"Well, we were looking for a reaction," Clipper commented as they sat down. "I guess we got one."

"I guess we did," Quinn said, hearing an edge of bitterness in his voice. "I suppose it's better to have it out in the open."

"Don't let him get to you," Clipper advised, punching up two refreshers on the table's selector plate. "He's probably just annoyed that a truly honorable warrior like him has to share the glory of going down in flames with the likes of you."

Quinn threw him a sideways look. "So that's your reading of our orders?"

"What's to read?" Clipper shrugged as the ceiling conveyor delivered their refreshers. "This attack is a suicide mission, pure and simple. The Zhirrzh have been bulldozing their way across the Commonwealth for the past three weeks—bulldozing leisurely, maybe, but bulldozing nonetheless. We need a breather, and we need to grab some of the initiative back from them. Best way to accomplish both is to shock them into diverting some of their forces back to home defense. Ergo, we draw the short straw and go bloody their snouts."

"Hi," a tenor voice said over Quinn's shoulder. "Mind if we join you?"

"Sure," he said, mildly surprised that any of the other Copperheads was willing to be seen with him, at least so soon after Samurai's outburst. He turned around—

And felt his eyebrows lift. It was a young woman.

Or rather, three young women. All in Copperhead uniforms.

"Please—sit down," Clipper said, jumping into the conversational gap as surprise momentarily froze Quinn's tongue. "You'll have to excuse my friend—he's a little shy."

"That must be it," Quinn growled, throwing him an annoyed glare. The number of female Copperheads in the Peacekeepers could be counted on maybe two pairs of hands. To find three of them on the Trafalgar wasn't something he could reasonably have anticipated.

Clipper, on the other hand, had seen them coming across the room. He might at least have said something.

"Doesn't look all that shy to me," the first woman said, studying Quinn with an analytical eye as the three women sat down at the table. "More likely a little punch-drunk."

"We could hear Samurai taking you apart clear out in the corridor," the second woman added dryly.

"My reputation precedes me," Quinn murmured.

"Don't let it worry you," the first woman advised. "Samurai has a personal grudge against the Copperhead screening changes you helped institute. Most of the rest of us have pretty much come around to the idea that it was a necessary evil."

Which was not the same as saying they agreed with what he'd done. Or approved of his role in bringing the changes about. "If I hadn't thought it necessary, I wouldn't have done it," he told them.

"Of course," the first woman said. "I'm Commander Mindy Sherwood-Lewis of Sigma Five, by the way: Dreamer. This is my tail, Karen Thompson: Con Lady."

"I'm Phyllis Berlingeri: Adept," the third woman said. "I handle tail duty for Ed Hawkins: Hawk. He's off running some checks on our Catbird."

"Honored," Clipper nodded. "I'm Thomas Masefield—Clipper—commanding Omicron Four. Maestro here you already know. What's this personal grudge of Samurai's?"

"Oh, the sort of thing you'd expect from someone with Samurai's neo-Bushido philosophy," Dreamer said, waving a hand. "He was with Zeta Five when the new screening orders came down. You were in long enough to know about Zeta Five, weren't you, Maestro?"

"I would have to have been comatose not to have known about them," Quinn said. Copperhead Unit Zeta Five was a legend even in the rarefied atmosphere that public opinion reserved for Copperheads in general. They'd been the Peacekeepers' point men on Tal during the brief war against the Bhurtist Independists nine years ago. Even the Bhurtala generally credited Zeta Five's performance with convincing the Independist leaders that their escalating aggression toward Commonwealth citizens would gain them nothing but swift and ignominious defeat. "It was the best Copperhead squadron that ever flew."

"Won't get any arguments from me on that," Dreamer agreed. "Unfortunately, the new screening procedures bounced three of their pilots into noncombat jobs. Samurai's brother among them."

"I'm sorry." Quinn looked across the room, to where Dazzler and the rest of Clipper's squadron were mingling with tentative sociability with the other Copperheads, Samurai remaining conspicuously and scornfully aloof. Like Samurai, Dazzler too had had a brother dropped from Copperhead training by the new psychological restrictions. Unlike Samurai, Dazzler had come to realize that the cut had saved his brother from a life he wasn't suited for and didn't really want. "I don't suppose it matters that it might have saved his brother's life."

"Not to Samurai," Con Lady said. "Life means less to him than personal honor."

"But don't worry about him," Adept said. "He'll be fine once we get down to business. Anyway, the tac coordinator will sit on him if he gets out of line." Dreamer pointed over Quinn's shoulder. "Speaking of whom, here he comes now."

Quinn turned to look and for the second time in two minutes found his eyebrows lifting in surprise. The middle-aged man striding between the tables toward them—"Iniko!" he said, scrambling to his feet.

"Welcome aboard, Maestro," Wing Commander Iniko Bokamba said, his voice gravely official, his expression just short of a grin. "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise," Quinn assured him as they gripped hands. "When did they call you back to active duty?"

"About six hours after I sent Clipper off to join your quixotic rescue mission," Bokamba said, his grin turning into a wry smile. "I was sure they'd tumbled to the falsified orders and were there to haul my aged hide in front of a Peacekeeper firing squad. But luckily I kept my mouth shut; and lo and behold, all they wanted was to put me back in uniform. Congratulations on your success in finding Commander Cavanagh, by the way. All of you."

"Thank you, sir," Quinn said. "I'm relieved you didn't get into trouble over your part in it. They never even mentioned your name at the hearings—I was afraid they'd buried you away in a hole somewhere."

"Oh, they did," Bokamba countered, waving a hand around him. "What do you think the job of tac coordinator is, anyway? Glorified pack-mother, that's all. They might at least have given me something to fly."

"Uh-oh," Con Lady said, getting to her feet. "I sense a long reminiscence of past days of glory coming on."

"Me, too," Dreamer agreed as she and Adept also stood up. "Definitely guy talk. You'll excuse us?"

"If we must," Bokamba said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "It's sad, Maestro. These young folk—no deference to their elders. Have you ladies studied tomorrow's practice schedule?"

"We've gone over it twice," Dreamer said.

"Go over it again," Bokamba ordered. "All of you. I'll see you in the ready room at oh-five-thirty tomorrow."

"Right." Dreamer winked at Quinn. "Welcome to the slave ship Trafalgar, gentlemen. See you tomorrow."

"Good-bye," Clipper said with a nod.

The women threaded their way back between the tables and chairs, pausing to chat briefly with others along the way. "I'm surprised to see women aboard," Quinn commented, waving Bokamba to one of the vacant chairs. "Especially considering the Trafalgar's mission."

"Yes," Bokamba said, gazing down at the tabletop as he traced imaginary lines on it with a finger. "I must admit to certain personal reservations about women in combat positions. Particularly expeditionary forces like this one, as opposed to home or national defense. Cultural prejudices; I doubt you of NorCoord would understand."

"We do try to maintain a degree of chivalry ourselves, you know," Clipper reminded him. "Still, cultural biases or not, the Commonwealth's not in any position to play favorites. If the Zhirrzh are going to be stopped, it's going to take everything we've got."