Brothers in Arms

Miles's brows rose. 'How the devil did you manage that?'

Galeni's hands were flexing as he spoke. 'I don't . . . quite know,' he admitted. 'I remember hitting them. …' He glanced at Mark. 'It was nice to have a clearly defined enemy for a change.'

Upon whom, Miles guessed, Galeni had just unloaded all the accumulated tensions of the last impossible week and this mad night. Miles had witnessed berserkers before. 'Are they still alive?'

'Oh yes.'

Miles decided he would believe that when he'd had a chance to check for himself. Galeni's smile was alarming, all those long teeth gleaming in the darkness.

'Their car,' said Ivan urgently.

'Their car,' agreed Miles. 'Is it still there? Can we get to it?'

'Maybe,' said Galeni. 'There is at least one police squad in the tunnels now. I could hear them.'

'We'll have to chance it.'

'Easy for you to say,' muttered Mark truculently. 'You have diplomatic immunity.'

Miles stared at him, seized by berserker inspiration. His finger traced over an inner pocket in his grey jacket. 'Mark,' he breathed, 'how would you like to earn that hundred-thousand Betan dollar credit chit?'

'There isn't any credit chit.'

'That's what Ser Galen said. You might reflect on what else he was wrong about tonight.' Miles glanced up to check what effect mention of his father's name had on Galeni. A cooling one, apparently; some of the drawn and inward look returned to his eyes even as Miles watched. 'Captain Galeni. Are those two Cetagandans conscious, or can they be brought to consciousness?'

'At least one is. They may both be by now. Why?'

'Witnesses. Two witnesses, ideal.'

'I thought the whole point of sneaking off instead of surrendering was to avoid witnesses?' said Ivan plaintively.

'I think,' Miles overrode him, 'I had better be Admiral Naismith. No offense, Mark, but you don't have your Betan accent quite right. You don't hit your terminal H's quite hard enough or something. Besides, you've practiced Lord Vorkosigan more.'

Galeni's eyebrows were going up, as he grasped the idea. He nodded thoughtfully, though his face as he turned his gaze on Mark was unreadable enough to make Mark flinch. 'Indeed. You owe us your cooperation, I think.' He added even more softly, 'You owe me.'

This was not the moment to point out how much Galeni owed Mark in return, though a brief meeting of their eyes convinced Miles that Galeni, at least, was perfectly conscious of the two-way flow of that grim debt. But Galeni would not fumble this opportunity.

Sure of his alliance, Admiral Naismith said, 'Into the tunnel, then. Lead on, Captain.'

The Cetagandan groundcar was parked in a shadowy spot under a tree, a few meters to their left as they rose up out of the lift tube from the pedestrian subway to the Barrier park. Still no police guard on this end; the end toward the park, Galeni had informed them, had a two-man squad, though they had not risked themselves rechecking that fact. The scurry through the tunnels had been hectic enough, barely dodging a police bomb squad.

The spreading plane tree shielded the car from view of most of the (closed, at this hour) shops and apartments lining the other side of the narrow city street. No insomniac peeping out an upper window could have witnessed Galeni's encounter, Miles hoped. The highway above and behind them was walled and blind. Miles still felt exposed.

The groundcar bore no embassy identification, nor any other unusual features to draw attention; bland, neither old nor new, a little dirty. Definitely covert ops. Miles raised his brows and whistled silently at the fresh dents in the side, about the size of a man's head, and the blood spattered on the pavement. In the dimness the red color was fortunately subdued.

'Wasn't that a bit noisy?' Miles inquired of Galeni, pointing to the dents.

'Mm? Not really. Dull thumps. Nobody yelled.' Galeni, after a quick look up and down the street and a pause for a lone groundcar to whisper past, raised the mirrored bubble canopy.

Two shapes huddled in the back seat, hitched up with their own equipment. Lieutenant Tabor, in civilian clothes, blinked over his gag. The man with the blue face paint sat slumped next to him. Miles checked one eyelid, and found the eye still rolled back. He rummaged in the front for a medkit. Ivan loaded and settled Elli and took the controls. Mark slid in beside Tabor, and Galeni sandwiched their captives from the other side. At a touch from Ivan the canopy sighed down and locked itself, jamming them all in. Seven was a crowd.

Miles leaned over the back of the front seat and pressed a hypospray of synergine, first aid for shock, against the century-captain's neck. It might bring him around, and certainly would not harm him. At this present peculiar moment, Miles's would-be killer's life and continued health was a most precious commodity. As an afterthought, Miles gave Elli a dose too. She emitted a heartening moan.

The groundcar rose on its skirts and hissed forward. Miles exhaled with relief as they put the coast behind them, turning into the maze of the city. He keyed his wrist comm, and said in his flattest Betan accent, 'Nim?'

'Yo, sir.'

'Take a fix on my comm. Follow along. We're all done here.'

'We have you, sir.'

'Naismith out.'

He settled Elli's head in his lap and turned to watch Tabor over the seat back. Tabor was staring back and forth from Miles to Mark, beside him.

'Hello, Tabor,' said Mark, carefully coached, in his best Barrayaran Vor tones—did it really sound that snide?—'How's your bonsai?'

Tabor recoiled slightly. The century-captain stirred, staring through slitted but focusing eyes. He tried to move, discovered his bonds, and settled back—not relaxed, but not wasting energy on futile struggle.

Galeni reached over him and loosed Tabor's gag. 'Sorry, Tabor. But you can't have Admiral Naismith. Not here on Earth, anyway. You can pass the word up your chain of command. He's under our protection until his fleet leaves orbit. Part of the agreed price for his helping the Barrayaran Embassy find the Komarrans who had lately kidnapped some of our personnel. So back off.'

Tabor's eyes shifted, back and forth, as he spat out his gag, worked his jaw, and swallowed. He croaked, 'You're working together?'

'Unfortunately,' growled Mark.

'A mercenary,' carolled Miles, 'gets it where he can.'

'You made a mistake,' hissed the century-captain, focusing on the admiral, 'when you took contract against us at Dagoola.'

'You can say that again,' agreed Miles cheerily. 'After we rescued their damned army, the Underground stiffed us. Did us out of half our promised pay. I don't suppose Cetaganda would like to hire us to go after them in turn, eh? No? Unfortunately, I cannot afford personal vengeance. At present, anyway. Or I would not have taken employment with,' he bared his teeth in an unfriendly smile at Mark, who sneered back, 'these old friends.'

'So you really are a clone,' breathed Tabor, staring at the legendary mercenary commander. 'We thought. . .' he fell silent.

'We thought he was yours, for years,' said Mark-as-Lord-Vorkosigan.

Ours! mouthed Tabor in astonishment.

'But the present operation confirmed his Komarran origin,' Mark finished.

'We have an agreement,' Miles spoke up as if unsettled by Mark's tone, glaring from Mark to Galeni. 'You cover me till I leave Earth.'

'We have an agreement,' said Mark, 'as long as you never come any closer to Barrayar.'

'You can have bloody Barrayar. I'll take the rest of the galaxy, thanks.'

The century-captain was blurring out again, but fighting it, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in a controlled pattern. Concussion, Miles judged. In his lap, Elli's eyes popped open. He stroked her curls. She emitted a