Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [282]
Elena checked Metzov's pulse and pupils. "All right. He's all yours, gentlemen." She stepped back to lean against the door frame with folded arms, her expression almost as closed as Metzov's had been.
Miles opened his hand. "After you, Admiral."
Oser's mouth twisted. "Thank you. Admiral." He walked over to stare speculatively into Metzov's face. "General Metzov. Is your name Stanis Metzov?"
Metzov grinned. "Yeah, that's me."
"Presently second-in-command, Randall's Rangers?"
"Yeah."
"Who sent you to assassinate Admiral Naismith?"
Metzov's face took on an expression of sunny bewilderment. "Who?"
"Call me Miles," Miles suggested. "He knows me under a . . . pseudonym." His chance of getting through this interview with his identity undisclosed equalled that of a snowball surviving a worm-hole jump to the center of a sun, but why rush the complications?
"Who sent you to kill Miles?"
"Cavie did. Of course. He escaped, you see. I was the only one she could trust . . . trust . . . the bitch. . . ."
Miles's brow twitched. "In fact, Cavilo shipped me back here herself," he informed Oser. "General Metzov was therefore set up. But to what end? My turn, now, I think."
Oser made the after-you gesture and stepped back. Miles tottered off his bench and into Metzov's line-of-sight. Metzov breathed rage even through the fast-penta euphoria, then grinned vilely.
Miles decided to start with the question that had driven him most nuts the longest. "Who—what target—was your ground-attack planned to be upon?"
"Vervain," said Metzov.
Even Oser's jaw dropped. The blood thudded in Miles's ears in the stunned silence.
"Vervain is your employer," Oser choked.
"God—God!—finally it adds up!" Miles almost capered; it came out a stagger, which Elena lurched away from the wall to catch. "Yes, yes, yes . . ."
"It's insane," said Oser. "So that's Cavilo's surprise."
"That's not the end of it, I'll bet. Cavilo's drop forces are bigger than ours by far, but no way are they big enough to take on a fully settled planet like Vervain on the ground. They can only raid and run."
"Raid and run, right," smiled Metzov equably.
"What was your particular target, then?" asked Miles urgently.
"Banks . . . art museums . . . gene banks . . . hostages . . ."
"That's a pirate raid," said Oser. "What the hell were you going to do with the loot?"
"Drop it off on Jackson's Whole, on the way out; they fence it."
"How did you figure to escape the irate Vervani Navy, then?" asked Miles.
"Hit them just before the new fleet comes on-line. Cetagandan invasion fleet'll catch 'em in orbital dock. Sitting targets. Easy."
The silence this time was utter.
"That's Cavilo's surprise," Miles whispered at last. "Yeah. That one's worthy of her."
"Cetagandan . . . invasion?" Oser unconsciously began to chew a fingernail.
"God, it fits, it fits." Miles began to pace the cubicle with uneven steps. "What's the only way to take a wormhole jump? From both sides at once. The Vervani aren't Cavilo's employers—the Cetagandans are." He turned to point at the slack-lipped, nodding general. "And now I see Metzov's place, clear as day."
"Pirate," shrugged Oser.
"No—goat."
"What?"
"This man—you apparently don't know—was cashiered from the Barrayaran Imperial Service for brutality."
Oser blinked. "From the Barrayaran Service? That must have taken some doing."
Miles bit down a twinge of irritation. "Well, yes. He, ah . . . took on the wrong victim. But anyway, don't you see it? The Cetagandan invasion fleet jumps through into Vervani local space on Cavilo's invitation—probably on Cavilo's signal. The Rangers raid, do a fast trash of Vervain. The Cetagandans, out of the kindness of their hearts, 'rescue' the planet from the treacherous mercenaries. The Rangers run. Metzov is left behind as goat—just like throwing the guy out of the troika to the wolves," oops, that wasn't a very Betan metaphor, "to be publicly hung by the Cetagandans