"Hm." Elena seemed faintly comforted by this view. "Anyway, Ky was no help, and I got tired of playing Cassandra. Naturally, I couldn't tell Baz. But Oser's double-dealing didn't come as a complete surprise to
all
of us."
Tung frowned, frustrated. "Given the nucleus of his own surviving ships, all he had to do was swing the votes of half the other captain-owners. Auson voted with him. I could have strangled the bastard."
"You lost Auson yourself, with your moaning about the
Triumph,
" Elena put in, still acerb. "He thought you threatened his captaincy of it."
Tung shrugged. "As long as I was Chief-of-Staff/Tactical, in charge during actual combat, I didn't think he could really hurt my ship. I was content to let the
Triumph
ride along as if owned by the fleet corporation. I could wait—till
you
got back," his dark eyes glinted at Miles, "and we found out what was going on. And then you never came back."
"The king will return, eh?" murmured Gregor, who had been listening with fascination. He raised an eyebrow at Miles.
"Let it be a lesson to you," Miles murmured back through set teeth. Gregor subsided, less humorous.
Miles turned to Tung. "Surely Elena disabused you of any such immediate expectation."
"I tried," muttered Elena. "Although . . . I suppose, I couldn't help hoping a bit myself. Maybe you'd . . . quit your other project, come back to us."
If I flunked out of the Academy, eh?
"It wasn't a project I could quit, short of death."
"I know that now."
"In five minutes, max," put in Arde Mayhew, "I've either got to lock into the transfer station traffic control for docking, or else cut for the
Ariel.
Which is it going to be, folks?"
"I can put over a hundred loyal officers and non-coms at your back at a word," said Tung to Miles. "Four ships."
"Why not at your own back?"
"If I could, I would have already. But I'm not going to tear the fleet apart unless I can be certain of putting it back together again. All of it. But with you as leader, with your reputation—which has grown in the retelling—"
"Leader? Or figurehead?" The image of that pike bobbed in Miles's mind's eye again.
Tung's hands opened noncommittally. "As you wish. The bulk of the officer cadre will go for the winning side. That means we must appear to be winning quickly, if we move at all. Oser has about another hundred personally loyal to himself, who we're going to have to physically overpower if he insists on holding out—which suggests to my mind that a well-timed assassination could save a lot of lives."
"Jolly. I think you and Oser have been working together too long, Ky. You're starting to think alike. Again. I did not come here to seize command of a mercenary fleet. I have other priorities." He schooled himself not to glance at Gregor.
"What higher priorities?"
"How about, preventing a planetary civil war? Maybe an interstellar one?"
"I have no professional interest in that." It almost succeeded in being a joke.
Indeed, what were Barrayar's agonies to Tung? "You do if you're on the doomed side. You only get paid for winning, and only get to spend your pay if you live, mercenary."
Tung's narrow eyes narrowed further. "What do you know that I don't?
Are
we on the doomed side?"
I am, if I don't get Gregor back.
Miles shook his head. "Sorry. I can't talk about that. I've got to get to—" Pol closed to him, the Consortium station blocked, and now Aslund become even more dangerous, "Vervain." He glanced at Elena. "Get us both to Vervain."
"You working for the Vervani?" Tung asked.
"No."
"Who, then?" Tung's hands twitched, so tense with his curiosity they seemed to want to squeeze out information by main force.
Elena noticed the unconscious gesture too. "Ky, back off," she said sharply. "If Miles wants Vervain, Vervain he shall have."
Tung looked at Elena, at Mayhew. "Do you back him, or me?"
Elena's chin lifted. "We're both oath-sworn to Miles. Baz too."
"And you have to ask why I need you?" said Tung in exasperation to Miles, gesturing at the pair. "What is this larger game, that you all seem to know all about, and I, nothing?"
"I don't know anything," chirped Mayhew. "I'm just going by Elena."
"Is this a chain of command, or a chain of credulity?"
"There's a difference?" Miles grinned.
"You've exposed us, by coming here," Tung argued. "Think! We help you, you leave, we're left naked to Oser's wrath. There's too many witnesses already. There might be safety in victory, none in half-measures."
Miles looked with anguish at Elena, picturing her, quite vividly in light of his recent experiences, being shoved out an air lock by evil, witless goons. Tung noted with satisfaction the effect of his plea on Miles and sat smugly back. Elena glared at Tung.
Gregor stirred uneasily. "I think . . . should you become refugees on Our behalf," (Elena, Miles saw, heard that official capital O too, as Tung and Mayhew of course could not) "We can see that you do not suffer. Financially, at least."
Elena nodded understanding and acceptance. Tung leaned toward Elena, jerking his thumb at Gregor. "All right, who is this guy?" Elena shook her head mutely.
Tung vented a small hiss. "You've no means of support visible to me, son. What if we become corpses on your behalf?"
Elena remarked, "We've risked becoming corpses for much less."
"Less than what?" snapped Tung.
Mayhew, his eyes going briefly distant, touched the communications plug in his ear. "Decision time, folks."
"Can this ship go across-system?" asked Miles.
"No. Not fueled up for it." Mayhew shrugged apology.
"Not fast enough or armored for it, either," said Tung.
"You'll have to smuggle us out on commercial transport, past Aslunder security," Miles said unhappily.
Tung stared around at his recalcitrant little committee, and sighed. "Security's tighter for incoming than outgoing. I think it can be done. Take us in, Arde."
After Mayhew had docked the cargo shuttle at its assigned loading niche at the Aslunders' transfer station, Miles, Gregor, and Elena lay low, locked in the pilot's compartment. Tung and Mayhew went off "to see what we can do," as Tung put it, rather airily to Miles's mind. Miles sat and nibbled his knuckles nervously, and tried not to jump with each thump, clink, or hiss of the robotic loaders placing supplies for the mercenaries on the other side of the bulkhead. Elena's steady profile did not twitch at every little noise, Miles noticed enviously.
I loved her once. Who is she now?
Could one choose
not
to fall in love all over again with this new person? A chance to choose. She seemed tougher, more willing to speak her mind—this was good—yet her thoughts had a bitter tang. Not good. That bitterness made him ache.
"Have you been all right?" he asked her hesitantly. "Apart from this command structure mess, that is. Tung treating you right? He was supposed to be your mentor. On-the-job, for you, the training I was getting in the classroom . . ."
"Oh, he's a good mentor. He stuffs me with military information, tactics, history. . . . I can run every phase of a combat drop patrol now, logistics, mapping, assault, withdrawal, even emergency shuttle take-offs and landings, if you don't mind a few bumps. I'm almost up to really handling my fictional rank, at least on fleet equipment. He likes teaching."
"It seemed to me you were a little . . . tense, with him."
She tossed her head. "Everything is tense, just now. It's not possible to be 'apart from' this command structure mess, thank you. Although . . . I suppose I haven't quite forgiven Tung for not being infallible about it. I thought he was, at first."
"Yeah, well, there's a lot of fallibility going around these days," Miles said uncomfortably. "Uh . . . how's Baz?"
Is your husband treating you right?
he wanted to demand, but didn't.
"He's well," she replied, not looking happy, "but discouraged. This power struggle was alien to him, repugnant, I think. He's a tech at heart, he sees a job that needs doing, he does it . . . Tung hints that if Baz hadn't buried himself in Engineering he might have foreseen—prevented—fought the takeover, but I think it was the other way around. He couldn't lower himself to fight on Oser's back-stabbing level, so he withdrew to where he could keep his own standards of honesty . . . for a little while longer. This schism's affected morale all up and down the line."
"I'm sorry," said Miles.
"You should be." Her voice cracked, steadied, harshened. "Baz felt he'd failed you, but you failed us first, when you never came back. You couldn't expect us to keep up the illusion forever."
"Illusion?" said Miles. "I knew . . . it would be difficult, but I thought you might . . . grow into your roles. Make the mercenaries your own."
"The mercenaries may be enough for Tung. I thought they might be for me, too, till we came to the killing. . . . I hate Barrayar, but better to serve Barrayar than nothing, or your own ego."
"What does Oser serve?" Gregor asked curiously, brows raised at this mixed declamation about their homeworld.
"Oser serves Oser. 'The fleet,' he says, but the fleet serves Oser, so it's just a short circuit," said Elena. "The fleet is no home-country. No building, no children . . . sterile. I don't mind helping out the Aslunders, though; they need it. A poor planet, and scared."
"You and Baz—and Arde—could have left, gone off on your own," began Miles.
"How?" said Elena. "You gave us the Dendarii in
charge.
Baz was a deserter once. Never again."
All my fault, right, thought Miles. Great.
Elena turned to Gregor, who had acquired a strange guarded expression on his face while listening to her charges of abandonment. "You still haven't said what you're doing here in the first place, besides putting your feet in things. Was this supposed to be some sort of secret diplomatic mission?"
"You explain it," said Miles to Gregor, trying not to grit his teeth.
Tell her about the balcony, eh?
Gregor shrugged, eyes sliding aside from Elena's level look. "Like Baz, I deserted. Like Baz, I found it was not the improvement I'd hoped for."
"You can see why it's urgent to get Gregor back home as quickly as possible," Miles put in. "They think he's missing. Maybe kidnapped." Miles gave Elena a quick edited version of their chance meeting in Consortium Detention.
"God." Elena's lips pursed. "I see why it's urgent to you to get him off your hands, anyway. If anything happened to him in your company, fifteen factions would cry 'Treason plot!'"
"That thought has occurred to me, yes," growled Miles.
"Your father's Centrist coalition government would be the first thing to fall," Elena continued. "The military right would get behind Count Vorinnis, I suppose, and square off with the anti-centralization liberals. The French speakers would want Vorville, the Russian Vortugalov—or has he died yet?"
"The far-right blow-up-the-wormhole isolationist loonie faction would field Count Vortrifrani against the anti-Vor pro-galactic faction who want a written constitution," put in Miles glumly. "And I do mean field."
"Count Vortrifrani scares me," Elena shivered. "I've heard him speak."
"It's the suave way he mops the foam from his lips," said Miles. "The Greek minorists would seize the moment to attempt secession—"
"Stop it!" Gregor, who had propped his forehead on his hands, said from behind the barrier of his arms.
"I thought that was
your
job," said Elena tartly. At his bleak look, raising his head, she softened, her mouth twisting up. "Too bad I can't offer you a job with the fleet. We can always use formally trained officers, to train the rest if nothing else."
"A mercenary?" said Gregor. "There's a thought. . . ."
"Oh, sure. A lot of our people are former regular military folk. Some are even legitimately discharged."
Fantasy lit Gregor's eye with brief amusement. He sighted down his grey-and-white jacket sleeve. "If only you were in charge here, aye, Miles?"
"No!" Miles cried in a suffused voice.
The light died. "It was a joke."
"Not funny." Miles breathed carefully, praying it would not occur to Gregor to make that an
order. . . .
"Anyway, we're now trying to make it to the Barrayaran Consul on Vervain Station. It's still there, I hope. I haven't heard news for days—what's going on with the Vervani?"
"As far as I know, it's business as usual, except for the heightened paranoia," said Elena. "Vervain's putting its resources into ships, not stations—"
"Makes sense, when you've got more than one wormhole to guard," Miles conceded.
"But it makes Aslund perceive the Vervani as potential aggressors. There's an Aslunder faction that's actually urging a first strike before the new Vervani fleet comes on-line. Fortunately, the defensive strategists have prevailed so far. Oser has set the price for a strike by us prohibitively high. He's not stupid. He knows the Aslunders couldn't back us up. Vervain hired a mercenary fleet as a stopgap too—in fact, that's what gave the Aslunders the idea to hire us. They're called Randall's Rangers, though I understand Randall is no more."
"We shall avoid them," Miles asserted fervently.
"I hear their new second officer is a Barrayaran. You might be able to swing some help, there."
Gregor's brows rose in speculation. "One of Illyan's plants? Sounds like his work."
Was that where Ungari had gone? "Approach with caution, anyway," Miles allowed.
"About time," Gregor commented under his breath.
"The Rangers' commander's name is Cavilo—"
"What?" yelped Miles.
Elena's winged brows rose. "Just Cavilo. Nobody seems to know if it's the given or surname—"
"Cavilo is the person who tried to buy me—or Victor Rotha—at the Consortium Station. For twenty thousand Betan dollars."
Elena's brows stayed up. "Why?"
"I don't know why." Miles rethought their goal. Pol, the Consortium, Aslund . . . no, it still came up Vervain. "But we definitely avoid the Vervani's mercs. We step off the ship and go straight to the Consul, go to ground, and don't even squeak till Illyan's men arrive to take us home, Momma. Right."