"Who sent you to kill Miles?"
"Cavie did. Of course. He escaped, you see. I was the only one she could trust . . . trust . . . the bitch. . . ."
Miles's brow twitched. "In fact, Cavilo shipped me back here herself," he informed Oser. "General Metzov was therefore set up. But to what end? My turn, now, I think."
Oser made the after-you gesture and stepped back. Miles tottered off his bench and into Metzov's line-of-sight. Metzov breathed rage even through the fast-penta euphoria, then grinned vilely.
Miles decided to start with the question that had driven him most nuts the longest. "Who—what target—was your ground-attack planned to be upon?"
"Vervain," said Metzov.
Even Oser's jaw dropped. The blood thudded in Miles's ears in the stunned silence.
"Vervain is your
employer,
" Oser choked.
"God—God!—finally it adds up!" Miles almost capered; it came out a stagger, which Elena lurched away from the wall to catch. "Yes, yes,
yes . . ."
"It's
insane,
" said Oser. "So that's Cavilo's surprise."
"That's not the end of it, I'll bet. Cavilo's drop forces are bigger than ours by far, but no way are they big enough to take on a fully settled planet like Vervain on the ground. They can only raid and run."
"Raid and run, right," smiled Metzov equably.
"What was your particular target, then?" asked Miles urgently.
"Banks . . . art museums . . . gene banks . . . hostages . . ."
"That's a
pirate
raid," said Oser. "What the hell were you going to do with the loot?"
"Drop it off on Jackson's Whole, on the way out; they fence it."
"How did you figure to escape the irate Vervani Navy, then?" asked Miles.
"Hit them just before the new fleet comes on-line. Cetagandan invasion fleet'll catch 'em in orbital dock. Sitting targets. Easy."
The silence this time was utter.
"
That's
Cavilo's surprise," Miles whispered at last. "Yeah. That one's
worthy
of her."
"Cetagandan . . . invasion?" Oser unconsciously began to chew a fingernail.
"God, it fits, it fits." Miles began to pace the cubicle with uneven steps. "What's the only way to take a wormhole jump? From both sides at once. The Vervani aren't Cavilo's employers—the
Cetagandans
are." He turned to point at the slack-lipped, nodding general. "And now I see Metzov's place, clear as day."
"Pirate," shrugged Oser.
"No—goat."
"What?"
"This man—you apparently don't know—was cashiered from the Barrayaran Imperial Service for brutality."
Oser blinked. "From the Barrayaran Service? That must have taken some doing."
Miles bit down a twinge of irritation. "Well, yes. He, ah . . . took on the wrong victim. But anyway, don't you see it? The Cetagandan invasion fleet jumps through into Vervani local space on Cavilo's invitation—probably on Cavilo's signal. The Rangers raid, do a fast trash of Vervain. The Cetagandans, out of the kindness of their hearts, 'rescue' the planet from the treacherous mercenaries. The Rangers run. Metzov is left behind as goat—just like throwing the guy out of the troika to the wolves," oops, that wasn't a very Betan metaphor, "to be publicly hung by the Cetagandans to demonstrate their 'good faith.' See, this evil Barrayaran harmed you, you need our Imperial protection from the Barrayaran Imperial threat, and here we are.
"And Cavilo gets paid
three
times. Once by the Vervani, once by the Cetagandans, and the third time by Jackson's Whole when she fences her loot on the way out. Everybody profits. Except the Vervani, of course." He paused to catch his breath.
Oser was beginning to look convinced, and worried. "Do you think the Cetagandans plan to punch through into the Hub? Or will they stop at Vervain?"
"Of course they'll punch through. The Hub is the strategic target; Vervain is just a stepping stone to it. Hence the 'bad mercenary' setup. The Cetagandans want to expend as little energy as possible pacifying Vervain. They'll probably label them an 'allied satrapy,' hold the space routes, and barely touch down on the planet. Absorb them economically over a generation. The question is, will the Cetagandans stop at Pol? Will they try to take it on this one move, or leave it as a buffer between them and Barrayar? Conquest or wooing? If they can bait the Barrayarans into attacking through Pol without permission, it might even drive the Polians into a Cetagandan alliance—agh!" He paced again.
Oser looked as if he'd bitten into something nasty. With half a worm in it. "I wasn't hired to take on the Cetagandan Empire. I expected to be fighting the Vervani's mercenaries, at most, if the whole thing didn't just fizzle out. If the Cetagandans arrive here, in force in the Hub, we'll be . . . trapped. Penned up with a cul-de-sac at our backs." And in a trailing mutter, "Maybe we ought to think about getting out while the getting's good. . . ."
"But Admiral Oser, don't you realize," Miles pointed to Metzov, "
she'd
never have let him out of her sight with all this in his head if it was still an active plan. She may have meant him to die trying to kill me, but there was always the chance he might not—that just this sort of interrogation might result. All this is the
old
plan. There must be a
new
plan."
And I think I know what it is.
"There is . . . another factor. A new X in the equation."
Gregor.
"Unless I miss my guess, the Cetagandan invasion is now a considerable embarrassment to Cavilo."
"Admiral Naismith, I would believe that Cavilo would double-cross anyone you care to name—except the Cetagandans. They'd spend a generation, pursuing their revenge. She couldn't run far enough. She wouldn't live to spend her profits. Incidentally, what conceivable profit outweighs triple pay?"
But if she expects to have the Barrayaran Empire to defend her from retribution
—
all our Security resources . . .
"I see one way she could expect to get away with it," said Miles. "If it works out like she wants, she'll have all the protection she wants. And all the profits."
It could work, it really could. If Gregor were indeed under her spell. And if two embarrassingly hostile character witnesses, Miles and General Metzov, conveniently killed each other. Abandoning her fleet, she could take Gregor and flee before the oncoming Cetagandans, presenting herself to Barrayar as Gregor's "rescuer" at great personal cost; if in addition a smitten Gregor urged her as his fiancee, worthy mother to a future scion of the military caste—the romantic appeal of the drama could swing popular support enough to overwhelm cooler advisors' judgments. God knew Miles's own mother had laid the groundwork for that scenario.
She could really bring this off. Empress Cavilo of Barrayar. It even scans.
And she could cap her career by betraying absolutely
everybody,
even her own forces. . . .
"Miles, the look on your face . . ." said Elena in worry.
"When?" said Oser. "When will the Cetagandans attack?" He got Metzov's wandering attention, and repeated the question.
"Only Cavie knows." Metzov snickered. "Cavie knows everything."
"It has to be imminent," Miles argued. "It may even be starting now. Guessing from Cavilo's timing of my return here. She meant the De—the Fleet to be paralyzed with our infighting right now."
"If that's true," murmured Oser, "what to do . . . ?"
"We're too far away. A day and a half from the action. Which will be at the Vervain Station wormhole. And beyond, in Vervani local space. We have to get closer. We have to move the Fleet across-system—pin Cavilo up against the Cetagandans. Blockade her—"
"Whoa! I'm not mounting a headlong attack against the Cetagandan Empire!" interrupted Oser sharply.
"You must. You'll have to fight them sooner or later. You pick the time, or they will. The only chance of stopping them is at the wormhole. Once they're through, it will be impossible."
"If I moved my fleet away from Aslund, the Vervani would think we were attacking them."
"And mobilize, go on the alert. Good. But in the wrong direction—not good. We would end up being a feint for Cavilo. Damn! No doubt another branch of her strategy-tree."
"Suppose—if the Cetagandans are now such an embarrassment to Cavilo as you claim—she doesn't send her code?"
"Oh, she still needs them. But for a different purpose. She needs them to flee from. And to mass-murder her witnesses for her. But she doesn't need them to succeed. In fact, she now needs their invasion to bog down. If she's really thinking as long-term as she should be, in her new plan."
Oser shook his head, as if to clear it. "Why?"
"Our only hope—Aslund's only hope—is to capture Cavilo, and fight the Cetagandans to a standstill at the Vervain Station worm-hole. No, wait—we have to hold both sides of the Hub-Vervain jump. Until reinforcements arrive."
"What reinforcements?"
"Aslund, Pol—once the Cetagandans actually materialize in force, they'll see their threat. And if Pol comes in on Barrayar's side instead of Cetaganda's, Barrayar can pour forces through via them. The Cetagandans can be stopped, if everything occurs in the right order." But could Gregor be rescued alive? Not a path to victory, but all paths . . .
"Would the Barrayarans come in?"
"Oh, I think so. Your counter-intelligence must keep track of these things—haven't they noticed a sudden increase in Barrayaran Intelligence activity here in the Hub the last few days?"
"Now that you mention it, yes. Their coded traffic has quadrupled."
Thank God. Maybe relief was closer than he'd dared hope. "Have you broken any of their codes?" Miles asked brightly, while he was at it.
"Only the least sensitive one, so far."
"Ah. Good. That is, too bad."
Oser stood with his arms folded, gnawing at his lip, intensely inward for a full minute. It reminded Miles uncomfortably of the meditative expression the admiral'd had just before ordering him shoved out the nearest air lock, barely more than a week back. "No," Oser said at last. "Thanks for the information. In return, I suppose I will spare your life. But we're pulling out. It's not a fight we can possibly win. Only some propaganda-blinded planetary force, with a planet's resources behind it, can afford that sort of insane self-sacrifice. I designed my fleet to be a fine tactical tool, not a, a damn doorstop made of dead bodies. I'm not a—as you say—goat."
"Not a goat, a spearhead."
"Your 'spearhead' has no spear behind it. No."
"Is that your last word, sir?" asked Miles in a thin voice.
"Yes." Oser reached to key his wrist comm, to call in the waiting guards. "Corporal, this party's going to the brig. Call down and notify them."
The guard saluted through the glass as Oser keyed off.
"But sir," Elena approached him, her arms raised in pleading. With a snake-strike sideways flick of her wrist, she jabbed the hypospray against the side of Oser's neck. His eyes widened, his pulse beat once, twice, three times, as his lips drew back in rage. He tensed to strike her. His blow sagged in mid-arc.
The guards beyond the glass snapped alert at Oser's sudden movement, drawing their stunners. Elena caught Oser's hand and kissed it, smiling gratefully. The guards relaxed; one nudged the other and said something pretty nasty, judging from their grins, but Miles's wits were too momentarily scattered to try to read lips.
Oser swayed and panted, fighting the drug. Elena sidled up the captured arm and slipped a hand cozily around his waist, half-turning him so they stood with their backs to the door. The stereotypical stupid fast-penta smile slipped across and receded from Oser's face, then fixed itself at last.
"He acted like I was unarmed." Elena shook her head in exasperation, and slipped the hypospray into her jacket pocket.
"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, cluttering
might-be-might-be-might-be
nailed to a fixed
is. The 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.