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Sir, she paused shyly. Some of us were wondering just what is our pay schedule going to be?
Bi-weekly or monthly?
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Pay schedule. Of course. His charade must continue how long? He glanced out at the RG 132. Bent.
Bent, and full of undelivered cargo, unpaid for. He d have to keep going somehow, until they at least
made contact with Felician forces. Monthly, he said firmly.
Oh, she said, sounding faintly disappointed. I ll pass the word along, sir.
What if we re still here in a month, my lord? asked Bothari as she left with Jesek. It could get ugly
mercenaries expect to be paid.
Miles rubbed his hands through his hair, and quavered with desperate assertiveness, I ll figure
something out!
Can we get anything to eat around here? asked Mayhew plaintively. He looked drained.
Thorne popped back up at Miles s elbow. About the counterattack, sir
Miles spun on his heel. Where? he demanded, looking around wildly.
Thorne looked slightly taken aback. Oh, not yet, sir.
Miles slumped, relieved. Please don t do that to me, Captain Thorne. Counterattack?
I m thinking, sir, there s bound to be one. On account of the escaped courier, if nothing else. Shouldn t
we start planning for it?
Oh, absolutely. Planning. Yes. You, ah have an idea to present, do you? Miles prodded hopefully.
Several, sir. Thorne began to detail them, with verve; Miles realized he was absorbing about one
sentence in three.
Very good, Captain, Miles interrupted. We ll, uh, have a senior officer s meeting after after
inspection, and you can present them to everybody.
Thorne nodded contentedly, and dashed off, saying something about setting up a telecom listening post.
Miles s head spun. The jumbled geometries of the refinery, its ups and downs chosen, apparently, at
random, did nothing to decrease his sense of disorientation. And it was all his, every rusty bolt, dubious
weld, and stopped-up toilet in it...
Elena was observing him anxiously. What s the matter, Miles? You don t Took happy. We won!
A true Vor, Miles told himself severely, does not bury his face in his leigewoman s breasts and
cry even if he is at a convenient height for it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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* * *
Miles s first tour of his new domain was rapid and exhausting. The Triumph was about the only
encouraging part of it. Bothari lingered to go over the arrangements for keeping the horde of new
prisoners secure with the overworked patrol assigned to that detail. Never had Miles seen a man wish
more passionately to be twins; he half-expected Bothari to go into mitosis on the spot. The Sergeant
grudgingly left Elena to be Miles s substitute bodyguard. Once out of sight, Miles instead put Elena to
work as a real executive officer, taking notes. He did not trust even his own quick memory with the mass
of new detail.
A combined sickbay had been set up in the refinery s infirmary, as the largest facility. The air was dry
and cold and stale, like all recycled air, sweet with scented antiseptics overlaying a faint tang
compounded of sweat, excrement, burnt meat, and fear. All medical personnel were drafted from the
new prisoners, to treat their own wounded, requiring yet a couple more of Miles s thinlyspread troops as
guards. They in turn were sucked in by the needs of the moment as assistant corpsmen. Miles watched
Tung s efficient surgeon and staff at work, and let this pass, limiting himself to a quiet reminder to the
guards of their primary duty. So long as Tung s medicos stayed busy it was probably safe.
Miles was unnerved by the catatonic Colonel Benar, and the two other Felician military officers who lay
listlessly, barely responding to their rescue. Such little wounds, he thought, observing the slight chafing at
wrists and ankles, and tiny discolorations under their skins marking hypospray injection points. By such
little wounds we kill men... The murdered pilot officer s ghost, perched on his shoulder like a pet crow,
stirred and ruffled itself in silent witness.
Auson s medtech borrowed Tung s surgeon for the delicate placement of plastiskin that was to serve Elli
Quinn for a face until she could be sent how? when? to some medical facility with proper
regenerative biotech.
You don t have to watch this, Miles murmured to Elena, as he stood discreetly by to observe the
procedure.
Elena shook her head. I want to.
Why?
Why do you?
I ve never seen it. Anyway, it was my bill she paid. It s my duty, as her commander.
Well, then, it s mine, too. I worked with her all week.
The medtech unwrapped the temporary dressings. Skin, nose, ears, lips gone. Subcutaneous fat boiled
away. Eyes glazed white and burst, scalp burned off she tried to speak, a clotted mumble. Miles
reminded himself that her pain nerves had been blocked. He turned his back abruptly, hand sneaking to
his lips, and swallowed hard.
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I guess we don t have to stay. We re not really contributing anything. He glanced up at Elena s profile,
which was pale but steady. How long are you going to watch? he whispered. And silently, to himself,
for God s sake, it might have been you, Elena...
Until they re done, she murmured back. Until I don t feel her pain anymore when I look. Until I m
hardened like a real soldier like my father. If I can block it from a friend, certainly I ought to be able
to block it from the enemy
Miles shook his head in instinctive negation. Look, can we continue this in the corridor?
She frowned, but then took in his face, pursed her lips, and followed him without further argument. In the
corridor he leaned against the wall, swallowing saliva and breathing deeply.
Should I fetch a basin?
No. I ll be all right in a minute. I hope... The minute passed without his disgracing himself. Women
shouldn t be in combat, he managed finally.
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