his thought corrected. Imperative they don't figure that out. But, 'I'm sorry,' he added impulsively. 'He deserved better.'
The medtech was looking at Thorne, stricken. Thorne said gently, 'The cryo chamber wouldn't have done much good for a disruptor blast to the head anyway, Cela.'
'But the next casualty,' Miles interposed, 'might be some other injury.' Excellent, that the excessively observant lieutenant had evolved a personal theory as to how the pilot officer happened to be dead without a mark on him. Miles was vastly relieved, not least because it freed him of having to dishonorably burden the medtech with a guilt not rightfully hers.
'I will send you the engineering technician later today,' Miles went on. 'I want every piece of equipment in here operating properly by tomorrow. In the meantime you can start putting this place in an order more like a military sickbay and less like a broom closet, is that understood, Medtech?' He dropped his voice to a whisper, like the hiss of a whip.
The medtech braced to attention, and cried, 'Yes, sir!' Auson was flushed; Thorne's lips were parted in an expression very like appreciation. They left her pulling out drawers with trembling hands.
Miles motioned the two mercenaries ahead of him down the corridor, and fell behind for an urgent whispered conference with Bothari.
'You going to leave her unguarded?' Bothari muttered disapprovingly. 'Madness.'
'She's too busy to bolt. With luck, I may even be able to keep her too busy to run an autopsy on that Pilot Officer. Quick, Sergeant! If I want to fake a General Fleet Inspection, where's the best place to dig up dirt?'
'On this ship? Anywhere.'
'No, really! The next stop has got to look bad. I can't fake the technical stuff, have to wait till Baz is ready for a break.'
'In that case, try crew's quarters,' suggested Bothari. 'But why?'
'I want those two to figure we're some sort of mercenary super-outfit. I've got an idea how to keep them from combining to retake their ship.'
'They'll never buy it.'
'They will buy it. They'll love it. They'll eat it up. Don't you see, it saves their pride. We beat them—for now. Which do you think they'd rather believe, that we're great, or that they're a bunch of screw-ups?'
'Isn't it plain?'
'Just watch!' He skipped a silent dance step, composed his face to a mask of sternness, and strode after his prisoners, his boots ringing like iron down the corridor.
The crew's quarters were, from Miles's point of view, a delight. Bothari did the disassembling. His instinct for turning up evidence of slovenly habits and concealed vices was uncanny. Miles supposed he'd seen it all, in his time. When Bothari uncovered the expected bottles of the ethanol addict, Auson and Thorne took it as a matter of course; evidently the man was a known and tolerated borderline functional. The two kavaweed dopers, however, seemed to be a surprise to all. Miles promptly confiscated the lot. He left another soldier's remarkable collection of sexual aids in situ, however, merely inquiring of Auson, with a quirk of an eyebrow, if he were running a cruiser or a cruise ship? Auson fumed, but said nothing. Miles cordially hoped the captain might spend the rest of the day thinking up scathing retorts, too late to use.
Miles studied Auson's and Thorne's own chambers intently, for clues to their owners' personalities. Thorne's, interestingly, came closest to passing inspection. Auson appeared to brace himself for a rampage when they came at last to his own cabin. Miles smiled silkily, and had Bothari put everything away, after inspection, in better order than he'd found it. It was all those years as an officer's batman, perhaps; when they were done the room appeared quite transformed. From the evidence, or lack thereof, Auson himself appeared to have no serious vices beyond a natural indolence exacerbated by boredom into laziness.
The collection of exotic personal weapons picked up during this tour made an impressive pile. Miles had Bothari examine and test each one. He made an elaborate show of noting each substandard item and checking it off against a list of the owners. Exhilarated and inspired, he waxed wonderfully sarcastic; the mercenaries squirmed.
They inspected the arsenal. Miles took a plasma arc from a dusty rack, closing his hand over the control readouts on the grip.
'Do you store your weapons charged or uncharged?'
'Uncharged,' muttered Auson, craning his neck slightly.
Miles raised his eyebrows and swung the weapon to point at the mercenary captain, finger tightening on the trigger. Auson went white. At the last instant, Miles flicked his wrist slightly to the left, and sent a bolt of energy sizzling past Auson's ear. The big man recoiled as a molten backsplash of plastic and metal sprayed from the wall behind him.
'Uncharged?' sang Miles. 'I see. A wise policy, I'm sure.'
Both officers flinched. As they exited, Miles heard Thorne mutter, 'Told you so.' Auson growled wordlessly.
Miles braced Baz privately before they began in engineering.
'You are now,' he told him, 'Commander Bazil Jesek of the Dendarii Mercenaries, Chief Engineer. You're rough and tough and you eat slovenly engineering technicians for breakfast, and you're appalled at what they've done to this nice ship.'
'It's actually not too bad, near as I can tell,' said Baz. 'Better than I could do with such an advanced set of systems. But how am I going to make an inspection when they know more than I do? They'll spot me right away!'
'No, they won't. Remember, you're asking the questions, they're answering them. Say 'hm,' and frown a lot. Don't let it start going the other way. Look—didn't you ever have an engineering commander who was a real son-of-a-bitch, that everybody hated—but who was always right?'
Baz looked confusedly reminiscent. 'There was Lieutenant Commander Tarski. We used to sit around thinking up ways to poison him. Most of them weren't very practical.'
'All right. Imitate him.'
'They'll never believe me. I can't—I've never been—I don't even have a cigar!'
Miles thought a second, dashed off, and galloped back moments later with a package of cheroots abstracted from one of the mercenary's quarters.
'But I don't smoke,' worried Baz.
'Just chew on it, then. Probably better if you don't light it, God knows what it might be spiked with.'
'Now, there's an idea for poisoning old Tarski that might have worked—'
Miles pushed him along. 'All right, you're an air polluting son-of-a-bitch and you don't take 'I don't know' for an answer. If I can do it,' he uncorked his argument of desperation, 'you can do it.'
Baz paused, straightened, bit off the end of the cheroot and spat it bravely on the deck. He eyed it a moment. 'I slipped on one of those damned disgusting things once. Nearly broke my neck. Tarski. Right.' He clenched the cheroot between his teeth at an aggressive angle, and marched into the main engineering bay.
Miles assembled the entire ship's company in their own briefing room, and took center stage. Bothari, Elena, Jesek and Daum waited in the wings, posted in pairs at each exit, lethally armed.
'My name is Miles Naismith. I represent the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet.'
'Never heard of it,' called a bold heckler from the blur of faces around Miles.
Miles smiled acidly. 'If you had, heads would roll in my security department. We do not advertise. Recruitment is by invitation only. Frankly,' his gaze swept the crowd, making eye contact, linking each face one by one to its name and personal possessions, 'if what I've seen so far represents your general standards, but for our assignment here you'd have gone right on not hearing of us.'
Auson, Thorne, and the chief engineer, subdued and weary from fourteen hours of being dragged—raked— over every weld, weapon, tool, data bank, and supply room from one end of the ship to the other, had scarcely a twitch left in them. But Auson looked wistful at the thought.
Miles paced back and forth before his audience, radiating energy like a caged ferret. 'We do not normally draft recruits, particularly from such dismal raw material. After yesterday's performance, I personally would have no compunction at disposing of you all by the swiftest means, just to improve the military tone of this ship.' He scowled upon them fiercely. They looked nervous, uncertain; was there just the slightest hangdog shuffle there?
