“Oh, dear.” She regarded the repellent morsel with a sympathetic frown. “Those. I thought they'd been condemned. How did they end up here? Someone must be economizing. Shall I order you a regular menu?"
“Yes, thank you,” said Miles immediately, and paused. She had neatly misdirected his attention from Gregor to himself. He must keep his mind on the Emperor. How much useful information had Gregor spilled, by now?
“You realize,” Miles said carefully, “you are creating a massive interplanetary incident between Vervain and Barrayar."
“Not at all,” said Cavilo reasonably. “I'm Greg's friend. I've rescued him from falling into the hands of the Vervani secret police. He's now under my protection, until the opportunity arises to restore him to his rightful place."
Miles blinked. “Do the Vervani have a secret police, as such?"
“Close enough,” Cavilo shrugged. “Barrayar, of course, definitely does. Stanis seems quite worried about them. They must be very embarrassed, back in ImpSec, to have so thoroughly mislaid their charge. I fear their reputation is exaggerated."
Not quite. I'm ImpSec, and I know where Gregor is. So technically, ImpSec is right on top of the situation. Miles wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Or right under it.
“If we're all such good friends,” said Miles, “why am I locked in this cell?"
“For your protection too, of course. After all, General Metzov has openly threatened to, ah—what was it—break every bone in your body.” She sighed. “I'm afraid dear Stanis is about to lose his utility."
Miles blanched, remembering what else Metzov had said in that conversation. “For ... disloyalty?"
“Not at all. Disloyalty can be very useful at times, under proper management. But the overall strategic situation may be about to change drastically. Unimaginably. And after all the time I wasted cultivating him, too. I hope all Barrayarans are not so tedious as Stanis.” She smiled briefly. “I very much hope it."
She leaned forward, growing more intent. “Is it true that Gregor, ah, ran away from home to evade pressure from his advisors to marry a woman he loathed?"
“He hadn't mentioned it to me,” said Miles, startled. Wait—what was Gregor about, out there? He'd better be careful not to step on his lines. “Though there is ... concern. If he were to die without an heir any time soon, many fear a factional struggle would follow."
“He has no heir?"
“The factions can't agree. Except on Gregor."
“So his advisors would be glad to see him marry."
“Overjoyed, I expect. Uh...” Miles's unease at this turn of the conversation bloomed into sudden light, like the flash before the shock-wave. “Commander Cavilo—you're not imagining you could make yourself Empress of Barrayar, are you?"
Her smile grew sharp. “Of course I couldn't. But Greg could.” She straightened, evidently annoyed by Miles's stunned expression. “Why not? I'm the right sex. And, apparently, of the right military background."
“How old are you?"
“Lord Vorkosigan, really, what a rude question.” Her blue eyes glinted. “If we were on the same side, we could work together."
“Commander Cavilo, I don't think you understand Barrayar. Or Barrayarans.” Actually, there'd been eras in Barrayaran history where Cavilo's command style would have fit right in. Mad Emperor Yuri's reign of terror, for example. But they'd spent the last twenty years trying to get away from all that.
“I need your cooperation,” Cavilo said. “Or at any rate, it could be very useful. To both of us. Your neutrality would be ... tolerable. Your active opposition, however, would be a problem. For you. But we should avoid getting caught in negative attitude traps at this early stage, I think?"
“Whatever did happen to that freighter captain's wife and child? Widow and orphan, rather?” Miles inquired through his teeth.
Cavilo hesitated fractionally. “The man was a traitor. Of the worst sort. Sold out his planet for money. He was caught in an act of espionage. There is no moral difference between ordering an execution, and carrying it out."
“I agree. So do a lot of legal codes. How about a difference between execution and murder? Vervain is not at war. His actions may have been illegal, warranting arrest, trial, jail or sociopath therapy—where did the trial part drop out?"
“A Barrayaran, arguing legalities? How strange."
“And what happened to his family?"
She'd had a moment to think, blast it. “The tedious Vervani demanded their release. Naturally, I didn't want him to know they were out of my hands, or I'd lose my only hold on his actions at a distance."
Lie or truth? No way to tell. But she backpedals from her mistake. She let establishing her dominance through terror rule her reactions, before she was sure of her ground. Because she was unsure of her ground. I know the look that was on her face. Homicidal paranoids are as familiar as breakfast, I had one for a bodyguard for seventeen years. Cavilo, for a brief instant, seemed homey and routine, if no less dangerous. But he should strive to appear convinced, non-threatening, even if it made him gag.
“It's true,” he conceded, “it's rank cowardice to give an order you're not willing to carry out yourself. And you're no coward, Commander, I'll grant you that.” There, that was the right tone, persuadable but not changing his stance too suspiciously fast.
Her brow rose sardonically, as if to say, Who are you to judge? But her tension eased slightly. She glanced at her chrono and rose. “I'll leave you now, to think about the advantages of cooperation. You're theoretically familiar with the mathematics of the Prisoner's Dilemma, I hope. It will be an interesting test of your wits, to see if you can connect theory with practice."
Miles managed a weird return smile. Her beauty, her energy, even her flaring ego, did exert a real fascination. Had Gregor indeed been ... activated, by Cavilo? Gregor, after all, hadn't watched her raise her nerve disruptor and ... What weapon was a good ImpSec man to use, in the face of this personal assault on Gregor? Try and seduce her back? To sacrifice himself for the Emperor by flinging himself on Cavilo had about as much appeal as belly-smothering a live sonic grenade.
Besides, he doubted he could work it. The door slid closed, eclipsing her scimitar smile. Too late, he raised a hand to remind her of her promise to change his rations.
* * * *
But she remembered anyway. Lunch arrived on a trolley, with an experienced, if expressionless, batman to serve it in five elegant courses with two wines and espresso coffee for an antidote. Miles didn't think Cavilo's troops ate like this, either. He envisioned a platoon of smiling, replete, obese gourmets strolling happily into battle ... the dog chews would be much more effective for raising aggression levels.
A chance remark to his waiter brought a package along with the next meal-trolley, which proved to contain clean underwear, a set of insignialess Ranger fatigues cut down to his fit, and a pair of soft felt slippers; also a tube of depilatory and assorted toiletries. Miles was inspired to wash, by sections, in the fold-out lavatory basin, and shave before dressing. He felt almost human. Ah, the virtues of cooperation. Cavilo was not exactly subtle.
God, where had she come from? A mercenary veteran, she had to have been around for a while to have risen this far, even with shortcuts. Tung might know. I think she must have lost bad at least once, He wished Tung were here now. Hell, he wished Illyan were here now.
Her flamboyance, Miles increasingly felt, was an effective act, meant to be viewed at a distance like stage makeup, to dazzle her troops. At the right range, it might work rather well, like the popular Barrayaran general of his grandfather's generation who'd gained visibility by carrying a plasma rifle like a swagger stick. Usually uncharged, Miles had heard privately—the man wasn't stupid. Or a Vorish ensign who wore a certain antique dagger at every opportunity. A trademark, a banner. A calculated bit of mass psychology. Cavilo's public persona pushed the envelope of that strategy, surely. Was she scared inside, knowing herself for overextended? You wish.
Alas, after a dose of Cavilo, one thought of Cavilo, fogging one's tactical calculations. Focus, ensign. Had she forgotten Victor Rotha? Had Gregor concocted some bullshit explanation to account for their Pol Station encounter? Gregor seemed to be feeding Cavilo skewed facts—or were they? Maybe there really was a loathed proposed bride, and Gregor had not trusted Miles enough to mention it. Miles began to regret being quite so acerbic to Gregor.
His thoughts were still running like a hyped-up rat on an exercise wheel, spinning to nowhere, when the door code-lock beeped again. Yes, he would fake cooperation, promise anything, if only she'd give him a chance to check on Gregor.
Cavilo appeared with a soldier in tow. The man looked vaguely familiar—one of the arresting goons? No....
The man ducked his head through the cell door, stared at Miles a moment in bemusement, and turned to Cavilo.
“Yeah, that's him, all right. Admiral Naismith, of the Tau Verde Ring war. I'd recognize the little runt anywhere.” He added aside to Miles, “What are you doing here, sir?"
Miles mentally transmuted the man's tan and blacks to grey and white. Yeah. There'd been several thousand mercenaries involved in the Tau Verde war. They all had to have gone somewhere.
“Thank you, that will be all, Sergeant.” Cavilo took the man by the arm and firmly pulled him away. The non-com's fading advice drifted back down the cell bay, “You ought to try and hire him, ma'am, he's a military genius...."
Cavilo reappeared after a moment, to stand in the aperture with her hands on her hips and her chin outthrust in exasperated disbelief. “How many people are you, anyway?"
Miles opened his hands and smiled weakly. Just as he'd been about to talk his way out of this hole...
“Huh.” She spun on her heel, the closing door cutting off her sputter.
Now what? He'd slam his fist into the wall in frustration, but the wall was sure to slam back with greater devastation.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
However, all three of his identities were granted an exercise period that afternoon. A small on-board gymnasium was cleared for his exclusive use. He studied the setup sharply for the hour as he tried out various pieces of equipment, checking distances and trajectories to guarded exits. He could see a couple of ways Ivan might succeed in jumping a guard and making a break for it. Not fragile, short-legged Miles. For a moment, he found himself actually wishing he had Ivan along.
On the way back to Cell 13 with his escort, Miles passed another prisoner being checked in at the guard station. He was a shambling, wild-eyed man, his blond hair damped to brown with sweat. Miles's shock of recognition was the greater for the changes it had to encompass. Oser's lieutenant. The bland-faced killer was transformed.
He wore only grey trousers, his torso was bare. Livid shock-stick marks dappled his skin. Recent hypospray injection points marched like little pink paw prints up his arm. He mumbled continuously through wet lips, shivered and giggled. Just coming back from interrogation, it seemed.
Miles was so startled he reached over to grasp the man's left hand, to check—yes, there were his own scabbed-over teeth marks across the knuckles, souvenir of last week's fight at the Triumph's airlock, across the system. The silent lieutenant wasn't silent any more.
Miles's guards motioned him sternly along. Miles almost tripped, staring back over his shoulder till the door of Cell 13 sighed shut, imprisoning him once more.
What are you doing here? That had to be the most-asked, least-answered question in the Hegen Hub, Miles decided. Though he bet the Oseran lieutenant had answered it—Cavilo must command one of the sharpest counter-intelligence departments in the Hub. How fast had the Oseran mercenary traced Miles and Gregor here? How soon had Cavilo's people spotted him and picked him up? The marks on his body were not over a day old....
Most important question of all, had the Oseran come to Vervain Station as part of a general, systematic sweep, or had he followed specific clues—was Tung compromised? Elena arrested? Miles shuddered, and paced frenetically, helplessly. Have I just killed my friends?
So, what Oser knew, Cavilo now knew, the whole silly mix of truth, lies, rumors and mistakes. So the identification of Miles as “Admiral Naismith” hadn't necessarily come from Gregor as Miles had first assumed. (The Tau Verde veteran had clearly been scrounged up as an unbiased cross-check.) If Gregor was systematically withholding information from her, Cavilo would now realize it. If he was withholding anything. Maybe he was in love by now. Miles's head throbbed, feeling on the verge of exploding.
* * * *
The guards came for him in the middle of the night-cycle, and made him dress. Interrogation at last, eh? He thought of the drooling Oseran, and cringed. He insisted on washing up, and adjusted every burr-seam and cuff of his Ranger fatigues with slow deliberation, till the guards began to shift impatiently and tap fingers suggestively on shock sticks. He too would shortly be a drooling fool. On the other hand, what could he possibly say under fast-penta at this point that could make things worse? Cavilo had it all, as far as he could tell. He shrugged off the guards’ grasps, and marched out of the brig between them with all the forlorn dignity he could muster.
They led him through the night-dimmed ship and exited a lift-tube at something marked “G-Deck.” Miles snapped alert. Gregor was supposed to be around here somewhere.... They arrived at an otherwise-blank cabin door marked 10A, where the guards beeped the code-lock for permission to enter. The door slid aside.
Cavilo sat at a comconsole desk, a pool of light in the somber room making her blond-white hair gleam and glow. They had arrived at the Commander's personal office, apparently, adjoining her quarters. Miles strained his eyes and ears for signs of the Emperor. Cavilo was fully-dressed in her neat fatigues. At least Miles wasn't the only one going short on sleep these days; he fancied optimistically that she looked a little tired. She placed a stunner out on her desk, ominously ready to her right hand, and dismissed the guards. Miles craned his neck, looking for the hypospray. She stretched, and sat back. The scent of her perfume, a greener, sharper, less musky scent than she'd worn as Livia Nu, sublimated from her white skin and tickled Miles's nose. He swallowed.
“Sit down, Lord Vorkosigan."
He took the indicated chair, and waited. She watched him with calculating eyes. The insides of his nostrils began to itch abominably. He kept his hands down, and still. The first question of this interview would not catch him with his fingers shoved up his nose.
“Your Emperor is in terrible trouble, little Vor lord. To save him, you must return to the Oseran Mercenaries, and retake them. When you are back in command, we will communicate further instructions."
Miles boggled. “Danger from what?” he choked. “You?"
“Not at all! Greg is my best friend. The love of my life, at last. I'd do anything for him. I'd even give up my career.” She smirked piously. Miles's lip curled in repelled response; she grinned. “If any other course of action occurs to you besides following your instructions to the letter, well ... it could land Greg in unimaginable troubles. At the hands of worse enemies."
Worse than you? Not possible ... is it? “Why do you want me in charge of the Dendarii Mercenaries?"
“I can't tell you.” Her eyes widened, positively sparkling at her private, ironic joke. “It's a surprise."
“What would you give me to support this enterprise?"
“Transportation to Aslund Station."
“What else? Troops, guns, ships, money?"
“I'm told you could do it with your wits alone. This I wish to see."
“Oser will kill me. He's already tried once."
“That's a chance I must take."
I really like that “I,” lady. “You mean me to be killed,” Miles deduced. “What if I succeed instead?” His eyes were starting to water; he sniffed. He would have to rub his madly-itching nose soon.
“The key of strategy, little Vor,” she explained kindly, “is not to choose a path to victory, but t
o choose so that all paths lead to a victory. Ideally. Your death has one use; your success, another. I will emphasize that any premature attempt to contact Barrayar could be very counterproductive. Very."
A nice aphorism on strategy; he'd have to remember that one. “Let me hear my marching orders from my own supreme commander, then. Let me talk to Gregor."
“Ah. That will be your reward for success."
“The last guy who bought that line got shot in the back of his head for his credulity. What say we save steps, and you just shoot me now?” He blinked and sniffed, tears now running down the inside of his nose.
“I don't wish to shoot you.” She actually batted her eyelashes at him, then straightened, frowning. “Really, Lord Vorkosigan, I hardly expected you to dissolve into tears."
He inhaled; his hands made a helpless pleading gesture. Startled, she tossed him a handkerchief from her breast pocket. A green-scented handkerchief. Without other recourse, he pressed it to his face.
“Stop crying, you cowar—” Her sharp order was interrupted by his first, mighty sneeze, followed by a rapid volley of repeats.
“I'm not crying, you bitch, I'm allergic to your goddamn perfume!” Miles managed to choke out between paroxysms.
She held her hand to her forehead and broke into giggles; real ones, not mannered ploys for a change. The real, spontaneous Cavilo at last; he'd been right, her sense of humor was vile. “Oh, dear,” she gasped. “This gives me the most marvelous idea for a gas grenade. A pity I'll never ... ah, well."
His sinuses throbbed like kettle drums. She shook her head helplessly, and tapped out something on her comconsole.
“I think I had best speed you on your way, before you explode,” she told him.
Bent over in his seat wheezing, his water-clouded gaze fell on his brown felt slippers. “Can I at least have a pair of boots for this trip?"
She pursed her lips in a moment of thought. “...No,” she decided. “It will be more interesting to see you carry on just as you are."