original than the official version.'
There was a knock on the door. Daum and Bothari had a prisoner, his hands fastened behind him. He was the pilot officer, by the silver circles on his temples and mid-forehead. Miles supposed that was why Bothari had picked him—he was bound to know all the recognition codes. The defiant set of the mercenary's head gave Miles a queasy premonition of trouble.
'Baz, take Elena and the Major and start hauling these guys to Hold #4, the one with nothing in it. They might wake up and get creative, so weld the door shut on 'em. Then unseal our own weapons cache, get the stunners and plasma arcs, and check out the mercenary shuttle. We'll meet you there in a few minutes.'
When Elena dragged out the last unconscious body by the ankles—it was the mercenary captain, and she was noticeably not careful what his head bumped on the way—Miles shut the door and turned to his prisoner, held by Bothari and Mayhew.
'You know,' he addressed the man apologetically, 'I sure would appreciate it if we could skip all the preliminaries and go straight to your codes. It would save a lot of grief.'
The mercenary's lips curled at this, sardonic-sour. 'Sure it would—for you. No truth drugs, eh? Too bad, Shorty—you're out of luck.'
Bothari tensed, eyes strangely alight; Miles restrained him with a small movement of one finger. 'Not yet, Sergeant.'
Miles sighed. 'You're right,' he said to the mercenary, 'we have no drugs. I'm sorry. But we still must have your cooperation.'
The mercenary snickered. 'Stick it, Shorty.'
'We don't mean to kill your friends,' Miles added hopefully, 'just stun them.'
The man raised his head proudly. 'Time's on my side. Whatever you can dish out, I can take. If you kill me, I can't talk.
Miles motioned Bothari aside. 'This is your department, Sergeant,' he said in a low voice. 'Seems to me he's right. What do you think of trying to board them blind, no codes? Couldn't be any worse than if he gave us a false one. We could skip this—' a nervous wave of his hand indicated the mercenary pilot.
'It would be better with the codes,' stated the Sergeant uncompromisingly. 'Safer.'
'I don't see how we can get them.'
'I can get them. You can always break a pilot. If you will give me a free hand, my lord.'
The expression on Bothari's face disturbed Miles. The confidence was all right, it was the underlying air of anticipation that put knots in his guts.
'You must decide now, my lord.'
He thought of Elena, Mayhew, Daum and Jesek, who had followed him to this place—who wouldn't be here but for him . . . 'Go ahead, Sergeant.'
'You may wish to wait in the corridor.'
Miles shook his head, belly-sick. 'No. I ordered it. I'll see it through.'
Bothari inclined his head. 'As you will. I need the knife.' He nodded toward the dagger Miles had retrieved from the unconscious mercenary captain and hung on his belt. Miles, reluctantly, drew it and handed it over. Bothari's face lightened a little at the beauty of the blade, its tensile flexibility and incredible sharpness. 'They don't make them like that anymore,' he muttered.
What are you planning to do with it, Sergeant? Miles wondered, but did not quite dare ask. If you tell him to drop his trousers, I'm going to stop this session right now, codes or no codes … They returned to their prisoner, who was standing easy, still casually defiant.
Miles tried one more time. 'Sir, I beg you to cooperate.'
The man grinned. 'I just don't buy you, Shorty. I'm not afraid of a little pain.'
I am afraid, thought Miles. He stepped aside. 'He's yours, Sergeant.'
'Hold him still,' said Bothari. Miles grasped the prisoner's right arm; Mayhew, looking puzzled, held the left.
The mercenary took in Bothari's face, and his grin slipped. One edge of Bothari's mouth turned upward, in a smile Miles had never seen before and immediately hoped he would never see again. The mercenary swallowed.
Bothari placed the tip of the dagger against the side of the silver button on the man's right temple and wriggled it a little, to slip it beneath the edge. The mercenary's eyes shifted right, gone white-rimmed. 'You wouldn't dare …' he whispered. A drop of blood ringed the circle in a quick blink. The mercenary inhaled sharply, and began, 'Wait—'
Bothari twisted the knife sideways, grasped the button between the thumb and fingers of his free hand, and yanked. A ululating scream broke from the mercenary's throat. He lunged convulsively from Miles's and Mayhew's grasp and fell to his knees, mouth open, eyes gone huge in shock.
Bothari dangled the implant before the man's eyes. Hair-fine wires hung like broken spider legs from the silver button body. He twirled it, with a glittering gleam and a spatter of blood, thousands of Betan dollars worth of viral circuitry and microsurgery turned instantly to trash.
Mayhew, watching, went the color of oatmeal at this incredible vandalism. The breath went out of him in a tiny moan. He turned his back and went to lean against the wall in a corner. After a moment, he bent over, stifling vomiting.
I wish he hadn't witnessed that, thought Miles. I wish I'd kept Daum instead. I wish .. .
Bothari squatted down to his victim's level, face to face. He raised the knife again, and the mercenary pilot recoiled, to bash into the wall and slide into a sitting position, unable to retreat farther. Bothari placed the dagger's point against the button on the man's forehead.
'Pain is not the point,' he whispered hoarsely. He paused, then added even more quietly, 'Begin.'
The man found his tongue abruptly, pouring out betrayal in his terror. There was, thought Miles, no question of clever subterfuge in the information tripping frantically out of his mouth. Miles overcame his own trembling belly to listen intently, carefully thoroughly, that nothing be lost or missed or wasted. Unbearable, that this sacrifice should be wasted.
When the man began to repeat himself, Bothari pulled him cringing to his feet and frog marched him to the shuttle hatch corridor. Elena and the others stared uncertainly at the mercenary, a trickle of blood threading down from his gored temple, but asked no questions. At the slightest prodding from Bothari the captured pilot officer, hasty and barely coherent, explained the internal layout of the light cruiser. Bothari pushed him aboard and strapped him in a seat, where he collapsed and burst into shocking sobs. The others looked away from the prisoner uneasily, and chose seats as far from him as possible.
Mayhew sat gingerly before the manual controls of the shuttle, and flexed his fingers.
Miles slid in beside him. 'Are you going to be able to fly this thing?'
'Yes, my lord.'
Miles took in his shaken profile. 'You going to be all right?'
'Yes, my lord.' The shuttle's engines whined to life, and they kicked away from the side of the RG132. 'Did you know he was going to do that?' Mayhew demanded suddenly, low-voiced. He glanced back over his shoulder at Bothari and his prisoner.
'Not exactly.'
Mayhew's lips tightened. 'Crazy bastard.'
'Look, Arde, you better keep this straight,' murmured Miles. 'What Bothari does on my orders is my responsibility, not his.'
'The hell you say. I saw the look on his face. He enjoyed that. You didn't.'
Miles hesitated, then repeated himself with a different emphasis, hoping to make Mayhew understand. 'What Bothari does is my responsibility. I've known it for a long time, so I don't excuse myself.'
'He is psychotic, then,' hissed Mayhew.
'He keeps himself together. But understand—if you have a problem about him, you see me.'
Mayhew swore under his breath. 'You're a pair, all right.'
Miles studied the mercenary craft in the forward screens as they approached. It was a swift and powerful small warship, well-armed. There was a bravura brilliance to its lines that suggested Illyrican make; it was named, appropriately, the Ariel. No question that the lumbering RG132 would have had no chance of escaping it. He felt a
