"I'm sorry, you're mistaken," Miles's denial was pure spinal reflex. "My name is Victor Rotha."
Chodak blinked. "What? Oh! Sorry. That is—you look a lot like somebody I used to know." He took in Overholt. His eyes queried Miles urgently. "Uh, can we join you?" ; "No!" said Miles sharply, panicked. No, wait. He shouldn't throw away a possible contact. This was a complication for which he should-have been prepared. But to activate Naismith prematurely, without Ungari's orders. . . .
"Anyway, not here," he amended hastily. "I … see, sir." With a short nod, Chodak immediately withdrew drawing his reluctant companion with him. He managed to glance back over his shoulder only once. Miles restrained the impulse to bite his napkin in half. The two men faded into the concourse. By their urgent gestures, they appeared to be arguing.
"Was that smooth?" Miles asked plaintively.
Overholt looked mildly dismayed. "Not very." He frowned down the concourse in the direction the two men had disappeared.
It didn't take Chodak more than an hour to track Miles down aboard his Betan ship in dock. Ungari was still out.
"He says he wants to talk to you," said Overholt. He and Miles studied the vid monitor of the hatchway, where Chodak shifted impatiently from foot to foot. "What do you think he really wants?"
"Probably, to talk to me," said Miles. "Damn me if I don't want to talk to him, too."
"How well did you know him?" asked Overholt suspiciously, staring at Chodak's image.
"Not well," Miles admitted. "He seemed a competent non-com. Knew his equipment, kept his people moving, stood his ground under fire." In truth, thinking back, Miles's actual contacts with the man had been brief, all in the course of business . . . but some of those minutes had been critical, in the wild uncertainty of shipboard combat. Was Miles's gut-feel really adequate security clearance for a man he hadn't seen for almost four years? "Scan him, sure. But let's let him in and see what he has to say."
"If you so order it, sir," said Overholt neutrally.
"I do."
Chodak did not seem to resent being scanned. He carried only a registered stunner. Though he had also been an expert at hand-to-hand combat, Miles recalled, a weapon no one could confiscate. Overholt escorted him to the small ship's wardroom/mess—the Betans would have called it the rec room.
"Mr. Rotha," Chodak nodded, "I, uh . . . hoped we could talk here privately." He looked doubtfully at Overholt. "Or have you replaced Sergeant Bothari?"
"Never." Miles motioned Overholt to follow him into the corridor, didn't speak till the doors sighed shut, "I think you are an inhibiting presence, Sergeant. Would you mind waiting outside?" Miles didn't specify whom Overholt inhibited. "You can monitor, of course."
"Bad idea," Overholt frowned. "Suppose he jumps you?"
Miles's fingers tapped nervously on his trouser seam. "It's a possibility. But we're heading for Aslund next, where the Dendarii are stationed, Ungari says. He may bear useful information."
"If he tells the truth."
"Even lies can be revealing." With this doubtful argument Miles squeezed back into the wardroom, shedding Overholt. He nodded to his visitor, now seated at a table. "Corporal Chodak."
Chodak brightened. "You do remember,"
"Oh, yes. And, ah … are you still with the Dendarii?"
"Yes, sir. It's Sergeant Chodak, now."
"Very good. I'm not surprised." "And, um . . . the Oseran Mercenaries."
"So I understand. Whether it's good or not remains to be seen."
"What are you posing as, sir?"
"Victor Rotha is an arms dealer."
"That's a good cover," Chodak nodded, judiciously. Miles tried to put a casual mask on his next words by punching up two coffees. "So what are you doing on Pol Six? I thought the Den– the fleet was hired out on Aslund."
"At Aslund Station, here in the Hub," Chodak corrected. "It's just a couple days' flight across-system. What there is of it, so far. Government contractors." He shook his head.
"Behind schedule and over cost?"
"You got it." He accepted the coffee without hesitation, holding it between lean hands, and took a preliminary slurp. "I can't stay long." He turned the cup, set it on the table. "Sir, I think I may have accidentally done you a bad turn. I was so startled to see you there. . . . Anyway, I wanted to … to warn you, I guess. Are you on the way back to the fleet?"
"I'm afraid I can't discuss my plans. Not even with you."
Chodak gave him a penetrating stare from black almond eyes. "You always were tricky."
"As an experienced combat soldier, do you prefer frontal assaults?"
"No, sir!" Chodak smiled slightly.
"Suppose you tell me. I take it you are—or are one—of the fleet intelligence agents scattered around the Hub. There had better be more than one of you, or the organization's fallen apart sadly in my absence." In fact, half the inhabitants of Pol Six at the moment were probably spies of some stripe, considering the number of potential players in this game. Not to mention double agents—ought they to be counted twice?
"Why have you been gone so long, sir?" Chodak's tone was almost accusative.
"It wasn't my intention," Miles temporized. "For a portion of time I was a prisoner in a … place I'd rather not describe. I escaped about three months back." Well, that was one way of describing Kyril Island.
"You, sir! We could have rescued—"
"No, you couldn't have," Miles said sharply. "The situation was one of extreme delicacy. It was resolved to my satisfaction. But I was then faced with . . . considerable clean-up in areas of my operations other than the Dendarii fleet. Far-flung areas. Sorry, but you people are not my only concern. Nevertheless, I'm worried. I should have heard more from Commodore Jesek." Indeed, he should have.
"Commodore Jesek no longer commands. There was a financial reorganization and command restructuring, about a year ago, through the committee of captain-owners and Admiral Oser. Spearheaded by Admiral Oser."
"Where is Jesek?"
"He was demoted to fleet engineer."
Disturbing, but Miles could see it. "Not necessarily a bad thing. Jesek was never as aggressive as, say, Tung. And Tung?"
Chodak shook his head. "He was demoted from chief-of-staff to personnel officer. A nothing-job."
"That seems . . . wasteful."
"Oser doesn't trust Tung. And Tung doesn't love Oser, either. Oser's been trying to force him out for a year, but he hangs on, despite the humiliation of … um. It's not easy to get rid of him. Oser can't afford—yet—to decimate his staff, and too may key people are personally loyal to Tung."
Miles's eyebrow rose. "Including yourself?"
Chodak said distantly, "He got things done. I considered him a superior officer."
"So did I."
Chodak nodded shortly. "Sir . . . the thing is … the man who was with me in the cafeteria is my senior here. And he's one of Oser's. I can't think of any way short of killing him to stop him reporting our encounter."
"I have no desire to start a civil war in my own command structure," said Miles mildly. Yet. "I think it's more important that he not suspect you spoke to me privately. Let him report. I've struck deals with Admiral Oser before, to our mutual benefit."
"I'm not sure Oser thinks so, sir. I think he thinks he was screwed."
Miles barked a realistic laugh. "What, I doubled the size of the fleet during the Tau Verde war. Even as third officer, he ended up commanding more than he had before, a smaller slice of a bigger pie."
"But the side he originally contracted us to lost."
"Not so. Both sides gained from that truce we forced. It was a win-win result, except for a little lost face. What, can't Oser feel he's won unless somebody else loses?"