“Yes,” Miles sighed. “Rehabilitation is starting to take an awfully bite out of the medical department’s budget. I may have Fleet accounting split it off, so Medical doesn’t find itself dangerously short-changed. But what would you have? My troops were loyal beyond measure; I cannot betray them. Besides,” he grinned briefly, “the Barrayaran Imperium is paying.”
“Your ImpSec boss was on about your bills, I thought, at your mission briefing.”
“Illyan has to explain why enough cash to fund a private army keeps disappearing in his department budget every year, without ever admitting to the private army’s existence. Certain Imperial accountants tend to accuse him of departmental inefficiency, which gives him great anguish.”
The Dendarii shuttle pilot, having shut down his ship, ducked into the corridor and sealed the hatch. He nodded to Miles. “While I was waiting for you at Port Beauchene, sir, I picked up another story on the local news net, that you might be interested in. Local news here on Escobar, that is.” The man was bouncing lightly his toes.
Say on, Sergeant Lajoie.” Miles cocked an eyebrow up at him.
“The Cetagandans have just announced their withdrawal from Marilac. They’re calling it—what was that, now—’Due to great progress in the cultural alliance, we are turning police matters over to local control.’ “
Miles’s fists clenched, joyously. “In other words, they’re abandoning their puppet government! Ha!” He hopped from foot to foot, and pounded Quinn on the back. “You hear that, Elli! We’ve won! I mean, They’ve won, the Marilacans.” Our sacrifices are redeemed… . He regained control of his tightening throat before he burst into song or some like foolishness. “Do me a favor, Lajoie. Pass the word through the Fleet. Tell them I said, You folks do good work. Eh?”
“Yes, sir. My pleasure.” The grinning pilot saluted cheerfully, and loped off up the corridor.
Miles’s grin stretched his face. “See, Elli! What Simon Illyan just bought would have been cheap at a thousand times the cost. A full-scale Cetagandan planetary invasion—first impeded—then bogged—then foundered—failed!” And in a fierce whisper, “I did it! I made the difference.”
Quinn too was smiling, but one perfect eyebrow curved in a certain dry irony. “It’s lovely, but if I was reading between the lines correctly, I thought what Barrayaran Imperial Security really wanted was for the Cetagandan military to be tied up in the guerilla war on Marilac. Indefinitely. Draining Cetagandan attention away from Barrayaran borders and jump points.”
“They didn’t put that in writing.” Miles’s lips drew back wolfishly. “All Simon said was, ’Help the Marilacans as opportunity presents.’ That was the standing order, in so many words.”
“But you knew damn well what he really wanted.”
“Four bloody years was enough. I have not betrayed Barrayar. Nor anyone else.”
“Yeah? So if Simon Illyan is so much more Machiavellian than you are, how is it that your version prevailed? Someday, Miles, you are going to run out of hairs to split with those people. And then what will you do?”
He smiled, and shook his head, evading answer.
His elation over the news from Marilac still made him feel like he was walking in half-gravity when he arrived at his cabin aboard the Triumph. After a surreptitious glance to be sure the corridor was unpeopled, he embraced and kissed Quinn, a deep kiss that was going to have to last them for a long while, and she went off to her own quarters. He slipped inside, and echoed the door’s closing sigh with his own. Home again.
It was home, for half his psyche, he reflected, tossing his flight bag onto his bed and heading directly for the shower. Ten years ago, Lord Miles Vorkosigan had invented the cover identity of Admiral Naismith out of his head in a desperate moment, and frantically faked his way to temporary control of the hastily re-named Dendarii Mercenaries. Barrayaran Imperial Security had discovered the cover to be useful … no. Credit where it was due. He had persuaded, schemed, demonstrated, and coerced ImpSec into finding use for this cover. Be careful what you pretend to be. You might become it.
When had Admiral Naismith stopped being a pretense? Gradually, surely, but mostly since his mercenary mentor Commodore Tung had retired. Or perhaps the wily Tung had recognized before Miles had that his services in propping Miles up to his prematurely exalted rank were no longer required. Colored vid arrays of Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet organization bloomed in Miles’s head as he showered. Personnel—equipment—administration—logistics—he knew every ship, every trooper, every shuttle and piece of ordnance, now. He knew how they fit together, what had to be done first, second, third, twentieth, how to place a precisely calculated force at any point on the tactical field. This was expertise, to he able to look at a ship like the Triumph and see with his mind’s eye right through the walls to every engineering detail, every strength and vulnerability; to look at a commando raid, or a briefing table ringed with captains and captain-owners and know what each one would do or say before they knew it themselves. I’m on top. Finally, I’m on top of it all. With this lever, I can move worlds. He switched the shower to “dry,” and turned in the blast warm air. He left the bathroom still chortling under his breath. I like it. His chortle died away in puzzlement when he unlatched the door to his uniform cupboard, and found it bare. Had his batman taken them all off for cleaning or repairs? His bewilderment grew as he looked other drawers, and found only a residue of the wildly assorted Virilian togs he wore when he stretched the chain of his identity one link further, and played spy for the Dendarii. Plus some of his shabbier underwear. Was this some sort of practical joke? If so, he’d have have the last laugh. Naked and irritated, he snapped open the locker where his space armor dwelt. Empty. That was almost shocking. Somebody’s taken it down to Engineering to re-calibrate it, or add tactics programs, or something. His batman should have returned it by now, though. What if he needed it in a hurry?
Time. His people would be gathering. Quinn had once claimed he could carry on naked, and only make those around him feel overdressed. He was momentarily tempted to test her assertion, but overcame the mordant vision, and put the shirt and trousers and sandals he’d been wearing back on. He didn’t need a uniform in order to dominate a briefing room, not any more.
On the way to the meeting, he passed Sandy Hereld in the corridor, coming off duty, and gave her a friendly nod. She wheeled and walked backward in startlement. “You’re back, sir! That was quick.” He would hardly describe his several-week journey to Imperial HQ Barrayar as quick. She must mean the trip downside. “It only took two hours.”
“What?” Her nose wrinkled. She was still walking backwards, reached the end of the corridor.
He had a briefing room full of senior officers waiting. He waved and swung down a lift tube. The briefing room was comfortingly familiar, right down to the array of faces around the darkly shining table. Captain Auson of the Triumph. Elena Bothari-Jesek, recently promoted captain of the Peregrine. Her husband Commodore Baz Jesek, Fleet engineer and in charge, in Miles’s absence, of all the repair and refit activities of the Dendarii Fleet in Escobar orbit. The couple, Barrayarans themselves, were with Quinn among the handful of Dendarii apprised of Miles’s double identity. Captain Truzillo of the Jayhawk, and a dozen more, all tested and true. His people.
Bel Thorne of the Ariel was late. That was unusual. One of Thorne’s driving characteristics was an insatiable curiosity; a new mission briefing was like a Winterfair gift to the Betan hermaphrodite. Miles turned to Elena Bothari-Jesek, to make small talk while they waited.