“I hear Gregor is now quite popular on Vervain."
“He's being feted in their capital even as we speak, I believe.” Count Vorkosigan glanced at his chrono. “They've gone wild over him. Letting him ride shotgun in the Prince Serg's tac room may have been a better idea that I thought. Purely from a diplomatic standpoint.” Count Vorkosigan looked rather abstracted.
“It ... astonished me, that you permitted him to jump with you into the fire zone. I hadn't expected that."
“Well, when you came down to it, the Prince Serg's fleet tac room had to have been among the most tightly defended few cubic meters anywhere in Vervain local space. It was, it was..."
Miles watched with fascination as his father tried to spit out the words perfectly safe, and gagged on them instead. Light dawned. “It wasn't your idea, was it? Gregor ordered himself aboard!"
“He had several good arguments to support his position,” Court Vorkosigan said. “The propaganda angle certainly seems to be bearing fruit."
“I thought you'd be too ... prudent. To permit him the risk."
Count Vorkosigan studied his own square hands. “I was not in love with the idea, no. But I once swore an oath to serve an emperor. The most morally dangerous moment for a guardian is when the temptation to become a puppet-master seems most rational. I always knew the moment must ... no. I knew that if the moment never came, I should have failed my oath most profoundly.” He paused. “It was still a shock to the system, though. The letting-go."
Gregor faced you down? Oh, to have been a fly on the wall of that chamber.
“Even with you to practice on, all these years,” Count Vorkosigan added meditatively.
“Ah ... how's your ulcers?"
Count Vorkosigan grimaced. “Don't ask.” He brightened slightly, “Better, the last three days. I may actually demand food for lunch, instead of that miserable medical mush."
Miles cleared his throat. “How's Captain Ungari?"
Count Vorkosigan twitched a lip. “He's not overly pleased with you."
“I ... cannot apologize. I made a lot of mistakes, but disobeying his order to wait on Aslund Station wasn't one of them."
“Apparently not.” Count Vorkosigan frowned at the far wall. “And yet ... I'm more than ever convinced the regular Service is not the place for you. It's like trying to fit a square peg—no, worse than that. Like trying to fit a tesseract into a round hole."
Miles suppressed a twinge of panic. “I won't be discharged, will I?"
Elena regarded her fingernails and put in, “If you were, you could get a job as a mercenary. Just like General Metzov. I understand Commander Cavilo is looking for a few good men.” Miles nearly meowed at her; she traded a smirk for his exasperated look.
“I was almost sorry to learn that Metzov was killed,” remarked Count Vorkosigan. “We'd been planning to try and extradite him, before things went crazy with Gregor's disappearance."
“Ah! Did you finally decide the death of that Komarran prisoner way back when during their revolt was murder? I thought it might be—"
Count Vorkosigan held up two fingers. “Two murders."
Miles paused. “My God, he didn't try and track down poor Ahn before he left, did he?” He'd almost forgotten Ahn.
“No, but we tracked him down. Though not, alas, before Metzov had left Barrayar. And yes, the Komarran rebel had been tortured to death. Not wholly intentionally, he apparently had had some hidden medical weakness. But it was not, as the original investigator had suspected, in revenge for the death of the guard. It was the other way around. The Barrayaran guard corporal, who had participated in or at least acquiesced to the torture, though over some feeble protest, according to Ahn—the corporal suffered a revulsion of feeling, and threatened to turn Metzov in.
“Metzov murdered him in one of his panic-rages, then made Ahn help him cook up and vouch for the cover story about the escape. So Ahn was twice tainted with the thing. Metzov kept Ahn in terror, yet was equally in Ahn's power if the facts ever came out, a kind of strange lock on each other ... which Ahn at last escaped. Ahn seemed almost relieved, and volunteered to be fast-penta'd, when Illyan's agents came for him."
Miles thought of the weatherman with regret. “Will anything bad happen to Ahn now?"
“We'd planned to make him testify, at Metzov's trial ... Illyan thought we might even turn it to our favor, with respect to the Komarrans. Present that poor idiot guard corporal to them as an unsung hero. Hang Metzov as proof of the emperor's good faith and commitment to justice for Barrayarans and Komarrans alike ... nice scenario.” Count Vorkosigan frowned bitterly. “I think we will quietly drop it now. Again."
Miles puffed out his breath. “Metzov. A goat to the end. Must be some bad karma, clinging to him ... not that he didn't earn it."
“Beware of wishing for justice. You might get it."
“I've already learned that, sir."
“Already?” Count Vorkosigan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Hm."
“Speaking of justice,” Miles seized the opening. “I'm concerned over the matter of Dendarii pay. They took a lot of damage, more than a mercenary fleet will usually tolerate. Their only contract was my breath and voice. If ... if the Imperium does not back me, I will be forsworn."
Count Vorkosigan smiled slightly. “We have already considered the matter."
“Will Illyan's covert ops budget stretch, to cover this?"
“Illyan's budget would burst trying to cover this. But you, ah, seem to have a friend in a high place. We will draw you an emergency credit chit from ImpSec, this fleet's fund, and the Emperor's privy purse, and hope to recoup it all later from a special appropriation rammed through the Council of Ministers and the Council of Counts. Submit a bill."
Miles fished a data disk from his pocket. “Here, sir. From the Dendarii fleet accountant. She was up all night. Some damage estimates are still preliminary.” He set it on the comconsole desk.
One corner of Count Vorkosigan's mouth twisted up. “You're learning, boy.... “He inserted the disk in his desk for a fast scan. “I'll have a credit chit prepared over lunch. You can take it with you when you depart."
“Thank you, sir."
“Sir,” Elena put in, leaning forward earnestly, “what will happen to the Dendarii fleet now?"
“Whatever it chooses, I presume. Though they cannot linger, this close to Barrayar."
“Are we to be abandoned again?” asked Elena.
“Abandoned?"
“You made us an Imperial force, once. I thought. Baz thought. Then Miles left us, and then ... nothing."
“Just like Kyril Island,” Miles remarked. “Out of sight, out of mind.” He shrugged dolefully. “I gather they suffered a similar deterioration of morale."
Count Vorkosigan gave him a sharp look. “The fate of the Dendarii—like your future military career, Miles—is a matter still under discussion."
“Do I get to be in on that discussion? Do they?"
“We'll let you know.” Count Vorkosigan planted his hands on his desktop, and rose. “That's all I can say now, even to you. Lunch, officers?"
Miles and Elena perforce rose too. “Commodore Tung knows nothing of our real relationship yet,” Miles cautioned. “If you wish to keep that covert, I'm going to have to play Admiral Naismith when we rejoin him."
Count Vorkosigan's smile turned peculiar. “Illyan and Captain Ungari must certainly favor not breaking a potentially useful cover identity. By all means. Should be fascinating."
“I should warn you, Admiral Naismith is not very deferential."
Elena and Count Vorkosigan looked at each other, and both broke into laughter. Miles waited, wrapped in what dignity he could muster, till they subsided. Finally.
Admiral Naismith was painfully polite during lunch. Even Lieutenant Yegorov could have found no fault.
* * * *
The Vervani government courier handed the credit chit across the homeside station commandant's comconsole desk. Miles testified receipt of
it with thumbprint, retina scan, and Admiral Naismith's flourishing illegible scrawl, nothing at all like Ensign Vorkosigan's careful signature. “It's a pleasure doing business with you honorable gentlemen,” Miles said, pocketing the chit with satisfaction and carefully sealing the pocket.
“It's the least we can do,” said the jump-point station commandant. “I cannot tell you my emotions, knowing that the next pass the Cetagandans made was going to be their last, nerving to fight to the end, when the Dendarii materialized to reinforce us."
“The Dendarii couldn't have done it alone,” said Miles modestly. “All we did was help you hold the bridgehead till the real big guns arrived."
“And if it had not been held, the Hegen Alliance forces—the big guns, as you say—could not have jumped into Vervani local space."
“Not without great cost, certainly,” Miles conceded.
The station commandant glanced at his chrono. “Well, my planet will be expressing its opinion of that in more tangible form quite shortly. May I escort you to the ceremony, Admiral? It's time."
“Thank you.” Miles rose, and preceded him out of his office, his hand rechecking the tangible thanks in his pocket. Medals, huh. Medals buy no fleet repairs.
He paused at a transparent portal, caught half by the vista from the jump station and half by his own reflection. Oseran/Dendarii dress greys were all right, he decided; soft grey velvet tunic set off with blinding white trim and silver buttons on the shoulders, matching trousers and grey synthasuede boots. He fancied the outfit made him look taller. Perhaps he would keep the design.
Beyond the portal floated a scattering of ships, Dendarii, Ranger, Vervani and Alliance. The Prince Serg was not among them, being now in orbit above the Vervani homeworld while high-level—literally—talks continued, hammering out the details of the permanent treaty of friendship, commerce, tariff reduction, mutual defense pact, & etc, among Barrayar, Vervain, Aslund and Pol. Gregor, Miles had heard, was being quite luminous in both the public relations and the actual nuts and bolts part of the business. Better you than me, boy. The Vervani jump-point station was letting its own repairs schedule slacken to lend aid to the Dendarii; Baz was working around the clock. Miles tore himself away from the vista and followed the station commandant.
They paused in the corridor outside the large briefing room where the ceremony was to take place, waiting for the attendees to settle. The Vervani apparently wished the principals to make a grand entrance. The commandant went in to prepare. The audience was not large—too much vital work going on—but the Vervani had scraped up enough warm bodies to make it look respectable, and Miles had contributed a platoon of convalescent Dendarii to fluff up the crowd. He would accept on their behalf, in his speech, he decided.
As Miles waited, he saw Commander Cavilo arrive with her Barrayaran honor guard. As far as he knew, the Vervani were not yet aware that the honor-guard's weapons were lethally charged and they had orders to shoot to kill if their prisoner attempted escape. Two hard-faced women in Barrayaran auxiliary uniforms made sure Cavilo was watched both night and day. Cavilo did a good job of ignoring their presence.
The Ranger dress uniform was a neater version of their fatigues, in tan, black, and white, subliminally reminding Miles of a guard dog's fur. This bitch bites, he reminded himself. Cavilo smiled and drifted up to Miles. She reeked of her poisonous green-scented perfume; she must have bathed in it.
Miles tilted his head in salute, reached into a pocket, and took out two nose filters. He thrust one up each nostril, where they expanded softly to create a seal, and inhaled deeply to test them. Working fine. They would filter out much smaller molecules than the vile organics of that damned perfume. Miles breathed out through his mouth.
Cavilo watched this performance with an expression of thwarted fury. “Damn you,” she muttered.
Miles shrugged, palms out, as if to say, What would you have of me? “Are you and your survivors about ready to move out?"
“Right after this idiot charade. I have to abandon six ships, too damaged to jump."
“Sensible of you. If the Vervani don't catch on to you soon, the Cetagandans, when they realize they can't get at you themselves, will probably tell them the ugly truth. You shouldn't linger in these parts."
“I don't intend to. If I never see this place again it will be too soon. That goes double for you, mutant. If not for you...” she shook her head bitterly.
“By the way,” Miles added, “the Dendarii have now been paid three times for this operation. Once by our original contractors the Aslunders, once by the Barrayarans, and once by the grateful Vervani. Each agreed to cover all our expenses in full. Leaves a very tidy profit."
She actually hissed. “You better pray we never meet again."
“Goodbye, then."
They entered the chamber to collect their honors. Would Cavilo have the iron nerve to accept hers on behalf of the Rangers her twisted plots had destroyed? Yes, it turned out. Miles gagged quietly.
The first medal I ever won, Miles thought as the station commandant pinned his on him with embarrassingly fulsome praise, and I can't even wear it at home. The medal, the uniform, and Admiral Naismith himself must soon return to the closet. Forever? The life of Ensign Vorkosigan was not too attractive, by comparison. And yet ... the mechanics of soldiering was the same, from side to side. If there was any difference between himself and Cavilo, it must be in what they chose to serve. And how they chose to serve it. Not all paths, but one path....
* * * *
When Miles arrived back on Barrayar for home leave, a few weeks later, Gregor invited him for lunch at the Imperial Residence. They sat at a wrought-iron table in the North Gardens, which were famous for having been designed by Emperor Ezar, Gregor's grandfather. In summer the spot would be deeply shaded; now it was laced with light filtering through young leaves, rippling in the soft airs of spring. The guards did their guarding out of sight, and servants waited out of earshot unless Gregor touched his pager. Replete with the first three courses, Miles sipped scalding coffee and plotted an assault on a second pastry, which cowered across the table linen under a thick camouflage of cream. Or would that overmatch his forces? This had it all over the contract slave rations they'd once divided, not to mention Cavilo's doggie chews.
Even Gregor seemed to be seeing it all with new eyes. “Space stations are really boring, y'know? All those corridors,” he commented, staring out past a fountain, eye following a curving brick path that dove into a riot of flowers. “I stopped seeing how beautiful Barrayar was, looking at it every day. Had to forget to remember. Strange."
“There were moments I couldn't remember which space station I was on,” Miles agreed around a mouthful of pastry and cream. “The luxury trade's another matter, but the Hegen Hub stations did tend to the utilitarian.” He grimaced at the association of that last word.
The conversation wandered over the recent events in the Hegen Hub. Gregor brightened upon learning that Miles had never issued an actual battle order in the Triumph's fleet tac room either, except to handle the internal security crisis as delegated by Tung.
“Most officers have finished their jobs when the action begins, because the battle transpires too rapidly for the officers to affect it,” Miles assured him. “Once you set up a good tac comp—and, if you're lucky, a man with a magic nose—it's better to keep your hands in your pockets. I had Tung, you had ... ahem."
“And nice deep pockets,” said Gregor. “I'm still thinking about it. It seemed almost unreal, till I visited sickbay afterwards. And realized, such-and-such a point of light meant this man's arm lost, that man's lungs frozen...."
“Gotta watch out for those little lights. They tell such soothing lies,” Miles agreed. “If you let them.” He chased another gooey bite with coffee, paused, and remarked, “You didn't tell Illyan the truth about your topple off the balcony, did you.” It was observation, not question.
“I told him I was drunk, and climbed down.” Gregor watched the flowe
rs. “...how did you know?"
“He doesn't talk about you with secret terror in his eyes."
“I've just got him ... giving a little. I don't want to screw it up now. You didn't tell him either—for that I thank you."
“You're welcome.” Miles drank more coffee. “Do me a favor in return. Talk to someone."
“Who? Not Illyan. Not your father."
“How about my mother?"
“Hm.” Gregor bit into his torte, upon which he had been making furrows with his fork, for the first time.
“She could be the only person on Barrayar to automatically put Gregor the man before Gregor the emperor. All our ranks look like optical illusions to her, I think. And you know she can keep her own counsel."
“I'll think about it."
“I don't want to be the only one who ... the only one. I know when I'm out of my depth."
“You do?” Gregor raised his brows, one corner of his mouth crooking up.
“Oh, yes. I just don't normally let on."
“All right. I will,” said Gregor.
Miles waited.
“My word,” Gregor added.
Miles relaxed, immeasurably relieved. “Thank you.” He eyed a third pastry. The portions were sort of dainty. “Are you feeling better, these days?"
“Much, thank you.” Gregor went back to plowing furrows in his cream.
“Really?"
Crosshatches. “I don't know. Unlike that poor sod they had parading around playing me while I was gone, I didn't exactly volunteer for this."
“All Vor are draftees, in that sense."
“Any other Vor could run away and not be missed."
“Wouldn't you miss me a little?” said Miles plaintively. Gregor snickered. Miles glanced around the garden. “It doesn't look like such a tough post, compared to Kyril Island."
“Try it alone in bed at midnight, wondering when your genes are going to start generating monsters in your mind. Like Great Uncle Mad Yuri. Or Prince Serg.” His glance at Miles was secretly sharp.
“I ... know about Prince Serg's, uh, problems,” said Miles carefully.
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