Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [151]
There was a strained grin in Nim's voice. "Copy, sir."
"Keep an observer in sight of Tower Six. Report when the police arrive. Naismith out."
"Copy, sir. Nim out."
Mark emitted a muffled moan and surged forward to grab Miles by his jacket. "You idiot, what are you doing? Call the Dendarii back—order them to clear the Cetagandans out of Tower Seven! Or I will—" He made to grab at Miles's wrist; Miles held him off and put his left hand behind his back.
"Ah-ah! Calm yourself. There's nothing I'd like more than a game of stunner tag with the Cetagandans, since we outnumber them—but they have plasma arcs. Plasma arcs have more than three times the range of a stunner. I don't ask my people to face that kind of tactical disadvantage without dire need."
"If those bastards catch you they'll kill you. How much more dire does it have to be?"
"But Miles," said Ivan, looking up and down the corridor doubtfully, "didn't you just trap us in the center of a pincers movement?"
"No." Miles grinned, exhilarated. "I did not. Not while we own a cloak of invisibility. Come on!" He trotted back to the T intersection and turned right, back toward the Barrayaran-held Tower Six.
"No!" Mark balked. "The Barrayarans might kill you by accident, but they'll kill me on purpose!"
"The ones back there," Miles jerked his head over his shoulder, "would kill us both just to make sure. The Dagoola operation left the Cetagandans more peeved with Admiral Naismith than I think you have grasped. Come on."
Reluctantly, Mark followed, Ivan bringing up the rear.
Miles's heart pounded. He wished he felt half as confident as his grin to Ivan had suggested. But Mark must not be permitted to sense his doubt. A couple of hundred meters of blank synthacrete jerked past as he ran on tiptoe, trying to make as little noise as possible. If the Barrayarans had already worked their way this far down the tunnel—
They came to the last pumping station, and still no sign of the lethal trouble ahead. Or behind.
This pumping station was quiescent again. It would be another twelve hours to the next high tide. If no unexpected surges came downstream, it should stay shut down till then. Still, Miles was disinclined to leave it to chance, and from the way Ivan was shifting from foot to foot, watching him with growing alarm, he'd better be able to offer a guarantee.
He began looking over the control panels, raising one for a look within. Fortunately, it was much simpler than, say, the control nexus for a jumpship propulsion chamber. A cut here, then there, should disable this pump without lighting up boards in the watchtower. He hoped. Not that anyone in the tower was likely to be paying much attention to their boards just this moment. Miles glanced up at Mark. "I need my knife, please."
Unwillingly, Mark handed the antique dagger over, and, at a look from Miles, its sheath as well. Miles used the point to pop the hair-fine wires. His guess as to which ones were which seemed correct; he tried to look as if he'd known it all along. He did not hand the knife back when he was done.
He went to the pumping chamber hatch and opened it. No beeping this time. His gravitic grappler made an instant handle on the smooth inner surface. Last problem was that damned manual locking bar. If some innocent—or not-so-innocent—came along and gave it a twirl—ah, no. The same model of tensor field lever, ally to the gravitic grappler, that Quinn had used to open the hatch to the ledge worked here. Miles blew a breath of relief through pursed lips. He returned to the control panel facing the corridor and slapped on his fisheye scan at the end of a row of dials. It blended in nicely.
He gestured toward the open hatch to the pumping chamber, as inviting as a coffin. "All right. Everybody in."
Ivan went white. "Oh, God, I was afraid