The Vor Game

'And what is your interest in my fleet?'

'My interest in the Denda—in the mercenaries is purely academic, I assure you. You are simply part of the picture. Tell me, what's your contract with Aslund like?' Miles cocked his head, talking shop.

Oser almost answered, then his lips thinned in annoyance. If Miles had been a ticking bomb he could not have more thoroughly commanded the mercenary's attention.

'Oh, come on,' Miles scoffed in the lengthening silence. 'What could I do, by myself with one man?'

'I remember the last time. You entered Tau Verde local space with a staff of four. Four months later you were dictating terms. So what are you planning now?'

'You overestimate my impact. I merely helped people along in the direction they wished to go. An expediter, so to speak.'

'Not for me. I spent three years recovering the ground I lost. In my own fleet!'

'It's hard to please everyone.' Miles intercepted Gregor's look of mute horror, and toned himself down. Come to think, Gregor had never met Admiral Naismith, had he? 'Even you were not seriously damaged.'

Oser's jaw compressed further. 'And who's he?' He jerked a thumb at Gregor.

'Greg? He's just my batman,' Miles cut across Gregor's opening mouth.

'He doesn't look like a batman. He looks like an officer.'

Gregor looked insensibly cheered at this unbiased encomium.

'You can't go by looks. Commodore Tung looks like a wrestler.'

Oser's eyes were suddenly freezing. 'Indeed. And how long have you been in correspondence with Captain Tung?'

By the sick lurch in his belly, Miles realized mentioning Tung has been a major mistake. He tried to keep his features cooly ironic, not reflecting his unease. 'If I'd been in correspondence with Tung, I should not have been troubled with making this personal evaluation of Aslund Station.'

Oser, elbows on table, hands clasped, studied Miles in silence for a full minute. At last one hand fell open, to point at the guard, who straightened attentively. 'Space them,' Oser ordered.

'What?!' yelped Miles.

'You,' the pointing finger collected Oser's silent lieutenant, 'go with them. See that it's done. Use the portside access lock, it's closest. If he,' pointing to Miles, 'starts to talk, stop his tongue. It's his most dangerous organ.'

The guard released the tangle field from Miles's legs and pulled him to his feet.

'Aren't you even going to have me chemically interrogated?' asked Miles, dizzied by this sudden downturn.

'And contaminate my interrogators? The last thing I want is to give you rein to talk, to anyone. I can think of nothing more fatal than for the rot of disloyalty to start in my own Intelligence section. Whatever your planned speech, removing your air will neutralize it. You nearly convince me.' Oser almost shuddered.

We were getting on so well, yes. . . . 'But I—' they were hoisting Gregor to his feet too. 'But you don't need to—'

Two waiting members of the half-squad fell in as they were bunked out the door, frog-marching Miles and Gregor rapidly down the corridor. 'But—!' The conference room door hissed closed.

'This is not going well, Miles,' Gregor observed, his pale face a weird compound of detachment, exasperation, and dismay. 'Any more bright ideas?'

'You're the man who was experimenting with wingless flight. Is this any worse than, say, plummeting?'

'At my own hand,' Gregor began to drag his feet, to struggle, as the airlock chamber heaved into view, 'not at the whim of a bunch of . . .' it took three guards to wrestle him now, 'bloody peasants!'

Miles was getting seriously frantic. Screw the damn cover. 'You know,' he called out loudly, 'you fellows are about to throw a fortune in ransom out the airlock!'

Two guards kept wrestling with Gregor, but the third paused.

'How big a fortune?'

'Huge,' Miles promised. 'Buy your own fleet.' The lieutenant abandoned Gregor and closed on Miles, drawing a vibra-knife. The lieutenant was interpreting his orders with horrific literality, Miles realized when the man went for a grip on his tongue. He almost got it—the evil insect whine of the knife dopplered centimeters from Miles's nose—Miles bit the thick thrusting fingers, and twisted against the grip of the guard holding him. The tangle field binding Miles's arms to his torso whined and crackled, unbreakable. Miles jammed backward against the crotch of the man behind, who yipped at the field's bite. His grip slipped and Miles dropped, rolling and banging into the lieutenant's knees. It wasn't exactly a judo throw, the lieutenant more-or-less tripped over him.

Gregor's two opponents were distracted, as much by the bloody barbaric promise of the vibra-knife show as by Miles's ultimately futile struggles. They did not see the leather-faced man step out from a cross-corridor, aim his stunner, and spray. They arched convulsively as the buzzing charges struck their backs, and dropped heap fashion to the deck. The man who'd been holding Miles, and was now trying to grab him again as he flopped around evasively as a fish, whirled just in time to intersect a beam square in the face.

Miles flung himself across the blond lieutenant's head, pinning him—only momentarily, alas—to the deck. Miles wriggled, to press the tangle-field into the man's face, then was heaved off with a curse. The lieutenant had one knee under himself, preparing to launch an attack and wobbling around in search of his target, when Gregor hopped over and kicked him in the jaw. A stunner charge hit the lieutenant in the back of the head and he went down.

'Damn fine soldiering,' Miles panted to Sergeant Chodak in sudden silence. 'I don't think they even saw what hit them.' So, I called him straight the first time. Haven't lost my touch after all. Bless you, Sergeant.

'You two aren't so bad yourselves, for men with both hands tied behind their backs.' Chodak shook his head in harried amusement, and trod forward to release the tangle-fields.

'What a team,' said Miles.

11

A quick ring of boots from further up the corridor drew Miles's eye. He exhaled, a long-held breath, and stood. Elena.

She wore a mercenary officer's undress uniform, grey-and-white pocketed jacket, trousers, ankle-topping boots gleaming on her long, long legs. Still tall, still slim, still with pale pure skin, ember-brown eyes, arched aristocratic nose and long sculptured jaw. She's cut her hair, Miles thought, stupid- stunned. Gone was the straight-shining black cascade to her waist. Now it was clipped out over her ears, only little dark points grace-noting her high cheekbones and forehead, a similar point echoed at the nape of her neck; severe, practical, very smart. Soldierly.

She strode up, eyes taking in Miles, Gregor, the four Oserans. 'Good work, Chodak.' She dropped to one knee beside the nearest body and probed its neck for a pulse. 'Are they dead?' 'No, just stunned,' Miles explained.

She regarded the open inner airlock door with some regret. 'I don't suppose we can space them.'

'They were going to space us, but no. But we probably ought to get them out of sight while we run,' said Miles.

'Right.' She rose and nodded to Chodak, who began helping Gregor drag the stunned bodies into the airlock. She frowned at blond lieutenant, going past feet-first. 'Not that spacing wouldn't improve some personalities.'

'Can you give us a bolt-hole?'

'That's what we came for.' She turned to the three soldiers who had followed her cautiously into view. A