Determinedly, driven by this vision, they turned to the tech specs, Miles reminding himself about the ancient saying about the want of a nail. They had nearly completed an overview when the comm officer on duty paged Miles through his comconsole.
“Admiral Naismith, sir?” The comm officer stared with interest at Miles's face, then went on, “There's a man in the docking bay who wants to see you. He claims to have important information."
Miles bethought himself of the theorized backup assassin. “What's his ID?"
“He says to tell you his name's Ungari. That's all he'll say."
Miles caught his breath. The cavalry at last! Or a clever ploy to gain admittance. “Can you give me a look at him, without letting him know he's being scanned?"
“Right, sir.” The comm officer's face was replaced on the vid by a view of the Triumph's docking bay. The vid zoomed down to focus on a pair of men in Aslunder tech coveralls. Miles melted with relief. Captain Ungari. And blessed Sergeant Overholt.
“Thank you, comm officer. Have a squad escort the two men to my cabin.” He glanced at Baz. “In, uh, about ten minutes.” He keyed off and explained, “It's my ImpSec boss. Thank God! But—I'm not sure I'd be able to explain to him the peculiar status of your desertion charges. I mean, he's ImpSec, not Service Security, and I don't imagine your old arrest order is exactly at the top of his list of concerns right now, but it might be ... simpler, if you avoid him, eh?"
“Mm.” Baz grimaced in agreement. “I believe I have duties to attend to?"
“No lie. Baz...” for a wild moment he longed to tell Baz to take Elena and run, safe away from the coming danger, “It's going to get real crazy soon."
“With Mad Miles back in charge, how could it be otherwise?” Baz shrugged, smiling. He started for the door.
“I'm not as crazy as Tung—Good God, nobody calls me that, do they?"
“Ah—it's an old joke. Only among a few old Dendarii.” Baz's step quickened.
And there are very few old Dendarii. That, unfortunately, was not a funny joke. The door hissed closed behind the engineer.
Ungari. Ungari. Somebody in charge at last. If only I had Gregor with me, I could be done right now. But at least I can find out what Our Side has been up to all this time. Exhausted, he laid his head down on his arms on Oser's comconsole desk, and smiled. Help. Finally.
Some wriggling dream was fogging his mind; he snatched himself back from too-long-delayed sleep as the cabin buzzer blatted again. He rubbed his numb face and hit the lock control on the desk. “Enter.” He glanced at the chrono; he'd lost only four minutes, on that downward slide of consciousness. It was definitely time for a break.
Chodak and two Dendarii guards escorted Captain Ungari and Sergeant Overholt into the room. Ungari and Overholt were both dressed in tan Aslunder supervisor's coveralls, no doubt with IDs and passes to match. Miles smiled happily at them.
“Sergeant Chodak, you and your men wait outside.” Chodak looked sadly disappointed at this exclusion. “And if she's finished with her current task, ask Commander Elena Bothari-Jesek to attend on us here. Thanks."
Ungari waited impatiently till the door had hissed closed behind Chodak to stride forward. Miles stood up and saluted him smartly. “Glad to see y—"
To Miles's surprise, Ungari did not return the salute; instead his hands clenched on Miles's uniform jacket and lifted. Miles sensed that it was only with the greatest restraint that Ungari's grip had closed on his lapels and not his neck. “Vorkosigan, you idiot! What the hell kind of game have you been up to?"
“I found Gregor, sir. I—” don't say lost him. “I'm mounting an expedition to recover him right now. I'm so glad you made contact with me, another hour and you'd have missed the boat. If we pool our information and resources—"
Ungari's clutch did not loosen, nor did his peeled-back lips relax. “We know you found the Emperor, we traced you both here from Consortium Detention. Then you both vanished utterly."
“Didn't you ask Elena? I thought you would—look sir, sit down, please,” and put me down, dammit—Ungari seemed not to notice that Miles's toes were stretched to the floor, “and tell me what all this looked like from your point of view. It's very important."
Ungari, breathing heavily, released Miles and sat in the indicated station chair, or at least on its edge. At a hand signal, Overholt took up a pose of parade rest at his shoulder. Miles gazed with some relief at Overholt, whom he'd last seen face-down unconscious on the Consortium Station concourse; the sergeant appeared fully recovered, if tired and strained.
Ungari said, “When he finally woke up, Sergeant Overholt followed you to Consortium Detention, but by then you'd disappeared. He thought they'd done it, they thought he'd done it. He spent bribe-money like water, finally got the story from the contract-slave you'd beaten up—a day later, when the man could finally talk—"
“He lived, then,” said Miles. “Good, Gre—we were worried about that."
“Yes, but Overholt didn't recognize the emperor at first, in the contract-slave records—the sergeant hadn't been on the need-to-know list about his disappearance."
A faint irate look passed over the sergeant's face, as if in memory of great injustices.
“—it wasn't until he'd made contact with me here, we dead-ended, and we retraced all the steps in hopes of finding some clue about you we'd overlooked, that I identified the missing contract-slave as Emperor Gregor. Days lost."
“I was sure you'd make contact with Elena Bothari-Jesek, sir. She knew where we'd gone. You knew she was my sworn liegewoman, it's in my files."
Ungari shot him a flat-lipped glare, but did not otherwise offer explanation for this gaffe. “When the first wave of Barrayaran agents hit the Hub, we finally had enough reinforcements to mount a serious search—"
“Good! So they know Gregor's in the Hub, back home. I was afraid Illyan would still be squandering all his resources on Komarr, or worse, towards Escobar."
Ungari's fingers clenched again. “Vorkosigan, what did you do with the emperor?"
“He's safe, but in great danger.” Miles thought that one over a second. “That is, he's all right for the moment, I think, but that will change with the tactical—"
“We know where he is, he was spotted three days ago by an agent in Randall's Rangers."
“Must have been just after I left,” Miles calculated. “Not that he could have spotted me, I was in the brig—what are we doing about it?"
“Rescue forces are being scrambled; I don't know how large a fleet."
“What about permission to cross Pol?"
“I doubt they'll wait for it."
“We've got to alert them, not to offend Pol! The—"
“Ensign, Vervain holds the emperor!” Ungari snarled in exasperation. “I'm not going to tell the—"
“Vervain doesn't hold Gregor, Commander Cavilo does,” Miles interrupted urgently. “It's strictly nonpolitical, a plot for her personal gain. I think—in fact, I'm dead certain—the Vervani government doesn't know the first thing about her ‘guest.’ Our rescue forces must be warned to commit no hostile act until the Cetagandan invasion shows up."
"The what?"
Miles faltered, and said in a smaller voice, “You mean you don't know anything about the Cetagandan invasion?” He paused. “Well, just because you don't have the word yet, doesn't mean Illyan hasn't figured it out. Even if we haven't spotted where they're massing, inside the Empire, as soon as ImpSec adds up how many Cetagandan warships have disappeared from their home bases, they'll realize something must be up. Somebody must still be keeping track of such things, even in the current flap over Gregor.” Ungari was still sitting there looking stunned, so Miles kept explaining. “I expect a Cetagandan force to invade Vervani local space and continue on to secure the Hegen Hub, with Commander Cavilo's connivance. Very shortly. I plan to take the Dendarii fleet across-system and fight them at the Vervani wormhole, hold it till Gregor's rescue fleet arrives. I hope they're sending more t
han a diplomatic negotiation team.... By the way, do you still have that blank mercenary contract credit chit Illyan gave you? I need it."
“You, mister,” Ungari began when he had mastered his voice again, “are going nowhere but to our safe-house on Aslund Station. Where you will wait quietly—very quietly—until Illyan's reinforcements arrive to take you off my hands."
Miles politely ignored this impractical outburst. “You have to have been collecting data for your report to Illyan. Got anything I can use?"
“I have a complete report on Aslund Station, it's naval and mercenary dispositions and strengths, but—"
“I have all that, now.” Miles tapped his fingers impatiently on Oser's comconsole. “Damn. I wish you'd spent the last two weeks on Vervain Station instead."
Ungari gritted, “Vorkosigan, you will stand up now, and come with Sergeant Overholt and me. Or so help me I will have Overholt carry you bodily."
Overholt was eyeing him with cool calculation, Miles realized.
“That could be a serious mistake, sir. Worse than your failure to contact Elena. If you will just let me explain the over-all strategic situation—"
Goaded beyond endurance, Ungari snapped, “Overholt, grab him."
Miles hit the alarm on his comconsole desk as Overholt swooped down on him. He dodged around his station chair, knocking it loose from its clamps, as Overholt missed his first grab. The cabin door hissed open. Chodak and his two guards pelted through, followed by Elena. Overholt, chasing Miles around the end of the comconsole desk, skidded straight into Chodak's stunner fire. Overholt dropped with a massive thud; Miles winced. Ungari lurched to his feet and stopped, bracketed by the aim of four Dendarii stunners. Miles felt like bursting into tears, or possibly cackles. Neither would be useful. He got control of his breath and voice.
“Sergeant Chodak, take these two men to the Triumph's brig. Put them ... put them next to Metzov and Oser, I guess."
“Yes, Admiral."
Ungari went bravely silent, as befit a captured spy, and suffered himself to be led out, though the veins in his neck pulsed with suppressed fury as he glared back at Miles.
And I can't even fast-penta him, Miles thought mournfully. An agent of Ungari's level was certain to have been implanted with an induced allergic reaction to fast-penta; not euphoria, but anaphylactic shock and death, would result from such a dose. In a moment two more Dendarii appeared with a float pallet and removed the inert Overholt. As the door closed behind them, Elena asked, “All right, what was all that about?"
Miles sighed deeply. “That, unfortunately, was my ImpSec superior, Captain Ungari. He was not in a listening mood."
Elena's eye lit with a skewed enthusiasm. “Dear God, Miles. Metzov—Oser—Ungari—all in a row—you sure are hard on your commanding officers. What are you going to do when the time comes to let them all out?"
Miles shook his head mutely. “I don't know."
* * * *
The fleet disengaged from Aslund Station within the hour, maintaining strict comm silence; the Aslunders, naturally, were thrown into a panic. Miles sat in the Triumph's comm center and monitored their frantic queries, resolved not to interfere with the natural course of events unless the Aslunders opened fire. Until he again laid hands on Gregor, he must at all costs present the correct profile to Cavilo. Let her think she was getting what she wanted, or at least what she'd asked for.
In fact, the natural course of events promised to deliver more of the results Miles wanted than he could have gained through planning and persuasion. The Aslunders had three main theories, Miles deduced from their comm chatter; the mercenaries were fleeing from the Hub altogether at secret word of some impending attack, the mercenaries were off to join one or more of Aslund's enemies, or worst of all, the mercenaries were opening an unprovoked attack on said enemies, with subsequent retribution to recoil on the Aslunder's heads. Aslunder forces went to maximum alert status. Reinforcements were called for, mobile forces shifted into the Hub, reserves brought on-line as the sudden departure of their faithless mercenaries stripped them of assumed defenses.
Miles breathed relief as the last of the Dendarii fleet cleared the Aslunders’ region and headed into open space. Delayed by the confusion, no Aslunder naval pursuit force could catch them now till they decelerated near the Vervain wormhole. Where, with the arrival of the Cetagandans, it should not be hard to persuade the Aslunders to reclassify themselves as Dendarii reserves.
Timing was, if not everything, a lot. Suppose Cavilo hadn't already transmitted her go-code to the Cetagandans. The sudden movement of the Dendarii fleet might well spook her into aborting the plot. Fine, Miles decided. In that case he would have stopped the Cetagandan invasion without a shot being fired. A perfect war of maneuver, by Admiral Aral Vorkosigan's own definition. Of course, I'll have political egg on my face and a lynch mob after me from three sides, but Dad will understand. I hope. That would leave staying alive and rescuing Gregor as his only tactical goals, which in present contrast seemed absurdly, delightfully simple. Unless, of course, Gregor didn't want to be rescued....
Further, finer branches of the strategy-tree must await events. Miles decided blearily. He staggered off to Oser's cabin to fall into bed and sleep for twelve solid, sodden hours.
* * * *
The Triumph ‘s comm officer woke Miles, paging him on the vid.
Miles, in his underwear, padded across to the comconsole and slung himself into the station chair. “Yes?"
“You asked to be apprised of messages from Vervain Station, sir."
“Yes, thank you.” Miles rubbed amber grains of sleep from his eyes, and checked the time. Twelve hours flight-time left till their arrival at target. “Any signs of abnormal activity levels at Vervain Station or their wormhole yet?"
“Not yet, sir."
“All right. Continue to monitor, record, and track any outbound traffic. What's the transmission time lag from us to them at present?"
“Thirty-six minutes, sir."
“Mm. Very well. Pipe the message down here.” Yawning, he leaned his elbows on Oser's comconsole and studied the vid. A high-ranking Vervani officer appeared over the plate, and demanded explanation for the Oseran/Dendarii Fleet's movements. He sounded a lot like the Aslunders. No sign of Cavilo. Miles keyed the comm officer. “Transmit back that their important message was hopelessly garbled by static and a malfunction in our de-scrambler. Urgently request a repeat, with amplification."
“Yes, sir."
In the ensuing seventy minutes Miles took a leisurely shower, dressed in a properly fitting uniform (and boots) that had been provided while he slept, and ate a balanced breakfast. He strolled into the Triumph's Nav and Com just in time for the second transmission. This time, Commander Cavilo stood, arms crossed, at the Vervani officer's shoulder. The Vervani repeated himself, literally with amplification, his voice was louder and sharper this time around. Cavilo added, “Explain yourselves at once, or we will regard you as a hostile force and respond accordingly."
That was the amplification he'd wanted. Miles settled himself in the comm station chair and adjusted his Dendarii uniform as neatly as possible. He made sure the admiral's rank insignia was clearly visible in the vid. “Ready to transmit,” he nodded to the comm officer. He smoothed his features into as straight-faced and dead-serious an expression as he could manage.
“Admiral Miles Naismith, Commanding, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet, speaking. To Commander Cavilo, Randall's Rangers, eyes only. Ma'am. I have accomplished my mission precisely as you ordered. I remind you of the reward you promised me for my success. What are your next instructions? Naismith out."
The comm officer logged the recording into the tight-beam scrambler. “Sir,” she said uncertainly, “if that's for Commander Cavilo's eyes only, should we be sending it on the Vervain command channel? The Vervani will have to de-process it before sending it on. It will be seen by a lot of eyes besides hers."
“Just so, Lieutenant,” said Miles. “Go a
head and transmit."
“Oh. And when—if—they respond, what do you want me to do?
Miles checked his chrono. “By the time of their next response, our line of travel should take us behind the twin suns’ interference corona. We should be out of communications for a good, oh, three hours."
“I can boost the gain, sir, and cut through—"
“No, no, Lieutenant. The interference is going to be something terrible. In fact, if you can stretch that to four hours, so much the better. But make it look real. Until we're in range for a tight-beam conference between myself and Cavilo in near-real-time, I want you to think of yourself as a non-communications officer."
“Yes, sir,” she grinned. “Now I understand."
“Carry on. Remember, I want maximum inefficiency, incompetence, and error. On the Vervani channels, that is. You've worked with trainees, surely. Be creative."
“Yes, sir."
Miles went off to find Tung.
He and Tung were deeply engrossed in the tactical computer display in the Triumph's tactics room, running projected wormhole scenarios, when the comm officer paged again.
“Changes at Vervain Station, sir. All outgoing commercial ship traffic has been halted. Incoming are being denied permission to dock. Encoded transmissions on all military channels have just about tripled. And four large warships just jumped."
“Into the Hub, or out to Vervain?"
“Out to Vervain, sir."
Tung leaned forward. “Dump data into the tactics display as you confirm it, Lieutenant."
“Yes, sir."
“Thank you,” said Miles. “Continue to keep us advised. And monitor civilian clear-code messages, too, any you can pick up. I want to keep tabs on the rumors as they start to fly."
“Right, sir. Out."
Tung keyed up what was laughingly called the “real-time” tactics display, a colorful schematic, as the comm officer shunted the new data. He studied the identity of the four departing warships. “It's starting,” he said grimly. “You called it."