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officer." Metzov glowered. "Thirty-five years. And they wasted me. Well, they'll discover their mistake."
Metzov glanced at his chrono. "I still don't understand your presence here. Are you sure there isn't
something else you want to say to me now, privately, before you say everything tomorrow to Cavilo
under fast-penta?"
Cavilo and Metzov, Miles decided, had set up the old interrogation game of good-guy-bad-guy. Except
they'd gotten their signals mixed, and both accidentally taken the part of bad-guy. "If you really want to
be helpful, get Gregor to the Barrayaran Consul. Or even just get out a message that he's here."
"In good time, we may. Given suitable terms." Metzov's eyes were narrowed, studying Miles. As
puzzled by Miles as Miles by him? After a stretched silence, Metzov called the guard on his wristcom,
and withdrew, with no more violent parting threat than "See you tomorrow, Vorkosigan." Sinister
enough.
I don't understand your presence here either,Miles thought as the door hissed closed and the lock
beeped. Clearly, some kind of planetary ground-attack was in the planning stage. Were Randall's
Rangers to spearhead a Vervani invasion force? Cavilo had met secretly with a high-ranking Jackson's
Consortium representative. Why? To guarantee Consortium neutrality during the coming attack? That
made excellent sense, but why hadn't the Vervani dealt directly? So they could disavow Cavilo's
arrangements if the balloon went up too early?
And who, or what, was the target? Not the Consortium Station, obviously, nor its distant parent
Jackson's Whole. That left Aslund and Pol. Aslund, a cul-de-sac, was not strategically tempting. Better
to take Pol first, cut Aslund off from the Hub (with Consortium cooperation) and mop up the weak
planet at leisure. But Pol had Barrayar behind it, who would like nothing better than an alliance with its
nervous neighbor that would give the imperium a toehold in the Hegen Hub. An open attack must drive
Pol into Barrayar's waiting arms. That left Aslund, but . . .
This makes no sense.It was almost more disturbing than the thought of Gregor supping unguarded with
Cavilo, or the fear of the promised chemical interrogation.I'm not seeing something. This makes no
sense.
The Hegen Hub turned in his head, in all its strategic complexity, all the light-dimmed night cycle. The
Hub, and pictures of Gregor. Was Cavilo feeding him mind-altering drugs? Doggie chews, like Miles's?
Steak and champagne? Was Gregor being tortured? Being seduced? Visions of Cavilo/Livia Nu's
dramatic red evening-wear undulated in Miles's mind's eye. Was Gregor having a wonderful time? Miles
thought Gregor'd had little more experience with women than he had, but he'd been out of touch with the
Emperor these last few years; for all he knew Gregor was keeping a harem now. No, that couldn't be, or
Ivan would have picked up the scent, and commented. At length. How susceptible was Gregor to a very
old-fashioned form of mind-control?
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The day-cycle crept by with Miles anticipating every moment being taken out for his very first
experience of fast-penta interrogation from the wrong end of the hypospray. What would Cavilo and
Metzov make of the bizarre truth of his and Gregor's odyssey? Three ration-chews arrived at
interminable intervals, and the lights dimmed again, marking another ship-night. Three meals, and no
interrogation. What was keeping them out there? No noises or subtle gravitic vibrations suggested the
ship had left dock, they were still locked to Vervain Station. Miles tried to exercise himself weary,
pacing, two steps, turn, two steps, turn, two steps . . . but merely succeeded in increasing his personal
stink and making himself dizzy.
Another day writhed by, and another light-dimmed "night." Another breakfast chew fell through onto the
floor. Were they artificially stretching or compressing time, confusing his biological clock to soften him up
for interrogation? Why bother?
He bit his fingernails. He bit his toenails. He pulled tiny green threads from his shirt and tried flossing his
teeth. Then he tried making little green designs with tiny, tiny knots. Then he hit on the idea of weaving
messages. Could he macrame "Help, I am a prisoner . . ." and plant it on the back of someone's jacket
by static charge? If someone ever came back, that is? He got as far as a delicate gossamer H, E, L, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]