"In Pol space, yes," Liga agreed. "But Pol's law doesn't run in Hegen Hub. Yet. All you have to do is cast off from Pol Six and take little run out beyond the ten-thousand-kilometer traffic control to conduct any sort of business you want, perfectly legally. The problem comes in delivering the cargo back in to Pol local space."
"Difficult deliveries are one of my specialties," Miles assured him. "For a small surcharge, of course."
"Eh. Good . . ." Liga flicked fast-forward through the vidilogue. "These heavy-duty plasma arcs, now . . . how do they compare with the cannon-grade nerve disruptors?"
Miles shrugged. "Depends entirely upon whether you want to blow away people alone, or people and property both. I can make you a very good price on the nerve disruptors." He named a figure in Pol credits.
"I got a better quote than that, on a device of the same kilowattage, lately," Liga mentioned disinterestedly.
"I'll bet you did," Miles grinned. "Poison, one credit. Antidote, one hundred credits."
"What's that supposed to mean, eh?" asked Liga suspiciously. Miles unrolled his lapel and ran his thumb down the underside, and pulled out a tiny vid tab. "Take a look at this." He inserted it into the vid viewer. A figure sprang to life, and pirouetted. It was dressed from head to toe– and finger-tips in what appeared to be glittering skin-tight netting,
"A bit drafty for long underwear, eh?" said Liga sceptically. Miles flashed him a pained smile. "What you're looking at is what every armed force in the galaxy would like to get their hands on. The perfected single-person nerve disrupter shield net. Beta Colony's latest technological card."
Liga's eyes widened. "First I'd heard they were on the market."
"The open market, no. These are, as it were, private advance sales." Beta Colony only advertised its second or third latest advantages; staying several steps ahead of everybody else in R&D had been the harsh world's stock-in-trade for a couple of generations. In time, Beta Colony would be marketing its new device galaxy-wide. In the meantime . . .
Liga licked his pouty lower lip. "We use nerve disruptors a lot." For security guards? Right, sure. "I have a limited supply of shield nets. First come, first served."
"The price?"
Miles named a figure in Betan dollars. 'Outrageous!" Liga rocked back in his float chair. Miles shrugged. "Think about it. It could put your . . . organization at a considerable disadvantage not to be the first to upgrade its defenses. I'm sure you can imagine."
"I'll . . . have to check it out. Eh . . . can I have that disk to show my eh, supervisor?"
Miles pursed his lips. "Don't get caught with it."
"No way." Liga spun the demo vid through its paces one more time, staring in fascination at the sparkling soldier-figure, before pocketing the disk.
There. The hook was baited, and cast upon dark waters. It was going to be very interesting to see what nibbled, whether minnows or monstrous leviathans. Liga was a fish of the ramora underclass, Miles judged. Well, he had to start somewhere.
Back out on the concourse, Miles muttered worriedly to Overholt,
"Did I do all right?"
"Very smooth, sir," Overholt reassured him. Well, maybe. It had felt good, running by plan. He could almost feel himself submerging into the smarmy personality of Victor Rotha. For lunch, Miles led Overholt to a cafeteria with seating open to the concourse, the better for anyone not-watching Ungari to observe them. He munched a sandwich of vat-produced protein, and let his tight nerves unwind a little. This act could be all right. Not nearly as overstimulating as– "Admiral Naismith!"
Miles nearly choked on a half-chewed bite, his head swivelling frantically to identify the source of the surprised voice. Overholt jerked to full-alert, though he managed to keep his hand from flying prematurely to his concealed stunner.
Two men had paused beside his table. One Miles did not recognize. The other . . . damn! He knew that face. Square-jawed, brown-skinned, too neat and fit for his age to pass as anything but a soldier despite his Polian civilian clothes. The name, the name . . . One of Tung's commandos, a combat-drop-shuttle squad commander. The last time Miles had seen him they'd been suiting up together in the Triumph 's armory, preparing for a boarding battle. Clive Chodak, that was his name.
"I'm sorry, you're mistaken," Miles's denial was pure spinal reflex. "My name is Victor Rotha."
Chodak blinked. "What? Oh! Sorry. That is—you look a lot like somebody I used to know." He took in Overholt. His eyes queried Miles urgently. "Uh, can we join you?" ; "No!" said Miles sharply, panicked. No, wait. He shouldn't throw away a possible contact. This was a complication for which he should-have been prepared. But to activate Naismith prematurely, without Ungari's orders. . . .
"Anyway, not here," he amended hastily. "I … see, sir." With a short nod, Chodak immediately withdrew drawing his reluctant companion with him. He managed to glance back over his shoulder only once. Miles restrained the impulse to bite his napkin in half. The two men faded into the concourse. By their urgent gestures, they appeared to be arguing.
"Was that smooth?" Miles asked plaintively.
Overholt looked mildly dismayed. "Not very." He frowned down the concourse in the direction the two men had disappeared.
It didn't take Chodak more than an hour to track Miles down aboard his Betan ship in dock. Ungari was still out.
"He says he wants to talk to you," said Overholt. He and Miles studied the vid monitor of the hatchway, where Chodak shifted impatiently from foot to foot. "What do you think he really wants?"
"Probably, to talk to me," said Miles. "Damn me if I don't want to talk to him, too."
"How well did you know him?" asked Overholt suspiciously, staring at Chodak's image.
"Not well," Miles admitted. "He seemed a competent non-com. Knew his equipment, kept his people moving, stood his ground under fire." In truth, thinking back, Miles's actual contacts with the man had been brief, all in the course of business . . . but some of those minutes had been critical, in the wild uncertainty of shipboard combat. Was Miles's gut-feel really adequate security clearance for a man he hadn't seen for almost four years? "Scan him, sure. But let's let him in and see what he has to say."
"If you so order it, sir," said Overholt neutrally.
"I do."
Chodak did not seem to resent being scanned. He carried only a registered stunner. Though he had also been an expert at hand-to-hand combat, Miles recalled, a weapon no one could confiscate. Overholt escorted him to the small ship's wardroom/mess—the Betans would have called it the rec room.
"Mr. Rotha," Chodak nodded, "I, uh . . . hoped we could talk here privately." He looked doubtfully at Overholt. "Or have you replaced Sergeant Bothari?"
"Never." Miles motioned Overholt to follow him into the corridor, didn't speak till the doors sighed shut, "I think you are an inhibiting presence, Sergeant. Would you mind waiting outside?" Miles didn't specify whom Overholt inhibited. "You can monitor, of course."
"Bad idea," Overholt frowned. "Suppose he jumps you?"
Miles's fingers tapped nervously on his trouser seam. "It's a possibility. But we're heading for Aslund next, where the Dendarii are stationed, Ungari says. He may bear useful information."
"If he tells the truth."
"Even lies can be revealing." With this doubtful argument Miles squeezed back into the wardroom, shedding Overholt. He nodded to his visitor, now seated at a table. "Corporal Chodak."
Chodak brightened. "You do remember,"
"Oh, yes. And, ah … are you still with the Dendarii?"
"Yes, sir. It's Sergeant Chodak, now."
"Very good. I'm not surprised." "And, um . . . the Oseran Mercenaries."
"So I understand. Whether it's good or not remains to be seen."
"What are you posing as, sir?"
"Victor Rotha is an arms dealer."
"That's a good cover," Chodak nodded, judiciously. Miles tried to put a casual mask on his next words by punching up two coffees. "So what are you doing on Pol Six? I
thought the Den– the fleet was hired out on Aslund."
"At Aslund Station, here in the Hub," Chodak corrected. "It's just a couple days' flight across-system. What there is of it, so far. Government contractors." He shook his head.
"Behind schedule and over cost?"
"You got it." He accepted the coffee without hesitation, holding it between lean hands, and took a preliminary slurp. "I can't stay long." He turned the cup, set it on the table. "Sir, I think I may have accidentally done you a bad turn. I was so startled to see you there. . . . Anyway, I wanted to … to warn you, I guess. Are you on the way back to the fleet?"
"I'm afraid I can't discuss my plans. Not even with you."
Chodak gave him a penetrating stare from black almond eyes. "You always were tricky."
"As an experienced combat soldier, do you prefer frontal assaults?"
"No, sir!" Chodak smiled slightly.
"Suppose you tell me. I take it you are—or are one—of the fleet intelligence agents scattered around the Hub. There had better be more than one of you, or the organization's fallen apart sadly in my absence." In fact, half the inhabitants of Pol Six at the moment were probably spies of some stripe, considering the number of potential players in this game. Not to mention double agents—ought they to be counted twice?
"Why have you been gone so long, sir?" Chodak's tone was almost accusative.
"It wasn't my intention," Miles temporized. "For a portion of time I was a prisoner in a … place I'd rather not describe. I escaped about three months back." Well, that was one way of describing Kyril Island.
"You, sir! We could have rescued—"
"No, you couldn't have," Miles said sharply. "The situation was one of extreme delicacy. It was resolved to my satisfaction. But I was then faced with . . . considerable clean-up in areas of my operations other than the Dendarii fleet. Far-flung areas. Sorry, but you people are not my only concern. Nevertheless, I'm worried. I should have heard more from Commodore Jesek." Indeed, he should have.
"Commodore Jesek no longer commands. There was a financial reorganization and command restructuring, about a year ago, through the committee of captain-owners and Admiral Oser. Spearheaded by Admiral Oser."
"Where is Jesek?"
"He was demoted to fleet engineer."
Disturbing, but Miles could see it. "Not necessarily a bad thing. Jesek was never as aggressive as, say, Tung. And Tung?"
Chodak shook his head. "He was demoted from chief-of-staff to personnel officer. A nothing-job."
"That seems . . . wasteful."
"Oser doesn't trust Tung. And Tung doesn't love Oser, either. Oser's been trying to force him out for a year, but he hangs on, despite the humiliation of … um. It's not easy to get rid of him. Oser can't afford—yet—to decimate his staff, and too may key people are personally loyal to Tung."
Miles's eyebrow rose. "Including yourself?"
Chodak said distantly, "He got things done. I considered him a superior officer."
"So did I."
Chodak nodded shortly. "Sir . . . the thing is … the man who was with me in the cafeteria is my senior here. And he's one of Oser's. I can't think of any way short of killing him to stop him reporting our encounter."
"I have no desire to start a civil war in my own command structure," said Miles mildly. Yet. "I think it's more important that he not suspect you spoke to me privately. Let him report. I've struck deals with Admiral Oser before, to our mutual benefit."
"I'm not sure Oser thinks so, sir. I think he thinks he was screwed."
Miles barked a realistic laugh. "What, I doubled the size of the fleet during the Tau Verde war. Even as third officer, he ended up commanding more than he had before, a smaller slice of a bigger pie."
"But the side he originally contracted us to lost."
"Not so. Both sides gained from that truce we forced. It was a win-win result, except for a little lost face. What, can't Oser feel he's won unless somebody else loses?"
Chodak looked grim. "I think that may be the case, sir. He says—I've heard him say—you ran a scam on us. You were never an admiral, never an officer of any kind. If Tung hadn't double-crossed him, he'd have kicked your ass to hell." Chodak's gaze on Miles was broodingly thoughtful. "What were you really?"
Miles smiled gently. "I was the winner. Remember?"
Chodak snorted, half-amused. "Yee-ah."
"Don't let poor Oser's revisionist history fog your mind. You were there."
Chodak shook his head ruefully. "You didn't really need my warning, did you." He moved to stand up.
"Never assume anything. And, ah … take care of yourself. That means, cover your ass. I'll remember you, later."
"Sir." Chodak nodded. Overholt, waiting in the corridor in a quasi Imperial Guardsman pose, escorted him firmly to the shuttle hatch. Miles sat in the wardroom, and nibbled gently on the rim of his coffee cup, considering certain surprising parallels between command restructuring in a free mercenary fleet and the internecine wars of the Barrayaran Vor. Might the mercenaries be thought of as a miniature, simplified, or laboratory version of the real thing? Oser should have been around during the Vordarian's Pretendership, and seen how the big boys operate. Still, Miles had best not underestimate the potential dangers and complexities of the situation. His death in a miniature conflict would be just as absolute as his death in a large one. Hell, what death? What had he to do with the Dendarii, or the Oserans, after all? Oser was right, it had been a scam, and the only wonder was how long it had taken the man to wake to the fact. Miles could see no immediate need to reinvolve himself with the Dendarii at all. In fact, he could be well-rid of a dangerous political embarrasment. Let Oser have them, they'd been his in the first place anyway. I have three sworn liege-people in that fleet. My own personal politic.
How easy it had been to slip back into being Naismith. . . Anyway, activating Naismith wasn't Miles decision. It was Captain Ungari's.
Ungari was the first to point this out, when he returned later Overholt briefed him. A controlled man, his fury showed by subtle signs, a sharpening of the voice, deeper lines of tension around eyes and mouth. "You violated your cover. You never break cover. It's the first rule of survival in this business."
"Sir, may I respectfully submit, I didn't blow it," Miles replied steadily. "Chodak did. He seemed to realize it, too, he's not stupid. He apologized as best he could." Chodak indeed might be subtler than first glance would indicate, for at this point, he had an in with both sides in the putative Dendarii command schism, whoever came out on top. Calculation or chance? Chodak was either smart or lucky, in either case he could be a useful addition to Miles's side. . . . What side, huh? Ungari isn't going to let me near the Dendarii after this.
Ungari frowned at the vidplate, which had just replayed the recording of Miles's interview with the mercenary. "It sounds more and more like the Naismith cover may be too dangerous to activate at all. If your Oser's little palace coup is anything like what this fellow indicates, Illyan's fantasy of you simply ordering the Dendarii to get lost is straight out the airlock. I thought it sounded too easy." Ungari paced the wardroom, tapping his right fist into his left palm. "Well, we may still get some use out of Victor Rotha. Much as I'd like to confine you to quarters—"
Strange, how many of his superiors said that.
"—Liga wants to see Rotha again this evening. Maybe to place an order for some of our fictitious cargo. String it out—I want you to get past him to the next level of his organization. His boss, or his boss's boss."
"Who owns Liga, do you suspect?"
Ungari stopped pacing, and turned his hands palm-out. "The Cetagandans? Jackson's Whole? Any one of half-a-dozen others? ImpSec is spread thin out here. But if it were proved Liga's criminal organization are Cetagandan puppets, it could be worth sending a full-time agent to penetrate their ranks. So find out! Hint at more goodies in your bag. Take bribes. Blend in. And move it along. I'm almost finished here, and Illyan particularly wants to know when Aslund
Station will be fully operational as a defensive base."
Miles punched the door chime of the hostel room. His chin tic'd up. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. Overholt glanced up and down the empty corridor.
The door hissed open. Miles blinked in astonishment.
"Ah, Mr. Rotha." The light cool voice belonged to the brief blonde he'd seen in the concourse that morning. Her jumpsuit was now skin-fitting red silk with a downcurving neckline, a glittering red ruff rising from the back of the neck to frame her sculptured head, and high-heeled red suede boots. She favored him with a high-voltage smile.
"I'm sorry," said Miles automatically, "I must be in the wrong place."
"Not at all." A slim hand opened in an expansive, welcoming gesture. "You're right on time."
"I had an appointment with a Mr. Liga, here."
"Yes, and I've taken over the appointment. Do come in. My name is Livia Nu."
Well, she couldn't possibly be carrying any concealed weapons. Miles stepped within, and was unsurprised to see her bodyguard, idling in one corner of the hostel room. The man nodded to Overholt, who nodded back, both wary as two cats. And where was the third man? Not here, evidently.
She drifted to a liquid-filled settee, and arranged herself upon it.
"Are you, uh, Mr. Liga's supervisor?" Miles asked. No, Liga had denied knowing who she was. …
She hesitated fractionally. "In a sense, yes."
One of them was lying—no, not necessarily. If she were indeed high in Liga's organization, he would not have identified her to Rotha. Damn.
"—but you may think of me as a procurement agent."
God. Pol Six really was hip-deep in spies. "For whom?"
"Ah," she smiled. "One of the advantages of dealing with small suppliers is always their no-questions-asked policy. One of the few advantages."
"No-questions-asked is House Fell's slogan, I believe. They have the advantage of a fixed and secure base. I've learned to be cautious about selling arms to people who might be shooting at me in the near future."
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