“Oh, he's a good mentor. He stuffs me with military information, tactics, history ... I can run every phase of a combat drop patrol now, logistics, mapping, assault, withdrawal, even emergency shuttle take-offs, and landings, if you don't mind a few bumps. I'm almost up to really handling my fictional rank, at least on fleet equipment. He likes teaching."
“It seemed to me you were a little ... tense, with him."
She tossed her head. “Everything is tense, just now. It's not possible to be ‘apart from’ this command structure mess, thank you. Although ... I suppose I haven't quite forgiven Tung for not being infallible about it. I thought he was, at first."
“Yeah, well, there's a lot of fallibility going around these days,” Miles said uncomfortably. “Uh ... how's Baz?” Is your husband treating you right? he wanted to demand, but didn't.
“He's well,” she replied, not looking happy, “but discouraged. This power struggle was alien to him, repugnant, I think. He's a tech at heart, he sees a job that needs doing, he does it ... Tung hints that if Baz hadn't buried himself in Engineering he might have foreseen—prevented—fought the takeover, but I think it was the other way around. He couldn't lower himself to fight on Oser's back-stabbing level, so he withdrew to where he could keep his own standards of honesty ... for a little while longer. This schism's affected morale all up and down the line."
“I'm sorry,” said Miles.
“You should be.” Her voice cracked, steadied, harshened. “Baz felt he'd failed you, but you failed us first, when you never came back. You couldn't expect us to keep up the illusion forever."
“Illusion?” said Miles. “I knew ... it would be difficult, but I thought you might ... grow into your roles. Make the mercenaries your own."
“The mercenaries may be enough for Tung. I thought they might be for me, too, till we came to the killing.... I hate Barrayar, but better to serve Barrayar than nothing, or your own ego."
“What does Oser serve?” Gregor asked curiously, brows raised at this mixed declamation about their homeworld.
“Oser serves Oser. ‘The fleet,’ he says, but the fleet serves Oser, so it's just a short circuit,” said Elena. “The fleet is no home-country. No building, no children ... sterile. I don't mind helping out the Aslunders, though, they need it. A poor planet, and scared."
“You and Baz—and Arde—could have left, gone off on your own,” began Miles.
“How?” said Elena. “You gave us the Dendarii in charge. Baz was a deserter once. Never again."
All my fault, right, thought Miles. Great.
Elena turned to Gregor, who had acquired a strange guarded expression on his face while listening to her charges of abandonment. “You still haven't said what you're doing here in the first place besides putting your feet in things. Was this supposed to be some sort of secret diplomatic mission?"
“You explain it,” said Miles to Gregor, trying not to grit his teeth. Tell her about the balcony, eh?
Gregor shrugged, eyes sliding aside from Elena's level look. “Like Baz, I deserted. Like Baz, I found it was not the improvement I'd hoped for."
“You can see why it's urgent to get Gregor back home as quickly as possible,” Miles put in. “They think he's missing. Maybe kidnapped.” Miles gave Elena a quick edited version of their chance meeting in Consortium Detention.
“God.” Elena's lips pursed. “I see why it's urgent to you to get him off your hands, anyway. If anything happened to him in your company, fifteen factions would cry ‘Treason plot!’”
“That thought has occurred to me, yes,” growled Miles.
“Your father's Centrist coalition government would be the first thing to fall,” Elena continued. “The military right would get behind Count Vorinnis, I suppose, and square off with the anti-centralization liberals. The French speakers would want Vorville, the Russian Vortugalov—or has he died yet?"
“The far-right blow-up-the-wormhole isolationist loonie faction would field Count Vortrifrani against the anti-Vor pro-galactic faction who want a written constitution,” put in Miles glumly. “And I do mean field."
“Count Vortrifrani scares me,” Elena shivered. “I've heard him speak."
“It's the suave way he mops the foam from his lips,” said Miles. “The Greek minorists would seize the moment to attempt secession—"
“Stop it!” Gregor, who had propped his forehead on his hands, said from behind the barrier of his arms.
“I thought that was your job,” said Elena tartly. At his bleak look, raising his head, she softened, her mouth twisting up. “Too bad I can't offer you a job with the fleet. We can always use formally-trained officers, to train the rest if nothing else."
“A mercenary?” said Gregor. “There's a thought...."
“Oh, sure. A lot of our people are former regular military folk. Some are even legitimately discharged."
Fantasy lit Gregor's eye with brief amusement. He sighted down his grey-and-white jacket sleeve. “If only you were in charge here, aye, Miles?"
“No!” Miles cried in a suffused voice.
The light died. “It was a joke."
“Not funny.” Miles breathed carefully, praying it would not occur to Gregor to make that an order.... “Anyway, we're now trying to make it to the Barrayaran Consul on Vervain Station. It's still there, I hope. I haven't heard news for days—what's going on with the Vervani?"
“As far as I know, it's business as usual, except for the heightened paranoia,” said Elena. “Vervain's putting its resources into ships, not stations—"
“Makes sense, when you've got more than one wormhole to guard,” Miles conceded.
“But it makes Aslund perceive the Vervani as potential aggressors. There's an Aslunder faction that's actually urging a first strike before the new Vervani fleet comes on-line. Fortunately, the defensive strategists have prevailed so far. Oser has set the price for a strike by us prohibitively high. He's not stupid. He knows the Aslunders couldn't back us up. Vervain hired a mercenary fleet as a stopgap too—in fact, that's what gave the Aslunders the idea to hire us. They're called Randall's Rangers, though I understand Randall is no more."
“We shall avoid them,” Miles asserted fervently.
“I hear their new second officer is a Barrayaran. You might be able to swing some help, there."
Gregor's brows rose in speculation. “One of Illyan's plants? Sounds like his work."
Was that where Ungari had gone? “Approach with caution, anyway,” Miles allowed.
“About time,” Gregor commented under his breath.
“The Ranger's commander's name is Cavilo—"
“What?” yelped Miles.
Elena's winged brows rose. “Just Cavilo. Nobody seems to know if it's the given or surname—"
“Cavilo is the person who tried to buy me—or Victor Rotha—at the Consortium Station. For twenty thousand Betan dollars."
Elena's brows stayed up. “Why?"
“I don't know why.” Miles rethought their goal. Pol, the Consortium, Aslund ... no, it still came up Vervain. “But we definitely avoid the Vervani's mercs. We step off the ship and go straight to the Consul, go to ground, and don't even squeak till Illyan's men arrive to take us home, Momma. Right."
Gregor sighed. “Right."
No more playing secret agent. His best efforts had only served to get Gregor nearly murdered. It was time to try less hard, Miles decided.
“Strange,” said Gregor, looking at Elena—at the new Elena, Miles guessed—"to think you've had more combat experience than either of us."
“Than both of you,” Elena corrected dryly. “Yes, well ... actual combat ... is a lot stupider than I'd imagined. If two groups can cooperate to the incredible extent it takes to meet in battle, why not put in a tenth that effort to talk? That's not true of guerilla wars, though,” Elena went on thoughtfully. “A guerilla is an enemy who won't play the game. Makes more sense to me. If you're going to be vile, why not be totally vile? That third contract—if I ever get invo
lved in another guerilla war, I want to be on the side of the guerillas."
“Harder to make peace, between totally vile enemies,” Miles reflected. “War is not its own end, except in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation. It's peace that's wanted. Some better peace than the one you started with."
“Whoever can be the most vile longest, wins?” Gregor posited.
“Not ... historically true, I don't think. If what you do during the war so degrades you that the next peace is worse.... “Human noises from the cargo bay froze Miles in midsentence, but it was Tung and Mayhew returning.
“Come on,” Tung urged. “If Arde doesn't keep to schedule, he'll draw attention."
They filed into the cargo hold, where Mayhew held the control leash of a float pallet with a couple of plastic packing crates attached. “Your friend can pass as a fleet soldier,” Tung told Miles. “For you, I found a box. It would have been classier to roll you up in a carpet, but since the freighter captain is male, I'm afraid the historical reference would be wasted."
Dubiously, Miles regarded the box. It seemed to lack air holes. “Where are you taking me?"
“We have a regular irregular arrangement, for getting fleet intelligence officers in and out quietly. Got this inner-system freighter captain, an independent owner—he's Vervani, but he's been on the payroll three times before. He'll take you across, get you through Vervani customs. After that you're on your own."
“How much danger is this arrangement to you all?” Miles worried.
“Not a lot,” said Tung, “all things considered. He'll think he's delivering more mercenary agents, for a price, and naturally keep his mouth shut. It'll be days before he gets back to even be questioned. I arranged it all myself, Elena and Arde didn't appear, so he can't give them away."
“Thank you,” Miles said quietly.
Tung nodded, and sighed. “If only you'd stayed on with us. What a soldier I could've made of you, these last three years."
“If you do find yourselves out of a job as a consequence of helping us,” Gregor added, “Elena will know how to put you in touch."
Tung grimaced. “In touch with what, eh?"
“Better not to know,” said Elena, helping Miles position himself in the packing crate.
“All right,” grumbled Tung, “but ... all right."
Miles found himself face to face with Elena, for the last time till—when? She hugged him, but then gave Gregor an identical, sisterly embrace. “Give my love to your mother,” she told Miles. “I often think of her."
“Right. Uh ... give my best to Baz. Tell him, it's all right. Your personal safety comes first, yours and his. The Dendarii are, are, were...” he could not quite bring himself to say, not important, or, a naive dream, or, an illusion, though that last came closest. “A good try,” he finished lamely.
The look she gave him was cool, edged, indecipherable—no, readily decodable, he feared. Idiot, or stronger words to that effect. He sat down, his head to his knees, and let Mayhew affix the lid, feeling like a zoological specimen being crated for shipment to the lab.
* * * *
The transfer went smoothly. Miles and Gregor found themselves installed in a small but decent cabin designed for the freighter's occasional super-cargo. The ship undocked, free of Aslund Station and danger of discovery, some three hours after they boarded. No Oseran search parties, no uproars ... Tung, Miles had to admit, still did good work.
Miles was intensely grateful for a wash, a chance to clean his remaining clothes, a real meal, and sleep in safety. The ship's tiny crew seemed allergic to their corridor; he and Gregor were left strictly alone. Safe for three days, as he chugged across the Hegen Hub yet again, in yet another identity. Next stop, the Barrayaran consulate of Vervain Station.
Oh, God, he was going to have to write a report on all this when they got there. True confessions, in the approved ImpSec official style (dry as dust, judging from samples he'd read). Ungari, now, given the same tour, would have produced columns of concrete, objective data, all ready to be reanalyzed six different ways. What had Miles counted? Nothing, I was in a box. He had little to offer but gut feel based on a limited view snatched while dodging what seemed every security goon in the system. Maybe he should center his report on the security forces, eh? One ensign's opinion. The general staff would be so impressed.
So what was his opinion, by now? Well, Pol didn't seem to be the source of the troubles in the Hegen Hub; they were reacting, not acting. The Consortium seemed supremely uninterested in military adventures, the only party weak enough for the eclectic Jacksonians to take on and beat was Aslund, and there would be little profit in conquering Aslund, a barely terraformed agricultural world. Aslund was paranoid enough to be dangerous, but only half-prepared, and shielded by a mercenary force waiting only the right spark to itself split into warring factions. No sustained threat there. The action, the energy for this destabilization, by elimination must be coming from or via Vervain. How could one find out ... no. He'd sworn off secret agenting. Vervain was somebody else's problem.
Miles wondered wanly if he could persuade Gregor to give him an Imperial pardon from writing a report, and if Illyan would accept it. Probably not.
Gregor was very quiet. Miles, stretched out on his bunk, tucked his hands behind his head and smiled to conceal worry, as Gregor—somewhat regretfully, it seemed to Miles—put aside his stolen Dendarii uniform and donned civilian clothes contributed by Arde Mayhew. The shabby trousers, shirt, and jacket hung a little short and loose on Gregor's spare frame; so dressed he seemed a down-on-his-luck drifter, with hollow eyes. Miles secretly resolved to keep him away from high places.
Gregor regarded him back. “You were weird, as Admiral Naismith, you know? Almost like a different person."
Miles shrugged himself up onto one elbow. “I guess Naismith is me with no brakes. No constraints. He doesn't have to be a good little Vor, or any kind of a Vor. He doesn't have a problem with subordination, he isn't subordinate to anyone."
“I noticed.” Gregor ordered the Dendarii uniform in Barrayaran regulation folds. “Do you regret having to duck out on the Dendarii?"
“Yes ... no ... I don't know.” Deeply. The chain of command, it seemed, pulled both ways on a middle link. Pull hard enough, and that link must twist and snap.... “I trust you don't regret escaping contract slavery."
“No ... it wasn't what I'd pictured. It was peculiar, that fight at the airlock, though. Total strangers wanting to kill me without even knowing who I was. Total strangers trying to kill the emperor of Barrayar, I can understand. This ... I'm going to have to think about this one."
Miles allowed himself a brief crooked grin. “Like being loved for yourself, only different."
Gregor gave him a sharp glance. “It was strange to see Elena again, too. Bothari's dutiful daughter ... she's changed."
“I'd meant her to,” Miles avowed.
“She seems quite attached to her deserter husband."
“Yes,” Miles said shortly.
“Had you meant that too?"
“Not mine to choose. It ... follows logically, from the integrity of her character. I might have foreseen it. Since her convictions about loyalty just saved both our lives, I can hardly ... hardly regret them, eh?"
Gregor's brow rose, an oblique gloss.
Miles bit down irritation. “Anyway, I hope she'll be all right. Oser's proved himself dangerous. She and Baz seem to be protected only by Tung's admittedly eroding power base."
“I'm surprised you didn't take up Tung's offer.” Gregor grinned as briefly as Miles had. “Instant admiralty. Skip all those tedious Barrayaran intervening steps."
“Tung's offer?” Miles snorted. “Didn't you hear him? I thought you said Dad made you read all those treaties. Tung didn't offer command, he offered a fight, at five to one odds against. He sought an ally, front-man, or cannon-fodder, not a boss."
“Oh. Hm.” Gregor settled back on his bunk. “That's so. Yet I still wonder if you'
d have chosen something other than this prudent retreat if I hadn't been along.” His lids were hooded over a sharp glance.
Miles choked on visions. A sufficiently liberal interpretation of Illyan's vague “use Ensign Vorkosigan to clear the Dendarii Mercenaries from the Hub” might be stretched to include ... no. “No. If I hadn't run into you, I'd be on my way to Escobar with Sergeant-nanny Overholt. You, I suppose, would still be installing lights.” Depending, of course, on what the mysterious Cavilo—Commander Cavilo?—had planned for Miles once he'd caught up with him at Consortium Detention.
So where was Overholt, by now? Had he reported to HQ, tried to contact Ungari, been picked off by Cavilo? Or followed Miles? Too bad Miles couldn't have followed Overholt to Ungari—no, that was circular reasoning. It was all very weird, and they were well out of it.
“We're well out of it,” Miles opined to Gregor.
Gregor rubbed the pale grey mark on his face, fading shadow of his shock-stick encounter. “Yeah, probably. I was getting good at the lights, though."
* * * *
Almost over, Miles thought as he and Gregor followed the freighter captain through the hatch tube into the Vervain Station docking bay. Well, maybe not quite. The Vervani captain was nervous, obsequious, clearly tense. Still, if the man had managed this spy transfer three times before, he should know what he was doing by now. The docking bay with its harsh lighting was the usual chilly echoing cavern, arranged to the rigid grid-pattern taste of robots, not human curves. It was in fact empty of humans, its machinery silent. Their path had been cleared before them, Miles supposed, though if he'd been doing it he'd have picked the busiest chaotic period of loading or unloading to slip something past.
The captain's eyes darted from corner to corner. Miles could not help following his glance. They stopped near a deserted control booth.
“We wait here,” the freighter captain said. “There are some men coming who will take you the rest of the way.” He leaned against the booth wall and kicked it gently with one heel in an idle compulsive rhythm for several minutes, then he stopped kicking and straightened, head turning.
The Vor Game Page 18