The Vor Game

cannon-fodder, not a boss.'

'Oh. Hm.' Gregor settled back on his bunk. 'That's so. Yet I still wonder if you'd have chosen something other than this prudent retreat if I hadn't been along.' His lids were hooded over a sharp glance.

Miles choked on visions. A sufficiently liberal interpretation of Illyan's vague 'use Ensign Vorkosigan to clear the Dendarii Mercenaries from the Hub' might be stretched to include . . . no. 'No. If I hadn't run into you, I'd be on my way to Escobar with Sergeant-nanny Overholt. You, I suppose, would still be installing lights.' Depending, of course, on what the mysterious Cavilo—Commander Cavilo?—had planned for Miles once he'd caught up with him at Consortium Detention.

So where was Overholt, by now? Had he reported to HQ, tried to contact Ungari, been picked off by Cavilo? Or followed Miles? Too bad Miles couldn't have followed Overholt to Ungari—no, that was circular reasoning. It was all very weird, and they were well out of it.

'We're well out of it,' Miles opined to Gregor.

Gregor rubbed the pale grey mark on his face, fading shadow of his shock-stick encounter. 'Yeah, probably. I was getting good at the lights, though.'

Almost over, Miles thought as he and Gregor followed the freighter captain through the hatch tube into the Vervain Station docking bay. Well, maybe not quite. The Vervani captain was nervous, obsequious, clearly tense. Still, if the man had managed this spy transfer three times before, he should know what he was doing by now.

The docking bay with its harsh lighting was the usual chilly echoing cavern, arranged to the rigid grid- pattern taste of robots, not human curves. It was in fact empty of humans, its machinery silent. Their path had been cleared before them, Miles supposed, though if he'd been doing it he'd have picked the busiest chaotic period of loading or unloading to slip something past.

The captain's eyes darted from corner to corner. Miles could not help following his glance. They stopped near a deserted control booth.

'We wait here,' the freighter captain said. 'There are some men coming who will take you the rest of the way.' He leaned against the booth wall and kicked it gently with one heel in an idle compulsive rhythm for several minutes, then he stopped kicking and straightened, head turning.

Footsteps. Half a dozen men emerged from a nearby corridor. Miles stiffened. Uniformed men, with an officer, judging by their posture, but they weren't wearing the garb of either Vervani civil or military security. Unfamiliar short-sleeved tan fatigues with black tabs and trim, and short black boots. They carried stunners, drawn and ready. But if it walks like an arrest squad, and talks like an arrest squad, and quacks like an arrest squad . . .

'Miles,' muttered Gregor doubtfully, talking in the same cues, 'is this in the script?' The stunners were pointed their way, now.

'He's pulled this off three times,' Miles offered in unfelt reassurance. 'Why not a fourth?'

The freighter captain smiled thinly, and stepped away from the Wall, out of the line of fire. 'I pulled it off twice,' he informed them. 'The third time, I got caught.'

Miles's hands twitched. He held them carefully away from his sides, biting back swear words. Slowly, Gregor raised his hands as well, face wonderfully blank. Score one for Gregor's self-control, as always, the one virtue his constrained life had surely inculcated.

Tung had set this up. All by himself. Had Tung known? Sold by Tung? No . . . ! 'Tung said you were reliable,' Miles grated to the freighter captain.

'What's Tung to me?' the man snarled back. 'I have a family, mister.'

Under the stunners' aim, two—God, goons again!—soldiers stepped forward to lean Miles and Gregor hands to the wall, and shake them down, relieving them of all their hard-won Oseran weapons, equipment, and multiple IDs. The officer examined the cache. 'Yeah, these are Oser's men, all right.' He spoke into his wrist comm.

'We have them.'

'Carry on,' a thin voice returned. 'We'll be right down. Cavilo out.'

Randall's Rangers, evidently, hence the unfamiliar uniforms. But why no Vervani in sight? 'Pardon me,' Miles said mildly to the officer, 'but are you people acting under the misapprehension we are Aslunder agents?'

The officer stared down at him and snorted. 'I wonder if it might not be time to establish our real identity,' Gregor murmured tentatively to Miles.

'Interesting dilemma,' Miles returned out of the corner of his mouth. 'We better find out if they shoot spies.'

A brisk tapping of boots heralded a new arrival. The squad braced as the sound rounded the corner. Gregor came to attention too, in automatic military courtesy, his straightness looking very strange hung about with Arde Mayhew's clothes. Miles no doubt looked least military of all, with his mouth gaping open in shock. He closed it before something flew in, such as his foot.

Five feet tall and a bit added by black books with higher-than-regulation heels. Cropped blonde hair like a dandelion aureole on that sculptured head. Crisp tan-and-black rank-gilded uniform that fit her body language in perfect complement. Livia Nu. The officer saluted. 'Commander Cavilo, ma'am.'

'Very good, Lieutenant. . . .' her blue eyes, falling on Miles, widened in unfeigned surprise, instantly covered. 'Why, Victor, dahling,' her voice went syrupy with exaggerated amusement and delight, 'fancy meeting you here. Still selling miracle suits to the unwitting?'

Miles spread his empty hands. 'This is the totality of me, ma'am. You should have bought when you could.'

'I wonder.' Her smile was tight and speculative. Miles found glitter in her eyes disturbing. Gregor, silent, looked frantically bewildered.

So, your name wasn't Livia Nu, and you weren't a procurement agent. So why the devil was the commandant of Vervain's mercenary force meeting incognito on Pol Station with a representative of the most powerful House of the Jacksonian Consortium? That was no mere arms deal, darling.

Cavilo/Livia Nu raised her wrist comm to her lips. 'Sickbay, Kurin 's Hand. Cavilo here. I'm sending you up a couple of prisoners for questioning. I may sit in on this one myself.' She keyed off.

The freighter captain stepped forward, half-fearful, half-pugnacious. 'My wife and son. Now you prove they're safe.'

Judiciously, she looked him over. 'You may be good for another run. All right.' She gestured to a soldier. 'Take this man to the Kurin's brig and let him have a look on the monitors. Then bring him back to me. You're a fortunate traitor, captain. I have another job for you by which you may earn them—'

'Their freedom?' the freighter captain demanded. She frowned slightly at the interruption. 'Why should I inflate your salary? Another week of life.'

He trailed off after the soldier, hands clenched angrily, teeth clenched prudently.

What the hell? Miles thought. He didn't know much about Vervain, but he was pretty sure not even their martial law made provisions for holding innocent relatives hostage against the good behavior of unconvicted traitors.

The freighter captain gone, Cavilo keyed her wristcom again. 'Kurin's Hand Security? Ah, good. I'm sending you my pet double agent. Run the recording we made last week of Cell Six for his motivation, aye? Don't let him know it's not real-time . . . right. Cavilo out.'

So, was the man's family free? Already dead? Being held elsewhere? What were they getting into here?

More boots rounded the corner, a heavy regulation tread. Cavilo smiled sourly, but smoothed the expression into something sweeter as she turned to greet the newcomer.

'Stanis, darling. Look what we netted this time. It's that little renegade Betan who was trying to deal stolen arms on Pol Station. It appears he isn't an independent after all.' The tan and black Rangers' uniform looked just fine on General, too, Miles noted crazily. Now would be a wonderful time to roll up his eyes and pass out, if only