"Meaning?" Bronski prompted.

"Meaning that I do not need to persuade the Zhirrzh to launch the Mirnacheem-hyeea Two attack," Valloittaja said, "because I have already done so. Here we are."

He gestured to an open door on their left. An old wooden door, Cavanagh noted, fitted out with an only slightly more modern mechanical lock behind riveted metal plates. "Go on in," Valloittaja said. "Unless you wish the Bhurtala to assist you."

Silently, Cavanagh stepped inside. It was a single square-shaped room, relatively small, apparently carved directly out of the rock of the cliffs. Carved into the wall at about knee height was a deep groove that had once held a Mrach ribbon candle, though the lighting now was being provided by a primitive incandescent electric-light rectangle set into the center of the ceiling, probably part of the same upgrade that had included the door lock. The furniture consisted of three Bhurtist military cots: liquid-filled floater-bag mattresses resting on bolted and wire-strung metal frames.

"I apologize for the accommodations," Valloittaja said as the others followed Cavanagh inside. "I'm afraid you caught us unprepared for extra visitors."

"Don't worry about it," Bronski assured him, looking around. "So when and where does the Mirnacheem-hyeea Two attack take place?"

Valloittaja smiled. "The when is as soon as the attack force can be assembled. The where... but you must forgive me if I choose to keep some matters secret. Good day, gentlemen."

He stepped back and gestured. One of the Bhurtala reached into the room and pulled the door closed.

It took nearly half an hour for Pheylan to get through a job he suspected a qualified tech could have knocked off in five minutes. But at last he was finished. "Okay, Max, I'm down to the cable," he informed the computer. "You ready?"

"I'm ready," Max said. "But again I urge you to reconsider. Once I'm disconnected from the fueler, I'll have access only to my internal audio and visual sensors, which are extremely limited. If you instead leave me connected, I'll be able to give you a more timely warning of approaching aircraft."

"Except that if those aircraft are Zhirrzh, I won't have time to get you out," Pheylan pointed out. "We're going to need you to work out the details of that sonic hull-cracking technique Williams came up with. Here we go."

Carefully, he cut through the final cable. Just as carefully, he lifted the meter-long silver cylinder out of the interlock chamber. "Still with me?" he asked, balancing the cylinder on the floor as he snagged the carrying case he'd rigged out of a pair of backpacks.

"I'm here," Max's voice came from the speaker in the cylinder. "Or at least most of me."

"Sorry," Pheylan apologized. "I wish I could bring your peripherals and libraries along, but I can't handle all that alone. Next time we do this, I'll bring along a couple of pack animals."

"I would hope so," Max said. "Incidentally, I'm not nearly as fragile as you seem to think. My casing and component placement have been designed to withstand reasonably severe mistreatment."

"Glad to hear it," Pheylan said, stuffing the cylinder into the carrying case and fastening it securely in place. "Let's hope we don't wind up pushing the design specs."

Hoisting the cylinder onto his back, he settled the straps in place and picked up his own survival pack. Heavy and awkward—he hoped he wouldn't have to walk all the way to the Peacekeeper base. "Let's make tracks."

Max had set them down on a small knoll that jutted up through the tree-covered landscape around it. The knoll itself was free of both trees and large bushes, but there was a fair amount of ankle-high vegetation underfoot consisting of interlocking vines that threatened to tangle his feet with each step. Pheylan had picked his way through perhaps thirty meters of the stuff and was nearing the edge of the knoll when he heard the distant sound. "Max?"

"Approaching air vehicle," the computer said. "Only one, I believe, though with only my internal sensors I can't be certain."

"Never mind how many," Pheylan said, throwing a quick look around the sky as he picked up his pace. Nothing visible yet. "Is it ours or theirs?"

"I can't tell," Max said. "But from the drive pitch I'd say it's more likely a space vehicle than an aircraft."

Pheylan swore under his breath, kicking into a flat-out run toward the edge of the knoll. The only people in this system who had spacecraft to spare for a rescue search were the Zhirrzh. "What direction is it coming from?" he asked, scanning the sky again. A few more steps and he'd be to the edge of the knoll and the partial cover of the trees.

And then, suddenly, one of the vines caught his ankle, pitching him forward toward the ground. He threw out his arms, his hands hitting the ground—

And with a crash and flurry of tearing leaves and vines they went straight through the layer of interlocked vegetation and into empty space.

Two meters sooner than he'd expected to, he'd found the edge of the knoll.

The next few seconds were a disoriented tangle of movement and pain as he rolled and tumbled down the slope, slamming into rocks and stiff plant stalks with the repetitive impact of Max's cylinder pounding against his back. He fought unsuccessfully for balance, hands scrabbling for a grip on the plants as they rushed past, legs flailing as they tried for enough friction to at least slow down his mad slide. Something hit his head hard enough for him to see stars—

He awoke slowly, vaguely aware that someone was softly calling his name. "Commander Cavanagh? Commander Cavanagh?"

"I'm here, Max," he said, his voice sounding distant and slurred in his ears. His left leg was throbbing strangely; absently, he reached down to rub it.

And gasped in pain, coming fully awake in an instant as a stab of agony ripped through the leg.

"Keep your voice down, please," Max said. "Is it broken?"

"Oh, yes, definitely," Pheylan managed, clenching his teeth hard together. Gasping in pain was undignified enough without adding flat-out screaming to it.

He paused, listening, the throbbing in his leg abruptly pushed into the background of his thoughts.

The sound of the incoming aircraft, which had sparked his disastrous rush toward cover, had stopped.

"Are they here?" he whispered.

"Yes," Max confirmed. "I've counted five separate voices; there may be more."

Pheylan grimaced. "Not human voices."

"No."

Carefully, Pheylan turned his torso and head to look above him. He was about two thirds of the way down the slope, wrapped around the tree trunk that had probably been responsible for breaking his leg. Behind him the false ground cover hung a couple of meters off the end of the knoll, giving him partial concealment from the view of anyone up there. Aside from that, though, he was about as exposed as he could possibly be.

"Can you move at all?" Max asked. "Two meters downslope is a large bush that would provide you with concealment."

Gingerly, Pheylan tried it. He got about five centimeters before conceding defeat. "I can't do it," he panted, wiping at the sweat dripping into his eyes. "The pain's too much."

"Can you tell how bad the break is?"

"No," Pheylan said. "Bad enough."

For a minute Max was silent. Pheylan could hear the voices himself now, chattering quietly away above him on the knoll.

And, no, they weren't human.

"I don't think you have any choice, Commander," Max said at last. "Whatever the Zhirrzh do here, the probability is high that the Peacekeepers will assume all survivors have been captured and won't come themselves to search. Even if you could get to your survival pack, the medical pack would be of limited help with a broken leg."