The Vor Game

  “What is the use of Stanis-darling to you?” Miles dared, pigheaded-defiant in his wash of angry guilt. Metzov as her paramour? Revolting thought.

  “He's an experienced ground combat commander."

  “What's a fleet on all-space wormhole guard duty want with a ground commander?"

  “Well, then,” she smiled sweetly, “he amuses me."

  That was supposed to have been the first answer. “No accounting for taste,” Miles muttered inanely, careful not to be heard. Should he warn her about Metzov? On second thought, should he warn Metzov about her?

  His head was still spinning with this new dilemma when the blank door of his solitary cell sealed him in.

  * * * *

  It didn't take long for Miles to exhaust the novelties of his new quarters, a space a little larger than two by two meters, furnished only with two padded benches and a fold-out lavatory. No library viewer, no relief from the wheel of his thoughts mired in the quag of his self-recriminations.

  A Ranger field-ration bar, inserted some time later through a force-shielded aperture in the door, proved even more repellent than the Barrayaran Imperial version, resembling a rawhide dog chew. Wetted with spit, it softened slightly, enough to tear off gummy shreds if your teeth were in good health. More than a temporary distraction, it promised to last till the next issue. Probably nutritious as hell. Miles wondered what Cavilo was serving Gregor for dinner. Was it as scientifically vitamin-balanced?

  They'd been so close to their goal. Even now, the Barrayaran consulate was only a few locks and levels away, less than a kilometer. If only he could get there from here. If a chance came ... On the other hand, how long would Cavilo hesitate to disregard diplomatic custom and violate the consulate, if she saw some utility in it? About as long as she'd hesitated to shoot the freighter captain in the back, Miles gauged. She would surely have ordered the consulate, and all known Barrayaran agents on Vervain Station, watched by now. Miles unstuck his teeth from a fragment of ration-leather, and hissed.

  A beeping from the code-lock warned Miles he was about to have a visitor. Interrogation, so soon? He'd expected Cavilo to wine, dine, and evaluate Gregor first, then get back to him. Or was he to be a mere project for underlings? He swallowed, throat tight on a ration blob, and sat up, trying to look stern and not scared.

  The door slid back to reveal General Metzov, still looking highly military and efficient in the tan and black Ranger fatigues.

  “Sure you don't need me, sir?” the guard at his elbow asked as Metzov shouldered through the opening.

  Metzov glanced contemptuously at Miles, looking low and unmilitary in Victor Rotha's now limp and grimy green silk shirt, baggy trousers, and bare feet—the processing guards had taken his sandals.

  “Hardly. He's not going to jump me."

  Damn straight, Miles agreed with regret.

  Metzov tapped his wrist comm. “I'll call you when I'm done."

  “Very well, sir.” The door sighed closed. The cell seemed suddenly very tiny indeed. Miles drew his legs up, sitting in a small defensive ball on his pallet. Metzov stood at ease, contemplating Miles for a long, satisfied moment, then settled himself comfortably on the bench opposite.

  “Well, well,” said Metzov, his mouth twisting. “What a turn of fate."

  “I thought you'd be dining with the Emperor,” said Miles.

  “Commander Cavilo, being female, can get a little scattered under stress. When she calms down again, she'll see the need for my expertise in Barrayaran matters,” said Metzov in measured tones.

  In other words, you weren't invited. “You left the Emperor alone with her?” Gregor, watch your step!

  “Gregor's no threat. I fear his upbringing has made him altogether weak."

  Miles choked.

  Metzov sat back, allowed his fingers to tap gently on his knee. “So tell me, Ensign Vorkosigan—if it is still Ensign Vorkosigan. There being no justice in the world, I suppose you've retained your rank and pay. What are you doing here? With him?"

  Miles was tempted to confine himself to name, rank, and serial number, except Metzov knew all those already. Was Metzov an enemy, exactly? Of Barrayar, that is, not of Miles personally. Did Metzov divide the two in his own mind? “The Emperor became separated from his security. We hoped to regain contact with them via the Barrayaran consulate here.” There, nothing in that that wasn't perfectly obvious.

  “And where did you come from?"

  “Aslund."

  “Don't bother playing the idiot, Vorkosigan. I know Aslund. Who sent you there in the first place? And don't bother lying, I can cross-question the freighter captain."

  “No, you can't. Cavilo killed him."

  “Oh?” A flicker of surprise, suppressed. “Clever of her. He was the only witness to know where you went."

  Had that been part of Cavilo's calculation, when she'd raised her nerve disrupter? Probably. And yet ... the freighter captain was also the only corroborating witness who knew where they'd come from. Maybe Cavilo was not so formidable as she seemed at first glance.

  “Again,” Metzov said patiently—Miles could see he felt he had all the time in the world—"How did you come to be in the Emperor's company?"

  “How do you think?” Miles countered, buying time.

  “Some plot, of course,” Metzov shrugged.

  Miles groaned. “Oh, of course!” He uncurled in his indignation. “And what sane—or insane, for that matter—chain of conspiracy do you imagine accounts for our arrival here, alone, from Aslund? I mean, I know what it really was, I lived it, but what does it look like?” To a professional paranoid, that is. “I'd just love to hear it."

  “Well...” Metzov was drawn out in spite of himself. “You have somehow separated the Emperor from his security. You must either be setting up an elaborate assassination, or planning to implement some form of personality-control."

  “That's what just springs to mind, huh?” Miles thumped his back against the wall with a frustrated growl, and slumped.

  “Or perhaps you're on some secret—and therefore dishonorable—diplomatic mission. Some sellout."

  “If so, where's Gregor's security?” Miles sang. “Better watch out."

  “So, my first hypothesis is proved."

  “In that case, where's my security?” Miles snarled. Where, indeed?

  “A Vorkosigan plot—no, perhaps not the Admiral's. He controls Gregor at home—"

  “Thank you, I was about to point that out."

  “A twisted plot from a twisted mind. Do you dream of making yourself emperor of Barrayar, mutant?"

  “A nightmare, I assure you. Ask Gregor."

  “It scarcely matters. The medical staff will squeeze out your secrets as soon as Cavilo gives the go-ahead. In a way, it's a shame fast-penta was ever invented. I'd enjoy breaking every bone in your body till you talked. Or screamed. You won't be able to hide behind your father's,” he grinned briefly, “skirts, out here, Vorkosigan.” He grew thoughtful. “Maybe I will anyway. One bone a day, for as long as they last."

  206 bones in the human body. 206 days. Illyan ought to be able to catch up with us in 206 days. Miles smiled bleakly.

  Metzov looked too comfortable to arise and initiate this plan immediately, though. This speculative conversation scarcely constituted serious interrogation. But if not for interrogation, nor revenge-tortures, why was the man here?

  His lover threw him out, he felt lonely and strange and someone familiar to talk to. Even a familiar enemy. It was understandable. But for the Komarr invasion, Metzov had probably never set foot off Barrayar in his life. A life spent mostly in the constrained, ordered, predictable world-within-a-world of the Imperial military. Now the rigid man was adrift, and faced with more freewill choices than he'd ever imagined. God. The maniac's homesick. Chilling insight.

  “I'm beginning to think I may have accidentally done you a good turn,” Miles began. If Metzov was in a talking mood, why not encourage him? “Cavilo's certainly better-looking than your
last commander."

  “She is that."

  “Is the pay higher?"

  “Everyone pays more than the Imperial Service,” Metzov snorted.

  “Not boring, either. On Kyril Island, every day was like every other day. Here, you don't know what's going to happen next. Or does she confide in you?"

  “I'm essential to her plans.” Metzov practically smirked.

  “As a bedroom warrior? Thought you were infantry. Switching specialties, at your age?"

  Metzov merely smiled. “Now you're getting obvious, Vorkosigan."

  Miles shrugged. If so, I'm the only obvious thing here. “As I recall, you didn't think much of women soldiers. Cavilo seems to have made you change your tune."

  “Not at all.” Metzov sat back smugly. “I expect to be in command of Randall's Rangers in six months."

  “Isn't this cell monitored?” Miles asked, startled. Not that he cared how much trouble Metzov's mouth bought him, but still....

  “Not at present."

  “Cavilo planning to retire, is she?"

  “There are a number of ways her retirement might be expedited. The fatal accident Cavilo arranged for Randall might easily be repeated. Or I might even work out a way to charge her with it, since she was stupid enough to brag about murder in bed."

  That was no boast, that was a warning, dunderhead. Miles's eyes nearly crossed, imagining pillowtalk between Metzov and Cavilo. “You two must have a lot in common. No wonder you get on so well."

  Metzov's amusement thinned. “I have nothing in common with that mercenary slut. I was an Imperial officer.” Metzov glowered. “Thirty-five years. And they wasted me. Well, they'll discover their mistake."

  Metzov glanced at his chrono. “I still don't understand your presence here. Are you sure there isn't something else you want to say to me now, privately, before you say everything tomorrow to Cavilo under fast-penta?"

  Cavilo and Metzov, Miles decided, had set up the old interrogation game of good-guy-bad-guy. Except they'd gotten their signals mixed, and both accidentally taken the part of bad-guy. “If you really want to be helpful, get Gregor to the Barrayaran Consul. Or even just get out a message that he's here."

  “In good time, we may. Given suitable terms.” Metzov's eyes were narrowed, studying Miles. As puzzled by Miles as Miles by him? After a stretched silence, Metzov called the guard on his wristcom, and withdrew, with no more violent parting threat than “See you tomorrow, Vorkosigan.” Sinister enough.

  I don't understand your presence here either, Miles thought as the door hissed closed and the lock beeped. Clearly, some kind of planetary ground-attack was in the planning stage. Were Randall's Rangers to spearhead a Vervani invasion force? Cavilo had met secretly with a high-ranking Jackson's Consortium representative. Why? To guarantee Consortium neutrality during the coming attack? That made excellent sense, but why hadn't the Vervani dealt directly? So they could disavow Cavilo's arrangements if the balloon went up too early?

  And who, or what, was the target? Not the Consortium Station, obviously, nor its distant parent Jackson's Whole. That left Aslund and Pol. Aslund, a cul-de-sac, was not strategically tempting. Better to take Pol first, cut Aslund off from the Hub (with Consortium cooperation) and mop up the weak planet at leisure. But Pol had Barrayar behind it, who would like nothing better than an alliance with its nervous neighbor that would give the imperium a toehold in the Hegen Hub. An open attack must drive Pol into Barrayar's waiting arms. That left Aslund, but...

  This makes no sense. It was almost more disturbing than the thought of Gregor supping unguarded with Cavilo, or the fear of the promised chemical interrogation. I'm not seeing something. This makes no sense.

  * * * *

  The Hegen Hub turned in his head, in all its strategic complexity, all the light-dimmed night cycle. The Hub, and pictures of Gregor. Was Cavilo feeding him mind-altering drugs? Doggie chews, like Miles's? Steak and champagne? Was Gregor being tortured? Being seduced? Visions of Cavilo/Livia Nu's dramatic red evening-wear undulated in Miles's mind's eye. Was Gregor having a wonderful time? Miles thought Gregor'd had little more experience with women than he had, but he'd been out of touch with the Emperor these last few years; for all he knew Gregor was keeping a harem now. No, that couldn't be, or Ivan would have picked up the scent, and commented. At length. How susceptible was Gregor to a very old-fashioned form of mind-control?

  The day-cycle crept by with Miles anticipating every moment being taken out for his very first experience of fast-penta interrogation from the wrong end of the hypospray. What would Cavilo and Metzov make of the bizarre truth of his and Gregor's odyssey? Three ration-chews arrived at interminable intervals, and the lights dimmed again, marking another ship-night. Three meals, and no interrogation. What was keeping them out there? No noises or subtle gravitic vibrations suggested the ship had left dock, they were still locked to Vervain Station. Miles tried to exercise himself weary, pacing, two steps, turn, two steps, turn, two steps ... but merely succeeded in increasing his personal stink and making himself dizzy.

  Another day writhed by, and another light-dimmed “night.” Another breakfast chew fell through onto the floor. Were they artificially stretching or compressing time, confusing his biological clock to soften him up for interrogation? Why bother?

  He bit his fingernails. He bit his toenails. He pulled tiny green threads from his shirt and tried flossing his teeth. Then he tried making little green designs with tiny, tiny knots. Then he hit on the idea of weaving messages. Could he macrame “Help, I am a prisoner...” and plant it on the back of someone's jacket by static charge? If someone ever came back, that is? He got as far as a delicate gossamer H, E, L, caught the thread on a hangnail while rubbing his stubbled chin, and reduced his plea to an illegible green wad. He pulled another thread and started over.

  The lock twinkled and beeped. Miles snapped alert, realizing only then that he had fallen into an almost hypnotic fugue in his mumbling isolation. How much time had passed?

  His visitor was Cavilo, crisp and businesslike in her Ranger's fatigues. A guard took up station just outside the cell door, which closed behind her. Another private chat, it seemed. Miles struggled to pull his thoughts together, to remember what he was about.

  Cavilo settled herself opposite Miles in the same spot Metzov had chosen, in somewhat the same leisurely posture, leaning forward, hands clasped loosely on her knees, attentive, assured. Miles sat cross-legged, back to the wall, feeling distinctly at the disadvantage.

  “Lord Vorkosigan, ah...” she cocked her head, interrupting herself aside, “you don't look at all well."

  “Solitary confinement doesn't suit me.” His disused voice came out raspy, and he had to stop and clear his throat. “Perhaps a library viewer,” his brain grated into gear,"—or better, an exercise period.” Which would get him out of this cell, and in contact with subornable humans. “My medical problems compel me to a self-disciplined lifestyle, if they're not to flare up and impede me. I definitely need an exercise period, or I'm going to get really sick."

  “Hm. We'll see.” She ran a hand through her short hair, and refocused. “So, Lord Vorkosigan. Tell me about your mother."

  “Huh?” A most dizzying sharp left turn, for a military interrogation. “Why?"

  She smiled ingratiatingly. “Greg's tales have interested me.” Greg's tales? Had the Emperor been fast-penta'd? “What ... do you want to know?"

  “Well ... I understand Countess Vorkosigan is an off-worlder, a Betan who married into your aristocracy."

  “The Vor are a military caste, but yes."

  “How was she received, by the power—class—whatever they choose to call themselves? I'd thought Barrayarans were totally provincial, prejudiced against off-worlders."

  “We are,” Miles admitted cheerfully. “The first contact most Barrayarans—of all classes—had with off-worlders, after the end of the Time of Isolation when Barrayar was rediscovered, was with the Cetagandan invasion forces. They left a bad i
mpression that lingers even now, three, four generations after we threw them off."

  “Yet no one questioned your father's choice?” Miles jerked up his chin in bafflement.

  “He was in his forties. And ... and he was Lord Vorkosigan.” So am I, now. Why doesn't it work for me like that?

  “Her background made no difference?"

  “She was Betan. Is Betan. In the Astronomical Survey first, but then a combat officer. Beta Colony had just helped beat us soundly in that stupid attempt we made to invade Escobar."

  “So despite being an enemy, her military background actually helped gain her respect and acceptance among the Vor?"

  “I guess so. Plus, she established quite a local military reputation in the fighting of Vordarian's Pretendership, the year I was born twice. Led loyal troops, oh, several times, when my father couldn't be two places at once.” And had been personally responsible for the five-year-old emperor-in-hiding's safety. More successfully than her son was doing so far for the twenty-five-year-old Gregor. Total screw-up was the phrase that sprang to mind, actually. “Nobody's messed with her since."

  “Hm.” Cavilo sat back, murmuring half to herself, “so, it has been done. Therefore, it can be done."

  What, what can be done? Miles rubbed a hand over his face, trying to wake up and concentrate. “How is Gregor?"

  “Quite amusing."

  Gregor the Lugubrious, amusing? But then, if it matched the rest of her personality, Cavilo's sense of humor was probably vile. “I meant his health."

  “Rather better than yours, from the look of you."

  “I trust he's been better fed."

  “What, a taste of real military life too strong for you, Lord Vorkosigan? You've been fed the same as my troops."

  “Can't be.” Miles held up a ragged half-gnawed breakfast chew. “They'd have mutinied by now."