Conquerors' Legacy

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.

But perhaps the most traumatic change of all—the most exhilarating and at the same time the most terrifying aspect of the Mindlink—was the fact that in this world within his own mind he was no longer alone.

Bokamba was there, close by his illusory side, his thoughts and emotions and sensations swirling around and within Quinn's own. Quinn could sense his alertness and ordered thoughts as he settled into the role of tail man; could feel his quiet exultation in what was probably his last chance to fly a combat mission as a Copperhead; could also feel the tinge of private uncertainty as to whether he would be able to handle the job. There was uneasiness of another sort, as well: an uneasy concern about Quinn's own state of mind, triggered by Quinn's delay in going to Level X when Schweighofer had given the order, and underlined by his knowledge of why Quinn had left the Copperheads in the first place. Clipper and the other Copperheads of the Omicron Four unit were there, too, a level below the experiential peak where he and Bokamba stood; spread out a level beneath that were the Copperheads of Samurai's Kappa Two and Dreamer's Sigma Five. And a level below that were Schweighofer and the other non-Copperhead signals from the Trafalgar—

Human Peacekeepers, we welcome you. Displayed as images and sensations in his mind, it took Quinn a fraction of a second to realize the words coming in along the Trafalgar's comm feed had been spoken in Yycroman. Your assistance is most desperately needed.

Our target is number three, Clipper's voice came in Quinn's mind. One of the Zhirrzh ships, edging from green to yellow now as the Copperheads approached it, flashed briefly red as Clipper marked it for them. For another instant it was superimposed by an overview of Clipper's proposed attack plan: a split-wedge thrust, with Quinn and Shrike veering to starboard into an over/under scissor, Paladin and Harlequin doing the mirror to port, while Clipper did a straight-in run. Go for laser ports, Clipper continued. Try to knock them out so the line ships' missiles can get through. Tails, watch for any signs of hull damage or weakness they can exploit.

Bokamba and the other three tails acknowledged. The target had shaded from yellow to red now; and as Quinn began easing toward starboard in preparation for the split, he saw one edge of the ship brighten and the opposite edge dim, the pitches of the sound coming from those edges similarly rising and falling. He's swinging around toward us, Bokamba confirmed. A group of orange diamonds appeared on the edges of the hexagons—Laser ports, Bokamba identified them—which the Zhirrzh were obviously trying to bring into range.

We're glad we're in time to help. That was Commodore Montgomery, talking to the Yycromae. What can you tell us about the enemy?

Clipper's signal sparked; and with a wrenching move that momentarily staggered his imaginary combat stance as the gee forces drained some of the blood away from his brain, Quinn threw the Corvine into a ninety-degree turn to starboard. One of the orange diamonds Bokamba had marked flared suddenly; reflexively, he ducked, the Corvine twitching simultaneously, as the white vector line of a laser blast shot past him. There was a flicker of warmth on his left arm, but the taste of cinnamon remained steady. An orange cross appeared on the laser port as Bokamba got a targeting lock on it, and even as he twisted the Corvine into his scissor, Quinn threw a left-handed punch from his imaginary stance, sending a burst of 55 mm cannon shells directly into the port. The Corvine scissored beneath the hexagon before he could see what if any damage he'd inflicted.

There was another flicker from the hull above him, and another laser pulse flashed past. Again it missed, but not by nearly as great a margin. A sudden warmth ran across his right shin, and for a second the cinnamon taste in his mouth was mixed with oregano as the ionized gases in the laser's wake momentarily scrambled the Corvine's aft-starboard sensors. The oregano faded as Bokamba reconfigured the pathways and connections and brought the sensors back on-line—

And then, at the back of Quinn's consciousness, two images abruptly winked out. One of Samurai's Corvines had been hit, the two Copperheads aboard killed. For them warrior's luck had run out.

You took out the laser lens with that last shot, Bokamba informed him.

With another dizzying turn Quinn swung the Corvine back around again. What's the opening's size? The last image of the laser port as they'd swung beneath the ship appeared in front of him, the details scrubbed and measurements marked. Yes: it was just the right size. Is the laser itself still functional?

We won't know until and unless it fires again, Bokamba said dryly.

Which meant that what Quinn was planning was going to be a huge gamble. But definitely a worthwhile one. If the laser had been put out of commission, the opening was just big enough to drop one of their four Vejovis missiles into, bypassing the whole problem of the invulnerable hull and depositing a warhead directly into the interior of the Zhirrzh ship.

If the laser hadn't been put out of commission, on the other hand, he was about to give the Zhirrzh the easiest shot they would ever have.

He had the Corvine almost in position now, swinging around in a tight arc ready to come into line with the laser port and drive down its throat. A green targeting cross flicked into place in front of Quinn's eyes, Bokamba's confirmation that the Vejovis missiles were ready to launch. Quinn turned his head slightly, moving the cross onto the port—

Maestro: signal from Schweighofer, Clipper's voice came in his mind. The Cascadia has gotten snarled in the Wolf Pack. You and Shrike break off and go help shoot them loose.

Not now, Quinn told him. A quick status update flicked between them—

Acknowledged, Clipper agreed. One melded-consciousness level below, Quinn could sense his giving the order to Harlequin instead as he brought the Corvine up almost into line—

And again twitched away as a laser pulse shot past him.

Still active, Bokamba reported, as if Quinn needed to be told. But I see now that without the lens there's a 0.74-second optic precursor.

A replay of the laser shot flicked into view, along with a graph of the intensity from the light-leakage precursor Bokamba had identified. Three quarters of a second wasn't a lot of warning, but it would have to do. Watch it closely. Here we go.

He swung up toward the laser port; and as he did so, the mental sensations that were Harlequin and his tail, Savile, flashed and vanished. Another Corvine, this time one from his own unit, had run out of warrior's luck.

Later, he knew, he would be able to feel the pain and loss of these deaths of his comrades. But not yet. For the moment the Mindlink connection rode supreme, suppressing all emotion and all thought except what was necessary for survival and the completion of his job.

He was in line with the laser port now, the green targeting cross dead center on the hole. In his imaginary stance he prepared a right-hand punch....

Concentrating on the target, he completely missed the brief flare from the next laser port to starboard. Bokamba's warning flicked into his mind; firing the missile, he threw the Corvine into a flat dive. The laser beam flashed over his head—

And suddenly the whole of his lower back flared with heat, the sharp tang of pineapple and the stench of burned toast flooding in on him as the Corvine bucked violently. The dorsal stabilizer and engine had been hit, and hit badly.

He fought to bring the fighter back under control, feeling Bokamba in the back of his mind as the other worked furiously to reroute the electronics and create a compensation profile for the remaining engines. The Vejovis missile was nearly to the target port now, he saw, burning with the single-mindedness of its scorpion namesake toward its target. Almost there—

Bokamba, his full attention occupied by the dead engine, didn't spot the optic precursor. But Quinn did, and with a rush of adrenaline that brought his imaginary combat stance even tighter, he threw full power to the drive. He was already driving up toward the edge of this particular Zhirrzh hexagon; if he could get to that edge and roll the Corvine over the top—

He almost made it. But with one dead engine the Corvine was just a hair too slow... and suddenly beneath him came the flicker of the laser, and the secondary and much brighter flash as the Vejovis missile in its path detonated.

The fading heat on Quinn's back was abruptly joined by an unpleasant prickling on both shins, accompanied by a flood of oregano and garlic. The shrapnel from the missile had raked across the Corvine's aft underside, delivering another blow to the aft sensors and penetrating into the backup power cells. But at least there was no more engine damage. He kept the Corvine curving over the hexagon, balancing forward and side thrusters, flying on reflex as he split his attention between watching for more Zhirrzh laser ports and monitoring Bokamba's repair work.

Maestro?

We're all right, Clipper, Quinn assured him.

Break off your attack, Clipper ordered. Go help Shrike free the Cascadia from the Wolf Pack.

Quinn grimaced. A necessary task, and Bokamba could certainly use a breather while he got the Corvine put back together. But it was embarrassing to have taken a hit so early in the battle. Acknowledged.

Hitting the steering thrusters again, he sent the Corvine spiraling away from the Zhirrzh ship. Ahead and to port, a cluster of missiles from the Galileo was sweeping across his vector, and he sent a quick ID pulse toward them to prevent them from locking on to him. In the distance he could see the Cascadia still trapped in its section of the Wolf Pack frame, with Shrike's Corvine and a pair of Axeheads flying around the bow and both flanks blasting away at the snarled tether lines.

Bokamba paused in his repair work long enough to pull up a sensor map of the Cascadia. The stern tethers were still securely fastened; shifting his vector slightly, Quinn headed for that part of the ship.

And then another image flicked into view, a picture coming from Dreamer's Mindlink feed. Four small craft had emerged from hatches in the aft hexagons of the Zhirrzh warship her Sigma Five group was harassing. Ignoring the Copperheads, the four craft were dropping rapidly toward the planet's surface.

Laser bombers, Bokamba identified them. They carry heavy lasers for short-range atmospheric assaults. The Zhirrzh used them in the surface attacks on Dorcas, Massif, and Pasdoufat.

Which meant the aliens hadn't come there just to reconnoiter or to clear out orbital defenses. They were serious about taking Phormbi, or at least about doing serious damage to it. Clipper?

I see them, Maestro, Clipper replied. Dreamer's already signaled Trafalgar for new orders. You already have yours.

But they may need help, Bokamba protested.

Quinn frowned. There'd been a strange surge of emotion in those words. And in Bokamba's sense, for that matter. Both disturbingly out of character for a Copperhead at full Level X Mindlink.

You have your orders, Clipper repeated firmly. The Cascadia's a sitting duck where she is, and the battle's drifting that direction.

Acknowledged, Quinn said. At his lowest melded-consciousness level, he heard Schweighofer give the order for Sigma Five to attack the Zhirrzh laser bombers. The scene and Dreamer's combat stance shifted as she and three of her fighters broke off and dropped planetward in pursuit, 55 mm cannon blazing away furiously. One of the laser bombers seemed to shatter under that blistering hail, exploding into a cloud of secondary shrapnel that momentarily rocked the others flying beside it. The attack focus shifted to the second Zhirrzh—

And then, behind them, the warship they'd just left rolled leisurely over and sent a stuttering barrage of laser blasts directly into the fighters.

They're hit! someone's thought came, rolling through Quinn's mind like a deep wave racing across the ocean toward shore. They'd been hit, all right, and with a cold feeling in his chest Quinn fought to sort through the dizzying chaos of images and thoughts that Sigma Five had suddenly become. He singled out Hawk and his tail, Adept, in their Catbird, their combat stances abandoned as they struggled to remain on their feet amid the smells and tastes of two lost engines, severe electronics damage, and hull-integrity failure. Cooker and Faker were a little better off, with near-total engine failure but at least retaining hull integrity and a small degree of firepower capability. There was no sign at all of Cossack and Glitter, nor were there any readings from their fighter. Already dead.

And it looked very much as if Dreamer and Con Lady were soon going to be joining them.

Quinn focused on the two women, his mind flicking unwillingly to that brief conversation he'd had with them in the dayroom back on the Trafalgar. Then they'd casually walked past the other Copperheads' doubts and Samurai's outright and bitter hostility to welcome him back into the ranks of the Copperheads.

Now they sat trapped in the blackened husk of a shattered Corvine, their combat stances transformed into the faintly twitching sprawls of unconsciousness, the sense around them a chilling emptiness completely devoid of either smell or taste. The entire Corvine was dead, only the Mindlink and their self-powered combat suits keeping them alive.

And that not for much longer. Only until the Zhirrzh ship found the range and opened fire again. Or until gravity and air friction turned the Corvine's nose downward and sent it spinning to a fiery crash on the planetary surface.

We have to do something, Maestro. We have to do something.

Quinn jerked in his seat, a sudden shock running through him. Again Bokamba's words and sense had come to him riding a surge of emotion. But this time it was more than just a distraught attitude. There was a new intensity behind it, an impatient and all-consuming drive to take action to rescue Dreamer and Con Lady from the death looming over them.

An intensity that utterly defied the emotion-suppressing grip of the Mindlink.

Quinn didn't ask why Bokamba felt that way. With the Mindlink bringing the cores of their beings together, he didn't have to. Dreamer and Con Lady were women; and in the cultural matrix that formed the underpinning of Bokamba's soul, women were to be honored and respected and protected. No matter whether they were helpless children or trained warriors.

No matter what.

Quinn could ignore Bokamba's unspoken plea, of course. He was the Corvine's pilot, in ultimate command, and there was nothing Bokamba could do to alter or override that. They had their orders, and it was his duty to obey them.

But then, long ago, it had also been his duty to listen to the senior Peacekeeper officers who had assured him that there were absolutely no problems with the Copperhead screening procedures. He'd defied direct orders then by going to Lord Cavanagh and the NorCoord Parliament, and had ultimately paid the price for his perceived betrayal. But it had been something he'd felt he had to do.

Just as fulfilling his own sense of responsibility toward the dying women out there was clearly something Bokamba had to do.

And Quinn came to a decision. Rig for attack, he ordered Bokamba, swinging the Corvine in another gut-wrenching turn away from the Wolf Pack and the Cascadia and toward the Zhirrzh ship still spitting laser blasts toward the helpless Copperheads. It was most likely a useless gesture, he knew, all the more so given that he wasn't sure he agreed with Bokamba's point of view or even understood it.

But perhaps that didn't matter. What mattered was that Bokamba was a friend.

And friendship was something he most certainly understood.

The Zhirrzh ship's lasers flashed, sending a withering blaze of fire squarely into the group of fighters chasing after the remaining three laser bombers. "Did they get them?" Daschka called over his shoulder.

"They got 'em, but good," Cho Ming said grimly. "Three fighters seriously damaged, one vaporized outright."

Daschka shook his head. "Someone wasn't paying enough attention, I guess. Damn."

"Can't we do something?" Aric asked anxiously, gazing out at the damaged fighters. One of them in particular: speeding along on its last vector, clearly out of control, it was skimming perilously close to Phormbi's atmosphere.

"Like what?" Daschka asked. "Go charging out there and pull them out?"

Aric hissed helplessly between his teeth. No, of course there wasn't anything they could do. Not without revealing their presence to the Conqueror warships and getting themselves blown to bits along with everyone else.

"Besides, we don't have to," Daschka continued, pointing out the canopy. "Looks like there's someone already rushing to their defense."

Aric looked. Angling away from the huge transport frame, almost invisible amid the flashes of laser fire and the brighter explosions of Peacekeeper missiles, was the flare of a single fighter heading toward the damaged ships. "I wonder what he thinks he's doing," he said.

"Maybe trying to distract the Zhirrzh ship," Daschka suggested doubtfully. "I presume he doesn't think he can pluck all three of those wrecks out from under their snouts."

"Well, whatever he's thinking, he's apparently thinking it on his own," Cho Ming put in. "Here, take a listen."

From the speaker on Daschka's console came a sudden cacophony of voices, snatches of conversation picked up as the Peacekeepers' comm lasers swept past the Happenstance's hiding place. From the midst of the clamor came a single voice as Cho Ming did a select-and-enhance: "—mmediately. Repeat: Maestro, return to—"

The voice cut off as the comm laser swept past. "Maestro," Daschka repeated, throwing Aric a frown. "Isn't that your friend Adam Quinn's tag name?"

"Yes," Aric murmured, staring out the canopy and abruptly feeling physically ill. Quinn was here; and if Quinn, then probably Clipper and the rest of the Omicron Four force, too. The men who'd risked their lives and careers to help him rescue his brother from the Conquerors.

And suddenly it was no longer a matter of sitting by and reluctantly watching aliens he respected being slaughtered by the enemy. Now he was watching the slaughter of friends.

"Take it easy, Cavanagh," Daschka said quietly. "Don't get sick on me now. Quinn's good—you know that. He'll make it through."

"I know," Aric said mechanically. Not believing it for a moment.

Another shock wave rippled through the command/monitor room as yet another Human-Conqueror missile slipped in past the Zhirrzh defenses to vent its explosive fury against the outer hull. Another shock wave to rattle the optronics, shatter fluid-main connectors, and throw the warriors and technics around like children's clothwork dolls.

And Supreme Commander Prm-jevev, gripping his couch supports to keep from being shaken off, was no longer smiling. Grimly or otherwise.

"Tell Ship Commander Dkll-kumvit I don't care what else gets through," he snapped to the Elder hovering nervously in front of him. "He and the Imperative are to concentrate on clearing the way for those heavy air-assault craft."

"I obey," the Elder said, and vanished.

Prm-jevev turned his attention back to the monitors, a bitter taste beneath his tongue. Three of the Human-Conqueror warships had already been disabled in the handful of hunbeats since their part of the battle had begun, one of them burned virtually beyond recognition. The small fighter warcraft were being systematically destroyed as they continued to dart in and out of the fight, distracting his warriors, or worse, occasionally managing to knock out one of the Zhirrzh fleet's lasers. His initial reluctance to attack the poorly armed Yycroman civilian spacecraft had long since vanished, and the fleet was busily burning them out of the sky as well. To all outward appearances the Zhirrzh were winning.

But they weren't. Behind their virtually invulnerable hulls the mighty warships were slowly being pounded and shaken and battered into useless hulks. Already the secondary effects of the missile attacks had knocked out more lasers than the fighter warcraft had, and with every lost laser the odds of a given missile getting through rose that much more. It was a race to see which side would disable the other first... and deep within him Prm-jevev suspected the Zhirrzh were going to lose it.

But he couldn't pull back. Not yet. Not while there was still a chance of driving away the defenders and knocking out this center of Human-Conqueror power. And, if extraordinary good luck was with them, perhaps even eliminating the threat of the Human-Conquerors' terrifying CIRCE weapon.

And certainly not while five hundred cyclics of former Supreme Warrior Commanders were watching over his shoulder from the eighteen worlds.

An Elder popped into view. "Message from the Imperative," he said. "Ship Commander Dkll-kumvit reports strong harassment from the Yycroman spacecraft, and that his systems are continuing to fail under Human-Conqueror bombardment. He states he cannot guarantee survival of the assault craft."

Prm-jevev cursed under his breath. Those Yycromae were incredible, the way they threw themselves to their deaths for such little gain. What in the eighteen worlds were they protecting down there, anyway? "Understood," he growled. "Message to the Exonerator: have them move immediately to the Imperatives support. Those heavy air-assault craft have got to get through."

"I obey," the Elder said, and vanished.

"Helm!" Prm-jevev called across the room. "Shift course: twenty angles right, twelve angles beneath. Communicator: order our three air-assault craft to prepare for launch on my command."

"I obey."

Prm-jevev swore again, thoughtfully, as he studied the displays. Somewhere out there, there had to be a hole in the Human-Conqueror and Yycroman defense forces. Not big, certainly, but maybe big enough to slip the assault craft through before they could respond....

And then, suddenly, he heard a muffled gasp from behind him.

He spun around on his couch to find himself looking at an Elder. An Elder who was himself staring to the side in rigid and obvious horror. Prm-jevev opened his mouth to demand an explanation—

"Supreme Commander Prm-jevev!" one of the warriors shouted.

Prm-jevev spun back again. It was one of the warriors at the display console, and he was jabbing his tongue at one of the displays that showed the curve of the planetary horizon ahead of them.

And in the center of that display...

The Supreme Commander cursed again. And this time he meant it.

Another laser pulse flashed past, the beam slashing down toward the Corvine. Quinn twitched away—too late—and there was another burst of vaporized metal from the aft starboard flank. He felt the sudden heat on his thigh; a moment later the smell of freshly cut grass joined in the potpourri of aromas swirling through his head. That one took out the stardrive, Bokamba confirmed. No way for me to fix it.

Which meant that in the increasingly likely event that they were the only two Peacekeepers to survive this battle, there would be no way for them to escape from the system. Understood, Quinn said, trying hard to hide his growing frustration from his tail man. The area around Dreamer and Con Lady was starting to ripple visibly, the sign that their Corvine was getting into dangerously thick air. Even if he and Bokamba could get there without being vaporized, it was going to be problematic whether they could get a tether hooked on to the crippled fighter in time to haul it to safety.

Another laser flashed toward him. Quinn twitched again; but this time the beam didn't make it all the way, instead throwing a brilliant splash of vaporized metal from one of the Yycroman ships still buzzing around. Apparently the Zhirrzh had decided to concentrate on the closer Yycromae instead of on him.

He frowned. Preoccupied with the endangered Copperheads out there and the slow disintegration of his own Corvine beneath him, he hadn't been paying much attention to the Yycroman ships except when one of them happened to enter his immediate strike zone. But with little to do now but fly evasive maneuvers...

He pulled up a vector map first, switching the usual audio/visual cues into an overlay that could be distracting in the heat of combat but that at the moment wouldn't bother him. A high-speed replay of the past five minutes came next, drawing on both the Corvine's and the Trafalgar's recorders. Some of the Yycromae, he could see, were attacking the Zhirrzh ships directly, using shredder-bursts, cannon, missiles, and something that looked like white paint. A few others were hanging back performing long-range spotting duty for the attackers; fewer still were skimming right over the enemy ships' hulls, carrying out the dangerous task of close-in spotting.

But the vast majority of them were being vaporized by the Zhirrzh. And for the first time since the battle had begun, Quinn saw why.

They were running interference for the Peacekeeper forces. Moving in groups between the waves of fighters and the Zhirrzh warships, trying to block or confuse whatever sensors the enemy was using, helping the Corvines and Axeheads to get across the kill zone into combat range. Flying directly in front of missile clusters, diving suicidally straight into the Zhirrzh lasers and taking the blasts that would otherwise detonate the missiles too far from their targets.

And even sacrificing their lives to run a moving screen between Zhirrzh firepower and a lone Corvine on a quixotic rescue mission.

Quinn keyed for verbal comm. "Yycroman defense forces," he said, the sound of his physical voice a startling intrusion into the mental images and effortless communication of the Mindlink. "This is Corvine Three Omicron Four."

The answer came immediately. "This is Savazzci mey Yyamsepk," the Yycroman words came, already translated, along the Mindlink. "What are your orders?"

"I want you to quit protecting me and do your job," Quinn told him, focusing on the Zhirrzh laser bombers still heading toward atmosphere. Adept had gotten their Catbird moving again, and she and Hawk were attempting to pursue, but with only a single working engine their effort was clearly futile. Cooker and Faker were trying, too, but most of their sporadic bursts of 55 mm cannon shells were going wide. "Those laser bombers are getting away."

In the distance off to starboard the Zhirrzh ship seemed suddenly to have become fully aware of Quinn's presence, and the space around them began to shimmer with the ionization afterglow of laser shots. Most skimmed harmlessly past as Quinn kept the fighter dipping and swerving in a semirandom evasion pattern. One caught one of Savazzci's screening ships, turning it into a blazing fireball.

"We are doing our job," the stiff-sounding retort came. "We aren't swift enough to catch them. We protect you in the hope that you can do so."

Quinn grimaced, dropping an extrapolation overlay on top of the vector map. The Corvine's dead dorsal engine plus the hefty lead the laser bombers had on them...

We can do it, Bokamba told him. A drop-J curve through the atmosphere will get us to an intercept point.

Quinn studied the curve that had appeared on his extrapolation overlay. It was a tricky maneuver, all right, a modified version of the approach he'd used when he and Aric Cavanagh had dived down from near orbit to snatch Pheylan from his Zhirrzh captors.

But in that situation he'd been flying an undamaged fighter through skies unpunctuated by heavy enemy fire. Here pulling such a stunt would be begging for gradient instabilities or turbulent control loss. There was probably no better than a fifty percent chance that they would make it to the rendezvous point ahead of the Zhirrzh.

What was certain was that committing themselves to the attempt would mean abandoning any chance of rescuing Dreamer and Con Lady.

Bokamba knew that, too, and for a moment his sense was tangled in an agony of indecision and guilt. But only for a moment. We have no choice, the tail said, his mental tone heavy but determined. Let's do it.

Right, Quinn acknowledged as an updated version of the drop-J curve appeared on the overlay. Bracing himself for another ninety-degree turn, he prepared to flip the Corvine over—

And then, without warning, a double blaze of blue-white fire flashed into sight over the planet's horizon directly ahead.

Incoming spacecraft! Bokamba snapped out the warning. New vectors appeared on Quinn's overlay: the two spacecraft were coming up incredibly fast over the curve of the planet, skimming the top of the atmosphere, the extrapolation indicating an ETA to the main battle of barely five minutes. Quinn keyed in full magnification—

And felt his breath catch in his throat. To the unaided eye the approaching spacecraft were little more than dark blotches against the ragged-edged corona of their drive trails, but as the Corvine's optics edited out the glare, he could see the splashes of lights across their dark surfaces and the strangely curved edges glowing with an eerie luminescence. Images from the military history texts; images that supposedly no longer existed.

Yycroman Vindicator-class warships.

Quinn found his voice again. "Savazzci, this is Three Omicron Four."

"They have come," the Yycroma's reply came through the Mindlink into Quinn's mind. Not with any trace of joy or relief, but with the grim satisfaction of a Yycroman male who has seen the time for vengeance finally at hand. "Now shall we see."

The lights on one of the Vindicators dimmed, and the slender blue beams of particle-beam weapons lanced out toward the three Zhirrzh laser bombers diving ever deeper into the atmosphere. But too far ahead: the beams sliced through the air ahead of them for a clean miss—

And then, abruptly, the blue lines were sheathed with an explosive and expanding swirl of furious white turbulence. The beams, flash-ionizing the tenuous upper atmosphere, had created an instant hurricane.

The Zhirrzh laser bombers were caught flat-footed. Their mad race planetward floundered as the shock wave of superheated air slammed across their bows. Before they could recover, the second Vindicator fired, this shot sizzling past their starboard flank.

Charging toward the main battle like a pair of enraged bears, the warships were already out of range for a third shot. But it didn't matter. They'd slowed the laser bombers' descent just enough... and Quinn, whose years with Lord Cavanagh had taught him how to appreciate a dramatic entrance, also knew a cue when he saw one.

He had the Corvine in a vertical dive even before the second Yycroman shot had been fired; was scorching the fighter's hull with friction before the laser bombers finished their bouncing. By the time they'd settled down and were again throwing power to their drives, he'd started into his main curve.

Before they could do anything else, he was right on top of them.

" 'We have no idea,' " the Elder quoted, stumbling over the words in his haste to get them out. " 'But the description doesn't sound like that of any Human-Conqueror warship we've yet seen.' "

"I could have told you that," Supreme Commander Prm-jevev snarled under his breath as he gazed at the patches of blue-white flame charging toward him. Yycroman, without a doubt. And armed with weapons the like of which he also had never seen.

And apparently left deliberately out of the battle until this exact beat. Why?

The answer was obvious. The Human-Conquerors and their Yycroman allies weren't fooled by the impervious Zhirrzh hulls—not a bit. They knew perfectly well how much internal shock damage their missiles were causing... and everything they'd done up until this point had clearly been for the sole purpose of softening their defenses so that these two ships could get in close.

Close enough to use their blue-beamed weapon. An unidentified, hitherto unseen weapon.

CIRCE?

There was a faint flash of distant light on one of the telescope displays. The heavy air-assault craft, their crews dazed or stunned, being destroyed by the single Human-Conqueror fighter warcraft that had followed them down. More good warriors being prematurely raised to Eldership.

Another Elder appeared. " 'Supreme Commander, this is Speaker Cvv-panav,' " he said. " 'These are nothing more than part of the Yycroman war fleet the Mrachanis warned us about. Hold your territory, and they'll break over you.' "

Prm-jevev flicked his tongue in vicious contempt. Here he was in the boiling cauldron of combat, facing Eldership for himself and every one of his warriors and technics, and all Speaker Cvv-panav could do was waste his time with pretentious political banalities. "It may not be that easy, Speaker," he bit out. "Not if that weapon is what I think it might be."

" 'Don't be ridiculous,' " the Speaker's scoffing reply came back a few beats later. " 'Hold your courage, Supreme Commander—this is no time to fall apart on us.' "

Prm-jevev flicked his tongue savagely. It was also no time to face a weapon like CIRCE. Not here, with a fleet that had already been battered halfway to uselessness. Certainly not on the Human-Conquerors' terms and timing.

But how could he call a retreat? Especially when none of the Elders who would be judging his actions even knew of CIRCE's existence?

Another Elder appeared. " 'Supreme Commander Prm-jevev, this is the Overclan Prime,' " he said. " 'You are hereby ordered to withdraw.' "

Prm-jevev felt his midlight pupils narrow in surprise. What in the eighteen worlds—?

And then he got it. The Overclan Prime had listened between the words and understood the full scope of Prm-jevev's suspicions and fears. By ordering Prm-jevev to retreat from what looked to be an imminent victory, he was taking on himself the public scorn and political repercussions that would follow this defeat.

On the telescope display, the last of the heavy air-assault craft flashed into vapor... and with it went their last reason to stay. "I obey, Overclan Prime," he acknowledged. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the Elders grouped around him. "Supreme Commander Prm-jevev to all ships," he called. "Break off your attacks and retreat."

The laser bombers saw the Corvine coming, of course. But there was absolutely nothing they could do about it. At close-combat range the faint flickers of light that preceded each laser shot were easily visible, and even with one dead engine Quinn was able to avoid their shots with ease. Between the 55 mm cannon and one of his three remaining missiles, it was over in seconds.

Weaving around the expanding clouds of debris, he turned the Corvine's nose upward again... and for the first time since the Vindicators' sudden appearance, he turned his attention back to the main battle.

To find that it was over.

He stared in disbelief. There was the Trafalgar, looking half-dead but still limping gamely along. There was the fleet, or at least what was left of it. There were the two Vindicators, their drive coronas now flaming violently in the opposite direction as they attempted to brake from their mad charge.

But the Zhirrzh ships had turned and were driving away from the planet. Even as he watched, they meshed out and were gone.

What in the world? Bokamba said, clearly as surprised as Quinn was.

I don't know, Quinn said. They just gave up.

But they were winning, Bokamba protested.

I know.

Well, let Montgomery and the others figure it out, Bokamba said. We've got to get back to Dreamer and Con Lady.

Right. Quinn curved the Corvine back around, searching for the women's fighter.

To find it little more than a blur, its shape all but smothered by the roiling air turbulence around it. Like a sleek metal meteoroid, it was heading toward a spectacular and fiery death.

He threw full power to the engines, feeling Bokamba's sudden surge of guilt as both men were slammed back into their seats. A flood of warmth hit his face and chest, the intensity increasing as air friction began heating the Corvine's already overstressed hull toward the danger point. Behind him he could sense Bokamba trying furiously to coax more power out of the engines, all the time fully and bitterly aware that they weren't going to make it....

And then, suddenly, a spurt of maneuvering flame erupted barely a klick from the women's Corvine. A shadowy ship, visible only through the air turbulence sheathing it, was closing fast on the stricken fighter.

It's a sensor-stealthed ship, Bokamba said, his relief bubbling almost visibly. Probably one of the Trafalgar's watchships.

Quinn held his breath, ignoring the heat now burningly hot on his skin. The chase ship was nearly to the fighter... the two masses of turbulence merged...

And abruptly the shape and texture changed as the chase ship curved upward back toward space, the wounded Corvine safely aboard.

"I guess that's that," Quinn said aloud, easing up on the throttle and lifting the Corvine's nose away from the planet below. The battle was over, and with it any need to stay at Level X. Bracing himself, he disengaged.

With a breathtaking suddenness, the brilliant colors were gone. The colors, and the aromas, and the sensations, and the other presences in his mind. He was all alone again, suspended precariously in the center of a vast, uncaring universe that had once again become dark and dreary.

A universe from which several of his friends and comrades in arms had now been taken. Forever.

For a long, agonizing moment he fought the old silent battle within himself: whether to stay here, or to go back to Level X for just a few minutes more. But down deep, he knew what the final outcome of that battle had to be. Level X was a glorious existence, a dazzling universe where life was neat and ordered and there were no emotional knives to cut and twist into a person's gut. But it wasn't reality; and a long time ago he'd decided where it was he had to live his life.

And so, with a hollowness in his soul, and with silent tears streaming across his cheeks, he turned the Corvine to follow the rescue ship back across the dark of space toward the battered fleet. And wished he'd been one of the ones who had died.

The teeth-aching screech of metal on metal ground to a halt, and there was a distant clang as the forward cargo hatch slammed shut. "That's got 'er," Cho Ming called out.

"Right," Daschka said, easing the throttle back and pulling up toward space. "There you go, Cavanagh. Happy?"

"Yes," Aric murmured. "Thank you."

Daschka shrugged. "I never said I wasn't willing to help out," he said. "I just didn't want to get vaporized in the process."

Aric smiled. "I guess that's understandable."