The Vor Game

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Miles led the way through that docking tube and into Pol Six. This docking spoke funneled into a Customs area, where Miles's sample case and person were carefully examined, and Overholt had to produce registration for his stunner. From there they had free run of the transfer station facilities, but for certain guarded corridors leading into the, as it were, militarized zones. Those areas, Ungari had made clear, were his business, not Miles's.

  Miles, in good time for his first appointment, strolled slowly, enjoying the sensation of being on a space station. The place wasn't as free-wheeling as Beta Colony, but without question he moved in the midst of mainstream galactic technoculture. Not like poor half-backwards Barrayar. The brittle artificial environment emitted its own whiff of danger, a whiff that could balloon instantly into claustrophobic terror in the event of a sudden depressurization emergency. A concourse lined with shops, hostels, and eating facilities made a central meeting area.

  A curious trio idled just across the busy concourse from Miles. A big man dressed in loose clothing ideal for concealing weapons scanned the area uneasily. A professional counterpart of Sergeant Overkill's, no doubt. He and Overholt spotted each other and exchanged grim glances, carefully ignored each other after that. The bland man he guarded faded into near-invisibility beside his woman.

  She was short, but astonishingly intense, slight figure and white-blonde hair cropped close to her head giving her an odd elfin look. Her black jumpsuit seemed shot with electric sparks, flowing over her skin like water, evening-wear in the day-cycle. Thin-heeled black shoes boosted her a few futile centimeters. Her lips were colored blood-carmine to match the shimmering scarf that looped across alabaster collarbones to cascade from each shoulder, framing the bare white skin of her back. She looked ... expensive.

  Her eye caught Miles's fascinated stare. Her chin lifted, and she stared back coldly.

  “Victor Rotha?” The voice at Miles's elbow made him jump.

  Ah ... Mr. Liga?” Miles, wheeling, hazarded in return. Rabbit-like pale features, protruding lip, black hair; this was the man who claimed he wished to improve the armament of his security guards at his asteroid mining facility. Sure. How—and where—had Ungari scraped Liga up? Miles was not sure he wanted to know.

  “I've arranged a private room for us to talk,” Liga smiled, tilting his head toward a nearby hostel entrance. “Eh,” Liga added, “looks like everybody's doing business this morning.” He nodded toward the trio across the concourse, who were now a quartet and moving off. The scarves snapped along like banners, floating in the quick-stepping blonde's wake.

  “Who was that woman?” asked Miles.

  “I don't know,” said Liga. “But the man they're following is your main competition here. The agent of House Fell, the Jacksonian armaments specialists."

  He looked more like a middle-aged businessman type, at least from the back. “Pol lets the Jacksonians operate here?” Miles asked. “I thought tensions were high."

  “Between Pol, Aslund, and Vervain, yes,” said Liga. “The Jacksonian consortium is loudly claiming neutrality. They hope to profit from all sides. But this isn't the best place to talk politics. Let's go, eh?"

  As Miles expected, Liga settled them in what was obviously an otherwise-unoccupied hostel room, rented for the purpose, Miles began his memorized pitch, working through the hand-weapons baffle-gabbing about available inventory and delivery dates.

  “I'd hoped,” said Liga, “for something a little more ... authoritative."

  “I have another selection of samples aboard my ship,” Miles explained. “I didn't want to trouble Pol customs with them. But I can give you an overview by vid."

  Miles trotted out the heavy weapons manuals. “This vid is for educational purposes only, of course, as these weapons are of a grade illegal for a private person to own in Pol local space."

  “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 vid catalogue. “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 embarrassment. 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...