Hm. I'm glad, I think. And, ah ... me?"
“You remain officially listed as detained by Imperial Security. Indefinitely."
“Limbo is supposed to be an indefinite sort of place.” His hand picked at his sheet. His knuckles were still swollen. “How long?"
“However long it takes to have its calculated psychological effect."
“What, to drive me crazy? Another three days ought to do it."
Her lip quirked. “Long enough to convince the Barrayaran militarists that you are being properly punished for your, uh, crime. As long as you are confined in this rather sinister building, they can be encouraged to imagine you undergoing—whatever they imagine goes on in here. If you're allowed to run around town partying, it will be much harder to maintain the illusion that you've been hung upside down on the basement wall."
“It all seems so ... unreal.” He hunched back into his pillow. “I only wanted to serve."
A brief smile flicked her wide mouth up, and vanished. “Ready to reconsider another line of work, love?"
“Being Vor is more than just a job."
“Yes, it's a pathology. Obsessional delusion. It's a big galaxy out there, Miles. There are other ways to serve, larger ... constituencies."
“So why do you stay here?” he shot back.
“Ah.” She smiled bleakly at the touche. “Some people's needs are more compelling than guns."
“Speaking of Dad, is he coming back?"
“Hm. No. I'm to tell you, he's going to distance himself for a time. So as not to give the appearance of endorsing your mutiny, while in fact shuffling you out from under the avalanche. He's decided to be publicly angry with you."
“And is he?"
“Of course not. Yet ... he was beginning to have some long-range plans for you, in his socio-political reform schemes, based on your completing a solid military career ... he saw ways of making even your congenital injuries serve Barrayar."
“Yeah, I know."
“Well, don't worry. He'll doubtless think of some way to use this, too."
Miles sighed glumly. “I want something to do. I want my clothes back."
His mother pursed her lips, and shook her head.
* * * *
He tried calling Ivan that evening. “Where are you?” Ivan demanded suspiciously.
“Stuck in limbo."
“Well, I don't want any of it stuck to me,” said Ivan roughly, and punched off-line.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning Miles was moved to new quarters. His guide led him just one floor down, dashing Miles's hopes of seeing the sky again. The officer keyed open a door to one of the secured apartments usually used by protected witnesses. And, Miles reflected, certain political non-persons. Was it possible life in limbo was having a chameleon effect, rendering him translucent?
“How long will I be staying here?” Miles asked the officer.
“I don't know, Ensign,” the man replied, and left him.
His duffle, jammed with his clothes, and a hastily-packed box sat in the middle of the apartment's floor. All his worldly goods from Kyril Island, smelling moldy, a cold breath of arctic damp. Miles poked through them—everything seemed to be there, including his weather library—and prowled his new quarters. It was a one-room efficiency, shabbily furnished in the style of twenty years back, with a few comfortable chairs, a bed, a simple kitchenette, empty cupboards and shelves and closets. No abandoned garments or objects or leftovers to hint at the identity of any previous occupant.
There had to be bugs. Any shiny surface could conceal a vid pickup, and the ears were probably not even within the room. But; were they switched on? Or, almost more of an insult, maybe Illyan wasn't even bothering to run them?
There was a guard in the outer corridor, and remote monitors, but Miles did not appear to have neighbors at present. He discovered he could leave the corridor, and walk about the few non-top-secured areas of the building, but the guards at the outside doors, briefed as to who he was, turned him back politely but firmly. He pictured himself attempting escape by rappelling down from the roof—he'd probably get himself shot, and ruin some poor guard's career.
A Security officer found him wandering aimlessly, conducted him back to his apartment, gave him a handful of chits for the building's cafeteria, and hinted strongly that it would be appreciated if he would stay in his quarters between meals. After he left Miles morbidly counted the chits, trying to guess the expected duration of his stay. There were an even hundred. Miles shuddered.
He unpacked his box and bag, ran everything that would go through the sonic laundry to eliminate the last lingering odor of Camp Permafrost, hung up his uniforms, cleaned his boots, arranged his possessions neatly on a few shelves, showered, and changed to fresh undress greens.
One hour down. How many to go?
He attempted to read, but could not concentrate, and ended sitting in the most comfortable chair with his eyes closed, pretending this windowless, hermetically-sealed chamber was a cabin aboard a spaceship. Outbound.
* * * *
He was sitting in the same chair two nights later, digesting a leaden cafeteria dinner, when the door chimed.
Startled, Miles clambered up and limped to answer it personally. It was probably not a firing squad, though you never knew.
He almost changed his assumptions about the firing squad at the sight of the hard-faced Imperial Security officers in dress greens who stood waiting. “Excuse me, Ensign Vorkosigan,” one muttered perfunctorily, and brushed past him to start running a scan over Miles's quarters. Miles blinked, then saw who stood behind them in the corridor, and breathed an “Ah” of understanding. At a mere look from the scanner man, Miles obediently held out his arms and turned to be scanned.
“Clear, sir,” the scanner man reported, and Miles was sure it was. These fellows never, ever cut corners, not even in the heart of ImpSec itself.
“Thank you. Leave us, please. You may wait out here,” said the third man. The ImpSec men nodded and took up parade rest flanking Miles's door.
Since they were both wearing officers’ undress greens, Miles exchanged salutes with the third man, although the visitor's uniform bore neither rank nor department insignia. He was thin, of middle height, with dark hair and intense hazel eyes. A crooked smile winked in a serious young face that lacked laugh lines.
“Sire,” Miles said formally.
Emperor Gregor Vorbarra jerked his head, and Miles keyed his door closed on the Security duo. The thin young man relaxed slightly.
“Hi, Miles."
“Hello yourself. Uh...” Miles motioned toward the armchairs. “Welcome to my humble abode. Are the bugs running?"
“I asked not, but I wouldn't be surprised if Illyan disobeys me, for my own good.” Gregor grimaced, and followed Miles. He swung a plastic bag from his left hand, from which came a muted clank. He flung himself into the larger chair, the one Miles had just vacated, leaned back, hooked a leg over one chair arm, and sighed wearily, as if all the air were being let out of him. He held out the bag. “Here. Elegant anesthesia."
Miles took it and peered in. Two bottles of wine, by God, already chilled. “Bless you, my son. I've been wishing I could get drunk for days, now. How did you guess? For that matter, how did you get in here? I thought I was in solitary confinement.” Miles put the second bottle into the refrigerator, found two glasses, and blew the dust out of them.
Gregor shrugged. “They could scarcely keep me out. I'm getting better at insisting, you know. Though Illyan made sure my private visit was really private, you can wager. And I can only stay till 2500.” Gregor's shoulders slumped, compressed by the minute-by-minute box of his schedule. “Besides, your mother's religion grants some kind of good karma for visiting the sick and prisoners, and I hear you've been the two in one."
Ah, so Mother had put Gregor up to this. He should have guessed by the Vorkosigan private label on the wine—heavens, she'd sent the good stuff. He stoppe
d swinging the bottle by its neck and carried it with greater respect. Miles was lonely enough by now to be more grateful for than embarrassed by this maternal intervention. He opened the wine and poured, and by Barrayaran etiquette took the first sip. Ambrosia. He slung himself into another chair in a posture similar to Gregor's. “Glad to see you, anyway."
Miles contemplated his old playmate. If they'd been even a little closer in age, he and Gregor, they might have fallen more into the role of foster-brothers; Count and Countess Vorkosigan had been Gregor's official guardians ever since the chaos and bloodshed of Vordarian's Pretendership. The child-cohort had been thrown together anyway as “safe” companions, Miles and Ivan and Elena near-agemates, Gregor, solemn even then, tolerating games a little younger than he might have preferred.
Gregor picked up his wine and sipped. “Sorry things didn't work out for you,” he said gruffly.
Miles tilted his head. “A short soldier, a short career.” He took a bigger gulp. “I'd hoped to get off-planet. Ship duty."
Gregor had graduated from the Imperial Academy two years before Miles entered it. His brows rose in agreement. “Don't we all."
“You had a year on active space duty,” Miles pointed out.
“Mostly in orbit. Pretend patrols, surrounded by Security shuttles. It got to be painful after a while, all the pretending. Pretending I was an officer, pretending I was doing a job instead of making everyone else's job harder just by being there ... you at least were permitted real risk."
“Most of it was unplanned, I assure you."
“I'm increasingly convinced that's the trick of it,” Gregor went on. “Your father, mine, both our grandfathers—all survived real military situations. That's how they became real officers, not this ... study.” His free hand made a downward chopping motion.
“Flung into situations,” Miles disagreed. “My father's military career officially began the day Mad Yuri's death squad broke in and blew up most of his family—I think he was eleven, or something. I'd just as soon pass on that sort of initiation, thanks. It's not something anybody in their right mind would choose."
“Mm.” Gregor subsided glumly. As oppressed tonight, Miles guessed, by his legendary father Prince Serg as Miles was by his live one Count Vorkosigan. Miles reflected briefly on what he had come to think of as “The Two Sergs.” One—maybe the only version Gregor knew?—was the dead hero, bravely sacrificed on the field of battle or at least cleanly disintegrated in orbit. The other, the Suppressed Serg: the hysterical commander and sadistic sodomite whose early death in the ill-fated Escobar invasion might have been the greatest stroke of political good fortune ever to befall Barrayar ... had even a hint of this multi-faceted personality ever been permitted to filter back to Gregor? Nobody who knew Serg talked about him, Count Vorkosigan least of all. Miles had once met one of Serg's victims. Miles hoped Gregor never would.
Miles decided to change the subject. “So we all know what happened to me, what have you been up to for the last three months? I was sorry to miss your last birthday party. Up at Kyril Island they celebrated it by getting drunk, which made it virtually indistinguishable from any other day."
Gregor grinned, then sighed. “Too many ceremonies. Too much time standing up—I think I could be replaced at half my functions by a life-sized plastic model, and no one would notice. A lot of time spent ducking the broad marital hints of my assorted counsellors."
“Actually, they have a point,” Miles had to allow. “If you got ... run over by a teacart tomorrow, the succession question goes up for grabs in a big way. I can think offhand of at least six candidates with arguable stakes in the Imperium, and more would come out of the woodwork. Some without personal ambition would nevertheless kill to see that some of the others didn't get it, which is precisely why you still don't have a named heir."
Gregor cocked his head. “You're in that crowd yourself, you know."
“With this body?” Miles snorted. “They'd have to ... really hate somebody, to tag me. At that point it really would be time to run away from home. Far and fast. Do me a favor. Get married, settle down, and have six little Vorbarras real quick."
Gregor looked even more depressed. “Now there's an idea. Running away from home. I wonder how far I'd get before Illyan caught up with me?"
They both glanced involuntarily upward, though in fact Miles was still not certain where the room's bugs were located.
“Better hope Illyan caught up with you before anybody else did.” God, this conversation was getting morbid.
“I don't know, wasn't there an emperor of China who ended up pushing a broom somewhere? And a thousand lesser emigrees-countesses running restaurants—escape is possible."
“From being Vor? More like ... trying to run away from your own shadow.” There would be moments, in the dark, when success would seem achieved, but then—Miles shook his head, and checked out the still-lumpy bag. “Ah! You brought a tacti-go set.” He didn't in the least want to play tacti-go, it had bored him by age fourteen, but anything was better than this. He pulled it out and set it up between them with determined good cheer. “Brings back old times.” Hideous thought.
Gregor bestirred himself, and made an opening move. Pretending to be interested to amuse Miles, who was simulating interest to cheer Gregor, who was feigning ... Miles, distracted, beat Gregor too fast on the first round, and began to pay more attention. On the next round he kept it closer, and was rewarded by a spark of genuine interest—blessed self-forgetfulness—on Gregor's part. They opened the second bottle of wine. At that point Miles began to feel the effects, going tongue-thick and sleepy and stupid; it took hardly any effort to let Gregor almost win the next round.
“I don't think I've beaten you at this since you were fourteen,” sighed Gregor, concealing secret satisfaction at the low point-spread of that last round. “You should be an officer, dammit."
“This isn't a good war game, Dad says,” commented Miles. “Not enough random factors and uncontrolled surprises to simulate reality. I like it that way.” It was almost soothing, a mindless routine of logic, check and counter, multiple chained moves with, always, perfectly objective options.
“You should know.” Gregor glanced up. “I still don't understand why they sent you to Kyril Island. You've already commanded a real space fleet. Even if they were only a pack of grubby mercenaries."
“Shh. That episode is officially non-existent, in my military files. Fortunately. It wouldn't charm my superiors. I'd commanded, I hadn't obeyed. Anyway, I didn't so much command the Dendarii Mercenaries as hypnotize ‘em. Without Captain Tung, who decided to prop up my pretensions for his own purposes, it would have all ended very unpleasantly. And much sooner."
“I always thought Illyan would do more with them, after,” said Gregor. “However inadvertently, you brought a whole military organization secretly into the service of Barrayar."
“Yes, without them even knowing it themselves. Now, that's secret. Come on. Assigning them to Illyan's section was a legal fiction, everybody knew it.” And would his own assignment to Illyan's section turn out to be a legal fiction too? “Illyan's too careful to get drawn into intergalactic military adventuring as a hobby. I'm afraid his main interest in the Dendarii Mercenaries is to keep them as far away from Barrayar as possible. Mercenaries thrive on other people's chaos.
“Plus, they're a funny size—less than a dozen ships, three or four thousand personnel—not your basic invisible six-man covert ops team, though they can field such, and yet they're too little to take on planetary situations. Space-based, not ground troops. Wormhole blockades were their specialty. Safe, easy on the equipment, mostly bullying unarmed civilians-which is how I first ran into them, when our freighter was stopped by their blockade, and the bullying went too far. I cringe to think of the risks I ran. Though I've often wondered if, knowing what I know now, I could have.... “Miles stopped, shook his head.
“Or maybe it's like heights. Better not to look down. You freeze, and then you fall.??
? Miles was not fond of heights.
“As a military experience, how did it compare with Lazkowski Base?” asked Gregor bemusedly.
“Oh, there were certain parallels,” Miles admitted. “Both were jobs I wasn't trained for, both were potentially lethal, I got out of both by my skin—lost some skin. The Dendarii episode was ... worse. I lost Sergeant Bothari. In a sense, I lost Elena. At least at Camp Permafrost I managed not to lose anyone."
“Maybe you're getting better,” Gregor suggested. Miles shook his head, and drank. He should have put on some music. The thick silence of this room was oppressive, when the conversation faltered. The ceiling was probably not hydraulically arranged to descend and crush him in his sleep; Security had far less messy ways of dealing with recalcitrant prisoners. It only seemed to lower at him. Well, I'm short. Maybe it'd miss me.
“I suppose it would be ... improper,” Miles began hesitantly, “to ask you to try and get me out of here. It's always seemed rather embarrassing, to ask for Imperial favors. Like cheating, or something."
“What, are you asking one prisoner of ImpSec to rescue another?” Gregor's hazel eyes were ironic under black brows. “It's a little embarrassing to me to come up against the limits of my absolute Imperial Rule. Your father and Illyan, like two parentheses around me. His cupped hands closed in a squeezing motion.
It was a subliminal effect of this room, Miles decided. Gregor was feeling it too.
“I would if I could,” Gregor added more apologetically. “But Illyan's made it crystal clear he wants you kept out of sight. For a time, anyway."
“Time,” Miles swallowed the last of his wine, and decided he better not pour himself any more. Alcohol was a depressant, it was said. “How much time? Dammit, if I don't get something to do I'm going to be the first case of human spontaneous combustion recorded on vid.” He jerked a rude finger at the ceiling. “I don't need to—don't even have to leave the building, but at least they could give me some work. Clerical, janitorial—I do terrific drains-anything! Dad talked with Illyan about assigning me to Security—as the only Section left that would take me—he must have had something more in mind than a m-, m-, mascot.” He poured and drank again, to drown the spate of words. He'd said too much. Damn the wine. Damn the whine.