Shards of Honour

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  "It can't be his looks," sighed her mother. "I've seen a holovid of him in the news."

  "Oh, did you save it?" asked Cordelia, instantly interested. "Where is it?"

  "I'm sure there's something in the vid files," her mother allowed, staring. "But really, Cordelia—your Reg Rosemont was ten times better looking."

  "I suppose he was," Cordelia agreed, "by any objective standard."

  "So what does the man have, anyway?"

  "I don't know. The virtues of his vices, perhaps. Courage. Strength. Energy. He could run me into the ground any day. He has power over people. Not leadership, exactly, although there's that too. They either worship him or hate his guts. The strangest man I ever met did both at the same time. But nobody falls asleep when he's around."

  "And which category do you fall in, Cordelia?" asked her mother, bemused.

  "Well, I don't hate him. Can't say as I worship him, either." She paused a long time, and looked up to meet her mother's eyes squarely. "But when he's cut, I bleed."

  "Oh," said her mother, whitely. Her mouth smiled, her eyes flinched, and she busied herself with unnecessary vigor in getting Cordelia's meager belongings settled.

  * * *

  On the fourth afternoon of her leave, Cordelia's commanding officer brought a disturbing visitor.

  "Captain Naismith, this is Dr. Mehta, from the Expeditionary Force Medical Service," Commodore Tailor introduced them. Dr. Mehta was a slim, tan-skinned woman about Cordelia's age, with dark hair drawn back, cool and antiseptic in her blue uniform.

  "Not another psychiatrist," Cordelia sighed. Her muscles knotted up the back of her neck. More interrogations—more twisting, more evasions, ever-shakier webs of lies to cover the gaps in her story where Vorkosigan's bitter truths dwelt . . .

  "Commodore Sprague's reports finally caught up with your file, a little late, it seems." Tailor's lips thinned sympathetically. "Ghastly. I'm sorry. If we'd had them earlier, we might have been able to spare you last week. And everybody else."

  Cordelia flushed. "I didn't mean to kick him. He kind of ran into me. It won't happen again."

  Commodore Tailor suppressed a smile. "Well, I didn't vote for him. Steady Freddy is not my main concern. Although"—he cleared his throat—"he has taken a personal interest in your case. You're a public figure now, like it or not."

  "Oh, nonsense."

  "It's not nonsense. You have an obligation."

  Who are you quoting, Bill? That's not your voice. Cordelia rubbed the back of her neck. "I thought I'd discharged all my obligations. What more do they want from me?"

  Tailor shrugged. "It was thought—I was given to understand—that you could have a future as a spokesman for—for the government. Due to your war experience. Once you're well."

  Cordelia snorted. "They've got some awfully strange illusions about my soldierly career. Look—as far as I'm concerned, Steady Freddy can put on falsies and go woo the hermaphrodite vote in Quartz. But I'm n-not going to play the part of a, a propaganda cow, to be milked by any party. I've an aversion to politics, to quote a friend."

  "Well . . ." He shrugged, as though he too had discharged a duty, and went on more firmly. "Be that as it may, getting you fit for work again is my concern."

  "I'm—I'll be all right, after m-my month's leave. I just need a rest. I want to go back to Survey."

  "And so you can. Just as soon as you're medically cleared."

  "Oh." The implications of that took a moment to sink in. "Oh, no—wait a minute. I had a little p-problem with Dr. Sprague. Very nice lady, her reasoning was sound, but her premises were wrong."

  Commodore Tailor gazed at her sadly. "I think I'd better turn you over to Dr. Mehta, now. She'll explain everything. You will cooperate with her, won't you, Cordelia?"

  Cordelia pursed her lips, chilled. "Let me get this straight. What you're saying is, if I can't make your shrink happy, I'll never set foot on a Survey ship again. No c-command—no job, in fact."

  "That's—a very harsh way of putting it. But you know yourself, for Survey, with small groups of people isolated together for extended periods of time, the psych profiles are of the utmost importance."

  "Yes, I know. . . ." She twitched her mouth into a smile. "I'll c-cooperate. S-sure."

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Now," said Dr. Mehta cheerfully, setting up her box on a table in the Naismiths' apartment next afternoon, "this is a completely noninvasive method of monitoring. You won't feel a thing, it won't do a thing to you, except give me clues as to which subjects are of subconscious importance to you." She paused to swallow a capsule, remarking, "Allergy. Excuse me. Think of it as an emotional dowsing rod, looking for those buried streams of experience."

  "Telling you where to drill the well, eh?"

  "Exactly. Do you mind if I smoke?"

  "Go ahead."

  Mehta lit an aromatic cigarette and set it casually in an ashtray she had brought with her. The smoke drifted toward Cordelia. She squinted at its acridity. Odd perversion for a doctor; well, we all have our weaknesses. She eyed the box, suppressing irritation.

  "Now for a baseline," said Mehta. "July."

  "Am I supposed to say August, or something?"

  "No, it's not a free-association test—the machine will do the work. But you may, if you wish."

  "That's all right."

  "Twelve."

  Apostles, thought Cordelia. Eggs. Days of Christmas.

  "Death."

  Birth, thought Cordelia. Those upper-class Barrayarans put everything into their children. Name, property, culture, even their government's continuity. A huge burden, no wonder the children bend and twist under the strain.

  "Birth."

  Death, thought Cordelia. A man without a son is a walking ghost there, with no part in their future. And when their government fails, they pay the price in their children's lives. Five thousand.

  Mehta moved her ashtray a little to the left. It didn't help; made it worse, in fact.

  "Sex."

  Not likely, with me here and him there . . .

  "Seventeen."

  Canisters, thought Cordelia. Wonder how those poor desperate little scraps of life are doing?

  Dr. Mehta frowned uncertainly at her readouts. "Seventeen?" she repeated.

  Eighteen, Cordelia thought firmly. Dr. Mehta made a note.

  "Admiral Vorrutyer."

  Poor butchered toad. You know, I think you spoke the truth—you must have loved Aral once, to have hated him so. What did he do to you, I wonder? Rejected you, most likely. I could understand that pain. We have some common ground after all, perhaps. . . .

  Mehta adjusted another dial, frowned again, turned it back. "Admiral Vorkosigan."

  Ah love, let us be true to one another. . . . Cordelia focused wearily on Mehta's blue uniform. She'll get a geyser if she drills her well there—probably knows it already, she's making another note. . . .

  Mehta glanced at her chronometer, and leaned forward with increased attention. "Let's talk about Admiral Vorkosigan."

  Let's not, thought Cordelia, "What about him?"

  "Does he work much in their Intelligence section, do you know?"

  "I don't think so. His main line seems to be staff tactician, when—when he isn't on patrol duty."

  "The Butcher of Komarr."

  "That's a damned lie," said Cordelia automatically, then wished she hadn't spoken.

  "Who told you that?" asked Mehta.

  "He did."

  "He did. Ah."

  I'll get you for that "Ah"—no. Cooperation. Calm. I do feel calm. . . . Wish that woman would either finish smoking that thing or put it out. Stings my eyes.

  "What proof did he offer you?"

  None, Cordelia realized. "His word, I guess. His honor."

  "Rather intangible." She made another note. "And you believed him?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "It—seemed consistent, with what I saw of his character."

  "You were his priso
ner for six days, were you not, on that Survey mission?"

  "That's right."

  Mehta tapped her light pen and said "hm," absently, looking through her. "You seem quite convinced of this Vorkosigan's veracity. You don't think he ever lied to you, then?"

  "Well—yes, but after all, I was an enemy officer."

  "Yet you seem to accept his statements unquestioningly."

  Cordelia tried to explain. "A man's word is something more to a Barrayaran than a vague promise, at least for the old-fashioned types. Heavens, it's even the basis for their government, oaths of fealty and all that."

  Mehta whistled soundlessly. "You approve of their form of government now, do you?"

  Cordelia stirred uncomfortably. "Not exactly. I'm just starting to understand it a little, is all. It could be made to work, I suppose."

  "So this word of honor business—you believe he never breaks it?"

  "Well . . ."

  "He does, then."

  "I have seen him do so. But the cost was huge."

  "He breaks it for a price, then."

  "Not for a price. At a cost."

  "I fail to see the distinction."

  "A price is something you get. A cost is something you lose. He lost—much, at Escobar."

  The talk was drifting onto dangerous ground. Got to change the subject, Cordelia thought drowsily. Or take a nap . . . Mehta glanced at the time again, and studied Cordelia's face intently.

  "Escobar," said Mehta.

  "Aral lost his honor at Escobar, you know. He said he was going to go home and get drunk, afterwards. Escobar broke his heart, I think."

  "Aral . . . You call him by his first name?"

  "He calls me 'dear Captain.' I always thought that was funny. Very revealing, in a way. He really does think of me as a lady soldier. Vorrutyer was right again—I think I am the solution to a difficulty for him. I'm glad. . . ." The room was getting warm. She yawned. The wisps of smoke wound tendril-like about her.

  "Soldier."

  "He loves his soldiers, you know. He really does. He's stuffed with this peculiar Barrayaran patriotism. All honor to the emperor. The emperor hardly seems worthy of it. . . ."

  "Emperor."

  "Poor sod. Tormented as Bothari. May be as mad."

  "Bothari? Who is Bothari?"

  "He talks to demons. The demons talk back. You'd like Bothari. Aral does. I do. Good guy to have with you on your next trip to hell. He speaks the language."

  Mehta frowned, twiddled her dials again, and tapped her readout screen with a long fingernail. She backtracked. "Emperor."

  Cordelia could hardly keep her eyes open. Mehta lit another cigarette and set it beside the stub of the first.

  "Prince," said Cordelia. Mustn't talk about the prince. . . .

  "Prince," repeated Mehta.

  "Mustn't talk about the Prince. That mountain of corpses . . ." Cordelia squinted in the smoke. The smoke—the odd, acrid smoke from cigarettes, once lit, never again lifted to the mouth . . .

  "You're—drugging—me. . . ." Her voice broke in a strangled howl, and she staggered to her feet. The air was like glue. Mehta leaned forward, lips parted in concentration. She then jumped from her chair and back in surprise as Cordelia lurched toward her.

  Cordelia swept the recorder from the table and fell upon it as it smashed to the floor, beating on it with her good hand, her right hand. "Never talk! No more death! You can't make me! Blew it—you can't get away with it, I'm sorry, watchdog, remembers every word, I'm sorry, shot him, please, talk to me, please, let me out, please let me out pleaseletmeout . . ."

  Mehta was trying to lift her from the floor, speaking soothingly. Cordelia caught pieces in the outwash of her own babble. "—not supposed to do that—idiosyncratic reaction—most unusual. Please, Captain Naismith, come lie down. . . ."

  Something glittered at Mehta's fingertips. An ampule.

  "No!" screamed Cordelia, rolling on her back and kicking at her. She connected. The ampule arced away to roll under a low table. "No drugs no drugs no no no . . ."

  Mehta was pale olive. "All right! All right! But come lie down—that's it, like that . . ." She darted away to turn up the air conditioning full blast, and stub out the second cigarette. The air cleared quickly.

  Cordelia lay on the couch, regaining her breath and trembling. So close—she had come so close to betraying him—and this was only the first session. Gradually she began to feel cooler and clearer.

  She sat up, her face buried in her hands. "That was a dirty trick," she observed in a flat voice.

  Mehta smiled, thin as plastic over an underlying excitement. "Well, it was, a little. But it's been an enormously productive session. Far more than I ever expected."

  I'll bet, thought Cordelia. Enjoyed my performance, did you? Mehta was kneeling on the floor, picking up pieces of the recorder.

  "Sorry about your machine. Can't imagine what came over me. Did I—destroy your results?"

  "Yes, you should have just fallen asleep. Strange. And no." Rather triumphantly, she pulled a data cartridge from the wreck, and set it carefully on the table. "You won't have to go through that again. It's all right here. Very good."

  "What do you make of it?" asked Cordelia dryly, through her fingers.

  Mehta regarded her with professional fascination. "You are without doubt the most challenging case I've ever handled. But this should relieve your mind of any lingering doubts about whether the Barrayarans have, ah, violently rearranged your thinking. Your readouts practically went off the scales." She nodded firmly.

  "You know," said Cordelia, "I'm not too crazy about your methods. I have a—particular aversion to being drugged against my will. I thought that sort of thing was illegal."

  "But necessary, sometimes. The data are much purer if the subject is not aware of the observation. It's considered sufficiently ethical if permission is obtained post facto."

  "Post facto permission, eh?" Cordelia purred. Fear and fury wound a double helix up her spine, coiling tighter and tighter. With an effort, she kept her smile straight, not letting it turn into a snarl. "That's a legal concept I'd never thought of. It sounds—almost Barrayaran. I don't want you on my case," she added abruptly.

  Mehta made a note, and looked up, smiling.

  "That's not a statement of emotion," Cordelia emphasized. "That's a legal demand. I refuse any further treatment from you."

  Mehta nodded understandingly. Was the woman deaf?

  "Enormous progress," said Mehta happily. "I wouldn't have expected to uncover the aversion defense for another week yet."

  "What?"

  "You didn't expect the Barrayarans would put that much work into you and not plant defenses around it, did you? Of course you feel hostile. Just remember, those are not your own feelings. Tomorrow, we will work on them."

  "Oh no we won't!" The muscles up her scalp were tense as wire. Her head ached fiercely. "You're fired!"

  Mehta looked eager. "Oh, excellent!"

  "Did you hear me?" demanded Cordelia. Where did that shrieky whine in my voice come from? Calm, calm . . .

  "Captain Naismith, I remind you that we are not civilians. I am not in the ordinary legal physician-patient relationship with you; we are both under military discipline, pursuing, I have reason to believe, a military—never mind. Suffice it to say, you did not hire me and you can't fire me. Tomorrow, then."

  Cordelia remained seated for hours after she left, staring at the wall and swinging her leg in absent thumps against the side of the couch, until her mother came home with supper. The next day she left the apartment early in the morning on a random tour of the city, and didn't return until late at night.

  * * *

  That night, in her weariness and loneliness, she sat down to write her first letter to Vorkosigan. She threw away her original attempt halfway through, when she realized his mail was probably read by other eyes, perhaps Illyan's. Her second was more neutrally worded. She made it handwritten, on paper, and being alone kissed it bef
ore she sealed it, then smiled wryly at herself for doing so. A paper letter was far more expensive to ship to Barrayar than an electronic one, but he would handle it, as she had. It was as close to a touch as they could come.

  The next morning Mehta called early on the comconsole, to tell Cordelia cheerily she could relax; something had come up, and their session that afternoon was canceled. She did not refer to Cordelia's absence the previous afternoon.

  Cordelia was relieved at first, until she began thinking about it. Just to be sure, she absented herself from home again. The day might have been pleasant, but for a dust-up with some journalists lurking around the apartment shaft, and the discovery about midafternoon that she was being followed by two men in very inconspicuous civilian sarongs. Sarongs were last year's fashion; this year it was exotic and whimsical body paint, at least for the brave. Cordelia, wearing her old tan Survey fatigues, lost them by trailing them through a pornographic feelie-show. But they turned up again later in the afternoon as she puttered through the Silica Zoo.

  * * *

  At Mehta's appointed hour the next afternoon the door chimed. Cordelia slouched reluctantly to answer it. How am I going to handle her today? she wondered. I'm running low on inspiration. So tired . . .

  Her stomach sank. Now what? Framed in the doorway were Mehta, Commodore Tailor, and a husky medtech. That one, Cordelia thought, staring up at him, looks as if he could handle Bothari. Backing up a bit, she led them into her mother's living room. Her mother retreated to the kitchen, ostensibly to prepare coffee.

  Commodore Tailor seated himself and cleared his throat nervously. "Cordelia, I have something to say that will be a little painful, I'm afraid."

  Cordelia perched on the arm of a chair and swung her leg back and forth, baring her teeth in what she hoped was a bland smile. "S-sticking you with the dirty work, eh? One of the joys of command. Go ahead."

  "We're going to have to ask you to agree to hospitalization for further therapy."

  Dear God, here we go. The muscles of her belly trembled beneath her shirt; it was a loose shirt, maybe they wouldn't notice. "Oh? Why?" she inquired casually.