Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [94]
"So I understand."
"What galactics can do, galactics can surely undo. We wish to hire the Dendarii Mercenaries to break the Oseran blockade and clear local space of all off-planet forces. The Pelians," he sniffed, "we can take care of ourselves."
I'm going to let Bothari finish strangling Baz. . . . "A bold offer, General. I wish I could take you up on it. But as you must know, most of my forces are not here."
The general clasped his hands intensely before him on the table. "I believe we can hold out long enough for you to send for them."
Miles glanced at Auson and Thorne, down the expanse of darkly gleaming plastic. Not, perhaps, the best time to explain just how long a wait that would be . . .
"We would have to run the blockade to do so, and at the moment all my jump ships are disabled."
"Felice has three commercial jump ships left, besides the ones that were trapped outside the blockade when it began. One is very fast. Surely, in combination with your warships, you might get it through."
Miles was about to make a rude reply, when it hit him—here was escape, being offered on a platter. Pile his liege-people into the jump ship, have Thorne and Auson run him through the blockade, and thumb his nose to Tau Verde IV and all its denizens forever. It was risky, but it could be done—was in fact the best idea he'd had all day—he sat up, smiling suavely. "An interesting proposition, General." He must not appear too eager. "Just how do you propose to pay for my services? The Dendarii do not work cheaply."
"I'm authorized to meet whatever terms you ask. Within reason, of course," General Halify added prudently.
"To put it bluntly, General, that's a load of—millifenigs. If Major Daum had no authority to hire outside forces, neither do you."
"They said, by whatever means necessary." The general's jaw set. "They'll back me."
"I'd want a contract in writing, signed by somebody who can properly be shaken down—uh, held responsible, after. Retired generals' incomes are not notoriously vast."
A spark of amusement flared briefly in Halify's eye, and he nodded. "You'll get it."
"We must be paid in Betan dollars. I understood you were fresh out."
"If the blockade is broken, we can get off-planet currencies again. You'll get them."
Miles pressed his lips together firmly. He must not break down into howls of laughter. Yet here he sat, a man with an imaginary battle fleet negotiating for its services with a man with an imaginary budget. Well, the price was certainly right.
The general extended his hand. "Admiral Naismith, you have my personal word on it. May I have yours?"
His humor shattered in a thousand frozen shards, swallowed in a cold vast emptiness that used to be his belly. "My word?"
"I understand it has some meaning to you."
You understand entirely too much. . . . "My word. I see." He had never yet broken his word. Almost eighteen, and he still preserved that virginity. Well, there was a first time for everything. He accepted the general's handclasp. "General Halify, I'll do my best. My word on it."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The three ships dove and wove in an intricate evasion pattern. Around them, twenty more darted, as if hawks hunted in packs. The three ships sparked, blue, red, yellow, then dissolved in a brilliant rainbow glare.
Miles leaned back in his station chair in the Triumph's tactics room and rubbed his bleary eyes. "Scratch that idea." He vented a long sigh. If he couldn't be a soldier, perhaps he had a future as a designer of fireworks displays.
Elena drifted in, munching a ration bar. "That looked pretty. What was it?"
Miles held up a didactic finger. "I have just discovered my twenty-third new way to get killed this week." He waved toward the holograph display. "That was it."
Elena glanced across the room to her father, apparently asleep, on the friction matting. "Where is everybody?"
"Catching sleep. I'm just as glad not to have an