The mopping-up in detail, the appalling damage control problems,

the personnel rescues, were so absorbing that it took Miles those

several hours to gradually realize the war was over for the Dendarii fleet. They had done their job.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Before departing the tactics room, Miles prudently checked with

the Triumph's security to determine how their roundup of escaped prisoners was progressing. Missing and still unaccounted for

remained Oser, the Peregrine's captain and two other loyal Oseran officers, Commander Cavilo, and General Metzov.

Miles was fairly certain he had witnessed Oser and his officers

converted to radioactive ash in his monitors. Had Metzov and Cavilo been aboard that fleeing shuttle too? Fine irony, for Cavilo to die at the hands of the Cetagandans after all. Though—admittedly—it would

have been equally ironic had she died at the hands of the Vervani,

Randall's Rangers, the Aslunders, the Barrayarans, or anyone else

she'd double-crossed in her brief, cometary career in the Hegen Hub.

Her end was neat and convenient if true, but—he didn't like to think that her last, savage remarks to him had now acquired the prophetic weight of a dying curse. He ought to fear Metzov more than Cavilo. He ought to, but he didn't. He shuddered, and borrowed a commando

guard for the walk back to his cabin.

On the way, he encountered a shuttle-load of wounded being

transferred to the Triumph's sickbay. The Triumph, in the reserve group (such as it was) had taken no hits its shields couldn't handle, but other ships had not been so fortunate. Space battle casualty lists usually had the proportions reversed from planetary, the dead

outnumbering the wounded, yet in lucky circumstances where the

artificial environment was preserved, soldiers might survive their

injuries. Uncertainly, Miles changed course and followed the

procession along. What good could he do in sickbay?

The triage people had not sent minor cases to the Triumph. Three hideous burns and a massive head injury went to the head of the line, and were whisked off by the anxiously waiting staff. A few soldiers were conscious, quietly waiting their turns, immobilized with air bag braces on their float pallets, eyes cloudy with pain and painkillers.

Miles tried to say a few words to each. Some stared

uncomprehendingly, some seemed to appreciate it; he lingered a little

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