Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [262]
The freighter captain gone, Cavilo keyed her wrist comm again. "Kurin's Hand Security? Ah, good. I'm sending you my pet double agent. Run the recording we made last week of Cell Six for his motivation, ai? Don't let him know it's not real-time . . . right. Cavilo out."
So, was the man's family free? Already dead? Being held elsewhere? What were they getting into here?
More boots rounded the corner, a heavy regulation tread. Cavilo smiled sourly, but smoothed the expression into something sweeter as she turned to greet the newcomer.
"Stanis, darling. Look what we netted this time. It's that little renegade Betan who was trying to deal stolen arms on Pol Station. It appears he isn't an independent after all."
The tan and black Rangers' uniform looked just fine on General Metzov, too, Miles noted crazily. Now would be a wonderful time to roll up his eyes and pass out, if only he had the trick of it.
General Metzov stood equally riveted, his iron-grey eyes ablaze with sudden unholy joy. "He's no Betan, Cavie."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"He's a Barrayaran. And not just any Barrayaran. We've got to get him out of sight, quickly," Metzov went on.
"Who sent him, then?" Cavilo stared anew at Miles, her lip in a dubious curl.
"God," Metzov avowed fervently. "God has delivered him into my hand." Metzov, that cheerful, was an unusual and alarming sight. Even Cavilo raised her brow.
Metzov glanced at Gregor for the first time. "We'll take him and his—bodyguard, I suppose . . ." Metzov slowed.
The pictures on the mark-notes didn't look much like Gregor, being several years out of date, but the Emperor had appeared in enough vid-casts—not dressed like this, of course. . . . Miles could almost see Metzov thinking, The face is familiar, I just can't place the name. . . . Maybe he wouldn't recognize Gregor. Maybe he wouldn't believe it.
Gregor, drawn up in a dignity concealing dismay, spoke for the first time. "Is this yet another of your old friends, Miles?"
It was the measured, cultured voice that triggered the connection. Metzov's face, reddened with excitement, drained white. He looked around involuntarily—for Illyan, Miles guessed.
"Uh, this is General Stanis Metzov," Miles explained.
"The Kyril Island Metzov?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." Gregor maintained his closed reserve, nearly expressionless.
"Where is your security, sir?" Metzov demanded of Gregor, his voice harsh with unacknowledged fear.
You're looking at it, Miles mourned.
"Not far behind, I imagine," Gregor essayed, cool. "Let Us go Our way, and they will not trouble you."
"Who is this fellow?" Cavilo tapped a boot impatiently.
"What," Miles couldn't help asking Metzov, "what are you doing here?"
Metzov went grim. "How shall a man my age, stripped of his Imperial Pension—his life savings—live? Did you hope I would sit down and quietly starve? Not I."
Inopportune, to remind Metzov of his grudge, Miles realized. "This . . . looks like an improvement over Kyril Island," Miles suggested hopefully. His mind still boggled. Metzov, working under a woman? The internal dynamics of this command chain must be fascinating. Stanis darling?
Metzov did not look amused.
"Who are they?" Cavilo demanded again.
"Power. Money. Strategic leverage. More than you can imagine," Metzov answered.
"Trouble," Miles put in. "More than you can imagine."
"You are a separate matter, mutant," Metzov said.
"I beg to differ, General," said Gregor in his best Imperial tones. Feeling for footing in this floating conversation, though concealing his confusion well.
"We must take them to the Kurin's Hand at once. Out of sight," said Metzov to Cavilo. He glanced at the arrest squad. "Out of hearing. We'll continue this in private."
They marched off, escorted by the patrol. Metzov's gaze felt like a knife blade in Miles's back, prodding and probing. They passed through several deserted docking bays till they arrived at a major one actively servicing a ship. The command ship,