be standing next to Vorkosigan. She reached the ladder at the end of the corridor, ascended it, and began to run, threading her way level by level through the maze of the ship.
Laughing, crying, out of breath and shaking violently, she arrived at the shuttle hatch corridor. Dr. McIntyre stood guard, trying to appear grim and Barrayaran.
'Is everybody here?'
He nodded, looking at her with delight.
'Pile in, let's go.'
They sealed the doors behind them and fell into their seats as the shuttle pulled away at maximum acceleration with a crunch and a jerk. Pete Lightner was piloting manually, for his Betan pilot's neurological implant would not interface to the Barrayaran control system without an interpreter coupler, and Cordelia braced herself for a terrifying ride.
She lay back in her seat, still gasping, lungs raw from her mad dash. Stuben joined her, seething, and staring worriedly at her uncontrollable trembling.
'It's a crime what they did to Dubauer,' he said. 'I wish we could blow up their whole damn ship. Is Radnov still covering us, do you know?'
'Their long-range weapons will be out for a while,' she reported, not volunteering details. Could she ever make him understand? 'Oh. I meant to ask—who was the Barrayaran hit by disruptor fire, planet—side?'
'I don't know. Doc Mac got his uniform. Hey, Mac—what's the name on your pocket?'
'Uh, let me see if I can sound out their alphabet.' His lips moved silently. 'Kou—Koudelka.'
Cordelia bowed her head. 'Was he killed?'
'He wasn't dead when we left, but he sure didn't look very healthy.'
'What were you doing all that time aboard the General?' asked Stuben.
'Paying off a debt. Of honor.'
'All right, be like that. I'll get the story later.' He was silent, then added with a short nod, 'I hope you got the bastard good, whoever he was.'
'Look, Stu—I appreciate all you've done. But I've really got to be alone for a few minutes.'
'Sure, Captain.' He gave her a look of concern, and moved off muttering, 'Damned monsters,' under his breath.
Cordelia leaned her forehead against the cold window, and wept silently for her enemies.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Captain Cordelia Naismith, Betan Expeditionary Force, fed the last normal space navigational observations into her ship's computer. Beside her, Pilot Officer Parnell adjusted the leads and cannulae to his headset and settled more comfortably into his padded chair, ready for the neurological control of the upcoming wormhole jump.
Her new command was a slow bulk freighter, unarmed, a steady workhorse of the Beta Colony Escobar trade run. But there had been no direct communication with Escobar for over sixty days now, since the Barrayaran invasion fleet had plugged the Escobaran side of the exit as effectively as a cork in a bottle. At last word the Barrayaran and Escobaran fleets were still maneuvering in a deadly gavotte for tactical position, with little actual engagement. The Barrayarans were not expected to commit their ground forces until their control of Escobaran space was secure.
Cordelia intercomed engineering. 'Naismith here. You about ready down there?'
The face of her engineer, a man she had first met but two days ago, appeared on the screen. He was young, and pulled from Survey like herself. No point in wasting experienced and knowledgeable military personnel on this excursion. Like Cordelia he wore Survey fatigues. The Expeditionary Force uniforms were rumored to be in the works, but no one had seen them yet.
'All set, Captain.'
No fear trembled his voice. Well, she reflected, perhaps he was not old enough yet to have really come to believe in death after life. She took one last look around, settled herself, and drew a breath. 'Pilot, the ship is yours.'
'Ship accepted, ma'am,' he replied formally.
A few seconds ticked by. An unpleasant wave of nausea passed over her, and she had the gluey, unsettling sensation of just waking up from a bad dream she could not remember. The jump was over.
'Ship is yours, ma'am,' muttered the pilot wearily. The few seconds she had experienced translated to several subjective hours for him.
'Ship accepted, Pilot.' She grabbed for the comconsole and began punching up a look at the tactical situation into which they had popped. There had been nothing through this passage for a month; she hoped fervently the Barrayaran crews would be bored and slow on the uptake.
There they were. Six ships, two of them starting to move already. So much for slow on the uptake.
'Right through the middle of 'em, Pilot,' she ordered, keying data to him. 'It's best if we can draw 'em all off their stations.'
The two moving ships neared rapidly, and began firing with leisurely accuracy. They were taking their time, and making every shot count. Just a little target practice, that's all we are, she thought. I'll give you target practice. All non-shield power systems dimmed, and the ship seemed to groan as the plasma fire engulfed it. Then they cut across the tickling limit of the Barrayarans' range.
She called engineering. 'Projection ready?'
'Ready and steady.'
'Go.'
Twelve thousand kilometers behind them, as if just emerged from the wormhole, a Betan dreadnought sprang into being. It accelerated astonishingly for so large a craft; indeed, its speed matched their own. It followed them like an arrow.
'Aha!' She clapped her hands in delight, and cried into the intercom, 'We've fetched 'em! They're all moving now. Oh, better and better!'
Their pursuit ships slowed, preparing to turn and attack this much bigger prize. The four ships that had previously remained properly on station began to wheel away also. Minutes sped by as they jockeyed for position. The last Barrayaran ships wasted little fire on them, scarcely more than a salute, their attention all drawn to big brother behind them. The Barrayaran commanders undoubtedly felt themselves to be in a fine tactical position, spread out in a gauntlet and beginning a withering fire. The little ship preceding the warship was on the far side of them from Escobar, with nowhere to go. They could pick it off at their leisure.
Her own shields were down now, and acceleration failing as the ghastly power drain of the projector took its toll. But minute by precious minute the Barrayaran blockaders were being drawn farther from their assigned mousehole.
'We can keep this up for about ten more minutes,' the engineer called up.
'All right. Save enough power to slag it when you're done. If we're captured Command doesn't want one molecule left connected to another for the Barrayarans to puzzle back together.'
'What a crime. It's such a beautiful machine. I'm dying for a look inside.'
You might, too, if the Barrayarans capture us, she thought. She directed all her ship's eyes back along their route. Far, far back at the wormhole exit, the first real Betan freighter winked into existence and began to boost for Escobar, unopposed. It was the newest addition to the merchant fleet, stripped of weapons and shields, rebuilt to do two things only now; carry a heavy payload and go like hell. Then the second, and the third. That was it. They were away, and with a start the Barrayarans could never hope to close.
The Betan dreadnought exploded with a spectacular radioactive light show. Unfortunately, there was no way to fake debris. I wonder how long it will take the Barrayarans to figure out they've been had? she thought. I sincerely hope they have a sense of humor… .
Her ship drifted dead in space now, its power nearly depleted. She felt light in the head, and realized it wasn't psychosomatic. The artificial gravity was failing.
They rendezvoused with the engineer and his two assistants at the shuttle hatch, traveling with gazelle-like
