Miram?'
Static. 'The family is well,' the colonel said gravely. Static. 'Stand by for docking instructions.'
Miles stopped breathing. The little horse, which had been on the colonel's right hand, was now on his left.
'Yes,' agreed Daum happily, 'and we can carry on without all this garbage on the channel. Is that you making the white noise?'
There was another blat of static. 'Our communications equipment was damaged in an attack by the Pelians a few weeks ago.' Now the horse was back on the right. White fuzz on the screen. 'Stand by for docking instructions.' Now the left. Miles felt like screaming.
Instead he motioned the communications officer to kill the channel.
'It's a trap,' Miles said, the instant they were off transmission.
'What?' Daum stared. 'Fehun Benar is one of my oldest friends! He wouldn't betray—'
'You haven't been talking to Colonel Benar. You've been having a synthesized conversation with a computer.'
'But his voiceprint—'
'Oh, it really was Benar—pre-recorded. Something on his desk was flipping around between those blasts of static. They were being deliberately transmitted to cover the discontinuities—almost. Careless of somebody. They probably recorded his responses in more than one session.'
'Pelians,' grunted Thorne. 'Can't do anything right…'
Daum's tan skin greyed. 'He wouldn't betray—'
'They probably had a fair amount of time to prepare. There are—' Miles took a breath, 'there are lots of ways to break a man. I bet there was an attack by the Pelians a few weeks ago—only it wasn't driven off.'
It was over, then, surrender inevitable. The RG132 and its cargo would be confiscated, Daum taken prisoner of war, Miles and his leige-people interned, if they weren't shot outright. Barrayaran security would ransom him eventually, Miles supposed, with all due scandal. Then the Betan, Calhoun, with God-knew-what civil charges, then home at last to explain it all before the ultimate tribunal, his father. Miles wondered, if he waived his Class III diplomatic immunity on Beta Colony, could he be jailed there instead? But no, the Betans didn't jail offenders, they cured them.
Daum's eyes were wide, his mouth taut. 'Yes,' he hissed, convinced. 'What do we do, sir?'
You're asking me? thought Miles wildly. Help, help, help … He stared around at the faces in the room, Daum, Elena, Baz, the mercenary technicians, Thorne and Auson. They gazed back with interested confidence, as if he were a goose about to lay a golden egg. Bothari leaned against the wall, his stance for once devoid of suggestions.
'They're asking why our transmission was interrupted,' reported the communications officer urgently.
Miles swallowed, and produced his first cockatrice. 'Pipe them some gooey music,' he ordered, 'and put a 'technical difficulties—please stand by' sign on the video.'
The communications officer grinned and snapped to obey.
Well, that took care of the next ninety seconds …
Auson, his arms still immobilized, looked as sick as Miles felt. Doubtless he was not looking forward to explaining his humiliating capture to his admiral. Thorne was crackling with suppressed excitement. The lieutenant is about to get revenge for this week, mused Miles miserably, and knows it.
Thorne was standing at attention. 'Orders, sir?'
My God, thought Miles, don't they realize they're free? And more wildly, with new rocketing hope—They followed me home, Dad. Can I keep them?
Thorne, experienced, knew the ship, soldiers, and equipment intimately, not with facile surface gloss but with true depth; more vital still, Thorne had forward momentum. Miles stood straight as he could and barked, 'So, Trainee Thorne, you think you're fit to command a warship, eh?'
Thorne came to a stiffer attention, chin raised eagerly. 'Sir!'
'We've been presented with a most interesting little tactical exercise,'—that was the phrase his father had used to describe the conquest of Komarr, Miles recalled—'I'm going to give you the chance at it. We can keep the Pelians on hold for about one more minute. As a commander, how would you handle this?' Miles folded his arms and tilted his head, in the style of a particularly intimidating proctor from his candidacy exams.
'Trojan horse,' said Thorne instantly. 'Ambush their ambush, and take the station from within—you do want it captured intact, don't you?'
'Ah,' said Miles faintly, 'that would be fine.' He dredged his mind rapidly for some likely-sounding military-advisor-type noises. 'But they must have some ships concealed around here somewhere. What do you propose to do about them, once you've committed yourself to defending an immobile base? Is the refinery even armed?'
'It can be, in a few hours,' Daum put in, 'with the maser scramblers we've got in the hold of the RG 132. Cannibalize the powersats—time permitting, even repair the solar collectors, to charge them—'
'Maser scramblers?' muttered Auson. 'I thought you said you were smuggling military advisors …'
Miles quickly raised his voice and overrode this. 'Remember that personnel are in short supply, and definitely not expendable right now.' Particularly Dendarii officers . . . Thorne bore a thoughtful look; Miles was momentarily terrified that he'd overdone his critiqueing, causing Thorne to throw the problem back on him. 'Convince me, then, Trainee Thorne, that taking a base is not tactically premature,' Miles invited hastily.
'Yes, sir. Well, the defending ships we need to worry about are almost certainly Oseran. The Pelian shipbuilding capacity is way under par—they don't have the biotech for Jump ships at all. And we have all the Oseran codes and procedures, but they don't know a thing about our Dendarii ones. I think I—we, can take them.'
Our Dendarii? Miles's mind echoed. 'Very well, Trainee Thorne. Go ahead,' he ordered in a fine loud decisive voice. 'I won't interfere unless you get in over your head.' He shoved his hands in his pockets by way of emphasis, also to keep from biting his nails.
'Take us into dock, then, without tipping them off,' Thorne said. 'I'll ready the boarding party. May I have Commander Jesek and Commander Bothari?'
Miles nodded; Sergeant Bothari sucked in his breath, but said nothing, duty-glued to Miles's back. Thorne, dazzled with visions of captaincy, dashed out, followed by the drafted 'advisors'. Elena's face shone with excitement. Baz rolled a rather soggy cigar stump between his teeth, and strode after her, eyes gleaming unreadably. There was color in his face, Miles noted.
Auson stood downcast, face furrowed with anger, shame, and suspicion. There's a mutiny looking for a place to happen, thought Miles. He lowered his voice for the big man's ear alone.
'May I point out, you're still on the sick list, Trainee Auson.'
Auson waggled his arms. 'I could've had these off day before yesterday, damn it.'
'May I also point out, that while I've promised Trainee Thorne a command, I have not said of what ship. An officer must be able to obey as well as command. To each his own test, to each his own reward. I'll be watching you, too.'
'There's only one ship.'
'You're full of assumptions. A bad habit.'
'You're full of—' Auson shut his mouth with a snap, and gave Miles a long, thoughtful stare.
'Tell them we're ready for docking instructions,' Miles nodded to Daum.
Miles itched to be part of the fight, but discovered to his dismay the mercenaries had no space armor small enough to fit him. Bothari grunted frank relief. Miles then thought of going along in a simple pressure suit, if not at the front of the rush, then at least at the rear.
Bothari nearly choked at the suggestion. 'I swear I'll knock you down and sit on you if you go near those suits,' he snarled.
'Insubordination, Sergeant,' Miles hissed back.
Bothari glanced up the line at the mercenaries assembling in the armory to be sure he was not overheard. 'I'm not hauling your body back to Barrayar to dump at my lord Count's feet like something the bloody cat caught.' The Sergeant traded a driven glare for Miles's irritated frown.
Miles, in dim recognition of a man pushed to his limit, backed down grudgingly. 'What if I'd passed my
