“You don't think it's something we're causing?"
“Not those four ships. They wouldn't have moved off-station if they weren't badly wanted elsewhere. Better get your ass over to—that is, transfer your flag to the Ariel, son."
* * * *
Miles rubbed his lips nervously, and eyed what he'd mentally dubbed his “Little Fleet” in the schematic display in the Ariel's tactics room. The equipment was now displaying the Ariel itself plus the two next-fastest ships in the Dendarii forces. His own personal attack-group; fast, maneuverable, amenable to violent course-changes, requiring less turning-room than any other possible combination. Admittedly, they were low in firepower. But if things went as Miles projected, firing was not going to be a desirable option anyway.
The Ariel's tac room was manned now by a mere skeleton crew; Miles, Elena as his personal communications officer, Arde Mayhew for all other systems. Inner Circle all, in anticipation of this next most-private conversation. If it came to actual combat, he'd turn the chamber over to Thorne, presently exiled to Nav and Com. And then, perhaps, retire to his cabin and slit his belly open.
“Let's see Vervain Station now,” he told Elena in her comm station chair. The main holovid display in the center of the room whirled dizzyingly at her touch on the controls. The schematic representation of their target area seemed to boil with shifting lines and colors, representing ship movements, power shunts to various weapons systems and shieldings, and communications transmissions. The Dendarii were now barely a million kilometers out, a little more than three light-seconds. The rate of closure was slowing as the Little Fleet, fully two hours ahead of the slower ships of the main Dendarii fleet, decelerated.
“They're sure stirred up now,” Elena commented. Her hand went to her ear-bug. “They're reiterating their demands that we communicate."
“But still not launching a counter-attack,” Miles observed, studying the schematic. “I'm glad they realize where the true danger lies. All right. Tell them that we've got our comm problems straightened out—finally—but say again that I will speak first only to Commander Cavilo."
“They—ah—I think they're finally putting her through. I've got a tight-beam coming in on the dedicated channel."
“Trace it.” Miles hung over her shoulder as she coaxed this information from the comm net. “The source is moving...."
Miles closed his eyes in prayer, snapped them open again at Elena's triumphant, “Got it! There. That little ship."
“Give me its course and energy profile. Is she heading toward the wormhole?"
“No, away."
“Ha!"
“It's a fast ship—small—it's a Falcon-class courier,” Elena reported. “If her goal is Pol—and Barrayar—she must intersect our triangle."
Miles exhaled. “Right. Right. She waited to speak on a line her Vervani bosses couldn't monitor. I thought she might. Wonder what lies she's told them? She's past the point of no return, does she know it?” He opened his arms to the new short vector line in the schematic. “Come, love. Come to me."
Elena raised her brow sardonically at him. “Coming through. Your sweetheart is about to appear on Monitor Three."
Miles swung into the indicated Station chair, settling himself before the holovid plate, which began to sparkle. Now was the time to muster every bit of self-control he'd ever owned. He smoothed his face to an expression of cool ironic interest, as Cavilo's fine features formed before him. Out of range of the vid pick-up, he rubbed his sweating palms on his trouser knees.
Cavilo's blue eyes were alight with triumph, constrained by her tight mouth and tense brows as if in echo of Miles's ships constraining her flight-path. “Lord Vorkosigan. What are you doing here?"
“Following your orders, ma'am. You told me to go get the Dendarii. And I've transmitted nothing to Barrayar."
A six-second time-lag, as the tight-beam flew from ship to ship and returned her answer. Alas that it gave her as much time to think as it did him.
“I didn't order you to cross the Hub."
Miles wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. “But where else would you need my fleet except at the point of action? I'm not dense."
Cavilo's pause this time was longer than accounted for by the transmission lag. “You mean you didn't get Metzov's message?” she asked.
Damn near. What a fabulous array of double meanings there. “Why, did you send him as a courier?"
Lag. “Yes!"
A palpable lie for a palpable lie. “I never saw him. Maybe he deserted. He must have realized he'd lost your love to another. Perhaps he's holed up in some spaceport bar right now, drowning his sorrows.” Miles sighed deeply at this sad scenario.
Cavilo's concerned attentive expression melted to rage when this one arrived. “Idiot! I know you took him prisoner!"
“Yes, and I've been wondering ever since why you allowed that to happen. If that accident was undesired, you should have taken precautions against it."
Cavilo's eyes narrowed; she shifted her ground. “I feared Stanis's emotions made him unreliable. I wanted to give him one more chance to prove himself. I gave my backup man orders to kill him if he tried to kill you, but when Metzov missed, the dolt waited."
Substitute as soon as/succeeded for that if/tried, and the statement was probably near-truth. Miles wished he had a recording of that Ranger agent's field report, and Cavilo's blistering reply. “There, you see? You do want subordinates who can think for themselves. Like me."
Cavilo's head jerked back. “You, for a subordinate? I'd sooner sleep with a snake!"
Interesting image, that. “You'd better get used to me. You're seeking entry into a world strange to you, familiar to me. The Vorkosigans are an integral part of Barrayar's power-class. You could use a native guide."
Lag. “Exactly. I'm trying—I must—get your emperor to safety. You're blocking his flight path. Out of my way!"
Miles spared a glance for the tactics display. Yes, just so. Good, come to me. “Commander Cavilo, I feel certain you are missing an important datum in your calculations about me."
Lag. “Let me clarify my position, little Barrayaran. I hold your emperor. I control him absolutely."
“Fine, let me hear those orders from him, then."
Lag ... fractionally briefer, yes. “I can have his throat cut before your eyes. Let me pass!"
“Go ahead,” Miles shrugged. “It'll make an awful mess on your deck, though."
She grinned sourly, after the lag. “You bluff badly."
“I bluff not at all. Gregor is far more valuable alive to you than to me. You can do nothing, where you're going, except through him. He's your meal ticket. But has anyone mentioned to you yet that if Gregor dies, I could become the next emperor of Barrayar?” Well, arguably, but this was hardly time to go into the finer details of the six competing Barrayaran succession theories.
Cavilo's face froze. “He said ... he had no heir. You said so too."
“None named. Because my father refuses to be named, not because he lacks the bloodlines. But ignoring the bloodlines doesn't erase them. And I am my father's only child. And he can't live forever. Ergo ... So, resist my boarding parties, by all means. Threaten away. Carry out your threats. Give me the Imperium—I shall thank you prettily, before I have you summarily executed. Emperor Miles the First. How does it sound? As good as Empress Cavilo?” Miles gave it an intense beat, “Or, we could work together. The Vorkosigans have traditionally felt that the substance was better than the name. The power behind the throne, as my father before me—who has held just that power, as Gregor has doubtless told you, for far too long—you're not going to dislodge him by batting your eyelashes. He's immune to women. But I know his every weakness. I've thought it through. This could be my big chance, one way or another. By the way—milady—do you care which emperor you wed?"
The time lag allowed him to fully savor her changes of expression, as his plausible calumnies thudded home. Alarm; revulsion; finally, reluctant respect.
“I underestimated you, it seems. Very well ... Your ships may escort us to safety. Where—clearly—we must confer further."
“I will transport you to safety, aboard the Ariel. Where we will confer immediately."
Cavilo straightened, nostrils flaring. “No way."
“All right, let's compromise. I will abide by Gregor's orders, and Gregor's orders only. As I said, milady, you'd better get used to this. No Barrayaran will take orders from you directly at first, till you've established yourself. If that's the game you're choosing to play, you'd better start practicing. It only gets more complicated after this. Or, you can choose to resist, in which case I get it all.” Play for time, Cavilo! Bite!
“I'll get Gregor.” The vid went to the grey haze of a holding-signal.
Miles flung himself back in his station chair, rubbed his neck and rolled his head, trying to relieve his screaming nerves. He was shaking. Mayhew was staring at him in alarm.
“Damn,” said Elena in a hushed voice. “If I didn't know you, I'd think you were Mad Yuri's understudy. The look on your face ... am I reading too much into all that innuendo, or did you in fact just connive to assassinate Gregor in one breath, offer to cuckold him in the next, accuse your father of homosexuality, suggest a patricidal plot against him, and league yourself with Cavilo—what are you going to do for an encore?"
“Depends on the straight lines. I can hardly wait to find out,” Miles panted. “Was I convincing?"
“You were scary."
“Good.” He wiped his palms on his trousers again. “It's mind-to-mind, between Cavilo and me, before it ever becomes ship-to-ship.... She's a compulsive plotter. If I can smoke her, wind her in with words, with what-ifs, with all the bifurcations of her strategy-tree, just long enough to get her eye off the one real now..."
“Signal,” Elena warned.
Miles straightened, waited. The next face to form over the vid plate was Gregor's. Gregor, alive and well. Gregor's eyes widened, then his face went very still.
Cavilo hovered behind his shoulder, just slightly out of focus. “Tell him what we want, love."
Miles bowed sitting down, as profoundly as physically possible. “Sire. I present you with the Emperor's Own Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet. Do with us as You will."
Gregor glanced aside, evidently as some tactical readout analogous to the Ariel's own. “By God, you've even got them with you. Miles, you are supernatural.” The flash of humor was instantly muffled in sere formality. “Thank you, Lord Vorkosigan. I accept your vassal-offering of troops."
“If you would care to step aboard the Ariel, sire, you can take personal command of your forces."
Cavilo leaned forward, interrupting. “And now his treachery is made plain. Let me play a portion of his last words for you, Greg.” Cavilo reached past Gregor to touch a control, and Miles was treated to an instant replay of his breathless sedition, beginning with—naturally—the flim-flam about the named heir, and ending with his offer of himself as a substitute Imperial groom. Very nicely selected, clearly unedited.
Gregor listened with his head in a thoughtful tilt, his face perfectly controlled, as the Miles-image stammered to its damning conclusion. “But does this surprise you, Cavie?” asked Gregor in an innocent tone, taking her hand and looking over his shoulder at her. From the expression on her face, something was surprising her. “Lord Vorkosigan's mutations have driven him mad, everyone knows that! He's been sulking around muttering like that for years. Of course, I trust him no further than I can throw him—"
Thanks, Gregor. I'll remember that line.
“—but as long as he feels he can further his interests by furthering ours, he'll be a valuable ally. House Vorkosigan has always been powerful in Barrayaran affairs. His grandfather Count Piotr put my grandfather Emperor Ezar on the throne. They'd make an equally powerful enemy. I should prefer us to rule Barrayar with their cooperation."
“Their extermination would do as well, surely,” Cavilo glared at Miles.
“Time is on our side, love. His father is an old man. He, is a mutant. His bloodline-threat is empty, Barrayar would never accept a mutant as emperor, as Count Aral well knows and as even Miles realizes in his saner moments. But he can trouble us, if he chooses. An interesting balance of power, eh, Lord Vorkosigan?"
Miles bowed again. “I think much on it.” So have you, apparently. He spared a quelling glance at Elena, who had fallen off her station chair somewhere around Gregor's word-picture of Miles's mad soliloquies, aside at state banquets no doubt, and was now sitting on the floor with her sleeve jammed in her mouth to muffle the shrieks of laughter. Her eyes blazed, over the grey cloth. She got control of her stifled giggles and scrambled back into her seat. Close your mouth, Arde.
“Then, Cavie, let's join my would-be Grand Vizier. At that point, I will control his ships. And your wish,” he turned his head to kiss her hand, still resting in his grasp on his shoulder, “will be my command."
“Do you really think it's safe? If he's as psycho as you say."
“Brilliant—nervous—skittish—but he's all right as long as his medications are adjusted properly, I promise you. I expect his dose is a little off at the moment, due to our irregular travels."
The transmission time-lag was much reduced, now. “Twenty minutes to rendezvous, sir,” Elena reported, off-sides.
“Will you transfer in your shuttle, or ours, sire?” Miles inquired politely.
Gregor shrugged carelessly. “Commander Cavilo's choice."
“Ours,” said Cavilo immediately.
“I will be waiting.” And ready.
Cavilo broke transmission.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miles watched through the vid link as the first space-armored Ranger stepped into the Ariel's shuttle hatch corridor. The wary point-man was followed immediately by four more, who scanned the empty passageway, converted into a chamber by the closed blast doors sealing each end. No enemies, no targets, not even automatic weapons threatened them. An utterly deserted chamber. Bewildered, the Rangers took up a defensive stance around the shuttle hatch.
Gregor stepped through. Miles was unsurprised to see that Cavilo had not provided the Emperor with space armor. Gregor wore a neatly-pressed set of Ranger fatigues, minus insignia; his only protection was his boots. Even they would be quite inadequate, if one of those heavy-armored monsters stepped on his toe. Battle armor was lovely stuff, proof against stunners and nerve disrupters, most poisons and biologicals; resistant (to a degree) to plasma fire and radioactivity, stuffed with clever built-in weaponry, tac comps, and telemetry. Very suitable for a boarding expedition. Though in fact, Miles had once captured the Ariel himself with fewer personnel, less formidably armed and totally unarmored. He'd had surprise on his side, then.
Cavilo came through behind Gregor. She wore space armor though for the moment she carried her helmet tucked under her arm like a decapitated head. She stared around the empty corridor, and frowned. “All right, what's the trick?” she demanded loudly.
To answer your question.... Miles pressed the button on the remote-control box in his hand.
A muffled explosion made the corridor reverberate. The flex-tube tore violently away from the shuttle hatch. The automatic doors, sensing the pressure drop, clapped shut instantly. A bare breath of air escaped. Good system. Miles had made the techs make sure it was working properly, before they'd inserted the directional mines in the shuttle clamps. He checked his monitors. Cavilo's combat shuttle was tumbling away from the side of the Ariel now, thrusters and sensors damaged in the same blast that propelled it outward, its weapons and reserve Rangers useless until the no-doubt-frantic pilot regained attitude control. If he could.
“Keep an eye on him, Bel, I don't want him coming back to haunt us,” Miles spoke into his comm link to Thorne, on deck in the Ariel's tactics room.
“I can blow him up now, if you like."
“Wait a little. We're a long way from sorted out, down here.” God h
elp us now.
Cavilo was snapping her helmet on, her startled troops in defensive formation around her. All dressed up, and nothing to shoot. Let them settle down for just a moment, enough to prevent spinal-reflexive fusilades, but not enough to think....
Miles glanced around at his own space-armored troops, six in number, and closed his own helmet. Not that numbers mattered. A million troops with nuclears, one guy with a club; either would suffice when the target was one unarmed hostage. Miniaturizing the situation, Miles realized sadly, had made no qualitative difference. He could still screw up just as big. The main difference was his plasma cannon, sighted down the corridor. He nodded to Elena, manning the big weapon. Not normally an indoor toy, it would stop charging space armor. And blow out the hull beyond. Miles figured that, theoretically, they could blow away, oh, one out of Cavilo's five at this range, if they came on at a dead run, before all became hand-to-hand, or glove-to-glove.
“Here we go,” Miles warned through his command channel. “Remember the drill.” He pressed another control; the blast doors between his group and Cavilo's began to draw back. Slowly, not suddenly, at a rate carefully calculated to inspire dread without startling.
Full broadcast on all channels plus loudspeaker. It was absolutely essential to Miles's plan that he get in the first word.
“Cavilo!” he shouted. “Deactivate your weapons and freeze, or I'll blow Gregor to atoms!"
Body language was a wonderful thing. It was amazing, how much expression could come through the blank shining surface of space armor. The littlest armored figure stood openhanded, stunned. Bereft of words; bereft, for precious seconds, of reactions. Because, of course, Miles had just stolen her opening line. Now what do you have to say for yourself, love? It was a desperate ploy. Miles had judged the hostage-problem logically insoluble; therefore, clearly the only thing to do was make it Cavilo's problem instead of his own.
Well, he'd obtained as much as the freeze part, anyway. But he dared not let the standoff stand. “Drop it, Cavilo! It only takes one nervous twitch to convert you from Imperial fiancee to no one of importance at all. And then to no one at all. And you're making me real tense."