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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, really?" Harlequin asked skeptically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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