The warrior's apprentice (13 page)

Meek, damn it, Sergeant, Miles thought, and sent the message by a slight compression of his lips. “Obey this man, Mr. Bothari,” he replied, a little too sharply.

Bothari smiled slightly. “Yes, sir.” Having established the pecking order in a form more to his taste, he at last unlocked the case, with precise, insulting deliberation. Auson swore under his breath.

The mercenary captain herded them to a final rendezvous, in what the Betans called the rec room and the Barrayarans called the wardroom. “Now,” he said, “you will produce all your off-planet currency. Contraband.”

“What!” cried Mayhew, outraged. “How can money be contraband?”

“Hush, Arde,” hissed Miles. “Just do it.” Auson might well be telling the truth, Miles realized. Foreign currency was just what Daum’s people needed to buy such things as off-planet weaponry and military advisors. Or it might simply be the hold-up it appeared. No matter— judging from the lack of excitement of all hands, Daum’s cargo had escaped them, and that was all that counted. Miles secreted triumph in his heart, and emptied his pockets.

“That’s all?” said Auson disbelievingly, as they placed their final offerings in a little pile on the table before him.

“We’re a little shor—broke, at the moment,” Miles explained, “until we get to Tau Verde and make some sales.”

“Shit,” muttered Auson. His eyes bored exasperatedly into Miles, who shrugged helplessly and produced his most inane smile.

Three more mercenaries entered, pushing Baz and Elena before them.

“Got the engineer?” said the captain tiredly. “I suppose he’s bro—short, too.” He glanced up and saw Elena. His look of boredom vanished instantly, and he came smoothly to his feet. “Well, that’s better. I was beginning to think they were all freaks and fright masks here. Business before pleasure, though—you carrying any nonTau Verdan currency, honey?”

Elena glanced uncertainly at Miles. “I have some,” she admitted, looking surprised. “Why?”

“Out with it, then.”

“Miles?” she queried.

Miles unclenched his aching jaw. “Give him your money, Elena,” he ordered in a low tone.

Auson glowered at Miles. “You’re not my frigging secretary, Shorty. I don’t need you to transmit my orders. I don’t want to hear any more back-chat from you, hear?”

Miles smiled and nodded meekly, and rubbed one sweating palm against his trouser seam where a holster wasn’t.

Elena, bewildered, laid five hundred Betan dollars on the table. Bothari’s eyebrows drew down in astonishment.

“Where’d you get all that?” whispered Miles as she stepped back.

“Countess—your mother gave it to me,” she whispered back. “She said I should have some spending money of my own on Beta Colony. I didn’t want to take so much, but she insisted.”

Auson counted it, and brightened. “So, you’re the banker, eh, honey? That’s a bit more reasonable. I was beginning to think you folks were holding out on me.” He cocked his head, looking her over and smiling sardonically. “People who hold out on me always come to regret it.” The money vanished, along with a meager haul of other small, valuable items.

He checked their cargo manifest. “This right?” he asked the leader of the party who had come in with Elena and Baz.

“All the cases we busted open checked,” replied the soldier.

“They made the most awful mess down there,” Elena gritted under her breath to Miles.

“Sh. Never mind.”

The mercenary captain sighed, and began sorting through their various identification files. At one point he grinned, and glanced up at Bothari, then Elena. Miles sweated. Auson finished the check, and leaned back casually in his seat before the computer console, regarding Mayhew glumly.

“You the pilot officer, eh?” he inquired unenthusiastically.

“Yes, sir,” replied Mayhew, well-coached in meekness by Miles.

“Betan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you—never mind. You’re Betan, that answers the question. More frigging weirds per capita than any other...” he trailed off. “You ready to go?”

Mayhew glanced at Miles uncertainly.

“Damn it!” cried Auson. “I asked you, not Shorty! Bad enough that I’ll have to look at you over the breakfast table for the next few weeks. He’d give me indigestion. Yeah, smile, you little mutant—” this last to Miles, “I bet you’d like to cut my liver out.”

Miles smoothed his face, worried. He had been so sure he’d looked meek. Maybe it was Bothari. “No, sir,” he said brightly, blinking for a meek effect.

The mercenary captain glared at him a moment, then muttered, “Aw, the hell with it,” and rose.

His eye fell on Elena again, and he smiled thoughtfully. Elena frowned back. Auson looked around.

“Tell you what, Shorty,” he said, in a benevolent tone. “You can keep your pilot. I’ve had about all the Betans I can take, lately.”

Mayhew sighed relief under his breath. Miles relaxed, secretly delighted.

The mercenary captain waved at Elena. “I’ll take her, instead. Go pack your things, honey.”

Frozen silence.

Auson smiled at her, invitingly. “You won’t be missing a thing by not seeing Tau Verde, believe me. You be a good girl, you might even get your money back.”

Elena turned dilated eyes toward Miles. “My lord... ?” she said in a small, uncertain voice. It was not a slip of the tongue; she had a right to call for protection from her leige lord. It grieved him that she had not called “Miles,” instead. Bothari’s stillness was utter, his face blank and hard.

Miles stepped up to the mercenary captain, his meekness slipping badly. “The agreement was you were to hold our pilot officer,” he stated in a flat voice.

Auson grinned wolfishly. “I make my own rules. She goes.”

“She doesn’t want to. If you don’t want the pilot officer, choose another.”

“Don’t worry about it, Shorty. She’ll have a good time. You can even have her back on the way out—if she still wants to go with you.”

“I said choose another!”

The mercenary captain chuckled and turned away. Miles’s hand closed around his arm. The other mercenaries, watching the show, didn’t even bother to draw weapons. Auson’s face lit with happiness, and he swung around. He’s been itching for this, Miles realized. Well, so have I....

The contest was brief and unequal. A clutch, a twist, a ringing blow, and Miles was slammed face-down on the deck. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. As an afterthought, a deliberately-aimed boot to his belly doubled him over where he lay, and assured that he wouldn’t be rebounding to his feet in the immediate future.

Miles curled in agony, cheek pressed to the friction matting. Thank God it wasn’t the ribcage, he thought incoherently through a haze of rage, pain, and nausea. He squinted at the boots, spread aggressively beyond his nose. Toes must be steel-lined...

The mercenary captain wheeled around, hands on hips. “Well?” he demanded of Miles’s crew. Silence and stillness; all looked to Bothari, who might have been stone.

Auson, disappointed, spat disgustedly—either he wasn’t aiming at Miles, or he missed—and muttered, “Aw, the hell with it. This tub’s not worth confiscating anyway. Lousy fuel efficiency...” He raised his voice to his crew. “All right, load up, let’s go. Come on, honey,” he added to Elena, taking her firmly by the upper arm.

The five mercenaries unhinged themselves from their various postures of languid observation, and prepared to follow their captain out the door.

Elena glanced back over her shoulder, to meet Miles’s flaming eyes; her lips parted in a little “Ah,” of understanding, and she stared at Auson with cold calculation.

“Now, Sergeant!” cried Miles, and launched himself at his chosen mercenary. Still shaken from his encounter with the captain, in an inspiration of rare prudence he picked the one he had seen propping up the wall earlier. The room seemed to explode.

A chair, which no one had seen the Sergeant unfasten from its moorings, flew across the room to smash into the mercenary carrying the nerve disruptor before he even began to draw. Miles, occupied with his own tackle, heard but did not see the Sergeant’s second victim go down with a meaty, resonating “Unh!” Daum, too, reacted instantly, disarming his man neatly and tossing the stunner to an astonished Mayhew. Mayhew stared at it a second, woke up and fumbled it right way round, and fired. Unfortunately, it was out of charge.

A needier went off, wildly; its projectile exploded against a far wall. Miles put his elbow with all his strength into his man’s stomach, and had his earlier hypothesis confirmed when the man folded, gagging and retching. Unquestionably drunk. Miles dodged emesis, and at last achieved a strangle hold. He put the pressure on full power for the first time in his life. To his surprise, the man jerked but a few times and went still. Is he surrendering? Miles wondered dizzily, and pulled the head back by the hair for a look at the face. The man was unconscious.

A mercenary, bouncing off Bothari, stumbled past Mayhew who at last found a use for the stunner, blackjacking the man to his knees. Mayhew hit him a couple more times, rather experimentally. Bothari, hurtling past, paused to say disgustedly, “Not like that!”, grab the stunner, and smash the man flat with one accuratelyplaced blow.

The Sergeant then proceeded to assist Daum with his second, and it was over, but for some yelling by the door accompanying a muffled cracking noise. The mercenary captain, his nose gouting blood, was down on the floor with Elena atop him.

“That’s enough, Elena,” said Bothari, placing the bellmuzzle of a captured nerve disruptor against the man’s temple.

“No, Sergeant!” Miles cried. The yelling stopped abruptly, and Auson rolled fear-whitened eyes toward the gleaming weapon.

“I want to break his legs, too!” cried Elena angrily. “I want to break every bone in his body! I’ll Shorty him! When I’m done he’s going to be one meter tall!”

“Later,” promised Bothari. Daum found a functioning stunner, and the Sergeant put the mercenary captain temporarily out of his misery, then proceeded systematically around the room to make sure of the rest. “We still have three more out there, my lord,” he reminded Miles.

“Unh,” Miles acknowledged, crawling to his feet. And the eleven or so in the other ship, he thought. “Think you and Daum can ambush and stun ‘em?”

“Yes, but...” Bothari hefted the nerve disruptor in his hand. “May I suggest, my lord, that it may be preferable to kill soldiers in battle than prisoners after?”

“It may not come to that, Sergeant,” said Miles sharply. The full chaotic implications of the situation were just beginning to dawn on him. “Stun ‘em. Then we’ll—figure out something else.”

“Think quickly, my lord,” suggested Bothari, and vanished out the door, moving with uncanny silence. Daum chewed his lip worriedly, and followed.

Miles was already starting to think. “Sergeant!” he called after them softly. “Keep one conscious for me!”

“Very good, my lord.”

Miles turned back, slipping a little in a spatter of blood from the mercenary captain’s nose, and stared at the sudden slaughterhouse. “God,” he muttered. “Now what do I do with ‘em?”

CHAPTER NINE

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Elena and Mayhew stood waiting, looking at him expectantly. Miles suddenly realized he had not seen Baz Jesek in the fight—wait, there he was, pinned against the far wall. His dark eyes were like holes in his milky face, his breathing ragged.

“Are you hurt, Baz?” Miles cried in concern. The engineer shook his head, but did not speak. Their eyes met, and Jesek looked away. Miles knew then why he hadn’t noticed him.

We’re outnumbered two or three to one, Miles thought frantically. I can’t spare a trained fighting man to funk— got to do something right now... “Elena, Arde,” he spoke, “go out in the corridor and close the door until I call you.” They obeyed, looking baffled.

Miles walked up to the engineer. How do I do a heart transplant, he wondered, in the dark, by feel, without anesthetics? He moistened his lips and spoke quietly.

“We’ve got no choice. We have to capture their ship now. The best shot is to take their shuttle, make them think it’s their own people coming back. That can only be done in the next few minutes.

“The only chance of escape for any of us is to take them before they get a squeak out. I’m going to assign the Sergeant and Daum to take their Nav and Com room, and prevent that. The next most vital section is engineering, with all the overrides.”

Jesek turned his face away, like a man in pain or grief. Miles went on relentlessly.

“You’re clearly the man for that one. So I’m assigning it to you and—” Miles took a breath, “and Elena.”

The engineer turned his face back, if possible more drained than before. “Oh, no...”

“Mayhew and I will float, stunning anything that moves. Thirty minutes from now it will all be over, one way or another.”

Jesek shook his head. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“Look, you’re not the only one who’s terrified. I’m scared witless.”

Jesek’s mouth twisted. “You don’t look scared. You didn’t even look scared when that mercenary pig decked you. You just looked pissed.”

“That’s because I’ve got forward momentum. There’s no virtue in it. It’s just a balancing act. I don’t dare stop.”

The engineer shook his head again, helplessly, and spoke through his teeth. “I can’t. I’ve tried.’

Miles barely kept his lips from curling back in a snarl of frustration. Wild threats cascaded through his mind— no, that wasn’t right. Surely the cure for fear was not more fear.

“I’m drafting you,” Miles announced abruptly.

“What?”

“I claim you. I’m—I’m confiscating you. I’m seizing your property—your training, that is—for the war effort. This is totally illegal, but since you’re under a death sentence anyway, who cares? Get down on your knees and put your hands between mine.”

Jesek’s mouth fell open. “You can’t—I’m not—nobody but one of the Emperor’s designated officers can swear a vassal, and I was already sworn to him when I got my commission—and forsworn when—” he broke off.

“Or a Count or a Count’s heir,” Miles cut in. “I admit the fact that you’re previously sworn to Gregor as an officer puts a wrinkle in it. We just have to change the wording around a bit.”

“You re not...” Jesek stared. “What the hell are you, anyway? Who are you?”

“I don’t even want to talk about it. But I really am a vassal secundus to Gregor Vorbarra, and I can take you for a leigeman, and I’m going to right now, because I’m in a hell of a hurry, and we can work out the details later.”

“You’re a lunatic! What the bloody hell do you think this is going to do?”

Distract you, thought Miles—and it’s working already. “Maybe, but I’m a Vor lunatic. Down!”

The engineer fell to his knees, staring in disbelief. Miles captured his hands, and began.

“Repeat after me. I, Bazil Jesek, do testify I am, am, am a forsworn military vassal of Gregor Vorbarra, but I take service anyway under—under—” Bothari will be hot as hell if I break security, “under this lunatic in front of me—make that, this Vor lunatic—as an Armsman simple, and will hold him as my leige commander until my death or his releases me.”

Jesek, looking hypnotized, repeated the oath verbatim.

Miles began. “I, uh—I better skip that part—I, a vassal secundus to Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, do accept your oath, and pledge you the protection of a leigecommander; this by my word as—well, by my word. There. You now have the dubious privilege of following my orders to the letter and addressing me as ‘my lord’, only you’d better not do it in front of Bothari until I get a chance to break the news to him gently. Oh, and one more thing...”

The engineer looked the question, bewildered.

“You’re home. For what it’s worth.”

Jesek shook his head dizzily, and staggered to his feet. “Was that real?”

“Well—it’s a little irregular. But from what I’ve read of our history, I can’t help feeling it’s closer to the original than the official version.”

There was a knock on the door. Daum and Bothari had a prisoner, his hands fastened behind him. He was the pilot officer, by the silver circles on his temples and midforehead. Miles supposed that was why Bothari had picked him—he was bound to know all the recognition

codes. The defiant set of the mercenary’s head gave Miles a queasy premonition of trouble.

“Baz, take Elena and the Major and start hauling these guys to Hold #4, the one with nothing in it. They might wake up and get creative, so weld the door shut on ‘em. Then unseal our own weapons cache, get the stunners and plasma arcs, and check out the mercenary shuttle. We’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

When Elena dragged out the last unconscious body by the ankles—it was the mercenary captain, and she was noticeably not careful what his head bumped on the way—Miles shut the door and turned to his prisoner, held by Bothari and Mayhew.

“You know,” he addressed the man apologetically, “I sure would appreciate it if we could skip all the preliminaries and go straight to your codes. It would save a lot of grief.”

The mercenary’s lips curled at this, sardonic-sour. “Sure it would—for you. No truth drugs, eh? Too bad, Shorty—you’re out of luck.”

Bothari tensed, eyes strangely alight; Miles restrained him with a small movement of one finger. “Not yet, Sergeant.”

Miles sighed. “You’re right,” he said to the mercenary, “we have no drugs. I’m sorry. But we still must have your cooperation.’

The mercenary snickered. “Stick it, Shorty.”

“We don’t mean to kill your friends,” Miles added hopefully, “just stun them.”

The man raised his head proudly. “Time’s on my side. Whatever you can dish out, I can take. If you kill me, I can’t talk.

Miles motioned Bothari aside. “This is your department, Sergeant,” he said in a low voice. “Seems to me he’s right. What do you think of trying to board them blind, no codes? Couldn’t be any worse than if he gave us a false one. We could skip this—” a nervous wave of his hand indicated the mercenary pilot.

“It would be better with the codes,” stated the Sergeant uncompromisingly. “Safer.”

“I don’t see how we can get them.”

“I can get them. You can always break a pilot. If you will give me a free hand, my lord.”

The expression on Bothari’s face disturbed Miles. The confidence was all right, it was the underlying air of anticipation that put knots in his guts.

“You must decide now, my lord.”

He thought of Elena, Mayhew, Daum and Jesek, who had followed him to this place—who wouldn’t be here but for him . . . “Go ahead, Sergeant.”

“You may wish to wait in the corridor.”

Miles shook his head, belly-sick. “No. I ordered it. I’ll see it through.”

Bothari inclined his head. “As you will. I need the knife.” He nodded toward the dagger Miles had retrieved from the unconscious mercenary captain and hung on his belt. Miles, reluctantly, drew it and handed it over. Bothari’s face lightened a little at the beauty of the blade, its tensile flexibility and incredible sharpness. “They don’t make them like that anymore,” he muttered.

What are you planning to do with it, Sergeant? Miles wondered, but did not quite dare ask. If you tell him to drop his trousers, I’m going to stop this session right now, codes or no codes... They returned to their prisoner, who was standing easy, still casually defiant.

Miles tried one more time. “Sir, I beg you to cooperate.”

The man grinned. “I just don’t buy you, Shorty. I’m not afraid of a little pain.”

I am afraid, thought Miles. He stepped aside. “He’s yours, Sergeant.”

“Hold him still,” said Bothari. Miles grasped the prisoner’s right arm; Mayhew, looking puzzled, held the left.

The mercenary took in Bothari’s face, and his grin slipped. One edge of Bothari’s mouth turned upward, in a smile Miles had never seen before and immediately hoped he would never see again. The mercenary swallowed.

Bothari placed the tip of the dagger against the side of the silver button on the man’s right temple and wriggled it a little, to slip it beneath the edge. The mercenary’s eyes shifted right, gone white-rimmed. “You wouldn’t dare...” he whispered. A drop of blood ringed the circle in a quick blink. The mercenary inhaled sharply, and began, “Wait—”

Bothari twisted the knife sideways, grasped the button between the thumb and fingers of his free hand, and yanked. A ululating scream broke from the mercenary’s throat. He lunged convulsively from Miles’s and Mayhew’s grasp and fell to his knees, mouth open, eyes gone huge in shock.

Bothari dangled the implant before the man’s eyes. Hair-fine wires hung like broken spider legs from the silver button body. He twirled it, with a glittering gleam and a spatter of blood, thousands of Betan dollars worth of viral circuitry and microsurgery turned instantly to trash.

Mayhew, watching, went the color of oatmeal at this incredible vandalism. The breath went out of him in a tiny moan. He turned his back and went to lean against the wall in a corner. After a moment, he bent over, stifling vomiting.

I wish he hadn’t witnessed that, thought Miles. I wish I’d kept Daum instead. I wish...

Bothari squatted down to his victim’s level, face to face. He raised the knife again, and the mercenary pilot recoiled, to bash into the wall and slide into a sitting position, unable to retreat farther. Bothari placed the dagger’s point against the button on the man’s forehead.

“Pain is not the point,” he whispered hoarsely. He paused, then added even more quietly, “Begin.”

The man found his tongue abruptly, pouring out betrayal in his terror. There was, thought Miles, no question of clever subterfuge in the information tripping frantically out of his mouth. Miles overcame his own trembling belly to listen intently, carefully thoroughly, that nothing be lost or missed or wasted. Unbearable, that this sacrifice should be wasted.

When the man began to repeat himself, Bothari pulled him cringing to his feet and frog marched him to the shuttle hatch corridor. Elena and the others stared uncertainly at the mercenary, a trickle of blood threading down from his gored temple, but asked no questions. At the slightest prodding from Bothari the captured pilot officer, hasty and barely coherent, explained the internal layout of the light cruiser. Bothari pushed him aboard and strapped him in a seat, where he collapsed and burst into shocking sobs. The others looked away from the prisoner uneasily, and chose seats as far from him as possible.

Mayhew sat gingerly before the manual controls of the shuttle, and flexed his fingers.
 
Miles slid in beside him. “Are you going to be able to fly this thing?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Miles took in his shaken profile. “You going to be all right?”

“Yes, my lord.” The shuttle’s engines whined to life, and they kicked away from the side of the RG132. “Did you know he was going to do that?” Mayhew demanded suddenly, low-voiced. He glanced back over his shoulder at Bothari and his prisoner.

“Not exactly.”

Mayhew’s lips tightened. “Crazy bastard.”

“Look, Arde, you better keep this straight,” murmured Miles. “What Bothari does on my orders is my responsibility, not his.”

“The hell you say. I saw the look on his face. He enjoyed that. You didn’t.”

Miles hesitated, then repeated himself with a different emphasis, hoping to make Mayhew understand. “What Bothari does is my responsibility. I’ve known it for a long time, so I don’t excuse myself.”

“He is psychotic, then,” hissed Mayhew.

“He keeps himself together. But understand—if you have a problem about him, you see me.”

Mayhew swore under his breath. “You’re a pair, all right.”

Miles studied the mercenary craft in the forward screens as they approached. It was a swift and powerful small warship, well-armed. There was a bravura brilliance to its lines that suggested Illyrican make; it was

named, appropriately, the Ariel. No question that the lumbering RG132 would have had no chance of escaping it. He felt a twinge of envy at its deadly beauty, then realized with a start that if things went as planned, he was about to own it, or at least possess it. But the ambiguity of the methods poisoned his pleasure, leaving only a dry cold nervousness.