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Ever since he could remember, Gleb had dreamed of entering the Imperial Service, like his father and grandfather before him. His grandfather had served as a private in a guerrilla band, and, wounded, had been honorably discharged with medals for valor and sergeant rank tabs. Gleb's father had trained as an officer and served during the Komarran Conquest as a lieutenant. He'd served some months aboard the flagship, but was far more proud of his personal acquaintance with Admiral Vorkosigan than any service award. Gleb had listened innumerable times with bated breath as a child to his father's admiring stories of Vorkosigan's military talents and force of personality.
Gleb was lucky. The day he was born, his father had started saving to get him into the prestigious Imperial Military Academy. Since Gleb himself had aspired to receive the best possible military education, he entered the Academy with that goal in mind, and all three years was one of the most studious cadets, achieving excellence not so much on the grounds of mental brilliance, but instead because of the assiduousness with which he crammed and his strict obedience to instructions, rules, and orders.
His fervor had been noted and appreciated, and Gleb had found himself among the few lucky cadets placed on ship duty after graduation. As an ensign he was equally responsible and diligent. His superiors were pleased with him, and that was reflected in his service record. Since he was not high on initiative, he was promoted to lieutenant slightly behind his contemporaries, at age twenty-four.
Then fortune smiled on Gleb. His direct superior, Commander Natochini, was appointed to the post of executive officer aboard the Barrayaran fleet's new flagship, the Prince Serg, which was just launching. Legends had already spread about this ship, and there wasn't an officer in the Service that didn't dream of serving on that miracle of modern technology and military power. Gleg was extremely surprised when Natochini summoned him and, after complimenting him on his faultless four years of service, offered him, Lieutenant Yegorov, the opportunity to continuing to serve under his command by transferring to the Prince Serg.
The new ship was a marvel of engineering and the lieutenant's mind was staggered by it: its size, agility, armament, shielding, internal layout, and furnishings were all objects of admiration and envy for his friends when he eloquently described them to them. But then his luck had struck a second time. Less than a month after he was posted to the ship, it received an urgent order to launch ahead of schedule with interior work unfinished. The flagship would lead a Barrayaran squadron to Pol and from there to the Hegen Hub, where rumors that war was about to boil up with the Cetagandans. Gleb was truly euphoric when he learned that the squadron would be led by none other than the legendary Admiral Count Vorkosigan, the current Prime Minister and former Lord Regent of the Barrayaran Imperium!
Gleb had already met his father's idol during his time at the Academy when the admiral had taught his well-known seminar for third-year students. It had made an indelible impression on Gleb, and now he understood well and completely shared his father's affection and loyalty for the man. To serve under the command of the great Admiral Vorkosigan, even for a short time, had seemed an impossible dream. Now that it had come true, Gleb was overcome with happiness.
* * *
When the Admiral arrived at the ship, he was met by all of the officers standing at attention in perfectly cleaned and ironed dress greens. Gleb noticed with satisfaction that he wasn't the only one nervously swallowing. The flagship captain introduced all of the officers to Vorkosigan in turn. When he was called, Lieutenant Yegorov stepped forward, his feet almost giving way in front of him. He prayed his hand wouldn't sweat when the Admiral shook it.
A handsome young blond man with lieutenant's rank tabs stood behind Vorkosigan, and gave Gleb a supportive smile with the corners of his lips. * * * The following weeks were rather boring. The small fleet, having freely reached Pol, was stuck there. The Prime Minister was in constant negotiations with the Polians over treaties. Probably unsuccessful negotiations, because he returned from the planet tired and angry each time, and there were rumors on the ship that among other things the old gastric ulcer had opened.
Gleb sympathized with the Admiral, but couldn't imagine how he could personally help. And so, as usual, he tried to keep out of sight, observing his idol from afar.
It seemed that there would be no end to the lengthy negotiations, but the news of an unexpected Cetagandan attack on Vervain arrived very opportunely. Everything started moving faster, as if on a mad whirligig. The fleet immediately left Pol orbit and transited towards the Hegen Hub. And at the Vervain transit station the most improbable thing of all happened: the Emperor suddenly appeared on the flagship! None of the officers could figure out what he was doing here, and all the possible theories seemed too fantastic to believe.
The fleet led by the Prince Serg didn't even stay at the Vervain station for a day, but jumped to the other side of the Vervain wormhole and immediately engaged the Cetagandans, driving off the attackers and reinforcing the heavily battered mercenary ships that were protecting the wormhole. The fighting was short, but it was real combat – the first, and perhaps only, in Lieutenant Yegorov's life. The morale of the squadron high, as they not only had the honor of serving under the Hero of Komarr, but also under the Emperor, who (as it became known) had personally operated the gravitic imploder lance from the tactics room! * * * The fleet had entered Vervain orbit, and the cycle of diplomatic negotiations and diplomatic receptions began anew. But now it was the Emperor who was leading them, and they usually were aboard the flagship, not down on the planet. Names and titles, uniforms and suits, the dignitaries had fleetingly arrived and departed: Vervani, Aslunders, and last and most distinguished, the president of Pol and his retinue.
The stream of high-ranking visitors at last seemed to run low, and the fleet began preparing for departure. But then Gleb discovered that one additional delegation was expected – the representatives of the mercenaries who had distinguished themselves in action guarding the Vervain wormhole were arriving.
* * *
Standing with the row of officers, Gleb searched his memory. What was their fleet called again? Der... des... oh, Dendarii. Hm! I've heard that somewhere... Dendarii... oh, yes, that's what those mountains in Count Vorkosigan’s District are called. What an amusing coincidence...
The four visitors exited the docking tube, and Gleb stared at them dumbfounded. The group stood out like a sore thumb, their velvet grey-and-white uniforms looking pretentious and inauthentic against the backdrop of austere Barrayaran dress greens. A mutant dwarf led the procession. Gleb flinched at the sight of the ugly figure and he hardly kept his hand from making the traditional warding gesture.
His uniform had the most gold braid. Is this the admiral I have to escort to see Vorkosigan? Gleb began to panic a little.
The dwarf was followed by a tall brunette with a short haircut and an eagle-like profile - and she was in that tawdry uniform too! A stocky thick-set middle-aged Eurasian followed, and a more typical sergeant who could have come from any army brought up the rear (at which Gleb sighed with relief). The sergeant was tall and dark-skinned with black almond eyes and a square jaw. He was the only one who really looked good wearing that ugly uniform.
He noticed with satisfaction that their tight formation had made a great impression on their visitors. We aren't ragtag mercenaries, he thought proudly, but the army of a great empire. Learn how a real soldier should look!
After greetings and salutes were exchanged, the guests were divided. Gleb envied his superior, Commander Natochini, who had the in his opinion much more pleasant task of showing the sergeant and Eurasian commodore around. However, he wasn't going to question his orders, so he invited the two remaining visitors to follow him in the opposite direction.
Admiral Naismith, as Natochini had called the dwarf, exchanged a few quiet remarks with the girl first. She sounds Barrayaran! Gleb was pleasantly surprised to notice this, but the Betan accent of the Admiral alarmed him. Damn Betans. I know all about them he thought unhappily. They don't any concept of etiquette or respect. Or politeness, or common decency...
He unsuccessfully tried to puzzle out how to explain this to the overly familiar jerk he was leading around. He decided to start by talking to the girl, who he found much less annoying.
Commander Bothari-Jesek indeed was Barrayaran, and was acquainted with Count Vorkosigan's family. Gleb treated her with respect, but failed to stifle the sarcastic thought that Vorkosigan'd hardly want to see her otherwise!
The next step was more difficult. He needed to explain things to the midget admiral. Gleb sighed deeply, estimated his likelihood of success, and swiftly made his argument.
He'd thought carefully about how to word things, and had managed a surprising degree of diplomacy, but all his diligence was in vain. After the Betan called the Count a 'stuffed shirt', Gleb felt fury boiling in him. Damn, he's a worse jerk than I feared! How dare he?! Mutant Betan bastard! He'd tried to take the insolent twerp down a peg, but there was no stopping him. After Naismith's last assertion that with enough wine, the Admiral would start telling dirty stories too, blood rushed to his face. By a titanic effort of will, the lieutenant nevertheless managed to keep a semblance of a smile on his face.
Help came unexpectedly when he was about to lose his temper. The girl, with suspiciously gleaming eyes, bent down to speak to the malicious midget and whispered loudly at him to behave. Naismith unwillingly agreed, and Yegorov caught his breath.
They continued in silence, although the two of them constantly exchanged odd (and perhaps even derisive?) glances. Gleb had the growing suspicion that something was wrong here, but he didn't know what it was.
At last they reached the block of officer quarters, and Gleb led the visitors through the reception and into the Admiral's office. The insufferable Betan blurted out his next indiscretion when he'd barely crossed the threshold, obviously having completely ignored all the advice. Wishing somehow to make up for his blunder, Yegorov saluted and loudly began his previously prepared speech.
"Sir, let me introduce you our allies from the Vervain operation: Admiral Naismith of the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet, and Commander Bothari-Jesek..." He hadn't even finished his introduction when something unimaginable happened, outside all frameworks and norms. Count Vorkosigan went "Ha!", leaped up from behind his desk, and rushed over to the midget Admiral. Yegorov swore he saw tears in his eyes.
Gleb froze, gaping in astonishment, stunned, confused, and unable to understand what was going on. A fish out of water would feel more at home. Gradually his brain generated its first intelligible thought: the world has gone mad!. On his second thought he came to another conclusion: maybe the world hadn't gone mad, just him. The third thought was the most unpleasant: somebody was making fun of him, and had outed him as a complete and total idiot!
He felt someone touch his shoulder, and turned around to see Lieutenant Jole subtly escorting him out. Jole's eyes were laughing too.
Gleb let himself be led to the outer office, but when Jole carefully closed the door behind him, he finally gave vent to his bewildered irritation.
"Lieutenant, would you be so terribly kind to explain to me what was going on in there?" he asked icily.
"You don't realize?" Jole raised his eyebrows. "You were witnessing the reunion of Count Vorkosigan with his son."
This was obviously the case but Gleb's mind flatly refused to believe it. "How so?" he asked again in a weak voice. "He was introduced to me as Admiral Naismith, Betan mercenary fleet commander. Is this not true?"
"No, it's quite right." Jole tried to keep an imperturbable expression on his face. "Miles, or rather Lord Vorkosigan, really is a mercenary admiral, and also an ImpSec ensign at the same time."
Yegorov looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment. "So he's a Barrayaran secret agent?" His voice was still mistrustful. "But how can that be, he's a Betan!" Gleb jumped at this last saving straw.
"Lieutenant, are you forgetting where Countess Vorkosigan came from?" While Jole couldn't hold back a wicked grin, he nevertheless took pity on Gleb's plight and began to explain everything. As he spoke, Yegorov felt the wave of irritation recede, the sting of the strange little man's insults was diminished, and in spite of himself he felt respect and, oh hell, even admiration! And he belatedly understood that he'd provoked the practical joke that had seemed so insulting several minutes ago himself by his unwavering loyalty to Admiral Vorkosigan and his desire to protect him from... seemingly, his own son.
* * *
Gleb hung his head, left the outer office, and trudged to his quarters with a sick feeling. He lay in his bunk about half an hour in gloomy reflection before quickly getting up and heading towards the wardroom.
A few minutes later the Count arrived from the direction of his office, accompanied by his son and the girl-Commander. Yegorov resolutely stepped towards them. "Admiral Naismith, I would like to sincerely apologize for my disreputable conduct."
The lively, mobile face of the little admiral blurred in a wide smile. "Quite all right, Lieutenant. Please excuse my silly practical joke."
Lord Vorkosigan extended a hand. His handshake was hard and friendly. And then, yielding to a sudden impulse, Gleb bent to his ear. "So tell me, er, milord, does the Count really tell dirty stories when he's drunk?" he whispered hesitantly, his ears red.
Miles slyly winked and answered in the same whisper, glancing sideways at the Count. "And who did you think I learned them all from?"