'Oh, there's always a few, scattered through all the mercenary organizations.' Tung gave Miles a sharp look. 'Haven't you ever had any? Most captains throw them out as soon as they catch on, but I like them. They're generally extremely well-trained, and more trustworthy than most, as long as you're not fighting anybody they know. If I'd had occasion to fight the Barrayarans, God forbid, or any of their—well, the Barrayarans are not particularly troubled with allies—I'd have been sure to drop him off somewhere first.'
'B—' choked Miles, and swallowed the rest. Ye gods. Had he been recognized? If the man were one of Captain Illyan's agents, almost certainly. And what the devil had the man made of the recent events, seen from the Oseran point of view? Miles could kiss goodbye any hope of keeping his late adventures secret from his father, then.
His fruit drink seemed to slosh, viscous and nasty, on the roof of his stomach. Damn null-gee. He'd better wind this up. A mercenary Admiral didn't need a reputation for space sickness to go with his more obvious disabilities. Miles wondered briefly how many key command decisions in history had been flicked out in the compelling urgency of some like biological necessity.
He stuck out his hand. 'Captain Tung, I accept your service.'
Tung took it. 'Admiral Naismith—it is Admiral Naismith now, I understand?'
Miles grimaced. 'So it would appear.'
A half-suppressed grin turned one corner of Tung's mouth. 'I see. I shall be pleased to serve you, son.'
When he had left, Miles sat eyeing his drink bulb for a moment. He gave it a squeeze, and it snapped. Bright red fruit drink marinated his eyebrows, chin, and tunic front. He swore under his breath, and floated off in search of a towel.
The Ariel was late. Thorne, accompanied by Arde and Baz, was supposed to be escorting the Betan weapons through to Felician-controlled airspace, and then bringing the fast jump courier back, and they were late. It took two days for Miles to persuade General Halify to relinquish Tung's old crew from their cells; after that, there was nothing to do but watch and wait, and worry.
Five days behind schedule, both ships appeared in the monitors. Miles got Thorne on the com, and demanded, with an edge in his voice, the reason for the delay.
Thorne positively smirked. 'It's a surprise. You'll like it. Can you meet us now in the docking bay?'
A surprise. God, now what? Miles was at last beginning to sympathize with Bothari's stated taste for being bored. He stalked to the docking bay, nebulous plans for bracing his laggard subordinates rotating in his brain.
Arde met him, grinning and bouncing on his heels. 'Just stand right here, my lord.' He raised his voice. 'Go ahead, Baz!'
'Hup, hup, hup!' There came a great shuffling thumping from the flex tube. Out of it marched, double-time, a ragged string of men and women. Some wore uniforms, both military and civilian types, others civilian clothes in a wild assortment of various planetary fashions. Mayhew directed them into a standard square formation, where they stood more-or-less to attention.
There was a group of a dozen or so black-uniformed Kshatryan Imperial mercenaries who formed their own tight little island in the sea of color; on closer look, their uniforms, though clean and mended, were not all complete. Odd buttons, shiny seats and elbows, lopworn boot heels—they were long, long from their distant home, it seemed. Miles's temporary fascination with them was shattered at the appearance of two dozen Cetagandan ghem-fighters, variously dressed, but all with full formal face paint freshly applied, looking like an array of Chinese temple demons. Bothari swore, and clapped his hand to his plasma arc at the sight of them. Miles motioned him to parade rest.
Freighter and passenger liner tech uniforms, a whiteskinned, white-haired man in a feathered g-string— Miles, taking in the polished bandolier and plasma rifle he also bore, was not inclined to smile—a dark-haired woman in her thirties of almost supernatural beauty, engrossed with directing a crew of four techs—she glanced toward him, then frankly stared, a very odd look on her face. He stood a little straighter. Not a mutant, ma'am, he thought irritably. When the flex tube emptied at last, perhaps a hundred people stood before him in the docking bay. Miles's head whirled.
Thorne, Baz, and Arde all appeared at his elbow, looking immensely pleased with themselves.
'Baz—' Miles opened his hand in helpless supplication. 'What is this?'
Jesek stood to attention. 'Dendarii recruits, my lord!'
'Did I ask you to collect recruits?' He had never been that drunk, surely.. .
'You said we didn't have enough personnel to man our equipment. So I applied a little forward momentum to the problem, and—there you are.'
'Where the devil did you get them all?'
'Felice. There must be two thousand galactics trapped there by the blockade. Merchant ship personnel, passengers, business people, techs, a little of everything. Even soldiers. They're not all soldiers, of course. Not yet.'
'Ah.' Miles cleared his throat. 'Hand-picked, are they?'
'Well . . .' Baz scuffed his boot on the deck, and studied it, as if looking for signs of wear. 'I gave them some weapons to field-strip and reassemble. If they didn't try to shove the plasma arc power cartridge in the nerve disruptor grip slot, I hired 'em.'
Miles wandered up and down the rows, bemused. 'I see. Very ingenious. I doubt I could have done better myself.' He nodded toward the Kshatryans. 'Where were they going?'
'That's an interesting story,' put in Mayhew. 'They weren't exactly trapped by the blockade. Seems some local Felician magnate of the, uh, sub-economy, had hired them for bodyguards a few years ago. About six months back they botched the job, rendering themselves unemployed. They'll do about anything for a ride out of here. I found them myself,' he added proudly.
'I see. Ah, Baz—Cetagandans?' Bothari had not taken his eyes from their gaudy fierce faces since they had exited the flex tube.
The engineer turned his hands palm-outwards. 'They're trained.'
'Do they realize that some Dendarii are Barrayaran?'
'They know I am, and with a name like Dendarii, any Cetagandan would have to make the connection. That mountain range made an impression on them during the Great War. But they want a ride out of here too. That was part of the contract, you see, to keep the price down—almost everybody wants to be discharged outside Felician local space.'
'I sympathize,' muttered Miles. The Felician fast courier floated outside the docking station. He itched for a closer look. 'Well—see Captain Tung, and arrange quarters for them all. And, uh, training schedules …' Yes, keep them busy, while he—slipped away?
'Captain Tung?' said Thorne.
'Yes, he's a Dendarii now. I've been doing some recruiting too. Should be just like a family reunion for you—ah, Bel,' he fixed the Betan with a stern eye, 'you are now comrades in arms. As a Dendarii, I expect you to remember it.'
'Tung.' Thorne sounded more amazed than jealous. 'Oser will be foaming.'
Miles spent the evening running his new recruits' dossiers into the Triumph's computers, by hand, by himself, and by choice, the better to familiarize himself with his leigemen's human grab-bag. They were in fact well chosen; most had previous military experience, the rest invariably possessed some arcane and valuable technical specialty.
Some were arcane indeed. He stopped his monitor to study the face of the extraordinarily beautiful woman who had stared at him in the docking bay. What the devil had Baz been about to hire a banking comm link security specialist as a soldier of fortune? To be sure, she might want off-planet badly enough—ah. Never mind. Her resume explained the mystery; she had once held the rank of ensign in the Escobaran military space forces. She'd had an honorable medical discharge after the war with Barrayar nineteen years ago. Medical discharges must have been a fad then, Miles mused, thinking of Bothari's. His amusement drained away, and he felt the hairs on his arms stir.
Great dark eyes, clean square line of jaw—her last name was Visconti, typically Escobaran. Her first name was Elena.
'No,' whispered Miles to himself firmly. 'Not possible.' He weakened. 'Anyway, not likely …'
He read the resume again more carefully. The Escobaran woman had come to Tau Verde IV a year ago to
