Being a mercenary accountant is a lot like my university career: long bits of busy-work followed by someone above me demanding a full report, due yesterday. If I had known that, I probably would have stayed back on Vervain working for some shipping concern, rather than decided to 'seek my fortune'. I could count the number of times I had to do anything mercenary, outside realizing the prices to repair warships was highway robbery, on one hand.

After six months of being chased around by the Cetagandians, we had pulled into Earth for repairs, and I, once again, was pulling an all-nighter making sure all our bills were paid and that the admiral's Secret Employer was going to come through with money to make payroll. Thank God Earth's biosphere developed coffee beans. We were currently on twenty-four hour duty hoping that none of our creditors would notice we were flat broke and Admiral Naismith wasn't calling in with the welcome news that we'd made budget and I could start sending payments to everyone we owed.

I was about 20 hours into our all-night balancing act, and debating about whether my growing slowness and inaccuracy were approaching the point of no return. We had the holovid on in the background. Mostly as noise to keep us awake, since between Jean, Wen and myself, there was no form of music known to humanity that all three of us could tolerate. Plus, after some of the grunts decided to start a fight when their credit bounced days ago, I figured some advance warning before the admiral came into my office again, wondering if our little stack of cards was falling down, would be a good thing.

The stack of cards should be safe for now. Between the odd jobs we were picking up and the loan we had taken out, there was money coming in. At least enough to handle any emergencies, though we couldn't break orbit until we could un-mortgage the Triumph. While I'm sure Earth's repo agents are better behaved than, say, Jackson's Whole's, I doubt they'd take an IOU.

I stared at the columns of figures again on the screen. So far, I didn't see any red flags. Maybe that meant I could take a shift off - get some food that could be eaten with a knife and fork, and some sleep. I checked for messages, just to be sure no one was calling to scream at me for money. Nothing. As if I couldn't believe my luck, I checked again.

"Everything seems like it's under control," I said. "I'm going to take six. Can you manage things, Ensigns?"

Wen nodded. Unlike Jean, who was from some kind of military background that he didn't talk about, Wen was cut from the same mold as myself - some dumb kid who thought being a mercenary would be exciting until she realized that accounting was pretty much the same thing everywhere, and being a mercenary just meant your office was more likely to get blown up. The only time I'd seen anything close to action was at Tau Verde, and that was helping Commodore Jesek sabotage our own forces' payroll after the admiral had blown in and commandeered two ships.

I looked over at Jean, who waved me away. "I just came on-duty, sir. I'll hold down the fort and call if anything starts blinking."

"Excellent, Ensign Tollin." The comm techs would call our office before trying to reach me, and Wen and Jean weren't idiots - they could handle any minor emergency. "When I come back, we'll see about getting you some relief."

x x x

I wasn't even sure what meal it was after I woke up after five too-short-but-still-needed hours. It wasn't important. What was important was the coffee and the fact that my vat-grown protein and starches actually tasted like food. We had been getting short on everything but the bulk vat protein, which is incredibly filling and nutrient-dense, but is one tiny step up from eating the yeast that grow it directly. To prevent half the grunts from mutinying, having the admiral sign off the orders refilling our kitchens was the first thing I did when we came out into Earth space.

Someone set their tray down. I looked up; it was Wen. "I thought I told you to wait until I got back, Ensign."

"Lawrence came on duty and told me to check with you about the surplusage from the Triumph. And Captain Bothari-Jesek wanted to know if the admiral had called in yet."

I frowned. "You could have reached me on the comm."

"It wasn't urgent," Wen shrugged, taking a bite of her meal. "Not a bad dinner. Or breakfast. Say, sir?"

"Mmm?"

"Have you heard the gossip? About the admiral's Secret Employer?"

I coughed. "Wen, I've been stuck in that office with all of you as soon as we docked, trying to make sure the Cetagandians don't just wait until they can just buy our warships at auction. Hell, the closest I'll probably get to leave was that trip dirtside to convince some nice bankers to let us borrow enough to make our payments."

"Well," Wen said, "Rumor has it that the reason the Cetagandians are so annoyed with the admiral is because he stiffed them. That's also why we're taking so long to restock."

I snorted. "As opposed to the fact we've been making a living sabotaging their expansion? No, whoever pays our bills, it is definitely not the Cetas."

"Well, they do have a reputation for baroque plans," Wen said. "I'm just repeating what I hear - all kinds of stuff about people trying to undermine the Ceta emperor." She gestured at me with her fork hand. "Do you know anything?"

"Don't do that with your fork. You're a mercenary, not a barbarian." I used the break to take another bite of my eggs.

Wen put her fork down. "Sorry, sir. But, you see all the checks. Surely you must know something."

"No more than anyone else," I told her. "Our regulars tend to send unmarked checks, especially when its not a cut-and-dry case. For that matter, I couldn't tell you if the admiral's Secret Employers even exist." Which wasn't strictly true. It didn't take a genius to figure out that a lot of their recent clandestine missions were against the Cetagandians. Hence the outrage, since their intelligence operatives had, no doubt, put together the same facts.

"Not even a hint?"

"Aren't you dating one of the analysts?" I told her. "If she won't tell you-"

"She won't. She says she likes to forget work once she's off duty. And that anything she sees is for intel and the captains' eyes only, until the admiral says otherwise."

"Then consider mine the same answer." I picked up my tray. "Take a sleep shift, and I'll see you later."

"Yes, sir."

It did occupy my thoughts, no matter what I had told Wen. Because, things were just too regular when the admiral was around - at least when it came to things to do, though the admiral brought his own special brand of chaos with him. Back when we were Oser's and not the Dendarii Mercenaries, there was always the fear that we'd not be able to find a job if we didn't jump at anything we could handle and paid enough to keep us out of the red. Now we had an admiral who didn't seem to have a problem rescuing ten thousand prisoners-of-war, and this was the first time since he had taken over that I'd seriously had to stretch things. Or would have if the admiral had let me, instead of taking top-of-the-line everything and medical care for everyone. He spent money like he had never had to make rent on a limited income. And, we did seem to always have the money for the expensive stuff. Until now.

But who? Most places that had a defense budget to keep mercenaries on retainer had militaries. Or were Beta Colony, which just solved unwanted aggression by refusing to sell their technology to you.

Of course, a military couldn't exactly break into a POW camp without starting an Incident. The problem was, the Cetagandians were the big boogeyman right now, thanks to their attempted takeover of the Hegan Hub. I could think of a dozen governments that would want them to be a distraction without racking my brain. Pol, Barrayar, Vervain - still smarting from the last takeover - Escobar. Half of whom we'd worked for openly in the past.

Even our COs were no help. The admiral was Betan; the Jeseks were Barrayaran - and both had arrived with the admiral, in an unlikely matchup. Tung was from Earth, but Tung had been around for ages, and the admiral's bodyguard was from a space station somewhere. The captains were from half-a-dozen different places. No illumination there.

I was still neck deep in thought when I returned to my office. Lawrence and Jean stood up. "We have a problem," Lawrence stated. "We've just been delivered a lawsuit."

All idle thoughts of the mystery of who paid our checks were banished from my mind. "Is legal affairs working on it?" I asked. In other words, why were you bothering me? And who the hell was suing us? We should be in the green for quite a while yet, before the creditors would come after our blood.

Jean nodded. "They wanted to know if you'd seen the admiral and check on our account status, in case we need to settle out of court."

I sat down. "No, I hadn't seen the admiral. Wen just told me everyone and their dog is looking for the admiral." Earth was a big planet, but we were based in London dirtside, and it wasn't like the net wasn't built up everywhere. Even if the admiral had taken impromptu shore-leave - unlikely - or had gotten called away, it shouldn't be too hard to find him. "Start calling Quinn. That's her job."

x x x

I didn't get the final piece of the puzzle until years later. I was retiring and had asked Admiral Quinn - it was after the admiral, Admiral Naismith, had left - for recommendations. See, grunts can retire and just draw their pensions somewhere quiet as long as they avoided trips to the Cetagandian Empire and Jackson's Whole. But I had a head full of Dendarii intelligence, even if it was mostly along the lines of pay rates and requisitions. Short of the captains and the intelligence analysts, I probably was the most likely to meet a bad end involving fast-penta and a convenient accident if I got involved with the wrong people.

But, Admiral Quinn passed on a couple of job offers, and Dendarii connections landed me a cushy job working for the government at Komarr. I got the full reasons later from the files I was sent to read on my way there and from news articles on the 'net. It seems someone had been using the terraforming effort to funnel money and equipment to one of the anti-Barrayar groups, and they had tried to blow up the wormhole to Barrayar.

I did a double take to see Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan's name attached to the matter, but if he was anything like his clone-sib, he probably was neck-deep in whatever was going on. Lord Auditor apparently was some weird Barrayaran historical term and didn't actually mean he could work numbers. Hence, hiring some outside accountants to clean the place up.

Which... well, it wasn't the evidence I mentioned, but it did get me thinking. On the other hand, it's not like we hadn't worked for them above-the-table before, between Vervain and the admiral's clone-sib - the other one, Mark - paying us to extract the admiral from Jackson's Whole. It does make you wonder why the admiral never showed up on Barrayar's doorstep and asked to be adopted. Maybe he didn't feel like playing second-fiddle to some born-to-privilege lordling.

Or he just didn't want the risk that people would die and make him Emperor - Miles Vorkosigan was something like third or fourth in line for the throne until the Emperor had a kid. Which you'd think he'd do it as soon as he was old enough, since he's the Emperor and could probably find a million egg donors and a uterine replicator or ten. But apparently it has to be done all right and proper, with a wedding and Empress and such, which is why Barrayar and Komarr are currently going crazy now.

Anyway, it was my first day on the job, and I had just gotten through the door and was looking for places to be, when I heard someone talking. "- and you will keep our people informed."

The voice was different. For one, it had a Barrayaran accent, while the Admiral, alone of his sibs sounded Betan. But something about it stirred the part of my hindbrain that basic training had sculpted into following orders. I stood up. "Admiral Naismith, sir?"

Two men had rounded the corner. One was possibly my new boss, dressed in normal business attire. The other... well, the resemblance was striking. He was a closer match to the Admiral than Mark had been. Maybe a bit more padding on his short frame, a bit older, but recognizable. But a Barrayaran-looking medallion meant that I had gotten the wrong person but the right DNA. And the surprised expression on his face confirmed it.

"I"m sorry," I said. "I'm new here and you looked just like my- my old boss. Ah, sir." Shit, I didn't really know how to talk to a Lord or a Count's heir or whatever. And it wasn't covered in the job orientation handouts. Perhaps because they assume galactic accountants don't meet Lord Vor-somethings.

"We are hiring some new accountants. I'm sorry about that, my lord." The man with him raised an eyebrow, and glanced to see how Lord Vorkosigan (Lord Auditor Vorkosigan?) was taking it.

He granted me a wry grin. "Not a problem - being mistaken for someone else isn't a usual thing for me. Though hiring a former mercenary is an interesting choice."

I blinked, trying to figure out how he had picked that up, then felt stupid. Well, of course he'd know about Admiral Naismith. The Barryaran government probably shat bricks about having clones running around of their nobility. "I was a quartermaster aboard the Dendarii Mercenaries' Triumph, then rose to fleet accountant," I explained quickly.

"Hopefully, you'll do as good of a job here as you did for your former employers," Lord Vorkosigan answered. "I'd tell you that you'll have fewer people shooting at you, but, well," he gave an uneven shrug as he said this, "it's been an interesting month."

"Ah. Yes, sir. My lord." I wasn't sure if that was a joke, or if I should laugh anyway.

"Perhaps you should go find the front desk," the other man said, with the hint of 'and stop bothering the VIP'. "Lord Vorkosigan has a shuttle to catch, and the desk can help you find your new office."

"Right." I resisted the urge to salute, despite the presence of someone who was not Admiral Naismith, dammit. "A pleasure talking to you."

Later, though, I wondered... what if the surprise wasn't from being called another name when you are used to being recognized? What if it was seeing someone from another life? After all, when I had read about Imperial Auditors trying to figure out what the hell one was, it mentioned the date of Miles Vorkosigan's appointment... after he had been discharged from the Barrayaran intelligence service, and within a month of Admiral Quinn's promotion. Before then... well, intelligence work was classified, so there weren't many news articles on what Miles Vorkosigan did: a diplomatic trip to Cetegandia here, a photo at the Emperor's Birthday Party there.

But that would be crazy, wouldn't it?

Author's Note

I decided to name Lieutenant Bone's staff after various accountant, merchant and quartermaster characters from other fandoms. See what you can catch. This was originally written for Winterfair fic exchange, for tuully over in the Russian side of the fandom who wanted mercenary accounting.