"Are you hurt, Baz?" Miles cried in concern. The engineer shook his head, but did not speak. Their eyes met, and Jesek looked away. Miles knew then why he hadn't noticed him.
We're outnumbered two or three to one, Miles thought frantically. I can't spare a trained fighting man to funk—got to do something
right now. . . .
"Elena, Arde," he spoke, "go out in the corridor and close the door until I call you." They obeyed, looking baffled.
Miles walked up to the engineer. How do I do a heart transplant, he wondered, in the dark, by feel, without anesthetics? He moistened his lips and spoke quietly.
"We've got no choice. We have to capture their ship now. The best shot is to take their shuttle, make them think it's their own people coming back. That can only be done in the next few minutes.
"The only chance of escape for any of us is to take them before they get a squeak out. I'm going to assign the Sergeant and Daum to take their Nav and Com room, and prevent that. The next most vital section is engineering, with all the overrides."
Jesek turned his face away, like a man in pain or grief. Miles went on relentlessly.
"You're clearly the man for that one. So I'm assigning it to you and—" Miles took a breath, "and Elena."
The engineer turned his face back, if possible more drained than before. "Oh, no . . ."
"Mayhew and I will float, stunning anything that moves. Thirty minutes from now it will all be over, one way or another."
Jesek shook his head. "I can't," he whispered.
"Look, you're not the only one who's terrified. I'm scared witless."
Jesek's mouth twisted. "You don't look scared. You didn't even look scared when that mercenary pig decked you. You just looked pissed."
"That's because I've got forward momentum. There's no virtue in it. It's just a balancing act. I don't dare stop."
The engineer shook his head again, helplessly, and spoke through his teeth. "I
can't.
I've
tried
."
Miles barely kept his lips from curling back in a snarl of frustration. Wild threats cascaded through his mind—no, that wasn't right. Surely the cure for fear was not more fear.
"I'm drafting you," Miles announced abruptly.
"What?"
"I claim you. I'm—I'm confiscating you. I'm seizing your property—your training, that is—for the war effort. This is totally illegal, but since you're under a death sentence anyway, who cares? Get down on your knees and put your hands between mine."
Jesek's mouth fell open. "You can't—I'm not—nobody but one of the Emperor's designated officers can swear a vassal, and I was already sworn to him when I got my commission—and forsworn when—" he broke off.
"Or a Count or a Count's heir," Miles cut in. "I admit the fact that you're previously sworn to Gregor as an officer puts a wrinkle in it. We'll just have to change the wording around a bit."
"You're not . . ." Jesek stared. "What the hell are you, anyway? Who are you?"
"I don't even want to talk about it. But I really am a vassal secundus to Gregor Vorbarra, and I can take you for a liegeman, and I'm going to right now, because I'm in a hell of a hurry, and we can work out the details later."
"You're a lunatic! What the bloody hell do you think this is going to do?"
Distract you, thought Miles—and it's working already. "Maybe, but I'm a
Vor
lunatic. Down!"
The engineer fell to his knees, staring in disbelief. Miles captured his hands, and began.
"Repeat after me. I, Bazil Jesek, do testify I am, am, am a forsworn military vassal of Gregor Vorbarra, but I take service anyway under—under—" Bothari will be hot as hell if I break security, "under this lunatic in front of me—make that, this Vor lunatic—as an Armsman simple, and will hold him as my liege commander until my death or his releases me."
Jesek, looking hypnotized, repeated the oath verbatim.
Miles began. "I, uh—I better skip that part—I, a vassal secundus to Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, do accept your oath, and pledge you the protection of a liege-commander; this by my word as—well, by my word. There. You now have the dubious privilege of following my orders to the letter and addressing me as 'my lord,' only you'd better not do it in front of Bothari until I get a chance to break the news to him gently. Oh, and one more thing . . ."
The engineer looked the question, bewildered.
"You're home. For what it's worth."
Jesek shook his head dizzily, and staggered to his feet. "Was that real?"
"Well—it's a little irregular. But from what I've read of our history, I can't help feeling it's closer to the original than the official version."
There was a knock on the door. Daum and Bothari had a prisoner, his hands fastened behind him. He was the pilot officer, by the silver circles on his temples and midforehead. Miles supposed that was why Bothari had picked him—he was bound to know all the recognition codes. The defiant set of the mercenary's head gave Miles a queasy premonition of trouble.
"Baz, take Elena and the major and start hauling these guys to Hold #4, the one with nothing in it. They might wake up and get creative, so weld the door shut on 'em. Then unseal our own weapons cache, get the stunners and plasma arcs, and check out the mercenary shuttle. We'll meet you there in a few minutes."
When Elena dragged out the last unconscious body by the ankles—it was the mercenary captain, and she was noticeably not careful what his head bumped on the way—Miles shut the door and turned to his prisoner, held by Bothari and Mayhew.
"You know," he addressed the man apologetically, "I sure would appreciate it if we could skip all the preliminaries and go straight to your codes. It would save a lot of grief."
The mercenary's lips curled at this, sardonic-sour. "Sure it would—for you. No truth drugs, eh? Too bad, Shorty—you're out of luck."
Bothari tensed, eyes strangely alight; Miles restrained him with a small movement of one finger. "Not yet, Sergeant."
Miles sighed. "You're right," he said to the mercenary, "we have no drugs. I'm sorry. But we still must have your cooperation."
The mercenary snickered. "Stick it, Shorty."
"We don't mean to kill your friends," Miles added hopefully, "just stun them."
The man raised his head proudly. "Time's on my side. Whatever you can dish out, I can take. If you kill me, I can't talk."
Miles motioned Bothari aside. "This is your department, Sergeant," he said in a low voice. "Seems to me he's right. What do you think of trying to board them blind, no codes? Couldn't be any worse than if he gave us a false one. We could skip this—" a nervous wave of his hand indicated the mercenary pilot.
"It would be better with the codes," stated the Sergeant uncompromisingly. "Safer."
"I don't see how we can get them."
"I can get them. You can always break a pilot. If you will give me a free hand, my lord."
The expression on Bothari's face disturbed Miles. The confidence was all right; it was the underlying air of anticipation that put knots in his guts.
"You must decide now, my lord."
He thought of Elena, Mayhew, Daum and Jesek, who had followed him to this place—who wouldn't be here but for him . . . "Go ahead, Sergeant."
"You may wish to wait in the corridor."
Miles shook his head, belly-sick. "No. I ordered it. I'll see it through."
Bothari inclined his head. "As you will. I need the knife." He nodded toward the dagger Miles had retrieved from the unconscious mercenary captain and hung on his belt. Miles, reluctantly, drew it and handed it over. Bothari's face lightened a little at the beauty of the blade, its tensile flexibility and incredible sharpness. "They don't make them like that anymore," he muttered.
What are you planning to do with it, Sergeant? Miles wondered, but did not quite dare ask. If you tell him to drop his trousers, I'm going to stop this session right now, codes or no codes. . . . They returned to their prisoner, who was standing easy, still casually defiant.
Miles tried one more time. "Sir, I beg you to cooperate."
The man grinned. "I just don't buy you, Shorty. I'm not afraid of a little pain."
I am afraid, thought Miles. He stepped aside. "He's yours, Sergeant."
"Hold him still," said Bothari. Miles grasped the prisoner's right arm; Mayhew, looking puzzled, held the left.
The mercenary took in Bothari's face, and his grin slipped. One edge of Bothari's mouth turned upward, in a smile Miles had never seen before and immediately hoped he would never see again. The mercenary swallowed.
Bothari placed the tip of the dagger against the side of the silver button on the man's right temple and wriggled it a little, to slip it beneath the edge. The mercenary's eyes shifted right, gone white-rimmed. "You wouldn't dare. . . ." he whispered. A drop of blood ringed the circle in a quick blink. The mercenary inhaled sharply, and began, "Wait—"
Bothari twisted the knife sideways, grasped the button between the thumb and fingers of his free hand, and yanked. A ululating scream broke from the mercenary's throat. He lunged convulsively from Miles's and Mayhew's grasp and fell to his knees, mouth open, eyes gone huge in shock.
Bothari dangled the implant before the man's eyes. Hair-fine wires hung like broken spider legs from the silver button body. He twirled it, with a glittering gleam and a spatter of blood, thousands of Betan dollars' worth of viral circuitry and microsurgery turned instantly to trash.
Mayhew, watching, went the color of oatmeal at this incredible vandalism. The breath went out of him in a tiny moan. He turned his back and went to lean against the wall in a corner. After a moment, he bent over, stifling vomiting.
I wish he hadn't witnessed that, thought Miles. I wish I'd kept Daum instead. I wish . . .
Bothari squatted down to his victim's level, face-to-face. He raised the knife again, and the mercenary pilot recoiled, to bash into the wall and slide into a sitting position, unable to retreat farther. Bothari placed the dagger's point against the button on the man's forehead.
"Pain is not the point," he whispered hoarsely. He paused, then added even more quietly, "Begin."
The man found his tongue abruptly, pouring out betrayal in his terror. There was, thought Miles, no question of clever subterfuge in the information tripping frantically out of his mouth. Miles overcame his own trembling belly to listen intently, carefully, thoroughly, that nothing be lost or missed or wasted. Unbearable, that this sacrifice should be wasted.
When the man began to repeat himself, Bothari pulled him cringing to his feet and frog-marched him to the shuttle hatch corridor. Elena and the others stared uncertainly at the mercenary, a trickle of blood threading down from his gored temple, but asked no questions. At the slightest prodding from Bothari the captured pilot officer, hasty and barely coherent, explained the internal layout of the light cruiser. Bothari pushed him aboard and strapped him in a seat, where he collapsed and burst into shocking sobs. The others looked away from the prisoner uneasily, and chose seats as far from him as possible.
Mayhew sat gingerly before the manual controls of the shuttle, and flexed his fingers.
Miles slid in beside him. "Are you going to be able to fly this thing?"
"Yes, my lord."
Miles took in his shaken profile. "You going to be all right?"
"Yes, my lord." The shuttle's engines whined to life, and they kicked away from the side of the RG 132. "Did you know he was going to do that?" Mayhew demanded suddenly, low-voiced. He glanced back over his shoulder at Bothari and his prisoner.
"Not exactly."
Mayhew's lips tightened. "Crazy bastard."
"Look, Arde, you better keep this straight," murmured Miles. "What Bothari does on my orders is my responsibility, not his."
"The hell you say. I saw the look on his face. He
enjoyed
that. You didn't."
Miles hesitated, then repeated himself with a different emphasis, hoping to make Mayhew understand. "What Bothari does is my responsibility. I've known it for a long time, so I don't excuse myself."
"He
is
psychotic, then," hissed Mayhew.
"He keeps himself together. But understand—if you have a problem about him, you see me."
Mayhew swore under his breath. "You're a pair, all right."
Miles studied the mercenary craft in the forward screens as they approached. It was a swift and powerful small warship, well armed. There was a bravura brilliance to its lines that suggested Illyrican make; it was named, appropriately, the
Ariel.
No question that the lumbering RG 132 would have had no chance of escaping it. He felt a twinge of envy at its deadly beauty, then realized with a start that if things went as planned, he was about to own it, or at least possess it. But the ambiguity of the methods poisoned his pleasure, leaving only a dry cold nervousness.
They came up without challenge or incident on the
Ariel's
shuttle hatch, and Miles floated aft to assist Jesek with locking on. Bothari bound his prisoner more securely to his seat, and loomed up beside Miles. Miles decided not to waste time arguing with him about precedence.
"All right," Miles conceded to his wordless demand. "You first. But I'm next."
"My reaction time will be quicker if my attention is not divided, my lord."
Miles snorted exasperation. "Oh, very well. You, then D—no. Then Baz." The engineer's eyes met his. "Then Daum, me, Elena, and Mayhew."
Bothari approved this schedule with a half-nod. The shuttle hatch sighed open, and Bothari slipped through. Jesek took a breath, and followed.
Miles paused only to whisper, "Elena, keep Baz moving forward as fast as you can. Don't let him stop."
From the ship ahead, he heard an exclamation—"Who the hell—!" and the quiet buzz of Bothari's stunner. Then he was through, into the corridor.
"Only one?" he asked Bothari, taking in the crumpled grey-and-white form on the floor.
"So far," replied the Sergeant. "We seem to have retained surprise."
"Good, let's keep it. Split, and move out."
Bothari and Daum melted down the first cross corridor. Jesek and Elena headed in the opposite direction. Elena cast one look backward; Jesek did not. Excellent, Miles thought. He and Mayhew took the third direction, and stopped before the first closed door. Mayhew stepped forward, in a kind of wobbly aggressiveness.