For a minute he was silent, doing something with the plate's keys. "Yes," he said at last. "Still don't have the endpoints; but if I'm reading this right, I've got a transit time from jump-off to end point for Mirnacheem-hyeea One. Assuming we're talking standard stardrive speed and not skitters... the end point has to be in either Mrach or Yycroman space."

Cavanagh looked at Kolchin. "I'll be damned. They're going to attack the Yycromae."

"No, they're not," Kolchin said. "It's the Mirnacheem-hyeea operation, remember? They're going to get the Conquerors to attack the Yycromae for them."

"How on Earth are they going to do that?" Cavanagh objected. "How could they even be in contact with the Conquerors?"

"There was a Mrach ship at the Conqueror base when Quinn and his bunch rescued your son Pheylan," Bronski said thoughtfully. "It was damaged, but it was there."

"Any sign of live Mrachanis?" Kolchin asked.

"They didn't see any," Bronski said. "But that might not have been necessary. We know the Conquerors have learned English; the Mrachanis might have planted data aboard that identified the Yycromae as a threat and persuaded them to launch an attack."

"With a complete timetable included?" Kolchin asked.

Bronski grimaced. "Yeah, there's that," he conceded.

"There's another possibility," Cavanagh said slowly. "The term Mirnacheem-hyeea also applies to humans—it was what the Mrachanis first called us after the Peacekeepers made contact with them. Maybe they've found a way to manipulate the Peacekeepers into attacking the Yycromae."

Bronski stroked his lip thoughtfully. "Could be. Wouldn't take all that hard a push, either."

"Not after all the paranoia they've cultivated toward the Yycromae over the years," Cavanagh said. "And not with the access to Peacekeeper information sources the Mrachanis seem to have."

"That last part's been changed, anyway," Bronski said. "I've put through an order cutting the Mrachanis out of all Peacekeeper information lines."

Cavanagh frowned. "I thought you didn't put any stock in my theories."

"I didn't," Bronski said. "That was their punishment for kidnapping and drugging that journalist, Ezer Sholom."

He closed the plate and leaned back in his seat, regarding his prisoners with an unreadable expression. "Well, gentlemen, I've got a problem here," he said. "I can get Myrmidon to send skitters to Earth and Edo with the alert; but what we really need right now is more information. For that someone's going to have to go to Mra and do some snooping. As head of NorCoord Intelligence for Mrach space, that's my job. The problem is what to do with you two."

"I thought you were planning to drop us into a deep hole somewhere," Cavanagh said.

"Oh, I am," Bronski said. "The problem is timing. If I'm reading this right, the jump-off time for the Conquerors One operation is only about forty-nine hours away. This ship is skitter-class, which helps, but from here to Mra and back to Edo will still eat up better than sixteen hours. Figure another twenty-five for Edo to get ships wherever the hell they'll have to go to stop this, and I'm left with only eight hours for actual snooping. That's not a lot of time. If I have to stop first and drop you two off on Mra-ect, I'll have even less. I could leave you here on the Myrmidon Platform; but they haven't got a secure quarantine area, and leaving you with anyone who doesn't know what you know kind of defeats the whole purpose of the quarantine."

"You could let us go," Cavanagh suggested. "I've already given my word we won't say anything."

"And that you won't be coerced into saying anything?" Bronski shook his head. "You know I can't risk that. Not with all these Mrachanis and Bhurtala looking for you. We already saw with Sholom what they're willing to do for information; and we cannot let them get even a hint that CIRCE doesn't exist. No, what I really want is to keep you with me. But I can't do that and watch my back at the same time." He folded his arms across his chest. "The ball's on your side of the net, Lord Cavanagh. Convince me you can be trusted."

Cavanagh lowered his eyes, suddenly misted with tears. Yes, there was indeed something he could say. The ultimate, unbreakable vow... "I swear on the soul of my beloved wife, Sara," he said quietly, the words aching in his throat. "We won't try to escape."

He looked up to find Bronski gazing back at him, something that might be sympathy behind the brigadier's eyes. "I guess that's what I wanted to hear," he said. His wrist flicked; automatically, Cavanagh opened his hand to catch the wristcuff key. "Get yourselves unlocked, then join me in the control room," Bronski told him, shoving the Mrach card carrier into a storage locker and standing up. "I'm going to get the prelaunch started."

Cavanagh hesitated. "Brigadier?"

Bronski paused at the door. "What?"

"I don't know if it's occurred to you," Cavanagh said, "but it's possible the Mrachanis already learned about CIRCE from Ezer Sholom before we found him. If they are in contact with the Conquerors, and if they tell them CIRCE doesn't exist..."

14

Casually, methodically, Thrr't-rokik wove in and out of the ships along with them, giving each person he passed a quick but careful look, fighting against a growing taste of hopelessness. The long trail had led here, to that transport sitting out in the parking area; but he'd been searching for nearly twenty hunbeats now and had found no sign of the two Zhirrzh. Perhaps they hadn't come onto the landing field, or perhaps they had already left on a spaceship or another transport. Or perhaps they had never been there at all. Perhaps they weren't even the ones using that particular transport anymore. He and Thrr-tulkoj might be on the wrong trail entirely—

And then, suddenly, there they were, walking up a landing ramp into the next ship over, warrior-style travel bags slung over their shoulders.

Thrr't-rokik was inside the entry hatchway in the flick of a beat, easing his face out through the ceramic hull for a closer look. It was them, all right: the two Zhirrzh he'd seen delivering Thrr-pifix-a's stolen fsss organ to her house on that fateful latearc six fullarcs ago.

The taller of the two spotted Thrr't-rokik as they reached the top of the ramp. "You—Elder—go tell the ship commander his passengers are here," he ordered.

"Right away," Thrr't-rokik said, feeling a sudden surge of anticipation. The perfect opportunity to find out who they were. "May I have your names?"

"The ship commander knows who we are," the other Zhirrzh said. "Just tell him we're here."

"Right away," Thrr't-rokik said again, swallowing his disappointment as he dropped into the grayworld. It hadn't worked, but at least now he could go tell Thrr-tulkoj that their search had struck ore.

But not yet. Clearly, the two Zhirrzh had assumed he was one of the ship's communicators. If their message to the ship commander didn't get delivered, they would realize he wasn't, and that could lead to trouble.

Besides, delivering the message might give him another opportunity to get their names. Rising again to the edge of the lightworld, he headed toward the front of the ship.

The control area was easy to find, filling the back half of the first hexagon and looking just as control areas always did in warrior documentaries. Inside were twelve Zhirrzh, busily working at consoles or conversing among themselves, preparing the ship for flight.

Thrr't-rokik looked around at them, wishing fleetingly that his son Thrr-mezaz had chosen to become a ship warrior instead of a ground warrior. He was supposed to find the ship commander, but the insignia threads these Zhirrzh were wearing on their uniforms were well-nigh incomprehensible to him. Still, it stood to reason that the ship commander ought to have the most elaborate set of threads—