ducked down behind those conduits over there. Then this woman

jumped me—" a wave indicated an unconscious form in grey and

white, disposed on the deck, "which probably saved my life, because the one with the plasma arc couldn't fire when we were all tangled up wrestling for my stunner." She smiled at Jesek with enthusiastic admiration. "Baz charged him, and knocked him out. I got a choke on mine, and then Baz stunned her, and it was all over. That took some nerve, charging a plasma arc with a stunner. The mercenary only got one shot off—that's what happened to Baz's arm. I don't think I would have dared, would you?"

Miles walked around the room during this recitation, mentally

reconstructing the action. He stirred the inert body of the former

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plasma arc wielder with the toe of his boot, and thought of his own tally for the day—one tottering drunk and two sleeping women.

Jealousy twinged. He cleared his throat thoughtfully and looked up.

"No, I'd probably have taken my own plasma arc and tried to burn through the brackets on that overhead light bar, and drop it on him.

Then either nail him after he was smashed or else stun him as he

jumped out from under."

"Oh," said Elena.

Jesek's grin faded slightly. "I didn't think of that."

Miles kicked himself, mentally. Ass—what kind of commander tries

to score points off a man who needs build-up? A damned shortsighted one, obviously. This mess was only beginning. He amended himself

immediately. "I might not have either, under fire. It's deceptively easy to second-guess somebody when you're not in the heat yourself. You

did extremely well, Mr. Jesek."

Jesek's face sobered. The edge of hysterical glee faded, but left a residue of straightness in his spine. "Thank you, my lord."

Elena went off to examine one of the unconscious mercenaries,

and he added to Miles in a low voice, "How did you know? How did you know I could—hell, I didn't even know myself. I thought I could never face fire again." He stared voraciously at Miles, as though he were some mystic oracle, or talisman.

"I always knew," Miles lied cheerfully. "From the first time I met you. It's in the blood, you know. There's more to being Vor than the right to tack a funny syllable on the front of your name."

"I always thought that was a load of manure," said Jesek frankly.

"Now . . ." He shook his head in wonderment.

Miles shrugged, concealing secret agreement. "Well, you carry my shovel now, that's for damn sure. And speaking of work—we're going

to stuff all these guys into their own brig, until we decide, uh, how to dispose of them. Is that wound going to incapacitate you, or can you make this ship go pretty soon?"