The Vor Game

unprovoked attack on said enemies, with subsequent retribution to recoil on the Aslunder's heads. Aslunder forces went to maximum alert status. Reinforcements were called for, mobile forces shifted into the Hub, reserves brought on-line as the sudden departure of their faithless mercenaries stripped them of assumed defenses.

Miles breathed relief as the last of the Dendarii fleet cleared the Aslunders' region and headed into open space. Delayed by the confusion, no Aslunder naval pursuit force could catch them now till they decelerated near the Vervain wormhole. Where, with the arrival of the Cetagandans, it should not be hard to persuade the Aslunders to reclassify themselves as Dendarii reserves.

Timing was, if not everything, a lot. Suppose Cavilo hadn't already transmitted her go-code to the Cetagandans. The sudden movement of the Dendarii fleet might well spook her into aborting the plot. Fine, Miles decided. In that case he would have stopped the Cetagandan invasion without a shot being fired. A perfect war of maneuver, by Admiral Aral Vorkosigan's own definition. Of course, I'll have political egg on my face and a lynch mob after me from three sides, but Dad will understand. I hope. That would leave staying alive and rescuing Gregor as his only tactical goals, which in present contrast seemed absurdly, delightfully simple. Unless, of course, Gregor didn't want to be rescued. . . .

Further, finer branches of the strategy-tree must await events. Miles decided blearily. He staggered off to Oser's cabin to fall into bed and sleep for twelve solid, sodden hours.

The Triumph 's comm officer woke Miles, paging him on the vid.

Miles, in his underwear, padded across to the comconsole and slung himself into the station chair. 'Yes?'

'You asked to be apprised of messages from Vervain Station, sir.'

'Yes, thank you.' Miles rubbed amber grains of sleep from his eyes, and checked the time. Twelve hours flight-time left till their arrival at target. 'Any signs of abnormal activity levels at Vervain Station or their wormhole yet?'

'Not yet, sir.'

'All right. Continue to monitor, record, and track any outbound traffic. What's the transmission time lag from us to them at present?'

'Thirty-six minutes, sir.'

'Mm. Very well. Pipe the message down here.' Yawning, he leaned his elbows on Oser's comconsole and studied the vid. A high-ranking Vervani officer appeared over the plate, and demanded explanation for the Oseran/Dendarii Fleet's movements. He sounded a lot like the Aslunders. No sign of Cavilo. Miles keyed the comm officer. 'Transmit back that their important message was hopelessly garbled by static and a malfunction in our de- scrambler. Urgently request a repeat, with amplification.'

'Yes, sir.'

In the ensuing seventy minutes Miles took a leisurely shower, dressed in a properly fitting uniform (and boots) that had been provided while he slept, and ate a balanced breakfast. He strolled into the Triumph's Nav and Com just in time for the second transmission. This time, Commander Cavilo stood, arms crossed, at the Vervani officer's shoulder. The Vervani repeated himself, literally with amplification, his voice was louder and sharper this time around. Cavilo added, 'Explain yourselves at once, or we will regard you as a hostile force and respond accordingly.'

That was the amplification he'd wanted. Miles settled himself in the comm station chair and adjusted his Dendarii uniform as neatly as possible. He made sure the admiral's rank insignia was clearly visible in the vid. 'Ready to transmit,' he nodded to the comm officer. He smoothed his features into as straight-faced and dead- serious an expression as he could manage.

'Admiral Miles Naismith, Commanding, Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet, speaking. To Commander Cavilo, Randall's Rangers, eyes only. Ma'am. I have accomplished my mission precisely as you ordered. I remind you of the reward you promised me for my success. What are your next instructions? Naismith out.'

The comm officer logged the recording into the tight-beam scrambler. 'Sir,' she said uncertainly, 'if that's for Commander Cavilo's eyes only, should we be sending it on the Vervain command channel? The Vervani will have to de-process it before sending it on. It will be seen by a lot of eyes besides hers.'

'Just so, Lieutenant,' said Miles. 'Go ahead and transmit.'

'Oh. And when—if—they respond, what do you want me to do?

Miles checked his chrono. 'By the time of their next response, our line of travel should take us behind the twin suns' interference corona. We should be out of communications for a good, oh, three hours.'

'I can boost the gain, sir, and cut through—'

'No, no, Lieutenant. The interference is going to be something terrible. In fact, if you can stretch that to four hours, so much the better. But make it look real. Until we're in range for a tight-beam conference between myself and Cavilo in near-real-time, I want you to think of yourself as a non-communications officer.'

'Yes, sir,' she grinned. 'Now I understand.'

'Carry on. Remember, I want maximum inefficiency, incompetence, and error. On the Vervani channels, that is. You've worked with trainees, surely. Be creative.'

'Yes, sir.'

Miles went off to find Tung.

He and Tung were deeply engrossed in the tactical computer display in the Triumph's tactics room, running projected wormhole scenarios, when the comm officer paged again.

'Changes at Vervain Station, sir. All outgoing commercial ship traffic has been halted. Incoming are being denied permission to dock. Encoded transmissions on all military channels have just about tripled. And four large warships just jumped.'

'Into the Hub, or out to Vervain?'

'Out to Vervain, sir.'

Tung leaned forward. 'Dump data into the tactics display as you confirm it, Lieutenant.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Thank you,' said Miles. 'Continue to keep us advised. And monitor civilian clear-code messages, too, any you can pick up. I want to keep tabs on the rumors as they start to fly.'

'Right, sir. Out.'

Tung keyed up what was laughingly called the 'real-time' tactics display, a colorful schematic, as the comm officer shunted the new data. He studied the identity of the four departing warships. 'It's starting,' he said grimly. 'You called it.'

'You don't think it's something we're causing?'

'Not those four ships. They wouldn't have moved off-station if they weren't badly wanted elsewhere. Better get your ass over to—that is, transfer your flag to the Ariel, son.'

Miles rubbed his lips nervously, and eyed what he'd mentally dubbed his 'Little Fleet' in the schematic display in the Ariel's tactics room. The equipment was now displaying the Ariel itself plus the two next-fastest ships in the Dendarii forces. His own personal attack-group; fast, maneuverable, amenable to violent course-changes, requiring less turning-room than any other possible combination. Admittedly, they were low in firepower. But if things went as Miles projected, firing was not going to be a desirable option anyway. The Ariel's tac room was manned now by a mere skeleton crew; Miles, Elena as his personal communications officer, Arde Mayhew for all other systems. Inner Circle all, in anticipation of this next most-private conversation. If it came to actual combat, he'd turn the chamber over to Thorne, presently exiled to Nav and Com. And then, perhaps, retire to his cabin and slit his belly open.

'Let's see Vervain Station now,' he told Elena in her comm station chair. The main holovid display in the center of the room whirled dizzyingly at her touch on the controls. The schematic representation of their target area seemed to boil with shifting lines and colors, representing ship movements, power shunts to various weapons systems and shieldings, and communications transmissions. The Dendarii were now barely a million kilometers out, a little more than three light-seconds. The rate of closure was slowing as the Little Fleet, fully two hours ahead of the slower ships of the main Dendarii fleet, decelerated.

'They're sure stirred up now,' Elena commented. Her hand went to her ear-bug. 'They're reiterating their demands that we communicate.'

'But still not launching a counter-attack,' Miles observed, studying the schematic. 'I'm glad they realize