The Vor Game

'Thank you, Sergeant, you and your squad are dismissed.'

'Dismissed?' Chodak's eyebrows questioned the wisdom of this. 'Sure you don't want us to at least stand- to in the corridor, sir? Remember the last time.'

'It won't be necessary this time.'

Ungari's glare denied that airy assertion. Chodak withdrew doubtfully, keeping his stunner-aim steady on the pair until the doors closed across his view.

Ungari inhaled deeply. 'Vorkosigan! You mutinous little mutant, I'm going to have you court-martialed, skinned, stuffed, and mounted for this—'

They had not yet noticed quiet Gregor, still leaning on the comconsole and also wearing courtesy Dendarii greys, though without insignia, there being no Dendarii equivalent for emperor.

'Uh, sir—' Miles motioned the dark-faced captain's eye toward Gregor.

'Those are such widely shared sentiments, Captain Ungari, that I'm afraid you might have to stand in line and wait your turn,' Gregor remarked, smiling slightly.

The remaining air went out of Ungari unvoiced. He braced to attention; to his credit, the uppermost of the wildly mixed emotions on his face was profound relief. 'Sire.'

'My apologies, Captain,' said Miles, 'for my high-handed treatment of you and Sergeant Overholt, but I judged my plan for retrieving Gregor too, uh, delicate for, for—' your nerves, 'I thought I'd better take personal responsibility.' You were happier not watching, really. And I was happier not having my elbow jogged.

'Ensigns don't have personal responsibility for operations of this magnitude, their commanders do,' Ungari snarled. 'As Simon Illyan would have been the first to point out to me if your plan—however delicate—had failed. . . .'

'Well, then congratulations, sir; you have just rescued the emperor,' snapped Miles. 'Who, as your commander-in-chief, has a few orders for you, if you will permit him to get a word in edgewise.'

Ungari's teeth closed. With visible effort, he dismissed Miles from his attention and focused on Gregor. 'Sire?'

Gregor spoke. 'As the only members of ImpSec within a couple million kilometers—except for Ensign Vorkosigan, who has other chores—I'm attaching you and Sergeant Overholt to my person, until we make contact with our reinforcements. I may also require courier duties of you. Before we leave the Triumph, please share any pertinent intelligence you may possess with Dendarii Ops; they're now my Imperial, uh . . .'

'Most obedient servants,' suggested Miles under his breath. 'Forces,' Gregor concluded. 'Consider that grey suit,' (Ungari glanced down at his with loathing) 'regulation wear, and respect it accordingly. You'll doubtless get your greens back when I get mine.'

Miles put in, 'I'll be detaching the Dendarii light cruiser Ariel and the faster of our two fast couriers to Gregor's personal service, when you depart for Vervain Station. If you have to split off on courier duties, I suggest you take the smaller ship and leave the Ariel with Gregor. Its captain, Bel Thorne, is my most trusted Dendarii shipmaster.'

'Still thinking about my line of retreat, eh, Miles?' Gregor raised a brow at him.

Miles bowed slightly. 'If things go very wrong, someone must live to avenge us. Not to mention to make damn sure the Dendarii survivors get paid. We owe them that much, I think.'

'Yes,' Gregor agreed softly.

'I also have my personal report on recent events for you to deliver to Simon Illyan,' Miles went on, 'in case I—in case you see him before I do.' Miles handed Ungari a data disk.

Ungari looked dizzy at this rapid reordering of his priorities. 'Vervain Station? Pol Six is where your safety lies, surely, sire.'

'Vervain Station is where my duty lies, Captain, and perforce yours. Come along, I'll explain it all as we go.'

'Are you leaving Vorkosigan loose?' Ungari frowned at Miles. 'With these mercenaries? I have a problem with that, sire.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Miles to Ungari, 'that I cannot, cannot . . .' obey you, but Miles left that unsaid. 'I have a deeper problem with arranging a battle for these mercenaries and then not showing up for it. A difference between myself and . . . the Rangers' former commander. There must be some difference between us, maybe that's it. Gre—the Emperor understands.'

'Hm,' said Gregor. 'Yes. Captain Ungari, I officially detach Ensign Vorkosigan as Our Dendarii liaison. On my personal responsibility. Which should be sufficient even for you.'

'It's not me that it has to be sufficient for, sire!'

Gregor hesitated fractionally. 'For Barrayar's best interests, then. A sufficient argument even for Simon. Let us go, Captain.'

'Sergeant Overholt,' Miles added, 'you will be the Emperor's personal bodyguard and batman, until relieved.'

Overholt looked anything but relieved at this abrupt field promotion. 'Sir,' he whispered aside to Miles, 'I haven't had the advanced course!'

He referred to Simon Illyan's mandatory, personally-conducted ImpSec course for the palace guard, that gave Gregor's usual crew that hard-polished edge.

'We all have a similar problem here, Sergeant, believe me,' Miles murmured back. 'Do your best.'

The Triumph's tactics room was alive with activity, every station chair occupied, every holovid display bright with the flow of ship and fleet tactical changes. Miles stood at Tung's elbow and felt doubly redundant. He bethought of the jape back at the Academy. Rule 1: Only overrule the tactical computer if you know something it doesn't. Rule 2: The tac comp always knows more than you do.

This was combat? This muffled chamber, swirl of lights, these padded chairs? Maybe the detachment was a good thing, for commanders. His heart hammered even now. A tac room of this caliber could cause information overload and mind-lock, if you let it. The trick was to pick out what was important, and never, ever to forget that the map was not the territory.

His job here, Miles reminded himself, was not to command. It was to watch Tung command, and learn how he did it, his alternate modes of thinking to Barrayaran Academy Standard. Miles's only legitimate point of overrule might come if some external political/strategic need took precedence over internal tactical logic. Miles prayed that event would not arise, because a shorter and uglier name for it was betraying your troops.

Miles's attention sharpened as a little jumpscout winked into existence at the throat of the wormhole. On the tactics display it was a pink point of light in a slowly moving whirlpool of darkness. On a telescreen, it was a slim ship against fixed and distant stars. From its own wired-in pilot's point of view, it was some strange extension of his own body. In yet another vid display, it was a collection of telemetry readouts, numerology, some Platonic ideal. What is truth? All. None.

'Sharkbait One reporting to Fleet One,' the pilot's voice came over Tung's console. 'You have ten minutes clearance. Stand by for tight-beam burst.'

Tung spoke into his comm. 'Fleet commence Jump, tight by the numbers.'

The first Dendarii ship waiting by the wormhole jockeyed into place, glowed brightly in the tac display (though it appeared to do nothing in the televid), and vanished. A second ship followed in thirty seconds, pushing the safety limit of time margins between jumps. Two ships trying to rematerialize in the same place at the same time would result in no ships and a very large explosion.

As the Sharkbait's tightbeam telemetry was digested by the tac comp, the image rotated so that the dark vortex representing (but in no way picturing) the wormhole was suddenly mirrored by an exit vortex. Beyond that exit vortex an array of dots and specks and lines represented ships in flight, maneuvering, firing, fleeing; the hardened Homeside battle station of the Vervani, twin to the Hubside station where Miles had left Gregor; the Cetagandan attackers. A view of their destination at last. All lies, of course, it was minutes out of date.

'Yech,' Tung commented. 'What a mess. Here we go . . .'

The jump klaxon sounded. It was the Triumph's turn. Miles gripped the back of