to repossess the ship by now.' He tried to lighten his voice. 'I expect we'll end up back where we began the day I met you, only more broke. Maybe I can find some way to make up Daum's losses to him . ..' Miles trailed off in penitent thought.
'What if—' began Mayhew. He looked at Miles curiously. 'What if they'd wanted, say, Sergeant Bothari instead of me? What would you have done then?'
'Oh, I'd go in,' said Miles automatically, then paused. The air hung empty, waiting for explanation. 'That's different. The Sergeant is—is my leige-man.'
'And I'm not?' asked Mayhew ironically. 'The State Department will be relieved.'
There was a silence. 'I'm your leige lord,' replied Miles at last, soberly. 'What you are is a question only you can answer.'
Mayhew stared into his lap, and rubbed his forehead tiredly, one finger unconsciously caressing a silver circle of his implant contact. He looked up at Miles then, an odd hunger in his eyes that reminded Miles for a disquieting instant of the homesick Baz Jesek. 'I don't know what I am anymore,' said Mayhew finally. 'But I'll make the jump for you. And the rest of the horsing around.'
A queasy wavering dizziness—a few seconds static in the mind—and the wormhole jump to Tau Verde was done. Miles hovered impatiently in Nav and Com, waiting for Mayhew, whose few seconds had been biochemically stretched to subjective hours, to crawl out from under his headset. He wondered again just what it was pilots experienced threading a jump that their passengers did not. And where did they go, the one ship in ten thousand that jumped and was never seen again? 'Take a wormhole jump to hell' was an old curse one almost never heard in a pilot's mouth.
Mayhew swung his headset, stretched, and let out his breath. His face seemed grey and lined, drained from the concentration of the jump. 'That was a shit-kicker,' he muttered, then straightened, grinned, and met Miles's eye. 'That'll never be a popular run, let me tell you, kid. Interesting, though.'
Miles did not bother to correct the honorific. Letting Mayhew rest, he slid into the comconsole himself and punched up a view of the outside world. 'Well .. .' he muttered after a few moments, 'where are they? Don't tell me we got the party ready and the guest of honor's not coming—are we in the right place?' he demanded anxiously of Mayhew.
Mayhew raised his eyebrows. 'Kid, at the end of a wormhole jump you're either in the right place or you're a bucket of quarks smeared between Antares and Oz.' But he checked anyway. 'Seems to be …'
It was a full four hours before a blockade ship finally approached them. Miles's nerves stretched taut. Its slow approach seemed freighted with deliberate menace, until voice contact was made. The mercenary communication officer's tone of sleepy boredom then put it in its true light; they were sauntering. Desultorily, a boarding shuttle was launched.
Miles hovered in the shuttle hatch corridor, scenarios of possible disasters flashing through his mind. Daum has been betrayed by a quisling. The war is over, and the side we're expecting to pay us has lost. The mercenaries have turned pirate and are going to steal my ship. Some klutz has dropped and broken their mass detector, and so they're going to physically measure all our interior volumes, and they won't add up … This last notion, once it occurred to him, seemed so likely that he held his breath until he spotted the mercenary technician in charge of the instrument among the boarders.
There were nine of them, all men, all bigger than Miles, and all lethally armed. Bothari, unarmed and unhappy about it, stood behind Miles and inspected them coldly.
There was something motley about them. The grey-and-white uniforms? They weren't particularly old, but some were in disrepair, others dirty. But were they too busy to waste time on non-essentials, or merely too lazy to keep up appearances? At least one man seemed out-of-focus, leaning against a wall. Drunk on duty? Recovering from wounds? They bore an odd variety of weapons, stunners, nerve disruptors, plasma arcs, needlers. Miles tried to add them up and evaluate them the way Bothari would. Hard to tell their working condition from the outside.
'All right,' a big man shouldered through the bunch. 'Who's in charge of this hulk?'
Miles stepped forward. 'I'm Naismith, the owner, sir,' he stated, trying to sound very polite. The big man obviously commanded the boarders, and perhaps even the cruiser, judging from his rank insignia.
The mercenary captain's eyes flicked over Miles; a quirk of an eyebrow, a shrug of contemptuous dismissal, clearly categorized Miles as No Threat. That's just what I want, Miles reminded himself firmly. Good.
The mercenary heaved a sigh of ennui. 'All right, Shorty, let's get this over with. Is this your whole crew?' He gestured to Mayhew and Daum, flanking Bothari.
Miles lidded his eyes against a flash of anger. 'My engineer's at his station, sir,' he said, hoping he was achieving the right tone of a timid man anxious to please.
'Search 'em,' the big man directed over his shoulder. Bothari stiffened; Miles met his look of annoyance with a quelling shake of his head. Bothari submitted to being pawed over with an obvious ill-grace that was not lost on the mercenary captain. A sour smile slid over the man's face.
The mercenary captain split his crew into three search parties, and gestured Miles and his people ahead of him to Nav and Com. His two soldiers began spot-checking everything that would come apart, even disassembling the padded swivel chairs. Leaving all in disarray, they went on to the cabins, where the search took on the nature of a ransacking. Miles clenched his teeth and smiled meekly as his personal effects were dumped pellmell on the floor and kicked through.
'These guys have got nothing worth having, Captain Auson,' muttered one soldier, sounding savagely disappointed. 'Wait, here's something …'
Miles froze, appalled at his own carelessness. In collecting and concealing their personal weapons, he had overlooked his grandfather's dagger. He had brought it more as a memento than a weapon, and half-forgotten it at the bottom of a suitcase. It was supposed to date back to Count Selig Vorkosigan himself; the old man had cherished it like a saint's relic. Although clearly not a weapon to tip the balance of the war on Tau Verde IV, it had the Vorkosigan arms inlaid in cloisonne, gold, and jewels on the hilt. Miles prayed the pattern would be meaningless to a non-Barrayaran.
The soldier tossed it to his captain, who withdrew it from its lizard skin sheath. He turned it in the light, bringing out the strange watermark pattern on the gleaming blade—a blade that had been worth ten times the price of the hilt even in the Time of Isolation, and was now considered priceless for its quality and workmanship, among connoisseurs.
Captain Auson was evidently not a connoisseur, for he merely said, 'Huh. Pretty,' resheathed it—and jammed it in his belt.
'Hey!' Miles checked himself halfway through a boiling surge forward. Meek. Meek. He tamped his outrage into a form fitting his supposed Betan persona. 'I'm not insured for this sort of thing!'
The captain snorted. 'Tough luck, Shorty.' But he mulled on Miles in a moment of curious doubt.
Backpedal, thought Miles. 'Don't I at least get a receipt?' he asked plaintively.
Auson snickered. 'A receipt! That's a good one.' The soldiers grinned nastily.
Miles controlled his ragged breathing with an effort. 'Well …' he choked out, 'at least don't let it stand wet. It'll rust if it's not properly dried after each use.'
'Cheap pot metal,' growled the mercenary captain. He ticked it with a fingernail; it rang like a bell. 'Maybe I can get a good stainless blade put on that fancy hilt.' Miles went green.
Auson gestured to Bothari. 'Open that case there.'
Bothari, as usual, glanced at Miles for confirmation. Auson frowned irritably. 'Stop looking at Shorty. You take your orders from me.'
Bothari straightened, and raised an eyebrow. 'Sir?' he inquired dulcetly of Miles.
Meek, damn it, Sergeant, Miles thought, and sent the message by a slight compression of his lips. 'Obey this man, Mr. Bothari,' he replied, a little too sharply.
Bothari smiled slightly. 'Yes, sir.' Having established the pecking order in a form more to his taste, he at last unlocked the case, with precise, insulting deliberation. Auson swore under his breath.
The mercenary captain herded them to a final rendezvous, in what the Betans called the rec room and the Barrayarans called the wardroom. 'Now,' he said, 'you will produce all your off-planet currency. Contraband.'
'What!' cried Mayhew, outraged. 'How can money be contraband?'
'Hush, Arde,' hissed Miles. 'Just do it.' Auson might well be telling the truth, Miles realized. Foreign
