The Vor Game b-4

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  "Now what?" Miles hissed frantically as the guard-corporal bent over the door's code-lock.

  "We all go to the brig, I guess. Tung's there," said Elena.

  "Ah . . ." Oh-hell-we'll-never-bring-this-off. Had to try. Miles smiled cheerily at the entering guards, and helped them release Metzov, largely getting in their way and keeping their attention off the peculiarly happy-looking Oser. At a moment when their eyes were elsewhere, he tripped Metzov, who staggered.

  "You'd better each take one of his arms, he's not too steady," Miles told the guards. He was none too steady himself, but he managed to block the doorway so the guards and Metzov led the way, himself second, and Elena, arm-in-arm with Oser, followed last. "Come, love, come," he heard Elena intone behind him, like a woman coaxing a cat to her lap.

  It was the longest short walk he'd ever taken. He dropped back to growl out of the corner of his mouth to Elena. "All right, we get to the brig, it will be stocked with Oser's finest. What then?"

  She bit her lip. "Don't know."

  "That's what I was afraid of. Turn right here." They swung around the next corner.

  A guard looked back over his shoulder. "Sir?"

  "Carry on, boys," Miles called. "When you've got that spy locked up, report back to us at the Admiral's cabin."

  "Very good, sir."

  "Keep walking," breathed Miles. "Keep smiling. . . ."

  The guards' footsteps faded. "Where now?" asked Elena. Oser stumbled. "This is untenable."

  "Admiral's cabin, why not?" Miles decided. His grin was fixed and fey. Elena's inspired mutinous gesture had given him the best break of the day. He had the momentum now. He wouldn't stop till he was brought down bodily. His head spun with the unutterable relief of at last getting the shifting, writhing, chittering might-be-might-be-might-be nailed to a fixed is. This time is now. The word is go.

  Maybe. If.

  They passed a few Oseran techs. Oser was sort of nodding, Miles hoped it would pass as casual acknowledgment of their salutes. Nobody turned and cried Hey!, anyway. Two levels and another turn brought them to the well-remembered corridors of officer's country. They passed the Captain's cabin (God, he'd have to deal with Auson, and soon); Oser's palm, pressed by Elena against the lock, admitted them to the quarters Oser had made his flag office. When the door slipped shut behind them Miles realized he'd been holding his breath.

  "We're in it now," said Elena, sagging for a moment with her back to the door. "You going to run out on us again?"

  "Not this time," Miles replied grimly. "You may have noticed one item I didn't bring up for discussion, down in sickbay."

  "Gregor."

  "Just so. Cavilo holds him hostage aboard her flagship right now." Elena's neck bent in dismay. "She means to sell him to the Cetagandans for a bonus, then?"

  "No. Weirder than that. She means to marry him." Elena's lip curled in astonishment. "What? Miles, there's no way she could have got such an impossible notion in her head, unless—"

  "Unless Gregor planted it. Which, I believe, he did. Watered and fertilized it, too. What I don't know is whether he was serious, or playing for time. She was very careful to keep us separated. You knew Gregor almost as well as I do. What do you think?"

  "It's hard to imagine Gregor love-struck to idiocy. He was always . . . rather quiet. Almost, well, undersexed. Compared to, say, Ivan."

  "I'm not sure that's a fair comparison."

  "No, you're right. Well, compared to you, then."

  Miles wondered just how to take that. "Gregor never had much in the way of opportunities, when we were younger. I mean, no privacy. Security always in his back pocket. That . . . that can inhibit a man, unless he's a bit of an exhibitionist."

  Her hand turned, as if measuring out Gregor's smooth gripless surface. "He was not that."

  "Certainly Cavilo must be taking care to present only her most attractive side."

  Elena licked her lips in thought. "Is she pretty?"

  "Yeah, if you happen to like blonde power-mad homicidal maniacs, I suppose she could be quite overwhelming." His hand closed, the texture of Cavilo's pelted hair remembered like an itch on his palm. He rubbed it on his trouser seam.

  Elena brightened slightly. "Ah. You don't like her."

  Miles gazed up at Elena's Valkyrie face. "She's too short for my taste."

  Elena grinned. "That, I believe." She guided the shambling Oser to a chair and sat him down. "We're going to have to tie him up soon. Or something."

  The comm buzzed. Miles went to Oser's desk console to answer it. "Yes?" he said in his calmest bored voice.

  "Corporal Meddis here, sir. We've put the Vervani agent in Cell Nine."

  "Thank you, Corporal. Ah . . ."It was worth a try, "We still have some fast-penta left. Would you two please bring Captain Tung up here for questioning?"

  Beyond range of the vid pick-up, Elena's dark brows rose in hope.

  "Tung, sir?" The guard's voice was doubtful. "Uh, may I add a couple of reinforcements to my squad, then?"

  "Sure . . . see if Sergeant Chodak's around, he may have some people up for extra duties. In fact, isn't he on the extra-duty roster himself?" He glanced up to see Elena hold up her thumb and forefinger in an O.

  "I think so, sir."

  "Fine, whatever. Carry on. Naismith out." He keyed off the comm and stared at it, as if it had transmuted into Aladdin's lamp. "I don't think I'm destined to die today. I must be being saved for day after tomorrow."

  "You think?"

  "Oh, yes. I'll have a much bigger, more public and spectacular chance to blow it all away then. Be able to take thousands more lives down with me."

  "Don't you fall into one of your stupid funks now, you haven't got time for it." She rapped the hypospray smartly across his knuckles. "You've got to think us out of this hole."

  "Yes, ma'am," Miles said meekly, rubbing his hand. Whatever happened to "my lord"? No respect, none. . . . But he was strangely comforted. "By the way, when Oser arrested Tung for arranging my getaway, why didn't he go on to take you and Arde and Chodak, and the rest of your cadre?"

  "He didn't arrest Tung for that. At least, I don't think so. He was baiting Tung, which is his habit, they were both on the bridge at the same time—that was unusual—and Tung finally lost his temper and tried to deck him. Did deck him, I heard, and was part way to strangling him when security pulled him off."

  "It had nothing to do with us, then?" That was a relief.

  "I'm . . . not sure. I wasn't there. It might have been an emergency diversion, to get Oser's attention away from making just that connection." Elena nodded to the still-blandly-smiling Oser. "And now?"

  "Leave him loose, till Tung is delivered. We're all just happy allies here." Miles grimaced. "But for the love of God don't let anybody try to talk to him."

  The door comm buzzed. Elena went to stand behind Oser's chair with one hand on his shoulder, trying to look as allied as possible. Miles went to the door and keyed the lock. The door slid open.

  Six nervous squadmen surrounded a hostile-looking Ky Tung. Tung wore prisoner's bright yellow pajamas, and radiated malice like a small pre-nova sun. His teeth clenched in utter confusion when he saw Miles.

  "Ah, thank you, Corporal," said Miles. "We will be having a little informal staff conference after this interrogation. I'd appreciate it if you and your squad would stand guard out here. And in case Captain Tung gets violent again, we'd better have—oh, Sergeant Chodak and a couple of your people inside." He emphasized the your with no change of voice, but only a direct look into Chodak's eyes.

  Chodak made the catch. "Yes, sir. You, Private, come with me."

  I'm promoting you to lieutenant, Miles thought, and stood aside to let the sergeant and his chosen man guide Tung within. Oser, looking cheerful, was quite clearly visible to the squad for a moment before the door hissed closed again.

  Oser was clearly visible to Tung, too. Tung shrugged off his guards and stalked toward the admiral. "What now, you son-of-a-bitch, do you th
ink you—" Tung paused, as Oser continued to smile dimly up at him. "What's wrong with him?"

  "Nothing," shrugged Elena. "I think that dose of fast-penta made a real improvement in his personality. Too bad it's only temporary."

  Tung threw back his head and barked a laugh, and whirled to shake Miles by the shoulders. "You did it, you little—you came back! We're in business!"

  Chodak's man twitched, as if uncertain which way, or whom, to jump. Chodak caught him by the arm, shook his head silently, and indicated the wall by the door. Chodak holstered his stunner and leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded; after a startled moment, his man followed suit, flanking the other side. "Fly on the wall," Chodak grinned out of the corner of his mouth to him. "Consider it a gift."

  "It wasn't exactly voluntary," said Miles through his teeth to Tung, only in part to keep from biting his tongue in the blast of the Eurasian's enthusiasm. "And we're not in business yet." Sorry, Ky. I can't be your front man this time. You've got to follow me. Miles kept his face stern, and removed Tung's hands from his shoulders with icy deliberation. "That Vervani freighter captain you found delivered me straight to Commander Cavilo. And I've been wondering ever since if it was an accident."

  "Ah!" Tung fell back, looking as if Miles had just hit him in the stomach.

  Miles felt like he had. No, Tung was no traitor. But Miles dared not give up the only edge he had. "Betrayal, or botchery, Ky?" And have you stopped beating your wife?

  "Botchery," whispered Tung, gone sallow-pale. "Dammit, I'm going to kill the triple-crossing—"

  "That's already been done," said Miles coldly. Tung's brows rose in surprised respect.

  "I came to the Hegen Hub on a contract," continued Miles, "which is now in disarray almost beyond repair. I haven't come back here to put you in operational combat command of the Dendarii—" a beat, as Tung's worried features attempted to settle on an expression, "unless you are prepared to serve my ends. Priorities and targets are to be my choice. Only the how is yours." And just who was going to put whom in command of the Dendarii? As long as that question didn't occur to Tung.

  "As my ally," began Tung.

  "Not ally. Your commander. Or nothing," said Miles.

  Tung stood stockily, his brows struggling to find their level. In a mild tone he finally said, "Daddy Ky's little boy is growing up, it seems."

  "That's not the half of it. Are you in, or out?"

  "The other half of this is something I've got to hear." Tung sucked on his lower lip. "In."

  Miles stuck out his hand. "Done."

  Tung took it. "Done." His grip was determined.

  Miles let out a long breath. "All right. I gave you some half-truths, last time. Here's what's really going on." He began to pace, his shaking not all from the nerve disruptor nimbus. "I do have a contract with an interested outsider, but it wasn't for 'military evaluation,' which is the smoke screen I gave Oser. The part I told you about preventing a planetary civil war was not smoke. I was hired by the Barrayarans."

  "They don't normally hire mercenaries," said Tung.

  "I'm not a normal mercenary. I'm being paid by Barrayaran Imperial Security," God, at least one whole-truth, "to find and rescue a hostage. On the side I hope to stop a now-imminent Cetagandan invasion fleet from taking over the Hub. Our second strategic priority will be to hold both sides of the Vervain wormhole jump and as much else as we can till Barrayaran reinforcements arrive."

  Tung cleared his throat. "Second priority? What if they don't arrive? There's Pol to cross. . . . And, ah, hostage-rescue does not normally take precedence over fleetwide strat-tac ops, eh?"

  "Given the identity of this hostage, I guarantee their arrival. The Barrayaran emperor, Gregor Vorbarra, was kidnapped. I found him, lost him, and now I've got to get him back. As you can imagine, I expect the reward for his safe return to be substantial."

  Tung's face was a study in appalled enlightenment. "That skinny neurasthenic git you had in tow before—that wasn't him, was it?"

  "Yes, it was. And between us, you and I managed to deliver him straight to Commander Cavilo."

  "Oh. Shit." Tung rubbed his burr-haired skull. "She'll sell him straight to the Cetagandans."

  "No. She means to collect her reward from Barrayar."

  Tung opened his mouth, closed it, held up a finger. "Wait a minute. . . ."

  "It's complicated," Miles conceded helplessly. "That's why I'm going to delegate the simple part, holding the wormhole, to you. The hostage-rescue part will be my responsibility."

  "Simple. The Dendarii mercenaries. All five thousand of us. Single-handed. Against the Cetagandan Empire. Have you forgotten how to count in the last four years?"

  "Think of the glory. Think of your reputation. Think how great it'll look on your next resume."

  "On my cenotaph, you mean. Nobody will be able to collect enough of my scattered atoms to bury. You going to cover my funeral expenses, son?"

  "Splendidly. Banners, dancing girls, and enough beer to float your coffin to Valhalla."

  Tung sighed. "Make it plum wine to float the boat, eh? Drink the beer. Well." He stood silent a moment, rubbing his lips. "The first step is to put the fleet on one-hour-alert status instead of twenty-four."

  "They're not already?" Miles frowned.

  "We were defensive. We figured we had at least thirty-six hours to study anything coming at us across the Hub. Or, so Oser figured it. It'll take about six hours to bring us up to one-hour readiness."

  "Right . . . that's the second step, then. Your first step will be to kiss and make up with Captain Auson."

  "Kiss my ass!" cried Tung. "That vacuumhead—"

  "Is needed to command the Triumph while you run Fleet Tac. You can't do both. I can't reorganize the fleet this close to the action. If I had a week to weed out—well, I don't. Oser's people must be persuaded to stay on their jobs. If I have Auson," Miles's upheld hand closed cage-like, "I can run the rest. One way or another."

  Tung growled frustrated acquiescence. "All right." His glower faded to a slow grin. "I'd pay money to watch you make him kiss Thorne, though."

  "One miracle at a time."

  Captain Auson, a big man four years ago, had put on a little more weight but seemed otherwise unchanged. He stepped into Oser's cabin, took in the stunners aimed his way, and stood, hands clenching. When he saw Miles, sitting on the edge of Oser's comconsole desk (a psychological ploy to put his head level with everyone else's; in the station chair Miles feared he looked like a child in need of a booster seat at the dinner table), Auson's expression melted from anger to horror. "Oh, hell! Not you again!"

  "But of course," shrugged Miles. The stunner-armed flies on the wall, Chodak and his man, suppressed grins of happy anticipation. "The action's about to start."

  "You can't take this—" Auson broke off to peer at Oser. "What did you do to him?"

  "Let's just say, we adjusted his attitude. As for the fleet, it's already mine." Well, he was working on it, anyway. "The question is, will you choose to be on the winning side? Pocket a combat bonus? Or shall I give command of the Triumph to—"

  Auson bared his teeth to Tung in a silent snarl.

  "—Bel Thorne?"

  "What?" Auson yelped. Tung flinched, wincing. "You can't—"

  Miles cut over him. "Do you happen to recall how you graduated from command of the Ariel to command of the Triumph? Yes?"

  Auson pointed to Tung. "What about him?"

  "My contractor will contribute value equal to the Triumph, which will become Tung's vested share in the fleet corporation. In return Commodore Tung will relinquish all claim on the ship itself. I will confirm Tung's rank as Chief of Staff/Tactical, and yours as captain of the flagship Triumph. Your original contribution, equal to the value of the Ariel less liens, will be confirmed as your vested share in the fleet corporation. Both ships will be listed as owned by the fleet."

  "Do you go along with this?" Auson demanded of Tung.

  Miles prodded Tung with a steel
y look. "Yeah," said Tung grudgingly.

  Auson frowned over this. "It isn't just the money . . ." He paused, brow wrinkling. "What combat bonus? What combat?"

  He who hesitates, is had. "Are you in or out?"

  Auson's moon face took on a cunning look. "I'm in—if he apologizes."

  "What? This meatmind thinks—"

  "Apologize to the man, Tung dear," Miles sang through his teeth, "and let's get on. Or the Triumph gets a captain who can be its own first mate. Who, among other manifold virtues, doesn't argue with me."

  "Of course not, the little Betan flipsider's in love," snapped Auson. "I've never been able to figure out if it wants to get screwed or bugger you—"

  Miles smiled and held up a restraining hand. "Now, now." He nodded toward Elena, who had holstered her stunner in favor of a nerve disrupter. Pointed steadily at Auson's head.

  Her smile reminded Miles unsettlingly of one of Sergeant Bothari's. Or worse, of Cavilo's. "Have I ever mentioned, Auson, how much the sound of your voice irritates me?" she inquired.

  "You wouldn't fire," said Auson uncertainly.

  "I wouldn't stop her," Miles lied. "I need your ship. It would be convenient—but not necessary—if you would command her for me." His gaze flicked like a knife toward his putative Chief of Staff/Tac. "Tung?"

  With ill-grace, Tung mouthed a nobly-worded, if vague, apology to Auson for past slurs on his character, intelligence, ancestry, appearance—as Auson's face darkened Miles stopped Tung's catalogue in mid-list and made him start over. "Keep it simpler."

  Tung took a breath. "Auson, you can be a real shithead sometimes, but dammit, you can fight when you have to. I've seen you. In the tight and the bad and the crazy, I'll take you at my back before any other captain in the fleet."

  One side of Auson's mouth curled up. "Now, that's sincere. Thank you so much. I really appreciate your concern for my safety. How tight and bad and crazy do you think this is going to get?"

  Tung, Miles decided, had a most unsavory chuckle.

  The captain-owners were brought in one by one, to be persuaded, bribed, blackmailed and bedazzled till Miles's mouth was dry, throat raw, voice hoarse. Only the Peregrine's captain tried to physically fight. He was stunned and bound, and his second-in-command given the immediate choice between brevet promotion and a long walk out a short airlock. He chose promotion, though his eyes said, Another day. As long as that other day came after the Cetagandans, Miles was satisfied.