20

Yet there it was, drifting from its mesh-in point toward the raging battle, utterly dwarfing the Conqueror warships. And nestled within the gaps of the delicate-looking framework, pinned there like some grotesque butterfly collection, was what appeared to be an entire Peacekeeper fleet.

A fleet that, like a slowly awakening giant, was beginning to show signs of movement...

"I don't believe it," Cho Ming whispered, his voice somewhere between stunned and reverent. "What in God's name is that?"

"You got me," Daschka said, shaking his head. "But I'd lay you odds it has something to do with that Lupis Project that's been drifting in and out of the Intelligence reports for the past six months. Let's get some IDs on these guys—that carrier first."

From behind Aric came a renewed tapping of keys. "It reads out as the Trafalgar," Cho Ming said. "Rigel-class attack carrier. Thirteen other ships with it. Just a second; I'm getting small explosions now at the Trafalgar's bow and stern. Looks like they're popping their tethers to that outer framework."

"What are the Zhirrzh doing?"

"Nothing yet," Cho Ming said. "They're probably as flabbergasted by it as we are."

"That won't last long." Daschka pointed out the canopy toward the Peacekeeper ships. "Look—you can see the flares.

"The Trafalgar's launching its fighters."

"Alert all warships!" Supreme Commander Prm-jevev barked, staring in a mix of fascination and horror at the huge space vehicle that had suddenly appeared from the tunnel-line behind the Zhirrzh force. Awesome, terrifying, impossibly huge, like something out of ancient legend.

The Elder he'd sent to report to Warrior Command flicked back in. "Speaker Cvv-panav: 'It's a trap!' " he quoted. " 'Exactly as I warned you.' " His voice was harsh with the Speaker's anger, as if Prm-jevev had gotten himself into this predicament solely to spite him.

A second Elder appeared before Prm-jevev could respond. "The Overclan Prime: 'It does indeed appear to be a trap,' " he said. Unlike Cvv-panav's, his tone was calm, even matter-of-fact. " 'Can you handle it?' "

"Supreme Commander, they're launching their fighter warcraft," one of the warriors called.

And with that the fascinated horror seemed to dissolve from beneath the Supreme Commander's tongue. "Understood," he said, smiling grimly. The thing out there was merely a weapon of war, and he knew how to deal with weapons of war. "All warships: attack and defend at will."

A handful of Elders vanished, scattering to the other warships to relay his order. The Elders who'd come from Oaccanv remained where they were, still waiting for his reply. "To the Overclan Prime: I'll do my best," he said. "To the Speaker for Dhaa'rr—"

He looked at the displays, and at the fire trails that marked the Human-Conqueror fighter warcraft streaking toward his warships. Cvv-panav had been right about its being a trap, and no doubt would now be working to parlay that serendipitous guess to his own political advantage. That was how the Speaker worked; and Prm-jevev saw no need to help him. "To the Speaker for Dhaa'rr: no reply."

"All systems checks complete," Bokamba said briskly from the seat behind Quinn. "Straight green."

"Acknowledged," Quinn said, hunching his shoulders forward and resettling himself one last time against the contoured seat. He'd just felt the lurch a few seconds ago as the Wolf Pack meshed in. Any minute now they should be getting the order to launch.

Assuming there was still something here to fight. With a half-hour lead on them, the Zhirrzh fleet might well have already finished this particular slaughter and moved on.

And then an image flicked into view in front of his eyes, fed through his Mindlink and superimposed on the scorched and heat-stressed composite of the launch tube outside the Corvine's canopy. An image obviously being fed from the Trafalgar's external cameras.

There was indeed still something there to fight.

"I make it five Zhirrzh ships," Bokamba said. "No, make that ten; five more are coming in from outsystem. Drives are firing toward us—must be decelerating."

"Someone's putting up a pretty good fight against them," Quinn said, pulling up a vector map and an ID overlay. The small ships buzzing around the Zhirrzh warships—and being methodically blasted to dust—read out as Yycroman freighters, passenger shuttles, asteroid miners, and zero-gee construction drudgeships. Brave, foolish, or just plain desperate, the Yycromae were taking on the Conqueror juggernaut.

Not surprisingly, they were losing.

"This is it, Copperheads," Schweighofer's voice came tautly in Quinn's ear. "Go to Level X and launch at will. Warrior's luck to you all."

Schweighofer's last words were nearly swallowed up in the rumble of drives that suddenly reverberated from the rest of the launch tubes around him. Bracing himself, Quinn keyed the drive, joining in the mad rush. The Corvine leaped forward like a hungry predator, the acceleration shoving him back into the seat cushions as the fighter skimmed on superconducting magnetic bearings down the launch tube toward space. "Maestro?" he heard Bokamba call over the roar. "We were ordered to X."

Level X: the full Mindlink integration between the Copperheads and their fighters. The moment Quinn had been dreading ever since making the deal with the hearing board that had gotten Clipper and the others out from under their court-martial.

"Maestro?" Bokamba called again.

"Go ahead," Quinn called back. "I'll be right with you—"

And then the Corvine cleared the tube rim and they were in space, driving hard away from the Trafalgar. The rest of the Corvines and Catbirds were burning space beside him, an advancing battle line of the most awesome warriors and fighting machines the Commonwealth had ever produced.

And it was time for those warriors to go to work. All of them. Taking a deep breath, Quinn shifted his Mindlink to Level X.

And abruptly, all around him, the universe changed.

His vision changed, expanding from its usual boundaries to a full 360-degree wraparound, with only experience, kinesthetic awareness, and a hazy orange circle to indicate which way was forward. The dark and muted colors of the scene in front of him became a rainbow of vibrant color, with all spacecraft within his immediate strike zone turning a bright red, while those farther away shaded into yellow and green and finally blue for the most distant.

His hearing changed, the other Copperheads and command orders no longer voices in his ear but words and images in his mind. The vector overlay he'd called up earlier likewise became audible, pitches and tones in the background meshing with the visual color cues to give him complete information on where every ship out there was, and exactly what each ship's vector was relative to him.

And he himself changed. He was no longer Adam Quinn, Copperhead, piloting a Corvine Tactical Superiority attack fighter. He was that Corvine attack fighter.

His skin was the Corvine's hull, with the controlled heat of the drive's fury at his back and the faint brushing of friction with the tenuous medium of Phormbi's magnetosphere on his face and chest. His sense of smell was the Corvine's systems monitors, the steady almond aroma indicating all systems were primed and ready. His sense of taste was the damage monitors, the tang of cinnamon signaling that the Corvine was as yet uninjured. His stance—for even in this strange disembodied mental image he could still envision himself as having a physical stance—was the manifestation of the fighter's medical monitors as they in turn watched over his physiological status. He seemed to himself to be standing firm and alert and strong, his body twisted slightly into a taut martial-arts stance, his hands held ready for combat—a composite indicator that showed his oxygen, blood sugar, and adrenaline levels to be at optimal levels.