Young Miles

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Tung's surgeon took Miles aside for last-minute instructions for her care during the journey, and some acerbic advice on Miles's treatment of his own still-healing stomach. Miles patted his hip flask, now filled with medication, and faithfully swore to drink 30 cc's every two hours. He placed the injured mercenary's hand on his arm, and stood on tiptoe to her ear. "We're all set, then. Next stop Beta Colony."

  Her other hand patted the air, then found his face for a brief touch. Her damaged tongue tried to form words in her stiff mouth; on the second try Miles correctly interpreted them as "Thank you, Admiral Naismith." Had he been any tireder, he might have wept.

  "All right," Miles began, "let's get out of here before the bon voyage committee wakes up and delays us another two hours—" But he was too late. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a willowy form sprinting across the docking bay. Baz followed at a saner pace.

  Elena arrived out of breath. "Miles!" she accused. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye!"

  He sighed, and twitched a smile at her. "Foiled again." Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled from the exertion. Altogether desirable . . . he had hardened his heart for this parting. Why did it hurt worse?

  Baz arrived. Miles bowed to each. "Commander Jesek. Commodore Jesek. You know, Baz, perhaps I should have appointed you an admiral. Those names could get confusing over a bad comm link—"

  Baz shook his head, smiling. "You have piled enough honors on me, my lord. Honors, and honor, and much more—" His eyes sought Elena. "I once thought it would take a miracle to make a nobody into a somebody once again." His smile broadened. "I was right. And I thank you."

  "And I thank you," said Elena quietly, "for a gift I never expected to possess."

  Miles obediently cocked his head in an angle of inquiry. Did she mean Baz? Her rank? Escape from Barrayar?

  "Myself," she explained.

  It seemed to him there was a fallacy in her reasoning somewhere, but there was no time to unravel it. Dendarii were invading the docking bay through several entrances, in twos and threes and then in a steady stream. The lights came up to full day-cycle power. His plans for slipping away quietly were disintegrating rapidly.

  "Well," he said desperately, "goodbye, then." He shook Baz's hand hastily. Elena, her eyes swimming, grabbed him in a hug just short of bone-crushing. His toes sought the floor indignantly. Altogether too late . . .

  By the time she put him down, the crowd was gathering, hands reaching to shake his hand, to touch him, or just reaching, as if to warm themselves. Bothari would have had a spasm; Miles rendered the Sergeant's spirit an apologetic salute, in his mind.

  The docking bay was now a seething sea of people. It rang to babble, and cheers, and cheerful hoots, and foot stamping. These soon picked up rhythm; a chant. "Naismith! Naismith! Naismith . . ."

  Miles raised his hands in helpless acquiescence, cursing under his breath. There was always some idiot in a crowd to start these things. Elena and Baz between them hoisted him to their shoulders, and he was cornered. Now he would have to come up with a bloody farewell speech. He lowered his hands; rather to his surprise, they quieted. He flung his hands back up; they roared. He lowered them slowly, like an orchestra director. The silence became absolute. It was terrifying.

  "As you can see, I am high because you all have raised me up," he began, pitching his voice to carry to the last and least. A gratified chuckle ran through them. "You have raised me up on your courage, tenacity, obedience, and other soldierly virtues," that was it, stroke them, they were eating it up—although surely he owed as much to their confusion, bad-tempered rivalry, greed, ambition, indolence, and gullibility—pass on, pass on—"I can do no less than to raise you up in return. I hereby revoke your provisional status, and declare you a permanent arm of the Dendarii Mercenaries."

  The cheering, whistling, and foot stomping shook the docking bay. Many were Oser's latecomers, curious, along for the ride, but practically all of Auson's original crew were there. He picked out Auson himself, beaming, and Thorne, tears streaming down cheeks.

  He raised his arms for silence again, and got it. "I am recalled on urgent affairs for an indefinite period. I request and require that you obey Commodore Jesek as you would me." He glanced down to meet Baz's upturned gaze. "He will not desert you."

  He could feel the engineer's shoulder tremble beneath him. Absurd of Baz to look so exalted—Jesek, of them all, knew Miles was a fake. . . . "I thank you all, and bid you farewell."

  His feet hit the deck with a thump as he slid down. "And may God have mercy upon me, amen," he muttered under his breath. He backed toward the flex tube, and escape, smiling and waving.

  Jesek, blocking the press, spoke to his ear. "My lord. For my curiosity—before you go, may I be permitted to know what house I serve?"

  "What, you haven't figured that out yet?" Miles looked to Elena in astonishment.

  Bothari's daughter shrugged. "Security."

  "Well—I'm not going to shout it out in this crowd, but if you ever go shopping for livery, which doesn't seem too bloody likely—choose brown and silver."

  "But—" Baz ground to a halt, there in the crowd, a little knot of personal silence. "But that's—" He paled.

  Miles smiled, wickedly gratified. "Break him in gently, Elena."

  The silence in the flex tube sucked at him, refuge; the noise in front of him beat on his senses, for the Dendarii had taken up their chant again, Naismith, Naismith, Naismith. The Felician pilot escorted Elli Quinn aboard, Ivan following. The last person Miles saw as he waved and backed into the tube was Elena. Making her way toward her through the crowd, her face drawn and grave and thoughtful, was Elena Visconti.

  * * *

  The Felician pilot bolted the hatch and blew the tube seals, and went ahead of them to Nav and Com.

  "Whew," remarked Ivan respectfully. "You sure got them going. You have to be higher than I am now just on psychic waves or something."

  "Not really." Miles grimaced.

  "Why not? I sure would be." There was an undercurrent of envy in Ivan's voice.

  "My name isn't Naismith."

  Ivan opened his mouth, closed it, studied him sideways. The screens were up in Nav and Com, showing the refinery and space around them. The ship pulled away from the docking bay. Miles tried to keep that particular slot in the row of docking bays in sight, but soon became confused; fourth or fifth from the left?

  "Damn." Ivan thrust his thumbs through his belt, and rocked on his heels. "It still knocks me flat. I mean, here you come into this place with nothing, and in four months you turn their war completely around and end up with all the marbles on top of it."

  "I don't want all the marbles," said Miles impatiently. "I don't want any of the marbles. It's death for me to be caught with marbles in my possession, remember?"

  "I don't understand you," Ivan complained. "I thought you always wanted to be a soldier. Here you've fought real battles, commanded a whole fleet of ships, wiped the tactical map with fantastically few losses—"

  "Is that what you think? That I've been playing soldier? Peh!" Miles began to pace restlessly. He paused, and lowered his head in shame. "Maybe I did. Maybe that was the trouble. Wasting day after day, feeding my ego, while all the time back home Vordrozda's pack of dogs were running my father to ground—staring out the damn window for five days while they're killing him—"

  "Ah," said Ivan. "So that's what's got the hair up you. Never fear," he comforted, "we'll get back all right." He blinked, and added in a much less definite tone, "Miles—assuming you're right about all this—what is it we're going to do, once we get back?"

  Miles's lips drew back in a mirthless grin. "I'll figure something out."

  He turned to watch the screens, thinking silently, But you are mistaken about the losses, Ivan. They were enormous.

  The refinery and the ships around it dwindled to a scattered constellation of specks, sparks, water in the eyes, and gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

&n
bsp; The Betan night was hot, even under the force dome that shielded the suburb of Silica. Miles touched the silver circles on his midforehead and temples, praying that his sweat was not loosening their glue. He had passed through Betan customs on the Felician pilot's doctored IDs; it would not do for his supposed implant contact to go sliding down his nose.

  Artistically bonsai'd mesquite and acacia trees, picked out with colored spotlights, surrounded the low dome that was the pedestrian entrance to his grandmother's apartment complex. The old building pre-dated the community force shield, and was therefore entirely underground. Miles hooked Elli Quinn's hand over his arm, and patted it.

  "We're almost there. Two steps down, here. You'll like my grandmother. She supervises life support equipment maintenance at the Silica University Hospital—she'll know just who to see for the best work. Now here's a door . . ."

  Ivan, still clutching the valise, stepped through first. The cooler interior air caressed Miles's face, and relieved him at least of his worries about his fake implant contacts. It had been nerve-racking, crossing Customs with a false ID, but using his real ones would have guaranteed instant entanglement in Betan legal proceedings, entailing God-knew-what delays. Time drummed in his head.

  "There's a lift tube there," Miles began to Elli, then choked on an oath, recoiling. Popping out of the Up tube in the foyer was the very man he least wanted to see on his touch-and-go planetary stopover.

  Tav Calhoun's eyes started from his head at the sight of Miles. His face turned the color of brick. "You!" he cried. "You—you—you—" He swelled, stuttering, and advanced on Miles.

  Miles tried a friendly smile. "Why, good evening, Mr. Calhoun. You're just the man I wanted to see—"

  Calhoun's hands clenched on Miles's jacket. "Where is my ship?"

  Miles, borne backward to the wall, felt suddenly lonely for Sergeant Bothari. "Well, there was a little problem with the ship," he began placatingly.

  Calhoun shook him. "Where is it? What have you goons done with it?"

  "It's stuck at Tau Verde, I'm afraid. Damage to the Necklin rods. But I've got your money." He essayed a cheerful nod.

  Calhoun's hold did not slacken. "I wouldn't touch your money with a hand-tractor!" he growled. "I've been given the royal run-around, lied to, followed, had my comconsole tapped, had Barrayaran agents questioning my employees, my girlfriend, her wife—I found out about that damned worthless hot land, by the way, you little mutant—I want blood. You're going to therapy, because I'm calling Security right now!"

  A plaintive mumble came from Elli Quinn, which Miles's practiced ear translated as, "What's happening?"

  Calhoun noticed her in the shadows for the first time, jumped, shrugged, then turned on his heel and shot over his shoulder to Miles, "Don't you move! This is a citizen's arrest!" He headed for the public comconsole.

  "Grab him, Ivan!" Miles cried.

  Calhoun twisted away from Ivan's clutch. His reflexes were quicker than Miles had expected for so beefy a body. Elli Quinn, head cocked to one side, slid into his path in two smooth sideways steps, her ankles and knees flexing. Her hands found his shirt. They whirled for a dizzy instant like a pair of dancers, and suddenly Calhoun was doing spectacular cartwheels. He landed flat on his back on the pavement of the foyer. The air went out of him in a booming whoosh. Elli, sitting, spun around, clamped one leg across his neck, and put his arm in a lock.

  Ivan, now that his target was no longer moving, took over and achieved a creditable come-along hold. "How did you do that?" he asked Elli, astonishment and admiration in his voice.

  She shrugged. "Used to practice with eyes covered," she mumbled, "to sharpen balance. It works."

  "What do we do with him, Miles?" asked Ivan. "Can he really have you arrested, even if you offer to pay him?"

  "Assault!" croaked Calhoun. "Battery!"

  Miles straightened his jacket. "I'm afraid so. There was some fine print in that contract—look, there's a janitor's closet on the second level. We better take him down there, before somebody comes through here."

  "Kidnapping," gurgled Calhoun, as Ivan dragged him to the lift tube.

  They found a coil of wire in the roomy janitor's closet. "Murder!" shrieked Calhoun as they approached him with it. Miles gagged him; his eyes rolled whitely. By the time they finished all the extra loops and knots just in case, the salvage operator began to resemble a bright orange mummy.

  "The valise, Ivan," Miles ordered.

  His cousin opened it, and they began stuffing Calhoun's shirt and sarong rope with bundles of Betan dollars.

  ". . . thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty thousand," Miles counted.

  Ivan scratched his head. "Y'know, there's something backwards about this. . . ."

  Calhoun was rolling his eyes and moaning urgently. Miles ungagged him for a moment.

  "—plus ten percent!" Calhoun panted.

  Miles gagged him again, and counted out another four thousand dollars. The valise was much lighter now. They locked the closet behind them.

  * * *

  "Miles!" His grandmother fell on him ecstatically. "Thank God, Captain Dimir found you, then. The Embassy people have been terribly worried. Cordelia says your father didn't think he could get the date for the challenge in the Council of Counts put off a third time—" She broke off as she saw Elli Quinn. "Oh, my."

  Miles introduced Ivan, and named Elli hastily as a friend from off-planet with no connections and no place to stay. He quickly outlined his hopes for leaving the injured mercenary in his grandmother's hands. Mrs. Naismith assimilated this at once, merely remarking, "Oh, yes, another of your strays." Miles silently called down blessings upon her.

  His grandmother herded them to her living room. Miles sat on the couch with a twinge, remembering Bothari. He wondered if the Sergeant's death would become like a veteran's scar, echoing the old pain with every change of weather.

  As if reflecting his thought, Mrs. Naismith said, "Where's the Sergeant, and Elena? Making reports at the Embassy? I'm surprised they let you out even to visit me. Lieutenant Croye gave me the impression they were going to hustle you aboard a fast courier for Barrayar the instant they laid hands on you."

  "We haven't been to the Embassy yet," confessed Miles uneasily. "We came straight here."

  "Told you we should have reported in first," said Ivan. Miles made a negative gesture.

  His grandmother glanced at him with a new penetrating concentration. "What's wrong, Miles? Where is Elena?"

  "She's safe," replied Miles, "but not here. The Sergeant was killed two, almost three months ago now. An accident."

  "Oh," said Mrs. Naismith. She sat silent a moment, sobered. "I confess I never did understand what your mother saw in the man, but I know he will be sadly missed. Do you want to call Lieutenant Croye from here?" She tilted her head at Miles, and added, "Is that where you've been for the last five months? Training to be a jump pilot? I shouldn't have thought you'd have to do it in secret, surely Cordelia would have supported you—"

  Miles touched a silver circle in embarrassment. "This is a fake. I borrowed a jump pilot's ID to get through Customs."

  "Miles . . ." Impatience thinned her lips, and worry creased twin verticals between her eyebrows. "What's going on? Is this more to do with those ghastly Barrayaran politics?"

  "I'm afraid so. Quickly—what have you heard from home since Dimir left here?"

  "According to your mother, you're scheduled to be challenged in the Council of Counts on some sort of trumped-up treason charge, and very soon."

  Miles gave Ivan a short I-told-you-so nod; Ivan began nibbling on a thumbnail.

  "There's evidently been a lot of behind-the-scenes maneuvering—I didn't understand half of her message discs. I'm convinced only a Barrayaran could figure out how their government works. By all right reason it should have collapsed years ago. Anyway, most of it seemed to revolve around changing the substance of the charge from treason by violation of something called Vorloupulous's law to treason by inten
t to usurp the Imperial throne."

  "What!" Miles shot to his feet. The heat of terror flushed through him. "This is pure insanity! I don't want Gregor's job! Do they think I'm out of my mind? In the first place, I'd need to command the loyalty of the whole Imperial Service, not just some grubby free mercenary fleet—"

  "You mean there really was a mercenary fleet?" His grandmother's eyes widened. "I thought it was just a wild rumor. What Cordelia said about the charges makes more sense, then."

  "What did Mother say?"

  "That your father went to a great deal of trouble to goad this Count Vor-what's-his-name—I can never keep all those Vor-people straight—"

  "Vordrozda?"

  "Yes, that was it."

  Miles and Ivan exchanged wild looks.

  "To goad Vordrozda to up the charge from the minor to the major, while appearing publicly to want just the opposite. I didn't understand what difference it made, since the penalty's the same."

  "Did Father succeed?"

  "Apparently. At least as of two weeks ago, when the fast courier that arrived yesterday left Barrayar."

  "Ah." Miles began to pace. "Ah. Clever, clever—maybe . . ."

  "I don't understand it either," complained Ivan. "Usurpation is a much worse charge!"

  "But it happens to be one I'm innocent of. And furthermore, it's a charge of intent. About all I'd have to do is show up to disprove it. Violating Vorloupulous's law is a charge of fact—and in fact, although not in intent, I'm guilty of it. Given that I showed up for my trial, and spoke the truth as I'm sworn to, it'd be a lot harder to wriggle out of."

  Ivan finished his second thumbnail. "What makes you think your innocence or guilt is going to have anything to do with the outcome?"

  "I beg your pardon?" said Mrs. Naismith.

  "That's why I said, maybe," explained Miles. "This thing is so damned political—how many votes d'you suppose Vordrozda will have sewn up in advance, before any evidence or testimony is even presented? He's got to have some, or he'd never have dared to float this in the first place."

  "You're asking me?" said Ivan plaintively.