may not even have been completed. I seem to remember speculation at the time that the only reason he'd been given the assignment was that the whole Commonwealth was clamoring for information about CIRCE, and NorCoord wanted to shut them up. Once the noise had died down, someone high up in the government apparently decided to reclassify everything about CIRCE and stillbirthed the book. But Sholom had definitely made progress before that happened. He talked to my cleanup unit, and to the officers and crews of every snip that took part in that battle. I'm pretty sure he talked to the heads of NorCoord Command, too."
"So what are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting that in the course of his research, he might have learned something vitally important about CIRCE," Cavanagh said. "I think the Mrachanis know it and are trying to find out what that something is."
Bronski rubbed at his lower lip. "You really think a journalist could have figured out something that significant?"
"Sholom was sharp as a cross-saw," Cavanagh said. "He'd also spent a lot of time already with the military. He knew how they operated and how to read between the lines of what they said. And it wasn't until Fibbit started talking about him to me that the Mrachanis began to get nervous."
"Maybe," Bronski conceded. "If they are, I think they're shooting in the wrong barrel. Still, we can't have nonhumans kidnapping or leaning on Commonwealth citizens. All right, let's go find him. You're going to want to come along, I suppose?"
"Definitely," Cavanagh said.
"Fine," Bronski said, getting to his feet. "We can consider you under house arrest till we sort out whatever this Official Secrets stuff is Lee keeps ranting about."
Cavanagh stood up. "One other thing. What are you planning to do about that Yycroman shipyard out there?"
"I'm going to report it, of course," Bronski said. "They've broken the Pacification treaty. They have to be slapped down, and they have to be slapped down hard."
"What about the Conquerors?"
"What about them?" Bronski retorted. "You can't blink at treaty violations just because someone nastier is waiting over the next hill. Especially not from people like the Yycromae. Bad enough they were able to hide a couple of warships from us for twenty years—something like this proves they're out for blood again."
"We need all the fighting ships we can get right now," Cavanagh said. "And you can't seriously suggest the Yycromae should allow their worlds to stay undefended."
"You really believe self-defense is all they've got in mind?" Bronski countered.
"The ci Yyatoor has given me guarantees," Cavanagh said. "I can show them to you aboard ship."
Bronski's eyes narrowed. "Since when have you had authority to negotiate treaties and accept guarantees?"
"Since it became necessary for someone to do it," Cavanagh said. "And since I was the man on the spot."
Bronski snorted. "I'm sure that'll play real well with Lee and his boss. I'm starting to see why VanDiver wants your head on a plate."
"There are a lot of reasons," Cavanagh said. "Whether he gets it this time depends on whether you're willing to help me smooth the whole thing over."
"And why would I do that?"
Cavanagh shrugged. "Loyalty to the Peacekeepers, perhaps. The realization that opening a second front against the Yycromae would be a dangerous waste of resources."
Bronski snorted again. "Forget it," he said, stepping toward the door. "Come on, Jet's go find your journalist friend."
"Or," Cavanagh added, "perhaps the fact that, unlike the NorCoord Parliament, Military Intelligence has known about the Conquerors for the past six months."
Bronski froze, his hand still reaching for the door release. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about that contact between the Mrachanis and a Conqueror ship six months ago off their Mra-kahie mining world," Cavanagh told him. "The one where both sides took a quick look at the other and hightailed it for home. The Yycromae may not have much military left, but they still have an excellent intelligence service. Klyveress told me all about it."
"Well, salutes all around to Yycroman Intelligence," Bronski said. "Doesn't have anything to do with us."
Cavanagh shook his head. "Sorry, Brigadier, but that won't wash. By your own admission you, a senior officer, came charging personally all the way over from Mra-ect when word reached you that I was on Mra-mig asking about contacts with the Conquerors. As it happens, I was only looking for details of that two-hundred-year-old legend, but you didn't know that. And even if you had, you couldn't risk someone there spilling the rest of the soup to me."
"So why didn't I haul you in right then and there?" Bronski demanded.
"Because somewhere between the spaceport and my hotel suite Taurin Lee intercepted you," Cavanagh said. "He was nosing around on his own and must have decided that attaching himself to your party would be a good way to find out what I was up to. Does he know who you really are, by the way?"
Bronski's lip twisted. "No."
"I didn't think so," Cavanagh said. "And as a minor Commonwealth liaison, of course, you could hardly refuse to honor his carte blanche. Unfortunately, that meant you were going to have to confront me with a high-ranking parliamentary aide in the room. Your superiors hadn't bothered to inform the NorCoord Parliament about the Conquerors, so you couldn't tell him the real reason you were there; and you knew he wasn't likely to swallow the flimsy excuse you'd concocted about Fibbit and deportation orders. About all you could do was look around some, throw around a lot of weak bluster, and then leave, planning to come back later after you'd gotten rid of him to finish the job properly."
Bronski shook his head. "This is nonsense," he said. "Complete soap-bubble nonsense."
"Fine," Cavanagh said. "Let's go back to the main room, then, and ask Lee why Commonwealth Commerce suddenly decided to restrict the transfer of human technology six months ago. Or why during that same period Peacekeeper Command has been spending money like sand. A Parlimin like VanDiver would be most interested in learning how far they'd been left out of this."
"Be careful, Cavanagh," Bronski warned softly. "You're treading on very dangerous ground here."
Cavanagh sighed. "I have no interest in precipitating a governmental crisis, Brigadier," he said. "If I did, I'd have said all of this in Lee's presence in the first place. All I want is to sweep this Yycroman thing under the rug until we've dealt with the Conquerors."
Bronski chewed at his lip. "And just how do you suggest we do that? Walk away and pretend the shipyard doesn't exist?"
"Of course we can't do that," Cavanagh said. "What we'll have to do is invent a legitimate explanation for it. Create a secret agreement between the Peacekeepers and the Yycroman government, postdate some order—something along those lines."
"Put our professional necks on the block, in other words."
"Under the circumstances," Cavanagh reminded him quietly, "I think parliamentary investigations are likely to be the least of a Peacekeeper's worries."
Bronski grimaced. "I'll think about it," he said. "In the meantime we've got your journalist friend to find. Get your people together and let's get moving."
There was a breath of air from behind him, and Aric turned to see Quinn hovering in the control-room doorway. "Maestro," he said. "Good timing—I was just about to come and get you."
"I came by to remind you we'll be leaving in an hour," Quinn said, pulling on the doorjamb to propel himself across the room. "You found anything?"
"I think so, yes," Aric said. "A possibility, anyway. Max, put up that last display, with the red line and mark."
The star field he'd just been working on appeared on the display. "All right," he said as Quinn braked to a halt behind his chair. "The red mark is the system the Conquerors chased us out of a few hours ago. The red line is the vector they came in on."
"With nothing at the other end of it," Quinn said.
"Right," Aric said, holding up a finger. "Nothing at the other end; if you assume the Conquerors came in a straight line. Max: the green line and points."
Another line appeared, this one intersecting the red line at a not quite ninety-degree angle. "Let's assume instead that the Conquerors were originally on this green vector, and that they changed to the red line approximately seven light-years out from the system. Assume further that they were originally traveling between two systems, and that Max's estimate of twenty-five to seventy light-years is accurate. If you pivot all possible course segments around that point, it turns out there's only one pair of systems that meets those criteria. That's them, marked in green."
"Interesting," Quinn said. "Any particular reason why you picked seven light-years for the intersect point?"
Aric braced himself. "That's the distance a stardrive would take them," he said, "if someone on the planet called for help the same time we hit atmosphere."
He could feel Quinn's gaze. "You realize what you're saying," the other said at last. "You're suggesting that the Conquerors have a method of true interstellar communication."
"I'm aware of that," Aric said soberly. "I'm also aware that that's considered scientifically impossible. But it's the only way this makes any sense."
"They could have come from a deep space station."
"And meshed in practically on top of us?" Aric countered. "That wasn't just coincidence, Quinn—I ran the whole thing through Max earlier. If you hadn't made that last course adjustment to the fueler, they would have meshed in flanking us. They had to be getting concurrent data from the surface. Observational data, at the very least."
"So where was this observational data coming from?" Quinn asked. "These Conquerors who supposedly were screaming for help—where were they?"
"Maybe they were hiding somewhere," Aric said. "Possibly on the part of the planet we didn't get to." That scream he'd heard when he was standing beside the pyramid... "Or maybe they were right there in front of us."
"What, those sausage-slice things?" Quinn snorted. "That's ridiculous."
"Maybe," Aric agreed. "Being ridiculous doesn't mean it's not true."
"It's a wild-snipe chase," Quinn insisted. "Ninety-nine percent chance of that."
"I know," Aric said quietly. "But it's all we've got."
Quinn sighed. "Max, what do we have on those two systems?"
"The one closest to Commonwealth space is currently being claimed by the Mrachanis," Max said, "even though it lies more than fifteen light-years outside their generally recognized territorial sphere. They have a pilot mining operation on the second planet, which they've named Mra-kahie."
"What about the other one?"
"I have nothing but observatory data listed," Max said. "Spectral data indicates G2 class; planetary probabilities unknown but considered moderate. The system is seventy-one light-years from Dorcas and sixty-six light-years from the Jutland battle."
"How far away are we from it?"
"Twenty-eight light-years," Max said. "Fuel reserves are more than adequate for a trip there and back."
"How about if we have to fight a battle at the other end?" Quinn asked bluntly.
There was a slight pause. "They would still be adequate," Max said, "provided the battle lasted less than four hours."
"Yeah," Quinn muttered under his breath. "Well, with the Conquerors that's not likely to be a problem. All right, Max, go ahead and compute us a course. Something evasive, with four or five vector changes along the way to confuse their trackers. And don't use more than two of our static bombs."
"Yes, Commander." The red and green lines vanished from the display, to be replaced by a zigzag of yellow lines from their position to the target system. "The static bombs would be dropped at the blue marks," the computer added.
"Looks good," Quinn said, peering closely at it. "Go ahead and get us started."
"Yes, Commander."
Quinn shook his head. "I hope you're wrong about this," he said to Aric. "I really do. If the Conquerors have genuine tachyonic communication, then it's all over except for the shouting. The Commonwealth won't have a prayer."
Aric looked at the jagged yellow line, striking at the green mark like a frozen bolt of lightning. "Makes it that much more important that we find out now. One way or the other."
"I suppose," Quinn said. "Well... you'd better go get some rest. We've got another eleven hours to go, and you won't want to hit that system half-asleep. I'll let the others know about the change in plans."
"All right." Aric hesitated. "Quinn, maybe this is none of my business. But under the circumstances... why did you quit the Copperheads?"
There was a brief silence from behind him. "It's hard to explain," Quinn said at last. "Have you ever done any kind of computer linking?"
"I did gamer links a few times when I was in college," Aric said, turning to look at him. "That was an inductive type, of course, not an implant."
"It's not the implant itself," Quinn said. "At least, not directly. It's..." He paused. "You have to understand that the Copperhead Mindlink is absolutely unique. It feeds data to us at least a thousand times faster than any business computer-link ever created—probably ten thousand times faster than the best inductive gamer type. You're not getting just a game scenario or sheets of numbers and flow vectors when you link up this way. The data literally floods over you, running in over every sensory input your brain's got. You don't just see the combat—you feel and smell and taste it, too. Every image razor clear and razor sharp; every thought you have turned instantly into vectors and curves on a tactical overlay. You feel your team like an extension of your own mind and body, with their thoughts flowing in and complementing your own. It's like nothing else that mankind has ever created. Like nothing you could ever imagine."
"Sounds a little frightening."
"No." Quinn shook his head. "That's just the point, a point most of the Parlimins who questioned me never really understood. The problem wasn't that the programmers did their job poorly; the problem was that they did it too well. The Mindlink is a tremendous experience—exhilarating, challenging, and not the least bit frightening. There have been many computer links over the years that have claimed to be complete realities. This one genuinely is.
"And it was a reality that too many of my teammates didn't want to leave."
Aric looked at him, a shiver running through him. "You mean like an addiction?"
"I mean like a total withdrawal from reality," Quinn said bluntly. "They walked around offlink like ghosts. Just going through the motions of living, doing whatever they had to do so they could get out of this pale imitation of reality and back to the real thing. Some of them went so far as to steal wireless jack connectors so that they wouldn't have to face the real world at all."
His lip twitched. "Some of those never came back. Not even when the Mindlinks were forcibly taken away from them. They never came back."
Aric gazed at his face. At the lines of tension in his jaw... "You feel it too, don't you?" he said.
Quinn turned away. "All Copperheads do," he said. "And I'm convinced that it does damage to us every time we link up. But the Peacekeepers didn't want to give up the program. Neither did NorCoord." He shrugged fractionally. "They're screening the applicants better these days—we got that much out of Parliament at the hearings. Maybe it was enough. I don't know. I'm not sure I want to."
Aric grimaced. "I'm sorry. Sorry, too, for dragging you into this in the first place."
Quinn turned to face him again. "Don't be," he said, "I told you all this so you could try to understand, not so you'd waste time with sympathy. When lives are at stake, you do what you have to, whether it's personally comfortable for you or not." He cocked an eyebrow. "I doubt this was something you really wanted to do, either, if you want to get right down to it."
Aric shrugged. "It's not exactly the same situation."
"It all comes together in the end." Quinn looked up at the display. "Anyway. Now you know. Better go get some sleep. We could have a really busy day ahead of us."
With a start Pheylan woke up, a twisted and tortured dream evaporating in the dim nighttime lighting of his prison cell. For a moment he lay on his cot without moving, blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to figure out what had happened to shock him awake that way. In the room outside four Zhirrzh techs were puttering about as usual, the consoles with their gray-tone displays looking as normal as they ever got. The clock on one of them indicated it was just after dawn outside, at least if Pheylan was reading it correctly, an hour or two earlier than he was accustomed to waking up. There was no indication that any of the aliens had just come in, slamming a door behind him; nothing on the floor that would suggest someone had dropped something with a crash. From outside he could hear a distant, barely audible roar, growing fractionally louder as the vehicle circled around coming toward them.
Pheylan frowned. It was an odd sort of sound, now that he was concentrating on it. An aircar? No, more likely a spacecraft. One whose engines made an unusual sort of twittering drone.... And suddenly every muscle in Pheylan's body went rigid, his throat tightening as he strained to hear. Half-afraid he was imagining it... but there was no mistake. The sound was unique and unmistakable.
A Mrach ship.
With an effort Pheylan forced his muscles to relax, the hammering of his pulse abruptly loud in his ears. This was it. His best chance—maybe his only chance—of getting out of here. His training at the academy had included a unit on Mrach ships, instrumentation and flight technique both. If he could get to it, he would be out of here.
If he could get to it.
He lay there another minute, running through all the nebulous gambits and wild schemes he'd thought up in the past three weeks. None of them were all that terrific, but there was no time now to come up with anything better. Outside, the drone of the Mrach engines had fallen silent, and there was no way of knowing how long it would be before the ship took off again. It was now or most likely never.
Taking a deep breath, he propped himself up on one elbow. "Hey," he called plaintively, pointing to one of the techs as they all turned to look at him. "You. Go get Thrr-gilag. I don't feel well. I think I'm going to be sick."
The tech turned back to his console and began speaking quietly into the intercom. Pheylan stayed where he was, rubbing his stomach and making all the faces he'd learned to use on his mother when he wanted to stay home from school and his symptoms were only marginal. The Zhirrzh had learned a lot about humans from him, but there were one or two things that might still surprise them. And if it surprised them enough...
Half-hidden behind its console, the prep-room door swung open and Thrr-gilag stepped through. "Good day, Cavv-ana," he said. "You not well?"
"Not at all," Pheylan said, screwing up his face in agony. He had no idea whether or not Thrr-gilag could even read human body language, but this was no time to go half throttle. "Fact is, I'm bloody sick. You've got to let me get out into the sunlight right away."
"It only three days," Thrr-gilag reminded him, moving up to the glass wall and peering at him. "You without sun seven days before."
"I wasn't coming down sick with something then," Pheylan said.
"Why sunlight help?"
"Because it will," Pheylan said, suppressing a grimace. Clearly, Thrr-gilag wasn't going to give in for the performance alone. He was going to have to go all the way with this. "I know this sickness. It's common among humans—" He broke off, letting his face go stricken as he kicked off his blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Oh, God—here it comes."
He stood up, throwing a hand up the glass wall to steady himself. His other hand went to his mouth; and under cover of the motion he stuck his finger into his throat.
And vomited at the wall directly in front of Thrr-gilag.
The Zhirrzh jumped nearly a meter backward in a single leap, barking something startled sounding. The four techs scrambled into motion, two of them heading toward Pheylan's cell door, the others running toward the prep room. "They bring suit," Thrr-gilag told Pheylan, his voice noticeably higher pitched than usual. "What that happen, Cavv-ana?"
"Like I said, I'm sick," Pheylan said, weaving his way to the shower on trembling legs and starting to have some belated second thoughts about this. He'd expected the cramps that were twisting through his stomach muscles, but he hadn't counted on this sudden weakness that had hit his legs. If he wasn't ready to act when the time came, this wasn't going to work at all.
Still, he had a few minutes before it came to that. Turning on the shower full blast, he stepped halfway into the stall, shoving his face into the stream and spitting mouthful after mouthful of water onto the shower floor. "What this for?" he could hear Thrr-gilag shouting over the noise. "Cavv-ana? What this for?"
"I'm rinsing my mouth," Pheylan said, shutting off the water and stepping wearily out to lean against the side of the stall. Good; his legs were starting to settle down again. "These stomach juices are full of acid. Very bad for my skin and mouth. The vapors aren't good for my lungs, either. You've got to let me out of here."
From the prep room the two Zhirrzh techs reappeared and hurried toward the cell door, one with the obedience suit flapping in the breeze behind him, the other fumbling with the black trigger gadget Nzz-oonaz normally handled. One of the two techs at the cell door reached over to unlock it, stopping at a sharp word from Thrr-gilag. More instructions, and the Zhirrzh with the obedience suit stooped to stuff it through the dog flap. "You can put on?" Thrr-gilag asked Pheylan.
"I'll try," Pheylan said, straightening up and making his way across the cell. So much for doing this the easy way. He'd rather hoped that this startling new behavior from their pet human would have rattled Thrr-gilag enough to forget either the obedience suit or the standard procedure concerning it. Clearly, the other had more presence of mind than that.
Which just meant Pheylan would have to do this the hard way.
He got the obedience suit on as quickly as he dared, trying to balance the feigned weakness of his illness with the need to make his move before more Zhirrzh could be called in on the crisis. "All right," he said, leaning briefly against the doorjamb as they got the door open. "I'm—wait a minute," he interrupted himself, reaching again to his stomach. Turning around again, he stumbled back to the toilet and dropped on his knees in front of it.
There was even less available to come out this time around, and about all Pheylan got for his efforts was dry retching and another bout of cramped stomach muscles. But that was all right. All he really wanted was an excuse to get back into the shower... and by the time he staggered out again, the obedience suit with its wonderful water-wicking action was well and thoroughly soaked. "All right," he said, mopping his face uselessly with an already saturated sleeve as he returned to the waiting knot of nervous Zhirrzh. "Let's go. Before it happens again."
The sun was still mostly hidden behind the swaying tops of the gray-green trees as they emerged from the prison building. The air was cool, turning Pheylan's breath into little puffs of smoke and slicing through his wet jumpsuit like a set of sharpened icicles.
But he hardly noticed. There on the landing area, no more than a hundred meters away, was his ticket home. And arguably the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.
A Mrach Premra-class courier ship.
Or at least, what was left of one. The thing had gone through the wars, all right, or at least a typical Zhirrzh battle. The distinctive Mrach flowing-metal design was blackened and pitted, crisscrossed with bubbled-edge slashes that looked as if they'd cut completely through the outer hull before the interior sealant had caught up with the damage. Nearly all of the port-bow hull was missing completely, the gaping hole having been filled in by a rough white material that didn't look like anything the Mrach used. But the aft section looked relatively untouched, and it had clearly made it in through the atmosphere under its own power. On the near side a group of Zhirrzh had gathered together near the exit ramp, a scene reminiscent of his own arrival three weeks ago.
That could be trouble. If any of them were armed...
"It good?" Thrr-gilag asked from beside him.
Pheylan turned his face a few degrees away from the ship to face into the rising sun. "Yes, it should help," he said, shivering as a breeze intensified the chill soaking through his skin. "It'll take a few more minutes before I'll feel any effect."
Thrr-gilag was silent a moment. "It not work," he said.
Pheylan's heart seemed to seize up. "What do you mean?" he asked, a cold chill running through him that had nothing to do with the air temperature.
"I say it not work," Thrr-gilag repeated, his tongue sliding out to point at Pheylan's soaked jumpsuit. "You try damage with water. But it not damage."
Pheylan breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Thrr-gilag was smart, all right. But for once he was being smart in the wrong direction. "I'm not trying to damage the suit," he said, looking casually around. Three of the four techs who'd come out with them were standing around him about an arm's length away; the fourth, the one holding the obedience-suit trigger, was facing him from about twice that distance. Beyond them a pair of Zhirrzh had left the group by the Mrach ship and were heading toward him, those compact flashbulb guns of theirs hanging loosely in their hands.
It was now or never. Turning his back to the Zhirrzh with the trigger, Pheylan took a step away—
And suddenly his knees buckled beneath him, pitching him face first into the dirt with a thud. A thud, and a spray of water from the saturated jumpsuit.
A spray of water that turned the dirt where he'd landed into instant mud. Coating the entire front of his obedience suit... including the sensor disks embedded there.
Thrr-gilag made a strangled sound in his throat; but whether he thought his prisoner had hurt himself or whether he'd suddenly realized what had just happened Pheylan never knew. Before anyone could react further, Pheylan rolled onto his back, leaped to his feet, and charged at the Zhirrzh tech holding the obedience-suit trigger.
The other was backing desperately away, firing the trigger uselessly at him, as Pheylan caught up with him. With one hand he grabbed the Zhirrzh's arm, wrenching the trigger out of his grasp with the other and stuffing it down the front of the obedience suit. Yanking the alien toward him, he swung him bodily around, bent him over at the waist, and jammed his head and neck into a football-style grip between the magnet rings under his left armpit.
An instant later the other four Zhirrzh were on him, clutching at his arms and head as they tried to free their trapped comrade. But their thin arms and double-thumbed hands were no match for human musculature. Pheylan swung his shoulders and his prisoner at them, shaking and throwing them away from him.
All but one of them. Grabbing Thrr-gilag's arm, Pheylan swung the Zhirrzh into shield position in front of him. "Call them off," he snapped, releasing the arm and shifting quickly to a grip across Thrr-gilag's neck. "Those two Zhirrzh. Call them off or I'll break your neck."
"Not allow escape," Thrr-gilag said, his voice gone suddenly high-pitched. "Zhirrzh not allow escape."
"That's entirely up to you," Pheylan bit out. The two Zhirrzh were still coming, their flashbulb guns raised into firing position now. "But they either let me go or they kill me," he told Thrr-gilag. "Those are the only options they've got left." He gave the other's neck a sharp squeeze for emphasis. "And if they kill me, you two will go too. Your decision. Make it fast."
Clutching his two captives tightly against him, Pheylan started walking toward the Mrach ship. He had the full attention of that whole group now, and two gray sticks had joined the flashbulb guns that were pointed in his direction. Pheylan kept walking, feeling utterly naked behind Thrr-gilag and wishing now that the slightly taller Svv-selic hadn't been demoted from spokesman position. Holding the Zhirrzh tech upright instead of under his arm would give him a better shield; but the minute he did that, he'd be open to the spare obedience-suit trigger they undoubtedly had stashed away somewhere. This way they would have to sacrifice the tech if they wanted to stop him. He could only hope the tech had lots of friends here.
The two closest Zhirrzh guards had stopped, their flashbulb guns still targeting him. "Tell them to put their weapons down," Pheylan hissed to Thrr-gilag, looking slightly away from the weapons and keeping his right eye tightly closed. "Now."
Thrr-gilag took a deep breath. "Kasar!" he called.
And in reply both flashbulb guns went off together.
Pheylan stopped in his tracks, keeping a firm grip on his prisoners as he blinked hard against the double purple blob blocking the view from his left eye. It didn't seem as bad this time as it had been in his cell, possibly because he'd been looking away. Ahead, he could hear and dimly see the two Zhirrzh running toward him. He waited, shifting his balance onto his left leg; and as they reached him, he opened his right eye and kicked the lead Zhirrzh hard in the torso.
The alien hit the dirt like a dropped sack of cement, throwing a cloud of red dust into the air. The other Zhirrzh gasped something, swinging his flashbulb gun up again as he tried to brake to an emergency stop.
Neither effort proved successful. Pheylan's second kick caught him the same place as his partner, dropping him neatly to the ground beside him.
"That wasn't very smart," Pheylan said, giving Thrr-gilag's neck another squeeze. "I could have killed you right then, you know."
"I know."
"Good. Now let's try it again, shall we? And get it right this time. Otherwise I may have to kill you, this tech here, and all the rest of that group over there."
"The Zhirrzh right," Thrr-gilag said. "You predators."
"You're damn right we are," Pheylan agreed. "It's up to you what happens here. What's it going to be?"
He could feel Thrr-gilag take a deep breath. "Shalirr i crr'arrea mazzasprr akrr'trr i parrsavva crri," he called. "Parr've krrti."
Ahead, the gray sticks seemed to waver. "Krrti svvarr?" one of the Zhirrzh called.
"Parr've krrti," Thrr-gilag repeated.
They kept at it for another half-dozen exchanges. Pheylan resumed walking toward the ship, his right eye closed again in case they decided to try that stunt a second time. The three Zhirrzh who guarded the white pyramid had come out of their domes now, he saw, but they didn't seem to be making any move to come join in the festivities.
And then, to Pheylan's mild surprise, the weapons pointed at him lowered to the ground. "So what's the decision?" he demanded.
"You allowed to leave," Thrr-gilag said. "They agree."
Pheylan smiled grimly. Sure they did. He'd seen far too much of the Zhirrzh to believe that one for a minute. They had something up their sleeves, all right, something that would probably involve a brief fire fight in the upper atmosphere. But that was all right. Short odds or not, once in the air he would at least have a fighting chance.
The group by the Mrach ship had moved a respectful distance back by the time Pheylan and his two unwilling shields reached the landing ramp. "You leave us here?" Thrr-gilag asked as Pheylan awkwardly backed the three of them up the ramp and into the ship.
"That depends on whether I can find something to tie you up with," Pheylan said, glancing quickly both ways down the corridor. There was no one in sight. Sidling over to the hatchway control, he jabbed it with an elbow. The panel slid down; and as it did, he let go of the Zhirrzh tech and gave him a hard shove toward it. The other stumbled, off balance, and hit the ramp. Pheylan got a glimpse of him beginning to roll down it as the hatchway sealed.
"Lie down," Pheylan ordered Thrr-gilag, pushing him toward the floor. "On your face. Stay there or I'll break your neck."
Silently, Thrr-gilag obeyed. Keeping an eye on him, Pheylan stripped off the obedience suit and used the sleeves to tie Thrr-gilag's arms behind him. "All right," he said, hauling the Zhirrzh back to his feet. "Let's go."
The cockpit was at the end of the corridor. "Sit here," Pheylan ordered, pushing Thrr-gilag down into one of the seats and using the legs of the obedience suit to tie his legs together. The rising sun was shining brightly nearly straight ahead through the canopy, its light glittering off the edges of the strangely curved Mrach control panel.
A canopy, like his glass-walled cell, that the Zhirrzh lasers would be able to shoot through. But there was nothing Pheylan could do about that except try to get out of here before they got their sharpshooters into position. Mentally crossing his fingers, keeping his head down, he climbed into the control seat and keyed the engines.
They came on with a muffled roar. Pheylan studied the instruments, trying to dredge up that unit on Mrach ships from his memory. The injection feed control... there? Tentatively, he eased it forward, and as he did so the roar beneath him changed pitch and tone into the familiar twittering drone.
So far so good. Shift to preflight: check. Activate stardrive and run internal-operations monitor: check. Confirm Icefire ducts in lift position....
There was a faint sound behind him. Pheylan looked up, started to turn around—
And jerked back against the contoured cushions. Floating over the control-board displays, less than a meter in front of his face, was a full-size image of a Zhirrzh.
Pheylan gasped, the shock of it freezing his muscles as effectively as a jolt of electric current. Pale white, insubstantial yet sculpted in exquisite detail, the image hovered half in and half out of the cockpit like something from one of the ghost stories Aric had loved to tell as a child. The mouth moved, and as if from a great distance he could hear what sounded like Zhirrzh speech—
And then, abruptly, something jabbed like a hot needle into his right shoulder.
He spun around, the paralysis broken. Thrr-gilag stood at his side, his tongue just retracting again into his mouth, the part of the obedience suit that had restrained his legs hanging in tatters around his waist.
And on Pheylan's shoulder a drop of blood had appeared. "Damn!" he snarled, spinning out of the seat and grabbing for Thrr-gilag with both hands.
Or rather, trying to grab him. To his bewilderment his right arm had suddenly become inexplicably heavy. He tried again to force it upward; but even as it dropped limply to his side, he stumbled and dropped to his knees on the hard deck.
He barely felt the impact. His whole body was going numb... and in front of him Thrr-gilag's image was beginning to waver. "Damn," he murmured.
The image faded away... and with his last thought Pheylan wondered what death would be like.
And whether the men and women of the Kinshasa whom he'd failed would be there. And would be able to forgive him.
"There's no doubt at all, Commander," Max's voice said in Aric's ear. "I've run three different samples of neutrino and gamma emissions. There's definitely a Mrach ship down there. One moment: I'm now getting tachyon emissions. Most likely a stardrive self-monitor."
"A Mrach ship," Quinn murmured. "Interesting. Does he have lift yet?"
"No," Max said. "Engine emissions are still at preflight levels."
"Let me know the minute he goes up," Quinn said. "Clipper? What do you think?"
"Oh, we're going in, all right," Clipper said. "The only question is whether we go cold or risk letting Max fire up the active sensors first."
"They must know we're coming," Dazzler put in. "That last static bomb is still burning out there."
"Knowing we might be coming is a far cry from our setting off a flare in their faces," Clipper countered. "Max, have you spotted anything down there besides that cleared area?"
"Not so far," Max said. "I'm still searching. I do have a good scrub of the cleared area now."
"Pipe it down," Quinn said.
"How does it look?" Aric asked, staring at the half-darkened planetscape stretched out above them.
"There's not much there," Quinn told him. "Two linked-hexagon buildings that look a lot like the way the Conquerors build their ships. Three or four smaller structures in between them... make that a definite four structures. Looks like one of them might be another of your screaming pyramids. A good-sized landing strip, with one small ship on it. Mrach design, all right. The whole area's surrounded about a kilometer away by a fence. Could be some people around the ship, too—the compound's near the terminator line, and it looks like we've got some narrow shadows, but the fueler's telescope isn't good enough to resolve anything that small."
Aric clenched a hand into a fist. "So are we going down?"
"Commander, the Mrach ship has shut down its engines," Max said before Quinn could answer.
"Malfunction?" Clipper asked.
"Nothing I could detect from the emissions," Max said.
"Someone must have changed his mind," Bookmaker suggested.
"Or else they've spotted us," Clipper said.
"Our cue, either way," Quinn decided. "Combat code red; let's do it."
The clamps released with a jolt, and the fueler fell away above him; and suddenly Aric was jammed hard into his seat as Quinn threw full power to the drive. "How soon?" he called over the roar from behind him.
"Five minutes," Quinn called back. "Maybe less. Hold tough—it's going to get a little hot back there."
"I can handle it," Aric gritted. Already he could feel the air heating up around him as the Counterpunch sliced through the upper atmosphere at near-meteor speed. The drive was a violent roar in his ears, drowning out the pounding pulse he could feel but not hear. Directly ahead, past Quinn's helmet, the dark of space met the dark section of the planet, giving him nothing to look at but blackness; only later did it occur to him that Quinn would have deliberately chosen that vector so as to hit the Conqueror compound with the rising sun at their backs.
"Maestro, we've got visual," Dazzler's voice came suddenly. "A definite on aliens down there. A whole group of—"
"We're drawing fire," Paladin cut him off. "Medium-intensity lasers—probably light arms."
"Target and destroy," Quinn ordered. "All fighters, go to—"
"There he is!" Dazzler cut him off. "Maestro, we've got him!"
"Go to laser link, damn it," Quinn snapped. "All ships."
The voices went silent. "Quinn?" Aric murmured.
"It's him," Quinn confirmed tightly. "It's Commander Cavanagh. He's being carried out of the Mrach ship." He hesitated. "Looks like he's unconscious."
Aric's heart seemed to freeze. "Unconscious? Or dead?"
"We'll find out in thirty seconds," Quinn told him grimly. "Hang on; we're going in."
The Counterpunch dipped suddenly, throwing Aric into a half second's worth of free fall, then pulled into a tight turn with gee forces that left him gasping for breath. Above the roar of the engine he could hear the sputtering bursts of precision antipersonnel guns. Another surge of gee force as the Counterpunch's nose swung up—something slammed into the underside of the fighter as the engine roar suddenly cut back—
And above him the canopy slid back. "He's there to the right," Quinn shouted. "Get going."
Aric ripped off his helmet and scrambled up and over the cockpit side, throwing a quick look around as his feet found the top of the flowmetal ladder. Twenty meters away was the Mrach ship; ahead and to the right was one of the two complexes Quinn had mentioned. Overhead, three of the Corvines were screaming tight circles over the area, spitting death at anything that moved.
And lying sprawled on the ground five meters away was a naked human form.
Pheylan.
Later Aric would never fully remember the leap to the ground and the mad dash across the eye of the war zone, or the task of hoisting Pheylan up over his shoulder, or the even more formidable task getting the two of them up the ladder and into the cockpit. Only one solid memory would remain from those few seconds: the terrifying coldness of his brother's skin.
And then the canopy closed over them, and the Counterpunch was again clawing its way through the air. "How is he?" Quinn called.
"Not good," Aric gritted back, struggling to reach around Pheylan's legs to get to the small medical pouch behind Quinn's seat.
"Get the diagnostic band out of the medic pouch," Quinn said.
"I'm trying," Aric snapped back, finally getting the pouch open. His left arm was pinned beneath Pheylan's back, but the band was designed for one-handed operation, and a few seconds later he had it secured just above Pheylan's knee. "Okay," he said, plugging the lead into the jack beside the pouch. "Max?"
"Heartbeat is slow but regular," the computer reported. "Blood pressure and nerve function are similarly low."
"What's wrong with him?" Aric asked.
"Unknown as yet," Max said. "There are several unidentified factors in his blood, but some are undoubtedly from alien foodstuffs. One moment. Indication of a mild poison in his bloodstream."
Aric looked down at Pheylan's right shoulder, and the slow oozing of blood from a small puncture wound there. "I can see the injection point," he said. "Should I try the snakebite technique?"
There was a short pause. With his free hand Aric dug through the medic pouch, searching for a knife or field scalpel or something else sharp and wishing desperately that Melinda were here instead of him. If it came to deliberately cutting into his brother's skin, even to save his life—
"That won't be necessary," Max said, relief evident in his voice. "His vital signs have bottomed out and are beginning to come back. Is there a general stimulant injector in the kit?"
"It's the bright-orange one," Quinn said. "You know how to use it?"
"Yes," Aric breathed, pulling out the orange injector and popping off its cover.
"Start with one dosage," Max said. "We'll see how it goes from there."
"Right." Pressing the flat edge of the injector against Pheylan's skin, Aric touched the trigger. "Any change?"
"One moment," Max said. "Yes, it's definitely helping. I believe he's out of danger, at least for the moment."
"We can do a more complete check when we get back to the fueler," Quinn added. "Might as well get some use out of that miniature pharmacy your sister stuffed aboard."
Wrapping his arms around his brother, Aric hugged him as he hadn't since childhood. They'd done it. They'd really done it. "Thank you, Quinn," he said quietly, his eyes filling with tears. "And all of you."
"Our pleasure," Quinn said. "Let's go home."
"We've decided to head directly for Edo," Aric said, hovering in the doorway. "Dorcas and the Mrach worlds are closer, but Quinn thinks that Colonel Holloway might still be too mad at us to listen before he threw us all into the stockade."
"Probably wouldn't be able to do anything even if he wanted to," Pheylan said, taking a sip of coffee—real, genuine Earth coffee—from his squeeze bottle. "Not unless Command's reassigned some warships to the region."
"True," Aric agreed. "They hadn't as of four days ago, anyway. And under the circumstances, none of us liked the idea of taking any of this into Mrach space."
"Can't say I blame you," Pheylan said. "Though I have to point out that the whole idea is probably a waste of time. Even if Command authorizes an expeditionary force to go back there, we're talking a good eighty hours of transit time, plus whatever it takes to throw the force together. Plenty of time for the Zhirrzh to pack up shop and clear out."
"Quinn knows that," Aric said. "There might still be some rubble left worth sifting through."
"Maybe. Might be a pleasant diversion from court-martial paperwork for them, anyway."
"Thanks for the reminder," Aric said, making a face at him. "I trust you'll be able to find time during your busy debriefing schedule to come by as character witness for the defense."
"Don't worry," Pheylan promised. "Trust me—I'll lay 'em dead in the aisles."
Aric's smile faded. "You were lucky," he said quietly. "You know that, don't you? They should have killed you the second they knew we were coming. All I can figure is that they thought they'd already finished you off."
Pheylan sipped again at his coffee, freshly aware of the dull throbbing in his shoulder where Thrr-gilag had stabbed him. There was sense in that, of course. He'd learned a lot about the Zhirrzh during his captivity; surely they wouldn't have wanted him rescued to take all that information back.
And yet... "No," he said slowly. "I don't think Thrr-gilag was trying to kill me. You haven't seen those tongues of theirs, Aric—damn things work like gutting knives. He could have ripped me clear to the bone and dumped in enough of that poison to kill me where I sat. Or skipped the poison routine entirely and just sliced my throat."
Aric shivered. "Maybe."
"No maybes about it," Pheylan told him. "He had to have been just trying to knock me out so they could haul me back to my cell. With that hologram sent in to distract me while he sliced up the obedience suit and took his shot."
"Must have been one impressive hologram," Aric said. "That still doesn't explain why he didn't change his mind when Paladin came roaring in over the trees at them."
Or why he or the Zhirrzh tech hadn't attacked long before they reached the Mrach ship, come to think of it. Had they been afraid Pheylan would be quick enough to break their necks before he succumbed to the poison? "Maybe he didn't have time," Pheylan said. "Maybe he panicked. Or maybe..."
"What?"
"It's a long shot," Pheylan said. "A real long shot. But maybe those little seeds of uncertainty I tried to plant in Thrr-gilag were finally starting to take root. Maybe he'd started to wonder if his leaders had lied about what happened at the Jutland battle."
"I suppose that's possible," Aric said doubtfully. "But I wouldn't count very hard on it if I were you. You're asking him to take the word of an alien over his own people."
"He was thinking about it," Pheylan insisted. "He really was. He'll check into it."
"Maybe." Aric rubbed his cheek. "Speaking of aliens, you have any thoughts about that Mrach courier ship?"
"Not really," Pheylan shook his head. "The most likely possibility is that they ran into it at that mining world you mentioned, shot it out of the sky, and took it home as a souvenir."
"Figuring out how to fly it en route?"
"It would have been a little tricky," Pheylan conceded. "But on the other hand, I was outside pretty soon after it landed and never saw any actual Mrachanis." He shrugged. "Though on the other hand, the Zhirrzh could have just gotten them inside quickly."
"That's what I like about you, Pheylan: you always keep things clear-cut," Aric said dryly. "Well, at least that one's not our problem."
"Just as well," Pheylan said, setting his squeeze bottle on its patch and adjusting the straps on his sleep pad. "We're going to have enough on our hands just getting you, Dad, Quinn, and Melinda out from under all this."
"Not a problem," Aric assured him, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "Quinn and I are heroes now, you know, and you can't jail your heroes. And with Dad's connections, he and Melinda are probably already back home wondering what's taking us so long."
"I hope you're right," Pheylan said.
"Of course I'm right," Aric soothed him. "Besides, medical types with Melinda's credentials are far too valuable to lock away somewhere." Reaching into the room, he switched off the light. "Anyway. Max says you should get some rest. War may be looming on the horizon, but that's no reason we shouldn't catch up on our sleep."
Pheylan reached up to rub his sore shoulder. "If the war hasn't already started," he said quietly. "It wasn't more than three days ago that Thrr-gilag was asking some rather insistent questions about the Copperheads."
Aric grimaced. "Well... if it's started, it's started. We'll know one way or another soon enough. You just get your rest. For the moment, anyway, the Cavanaghs are out of it."
They found Ezer Sholom buried away in a surprisingly elegant apartment in an otherwise nondescript part of Mig-Ka City, barely five blocks from the run-down apartment house where Fibbit had been living.
Buried away, looking frail and old. And barely breathing.
"What's happened to him?" Cavanagh asked as one of Bronski's men wrapped the diagnostic band of a Peacekeeper medic box around his wrist.
"I don't know," Bronski said, sniffing the air suspiciously as he looked around the room. "Stress, maybe. Old age." He glanced around, gestured to one of his men. "Daschka, I want you to start checking out the area. All the bordering apartments, likely outside spots for bouncer setups—you know the routine. Leave Cho Ming on the door; you can take everyone else. You find any Mrachanis hanging around, you put 'em under detention—my authority and to hell with any diplomatic niceties."
"Right," Daschka nodded. "You heard him, gentlemen. Let's go."
He left, taking the rest of Bronski's squad with him.
"What are they looking for?" Cavanagh asked, taking a couple of experimental sniffs of his own. He couldn't smell anything.
"There's a smell in here that could be the residue from a hypnotic inducer," Kolchin told him. "If the Mrachanis were in a hurry to get information out of Sholom, they might have used something like that."
"Or abused something like that," Bronski growled. "Hypnotics are tricky to handle, and I doubt the Mrachanis have had much practice using them on humans."
"You might be surprised," Cavanagh said. He looked over at Lee, glowering out one of the windows. "Certainly seems to have been worth the effort to come find him."
Lee didn't reply. He hadn't said much at all since Bronski had pulled rank on him and taken them off Phormbi sixteen hours ago. "Well, they were certainly treating him like peerage otherwise," Bronski commented, glancing around the apartment. "We're definitely going to want to backtrack this. Find out when and how they got him to move in here."
"Sir, I've got a positive on a foreign substance in his bloodstream," the man crouched over Sholom said. "You were right on the nose: it reads out as a hypnotic. The box is mixing up a counteractive—he should be all right in a few minutes."
"Good job, Eisen," Bronski said. "Stay with him."
"Yes, sir."
There was a movement across the apartment, and Cavanagh turned to see Bronski's man Garcia come in. One look at his face—
"What is it?" Bronski asked.
"You asked me to go pull the Peacekeeper file from the last skitter into Mra-mig," Garcia said, his voice as grim as his face. "I didn't think this was something I should put across the phone system. Seems the Conquerors have hit Dorcas, Kalevala, and Massif."
Bronski's lip twitched. "Confirmed?"
"We've got two confirmations on the Dorcas attack: one from a man named McPhee from Parlimin VanDiver's staff, the other from the captain of Lord Cavanagh's private yacht. No information yet as to damage or situation. The Massif and Kalevala hits have yet to be confirmed. Command is sending task forces to check things out."
"Yeah," Bronski growled. "Well, it's started."
"Yes, sir." Garcia looked at Cavanagh. "One other interesting bit of information in that packet: Lord Cavanagh's son and daughter have been charged with grand theft of Peacekeeper property."
"I knew it," Lee snapped, turning away from the window. "I told you he was dirty, Bronski—I told you a hundred times. But you wouldn't listen."
"Shut up, Lee," Bronski said. "The report say whether the son and daughter are in custody?"
"The son isn't," Garcia said. "He's off somewhere with some stolen Peacekeeper fighters—there weren't any other details. The daughter is in detention on Dorcas."
Cavanagh's chest tightened. "On Dorcas?" he demanded. "You just said Dorcas was under attack."
Garcia shrugged. "Apparently, this VanDiver aide was supposed to take her out, but at the last minute the local commander decided to keep her there. That's all we know."
"Probably all we're going to know for a while, too," Bronski said. "All right. Daschka's out looking for whatever surveillance post the Mrachanis had set up here. Go give him a hand."
"Yes, sir." Turning, Garcia left the apartment.
"We have to get out there right away," Cavanagh said quietly to Kolchin as Garcia left the apartment. "Call Hill—tell him to charter us a ship. We'll need to get to Avon, connect back up with the Cavatina, and get out to Dorcas."
He'd been talking quietly. Apparently, not quietly enough. "Don't even think it, Cavanagh," Bronski said, looking over at him. "You're not going anywhere until we get all this straightened out."
"Brigadier, my daughter's in a war zone."
"And you're especially not going into a war zone," Bronski added. His lip twisted, a glimmer of sympathy edging through the professional cast-metal set of his face. "Look, I know how you feel. But the last thing we need is a civilian spinning around getting in the way. Let the professionals deal with it, all right? They'll get an attack fleet there; NorCoord will put CIRCE back together—"
"CIRCE," a weak voice murmured.
They all looked down at the old man lying on the floor. "Mr. Sholom?" Bronski said, dropping to one knee beside him". "I'm Brigadier Petr Bronski of NorCoord Military Intelligence. How are you feeling?"
"Absolutely wonderful," Sholom said, a dreamy smile creasing his face. "I'm floating where no one has ever seen."
"Yeah," Bronski said. "Well, it'll wear off soon enough. Anyway, you're safe now."
Sholom's smile turned bittersweet. "Safe, you say? Safe? No. It's all false, sir—all of it. No one is safe. The Conquerors are coming."
Bronski frowned at Eisen. "What is all this?"
"Residual effects of the hypnotic," Eisen told him. "I've seen this before. There'll be a few minutes of it while he comes back up out of the overdose."
"Okay. It's all right, Mr. Sholom. You'll be all right in a minute."
"Will I?" Sholom countered. "Will I really?" He shook his head. "None of us are going to be safe, Brigadier Bronski. Not from the Conquerors; not from anyone. I know, you see," he said, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "I figured it out. No one knew that I had; but I did. And I never told anyone. It was a fluke of nature, you see. A million-to-one coincidence. Maybe even a billion to one. But NorCoord was clever. Or maybe just desperate. Or maybe just too proud to pass up the chance. They took what happened and ran with it. Came up with a soap-bubble explanation and name and a way to use it. And it worked. It ended the war."
Bronski looked at Eisen again, got a puzzled shrug in return. "I don't understand," he said to Sholom. "What are you talking about?"
"Celadon, of course," Sholom said quietly. Suddenly the dreaminess was gone from his face; and in its place was the same guilt-tinged fear that Cavanagh had seen in Fibbit's threading of him. "It was the surge from a massive solar flare. That's all it was. Coming up just as the Pawolian ships sprung their trap. It came up behind them, you see, just as they left the protective cover of the planetary umbra. They couldn't see it coming, of course—they were in the umbra. A million-to-one coincidence. Maybe a billion to one."
"Sir?" Eisen put in urgently, jerking his head toward Cavanagh. "I don't think civilians should be hearing this."
"It's all right," Bronski said, his voice grim. "Anyway, it's already too late. Go on, Mr. Sholom. What happened then?"
Sholom's lip twisted. "What do you mean, what happened then? It killed them, of course, that's what happened then. All that radiation surged right up through the drive nozzles where there weren't any dipole protection fields. And then it just bounced around inside the ships. Focused and concentrated by all that superdense metal and liquid reflectors that were there to keep radiation out." He gazed out at nothing. "Bounced around until it killed them."
Bronski's face was that of a man walking through a graveyard at midnight. "Are you saying," he asked quietly, "that CIRCE doesn't exist?"
Sholom shook his head. "It doesn't. It never did. I figured it out, you see. I wondered why no one had even heard of something like that being in development until it was announced after Celadon. It was because there was never anything. I figured it out. But I didn't say anything."
"Why not?" Cavanagh asked.
Sholom shook his head again, his eyes filling with tears. "It was keeping the peace; don't you see? It was the threat of CIRCE that kept the Pawoles from fighting. It kept the Yycromae from fighting. It kept everyone from fighting."
"It's not going to keep the Conquerors from fighting," Kolchin said.
Sholom closed his eyes. "I know," he murmured. "I know. Perhaps NorCoord should have admitted it a long time ago. Such pride, to think they could use a myth to ensure peace. Such foolish, foolish pride..."
He trailed off, and for a long minute the room was silent. Cavanagh stared at the old man, the pounding of his heart like the sound of the universe crashing down around him. CIRCE had given him his life once, ending a war that might otherwise have killed him. Later it had given him hours of fear as he waited for it to begin the series of wars that would rip the Commonwealth apart and burn civilization down to ash. And then, three weeks ago, it had once again given him hope. Hope, this time, that the unstoppable Conquerors could in fact be stopped.
And none of it had been real. None of it.
Bronski took a deep breath. "Is he stable yet? Eisen?"
Eisen's eyes seemed to come back from a long way away. "Yes, sir, he'll be fine," he said, the words coming out with difficulty.
"All right," Bronski said. "Everyone in this room is hereby remanded to full quarantine confinement. Get that strap off him—"
"Wait a minute," Lee cut him off as Eisen set to work on the medic box. "You can't lock us up like junior officers, Brigadier. As a member of Parlimin VanDiver's staff—"
"Shut it down, Lee," Bronski advised him. "At the moment I don't care a Meert's moltings who or what you are. You're going into quarantine until I can find out whether any of this is true. And what the hell we do if it is."
"There'll be records," Cavanagh murmured. "Radiation records from the NorCoord ships at the battle. Brigadier, what about my daughter? I cant just sit back and do nothing when she's in danger like this."
"I'm sorry, Lord Cavanagh, but I've got no choice," Bronski gritted. "And to be perfectly honest, after that little private talk of ours on Phormbi, you were for the lockbox anyway. Eisen, go out and get Cho Ming off the door."
"Yes, sir," Eisen said, getting up and heading for the door.
"You're making a serious mistake, Brigadier," Lee said, biting out each word. "You can't make a parliamentary aide simply disappear."
"I can and I—damn!" Abruptly, Bronski grabbed for the inside of his jacket—
And froze there, his face stiff and unreadable, his eyes focused on something over Cavanagh's shoulder. Chest tightening again, Cavanagh turned to look.
Kolchin was standing there quietly, Eisen's limp form on the floor at his feet, Eisen's flechette gun in his hand. Pointed at Bronski. "Nice and slow, Brigadier," he advised. "Pull your hand out. Empty."
"Are you insane?" Bronski hissed, easing his hand away from his jacket again. "You can't get away with this."
"Lord Cavanagh needs to see to his daughter, sir," Kolchin said mildly. "He can't do that locked up in a quarantine cell."
"He's going to be there for life if you don't put that gun down," Bronski snarled. "Cavanagh—tell him."
Cavanagh looked at Kolchin. Bronski was right, of course. It was insane to think he could do anything for Melinda.
But to be locked up, unable to do anything at all, while the Conquerors began a war around her... "The Jutland fleet tried to stop the Conquerors," he reminded Bronski, stepping up beside him and carefully relieving him of his concealed flechette pistol. "They couldn't do it. If CIRCE is really nothing more than a well-crafted myth, we're going to need some brand-new approach to fighting them."
"And you're the one who's going to come up with this genius weapon?" Bronski bit out. "And while on the run from every cop and Peacekeeper in the Commonwealth? Get back on the ground, Cavanagh."
"The Commonwealth's going to have more pressing problems than chasing down a single fugitive," Cavanagh said. "Especially since there are a lot of people who are going to wonder why you're bothering with me. Don't worry; neither Kolchin nor I will say anything about what we've heard here today."
Lee took a step toward him. "Let me come with you," he said.
Cavanagh shook his head. "Sorry, Mr. Lee. Whatever the truth about CIRCE, massive panic is the last thing the Commonwealth needs right now. I can trust Kolchin to keep this to himself; I'm afraid I can't say the same about you and Jacy VanDiver. I'd put a double guard on him, Brigadier, if I were you."
"You're making a mistake, Cavanagh," Bronski said quietly. "A big, big mistake."
"It wouldn't be the first time. Kolchin, should I try to find something to tie them up with?"
Five minutes later they were ready to go. Two minutes after that, Kolchin having arranged for the guard at the door to join the group inside, they were driving down the street in Bronski's car.
"What about Hill?" Cavanagh asked as Kolchin maneuvered through the Mrach traffic. "Should I risk giving him a call?"
"Better not," Kolchin said. "Even if Bronski's people have left him his phone, odds are they'll be tapping into any messages that come into it. Besides, he'd never be able to sneak out without Fibbit noticing and kicking up a fuss."
Cavanagh nodded heavily. "So we're back to the Phormbi escape plan. Just a couple of days late."
"And with a lot more people on our tail." Kolchin threw him a hard look. "Sir, I want to make sure you understand what we're getting into here. We've become fugitives now; and I can promise you it won't be fun. If you want to go back, we can do it. I acted without orders; you'll still be pretty clean."
"They'll still lock me away," Cavanagh reminded him. "Bronski's already said he was going to do that. Anyway, I'm already in serious trouble over what Aric and Quinn did. What's a few more years added on to my sentence?"
Kolchin shrugged. "I suppose that's one way of looking at it."
Cavanagh looked up into the blue sky. "Whatever's happened on Dorcas, Melinda's right in the middle of it. I can't just sit this one out. Any more than I could for Pheylan."
Kolchin didn't answer. But it wasn't hard for Cavanagh to figure out what he was thinking. Pheylan could easily be already dead; and it was Cavanagh's refusal to accept that possibility that had now put Melinda in danger.
Or had already cost her her life.
"Where are we going?" he asked Kolchin.
"Back to that fighter/courier dump in the hills," Kolchin told him. "Even if the Mrachanis told Bronski where we picked up that courier, odds are he won't expect us to try the same place again. It's our best shot, anyway."
"The Mrachanis might be guarding it this time."
Kolchin smiled tightly. "Let them try."
Copyright © 1994 by Timothy Zahn.
Cover art copyright © 1994 by Paul Youll.
ISBN: 0-553-56892-2