Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [161]
Tabor's eyes shifted, back and forth, as he spat out his gag, worked his jaw, and swallowed. He croaked, "You're working together?"
"Unfortunately," growled Mark.
"A mercenary," caroled Miles, "gets it where he can."
"You made a mistake," hissed the century-captain, focusing on the admiral, "when you took contract against us at Dagoola."
"You can say that again," agreed Miles cheerily. "After we rescued their damned army, the Underground stiffed us. Did us out of half our promised pay. I don't suppose Cetaganda would like to hire us to go after them in turn, eh? No? Unfortunately, I cannot afford personal vengeance. At present, anyway. Or I would not have taken employment with," he bared his teeth in an unfriendly smile at Mark, who sneered back, "these old friends."
"So you really are a clone," breathed Tabor, staring at the legendary mercenary commander. "We thought . . ." He fell silent.
"We thought he was yours, for years," said Mark-as-Lord-Vorkosigan.
Ours! mouthed Tabor in astonishment.
"But the present operation confirmed his Komarran origin," Mark finished.
"We have an agreement," Miles spoke up as if unsettled by Mark's tone, glaring from Mark to Galeni. "You cover me till I leave Earth."
"We have an agreement," said Mark, "as long as you never come any closer to Barrayar."
"You can have bloody Barrayar. I'll take the rest of the galaxy, thanks."
The century-captain was blurring out again, but fighting it, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing in a controlled pattern. Concussion, Miles judged. In his lap, Elli's eyes popped open. He stroked her curls. She emitted a ladylike burp, saved by the synergine from the more usual post-stun vomiting. She sat up, looked around, saw Mark, the Cetagandans, Ivan, and shut her jaw with a snap, concealing her disorientation. Miles squeezed her hand. I'll explain later, his smile promised. She lowered her brows at him in exasperation, You'd better. She lifted her chin, poised before the enemy even in the teeth of her own bewilderment.
Ivan turned his head, inquiring out of the side of his mouth of Galeni, "So what do we do with these Cetagandans, sir? Drop them off somewhere? From how high up?"
"There is, I think, no need for an interplanetary incident." Galeni was wolfishly cheerful, taking his tone from Miles. "Is there, Lieutenant Tabor? Or do you wish the local authorities to be told what the ghem-comrade was really trying to do in the Barrier last night? No? I thought not. Very well. They both need medical treatment, Ivan. Lieutenant Tabor unfortunately broke his arm, and I believe his, ah, friend has a concussion. Among other things. Your choice, Tabor. Shall we drop you off at a hospital, or would you prefer treatment at your own embassy?"
"Embassy," croaked Tabor, clearly cognizant of possible legal complications. "Unless you want to try to talk your way out of an attempted murder charge," he counter-threatened.
"Only assault, surely." Galeni's eyes glittered.
Tabor smiled most uneasily, looking as if he'd like to edge away if only there were room. "Whatever. Neither of our ambassadors would be pleased."
"Quite."
It was getting near dawn. Traffic was beginning to increase. Ivan circled a couple of streets before spotting a deserted auto-cab stand that did not have a queue of waiting patrons. This seaside suburb was far from the embassy district. Galeni was quite solicitous, helping unload their passengers—but he didn't toss the code-key to the century-captain's hand and foot bonds to Tabor until Ivan began to accelerate back into the street. "I'll have one of my staff return your car this afternoon," Galeni called back as they sped off. He settled in his seat with a snort as Ivan sealed the canopy and added under his breath, "After we go over it."
"Think that charade'll work?" asked Ivan.
"In the short range—convincing the Cetagandans that Barrayar had nothing to do with Dagoola—maybe, maybe not," sighed Miles. "But for the main security issue—there go two loyal officers who will swear under chemohypnotics that