Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [165]
"Thank you, sir," Galeni's voice was so devoid of inflection as to be deathly, but in the end he managed a small, acknowledging nod.
* * *
The locks and corridors of the Triumph were noisy with returning personnel, the final placement of equipment and repairs by tech teams, and the loading of the last supplies. Noisy, but not chaotic; purposeful and energetic but not frantic. The absence of frantic was a good sign, considering how long they'd been on station. Tung's tough cadre of non-coms had not permitted routine preparations to slide till the last minute.
Miles, with Elli at his back, was the center of a hurricane of curiosity from the moment he stepped on board—What's the new contract, sir? The speed with which the rumor mill cranked out speculation both shrewd and absurd was amazing. He sent the speculators on their way with a repeated, Yes, we have a contract—yes, we're breaking orbit. Just as soon as you're ready. Are you ready, Mister? Is the rest of your squad ready? Then maybe you'd better go assist 'em. . . .
"Tung!" Miles hailed his chief of staff. The squat Eurasian was dressed in civilian gear, carrying luggage. "You just now back?"
"I'm just now leaving. Didn't Auson get hold of you, Admiral? I've been trying to reach you for a week."
"What?" Miles pulled him aside.
"I've turned in my resignation. I'm activating my retirement option."
"What? Why?"
Tung grinned. "Congratulate me. I'm getting married."
Stunned, Miles croaked, "Congratulations. Ah—when did this happen?"
"On leave, of course. She's actually my second cousin once removed. A widow. She's been running a tourist boat up the Amazon by herself since her husband died. She's the captain and the cook too. She fries a moo shu pork to kill for. But she's getting a little older—needs some muscle." The bullet-shaped Tung could certainly supply that. "We're going to be partners. Hell," he went on, "when you finish buying out the Triumph, we can even afford to dispense with the tourists. You ever want to try water-skiing on the Amazon behind a fifty-meter hoversloop, son, stop by."
And the mutant piranhas could eat what was left, no doubt. The charm of the vision of Tung spending his sunset years watching—sunsets, from a riverboat deck, with a buxom—Miles was sure she was buxom—Eurasian lady on his lap, a drink in one hand and scarfing down moo shu pork with the other, was a little lost on Miles as he contemplated a) what it was going to cost the fleet to buy out Tung's share of the Triumph, and b) the huge Tung-shaped hole this was going to leave in his command structure.
Gibbering, hyperventilating, or running around in small circles were not useful responses. Instead Miles essayed cautiously, "Ah . . . you sure you won't be bored?"
Tung, damn his sharp eyes, lowered his voice and answered the real question. "I wouldn't be leaving if I didn't think you could handle it. You've steadied down a lot, son. Just keep on like you've been." He grinned again and cracked his knuckles. "Besides, you have an advantage not shared by any other mercenary commander in the galaxy."
"What's that?" Miles bit.
Tung lowered his voice still further. "You don't have to make a profit."
And that, and his sardonic grin, was as close as cagey Tung was ever likely to admit that he had long ago figured out who their real employer was. He saluted as he left.
Miles swallowed, and turned to Elli. "Well . . . call a meeting of the Intelligence department in half an hour. We'll want to get our pathfinders en route as quickly as possible. Ideally, we want to put a team inside the enemy organization before we arrive."
Miles paused, as he realized he was now looking into the face of the most wily pathfinder in his fleet for people-situations, as versus terrain-situations which called for the talents of a certain Lieutenant Christof. To send her ahead, out of reach, into danger—No, no!—was compellingly logical. Quinn's best offensive talents were largely wasted bodyguarding; it was