The Vor Game

experience than either of us.'

'Than both of you,' Elena corrected dryly. 'Yes, well . . . actual combat … is a lot stupider than I'd imagined. If two groups can cooperate to the incredible extent it takes to meet in battle, why not put in a tenth that effort to talk? That's not true of guerilla wars, though,' Elena went on thoughtfully. 'A guerilla is an enemy who won't play the game. Makes more sense to me. If you're going to be vile, why not be totally vile? That third contract—if I ever get involved in another guerilla war, I want to be on the side of the guerillas.'

'Harder to make peace, between totally vile enemies,' Miles reflected. 'War is not its own end, except in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation. It's peace that's wanted. Some better peace than the one you started with.'

'Whoever can be the most vile longest, wins?' Gregor posited. 'Not . . . historically true, I don't think. If what you do during the war so degrades you that the next peace is worse. . . .' Human noises from the cargo bay froze Miles in midsentence, but it was Tung and Mayhew returning.

'Come on,' Tung urged. 'If Arde doesn't keep to schedule, he'll draw attention.'

They filed into the cargo hold, where Mayhew held the control leash of a float pallet with a couple of plastic packing crates attached. 'Your friend can pass as a fleet soldier,' Tung told Miles. 'For you, I found a box. It would have been classier to roll you up in a carpet, but since the freighter captain is male, I'm afraid the historical reference would be wasted.'

Dubiously, Miles regarded the box. It seemed to lack air holes. 'Where are you taking me?'

'We have a regular irregular arrangement, for getting fleet intelligence officers in and out quietly. Got this inner-system freighter captain, an independent owner—he's Vervani, but he's been on the payroll three times before. He'll take you across, get you through Vervani customs. After that you're on your own.'

'How much danger is this arrangement to you all?' Miles worried.

'Not a lot,' said Tung, 'all things considered. He'll think he's delivering more mercenary agents, for a price, and naturally keep his mouth shut. It'll be days before he gets back to even be questioned. I arranged it all myself, Elena and Arde didn't appear, so he can't give them away.'

'Thank you,' Miles said quietly.

Tung nodded, and sighed. 'If only you'd stayed on with us. What a soldier I could've made of you, these last three years.'

'If you do find yourselves out of a job as a consequence of helping us,' Gregor added, 'Elena will know how to put you in touch.'

Tung grimaced. 'In touch with what, eh?'

'Better not to know,' said Elena, helping Miles position himself in the packing crate.

'All right,' grumbled Tung, 'but … all right.'

Miles found himself face to face with Elena, for the last time till-when? She hugged him, but then gave Gregor an identical, sisterly embrace. 'Give my love to your mother,' she told Miles. 'I often think of her.'

'Right. Uh . . . give my best to Baz. Tell him, it's all right. Your personal safety comes first, yours and his. The Dendarii are, are, were . . .' he could not quite bring himself to say, not important, or, a naive dream, or, an illusion, though that last came closest. 'A good try,' he finished lamely.

The look she gave him was cool, edged, indecipherable—no, readily decodable, he feared. Idiot, or stronger words to that effect. He sat down, his head to his knees, and let Mayhew affix the lid, feeling like a zoological specimen being crated for shipment to the lab.

The transfer went smoothly. Miles and Gregor found themselves installed in a small but decent cabin designed for the freighter's occasional super-cargo. The ship undocked, free of Aslund Station and danger of discovery, some three hours after they boarded. No Oseran search parties, no uproars . . . Tung, Miles had to admit, still did good work.

Miles was intensely grateful for a wash, a chance to clean his remaining clothes, a real meal, and sleep in safety. The ship's tiny crew seemed allergic to their corridor; he and Gregor were left strictly alone. Safe for three days, as he chugged across the Hegen Hub yet again, in yet another identity. Next stop, the Barrayaran consulate of Vervain Station.

Oh, God, he was going to have to write a report on all this when they got there. True confessions, in the approved ImpSec official style (dry as dust, judging from samples he'd read). Ungari, now, given the same tour, would have produced columns of concrete, objective, data, all ready to be reanalyzed six different ways. What had Miles counted? Nothing, I was in a box. He had little to offer but gut feel based on a limited view snatched while dodging what seemed every security goon in the system. Maybe he should center his report on the security forces, eh? One ensign's opinion. The general staff would be so impressed.

So what was his opinion, by now? Well, Pol didn't seem to be the source of the troubles in the Hegen Hub; they were reacting, not acting. The Consortium seemed supremely uninterested in military adventures, the only party weak enough for the eclectic Jacksonians to take on and beat was Aslund, and there would be little profit in conquering Aslund, a barely terraformed agricultural world. Aslund was paranoid enough to be dangerous, but only half-prepared, and shielded by a mercenary force waiting only the right spark to itself split into warring factions. No sustained threat there. The action, the energy for this destabilization, by elimination must be coming from or via Vervain. How could one find out . . . no. He'd sworn off secret agenting. Vervain was somebody else's problem.

Miles wondered wanly if he could persuade Gregor to give him an Imperial pardon from writing a report, and if Illyan would accept it. Probably not.

Gregor was very quiet. Miles, stretched out on his bunk, tucked his hands behind his head and smiled to conceal worry, as Gregor– somewhat regretfully, it seemed to Miles—put aside his stolen Dendarii uniform and donned civilian clothes contributed by Arde Mayhew. The shabby trousers, shirt, and jacket hung a little short and loose on Gregor's spare frame; so dressed he seemed a down-on-his-luck drifter, with hollow eyes. Miles secretly resolved to keep him away from high places.

Gregor regarded him back. 'You were weird, as Admiral Naismith, you know? Almost like a different person.'

Miles shrugged himself up onto one elbow. 'I guess Naismith is me with no brakes. No constraints. He doesn't have to be a good little Vor, or any kind of a Vor. He doesn't have a problem with subordination, he isn't subordinate to anyone.'

'I noticed.' Gregor ordered the Dendarii uniform in Barrayaran regulation folds. 'Do you regret having to duck out on the Dendarii?'

'Yes … no … I don't know.' Deeply. The chain of command, it seemed, pulled both ways on a middle link. Pull hard enough, and that link must twist and snap. … 'I trust you don't regret escaping contract slavery.'

'No … it wasn't what I'd pictured. It was peculiar, that fight at the airlock, though. Total strangers wanting to kill me without even who I was. Total strangers trying to kill the emperor of Barrayar, I can understand. This . . . I'm going to have to think about this one.'

Miles allowed himself a brief crooked grin. 'Like being loved for yourself, only different.'

Gregor gave him a sharp glance. 'It was strange to see Elena again, too. Bothari's dutiful daughter . . . she's changed.'

'I'd meant her to,' Miles avowed.

'She seems quite attached to her deserter husband.'

'Yes,' Miles said shortly.

'Had you meant that too?'

'Not mine to choose. lt . . . follows logically, from the integrity of her character. I might have foreseen it. Since her convictions about loyalty just saved both our lives, I can hardly . . . hardly regret them, eh?'

Gregor's brow rose, an oblique gloss.

Miles bit down irritation. 'Anyway, I hope she'll be all right. Oser's proved himself dangerous. She and Baz seem to be protected only by Tung's admittedly eroding power base.'

'I'm surprised you didn't take up Tung's offer.' Gregor grinned as briefly as Miles had. 'Instant admiralty. Skip all those tedious Barrayaran intervening steps.'

'Tung's offer?' Miles snorted. 'Didn't you hear him? I thought you said Dad made you read all those treaties. Tung didn't offer command, he offered a fight, at five to one odds against. He sought an ally, front-man, or