“But how would that square with…” He trailed off, giving Jole that disturbing laser-scanner look he could sometimes come out with, just when you thought he was squirreling off in some other direction or three.
We need to talk, thought Jole, and No, we don’t. In any case, not here, obviously. “Remember,” he said to Kaya, instead, “I have very limited storage space.” In his apartment at any rate, though he could probably tap odd corners of the base for stowing anything up to the size of a combat drop shuttle. Fyodor, to his relief, did not point this out.
“If you want to surprise him, try asking my mother for ideas,” Miles suggested helpfully.
Kaya took this in with a considering look. “I guess you two have known each other for a long time.”
“And so well,” Miles murmured. “One gathers.” Evaluating, again? Jole shot him a quelling frown.
Fyodor put in, “Right, you do know Oliver will be escorting the Vicereine to this shindig? Don’t leave her out of your ceremonies.”
“Yes, sir, knew that,” said Kaya. “We’ve asked her to award the prizes for the boot polo tournament.”
Boot polo was a prole infantry version of the old Vor cavalry polo, which had used, in its traditional incarnation, to be dubbed “Capture the Cetagandan’s Head.” Early in Cordelia’s service here as Vicereine, someone had once tried to redub it “Capture the Pretender’s Head” in her honor, but she had shut that down in a hurry. It involved three opposing teams of men in combat boots, armed with sticks, huffing after a beleaguered ball over a patch of marked-out but ungroomed terrain chosen for its maximum roughness. As were the men, Jole supposed.
“We will be having a medical tent, I trust?” he inquired mildly.
“Oh, yes, sir. With that many people, there’s bound to be something come up. We’ll have a full field team, set to handle anything from radial bites to indigestion to broken legs to heart attacks.” She cast Fyodor a special reassuring smile at that last, which Jole did not think he entirely appreciated.
Kaya and Fyodor mooted a few more bits of news about the picnic which, while it was not Jole’s favorite topic, at least beat More fun with uterine replicators with Miles sitting right there sucking everything in. The meal drew to a close without further awkward revelations.
Or almost. Jole hit the mess lav along with Fyodor before heading back to help referee the war game sims. As they were washing their hands Fyodor glanced around, ascertained they were alone, and said, “You likely ought to be told—there’s a rumor going around you’re not just escorting the Vicereine, you’re dating the Vicereine. Don’t know what you want to do to quash it, but, in your ear and all that.”
Already? Jole thought, but said only, “Really?”
Fyodor grunted. “Well, it was a more direct term than that. Doesn’t alter the heads-up.”
So, Cordelia. I guess we’re going to test your social theories. “For a change, rumor has it right.”
Fyodor’s eyebrows climbed. He was silent for a long moment, then said, “That’s flying high, prole boy. Don’t let your wings get singed.”
A brief smile turned Jole’s lips. I had my flying lessons long ago from Aral, who never let me fall. Had this altitude really become his home country? Perhaps not quite, and a little caution could make all the difference. Knowing when to stop was not exactly a Vorkosigan talent; maybe a Jole must supply. I am not drunk enough for these thoughts.
He said only, “I’m hoping for a soft landing.” But where?
Fyodor did not ask for further elaboration, and Jole did not volunteer it. He dried his hands and led out.
Chapter Fifteen
On the day of the picnic Jole woke at his usual time, wasted half an hour trying to get back to sleep, failed, gave up, and arose to seek coffee. He should have spent last night at the Palace despite the thundering herd of Miles’s family and entourage that filled it, tromping freely through Cordelia’s privacy—two-year-olds especially being not clear on respecting boundaries, closed doors, or the possibility that someone might have an agenda not including them. Some forty-three-year-olds, as well? Surely they all had to go home soon. Wasn’t there a district back on Barrayar missing its count? As it was, he wouldn’t see Cordelia today till she picked him up at noon.
He took his mug and went up on the roof to look out over the base, a favored and relatively private viewing spot, not yet baking in the morning air. The weather seemed to be auspicious for the day. People had been trickling back and forth to the picnic site, some twenty kilometers out in the country, for a couple of days, including a convoy last night of teams to set up the pit roasts—real carcasses, not vat meat, sorry, Cordelia—and portable latrines. As he watched, another small caravan departed out the front gate, military and private vehicles mixed.
The base would nevertheless not be stripped of its preparedness—Haines had made sure there were plenty of short straws to go around. And then there was Jole’s entire working upside fleet, from Sergyar orbit to the wormhole jump-point stations, out of luck except for the rota of personnel on downside leaves or duties. He wondered how Bobrik was getting along up there. Now, if there had been no party, there could have been no such unfairness—ha, there was a counterargument that came too late.
I am fifty.
It was the first, though it probably wouldn’t be the last, time that realization had come to him today. How strange. I used to think fifty was old.
His eye was drawn to Kareenburg in the distance, spilling out of the broken side of the mountain and onto the red plain. This place had been his home for the last dozen years—but one way or another, not for much longer. The building boom was getting a grip in Gridgrad, despite the fierce starved competition for materials and labor. He realized he had been looking forward to that move as a fresh start, and not just for the region’s more attractive environs, water-braided, gray-green and alive after its own peculiar Sergyaran fashion.
Back in his apartment, he found the call light blinking on his comconsole. He sat down to find a message from Ops Vorbarr Sultana, stamped eyes-only but without an urgent flag. He eyed it with a faint and entirely futile dread, albeit not dread of surprise.
Sure enough, the image of Admiral Desplains formed over his vid plate. The Ops chief smiled affably.
“Good day, Oliver. If I have this calculated right, this should reach you just in time to congratulate you on your birthday. Welcome to your next decade. Looking back on my own fifties, it wasn’t too bad. Looking ahead—well, who knows.
“I trust my prior message reached you—the pingback said so. If it has somehow gone astray, a copy is attached hereunder.
“I thought I would have heard from you by now, but a check shows that you’re having your week’s downside leave. I imagine you’re out sailing somewhere suitably flat and wet, and that this will find you promptly on your return from the wilds.”
His leave, Jole realized gloomily, had so far included no sailing at all, and only two nights with Cordelia. Between the inspection tour out to the Serg and the war-game/theft-prevention training exercises, it had all been pretty un-leavelike, so far.
“Again, best wishes on the day. Desplains out.”
It was a perfectly cordial-sounding reminder, camouflaged under the birthday greeting, except that they were both keenly aware it shouldn’t have required a reminder at all. Jole, answer your damned mail! scarcely needed to be said more explicitly.
Desplains wouldn’t expect an answer today. Nor tonight, assumed correctly to be devoted to some celebration or another, though Jole doubted Desplains pictured the scope of the field maneuvers so unstoppably in progress. Nor even tomorrow morning, command being fairly tolerant of traditional Barrayaran hangovers as long as they didn’t occur during some crunch. But by tomorrow afternoon…
Desplains needed his answer; if yes, to start making plans, if no, to resume his headhunt. Jole couldn’t let this decision drag out past noon tomorrow.
He blew out his breath and pushed up to head for th
e shower.
* * *
The canopy of the vicereinal aircar closed over them as Oliver slid into his seat beside Cordelia. Rykov—with Ma Rykov beside him in the driver’s compartment—glanced back over his shoulder to assure that all was secure, and slipped them into the air.
Cordelia took in Oliver’s summer-weight undress greens, standard downside office wear. “Goodness, you look a tad formal for a picnic.”
He touched his chest. “The jacket comes off as soon as the opening ceremonies are concluded. It’ll be shirtsleeves after that, I promise you.” He added after a moment, “Besides, I had a message to record before I left.”
Her heart lurched. Had he finally replied to Desplains? And what has his answer been? Nothing about his face or posture conveyed a clue.
He did make a vaguely dissatisfied gesture. “I wanted to say something to all my people out on space duty. Took a bit of thinking so it didn’t come out like one of those dire vacation greetings, Having a fine time, wish you were here.”
“That seems a reversal, for someone’s birthday. Aren’t you the one supposed to be getting the greetings?”
“Yes, I spent a good bit of time this morning fielding those. But I thought my troops and techs manning all our—God spare us—budget-built Imperial equipment out there deserved some kind of well done acknowledgement from me this day. They get little enough, in peacetime.” His mouth twisted. “Usually, the more effusive lip service from on high was a preamble to attempts to cut our supplies and personnel and make it harder to do our actual jobs. We learned to be suspicious of floating praise.”
Cordelia snorted appreciation. “Did you at least bring sandals?” She extended her own semi-bare foot, and wriggled it.
“You may risk plague worms, fire radials, and sand rashes in the name of fashion if you choose. I’ll stick to my nice regulation shoes, thanks.”
And so well polished, but perhaps that wouldn’t last the day. At least, she hoped he would eventually relax. This wasn’t an Imperial military review, for pity’s sake.
He went on, “You, on the other hand, look just like a picnic. Makes me want to open the basket right here.” Finally remembering to kiss her hello, he trailed a friendly hand down over her sage-green tank top and rusty-red trousers, floppy in the legs after the Komarran fashion and therefore, she hoped, cool enough while still providing protection. “Did you mean to look like you’re planning camouflage?”
“I was thinking about Alys Vorpatril’s stern lectures on color coordination, mostly.” She flipped at her gauzy swing coat, pretty but delicate—she would probably abandon it about the same time Oliver peeled down.
“You’re dressing to match your planet?”
She chuckled. “Maybe that’s it.”
“So, where are Miles and Ekaterin and the horde?”
“Went on ahead in more cars. They’ll meet us there. The kids are really excited. There has been much speculation about cake.” Seizing what she figured would be their last opportunity today, she kissed him back, and all too soon, there became here.
“Happy birthday, by the way,” she said as the aircar descended and they broke off.
“We’ll see,” he said, in a tone of foreboding. Or perhaps forbearing; he was being pretty amiable about all this.
She glanced out. “Oh, my! It looks like a cross between a nomadic tribal camp and Hassadar Fairgrounds. How many people did you say were going to show up for this?”
“Originally, I thought it was only supposed to be a couple hundred base people, max. That was before half of Kayburg invited itself along.”
“I suppose someone will have a head-count…”
The picnic area was spread out on a slight rise along a trickling watercourse, well supplied with spindly trees, though it would be inaccurate to call it a shady grove. An irregular tent-and-booth village was laid out near the center, banks of latrines backing it, with what Cordelia recognized as a brigade-sized military medical tent at the near end and a viewing stand and open area at the far end. Aromatic smoke rose from dozens of widely scattered fire pits, with clusters of people and their picnic supplies defending each, divided by what rationale Cordelia was not sure—by unit? Garrison versus townie? Spacer versus ground-pounder? Half-a-dozen improvised parking areas were filling with a motley assortment of civilian lightflyers, aircars, and lift vans mixed with sturdier-looking military transport vehicles, float-bikes, ground rovers, and possibly wheelbarrows. And, no joke, some horse-drawn wagons and carts, though they seemed to have been unloaded from parked lift vans.
A length of the rise, some outcrops of rocks, and a portion of the watercourse about two hundred meters on a side were marked off, surrounded by cheering people; a scrum of red, yellow, and blue T-shirted figures heaved across it. The boot-polo team elimination rounds had been going on since midmorning, she understood.
The aircar oozed down to a patented Rykov landing that would not have spilled her champagne had she been blessed with any, followed at close range by the ImpSec car that had been shadowing them. Dutifully, she waited until Kosko’s boys and girls had first got out, had their look-round, and opened the canopy for her. A large public venue and, in a bit, public speeches meant that she couldn’t legitimately arm-wrestle them into backing off.
A subcommittee of Oliver’s officers hurried up to greet them and pass on the final, no really, these are the last changes, schedule of events. By whatever persuasion—broad hints through Kaya?—Oliver had managed to get them to front-load the congratulatory ceremonies, rather than having them fall more naturally between dinner and the fireworks. Thus the last half of the picnic might simulate a day off for its principal. Plotting an early getaway with her? Cordelia hoped so.
Being early for a gig that was running typically late, they seized the chance for a stroll up what Cordelia mentally dubbed the midway. Several open-sided tents housed branches from Kayburg eateries, plus two bars, not yet very busy. At this time of the day, with people’s children running all over, their adults gamely trailing, the smaller booths that offered ice cream, cold snacks, and gimcrack toys were a shrewder sell.
SWORD, she was amused to see, really had put up the free kissing booth that Dr. Tatiana had threatened, staffed at the moment by two attractive women and a striking young man. Unlike the restaurants, they were not selling any of their regular services today—Haines had discouraged this with an eye to objections from the base spouses, and Cordelia had softened the economic blow by hinting that really, everyone deserved a day off sometime. Stacks of Dr. T’s educational book-discs sat at the ready, one being handed out gratis with every kiss, which Cordelia hoped might help with some people’s—and not just the younger ones—tangled lives, provided that what was tangling them was lack of accurate information.
Showing support, Cordelia pressed Oliver’s arm and they turned in to collect a kiss each, to the applause of a few onlooking picnickers of both sexes, which made Oliver blush quite fetchingly. Oliver only aimed for one of the women, but the other wouldn’t let him get away without giving her a turn. Cordelia tried the cute fellow, who grinned bashfully through the kiss, though really, he was much too young for her tastes—thirty, probably. Her lips quirked as Oliver tried not to turn his head at the kid, though their eyes tracked each other briefly.
“Dare you to kiss that one,” she whispered in his ear as they turned away, and “Choose your ground,” he murmured back.
Music from an amateur band spilled out of another tent, where they also found Cordelia’s family. Up front, a gaggle of children were dancing to steps of their own devising, while their elders perched on chairs resting in the shade. Miles, gravely attentive, was being hung off two-handed by his daughter Simone, stomping happily to the beat. Ekaterin sat in the front row holding his cane. Cordelia slid in beside her.
“Is he going to be all right without that?” she asked her daughter-in-law.
“Lots of painkillers tonight,” Ekaterin murmured back, “but would you stop them?”
> “Not for worlds.”
Taurie, brimming with energy and, as far as Cordelia had yet been able to tell, entirely devoid of social fear—or any other sort—bee-lined for Oliver and demanded him as a partner, too. Ah, the old Oliver-magic, still working. Given her athleticism and his practiced skills they actually turned in a quite dancelike performance, as he guided her neatly through turns and twirls, if under his elbow rather than in his arms. The morning’s odd tension in his face gave way to amusement as she bounced and giggled.
The band, who knew very well who they were, swung promptly into another old backcountry jig, playing even faster.
Cordelia looked around. “Where are Helen and Alex?”
“They went off with Freddie—she and her friends are helping Lon ghem Navitt who is helping that cultural attaché fellow with something or another.”
“Ah, Oliver told me about that. We’ll have to go check it out.”
When Oliver’s shoes were no longer quite so shiny, and his face was pleasingly flushed, she mercifully extracted him from her granddaughter’s clutches. They made their way slowly along the makeshift promenade, receiving cheery greetings from garrison and town alike; Oliver seemed to remember an astonishing number of his people’s names. Cordelia, too, did her best to recognize people back, though years of practice had made faking it no stretch.
Oliver’s hand brushed the back of her neck, and she prepared to emit an encouraging purr, but he flicked his fingers down.
“Radial,” he explained, trying to squash the hazard with his shoe, but the thumbnail-sized creature evaded death and bobbed erratically away. “As windless as today is, I’ll bet they’ll come out in force from around that creek at dusk.”
“Ah, yes. We’ll have to slather the kids with repellent before then.” There was a supply in the boot of the vicereinal aircar; she hoped she’d brought enough to coat the whole clan.
Beyond the open area, tucked up under some trees, stood what appeared to be a small, panel-walled maze, its entrance made fetching with flowers in pots, leaves drooping in the still heat. Discernment Garden, read the hand-calligraphed sign, and Test your perceptions! Sight, sound, smell, touch, taste—which is your strength? Mikos ghem Soren waited hopefully by the entrance to shepherd visitors inside. Nowhere about it did the word Cetaganda appear, by which Cordelia detected Kaya Vorinnis’s shrewder sense of marketing, though ghem Soren, dressed appropriately enough for a picnic in shirtsleeves, trousers, and sandals, still defiantly sported his clan’s colorful face decal. Kaya’s hand, too, might be behind the shift in the come-on’s tone from vaguely patronizing to cheerful challenge.
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