The Prime grimaced. "He's still on Dharanv. I suspect he's arranged with the Dhaa'rr Elders to give him a private briefing there."

"He'd better not have," Prm-jevev said darkly. "Those Elders are warriors, under Warrior Command authority. I catch one of them making private reports, and I'll have him stricken from duty."

The Prime flicked his tongue sourly. It was the standard threat against Elders, and under most circumstances a highly effective one. No Elder with a useful job wanted it taken away from him, not with the possibility of hundreds of cyclics of boredom gazing back at him. But in this particular case the threat was effectively nonexistent. Warrior Command didn't have ships regularly going to Mra, any one of which could be ordered to collect the offending Elder's fsss cutting and bring it back.

Which meant that the Elders on Mra were there for the duration, and about all Supreme Commander Prm-jevev could do by way of punishment would be to refuse to accept the offending Elder's reports. Not exactly an ideal state of affairs.

An Elder appeared. "Searchers Gll-borgiv and Svv-selic have arrived at the entrance to the rim fortress," he reported. "The other guide Mrachanis are coming forward to meet them."

Another Elder appeared. " 'Standing in the stead of the rulers of the Mrachanis,' " he quoted, " 'I welcome our brothers the Zhirrzh to Mra.' "

"You have seen the danger," Valloittaja said, his tone dark and grim as he waved an arm toward the map of the Human-Conquerors' domain. "The enemy is powerful and ruthless, with both the will and the means to utterly destroy both our peoples. Only by joining together can we hope to survive."

"We agree," Nzz-oonaz said, his tail bumping against the Mrachani-style seat with each of its rapidly spinning turns. "But how can we hope to stop them?"

"Have courage," Valloittaja said, his gaze shifting to each of the three Zhirrzh in turn. "With boldness and skill they may yet be defeated." He touched a blue patch on the control board, and the map faded as two of the stars simultaneously brightened. "These are the centers of Human-Conqueror warrior power," he identified them. "Their public center on their homeworld Earth; and their secret auxiliary center on Phormbi, a colony world of their allies the Yycromae. If the Zhirrzh warriors can destroy both these locations, the war may yet be won."

"That seems reasonable," Nzz-oonaz said.

"But we must consult with Warrior Command," Gll-borgiv put in.

Nzz-oonaz glared at him, his tongue stiffening with anger. He was the only one who was supposed to speak directly with Valloittaja. Even Gll-borgiv should know that.

"If you are not permitted to make such decisions yourselves, I understand," Valloittaja said, an edge of impatience in his voice that made Nzz-oonaz wince. "But I urge you to waste no time. With the Human-Conquerors preparing to assemble CIRCE, our fates hang by threads above the fire."

"I'm sure they will agree," Nzz-oonaz said, wording the sentence carefully. The Mrachanis were not to know that the Elders were relaying a real-time account of this conversation to Warrior Command. "I'll contact them as soon as this meeting is over."

"Then do so," Valloittaja said, the impatience in his voice growing stronger. "If it would save precious time, perhaps you would allow me to present the Mrach position to them directly."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Nzz-oonaz told him. "Our communication method must still remain our secret."

"If it must," Valloittaja said, a knife edge of scorn cutting through his impatience. "But remind your leaders that unnecessary secrets between allies are a poison that can destroy as surely as any outside enemy."

"I'll tell them that," Nzz-oonaz promised. He would, too. The time for distrust of the Mrachanis was clearly over.

10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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