The warrior's apprentice (22 page)

Miles tottered out of his newly captured ship into the refinery docking station clutching an unexpected prize—a suit of Pelian battle armor nearly small enough to fit him. The plumbing, not surprisingly, was female, but Baz could surely convert it. He spotted Elena among his reception committee, and held it up proudly. “Look what I found!”

She wrinkled her nose in puzzlement. “You captured a whole ship just to get a suit of armor?”

“No, no! The other thing. The—the weapon, whatever it was. This is the ship whose shot penetrated your shielding—did it hit anything? What did it do?”

One of the Felician officers glowered—oddly, at Elena. “It punched a hole—well, not a hole—right through the prison section. It was losing air, and she let them all out.”

His people, Miles noticed, were moving about in groups of three or more.

“We haven’t got them half rounded up yet,” the Felician complained. “They’re hiding all over the station.”

Elena looked distressed. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

Miles rubbed his temples. “Uh. I suppose I’d better have the Sergeant at my back, then, for a while.”

“When he wakes up.”

“What?”

Elena frowned at her boots. “He was guarding the prison section alone, during the attack—he tried to stop me, from letting them out.”

“Tried? And didn’t succeed?”

“I shot him with my stunner. I’m afraid he’s going to be rather angry—is it all right if I stick with you for a while?”

Miles pursed his lips in an involuntary silent whistle. “Of course. Were any prisoners—no, wait.” He raised his voice. “Commander Bothari, I commend your initiative. You did the right thing. We are here to accomplish a specific tactical objective, not perpetrate mindless slaughter.” Miles stared down the Felician junior lieutenant, what’s his name, Gamad, who shrank under his gaze. He went on more quietly to Elena. “Were any prisoners killed?”

“Two, whose cells were actually penetrated by the electron orbital randomizer—”

“By the what?”

“Baz called it an electron orbital randomizer. And— and eleven asphyxiated that I couldn’t get to in time.” The pain in her eyes knifed him.

“How many would have died if you hadn’t released them?”

“We lost air in the whole section.”

“Captain Tung—?”

Elena spread her hands. “He’s around here somewhere, I guess. He wasn’t among the thirteen. Oh—one of his jump pilots was, though. And we haven’t found the other one yet. Is that important?”

Miles’s heart sank into his foaming stomach. He wheeled to the nearest mercenary. “Pass on this order at once. Prisoners are to be re-captured alive, with as little injury as possible.” The woman hurried to obey. “If Tung’s on the loose, you’d better stick by me,” Miles told Elena. “Dear God. Well, I guess I’d better have a look at this hole that isn’t a hole, then. Where did Baz come up with that jawbreaking name for it?”

“He said it’s a Betan development from a few years back. It never sold very well, because all you have to do to defend from it is re-phase the mass shielding—he told me to tell you he was on it, and should have the shields reprogrammed by tonight.”

“Oh.” Miles paused, crushed. So much for his fantasy of returning the mystery beam to Barrayar to lay at the Emperor’s feet, Captain Illyan agog, his father amazed. He’d pictured it as a splendid offering, proof of his military prowess. More like when the cat drags in a dead horned hopper, to be chased off with brooms. He sighed. At least he had a suit of space armor now.

Miles, Elena, Gamad, and an engineering tech started

toward the prison section, several structures down the linked chain of the refinery. Elena fell in beside Miles.

“You look so tired. Hadn’t you better, uh, take a shower and get some rest?”

“Ah, yes, the stink of dried terror, well-warmed in a pressure suit.” He grinned up at her, and tucked his helmet firmly under his arm, like a beheaded ghost. “Wait’11 you near about my day. What does Major Daum say about the defense nexus now? I suppose I’d better get a full battle report from him—he at least seems to have his thinking straight—” Miles eyed the back of the lieutenant in weary distaste.

Lieutenant Gamad, whose hearing was evidently keener than Miles had supposed, glanced back over his shoulder. “Major Daum’s killed, sir. He and a tech were switching weapons posts, and their flitter was hit by high-speed debris—nothing left. Didn’t they tell you?”

Miles stopped short.

“I’m the ranking officer here, now,” the Felician added.

It took three days to ferret out the escaped prisoners from all the corners of the refinery. Tung’s commandos were the worst. Miles eventually resorted to closing off sections and filling them with sleep gas. He ignored Bothari’s irritated suggestion that vacuum would be more cost-effective. The bulk of the round-up duty fell naturally, if unjustly, to the Sergeant, and he was tight as a drawn bow-string with the tension of it.

When the final head count was made, Tung had seven of his men, including his other Pilot Officer, turned up missing. So did a station shuttle.

Miles moaned under his breath. There was no choice now but to wait for the laggard Felicians to come claim their cargo. He began to doubt whether the shuttle dispatched to try and reach Tau Verde before the counterattack had ever made it through the Oseran-controlled space between. Perhaps they should send another. With a draftee, not a volunteer, this time; Miles had his candidate all picked out.

Lieutenant Gamad, swollen with his newly inherited seniority, was inclined to challenge Miles’s authority

over the refinery, technically, it was true, Felician property. After Daum’s cool, get the-job-done intensity, Miles suffered him ungladly. Gamad was quashed, however, when he overheard one of Miles’s mercenaries address him as “Admiral Naismith.” Miles was so delighted with the effect of the ersatz title on Gamad that he let it pass unchecked. Unfortunately, it spread; he found himself unable to retrieve the careful neutrality of “Mr. Naismith” thereafter.

Gamad was saved on the eighth day after the counterattack, when a Felician local space cruiser finally appeared on the monitors. Miles’s mercenaries, twitchy and suspicious after repeated ambushes, were inclined to obliterate it first and sift the remains for positive I.D. after. But Miles at last established a measure of trust, and the Felicians came meekly to dock.

Two large, businesslike plastic crates on a float pallet riveted Miles’s attention when the Felician officers entered the refinery conference chamber. The crates bore a pleasant resemblance, in size at least, to old sea pirates’ treasure chests. Miles lost himself in a brief fantasy of glittering diadems, gold coins, and ropes of pearls. Alas that such gaudy baubles were treasures no more. Crystallized viral microcircuits, data packs, DNA splices, blank drafts on major planetary agricultural and mining futures; such was the tepid wealth men schemed upon in these degenerate days. Of course, there was still artwork. Miles touched the dagger at his belt, and was warmed, as by an old man’s handclasp. He decided he would probably settle for a few of those blank drafts.

The pinched and harried Felician paymaster was speaking; “— must have Major Daum’s manifest first, and physically check each item for damage in transit.”

The Felician cruiser captain nodded wearily. “See my chief engineer, and draft as much help as you need. But make it quick.” The captain turned a bloodshot and irritated eye on Gamad, trailing obsequiously. “Haven’t you found that manifest yet? Or Daum’s personal papers?”

“I’m afraid he may have had them on him when he was hit, sir.”

The captain growled, and turned to Miles. “So, you’re this mad galactic mutant I’ve been hearing about.”

Miles drew himself up. “I am not a mutant! Captain.” He drawled the last word out in his father’s most sarcastic style, then took hold of his temper. The Felician clearly hadn’t slept much the last few days. “I believe you have some business to conduct.”

“Yes, mercenaries must have their pay, I suppose,” sighed the captain.

“And physically check each item for damage in transit,” Miles prodded with a pointed nod at the boxes.

“Take care of him, Paymaster,” the captain ordered, and wheeled out. “All right, Gamad, show me this grand strategy of yours...”

Baz’s eyes smoked. “Excuse me, my lord, but I think I’d better join them.”

“I’ll go with you,” offered Mayhew. He clicked his teeth together gently, as if nibbling for a jugular.

“Go ahead.” Miles turned to the paymaster, who sighed and shoved a data cartridge into the table-top viewer.

“Now—Mr. Naismith? is that correct? May I see your copy of the contract, please.”

Miles frowned uneasily. “Major Daum and I had a verbal agreement. Forty thousand Betan dollars upon safe delivery of his cargo to Felice. This refinery is Felician territory, now.”

The paymaster stared, astonished. “A verbal agreement? A verbal agreement is no contract!”

Miles sat up. “A verbal agreement is the most binding of contracts! Your soul is in your breath, and therefore in your voice. Once pledged it must be redeemed.”

“Mysticism has no place—”

“It is not mysticism! It’s a recognized legal theory!” On Barrayar, Miles realized.

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Major Daum understood it perfectly well.”

“Major Daum was in Intelligence. He specialized in galactics. I’m just Accounting Office—”

“You refuse to redeem your dead comrade’s word? But you are real Service, no mercenary—”

The paymaster shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re babbling about. But if the cargo is right, you’ll be paid. This isn’t Jackson’s Whole.”

Miles relaxed slightly. “Very well.” The paymaster was no Vor, nor anything like one. Counting his payment in front of him was not likely to be taken as a mortal insult. “Let’s see it.”

The paymaster nodded to his assistant, who uncoded the locks. Miles held his breath in happy anticipation of more money than he’d seen in one pile in his life. The lids swung up to reveal stacks and stacks of tightly bundled, particolored pieces of paper. There was a long, long pause.

Miles slid off his leg-swinging perch on the conference table and picked out a bundle. Each contained perhaps a hundred identical, brightly engraved compositions of pictures, numbers, and letters in a strange cursive alphabet. The paper was slick, almost sleazy. He held one piece up to the light.

“What is it?” he asked at last.

The paymaster raised his eyebrows. “Paper currency. It’s used commonly for money on most planets—”

“I know that! What currency is it?”

“Felician millifenigs.”

“Millifenigs.” It sounded faintly like a swear word. “What’s it worth in real money? Betan dollars, or, say, Barrayaran Imperial marks.”

“Who uses Barrayaran marks?” the paymaster’s assistant muttered in puzzlement.

The paymaster cleared his throat. “As of the annual listing, millifenigs were pegged at 150 per Betan dollar on the Betan Exchange,” he recited quickly.

“Wasn’t that almost a year ago? What are they now?”

The paymaster found something to look at out the plexiports. “The Oseran blockade has prevented us from learning the current rate of exchange.”

“Yeah? Well, what was the last figure you had, then?”

The paymaster cleared his throat again; his voice became strangely small. “Because of the blockade, you

understand, almost all the information about the war has been sent by the Pelians.”

“The rate, please.”

“We don’t know.”

“The last rate,” Miles hissed.

The paymaster jumped. “We really don’t, sir. Last we heard, Felician currency had been, uh...” he was almost inaudible, “dropped from the Exchange.”

Miles fingered his dagger. “And just what are these— millifenigs,” he would have to experiment, he decided, to find just the right degree of venom to pronounce that word,” backed by?”

The paymaster raised his head proudly. “The government of Felice!”

“The one that’s losing this war, right?”

The paymaster muttered something.

“You are losing this war, are you not?”

“Losing the high orbitals was just a set-back,” the paymaster explained desperately. “We still control our own airspace—”

“Millifenigs,” snorted Miles. “Millifenigs... Well, I want Betan dollars!” He glared at the paymaster.

The paymaster replied as one goaded in pride and turning at bay. “There are no Betan dollars! Every cent of it, yes, and every flake of other galactic currencies we could round up was sent with Major Daum, to buy that cargo—”

“Which I have risked my life delivering to you—”

“Which he died delivering to us!”

Miles sighed, recognizing an argument he could not win. His most frenetic posturing would not wring Betan dollars from a government that owned none. “Millifenigs,” he muttered.

“I have to go,” said the paymaster. “I have to initial the inventory—”

Miles flicked a hand at him, tiredly. “Yes, go.”

The paymaster and his assistant fled, leaving him alone in the beautiful conference chamber with two crates of money. That the paymaster didn’t even bother to set guard, demand receipt, or see it counted merely confirmed its worthlessness.