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"Oh, Baz has his own theory. I-it's my fault, really. Father's always so
worried about political kidnappers, I thought I'd better lead Baz astray."
"Good. What kind of fairy tale did you cook up for him?"
"I think you're right about people believing things they make up themselves. I
swear I didn't plant any of this, I just didn't contradict it. He knows you're
a Count's son, since you swore him in as an Armsman-aren't you going to get in
trouble for that?"
Miles shook his head. "I'll worry about that if we live through this. Just so
he doesn't figure out which Count's son."
"Well I think you did a good thing. It seems to mean a lot to him. Anyway, he
thinks you're about his age. Your father, whoever he was, disinherited you,
and exiled you from Barrayar to..." she faltered, "to get you out of sight,"
she finished, raising her chin bravely.
"Ah," said Miles. "A reasonable theory." He came to the end of a circuit in
his pacing and stood absorbed, apparently, by the bare wall in front of him.
"You mustn't blame him for it-"
"I don't."
He smiled a quick reassurance, and paced again.
"You have a younger brother who has usurped your rightful place as heir-"
He grinned in spite of himself. "Baz is a romantic."
"He's an exile himself, isn't he?" she asked quietly. "Father doesn't like
him, but he won't say why . .." She looked at him expectantly.
"I won't either, then. It's-it's not my business."
"But he's your leigeman now."
"All right, so it is my business. I just wish it weren't. But Baz will have to
tell you himself."
She smiled at him. "I knew you'd say that." Oddly, the non-answer seemed to
content her.
"How did your last combat class go? I hope they all crawled out on their hands
and knees."
She smiled tranquilly. "Very nearly. Some of the technical people act like
they never expected to do that kind of fighting.
Others are awfully good-I've kind of got them working on the klutzy ones."
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"That's just right," he approved eagerly. "Conserve your own energy, expend
theirs. You've grasped the principle."
She glowed in his praise. "You've got me doing so many things I've never done
before, new people, things I'd never dreamed of-"
"Yes..." he stumbled. "I'm sorry I got you into this nightmare. I've been
demanding so much of you-but I'll get you out. My word on it. Don't be
scared."
Her mouth set in indignation. "I'm not scared! Well-some. But I feel more
alive than I've ever been. You make anything seem possible."
The longed-for admiration in her eyes perturbed him. It was too much like
hunger. "Elena-this whole thing is balanced on a hoax. If those guys out there
wake up and realize how badly they have us outnumbered, we'll crash like-" he
cut himself off. That wasn't what she needed to hear. He rubbed his eyes,
fingertips pressing hard against them, and paced.
"It's not balanced on a hoax," she said earnestly. "You balance it."
"Isn't that what I said?" He laughed, shakily.
She studied him through narrowed eyes. "When was the last time you slept?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've lost track, with the ships on different clocks. That
reminds me, got to get them on the same clock. I'll switch the RG132, that'll
be easier. We'll all keep Oseran time. It was before the jump, anyway. A day
before the jump."
"Have you had dinner?"
"Dinner?"
"Lunch?"
"Lunch? Was there lunch? I was getting things ready for the funeral, I guess."
She looked exasperated. "Breakfast?"
"I ate some of their field rations, when I was working on the regs last
night-look, I'm short, I don't need as much as you overgrown types..."
He paced on. Her face grew sober. "Miles," she said, and hesitated. "How did
that pilot officer die? He looked, well, not all right, but he was alive in
the shuttle. Did he jump you?"
His stomach did a roller-coaster flop. "My God, do you think I murdered-" But
he had, surely, as surely as if he had held a disruptor to the man's head and
fired. He had no desire to detail the events in the RG132's wardroom to Elena.
They looped in his memory, violent images flashing over and over. Bothari's
crime, his crime, a seamless whole .. .
"Miles, are you all right?" Her voice was alarmed. He realized he was standing
still with his eyes shut. Tears were leaking between the lids.
"Miles, sit down! You're hyper."
"Can't sit down. If I stop I'll..." He resumed his circuit, limping
mechanically.
She stared at him, her lips parted, then shut her mouth abruptly and slammed
out the door.
Now he had frightened her, offended her, perhaps even sabotaged her carefully
nurtured confidence... He swore at himself, savage. He was sinking in a black
and sucking bog, gluey viscous terror sapping his vital forward momentum. He
waded on, blindly.
Elena's voice again. "-bouncing off the walls. I think you'll have to sit on
him. I've never seen him this bad..."
Miles looked up into the precious, ugly face of his personal killer. Bothari
compressed his lips, and sighed. "Right. I'll take care of it."
Elena, eyes wide with concern but mouth calm with confidence in Bothari,
withdrew. Bothari grasped Miles by the back of the collar and belt,
frog-marched him over to the bed, and sat him down firmly.
"Drink."
"Oh, hell, Sergeant-you know I can't stand scotch. Tastes like paint thinner."
"I will," said Bothari patiently, "hold your nose and pour it down your throat
if I have to."
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Miles took in the flinty face and prudently choked down a slug from the flask,
which he recognized vaguely as confiscated from mercenary stock. Bothari, with
matter-of-fact efficiency, stripped him and slung him into bed.
"Drink again."
"Blech." It burned foully down his throat.
"Now sleep."
"Can't sleep. Too much to do. Got to keep them moving. Wonder if I can fake a
brochure? I suppose deathgild is nothing but a primitive form of life
insurance, at that. Elena can't possibly be right about Thorne. Hope to God my
father never finds out about this-Sergeant, you won't... ? I thought of a
docking drill with the RG132..." His protests trailed off to a mumble, and he
rolled over and slept dreamlessly for sixteen hours.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A week later, he was still in command.
Miles took to haunting the mercenary ship's control room as they neared their
destination. Daum's rendezvous was a rare metals refinery in the system's
asteroid belt. The factory was a mobile of chaotic structures strung together
by girdering and powersats, winged by its vast solar collectors, junkyard art.
A few lights winked, picking out bright reflections and leaving the rest in
charitable dimness.
Too few lights, Miles realized as they approached. The place looked shut down.
An off shift? Not likely; it represented too large an investment to let stand [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]