The door to Nav and Com closed behind them. A few meters of corridor and a sharp turn brought Miles and his handlers to a personnel hatch. The corporal held Miles, who struggled; the lieutenant opened a locker and shook out a bod-pod.
The bod-pod was a cheap inflatable life-support unit designed to be entered in seconds by endangered passengers, suitable either for pressurization emergencies or abandoning ship. They were also dubbed idiot-balloons. They required no knowledge to operate because they had no controls, merely a few hours of recycleable air and a locator-beeper. Passive, foolproof, and not recommended for claustrophobes, they were very cost-effective in saving lives—when adequate pick-up ships arrived in time.
Miles emitted a realistic wail as he was stuffed into the bod-pod's dank, plastic-smelling interior. A jerk of the rip cord, and it sealed and inflated automatically. He had a brief, horrible flashback to the mud-sunken bubble-shelter on Kyril Island, and choked back a real scream. He was tumbled as his captors rolled the pod into the air lock. A whoosh, a thump, a lurch, and he was free-falling in pitch darkness.
The spherical pod was little more than a meter in diameter. Miles, half-doubled-up, felt around, his stomach and inner ear protesting the spin imparted by the ejecting kick outward, till his shaking fingers found what he hoped was a cold-light tube. He squeezed it, and was rewarded with a nauseous greenish glow.
The silence was profound, broken only by the tiny hiss of the air recycler and his ragged breathing.
Well . . . it's better than the last time somebody tried to shove me out an air lock.
He had several minutes in which to imagine all the possible courses of action the
Ariel
might take instead of picking him up. He had just discarded skin-crawling anticipation of the ship opening fire on him in favor of abandonment to cold dark asphyxiation, when he and his pod were wrenched by a tractor beam.
The tractor beam's operator, clearly, had ham hands and palsy, but after a few minutes of juggling, the return of gravity and outside sound reassured Miles he'd been safely stowed in a working air lock. The swish of the inner door, garbled human voices. Another moment, and the idiot balloon began to roll. He yelped loudly, and curled up into a protective ball to roll with the flow till the motion stopped. He sat up, and took a deep breath, and tried to straighten his uniform.
Muffled thumps against the bod-pod's fabric. "Somebody in there?"
"Yeah!" Miles called back.
"Just a minute . . ."
Squeaks, clinks., and a rending grind, as the seals were broken. The bod-pod began to collapse as the air sighed out. Miles fought his way clear of its folds, and stood, shakily, with all the gracelessness and indignity of a newly hatched chick.
He was in a small cargo bay. Three grey-and-white-uniformed soldiers stood in a circle around him, aiming stunners and nerve-disruptors at his head. A slim officer with captain's insignia leaned with one foot on a canister, watching Miles emerge.
The officer's neat uniform and soft brown hair gave no clue whether one was looking at a delicate man or an unusually determined woman. This ambiguity was deliberately cultivated; Bel Thorne was a Betan hermaphrodite, minority descendant of a century-past social/genetic experiment that had not caught on. Thorne's expression melted from skepticism to astonishment as Miles rose into view.
Miles grinned back. "Hello, Pandora. The gods send you a gift. But there's a catch."
"Isn't there always?" Face lighting with delight, Thorne strode forward to grasp Miles's waist with bubbling enthusiasm. "Miles!" Thorne held Miles away again, and gazed avidly down into his face. "What are you doing here?"
"Somehow, I figured that might be your first question," Miles sighed.
"—and what are you doing in the Ranger-suit?"
"
Goodness,
I'm glad you're not of the shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later school." Miles kicked his slippered feet clear of the deflated bod-pod. The soldiers, somewhat uncertainly, held their aim. "Ah—" Miles gestured toward them.
"Stand down, men," Thorne ordered. "It's all right."
"I wish that were true," Miles said. "Bel, we've got to talk."
Thorne's cabin aboard the
Ariel
was the same wrenching mix of familiarity and change Miles had encountered in all the mercenary matters. The shapes, the sounds, the smells of the
Ariel's
interior triggered cascades of memory. The captain's cabin was now overlaid with Bel's personal possessions; vid library, weapons, campaign souvenirs including a half-melted space-armor helmet that had been slagged saving Thorne's life, now made into a lamp; a small cage housing an exotic pet from Earth Thorne called a
hamster.
Between sips of a cup of Thorne's private stock of non-synthetic tea, Miles gave Thorne the Admiral Naismith version of reality, closely related to the one he'd given Oser and Tung; the Hub evaluation assignment, the mystery employer, etc. Gregor, of course, was edited out, together with any mention of Barrayar; Miles Naismith spoke with a pure Betan accent. Otherwise Miles stuck as close as he could to the facts of his sojourn with Randall's Rangers.
"So Lieutenant Lake's been captured by our competitors," Thorne mused upon Miles's description of the blond lieutenant he'd passed in the
Kurin's Hand's
brig. "Couldn't happen to a nicer fellow, but—we'd better change our codes again."
"Quite." Miles set down his cup, and leaned forward. "I was authorized by my employer not only to observe but to prevent war in the Hegen Hub, if possible." Well, sort of. "I'm afraid it may no longer be possible. What does it look like from your end?"
Thorne frowned. "We were last in-dock five days ago. That's when the Aslunders concocted this pre-docking inspection routine. All the smaller ships were pressed into round-the-clock service on it. With their military station nearing completion, our employers are getting jumpier about sabotage—bombs, biologicals . . ."
"I won't argue with that. What about, ah, Fleet internal matters?"
"You mean rumors of your death, life, and/or resurrection? They're all over, fourteen garbled versions. I'd have discounted 'em—you've been sighted before, y'know—but then suddenly Oser arrested Tung."
"What?" Miles bit his lip. "Only Tung? Not Elena, Mayhew, Chodak?"
"Only Tung."
"That makes no sense. If he'd arrested Tung, he'd have fast-penta'd him, and he'd have to have spilled on Elena. Unless she's been left free as bait."
"Things got real tense, when Tung was taken. Ready to explode. I think if Oser'd moved on Elena and Baz it would have sparked the war right then. Yet he hasn't backed down and reinstated Tung. Very unstable. Oser's taking care to keep the old inner circle separated, that's why I've been out here for nearly a bloody week. But last time I saw Baz he was damn near edgy enough to commit to fight. And that was the last thing he'd wanted to do."
Miles exhaled slowly. "A fight . . . is exactly what Commander Cavilo wants. It's why she shipped me back gift-wrapped in that . . . undignified package. The Bod-pod of Discord. She doesn't care if I win or lose, as long as her enemy's forces are thrown into chaos just as she springs her
surprise.
"
"Have you figured out what her surprise is, yet?"
"No. The Rangers were setting up for some sort of ground-attack, at one point. Sending me here suggests they're aiming for Aslund, against all strategic logic. Or something else? The woman's mind is incredibly twisted. Gah!" He slapped his fist gently into his palm in nervous rhythm. "I've got to talk to Oser. And he's got to listen this time. I've thought it over. Cooperation between us may be the one and only course of action Cavilo doesn't expect, doesn't have a half-sawn-through branch of her strategy-tree ready and waiting for me. . . . Are you willing to put it all on the line for me, Bel?"
Thorne pursed lips judiciously. "From here, yeah. The
Ariel's
the fleet's fastest ship. I can outrun retribution if I have to." Thorne grinned.
Should we run to Barrayar?
No—Cavilo still held Gregor. Better appear to be following instructions. For a time yet.
Miles took a long breath, and settled himself firmly in the station chair in the
Ariel's
Nav and Com room. He'd cleaned up, and borrowed a mercenary's grey and white uniform from the smallest woman on the ship. The rolled-up pant cuffs were stuffed neatly out of sight down boots that almost fit. A belt covered the fastener gaping open at the too-narrow waistband. The loose jacket looked all right, sitting down. Permanent alterations later. He nodded to Thorne. "All right. Open your channel."
A buzz, a glitter, and Admiral Oser's hawk face materialized over the vid plate. "Yes, what is it—you!" His teeth shut with a beak's snap; his hand, a vague unfocused blur to the side, tapped on intercom keys and vid controls.
He can't throw me out the air lock this time, but he can cut me off. Time to talk fast.
Miles leaned forward and smiled. "Hello, Admiral Oser. I've completed my evaluation of Vervani forces in the Hegan Hub. And my conclusion is, you are in deep trouble."
"How did you get on this secured channel?" snarled Oser. "Tight-beam, double-encode—comm officer, trace this!"
"How, you will be able to determine in a few minutes. You'll have to keep me on-line till you do," said Miles. "But your enemy is at Vervain Station, not here. Not Pol, not Jackson's Whole. And most certainly not me. Note I said Vervain Station, not Vervain. You know Cavilo? Your opposite number, across-system?"
"I've encountered her once or twice." Oser's face was guarded now, waiting for his scrambling tech team to report.
"Face like an angel, mind like a rabid mongoose?"
Oser's lips twitched very slightly. "You've met her."
"Oh, yes. She and I had several heart-to-heart talks. They were . . . educational. Information is the most valuable trade-good in the Hub right now. At any rate, mine is. I want to deal."
Oser held up his hand for a pause, and keyed off-line briefly. When his face returned, its expression was black. "Captain Thorne, this is mutiny!"
Thorne leaned into the range of the vid pick-up, and said brightly, "No, sir, it's not. We are trying to save your ungrateful neck, if you will permit it. Listen to the man. He has lines we don't."
"He has lines, all right," and under his breath, "Damn Betans, sticking together. . . ."
"Whether you fight me, or I fight you, Admiral Oser, we both lose," said Miles rapidly.
"You can't win," said Oser. "You cannot take my fleet. Not with the
Ariel.
"
"The
Ariel
's
just a starter-set, if it comes to that. But no, I probably can't win. What I can do is make an unholy mess. Divide your forces—screw you with your employer—every weapon-charge you expend, every piece of equipment that's damaged, every soldier hurt or killed is
pure loss
in an in-fight like this. Nobody wins but Cavilo, who expends nothing. Which is precisely what she sent me back here for. How much profit do you foresee in doing precisely what your enemy wishes you to, eh?"
Miles waited, breathless. Oser's jaw worked, chewing over this impassioned argument. "What's your profit?" he asked at last.
"Ah. I'm afraid I'm the dangerous variable in that calculation, Admiral. I'm not in it for profit." Miles grinned. "So I don't care what I wreck."
"Any information you had from Cavilo is worth shit," said Oser.
He begins to barter
—
he's hooked, he's hooked. . . .
Miles tamped down exultation, cultivated a serious expression. "Anything Cavilo says must certainly be sifted with great care. But, ah . . . beauty is as beauty does. And I've found her vulnerable side."
"Cavilo has no vulnerable side."
"Yes, she does. Her passion for utility. Her self-interest."
"I fail to see how that makes her vulnerable."
"Precisely why you need to add
me
to your staff at once. You need my vision."
"Hire you!" Oser recoiled in astonishment.
Well, he'd achieved surprise, anyway. A military objective of sorts. "I understand the post of Chief-of-Staff/Tactical is now empty."
Oser's expression flowed from astonished to stunned to a kind of amused fury. "You're insane."
"No, just in a tearing hurry. Admiral, there's nothing irrevocable gone wrong between us. Yet. You attacked me—not the other way around—and now you expect me to attack you back. But I'm not on holiday, and I don't have time to waste on personal amusements like revenge."
Oser's eyes narrowed. "What about Tung?"
Miles shrugged. "Keep him locked up, for now, if you insist. Unharmed, of course."
Just don't tell him I said so.
"Suppose I hang him."
"Ah . . .
that
would be irrevocable." Miles paused. "I will point out, jailing Tung is like cutting off your right hand before heading into battle."
"What battle? With whom?"
"It's a surprise. Cavilo's surprise. Though I've developed an idea or two on the problem, that I'd be willing to share."
"Would you?" Oser had that same man-sucking-a-lemon expression Miles had now and then surprised on Illyan's face. It seemed almost homey.
Miles continued, "As an alternative to my becoming your employee, I'm willing to become your employer. I'm authorized to offer a bona fide contract, all the usual perqs, equipment replacement, insurance, from my . . . sponsor."
Illyan, hear my plea.
"Not in conflict with Aslund's interests. You can collect twice for the same fight, and you don't even have to switch sides. A mercenary's dream."
"What guarantees can you offer up front?"
"It seems to me that I'm the one who's owed a guarantee, sir. Let us begin with small steps. I won't start a mutiny; you stop trying to thrust me out air locks. I will join you openly—everyone to know I've arrived—I will make my information available to you." How thin his "information" seemed, in the breeze of these airy promises. No numbers, no troop movements; all
intentions,
shifting mental topographies of loyalty, ambition, and betrayal. "We will confer. You may even have an angle I lack. Then we go on from there."