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head. And what do I pretend to be now? A moving target? He sagged against the
wall, not even bothering, though Gregor lurched to his feet and made a valiant
try in the constricted space, an accurate karate-
kick sending a stunner flying from the hand of a closing mercenary. Two men
smashed Gregor against the wall for his effort.
Miles winced.
Then Miles himself was jerked from the bunk to be coiled, tripled-coiled, in a
tangle-net. The field burned against him. They were using enough power to
immobilize a plunging horse. What do you think I am, boys?
The excited squad leader cried into his wrist comm, "I got him, sir!"
Miles raised an ironic brow. The squad leader flushed and straightened, his
hand twitching in the effort not to salute. Miles smiled slightly. The squad
leader's lips tightened. Ha. Almost got you going, didn't I?
"Take them away," ordered the squad leader.
Miles was carried out the door between two men, his bound feet dangling
ridiculous inches from the floor. A groaning Gregor was dragged in his wake.
As they passed a cross-corridor, Miles saw Chodak's strained face from the
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corner of his eye, floating in the shadows.
He damned his own judgment then. You thought you could read people. Your one
demonstrable talent. Right. Sure. Should have, should have, should have,
mocked his mind, like the caw of some vile scavenging bird surprised at a
carcass.
When they were dragged across a large docking bay and through a small
personnel hatch, Miles knew at once where he was.
The Triumph, the pocket dreadnought that had occasionally served as the
fleet's flagship, was doing that duty again now. Tung of the dubious current
status had been captain-owner of the Triumph, once, before Tau Verde. Oser had
used to favor his own
Peregrine as flag-was this some deliberate political statement? The corridors
of the ship had a strange, painful, powerful familiarity. The odors of men,
metal, and machinery. That crooked archway, legacy of the lunatic ramming that
had captured her on Miles's first encounter, still not properly straightened
out... I thought I had forgotten more.
They were hustled along swiftly and secretly, a pair of squadmen going ahead
to clear the corridor of witnesses before them.
This was .. going to be a very private chat, then. Fine, that suited Miles. He
would have preferred to avoid Oser altogether, but if they must meet again, he
would simply have to find some way of turning it to use. He ordered his
persona as if adjusting his cuffs-
Miles Naismith, space mercenary and mystery entrepreneur, come to the Hegen
Hub for... what? And his glum if faithful sidekick
Greg, of course-he would have to think of some particularly benign explanation
for Gregor.
They clattered down the corridor past the tactics room, the Triumph's combat
nerve center, and fetched up at the smaller of the two briefing rooms across
from it. The holovid plate in the center of the gleaming conference table was
dark and silent. Admiral
Oser sat equally dark and silent at the table's head, flanked by a pale blond
man Miles presumed to be a loyal lieutenant; not anyone Miles knew from
before. Miles and Gregor were forcibly seated in two chairs pulled back and
distanced from the table, that their hands and feet might be unconcealed. Oser
dismissed all but one guard to the corridor outside.
Oser's appearance hadn't changed much in four years, Miles decided. Still lean
and hawk-faced, dark hair maybe a little greyer at the temples. Miles had
remembered him as taller, but he was actually shorter than Metzov. Oser
reminded Miles somehow of the general. Was it the age, the build? The hostile
glower, the murderous pinpricks of red light in the eye?
"Miles," Gregor muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "what did you do to
piss this guy off?"
"Nothing!" Miles protested back, sotto voce. "Nothing on purpose, anyway."
Gregor looked less than reassured.
Oser placed his palms flat on the table before him and leaned forward, staring
at Miles with predatory intensity. If Oser'd had a tail, Miles fancied, its
end would be flicking back and forth. "What are you doing here?" Oser opened
bluntly, without preamble.
You brought me, didn't you know? Not the time to get cute, no. Miles was
highly conscious of the fact that he did not precisely look his best. But
Admiral Naismith wouldn't care, he was too goal-directed; Naismith would carry
on painted blue, if he had to. He answered equally bluntly. "I was hired to do
a military evaluation of the Hegen Hub for an interested non-combatant who
ships through here." There, the truth up front, where it was sure to be
disbelieved. "Since they don't care for mounting rescue expeditions, they
wanted enough warning to clear the hub of their citizens before hostilities
break out. I'm doing a little arms dealing on the side. A cover that pays for
itself."
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Oser's eyes narrowed. "Not Barrayar..."
"Barrayar has its own operatives."
"So does Cetaganda... Aslund fears Cetagandan ambitions."
"As well they should."
"Barrayar is equidistant."
"In my professional opinion," fighting the tangle-field, Miles favored Oser
with a small bow, sitting down-Oser almost nodded back, but caught
himself-"Barrayar is no threat to Aslund in this generation. To control the
Hegen Hub, Barrayar must control Pol.
With the terraforming of their own second continent plus the opening of the
planet Sergyar, Barrayar is rather oversupplied with frontiers at present. And
then there is the problem of holding restive Komarr. A military adventure
toward Pol would be a serious overextension of Barrayar's human resources just
now. Cheaper to be friends, or at least neutral."
"Aslund also fears Pol."
"They are unlikely to fight unless attacked first. Keeping peace with Pol is
cheap and easy. Just do nothing."
"Any Vervain?"
"I haven't evaluated Vervain yet. It's next on my list."
"Is it?" Oser leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. It was not a
relaxed gesture.
"As a spy, I could have you executed."
"But I'm not an enemy spy," Miles answered, simulating easiness. "A friendly
neutral or-who knows?-potential ally."
"And what is your interest in my fleet?"
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