But was he medically fit for it, really? So, he'd have to stay in the damned tactics room, and not go out with the squads anymore. What was new about that? He could manage the thing. He'd been defying his disabilities all his life; this was just another one in a long string. He knew how. I can do it. Somehow.

He could have Quinn back. And Taura, for all the precious bit of time she had left.

Except for the small, sly, demonic whisper at the back of his brain, There's just one little hitch. . . .

Finally, painfully, he sidled around to look at it, out of the corner of his eye, then square-on.

Haroche wants me to sacrifice Galeni. Miles closing his case, and letting Haroche get on with running ImpSec unimpeded, was to be Miles's ticket back to the Dendarii. An Imperial Auditor had broad powers, but they surely stopped short of ordering ImpSec to reemploy one. That authority was wholly at Haroche's discretion.

He rocked in his chair, his feet tapping in a fractured rhythm. But what if Galeni was guilty? Speaking of denial. Haroche's witch-hunt fears were very compelling. Miles and Galeni had been friends. If it had been any other man accused, someone he didn't know, would he be so picky about it right now? Or would he have been quite content with Haroche's evidence?

Dammit, this wasn't about friendship. It was about knowledge. Character judgment. I used to be good at personnel, I thought. Was he to doubt that judgment now? But hell, people were strange. Subtle and twisty. You never really knew everything about them, even after years of friendship. Relatives even less.

His hands flexed on the chair arms. He found himself suddenly thinking of that jump-pilot he'd ordered Sergeant Bothari to question, on his very first encounter with the Dendarii and his destiny, thirteen years ago. It bothered him extremely that he could not now remember the man's name, though he had spoken, hypocritically, at his funeral. They'd desperately needed the pilot's access-codes, to save lives. And Bothari had got them, through the roughest of ready means, and they had saved lives, Miles supposed. Though not the jump-pilot's.

His first military career had begun with a human sacrifice. Maybe another one was required for its renewal. He'd sacrificed friends enough before, God knew, led them into one bloody good cause or another but not led them back out. And they hadn't all been volunteers.

I want, I want . . . Had Haroche read the naked longing in his face? Yes, of course; Miles had seen the knowledge in Haroche's smug eyes, in the easy certainty of his smile, in his casually tented hands reflected darkly in the black glass. Powerful hands, that could give or withhold so much at will. He sees me, oh yes. Miles's eyes narrowed, and his sore lips parted. His breath puffed on the chill air of the tiny room, as if he'd just been rabbit-punched in the stomach.