“As my father’s son—no,” said Miles flatly.

Illyan snorted involuntarily. “Ha. Perhaps not.” His fingers drummed. “Be that as it may, Count Vorvolk has seized on two discrepancies in your mercenary covert ops reports. Wild cost overruns in what should have been the simplest of tasks, personnel pickups. I realize Dagoola blew up on you, but what about the first time?”

“The first time what?”

“They’re looking again at the pick-up you made from Jackson’s Whole. Their theory being that your successfully-concealed initial peculation there tempted you to larger efforts at Dagoola.”

“That was almost two years ago!” Miles protested.

“They’re reaching,” Illyan agreed. “They’re looking hard. They want to nail you to the wall in public if they possibly can. I am, as it were, trying to confiscate the hammer. Dammit,” he added irritably, “don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing personal in it. If you were anyone else’s son the matter would not have arisen—you know it, I know it, and they know it. Financial oversight audits by untouchable Vor bores are not my idea of an amusement. My one hope is to tire him out and make him go away. So give.”

Miles sighed. “Sir, I am at your disposal, as always. What d’you want to know?”

“Explain the equipment bill for the Jackson’s Whole pick-up.”

“It was all accounted for in my report at the time, I thought.” Miles tried to remember.

“Accounted for, yes. Explained, no.”

“We left half a cargo of high-class weaponry on the dock at Fell Station. If we hadn’t, you might have been out a scientist, a ship, and a subordinate.”

“Yes?” said Illyan. He templed his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Why?”

“Ah . . . it’s a long story. Complicated, y’know.” Despite himself, Miles smiled in memory. “Can this still be just between you and me?”

Illyan tilted his head. “All right . . .”

Labyrinth

Labyrinth

Miles contemplated the image of the globe glowing above the vid plate, crossed his arms, and stifled queasiness. The planet of Jackson's Whole, glittering, wealthy, corrupt . . . Jacksonians claimed their corruption was entirely imported—if the galaxy were willing to pay for virtue what it paid for vice, the place would be a pilgrimage shrine. In Miles's view this seemed rather like debating which was superior, maggots or the rotten meat they fed off. Still, if Jackson's Whole didn't exist, the galaxy would probably have had to invent it. Its neighbors might feign horror, but they wouldn't permit the place to exist if they didn't find it a secretly useful interface with the sub-economy.