Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [137]
"Wishful thinking," said Elli in disapproval. "If you don't want to turn them up, maybe you'd better stop looking for them."
"Compelling logic."
"So why aren't you compelled? And what do you plan to do with them if you do catch 'em?"
"As for what," said Miles, "it's not too complicated. I want to find Galen and my clone before Destang does, and separate them. And then make sure Destang doesn't find them until I can send a private report home. Eventually, if I vouch for him, I believe a cease-and-desist order will come through countermanding my clone's assassination, without my having to appear directly connected with it."
"What about Galen?" asked Elli skeptically. "No way are you going to get a cease-and-desist order on him."
"Probably not. Galen is—a problem I have not solved."
Miles returned to his cabin, where his fleet accountant caught up with him.
Lieutenant Bone fell on the eighteen-million-mark credit chit with heartfelt and unmilitary glee. "Saved!"
"Disburse it as needed," Miles said. "And get the Triumph out of hock. We need to be able to move out at a moment's notice without having to argue about grand theft with the Solar Navy. Ah—hm. D'you think you can create a credit chit, out of petty cash or wherever, in galactic funds, that couldn't in any way be traced back to us?"
A gleam lit her eye. "An interesting challenge, sir. Does this have anything to do with our upcoming contract?"
"Security, Lieutenant," Miles said blandly. "I can't discuss it even with you."
"Security," she sniffed, "doesn't hide as much from Accounting as they think they do."
"Perhaps I should combine your departments. No?" He grinned at her horrified look. "Well, maybe not."
"Who does this chit go to?"
"To the bearer."
Her brows rose. "Very good, sir. How much?"
Miles hesitated. "Half a million marks. However that translates into local credit."
"Half a million marks," she noted wryly, "is not petty."
"Just so long as it's cash."
"I'll do my best, sir."
He sat alone in his cabin after she left, frowning deeply. The impasse was clear. Galen could not be expected to initiate contact unless he saw some way, not to mention some reason, to control the situation or achieve surprise. Letting Galen choreograph his moves seemed fatal, and Miles did not care for the idea of wandering around till Galen chose to surprise him. Still, some sort of feint to create an opening might be better than no move at all, in view of the shrinking time limit. Get off the damned defensive disadvantage, act instead of react . . . A high resolve, but for the minor flaw that until Galen was spotted Miles had no object to act upon. He growled frustration and went wearily to bed.
* * *
He woke on his own in the dark of his cabin some twelve hours later, noted the time on the glowing digits of his wall clock, and lay a while luxuriating in the remarkable sensation of finally having gotten enough sleep. His greedy body was just suggesting, in the leaden slowness of his limbs, that more would be nice, when his cabin comconsole chimed. Saved from the sin of sloth, he staggered out of bed and answered it.
"Sir." The face of one of the Triumph's comm officers appeared. "You have a tight-beam call from the Barrayaran Embassy downside in London. They're asking for you personally, scrambled."
Miles trusted that this was not literally true. It couldn't be Ivan; he would have called on the private comm link. It had to be an official communique. "Unscramble and pipe it in here, then."
"Should I record?"
"Ah—no."
Could the new orders from HQ for the Dendarii fleet have arrived already? Miles swore silently. If they were forced to break orbit before his Dendarii Intelligence people found Galen and Mark . . .
Destang's grim face appeared over the vid plate. " 'Admiral Naismith.' " Miles could hear the quote marks dropping in around his name. "Are we alone?"
"Entirely, sir."
Destang's face relaxed slightly. "Very well. I have an order for you—Lieutenant Vorkosigan. You are to remain aboard your ship in orbit until I, personally,