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required only the slightest of adjustments in codes and procedures. They were
done and far out of range before the real Oserans arrived. The transcript of
the subsequent dispatches between the Pelian courier and the Oseran pick-up
ship was a treasure for Miles. He kept it stored atop
Bothari's coffin in his cabin, beside his grandfather's dagger. More to come,
Sergeant, he thought. I swear it.
The second operation, two weeks later, had been crude by comparison, a
slugging match between the new, more heavily-
armed Pelian courier and Miles's three warships. Miles had prudently stepped
aside and let Tung direct it, confining his comments to an occasional
approving "Ah." They gave up maneuvering to board upon the approach of four
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Oseran ships. The Oserans were taking no chances with this delivery.
The Dendarii had blasted the Pelian and its precious cargo into its component
atoms, and fled. The Pelians had fought bravely.
Miles burned them a death-offering that night in his cabin, very privately.
Arde connected Miles's left shoulder joint, and began to run through the
checklist of rotational movements of all the joints from shoulder to
fingertips. His ring finger was running about 20% weak. Arde opened the
pressure plate under his left wrist and pinned the tiny power-up control.
His strategy... By the third attempted hijacking, it was clear the enemy was
learning from experience. Oser sent a convoy practically to the planet's
atmosphere for the pick-up. Miles's ships, hovering out of range, had been
unable to even get near. Miles was forced to use his ace-in-the-hole.
Tung had raised his eyebrows when Miles asked him to send a simple paper
message to his former communications officer.
"Please cooperate with all Dendarii requests," it read, signed, meaninglessly
to the Eurasian, with the Vorkosigan seal concealed in the hilt of Miles's
grandfather's dagger. The communications officer had been a fountain of
intelligence ever since. Bad, to so endanger one of Captain Illyan's
operatives, worse to risk their best eye in the Oseran fleet. If the Oserans
ever figured out who had microwaved the money, the man's life was surely
forfeit. To date, though, the Oserans held only four packing cases of ashes
and a mystery.
Miles felt a slight change in gravity and vibration; they must be moving into
attack formation. Time to get his helmet on, and make contact with Tung and
Auson in the tactics room. Elena's tech fitted her helmet. She opened her
faceplate, spoke to the tech;
they collaborated on some minor adjustment.
If Baz was keeping his schedule, this was surely Miles's last chance with her.
With the engineer out of the way, there was no one to usurp his hero's role.
The next rescue would be his. He pictured himself, blasting menacing Pelians
right and left, pulling her out of some tactical hole-the details were vague.
She would have to believe he loved her then. His tongue would magically
untangle, he'd finally find the right words after so many wrong ones, her
snowy skin would warm in the heat of his ardor and bloom again ...
Her face, framed by her helmet, was cold, austere in profile, the same blank
winter landscape she had exhibited to the world since Bothari's death. Her
lack of reaction worried Miles. True, she had had her Dendarii duties to
distract her, keep her moving-
not like the self-indulgent luxury of his own withdrawal. At least with Elena
Visconti gone, she was spared those awkward meetings in the corridors and
conference rooms, both women pretending fiercely to cold professionalism.
Elena stretched in her armor, and gazed pensively into the black hole of her
plasma arc muzzle built into the right arm of her suit. She slipped on her
glove, covering the blue veins like pale rivers of ice in her wrist. Her eyes
made Miles think of razors.
He stepped to her shoulder, and waved away her tech. The words he spoke
weren't any of the dozens he had rehearsed for the occasion. He lowered his
voice to whisper.
"I know all about suicide. Don't think you can fool me."
She started, and flushed. Frowned at him in fierce scorn. Snapped her
faceplate shut.
Forgive, whispered his anguished thought to her. It is necessary.
Arde lowered Miles's helmet over his head, connected his control leads,
checked the connections. A lacework of fire netted, knotted, and tangled in
Miles's gut. Damn, but it was getting hard to ignore.
He checked his comm link with the tactics room. "Commodore Tung? Naismith
here. Roll the vids." The inside of his faceplate blurred with color,
duplicate readouts of the tactics room telemetry for the field commander. Only
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communications, no servo links this time. The captured Pelian armor had none,
and the old Oseran armor was all safely on manual override. Just in case
somebody else out there was learning from experience.
"Last chance to change your mind," Tung said over the comm link, continuing
the old argument. "Sure you wouldn't rather attack the Oserans after the
transfer, farther from the Pelian bases? Our intelligence on them is so much
more detailed..."
"No! We have to capture or destroy the payroll before the delivery. Taking it
after is strategically useless."
"Not entirely. We could sure use the money."
And how, Miles reflected glumly. It would soon take scientific notation to
register his debt to the Dendarii. A mercenary fleet could hardly burn money
faster if the ships ran on steam power and the funds were shoveled directly
into their furnaces. Never had one so little owed so much to so many, and it
grew worse by the hour. His stomach oozed around his abdominal cavity like a
tortured amoeba, throwing out pseudopods of pain and the vacuole of an acid
belch. You are a psychosomatic illusion, Miles assured it.
The assault group formed up and marched to the waiting shuttles. Miles moved
among them, trying to touch each person, call them by name, give them some
personal word; they seemed to like that. He ordered their ranks in his mind,
and wondered how many gaps there would be when this day's work was done.
Forgive... He had run out of clever solutions. This one was to be done the old
hard way, head-on.
They moved through the shuttle hatch corridors into the waiting shuttle. This
must surely be the worst part, waiting helplessly for Tung to deliver them
like cartons of eggs, as fragile, as messy when broken. He took a deep breath,
and prepared to cope with the usual effects of zero-gee.
He was totally unprepared for the cramp that doubled him over, snatched his
breath away, drained his face to a paper-
whiteness. Not like this, it had never come on like this before-. He redoubled [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]