Thorne's face wavered over him, white and breathing open-mouthed, urgent. "Are you all right, Admiral?"
"I think," Miles panted.
"He was aiming at you," Thorne reported. "Only."
"I noticed," Miles stuttered. "I'm only lightly fried." Thorne helped him sit up. He was shaking as badly as after the shock-stick beating. He regarded his spasming hands, lowered one to touch the corpse beside him in morbid wonder. Every day of the rest of my life will be your gift. And I don't even know your name. "Your sergeant—what was his name?"
"Collins."
"Collins. Thanks."
"Good man."
"I saw."
Oser came up, looking strained. "Admiral Naismith, this was not my doing."
"Oh?" Miles blinked. "Help me up, Bel. . . ." That might have been a mistake; Thorne then had to help him keep standing as his muscles twitched. He felt weak, washed-out as a sick man. Elena—where? She had no weapon. . . .
There she was, with another female mercenary. They were dragging a man in the dark blue uniform of an Aslunder ranker toward Miles and Oser. Each woman held a booted foot; the man's arms trailed nervelessly across the deck. Stunned? Dead? They dropped the feet with a thump beside Miles, with the matter-of-fact air of lionesses delivering prey to their cubs. Miles stared down at a very familiar face indeed. General Metzov. What are you doing here?
"Do you recognize this man?" Oser asked an Aslunder officer who had hurried up to join them. "Is he one of yours?"
"I don't know him—" The Aslunder knelt to check for IDs. "He has a valid pass. . . ."
"He could have had me, and gotten away," said Elena to Miles, "but he kept firing at you. You were bright to stay put."
A triumph of wit, or a failure of nerve? "Yes. Quite." Miles made another attempt to stand on his own, gave up, and leaned on Thorne. "I hope you didn't kill him."
"Just stunned," said Elena, holding up the weapon as evidence. Some intelligent person must have tossed it to her when the melee began. "He probably has a broken wrist."
"Who is he?" asked Oser. Quite sincerely, Miles judged.
"Why, Admiral," Miles bared his teeth, "I told you I was going to deliver you more intelligence data than your Section could collect in a month. May I present," rather like an entree at that—he made a gesture designed to evoke a waiter lifting a domed cover from a silver platter, but which probably looked like another muscle spasm, "General Stanis Metzov. Second-in-command, Randall's Rangers."
"Since when do senior staff officers undertake field assassinations?"
"Excuse me, second-in-command as of three days ago. That may have changed. He was up to his stringy neck in Cavilo's schemes. You, I, and he have an appointment with a hypospray."
Oser stared. "You planned this?"
"Why do you think I spent the last hour flitting around the Station, if not to smoke him out?" Miles said brightly. He must have been stalking me this whole time. I think I'm going to throw up. Have I just claimed to be brilliant, or incredibly stupid? Oser looked like he was trying to figure out the answer to that same question.
Miles stared down at Metzov's unconscious form, trying to think. Had Metzov been sent by Cavilo, or was this murder attempt entirely on his own time? If sent by Cavilo—had she planned him to fall alive into her enemies' hands? If not, was there a back-up assassin around here somewhere, and if so was his target Metzov, if Metzov succeeded, or Miles, if Metzov failed? Or both? I need to sit down and draw a flow-chart.
Medical squads had arrived. "Yes, sickbay," said Miles faintly. "Till my old friend here wakes up."
"I'll agree to that," said Oser, shaking his head in something akin to dismay.
"Better put a protective as well as holding guard on our prisoner. I'm not sure if he was meant to survive capture."
"Right," Oser agreed bemusedly.
Thorne supporting one arm and Elena the other, Miles staggered home into the Triumph's hatchway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Miles sat trembling on a bench in a glassed-in cubicle normally used for bio-isolation in the Triumph's sickbay, and watched Elena tie General Metzov to a chair with a tangle-cord. It would have given Miles a smug sense of turn-about, if the interrogation upon which they were about to embark was not so fraught with dangerous complications. Elena was disarmed again. Two stunner-armed men stood guard beyond the soundproof transparent door, glancing in occasionally. It had taken all Miles's eloquence to keep the audience for this initial questioning limited to himself, Oser, and Elena.
"How hot can this man's information be?" Oser had inquired irritably. "They let him go out in the field."
"Hot enough that I think you should have a chance to think about it before broadcasting it to a committee," Miles had argued. "You'll still have the recording."
Metzov looked sick and silent, tight-mouthed and unresponsive. His right wrist was neatly bandaged. Awakening from stun accounted for the sick; the silence was futile, and everyone knew it. It was a kind of strange courtesy, not to badger him with questions before the fast-penta cut in.
Now Oser frowned at Miles. "Are you up to this yet?"
Miles glanced down at his still-shaking hands. "As long as no one asks me to do brain surgery, yes. Proceed. I have reason to suspect that time is of the essence."
Oser nodded to Elena, who held up a hypospray to calibrate the dose, and pressed it to Metzov's neck. Metzov's eyes shut briefly in despair. After a moment his clenched hands relaxed. The muscles of his face unlocked to sag into a loose, idiotic smile. The transformation was most unpleasant to watch. Without the tension his face looked aged.
Elena checked Metzov's pulse and pupils. "All right. He's all yours, gentlemen." She stepped back to lean against the door frame with folded arms, her expression almost as closed as Metzov's had been.
Miles opened his hand. "After you, Admiral."
Oser's mouth twisted. "Thank you. Admiral." He walked over to stare speculatively into Metzov's face. "General Metzov. Is your name Stanis Metzov?"
Metzov grinned. "Yeah, that's me."
"Presently second-in-command, Randall's Rangers?"
"Yeah."
"Who sent you to assassinate Admiral Naismith?"
Metzov's face took on an expression of sunny bewilderment. "Who?"
"Call me Miles," Miles suggested. "He knows me under a . . . pseudonym." His chance of getting through this interview with his identity undisclosed equalled that of a snowball surviving a worm-hole jump to the center of a sun, but why rush the complications?
"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.