The Vor Game

Miles tried to say a few words to each. Some stared uncomprehendingly, some seemed to appreciate it; he lingered a little longer with these, giving what encouragement he could. He then withdrew and stood dumbly by the door for several minutes, awash in the familiar, terrifying odors of a sickbay after a battle, disinfectants and blood, burnt meat, urine, and electronics, until he realized exhaustion was making him thoroughly stupid and useless, shaky and near-tears. He pushed off from the wall and stumped out. Bed. If anyone really wanted his command presence, they could come find him.

He hit the code lock on Oser's cabin. Now that he'd inherited it, he supposed he ought to change the numbers. He sighed and entered. As he stepped inside he became conscious of two unfortunate facts. First, although he had dismissed his commando guard upon entering sickbay, he had forgotten to call him back, and second, he was not alone. The door closed behind him before he could recoil into the corridor, and he banged into it backing up.

The dusky red hue of General Metzov's face was even more arresting to the eye than the silver gleam of the nerve disrupter parabola in his hand, aim centered on Miles's head.

Metzov had somehow acquired a set of Dendarii greys, a little small for him. Commando Cavilo, standing behind Metzov, had acquired a similar set, a little large for her. Metzov looked huge and furious. Cavilo looked . . . strange. Bitter, ironic, weirdly amused. Bruises marred her neck. She bore no weapon.

'Got you,' Metzov whispered triumphantly. 'At last.' With a rictus smile, he advanced stepwise on Miles till he could pin him to the wall by his neck with one big hand. He dropped the nerve disrupter with a clatter and wrapped the other hand around Miles's neck, not to break but to squeeze it.

'You'll never survive—' was all Miles managed to choke out before his air pinched off. He could feel his trachea begin to crunch, purpling, his head felt on the verge of dark explosion as his blood supply was cut off. No talking Metzov out of this murder. . . .

Cavilo slipped forward, crouching, soundless and unnoticed as a cat, to take up the dropped nerve disrupter, then step back, around to Miles's left.

'Stanis, darling,' she cooed. Metzov, obsessed with Miles's lingering strangulation, did not turn his head. Cavilo, clearly imitating Metzov's cadences, recited. ' 'Open your legs to me, you bitch, or I'll blow your brains out.' '

Metzov's head twisted round then, his eyes widening. She blew his brains out. The crackling blue bolt hit him square between the eyes. He almost snapped Miles's neck, plastic-reinforced though those bones were, in his last convulsion, before he dropped to the deck. The blistering electrochemical smell of nerve-disruptor death slapped Miles in the face.

Miles sagged frozen against the wall, not daring to move. He raised his eyes from the corpse to Cavilo. Her lips were curved in a smile of immense satisfaction, satiated. Had Cavilo's line been a direct and recent quote? What had they been doing, all the long hours they must have been waiting in the hunter's blind of Oser's cabin? The silence lengthened.

'Not,' Miles swallowed, trying to clear his bruised throat, and croaked, 'not that I'm complaining, mind you, but why aren't you going ahead and shooting me too?'

Cavilo smirked. 'A quick revenge is better than none. A slow and lingering one is better still, but to savor it fully I must survive it. Another day, kid.' She tilted the nerve disrupter up as if to flourish it into a holster, then let it hang pointed down by her side in her relaxed hand. 'You've sworn you'll see me safe out of the Hegen Hub, Vor lord. And I've come to believe you are actually stupid enough to keep your word. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Now, if Oser had issued more than one weapon between us, or if he'd given the nerve disrupter to me and the code to his cabin to Stanis and not the other way around, or if Oser'd taken us with him as I begged . . . things might have worked out differently.'

Very differently. Very slowly, and very, very carefully, Miles inched over to the comconsole and called security. Cavilo watched him thoughtfully. After a few moments, coming up on the time they might expect the reinforcements to storm in, she strolled over to his side. 'I underestimated you, you know.'

'I never underestimated you.'

'I know. I'm not used to that . . . thank you.' Contemptuously, she tossed the nerve disrupter onto Metzov's body. Then, with a sudden baring of her teeth, she wheeled, wrapped an arm around Miles's neck, and kissed him vigorously. Her timing was perfect; Security, Elena and Sergeant Chodak in the lead, burst through the door just before Miles managed to fight her off.

Miles stepped from the Triumph's shuttle through the short flex tube and on board the Prince Serg. He stared around enviously at the clean, spacious, beautifully-lit corridor, at the row of smart and gleaming honor guards snapping to attention, at the polished officers waiting in their Barrayaran Imperial dress greens. He stole an anxious glance down at his own Dendarii grey-and-whites. The Triumph, key and pride of the Dendarii fleet, seemed to shrink into something small and gritty and battered and used.

Yeah, but you guys would not look so pretty now if we had not used ourselves so hard, Miles consoled himself.

Tung, Elena, and Chodak were all goggling like tourists too. Miles called them firmly to attention to receive and return the crisp welcoming salutes of their hosts.

'I'm Commander Natochini, executive officer of the Prince Serg,' the senior Barrayaran introduced himself. 'Lieutenant Yegorov, here, will escort you and Commander Bothari-Jesek to Admiral Vorkosigan for your meeting, Admiral Naismith. Commodore Tung, I will be personally conducting your tour of the Prince Serg, and will be pleased to answer any of your questions. If the answers aren't classified, of course.'

'Of course.' Tung's broad face looked immensely pleased. In fact, if Tung grew any smugger he might implode.

'We will join Admiral Vorkosigan for lunch in the senior officers' mess, after your meeting and our tour,' Commander Natochini continued to Miles. 'Our last dinner guest there was the President of Pol and his entourage, twelve days ago.'

Certain that the mercenaries understood the magnitude of the privilege they were being granted, the Barrayaran exec led the happy Tung and Chodak off down the corridor. Miles heard Tung chuckle under his breath, 'Lunch with Admiral Vorkosigan, heh, heh. . . .'

Lieutenant Yegorov motioned Miles and Elena in the opposite direction. 'You are Barrayaran, ma'am?' he inquired of Elena.

'My father was liege-sworn Armsman to the late Count Piotr for eighteen years,' Elena stated. 'He died in the Count's service.'

'I see,' said the lieutenant respectfully. 'You are acquainted with the family, then.' That explains you, Miles could almost see him thinking.

'Ah, yes.'

The lieutenant glanced down a little more dubiously at 'Admiral Naismith.'

'And, uh, I understand you are Betan, sir?'

'Originally,' said Miles, in his flattest Betan accent.

'You . . . may find the way we Barrayarans do things to be a little more formal than what you're used to,' the lieutenant warned. 'The Count, you understand, is accustomed to the respect and deference due his rank.'

Miles watched, delighted, as the earnest officer sought a polite way of saying, Call him sir, don't wipe your nose on your sleeve, and none of your damned Betan egalitarian backchat, either. 'You may find him rather formidable,' Yegorov concluded.

'A real stuffed shirt, eh?'

The lieutenant frowned. 'He is a great man.'

'Aw, I bet if we pour enough wine into him at lunch, he'll loosen up and tell dirty stories with the best of 'em.'

Yegorov's polite smile became fixed. Elena, eyes dancing, leaned down and whispered forcefully, 'Admiral, behave!'

'Oh, all right,' Miles sighed regretfully.