Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [70]
Thorne was standing at attention. "Orders, sir?"
My God, thought Miles, don't they realize they're free? And more wildly, with new rocketing hope—They followed me home, Dad. Can I keep them?
Thorne, experienced, knew the ship, soldiers, and equipment intimately, not with facile surface gloss but with true depth; more vital still, Thorne had forward momentum. Miles stood straight as he could and barked, "So, Trainee Thorne, you think you're fit to command a warship, eh?"
Thorne came to a stiffer attention, chin raised eagerly. "Sir!"
"We've been presented with a most interesting little tactical exercise,"—that was the phrase his father had used to describe the conquest of Komarr, Miles recalled—"I'm going to give you the chance at it. We can keep the Pelians on hold for about one more minute. As a commander, how would you handle this?" Miles folded his arms and tilted his head, in the style of a particularly intimidating proctor from his candidacy exams.
"Trojan horse," said Thorne instantly. "Ambush their ambush, and take the station from within—you do want it captured intact, don't you?"
"Ah," said Miles faintly, "that would be fine." He dredged his mind rapidly for some likely sounding military-advisor-type noises. "But they must have some ships concealed around here somewhere. What do you propose to do about them, once you've committed yourself to defending an immobile base? Is the refinery even armed?"
"It can be, in a few hours," Daum put in, "with the maser scramblers we've got in the hold of the RG 132. Cannibalize the powersats—time permitting, even repair the solar collectors, to charge them—"
"Maser scramblers?" muttered Auson. "I thought you said you were smuggling military advisors. . . ."
Miles quickly raised his voice and overrode this. "Remember that personnel are in short supply, and definitely not expendable right now." Particularly Dendarii officers . . . Thorne bore a thoughtful look; Miles was momentarily terrified that he'd overdone his critiquing, causing Thorne to throw the problem back on him. "Convince me, then, Trainee Thorne, that taking a base is not tactically premature," Miles invited hastily.
"Yes, sir. Well, the defending ships we need to worry about are almost certainly Oseran. The Pelian shipbuilding capacity is way under par—they don't have the biotech for jump ships at all. And we have all the Oseran codes and procedures, but they don't know a thing about our Dendarii ones. I think I—we, can take them."
Our Dendarii? Miles's mind echoed. "Very well, Trainee Thorne. Go ahead," he ordered in a fine loud decisive voice. "I won't interfere unless you get in over your head." He shoved his hands in his pockets by way of emphasis, also to keep from biting his nails.
"Take us into dock, then, without tipping them off," Thorne said. "I'll ready the boarding party. May I have Commander Jesek and Commander Bothari?"
Miles nodded; Sergeant Bothari sucked in his breath, but said nothing, duty-glued to Miles's back. Thorne, dazzled with visions of captaincy, dashed out, followed by the drafted "advisors." Elena's face shone with excitement. Baz rolled a rather soggy cigar stump between his teeth, and strode after her, eyes gleaming unreadably. There was color in his face, Miles noted.
Auson stood downcast, face furrowed with anger, shame, and suspicion. There's a mutiny looking for a place to happen, thought Miles. He lowered his voice for the big man's ear alone.
"May I point out, you're still on the sick list, Trainee Auson."
Auson waggled his arms. "I could've had these off day before yesterday, damn it."
"May I also point out, that while I've promised Trainee Thorne a command, I have not said of what ship. An officer must be able to obey as well as command. To each his own test, to each his own reward. I'll be watching you, too."
"There's only one ship."
"You're full of assumptions. A bad habit."
"You're full of—" Auson shut his mouth with a snap, and gave Miles