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Count Miles Vorkosigan listened sternly but attentively to his youngest son, the fourteen-year-old Lord Konstantin Vorkosigan. Kostantin was furious, trying three or four times to explain to his father what he'd done wrong, how he'd cheated, and how he'd failed.
The Count remained stubbornly silent, and the uncomfortable silence hung in the air, thickening the already tense atmosphere hovering in the study.
Konstantin was silent, waiting hopelessly for his father to finally say something to him. The seconds lengthened to minutes, broken only by the thudding of his heart and the sound of blood beating in his temples. It was unbearable. He broke down, swallowing resentful tears, and cried, "You don't understand! This is a hoax, it's a setup! You should demand reparations from the organisers!" He stared into his father's eyes in stubborn challenge.
"Hang on a minute, let's think about this. I heard what you said. But I don't entirely understand," the Count finally said. In his voice there was none of the disapproval that would frighten a teenager, only the echo of bewilderment. Miles adopted this tone with difficulty, only thanks to his extensive diplomatic experience.
He took a deep breath and steepled his fingers, pacing the room as he always did during meetings.
"First. You had a plan to persuade your schoolteachers to send the high school students on a tour of the artificial satellite, ostensibly to visit the science and entertainment centre that opened five years ago there. Second. On the way, you made changes to the schedule and route," the Count looked at the documents, frowned and turned the page, "'so that the group could have an opportunity to go to the most famous game in the sector'. Third. Whilst on this 'tour', you mingled with a group of cadets from the Imperial Academy and somehow got hold of an ID card that said you were two years older--" here the Count's voice shook a little with surprise, but nonetheless continued. "Fourth. You refused to follow the instructions from the group leader, which resulted in only a third of the group keeping 'alive' in the game. Fifth. You had the chutzpah to lead the survivors to the end of the course. Sixth. You lost the final part of the game with the score of 2:3. And so I ask: what are you so angry about?"
The attractive face of his young son expressed an entire range of inexpressible feelings: embarrassment, pride, and awkwardness.
"And, if I understand you correctly," Miles's voice was soft and insinuating now, "now you think I should press charges against the organisers of the attraction?"
"Well..." The teenager tried to efface himself, staring at the floor, but then raised his shaggy head again cockily, his angry grey eyes flashing, and again with the same stubborn challenge looked at his father. Just like his grandmother, flashed through the Count's head, and he managed to control his smile with difficulty.
"Of course you should! We absolutely have to do it! Da, they make fools of people! They entrap simpletons like us, luring us in with slogans like 'Feel like a real Space Marine' and 'realistic conditions' and 'authentic weaponry', but in the end, no-one, not a single player could ever win the game. Guys go on about who is in there flying, and who's going to fly next, but when they return, there's not a word, just silence. And now I know why! 'Realistic conditions' - nonsense! They're ... they're crooks!" The boy fell silent in ruffled offence. "Crooks!"
Miles leaned back in his chair and stared at his offspring with genuine curiosity, thinking of the proverbial mouse pouting over its groats. "And what exactly is your complaint?" Miles continued with a half-smile. "You had to win? You couldn't lose and accept your failure? Why?"
"Well..." The teenager waved his hand. "Well, you know, now I understand why everyone who came back didn't say anything. Who would confess that he'd screwed up?" Konstantin Vorkosigan was inconsolable, and would not listen to what his father was trying to tell him. "And it all seemed so exciting and easy! The 'Capture the Raiders' game - you register, go in all together as a team, you get weapons, armour, anything you want, all perfectly realistic, and off you go to capture them... it's beautiful. And there are no exams, no training - anyone can feel like a hero. Most people were eliminated outright, though. So I didn't go with the group leader, because it was completely obvious it was going to be a trap, but this bonehead went straight into it and took the whole group with him." The boy snorted and a strand of dark hair fell over his eyes. "Anyone could have figured it out, if they were the least interested in tactics..."
"So what was the problem?" The Count waited eagerly for an answer.
But his child did not have time to answer.
The door opened, admitting two women. Mama, who the young Vorkosigan was usually glad to see. And a tall, stately, grey-haired lady, who despite her advanced age moved very smoothly, even gracefully.
Konstantin thought for a moment. The private conversation with his father wasn't over, and he could still get an awful lecture. But on the other hand, if he could get her on his side... that would be a good plan.
"Auntie Taura," he greeted the grey-haired lady, "tell me whether I was right or not." The boy seemed to relax a little, in the presence of his apparent supporter, whom he'd known since early childhood. "Overall, I went through the whole thing properly, went around the traps, which weren't very tricky--even little kids know the gas trick--and I almost reached the bridge and got control of the command bar... and then, right there, a soldier in armour appeared!"
"So? I would have left a couple of troopers behind for an ambush." The Count shrugged.
"Well, yes. But what did they say on the prospectus? 'Realistic conditions.' As if! There he was, and he was huge! Three metres, at least! How is that realistic? They obviously cheated! That height, and the rest of it... I even took out one of the servomotors... I think... anyway... well, he had me." The boy seemed about to cry with resentment. "With one hand... but I'd almost won!"
The grey-haired woman looked at the teenager with an enigmatic smile.
"But it couldn't have happened like that if it had been a real battle," the teenager finished.
"If it had been a real battle, it wouldn't have been a game," Auntie Taura said to all this.
"Yes, but it was just a game! And I don't think the entire cosmos is full of giant commandos, or we'd know about it," the boy muttered, "and I'd have been ready for them, too..."
Auntie Taura frowned, and a dangerous spark flickered in her eyes. "And you could have never imagined anything like that anywhere?" Her voice was low and velvety and filled the entire room in an instant.
"Of course not! How could I?" The boy looked at the elderly woman, whom he'd know his entire life, with loving warmth, almost adoration. A woman who'd looked after him and his older brothers and sisters with the same love.
"How indeed?" There was laughter clearly audible in the Count's voice. "How could it be? Let's have a look at a vid..."
He flicked a switch and a holovid record appeared on the screen, identifiable as the surveillance from the recording monitors. First there was a single figure, then another, a confused struggle, and the ruthlessly quick, short finale.... the boy looked at his defeat discontentedly, but after a few frames, his eyes widened in amazement, he turned pale and looked away from the screen in disbelief.
"But this is ... this is my fight from the game!"
At this point, the huge scary soldier in armour bent over his opponent, looked at him, then threw his helmet visor open and said indignantly, looking directly at the camera, "Of course I love this kid, but I thought I was on vacation?"
The boy looked at the frozen frame on the screen, at his father, his smiling mother, his Auntie, and finally understood.
"It was you, Auntie? But ... why? So that I wouldn't defeat the raiders?"
"What an idea, my dear! I had no idea you were there. It was a surprise to hear you. I work there, not all the time, of course, but when I want to revisit my youth. And when the doctors recommend that I get a bit more exercise, my little one."
Konstantin Vorkosigan looked wide-eyed at his father, who was trying to keep his face serious, at his mother, who was patiently watching these exchanges, at his aunt, who'd been his nurse until he'd started school... and he realised that the very strangest part of the whole setup wasn't at the attraction. It was right here. And he hadn't yet learned to play these games. Or win them.