Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [258]
"What?" yelped Miles.
Elena's winged brows rose. "Just Cavilo. Nobody seems to know if it's the given or surname—"
"Cavilo is the person who tried to buy me—or Victor Rotha—at the Consortium Station. For twenty thousand Betan dollars."
Elena's brows stayed up. "Why?"
"I don't know why." Miles rethought their goal. Pol, the Consortium, Aslund . . . no, it still came up Vervain. "But we definitely avoid the Vervani's mercs. We step off the ship and go straight to the Consul, go to ground, and don't even squeak till Illyan's men arrive to take us home, Momma. Right."
Gregor sighed. "Right."
No more playing secret agent. His best efforts had only served to get Gregor nearly murdered. It was time to try less hard, Miles decided.
"Strange," said Gregor, looking at Elena—at the new Elena, Miles guessed—"to think you've had more combat experience than either of us."
"Than both of you," Elena corrected dryly. "Yes, well . . . actual combat . . . is a lot stupider than I'd imagined. If two groups can cooperate to the incredible extent it takes to meet in battle, why not put in a tenth that effort to talk? That's not true of guerilla wars, though," Elena went on thoughtfully. "A guerilla is an enemy who won't play the game. Makes more sense to me. If you're going to be vile, why not be totally vile? That third contract—if I ever get involved in another guerilla war, I want to be on the side of the guerillas."
"Harder to make peace, between totally vile enemies," Miles reflected. "War is not its own end, except in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation. It's peace that's wanted. Some better peace than the one you started with."
"Whoever can be the most vile longest, wins?" Gregor posited.
"Not . . . historically true, I don't think. If what you do during the war so degrades you that the next peace is worse . . ." Human noises from the cargo bay froze Miles in midsentence, but it was Tung and Mayhew returning.
"Come on," Tung urged. "If Arde doesn't keep to schedule, he'll draw attention."
They filed into the cargo hold, where Mayhew held the control leash of a float pallet with a couple of plastic packing crates attached. "Your friend can pass as a fleet soldier," Tung told Miles. "For you, I found a box. It would have been classier to roll you up in a carpet, but since the freighter captain is male, I'm afraid the historical reference would be wasted."
Dubiously, Miles regarded the box. It seemed to lack air holes. "Where are you taking me?"
"We have a regular irregular arrangement, for getting fleet intelligence officers in and out quietly. Got this inner-system freighter captain, an independent owner—he's Vervani, but he's been on the payroll three times before. He'll take you across, get you through Vervani customs. After that you're on your own."
"How much danger is this arrangement to you all?" Miles worried.
"Not a lot," said Tung, "all things considered. He'll think he's delivering more mercenary agents, for a price, and naturally keep his mouth shut. It'll be days before he gets back to even be questioned. I arranged it all myself, Elena and Arde didn't appear, so he can't give them away."
"Thank you," Miles said quietly.
Tung nodded, and sighed. "If only you'd stayed on with us. What a soldier I could've made of you, these last three years."
"If you do find yourselves out of a job as a consequence of helping us," Gregor added, "Elena will know how to put you in touch."
Tung grimaced. "In touch with what, eh?"
"Better not to know," said Elena, helping Miles position himself in the packing crate.
"All right," grumbled Tung, "but . . . all right."
Miles found himself face-to-face with Elena, for the last time till—when? She hugged him, but then gave Gregor an identical, sisterly embrace. "Give my love to your mother," she told Miles. "I often think of her."
"Right. Uh . . . give my best to Baz. Tell him, it's all right. Your personal safety comes first, yours and his. The Dendarii are, are, were . . ." He could not quite bring himself to say, not important, or, a