officer's training exams?' he asked. 'You couldn't have stopped me from this sort of thing then.'
'I'd have retired,' Bothari muttered, 'while I still had my honor.'
Miles grinned involuntarily, and consoled himself with checking equipment and weapons for those who were going. The week of vigorous repair and refurbishment had clearly paid unexpected dividends; the combat group seemed to gleam with wicked efficiency. Now, Miles thought, we shall see if all this beauty is more than skin deep.
He took particular care over Elena's armor. Bothari arranged her comm leads himself before attaching her helmet, unnecessary business concealing most necessary rapid whispered instructions about how to handle herself in the only-half-familiar equipment.
'For God's sake, hang back,' Miles told her. 'You're supposed to be observing everybody's efficiency and reporting to me anyway, which you can't do if you're—' he swallowed the rest of his sentence, grisly visions of all the ways a beautiful woman could get mangled in combat skidding through his brain, 'if you're in front,' he substituted. Surely he'd been out of his scattered wits to let Thorne claim her.
Her features were framed in the helmet, hair drawn back and hidden so that the strong structure of her face sprang out, half knight, half nun. Her cheekbones were emphasized by the winged cheekpieces, ivory skin glowing in the tiny colored lights of her helmet readouts. Her lips were parted in exhilaration. They curved at him. 'Yes, my lord.' Her eyes were bright and fearless.
'Thank you.'
And more quietly, her gloved hand tightening on his arm for emphasis, 'Thank you, Miles—for the honor.' She had not quite mastered the touch of the servos, and mashed his flesh to the bone. Miles, who would not have moved to destroy the moment if she'd accidentally torn his arm off, smiled back with no more than a blink of pain. God, what have I done? he thought. She looks like a valkyrie ….
He dropped back for a quick word with Baz.
'Do me a favor, Commander Jesek, would you? Stick close to Elena and make sure she keeps her head down. She's, uh, a little excited.'
'Absolutely, my lord,' Jesek nodded emphatically. 'I'd follow her anywhere.'
'Um,' said Miles. That hadn't been exactly what he'd meant to convey.
'My lord,' Baz added, then hesitated and lowered his voice. 'This, ah, commander business—you didn't mean that as a real promotion, did you? It was for show, right?' He jerked his head toward the mercenaries, now being counted off into assault groups by Thorne.
'It's as real as the Dendarii Mercenaries,' Miles replied, not quite able to manage an outright lie to his leigeman.
Baz's eyebrows lifted. 'And what does that mean?'
'Well … My fa—a person I knew once said that meaning is what you bring to things, not what you take from them. He was talking about Vor, as it happened.' Miles paused, then added, 'Carry on, Commander Jesek.'
Baz's eyes glinted amusement. He came to attention and returned Miles an ironic, deliberate salute. 'Yes, sir—Admiral Naismith.'
Miles, dogged by Bothari, returned to the mercenaries' tactics room to monitor the battle channels alongside Auson and the communications officer. Daum remained posted in the control room with the engineering technician who was substituting for the dead pilot, to guide them into the docking station. Now Miles really did chew his nails. Auson clicked the plastic immobilizers on his arms together in a nervous tattoo, the limit of their motion. They caught each other, looking sideways simultaneously.
'What would you give to be out there, Shorty?'
Miles hadn't realized his anguish was so transparent. He did not even bother to be offended by the nickname. 'About fifteen centimeters of height, Captain Auson,' he replied, wistfully frank.
The breath of a genuine laugh escaped the mercenary officer, as if against his will. 'Yeah.' His mouth twisted in agreement. 'Oh, yeah …'
Miles watched, fascinated, as the communications officer began pulling in telemetry from the assault group's battle armor. The holovid screen, split to display sixteen individuals' readouts at once, was a confetti-like confusion. He framed a cautious remark, hoping to get more information without revealing his own ignorance.
'Very nice. You can see and hear what each of your men are seeing and hearing.' Miles wondered which information bits were the key ones. A trained person could tell at a glance, he was sure. 'Where was it built? I've, ah—never seen this particular model.'
'Illyrica,' said Auson proudly. 'The system came with the ship. One of the best you can buy.'
'Ah . .. Which one is Commander Bothari?'
'What was her suit number?'
'Six.'
'She's at the upper right of the screen. See, there's the suit number, keys for visual, audio, their suit-to-suit battle channels, our ship-to-suit battle channels—we can actually control the servos on any suit right from here.'
Both Miles and Bothari studied the display intently. 'Wouldn't that be a bit confusing for the individual, to be suddenly overridden?' Miles asked.
'Well, you don't do that too often. It's supposed to be for things like operating the suit medkits, pulling back the injured … To tell the truth, I'm not completely sold on that function. The one time I was on this end and tried to pull out a wounded man, his armor was so damaged by the blast that got him, it barely worked at all. I lost most of the telemetry—found out why, when we mopped up. His head had been blown off. I'd spent twenty frigging minutes walking a corpse back through the airlocks.'
'How often have you used the system?' Miles asked.
Auson cleared his throat. 'Well, twice, actually.' Bothari snorted; Miles raised an eyebrow. 'We were on that damned blockade duty so long,' Auson hastened to explain. 'Everybody likes a bit of easy work, sure, but … Maybe we were on it too long.'
'That was my impression, too,' Miles agreed blandly. Auson shifted uncomfortably, and returned his attention to his tactics displays.
They were on the verge of docking. The assault groups were poised, ready. The RG 132 was maneuvering into a parallel bay, lagging behind; the Pelians had cannily instructed the warship to dock first, no doubt planning to pick off the unarmed freighter at their leisure. Miles wished desperately that he'd had some pre-arranged code by which to warn Mayhew, still manning the freighter alone, what was up. But without scrambled communications channels he risked tipping their hand to the listening Pelians. Hopefully, Thorne's surprise attack would pull whatever troops were waiting away from the RG 132.
The moment's silence seemed to stretch unbearably. Miles finally managed to pick out the medical readouts from the battle armor. Elena's pulse rate was an easy 80 beats a minute. Jesek's, beside her, was running about 110. Miles wondered what his own was. Something astronomical, by the feel of it.
'Does the opposition have anything like this?' asked Miles suddenly, an idea beginning to boil up in his mind. Perhaps he could be more than an impotent observer ….
'The Pelians don't. Some of the more advanced ships in our—in the Oseran fleet do. That pocket dreadnought of Captain Tung's, for instance. Betan-built.' Auson emitted an envious sigh. 'He's got everything.'
Miles turned to the communications officer. 'Are you picking up anything like that from the other side? Anybody waiting in the docking bay in battle armor?'
'It's scrambled,' said the communications officer, 'but I'd guess our reception committee to run about thirty individuals.' Bothari's jaw tightened at this news.
'Thorne getting this?' asked Miles.
'Of course.'
'Are they picking up ours?'
'Only if they're looking for it,' said the communications officer. 'They shouldn't be. We're tight-beamed and scrambled too.'
'Two to one,' muttered Auson unhappily. 'Nasty odds.'
'Let's try and even it up,' said Miles. He turned to the communications officer. 'Can you break their codes,
