Chapters (2)
wilted.
A mercenary held up her hand, serious as a child at school.
"Yes, Trainee Quinn?"
"When do we get copies of the Dendarii regulations?"
Miles's heart seemed to stop. He hadn't thought of that one. It was such a reasonable request—the sort of commander Miles was trying to pass himself off as should know his regs by heart, or sleep with them under his pillow, or something. He produced a dry-mouthed smile,
and croaked boldly, "Tomorrow. I'll have copies distributed to everyone." Copies of what? I'll figure something out. . . .
There was a silence. Then another voice from the back popped up.
"What kind of insurance package does the, the Dendariis have? Do we get a paid vacation?"
And another: "Do we get any perqs? What's the pay scale?"
And yet another: "Will our pensions carry over from our old
PDF Transform
PDF Transform
Y
Y
Y
er
Y
er
B
2
B
2
B
.0
B
.0
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
w
w
w .
w
A B B YY.com
.A B BYY.com
contracts? Is there a retirement plan?"
Miles nearly bolted from the room, confounded by this spate of
practical questions. He had been prepared for defiance, disbelief, a concerted unarmed rush. . . . He had a sudden maniac vision of
Vorthalia the Bold demanding a whole-life policy from his Emperor at sword's point.
He gulped down total confusion, and forged ahead. "I'll distribute a brochure," he promised—he had a vague idea that sort of
information came in brochures—"later. As for fringe benefits—" He barely managed to turn a glassy stare into an icy one. "I am permitting you to live. Further privileges will have to be earned."
He surveyed their faces. Confusion, yes, that was what he wanted.
Dismay, division, and most of all, distraction. Perfect. Let them,
swirled upside-down in this gush of flim-flam, forget that their
primary duty was to retake their own ship. Forget it for just a week, keep them too busy to think for just a week, a week was all he needed.
After that, they'd be Daum's problem. There was something else in
their faces, though; he could not quite put his finger on it. No matter—
his next task was to get offstage gracefully, and get them all moving.
And get a minute alone with Bothari . . .
"Commander Elena Bothari has a list of your assignments. See her on your way out. Attention!" He put a snap in his voice. They shuffled raggedly to their feet, as if the posture were but dimly remembered.
"Dismissed!" Yes, before they came up with any more bizarre questions and his invention failed him.
He caught a snatch of sotto voce conversation as he marched out.
"—homicidal runt lunatic . . ."
"Yes, but with a commander like that, there's a chance I might survive my next battle. . . ."
He recognized the something-else in their faces suddenly—it was