The Vor Game

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Gregor, who had built a little tower of tacti-go chips, toppled it with one finger. “Oh, being a mascot isn't bad work, if you can get it.” He stirred the pile slowly. “I'll see what I can do. No promises."

  * * * *

  Miles didn't know if it was the Emperor, the bugs, or wheels already in motion (grinding slowly), but two days afterwards he found himself assigned to the job of administrative assistant to the guard commander for the building. It was comconsole work; scheduling, payroll, updating computer files. The job was interesting for a week, while he was learning it, mind-numbing after that. By the end of a month, the boredom and banality were beginning to prey on his nerves. Was he loyal, or merely stupid? Guards, Miles now realized, had to stay in prison all day long too. Indeed, as a guard, one of his jobs was now to keep himself in. Damn clever of Illyan, nobody else could have held him, if he'd been determined on escape. He did find a window once, and looked out. It was sleeting.

  Was he going to get out of this bloody box before Winterfair? How long did it take the world to forget him, anyway? If he committed suicide, could he be officially listed as shot by a guard while escaping? Was Illyan trying to drive him out of his mind, or just out of his Section?

  Another month slipped by. As a spiritual exercise, he decided to fill his off-duty hours by watching every training vid in the military library, in strict alphabetical order. The assortment was truly astonishing. He was particularly bemused by the thirty-minute vid (under “H: Hygiene") explaining how to take a shower—well, yes, there probably were backcountry recruits who really needed the instruction. After some weeks he had worked his way down to “L: Laser-rifle Model D-67; power-pack circuitry, maintenance, and repair,” when he was interrupted by a call ordering him to report to Illyan's office.

  * * * *

  Illyan's office was almost unchanged from Miles's last excruciating visit—same spartan windowless inner chamber occupied mainly by a comconsole desk that looked like it could be used to pilot a jump ship—but now there were two chairs. One was promisingly empty. Maybe Miles wouldn't end up so literally on the carpet this round? The other was occupied by a man in undress greens with captain's tabs and the Horus-eye insignia of Imperial Security on the collar.

  Interesting fellow, that captain. Miles summed him out of the corner of his eye as he exchanged formal salutes with Illyan. Maybe thirty-five years old, he had something of Illyan's unmemorable bland look about the face, but was more heavily built. Pale. He might easily pass for some minor bureaucrat, a sedentary indoorsman. But that particular look could also be acquired by spending a great deal of time cooped up on spaceships.

  “Ensign Vorkosigan, this is Captain Ungari. Captain Ungari is one of my galactic operatives. He has ten years experience gathering information for this department. His specialty is military evaluation.” Ungari favored Miles with a polite nod by way of acknowledging the introduction. His level gaze summed Miles right back. Miles wondered what the spy's evaluation of the dwarfish soldier standing before him might be, and tried to stand straighter. There was nothing obvious about Ungari's reaction to Miles.

  Illyan leaned back in his swivel chair. “So tell me, Ensign, what have you heard lately from the Dendarii Mercenaries?"

  “Sir?” Miles rocked back. Not the curve he was expecting ... “I ... lately, nothing. I had a message about a year ago from Elena Bothari—Bothari-Jesek, that is. But it was only private, uh, birthday greetings."

  “That one I have,” Illyan nodded.

  Do you, you bastard.

  —"Nothing since?"

  “No, sir."

  “Hm.” Illyan waved a hand at the spare chair. “Sit down, Miles.” His voice grew quicker and more businesslike. Meat at last? “Let's go over a little astrography. Geography is the mother of strategy, they say.” Illyan fiddled with a control on his comconsole.

  A wormhole nexus route map formed in three bright dimensions over the holovid plate. It looked rather like a ball-and-stick model of some weird organic molecule done in colored light, balls representing local-space crossings, sticks the wormhole-space jumps between them; schematic, compressing information, rather than to scale. Illyan zoomed in on a portion, red and blue sparks in the center of an otherwise empty ball, with four sticks leading out at crazy angles to more complex balls like some skewed Celtic cross. “Look familiar?"

  “That in the center is the Hegen Hub, isn't it, sir?"

  “Good.” Illyan handed him his controller. “Give me a strategic summation of the Hegan Hub, Ensign."

  Miles cleared his throat. “It's a double star system with no habitable planets, a few stations and powersats, and very little reason to linger in. Like many nexus connections, it's more route than place, taking its value by what's around it. In this case, four adjoining regions of local space with settled planets.” Miles brightened each part of the image as he spoke, for emphasis.

  “Aslund. Aslund is a cul-de-sac like Barrayar; the Hegen Hub is its sole gate to the greater galactic web. The Hegen Hub is as vital to Aslund as our gateway Komarr is to us.

  “Jackson's Whole. The Hegen Hub is just one of five gates from Jacksonian local space; beyond Jackson's Whole lies half the explored galaxy.

  “Vervain. Vervain has two exits; one to the Hub, the other into the nexus sectors controlled by the Cetagandan Empire.

  “And fourth, of course, our, ah, good neighbor the Planet and Republic of Pol. Which in turn connects to our own multi-nexus Komarr. Also from Komarr is our one straight jump to the Cetagandan sector, which route has been either tightly controlled or outright barred to Cetagandan traffic ever since we conquered it.” Miles glanced at Illyan for approval, hoping he was on the right track. Illyan glanced at Ungari, who allowed his brows to rise fractionally. Meaning what?

  “Wormhole strategy. The devil's cat's cradle,” Illyan muttered editorially. He squinted at his glowing schematic. “Four players, one game-board. It ought to be simple."

  “Anyway,” Illyan stretched out his hand for the controller, and sat back with a sigh, “the Hegen Hub is more than a potential choke-point for the four adjoining systems. Twenty-five percent of our own commercial traffic passes through it, via Pol. And although Vervain is closed to Cetagandan military vessels just as Pol is closed to ours, the Cetas ship significant civilian exchange through the same slot and out past Jackson's Whole. Anything—like a war—that blocks the Hegen Hub would seem almost as damaging to Cetaganda as to us.

  “And yet, after years of cooperative disinterest and dull neutrality, this empty region is suddenly alive with what I can only call an arms race. All four neighbors seem to be creating military interests. Pol has been beefing up the armament on all six of its jump point stations strung toward the Hub—even pulling forces from the side toward us, which I find a little startling, since Pol has been extremely wary of us ever since we took Komarr. The Jackson's Whole consortium is doing the same on its side. Vervain has hired a mercenary fleet called Randall's Rangers.

  “All this activity is causing low-grade panic on Aslund, whose interest in the Hegen Hub is for obvious reasons most critical. They're throwing half this year's military budget into a major jump-point station—hell, a floating fortress—and to cover the gap while they prepare, they too have hired guns. You may be familiar with them. They used to be called the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet.” Illyan paused, and raised an eyebrow, watching for Miles's reaction.

  Connections at last—or were there? Miles blew out his breath. “They were blockade specialists, at one time. Makes sense, I guess. Ah ... used to be called the Dendarii? Have they changed lately?"

  “They've recently reverted to their original title of Oseran Mercenaries, it seems."

  “Strange. Why?"

  “Why, indeed?” Illyan's lips compressed. “One of many questions, though hardly the most urgent. But it's the Cetagandan connection—or lack of it—that bothers me. General chaos in the region would be as damaging to Cetaganda as to us. But if, after the chaos passes, Cetagan
da could somehow end up in control of the Hegen Hub—ah! Then they could block or control Barrayaran traffic as we do theirs through Komarr. Indeed, if you look at the other side of the Komarr-Cetaganda jump as being under their control, that would put them across two out of our four major galactic routes. Something labyrinthine, indirect—it smells of Cetaganda's methods. Or would, if I could spot their sticky hands pulling any of the strings. They must be there, even if I can't see them yet.... “Brooding, Illyan shook his head. “If the Jackson's Whole jump were cut, everyone would have to reroute through the Cetagandan Empire ... profit, there..."

  “Or through us,” Miles pointed out. “Why should Cetaganda do us that favor?"

  “I have thought of one possibility. Actually, I've thought of several, but this one's for you, Miles. What's the best way to capture a jump point?"

  “From both ends at once,” Miles recited automatically.

  “Which is one reason Pol has been careful never to let us amass any military presence in the Hegen Hub. But let us suppose someone on Pol stumbles across that nasty rumor I had so much trouble scotching, that the Dendarii Mercenaries are the private army of a certain Barrayaran Vor lordling? What will they think?"

  “They'll think we're getting ready to jump them,” said Miles. “They might go paranoid—panic—even seek a temporary alliance with, say, Cetaganda?"

  “Very good,” nodded Illyan.

  Captain Ungari, who had been listening with the attentive patience of a man who'd been over it all before, glanced at Miles as though faintly encouraged, and approved this hypothesis with a nod of his head.

  “But even if perceived as an independent force,” Illyan went on, “the Dendarii are one more destabilizing influence in the region. The whole situation is disturbing—growing tenser by the day, for no apparent reason. Only a little more force—one mistake, one lethal incident—could trigger turbulence, classic chaos, the real thing, unstoppable. Reasons, Miles! I want information."

  Illyan, generally, wanted information with the same passion that a strung-out juba freak craved a spike. He turned now to Ungari. “So what do you think, Captain? Will he do?"

  Ungari was slow to reply. “He's ... more physically conspicuous than I'd realized."

  “As camouflage, that's not necessarily a disadvantage. In his company you ought to be nearly invisible. The stalking goat and the hunter."

  “Perhaps. But can he carry the load? I'm not going to have much time for babysitting.” Ungari's voice was an urban baritone, evidently one of the modern educated officers, though he did not wear an Academy pin.

  “The Admiral seems to think so. Am I to argue?"

  Ungari glanced at Miles. “Are you sure the Admiral's judgment is not swayed by ... personal hopes?"

  You mean wishful thinking, Miles mentally translated that delicate hesitancy.

  “If so, it's for the first time,” Illyan shrugged. And there's a first time for everything, hung unspoken in the air. Illyan turned now to pin Miles with a gaze of grim intensity. “Miles, do you think you would—if required—be capable of playing the part of Admiral Naismith again, for a short time?"

  He'd seen it coming, but the words spoken out loud were still a strange cold thrill. To activate that suppressed persona again.... It wasn't just a part, Illyan. “I could play Naismith again, sure. It's stopping playing Naismith that scares me."

  Illyan allowed himself a wintry smile, taking this for a joke. Miles's smile was a little sicker. You don't know, you don't know what it was like.... Three parts fakery and flim-flam, and one part ... something else. Zen, gestalt, delusion? Uncontrollable moments of alpha-state exaltation.... Could he do it again? Maybe he knew too much now. First you freeze, and then you fall. Perhaps it would only be play-acting this time.

  Illyan leaned back, held up his hands palm to palm, and let them fall in a releasing gesture. “Very well, Captain Ungari. He's all yours. Use him as you see fit. Your mission, then, is to gather information on the current crisis in the Hegen Hub; secondly, if possible, to use Ensign Vorkosigan to remove the Dendarii Mercenaries from the stage. If you decide to use a bogus contract to pull them out of the Hub, you can draw on the covert ops account for a convincing down-payment. You know the results I want. I'm sorry I can't make my orders more specific in advance of the intelligence you yourself must obtain."

  “I don't mind, sir,” said Ungari, smiling slightly.

  “Hm. Enjoy your independence while it lasts. It ends with your first mistake.” Illyan's tone was sardonic, but his eyes were confident, until he turned them toward Miles. “Miles, you'll be traveling as ‘Admiral Naismith,’ himself traveling incognito, returning, possibly, to the Dendarii fleet. Should Captain Ungari decide for you to activate the Naismith role, he'll pose as your bodyguard, so as to be always in position to control the situation. It's a little too much to ask Ungari to be responsible for his mission and also your safety, so you'll also have a real bodyguard. This setup will give Captain Ungari unusual freedom of movement, because it will account for your possession of a personal ship—we have a jump pilot and a fast courier we obtained from—never mind where, but it has no connection with Barrayar. It's under Jacksonian registration at present, which fits in nicely with Admiral Naismith's mysterious background. It's so obviously bogus, no one will look for a second layer of, er, bogusity. Illyan paused. “You will, of course, obey Captain Ungari's orders. That goes without saying.” Illyan's direct stare was chilly as a Kyril Island midnight.

  Miles smiled dutifully, to show he took the hint. I'll be good, sir—let me off planet! From ghost to goat—was this a promotion?

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Victor Rotha, Procurement Agent. Sounded like a pimp. Dubiously, Miles regarded his new persona twinned over the vid plate in his cabin. What was wrong with a simple spartan mirror, anyway? Where had Illyan gotten this ship? Of Betan manufacture, it was stuffed with Betan gimmickry of a luxurious order. Miles entertained himself with a gruesome vision of what could happen if the programming on the elaborate sonic tooth-cleaner ever went awry.

  “Rotha” was vaguely dressed, with respect to his supposed point-of-origin. Miles had drawn the line at a Betan sarong, Pol Station Six was not nearly warm enough for it. He did wear his loose green trousers held up with a Betan sarong rope, though, and Betan style sandals. The green shirt was a cheap synthetic silk from Escobar, the baggy cream jacket an expensive one of like style. The eclectic wardrobe of someone originally from Beta Colony, who'd been knocking around the galaxy for a while, sometimes up, sometimes down. Good. He muttered to himself aloud, warming up his disused Betan accent, as he pottered about the elaborate Owner's Cabin.

  They had docked here at Pol Six a day ago without incident. The whole three-week trip from Barrayar had passed without incident. Ungari seemed to like it that way. The ImpSec captain had spent most of the journey counting things, taking pictures and counting ships, troops, security guards both civil and military. They'd managed excuses to stop over at four of the six jump point stations on the route between Pol and the Hegen Hub, with Ungari counting, measuring, sectioning, computer-stuffing, and calculating the whole way. Now they had arrived at Pol's last (or first, depending on your direction of travel) outpost, its toehold in the Hegen Hub itself. At one time, Pol Six had merely marked the jump point, no more than an emergency stop and communications transfer link. No one had yet solved the problem of getting messages through a wormhole jump except by physically transporting them on a jump ship. In the most developed regions of the nexus, comm ships jumped hourly or even more often, to emit a tight-beam burst that travelled at the speed of light to the next jump point in that region of local space where messages were picked up and relayed out in turn, the fastest possible flow of information. In the less developed regions, one simply had to wait, sometimes for weeks or months, for a ship to happen by, and hope they'd remember to drop off your mail.

  Now Pol Six didn't just mark, it frankly guarded. Ungari had clicked his t
ongue in excitement, identifying and adding up Pol Navy ships clustered in the area around the new construction. They'd managed a spiral flight path into dock that revealed every side of the station, and all ships both moored and moving.

  “Your main job here,” Ungari had told Miles, “will be to giving anyone watching us something more interesting to watch than me. Circulate. I doubt you'll need to expend any special effort to conspicuous. Develop your cover identity—with luck, you may even pick up a contact or two who'll be worthy of further study. Though I doubt you'll run across anything of great value immediately; it doesn't work that way."

  Now, Miles laid his samples case open on his bed and rechecked them. Just a traveling salesman, that's me. A dozen hand weapons, power packs removed, gleamed wickedly back at him. A row of vids described larger and more interesting weapons systems. An more interesting—you might even say, “arresting"—collection of tiny disks nestled concealed in Miles's jacket. Death. I can get it for you wholesale.

  Miles's bodyguard met him at the docking hatch. Why, oh why had Illyan assigned Sergeant Overkill to this mission? Same reason he'd sent him to Kyril Island, because he was trusted, no doubt, but it embarrassed Miles to be working with a man who'd once arrested him. What did Overholt make of Miles, by now? Happily, the big man was the silent type.

  Overholt was dressed as informally and eclectically as Miles himself, though with safety boots in place of sandals. He looked exactly like somebody's bodyguard trying to look like a tourist. Much the sort of man small-time arms dealer Victor Rotha would logically employ. Both functional and decorative, he slices, dices, and chops. ... By themselves, either Miles or Overholt would be memorable. Together, well ... Ungari was right. They needn't worry about being overlooked.