Miles made encouraging noises, and proceeded to pump this unexpected spring of reminiscence for all it was worth. Pieces of fruit became planets and satellites; variously shaped protein bits became cruisers, couriers, smart bombs and troop carriers. Defeated ships were eaten. The second bottle of wine introduced other well known mercenary battles. Miles frankly hung on Tung's words, self-consciousness forgotten.
Tung leaned back at last with a contented sigh, full of food and wine and emptied of stories. Miles, knowing his own capacity, had been nursing his own wine to the limits of politeness. He swirled the last of it around in the bottom of his cup, and essayed a cautious probe.
'It seems a great waste for an officer of your experience to sit out a good war like this, locked in a box.'
Tung smiled. 'I have no intention of staying in this box.'
'Ah—yes. But there may be more than one way to get out of it, don't you see. Now, the Dendarii Mercenaries are an expanding organization. There's a lot of room for talent at the top.'
Tung's smiled soured. 'You took my ship.'
'I took Captain Auson's ship, too. Ask him if he's unhappy about it.'
'Nice try—ah—Mr. Naismith. But I have a contract. A fact that, unlike some, I remember. A mercenary who can't honor his contract when it's rough as well as when it's smooth is a thug, not a soldier.'
Miles fairly swooned with unrequited love. 'I cannot fault you for that, sir.'
Tung eyed him with amused tolerance. 'Now, regardless of what that ass Auson seems to think, I have you pegged as a hot-shot junior officer in over his head—and sinking fast. Seems to me it's you, not I, who's going to be looking for a new job soon. You seem to have at least an average grasp of tactics—and you have read Vorkosigan on Komarr—but any officer who can get Auson and Thorne hitched together to plow a straight line shows a genius for personnel. If you get out of this alive, come see me—I may be able to find something on the exec side for you.'
Miles sat looking at his prisoner in open-mouthed appreciation of a chutzpah worthy of his own. Actually, it sounded pretty good. He sighed regret. 'You honor me, Captain Tung. But I'm afraid I too have a contract.'
'Pigwash.'
'Beg pardon?'
'If you have a contract with Felice, it beats me where you got it. I doubt Daum was authorized to make any such agreement. The Felicians are as cheap as their counterparts the Pelians. We could have ended this war six months ago if the Pelians had been willing to pay the piper. But no—they chose to 'economize' and only buy a blockade, and a few installations like this one—and for that, they act like they're doing us a favor. Peh!' Frustration edged his voice with disgust.
'I didn't say my contract was with Felice,' said Miles mildly. Tung's eyes narrowed in puzzlement; good. The man's evaluations were entirely too close to the truth for comfort.
'Well, keep your tail down, son,' Tung advised 'In the long run more mercenaries have had their asses shot off by their contractors than by their enemies.'
Miles took his leave courteously; Tung ushered him out with the panache of a genial host.
'Is there anything else you need?' asked Miles.
'A screwdriver,' said Tung promptly.
Miles shook his head and smiled regretfully as the door was closed on the Eurasian. 'Damned if I'm not tempted to send him one,' said Miles to Bothari. 'I'm dying to see what he thinks he can do with that light.'
'Just what did all that accomplish?' asked Bothari. 'He burned up your time with ancient history and didn't give away anything.'
Miles smiled. 'Nothing unimportant.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Pelians attacked from the ecliptic, opposite the sun, taking advantage of the scattered masses of the asteroid belt for what cover they provided. They came decelerating, telegraphing their intention to capture, not destroy; and they came alone, without their Oseran employees.
Miles laughed delight under his breath as he limped through the scramble of men and equipment in the refinery docking station corridors. The Pelians could scarcely be following his pet scenario more closely if he'd given them their orders himself. There had been some argument when he'd insisted on placing his farthest outlying pickets and his major weapons on the belt and not the planet side of the refinery. But it was inevitable. Barring subterfuge, a tactic currently exhausted, it was the Pelian's only hope of gaining a measure of surprise. A week ago, it would have done them some good.
Miles dodged some of his galloping troops hurrying to their posts. Pray God he would never find himself on foot in a retreat. He might as well volunteer for the rear guard in the first place, and save being trampled by his own side as well as by the enemy.
He dashed through the flex tube into the Triumph. The waiting soldier clanged the lock shut behind him, and hastily blew off the tube seals. As he'd guessed, he was the last aboard. He made his way to the tactics room as the ship maneuvered free of the refinery.
The Triumph's tactics room was noticeably larger than the Ariel's, and quite as sleek. Miles quailed at the number of empty padded swivel chairs. A scant half of Auson's old crew, even augmented by a few volunteer refinery techs, made scarcely a skeleton crew for the new ship.
Holograph displays were up and working in all their bright confusion. Auson looked up from trying to man two stations at once with relief in his eyes.
'Glad you made it, my lord.'
Miles slid into a station chair. 'Me too. But please—just 'Mr. Naismith'. No 'my lord'.'
Auson looked puzzled. 'The others all call you that.'
'Yes, but, um—it's not just a courtesy. It denotes a specific legal relationship. You wouldn't call me 'my husband' even if you heard my wife do so, eh? So what have we got out here?'
'Looks like maybe ten little ships—all Pelian local stuff.' Auson studied his readouts, worry creasing his broad face. 'I don't know where our guys are. This sort of thing should be just their style.'
Miles correctly interpreted 'our guys' to mean Auson's former comrades, the Oserans. The slip of tongue did not disturb him; Auson was committed, now. Miles glanced sideways at him, and thought he knew exactly why the Pelians hadn't brought their hired guns. For all the Pelians knew to the contrary, an Oseran ship had turned on them. Miles's eyes glittered at the thought of the dismay and distrust that must now be reverberating through the Pelian high command.
Their ship dove in a high arc toward their attackers. Miles keyed Nav and Com.
'You all right, Arde?'
'For flying blind, deaf, dumb, and paralyzed, not bad,' Mayhew said. 'Manual piloting is a pain. It's like the machine is operating me. It feels awful.'
'Keep up the good work,' Miles said cheerfully. 'Remember, we're more interested in herding them into range of our stationary weapons than in knocking them off ourselves.'
Miles sat back and regarded the ever-changing displays. 'I don't think they quite realize how much ordinance Daum brought. They're just repeating the same tactics the Felician officers reported they used the last time. Of course, it worked once . . .'
The lead Pelian ships were just coming into range of the refinery. Miles held his breath as though it could force his people to hold their fire. They were spread lonely, thin, and nervous out there. There were more weapons in place than Miles had personnel to man them, even with computer-controlled fire—especially since control systems had been plagued with bugs during installation that were still not all worked out. Baz had labored to the last instant—was still laboring, for all Miles knew, and Elena alongside him. Miles wished he could have justified keeping her beside himself, instead.
The lead Pelian spewed a glittering string of dandelion bombs, arcing toward the solar collectors. Not again, Miles groaned inwardly, seeing two weeks' repairs about to be wasted. The bombs puffed into their thousands of separate needles. Space was suddenly laced with threads of fire as the defense weaponry labored to
