MemoryMemory Miles sat
before the secured comconsole in his cabin aboard the flagship Peregrine,
composing what seemed like his thousandth classified field report
to the Chief of Barrayaran Imperial Security, Simon Illyan. Well,
it wasn't the thousandth, that was absurd. He couldn't have
averaged more than three or four missions a year, and he'd been
at it less than a decade, really, since the Vervain invasion
adventure had made it all official. Less than forty assignments.
But he could no longer name the actual number offhand without
stopping to think, and add them all up, and it wasn't an effect
of lingering cryo-amnesia, either.
Keep
organizing, boy. His personal synopsis needed to be no more
than a brief guide to the appendices of raw data, drawn from the
Dendarii Fleet's own files. Illyan's intelligence analysts liked
having lots of raw data to chew upon. It kept them occupied, down
in their little cubicles in the bowels of ImpSec headquarters at
Vorbarr Sultana. And entertained too, Miles sometimes feared.
The Peregrine,
the Ariel, and the rest of "Admiral Naismith's"
select battle group now orbited the planet of Zoave Twilight. His
fleet accountant had turned in a busy couple of days, settling up
with the insurance company who finally had their freighter and
crew back, applying for salvage fees for the hijacker's captured
ships, and filing the official claims for bounty to the Vega
Station Embassy. Miles entered the costs/returns spreadsheets in
full into his report, as Appendix A.
The prisoners had
been dumped downside, for the Vegan and Zoavan governments to
divide between them-preferably in the same sense as poor Vorberg
had been. The ex-hijackers were a vile crew. Miles was almost
sorry the pinnace had surrendered. Appendix B was copies
of the Dendarii recordings of the prisoner interrogations. The
downside governments would get an edited version of these, with
most of the Barrayar-specific queries and answers deleted. Lots
of criminal testimony, of little direct interest to ImpSec,
though the Vegans ought to be pretty excited about it.
The important
thing from Illyan's point of view was that no evidence had been
extracted which would indicate that the kidnapping of the
Barrayaran courier was anything but an accidental side effect of
the hijacking. Unless-Miles made sure to note this in his
synopsis-that information had been known only to those hijackers
who had been killed. Since that number included both their
so-called captain and two of the higher-ranking officers, there
were enough possibilities in this direction to keep Illyan's
analysts earning their pay. But that lead must now be traced from
the other end, through the House Hargraves representatives who
had been trying to handle the sale or ransom of the courier for
the hijackers. Miles hoped cordially that ImpSec would focus its
best negative attentions upon the Jacksonian semicriminal Great
House. Though House Hargraves's agents had been extremely, if
unwittingly, useful in helping the Dendarii set up their raid.
Illyan ought to
like the accountant's report. The Dendarii had not only succeeded
in keeping their costs under budget this time-for a change-they
had made a truly amazing profit. Illyan, who had been willing to
spend Imperial marks like water on the principle of the thing,
had got his courier officer retrieved effectively for free. Are
we good, yes?
So-when was the
so-efficient ImpSec Lieutenant Lord Miles Vorkosigan finally
going to get that longed-for promotion to captain? Odd, how
Miles's Barrayaran rank still seemed more real to him than his
Dendarii one. True, he had proclaimed himself an admiral first
and then earned it later, instead of the more normal other way
around, but at this late date no one could say he had not really
become what he had once pretended to be. From the galactic point
of view, Admiral Naismith was solid all the way through.
Everything he advertised himself as being, he really was, now.
His Barrayaran identity was simply an extra dimension. An
appendix?
There's no
place like home.
I didn't say
there was nothing better. I just said there was nothing like
it.
This brought him
to Appendix C, which was the Dendarii combat armor
recordings of the actual penetration and hostage retrieval
sequences, Sergeant Taura's Green Squad and its rescue of the
freighter's crew, and his own Blue Squad and that whole . . .
chain of events. In full sound and color, with all their suits'
medical and communications telemetry. Morbidly, Miles ran through
all the real-time records of his seizure and its unfortunate
consequences. Suit #060's vid recording had some really great
close-ups of Lieutenant Vorberg, shocked from his doped stupor,
screaming in agony and toppling unconscious in one direction
while his severed legs fell in the other. Miles found himself
bent over, clutching his chest in sympathy.
This was not
going to be a good time to pester Illyan for a promotion.
The convalescent
Vorberg had been handed over yesterday to the Barrayaran
Counsel's office on Zoave Twilight, for shipment home through
normal channels. Miles was secretly grateful that his covert
status had let him off the hook for going into sick bay and
personally apologizing to the man. Before the plasma arc accident
Vorberg had not seen Miles's face, concealed as it had been by
the combat armor's helmet, and afterwards, of course . . . The
Dendarii surgeon reported Vorberg had only the haziest and most
confused memory of his rescue.
Miles wished he
could delete the entire Blue Squad record from his report.
Impractical, alas. Having the most interesting sequence missing
would draw Illyan's attention as surely as a signal fire on a
mountaintop.
Of course, if he
deleted the entire appendix, all the squad records, it would be
camouflaged in the general absence. . . .
Miles considered
what could replace Appendix C. He had written plenty of
brief or vague mission synopses in the past, in the press of
events or exhaustion. Due to a malfunction, the right-arm
plasma arc in Suit #032 locked into the "on" position.
In the several minutes of confusion surrounding correcting the
malfunction, the subject was unfortunately hit by the plasma
beam. . . . Not his fault, if the reader construed this as a
malfunction in the suit and not its wearer.
No. He could not
lie to Illyan. Not even in the passive voice.
I wouldn't be
lying. I'd just be editing my report for length.
It couldn't be
done. He'd be sure to miss some tiny corroborative detail in one
of the other files, and Illyan's analysts would pick it up, and
then he'd be in ten times the trouble.
Not that there
was that much in the other sections pertinent to this brief
incident. It wouldn't be that hard to run over the whole report.
This is a bad
idea.
Still . . . it
would be interesting practice. He might have the job of reading
field reports someday, God forbid. It would be educational to
test how much fudging was possible. For his curiosity's sake, he
recorded the full report, made a copy, and began playing around
with the copy. What minimum alterations and deletions were
required to erase a field agent's embarrassment?
It only took
about twenty minutes.
He stared at the
finished product. It was downright artistic. He felt a little
sick to his stomach. This could get me cashiered.
Only if I got
caught. His whole life felt as if it had been based on that
principle; he'd outrun assassins, medics, the regulations of the
Service, the constraints of his Vor rank . . . he'd outrun death
itself, demonstrably. I can even move faster than you, Illyan.
He considered the
present disposition of Illyan's independent observers in the
Dendarii fleet. One was detached back with the fleet's main body;
the second posed as a comm officer on the Ariel. Neither
had been aboard the Peregrine or out with the squads;
neither could contradict him.
I think I'd
better think about this for a while. He classified the
doctored version top secret and filed it beside the
original. He stretched to ease the ache in his back. Desk work
did that to one.
His cabin door
chimed. "Yes?"
"Baz and
Elena," a woman's voice floated through the intercom.
Miles cleared his
comconsole, slipped his uniform jacket back on, and released the
door lock. "Enter." He turned in his station chair,
smiling a little, to watch them come in.
Baz was Dendarii
Commodore Baz Jesek, chief engineer of the Fleet and Miles's
nominal second-in-command. Elena was Captain Elena Bothari-Jesek,
Baz's wife, and current commander of the Peregrine. Both
were among the few fellow Barrayarans the Dendarii employed, and
both were fully apprised of Miles's dual identity as Admiral
Naismith, slightly renegade Betan mercenary, and Lieutenant Lord
Miles Vorkosigan, dutiful Barrayaran ImpSec covert ops agent, for
both predated the creation of the Dendarii Fleet itself. The
lanky, balding Baz had been in on the beginning of it, a deserter
on the run whom Miles had picked up and (in his private opinion)
re-created. Elena . . . was another matter altogether.
She'd been
Miles's Barrayaran bodyguard's daughter, raised in Count
Vorkosigan's household, and practically Miles's foster sister.
Barred from Barrayaran military service by her gender, she had
longed for the status of a soldier on her army-mad homeworld.
Miles had found a way to get it for her. She looked all soldier
now, slim and as tall as her husband in her crisp Dendarii
undress grays. Her dark hair, clipped in wisps around her ears,
framed pale hawk features and alert dark eyes.
So how might
their lives have been different, if she had only said
"Yes" to Miles's passionate, confused proposal of
marriage when they were both eighteen? Where would they be now?
Living the comfortable lives of Vor aristocrats in the capital?
Would they be happy? Or growing bored with each other, and
regretting their lost chances? No, they wouldn't even know what
chances they had lost. Maybe there would have been children. . .
. Miles cut off this line of thought. Unproductive.
Yet somewhere,
suppressed deep in Miles's heart, something still waited. Elena
seemed happy enough with her choice of husband. But a mercenary's
life-as he had recent reason to know-was chancy indeed. A little
difference in some enemy's aim, somewhere along the line, might
have turned her into a grieving widow, awaiting consolation . . .
except that Elena saw more line combat than Baz did. As an evil
plot, brooded upon in the recesses of Miles's mind in the secrecy
of the night-cycle, this one had a serious flaw. Well, one
couldn't help one's thoughts. One could help opening one's mouth
and saying something really stupid, though.
"Hi, folks.
Pull up a seat. What can I do for you?" Miles said
cheerfully.
Elena smiled
back, and the two officers arranged station chairs on the other
side of Miles's comconsole desk. There was something unusually
formal in the way they seated themselves. Baz opened his hand to
Elena, to cede her the first word, sure sign of a tricky bit
coming up. Miles pulled himself into focus.
She began with
the obvious. "Are you feeling all right now, Miles?"
"Oh, I'm
fine."
"Good."
She took a deep breath. "My lord-"
Another sure sign
of something unusual, when she addressed him in terms of their
Barrayaran liege relationship.
"-we wish to
resign." Her smile, confusingly, crept wider, as if she'd
just said something delightful.
Miles almost fell
off his chair. "What? Why?"
Elena glanced at
Baz, and he took up the thread. "I've received a job offer
for an engineering position from an orbital shipyard at Escobar.
It would pay enough for us both to retire."
"I, I . . .
didn't realize you were dissatisfied with your pay grades. If
this is about money, something can be arranged."
"It has
nothing to do with money," said Baz.
He'd been afraid
of that. No, that would be too easy-
"We want to
retire to start a family," Elena finished.
What was it about
that simple, rational statement that put Miles so forcibly in
mind of the moment when the sniper's needle grenade had blown his
chest out all over the pavement? "Uh . . ."
"As Dendarii
officers," Elena went on, "we can simply give
appropriate notice and resign, of course. But as your liege-sworn
vassals, we must petition you for release as an Extraordinary
Favor."
"Um . . .
I'm . . . not sure the Fleet's prepared to lose my two top
officers at one blow. Especially Baz. I rely on him, when I'm
away, as I have to be about half the time, not just for
engineering and logistics, but to keep things under control. To
make sure the private contracts don't step on the toes of any of
Barrayar's interests. To know . . . all the secrets. I don't see
how I can replace him."
"We thought
you could divide Baz's current job in half," said Elena
helpfully.
"Yes. My
engineering second's quite ready to move up," Baz assured
him. "Technically, he's better than I am. Younger, you
know."
"And
everyone knows you've been grooming Elli Quinn for years for
command position," Elena went on. "She's itching for
promotion. And ready, too. I think she more than proved that last
year."
"She's not .
. . Barrayaran. Illyan might get twitchy about that," Miles
temporized. "In such a critical position."
"He never
has so far. He knows her well enough by now, surely. And ImpSec
employs plenty of non-Barrayaran agents," said Elena.
"Are you
sure you want to formally retire? I mean, is that really
necessary? Wouldn't an extended leave or a sabbatical be
enough?"
Elena shook her
head. "Becoming parents . . . changes people. I don't
know that I'd want to come back."
"I thought
you wanted to become a soldier. With all your heart, more than
anything. Like me." Do you have any idea how much of all
this was for you, just for you?
"I did. I
have. I'm . . . done. I know enough is not a concept you
particularly relate to. I don't know if the wildest successes
would ever be enough to fill you up."
That's because
I am so very empty. . . .
"But . . .
all my childhood, all my youth, Barrayar pounded into me that
being a soldier was the only job that counted. The most important
thing there was, or ever could be. And that I could never be
important, because I could never be a soldier. Well, I've proved
Barrayar wrong. I've been a soldier, and a damned good one."
"True . .
."
"And now
I've come to wonder what else Barrayar was wrong about. Like,
what's really important, and who is really important. When you
were in cryo-stasis last year, I spent a lot of time with your
mother."
"Oh."
On a journey to a homeworld she'd once sworn passionately never
to set foot upon again, yes . . .
"We talked a
lot, she and I. I'd always thought I admired her because she was
a soldier in her youth, for Beta Colony in the Escobar War,
before she immigrated and married your father. But once,
reminiscing, she went into this sort of litany about all the
things she'd ever been. Like astrocartographer, and explorer, and
ship's captain, and POW, and wife, and mother, and politician . .
. the list went on and on. There was no telling, she said, what
she would be next. And I thought . . . I want to be like that. I
want to be like her. Not just one thing, but a world of
possibilities. I want to find out who else I can be."
Miles glanced
covertly at Baz, who was smiling proudly at his wife. No
question, her will was driving this decision. But Baz was, quite
properly, Elena's abject slave. Everything she said would go for
him too. Rats.
"Don't you
think . . . you might want to come back, after?"
"In ten,
fifteen, twenty years?" said Elena. "Do you even think
the Dendarii Mercenaries will still exist? No. I don't think I'll
want to go back. I'll want to go on. I already know that
much."
"Surely
you'll want some kind of work. Something that uses your
skills."
"I've
thought of becoming a commercial shipmaster. It would use most of
my training, except for the killing-people parts. I'm tired of
death. I want to switch to life."
"I'm . . .
sure you'll be superb at whatever you choose to do." For a
mad moment, Miles considered the possibility of denying their
release. No, you can't go, you have to stay with me. . . .
"Technically, you realize, I can only release you from this
duty. I can't release you from your liege relationship, any more
than Emperor Gregor can release me from being Vor. Not that we
can't . . . agree to ignore each others' existences for extended
periods of time."
Elena gave him a
kindly smile that reminded him quite horribly for a moment of his
mother, as if she were seeing the whole Vor system as a
hallucination, a legal fiction to be edited at will. A look of
centered power, not checking outside of herself for . . . for anything.
It wasn't fair,
for people to go and change on him, while his back was
turned being dead. To change without giving notice, or even
asking permission. He would howl with loss, except . . . you
lost her years ago. This change has been coming since forever.
You're just pathologically incapable of admitting defeat.
That was a useful quality, sometimes, in a military leader. It
was a pain in the neck in a lover, or would-be lover.
But, wondering
why he was bothering, Miles went through the proper Vor forms
with them, each kneeling before him to place his or her hands
between Miles's. He turned his palms out and watched Elena's long
slim hands fly up like birds, freed from some cage. I did not
know I had imprisoned you, my first love. I'm sorry. . . .
"Well, I
wish you every joy," Miles went on, as Elena rose and took
Baz's hand. He managed a wink. "Name the first one after me,
eh?"
Elena grinned.
"I'm not sure she'd appreciate that. Milesanna?
Milesia?"
"Milesia
sounds like a disease," Miles admitted, taken aback.
"In that case, don't. I wouldn't want her to grow up hating
me in absentia."
"How soon
can we go?" asked Elena. "We are between contracts. The
Fleet's scheduled for some downtime anyway."
"Everything's
in order in Engineering and Logistics," Baz added. "For
a change, no postmission damage repairs."
Delay? No. Let
it be done swiftly. "Quite soon, I expect. I'll have to
notify Captain Quinn, of course."
"Commodore
Quinn," Elena nodded. "She'll like the sound of
that." She gave Miles an unmilitary parting hug. He stood
still, trying to breathe in the last lingering scent of her, as
the door whispered closed behind them.
Quinn was
attending to duties downside on Zoave Twilight; Miles left orders
for her to report to him upon her return to the Peregrine.
He called up Dendarii Fleet personnel rosters upon his comconsole
while he waited, and studied Baz's proposed replacements. There
was no reason they shouldn't work out. Promote this man here,
move that one and that one to cover the holes. . . . He was not,
he assured himself, in shock about this. There were limits even
to his capacity for self-dramatization, after all. He was a
little unbalanced, perhaps, like a man accustomed to
leaning on a decorative cane having it suddenly snatched away. Or
a swordstick, like old Commodore Koudelka's. If it weren't for
his private little medical problem, he would have to say the
couple had chosen their timing well, from the Fleet's point of
view.
Quinn blew in at
last, trim and fresh in her undress grays, bearing a code-locked
document case. Since they were alone, she greeted him with a
nonregulation kiss, which he returned with interest. "The
Barrayaran Embassy sends you this, love. Maybe it's a Winterfair
gift from Uncle Simon."
"We can
hope." He decoded and unlocked the case. "Ha! Indeed.
It's a credit chit. Interim payment for the mission just
concluded. Headquarters can't know we're done yet-he must have
wanted to make sure we didn't run out of resources in the middle
of things. I'm glad to know he takes personnel retrieval so
seriously. It might be me needing this kind of attention,
someday."
"It was
you, last year, and yes he does," agreed Quinn. "You
have to give ImpSec that much credit, at least, they do take care
of their own. A very old-Barrayaran quality, for an organization
that tries to be so up-to-date."
"And what's
this, hm?" He fished the second item out of the case.
Ciphered instructions, for his eyes only.
Quinn politely
moved out of the line of sight, and he ran it through his
comconsole, though her native curiosity couldn't help prompting
a, "So? Orders from home? Congratulations? Complaints?"
"Well . . .
huh." He sat back, puzzled. "Short and uninformative.
Why'd they bother to deep-code it? I am ordered to report home,
in person, to ImpSec HQ, immediately. There's a scheduled
government courier ship passing through Tau Ceti, which will lay
over and wait for me-I'm to rendezvous with it by the swiftest
possible means, including commercial carrier if necessary. Didn't
they learn anything from Vorberg's little adventure? It doesn't
even say, Conclude mission and . . . , it just says, Come.
I'm to drop everything, apparently. If it's that urgent, it has
to be a new mission assignment, in which case why are they
requiring me to spend weeks traveling home, when I'll just have
to spend more weeks traveling right back out to the Fleet?"
A sudden icy fear gripped his chest. Unless it's something
personal. My father-my mother . . . no. If anything had
happened to Count Vorkosigan, presently serving the Imperium as
Viceroy and colonial governor of Sergyar, the galactic news
services would have picked it up even as far away as Zoave
Twilight.
"What
happens"-Quinn, leaning against the far side of the
comconsole desk, found something interesting to study on her
fingernails-"if you collapse again while you're
traveling?"
"Not
much," he shrugged.
"How do you
know?"
"Er . .
."
She glanced up
sharply. "I didn't know psychological denial could drop so
many IQ points over the side. Dammit, you've got to do something
about those seizures. You can't just . . . ignore them out of
existence, though apparently that's exactly what you've been
attempting."
"I was
trying to do something. I thought the Dendarii surgeon could get
a handle on it. I was frantic to get back out to the fleet, to a
doctor I could trust. Well, I can trust her all right, but she
says she can't help me. Now I have to think of something
else."
"You trusted
her. Why not me?"
Miles managed a
somewhat pathetic shrug. The palpable inadequacy of this response
drove him to add placatingly, "She follows orders. I was
afraid you might try to do things for my own good, whether they
were the things I wanted or not."
After a moment
spent digesting this, Quinn went on a shade less patiently,
"How about your own people? The Imperial Military Hospital
at Vorbarr Sultana is nearly up to galactic medical standards,
these days."
He fell silent,
then said, "I should have done that last winter. I'm . . .
committed to finding another solution, now."
"In other
words, you lied to your superiors. And now you're caught."
I'm not caught
yet. "You know what I have to lose." He rose and
circled the desk to take her hand, before she started biting her
nails; they fell into an embrace. He tilted his face back,
slipped an arm up around her neck, and pressed her down to his
level for a kiss. He could feel the fear, as suppressed in her as
it was in him, in her quick breathing and somber eyes.
"Oh, Miles.
Tell them-tell them your brains were still thawing out back then.
You weren't responsible for your judgments. Throw yourself on
Illyan's mercy, quick, before it gets any worse."
He shook his
head. "Any time up to last week, that might have worked,
maybe, but after what I did to Vorberg? I don't think it can get
any worse. I wouldn't have any mercy on a subordinate who
pulled a trick like that, why should Illyan? Unless Illyan . . .
isn't presented with the problem in the first place."
"Great and
little gods, you're not thinking you can still conceal this, are
you?"
"It drops
out of this mission report quite neatly."
She pushed back
from him, aghast. "Your brains did get
frostbitten."
Irritated, he
snapped, "Illyan cultivates his reputation for omniscience
quite carefully, but it's hype. Don't let those Horus-eye
badges"-he mimed the ImpSec insignia by holding his circled
thumb and fingers up to his eyes, and peering through
owlishly-"affect your mind. We just try to look like we
always know what we're doing. I've seen the secret files, I know
how screwed up things can really get, behind the scenes. That
fancy memory chip in Illyan's brain doesn't make him a genius,
just remarkably obnoxious."
"There are
too many witnesses."
"All
Dendarii missions are classified. The troops won't blab."
"Except to
each other. The story's all over the ship, half-garbled. People
have asked me about it."
"Uh . . .
what did you tell them?"
She shrugged a
shoulder, angrily. "I've been implying it was a suit
malfunction."
"Oh. Good.
Nevertheless . . . they're all here, and Illyan's way over there.
A vast distance. What can he learn, except through what I tell
him?"
"Only
half-vast." Quinn's bared teeth had little in common with a
smile.
"Come on,
use your reason. I know you can. If ImpSec was going to catch
this, they should have done it months ago. All the Jacksonian
evidence has obviously escaped them clean."
A pulse beat in
her throat. "There's nothing reasonable about this! Have you
lost your grip, have you lost your frigging mind? I swear
to the gods, you are getting as impossible to manage as your
clone-brother Mark!"
"How did
Mark jump into this discussion?" It was a bad sign, warning
of a precipitous downhill slide in the tone of the debate. The
three most ferocious arguments he'd ever had with Elli were all
over Mark, all recently. Good God. He'd avoided-mostly-their
usual intimacy this mission for fear of her witnessing another
seizure. He hadn't thought he could explain one away as a really
terrific new kind of orgasm. Had she been attributing his
coolness to their lingering differences about his brother?
"Mark has nothing to do with this."
"Mark has everything
to do with this! If you hadn't gone downside after him, you would
never have been killed. And you wouldn't have been left with some
damned cryonic short circuit in your head. You may think he's the
greatest invention since the Necklin drive, but I loathe the fat
little creep!"
"Well, I
like the fat little creep! Somebody has to. I swear, you are
frigging jealous. Don't be such a damned cast-iron bitch!"
They were
standing apart, both with their fists clenched, breathing hard.
If it came to blows, he'd lose, in every sense. Instead, he bit
out, "Baz and Elena are quitting, did you know that? I'm
promoting you to Commodore and Fleet-second in Baz's place.
Pearson will take over as Fleet engineer. And you will also be
brevet captain of the Peregrine till you make rendezvous
with the other half of the Fleet. The choice of the Peregrine's
new commander will be your first staff appointment. Pick someone
you think you can tr . . . work with. Dismissed!"
Blast it, that
was not how he'd intended to present Quinn with her
longed-for promotion. He'd meant to lay it at her feet as a great
prize, to delight her soul and reward her extraordinary effort.
Not fling it at her head like a pot in the middle of a raging
domestic argument, when words could no longer convey the weight
of one's emotions.
Her mouth opened,
closed, opened again. "And where the hell do you think
you're going, without me as a bodyguard?" she bit out.
"I know Illyan gave you the most explicit standing orders
that you're not to travel alone without one. How much more career
suicide do you think you need?"
"In this
sector, a bodyguard is a formality, and a waste of
resources." He inhaled. "I'll . . . take Sergeant
Taura. That ought to be enough bodyguard to satisfy the most
paranoid ImpSec boss. And she's certainly earned a
vacation."
"Oh! You!"
It was seldom indeed that Quinn ran out of invective. She turned
on her heel, and stalked to the door, where she turned back and
snapped him a salute, forcing him to return it. The automatic
door, alas, was impossible to slam, but it seemed to shut with a
snake-like hiss.
He flung himself
into his station chair, and brooded at his comconsole. He
hesitated. Then he called up the short mission file, and ciphered
it onto a security card. He punched up the long version-and hit
the erase command. Done.
He stuffed the
ciphered report into the code-locked pouch, tossed it onto his
bed, and rose to begin packing for the journey home.
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