Haroche smiled wearily. "We may end up having to agree to disagree, but try to see my view. Galeni was your friend once, and I sympathize with your dismay at the turn things have taken. This is what I can do. I can drop the treason charge, and reduce it to assault on a superior officer. Minimize the distress. A year in prison, a simple dishonorable discharge, and Galeni walks away. You might even use whatever pull you have to gain him an Imperial pardon, and spare him the prison. I've no great objection, as long as he's gotten out of here."
Thus destroying Galeni's career, and any future political ambitions . . . and Galeni had been an ambitious man, anxious to serve Komarr in that new and more peaceful future Gregor had envisioned, immensely conscious of his opportunities there. "A pardon is for the guilty," said Miles. "It's not the same thing as an acquittal."
Haroche scratched his head, and grimaced again, or maybe that was intended to be a smile. "I . . . really had another reason for asking you up here, Lord Vorkosigan. I'm looking to the future on more than one front." Haroche hesitated for a long moment, then went on, "I took the liberty of requisitioning a copy of your ImpMil neurologist's medical reports on your condition. Your seizure disorder. I thought his plan of treatment sounded promising."
"ImpSec," Miles murmured, "always was ubiquitous as cockroaches. First tap my comconsole, then my medical files . . . remind me to shake out my boots, tomorrow morning."
"My apologies, my lord. I think you'll forgive me. I had to know the particulars, before I could say what I'm about to say. But if this controlled-seizure device proves to work as you hope . . ."
"It only controls the symptoms. It's not a cure."
Haroche opened his hand, dismissing the difference. "A matter of medical definition, not practical use. I'm a practical man. I've been studying the reports of your Dendarii missions for ImpSec. You and Simon Illyan made an extraordinary team."
We were the best, oh yes. Miles grunted, neutrally, suddenly uncertain of just where Haroche was leading.
Haroche smiled wryly. "Filling Illyan's place is a damned big challenge. I'm reluctant to give up any advantage. Now that I've had a chance to work with you in person, and look over your records in real detail . . . I'm increasingly sure that Illyan made a serious mistake when he discharged you."
"It was no mistake. I more than deserved what I got." His mouth was growing dry.
"I don't think so. I think Illyan overreacted. A written censure appended to your records would have been enough, in my view." Haroche shrugged. "You could have added it to your collection. I've worked with your sort before, willing to take risks no one else is willing to take, to get results no one else is able to obtain. I like results, Miles. I like them a lot. The Dendarii Mercenaries were a great resource, for ImpSec."
"They still are. Commodore Quinn will take your money. And deliver your goods." His heart was beginning to pound.
"This woman Quinn is unknown to me, and not Barrayaran. I'd much prefer—if your medical treatment is successful—to reinstate you."
He had to swallow, in order to breathe. "Everything . . . to be as it was before? Take up where I left off?" The Dendarii . . . Admiral Naismith . . .
"Not exactly where you left off, no. By my calculations you were about two years overdue for your promotion to captain, for one thing. But I think you and I could be a team just as you and Illyan were." A small twinkle lit Haroche's eye. "You will perhaps forgive me my touch of ambition if I say, maybe even better? I'd be proud to have you on board, Vorkosigan."
Miles sat stunned. For a moment, all he could think, idiotically, was I'm sure glad I had that seizure last night, or I'd be rolling on this carpet again right now. "I . . . I . . ." His hands were shaking, his head exploding with joy. Yes! Yes! Yes! "I'd . . . have to close this case first. Give Gregor back his choke-chain. But then . . . sure!" His injured lip split again as it stretched, painfully, into an unstoppable grin. He sucked salt blood from it.
"Yes," said Haroche patiently, "that's exactly what I've been saying."
An ice-water wash seemed to pour down through the middle of Miles's chest, quenching his hot exaltation. What? He scarcely felt able to think straight. A memory filled his inner vision, of a docking bay crammed wall-to-wall with Dendarii troopers chanting, Naismith, Naismith, Naismith!
My first victory.
. . . Do you remember what it cost?
His grin had become fixed. "I . . . I . . . I . . ." He swallowed twice, and cleared his throat. As if echoing from some far-off tunnel he heard his voice—which him?—saying, "I'm going to have to think about this, General."
"Please do," said Haroche genially. "Take your time. But don't leave me in suspense forever—I can already imagine a use for the Dendarii in a certain situation which looks to be looming out near Kline Station. I'd love to discuss it with you, if you're in. I'd like your advice."
Miles's eyes were wide and dilated, his face pale and damp. "Thank you, General," he choked out. "Thank you very . . ."
He scrambled out of his chair, still smiling with bleeding lips. He almost caromed off the door frame like a drunken man; Haroche keyed the door open for him just in time. A mumbled word to Haroche's secretary had Martin and the groundcar waiting for Miles by the time he reached the building's exit.
Miles waved Martin away, and sat alone in the rear compartment. He silvered the canopy, and wished he might as easily blank out the shocky expression on his face. He felt as if he was fleeing a battlefield. But where was the wound in all this grinning glory?
He didn't stop retreating till he was back at Vorkosigan House. He ducked past his mother's retainers, and swung wide around Illyan's guest suite. He locked himself in his own bedroom, and began to pace, till he found his gaze fixated on his comconsole. It seemed to stare back at him with Horus eyes. He fled up one floor further, to the little spare room with the old wing chair. It felt small enough at last to contain him, soothing as a straitjacket. He didn't bring the brandy or the knife, this time. They would have been redundant.
He locked the door, and flung himself into the wingchair. Not just his hands but his whole body was shaking.
His old job back. Everything to be as it was before.
Tell me about denial now, huh? He'd thought he was over Naismith. Lord Vorkosigan had the upper hand, right. Pretend not to care Naismith was gone. Pretend to walk on water, while he was about it, why not? So that's why I feel like I'm drowning. The truth comes out.
You want it? Want the Dendarii back?
Yes!
But was he medically fit for it, really? So, he'd have to stay in the damned tactics room, and not go out with the squads anymore. What was new about that? He could manage the thing. He'd been defying his disabilities all his life; this was just another one in a long string. He knew how. I can do it. Somehow.
He could have Quinn back. And Taura, for all the precious bit of time she had left.
Except for the small, sly, demonic whisper at the back of his brain, There's just one little hitch. . . .
Finally, painfully, he sidled around to look at it, out of the corner of his eye, then square-on.
Haroche wants me to sacrifice Galeni. Miles closing his case, and letting Haroche get on with running ImpSec unimpeded, was to be Miles's ticket back to the Dendarii. An Imperial Auditor had broad powers, but they surely stopped short of ordering ImpSec to reemploy one. That authority was wholly at Haroche's discretion.
He rocked in his chair, his feet tapping in a fractured rhythm. But what if Galeni was guilty? Speaking of denial. Haroche's witch-hunt fears were very compelling. Miles and Galeni had been friends. If it had been any other man accused, someone he didn't know, would he be so picky about it right now? Or would he have been quite content with Haroche's evidence?
Dammit, this wasn't about friendship. It was about knowledge. Character judgment. I used to be good at personnel, I thought. Was he to doubt that judgment now? But hell, people were strange. Subtle and twisty. You never really knew everything about them,
even after years of friendship. Relatives even less.
His hands flexed on the chair arms. He found himself suddenly thinking of that jump-pilot he'd ordered Sergeant Bothari to question, on his very first encounter with the Dendarii and his destiny, thirteen years ago. It bothered him extremely that he could not now remember the man's name, though he had spoken, hypocritically, at his funeral. They'd desperately needed the pilot's access-codes, to save lives. And Bothari had got them, through the roughest of ready means, and they had saved lives, Miles supposed. Though not the jump-pilot's.
His first military career had begun with a human sacrifice. Maybe another one was required for its renewal. He'd sacrificed friends enough before, God knew, led them into one bloody good cause or another but not led them back out. And they hadn't all been volunteers.
I want, I want . . . Had Haroche read the naked longing in his face? Yes, of course; Miles had seen the knowledge in Haroche's smug eyes, in the easy certainty of his smile, in his casually tented hands reflected darkly in the black glass. Powerful hands, that could give or withhold so much at will. He sees me, oh yes. Miles's eyes narrowed, and his sore lips parted. His breath puffed on the chill air of the tiny room, as if he'd just been rabbit-punched in the stomach.
Oh, God. This isn't just a job offer. This is a bribe. Lucas Haroche had just tried to bribe an Imperial Auditor.
Tried? Or succeeded?
We'll get back to that.
And what a bribe. What a sweet bribe. Could Miles even prove it was a bribe, and not sincere admiration?
I'm sure. Oh, I'm sure. Lucas Haroche, you subtle son of a bitch, I underestimated you from Day One. So much for Miles's vaunted character judgment.
He should not have underestimated Haroche. Haroche was just as much Illyan's handpicked man as Miles was. Illyan liked weasels. But Illyan had a knack for keeping them under control. Haroche's bland, controlled, former-noncom style was a mask for a razor-sharp mind. Haroche, too, got results, any way he could, or he would not have risen to head of Domestic Affairs, not under Illyan.
Haroche would not have dared to float his suggestion unless he was sure of Miles. And why not? With access to all of Illyan's files, he'd had ample opportunity to study Admiral Naismith's career from end to end. Especially this end. Haroche knew what a fellow weasel the little Admiral was. He could confidently predict Miles would sacrifice everything up to and including his integrity to keep Naismith, because he'd already done it once. No virgins here.
His captaincy. His captaincy. Haroche certainly had no trouble figuring out where my on-switch was located. But Haroche was a loyal weasel, Miles would swear, loyal to Gregor and the Imperium, a true brother in arms. If money meant anything to the man, Miles had seen no hint of it. His passion was his ImpSec service, like Illyan himself, like Miles too. The work he had taken over from Illyan.
Miles's breath stopped; for a moment, he felt as frozen as any cryo-corpse.
No. The work Haroche had taken away from Illyan.
Oh.
Miles bent double in his chair, and began to swear, softly and horribly. He was dizzy with fury and shame, but mostly with fury. I'm blind, blind, blind! Motive! What's an elephant got to do around here, to advance and be recognized?
It was Haroche, Haroche all the time, had to be. Haroche who'd blown out Illyan's brains, in order to steal his job.
Of course the comconsole records were all beautifully choreographed. Haroche had all of Illyan's override codes, lots of time to play, and a decade's knowledge of the ImpSec HQ internal system. Miles shot out of his chair, and began to pace, practically running from side to side in the tiny room, slapping his palm into the wall hard enough to sting at every second turn. This elephant was very like a snake, all right.
It's Haroche, dammit, I know it is.
Oh, yeah? Prove it, Imperial Auditor-boy.
All the physical evidence had gone up in smoke, and all the documentation was entirely under Haroche's control. Miles had a hell of a lot less on Haroche than Haroche had on Galeni.
He couldn't just accuse the man out of thin air; he'd be counteraccused of God-knew-what, hysteria at the very least. An Imperial Auditor had power, but so did the Chief of ImpSec. He'd get one chance only, then Haroche would turn on him. Real strange things could start to happen to me. Untraceable things. In fact, the moment he failed to come back with an acceptance of Haroche's fantastic bribe, Haroche would know Miles knew. There's not much time.
Motivation. Judgment. Proof. Smoke.
He flung himself to the floor and lay glaring at the ceiling; his clenched fists pounded, once, on the worn and frayed carpet.
But . . . suppose he played along with Haroche. Took his bribe and lay in wait, to get him later, at some better opportunity. Miles could have the Dendarii and justice.
Yes!
Haroche and Miles would belong to each other, for a time, or Haroche could be lulled into thinking so. . . . Belatedly, it occurred to Miles that if this was a bribe, Haroche's oily flattery of him back in Illyan's office, all that You and Illyan were such a great team, was pure horseshit. Haroche was not in love with Admiral Naismith. And how long would it be till Haroche arranged Miles's "accidental" death, and no cryo-revival this time? An ImpSec field agent's life was a gamble anyway. Honor among thieves, hah. It would be a fascinating race, to see who could get the other first. Death, the traditional reward of treason, on a slow fuse, burning from the middle toward both ends. What a life we'd lead, for a little while. Highly stimulating.
A knock at the door derailed his thoughts, crashingly. He flinched in place, on his back on the floor, hyper-reactive. "Who is it?" he gasped.
"Miles?" came his mother's low alto, vibrant with concern. "Are you all right in there?"
"You're not having one of your seizures, are you?" Illyan's voice seconded the Countess.
"No . . . no. I'm all right."
"What are you doing?" the Countess asked. "We heard a lot of footsteps, and a thump through the ceiling. . . ."
He fought to keep his words even. "Just . . . wrestling with temptation."
Illyan's voice came back, amused. "Who's winning?"
Miles's eye followed the cracks in the plaster, overhead. His voice came out high and light, on a sigh: "I think . . . I'm going for the best two falls out of three."
Illyan laughed. "Right. See you later."
"I'll be down soon, I think."
Their footsteps receded, voices muted and gone.
Lucas Haroche, I believe I hate you.
But suppose Miles could know in advance that Haroche was going to play straight with him. It was possible. Suppose the offer had been only and exactly what it had seemed, no knife to the back later? What answer then? What answer ever?
Haroche had Admiral Naismith figured, all right, forward and back. Naismith would cry Yes!, and try to weasel out of the deal after. But Haroche didn't know Lord Vorkosigan. How could he? Practically no one did, not even Miles. I just met the man myself. He'd known a boy by that name, long ago, confused and passionate and army-mad. Properly, that boy had been left behind by Admiral Naismith, striking out for his larger identity, his wider world. But this new Lord Vorkosigan was someone else altogether, and Miles scarcely dared guess his future.
Miles was abruptly weary, sick to death of the noise inside his own head. Haroche the puppet-master had him running in circles, trying to bite himself in the back. What if he didn't play Haroche's dizzying game? What if he just . . . stopped? What other game was there?
Who are you, boy?
. . . Who are you who asks?
On the thought a blessed silence came, an empty clarity. He took it at first for utter desolation, but desolation was a kind of free fall, perpetual and without ground below. This was stillness: balanced, solid, weirdly serene. No momentum to it at all, forward or backwards or sideways.
I am who I choose to be. I always have been what I chose . . . though not always what I pleased.
His mother had often said, When
you choose an action, you choose the consequences of that action. She had emphasized the corollary of this axiom even more vehemently: when you desired a consequence you had damned well better take the action that would create it.
He lay drained of tension, not moving, and content to be so. The oddly stretched moment was like a bite of eternity, eaten on the run. Was this quiet place inside something new-grown, or had he just never stumbled across it before? How could so vast a thing lay undiscovered for so long? His breathing slowed, and deepened.
I elect to be . . . myself.
Haroche dwindled, to a tiny figure in the distance. Miles hadn't realized he could make his adversary shrink like that, and it astonished him.
But my future's gonna be short, unless I do something.
. . . Truly? In fact, Haroche had killed no one, so far. And the death of an Imperial Auditor in the middle of an unclosed case would arouse the wildest suspicions; in Miles's empty place would arise, hydra-headed, a half-dozen other Auditors at least, experienced, annoyed, and immune to horseshit of all kinds. Haroche could not possibly control them all.
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