It's a long way to Escobar

Chapter One

Illyan patiently paced along the empty Residence hall. A connoisseur of antiques would be delighted with the artistic paintings on the wall and the expensive knick-knackery on small decorative tables. But Lieutenant Simon Illyan wasn't a connoisseur. He had managed to examine the largest thing in this collection - a painting "Siege of the Star Bridge" - right up to all the tiny cracks in the canvas and every oar of the mooring galley.

A spring garden view in the windows, old paintings, the mead-colored parquetry, polished with aromatic wax, silence. An illusory sensation of peace. A bit of eternity congealed in the amber of the warm afternoon. Well, history would soon crush this moment in its infinite gearwheels, and time would go on...

A forced vacation, falling in the last week, had drained Illyan more than any overtime work. The Escobar campaign plans were progressing, the Crown Prince shone with pride like a newly minted coin, and you could practically taste the anxiety in the air. The Emperor kept having secret meetings with his ImpSec chief, one after another, which even the Emperor's secretary was not allowed to attend, although he was kept nearby so as to be available at any moment. Finally, he was ordered to present himself before his commander and lord.

One leaf of the double doors down the hall opened slightly. It wasn't an Emperor's armsman but Negri himself, gloomy and discreet as usual, who motioned to him: "Lieutenant. Come in".

Illyan stepped in, saluting without words. Judging by the length of Illyan's walk in the art gallery, today's conversation had taken at least a few hours, and these hours had been hard for everyone around the table.

At the height of the afternoon the Emperor's sitting room was filled with cool twilight. Dark green silk curtains were half-drawn, since lately Ezar was bothered by bright lights. A large comconsole, now turned off, gaped at the middle of the room like a glass black hole; deep, fathomless water of the kind where one can't swim out if one falls in.

Negri had positioned his straight chair at some distance from the console. His broad palm noiselessly patted a plain leather file-folder. The poor folder looked like a freshly flayed animal skin spread under a wolfish paw. Illyan had absolutely no desire to see its contents.

Ezar sat with his elbows wide apart, fingers intertwined and hands tenting above the black glass. He glanced briefly aside at Illyan as if he was a familiar and understandable furnishing. Right now the Emperor's attention was focused on another man.

Illyan hadn't previously seen the third person in the room with his own eyes, only on holovid records in his files. But a man didn't need eidetic memory to immediately remember this rough face with its heavy features. Now Illyan saw only the man's profile, because he sat half-turned to the doors. The admiral's (no, the captain's, judging by the rectangles at his collar) face was impassive, but his broad shoulders under his undress greens hardened in stubborn immobility.

However Illyan felt a certain unexplainable relief at the sight of this man. This man who was a living guarantee of success for the Escobaran... yes, campaign: Illyan didn't like to say "a crazy attempt" even in his mind, though he knew well the author of this "brilliant" idea. But Vorkosigan was more suited to command the entire Expedition force than a patrol ship; even an ImpSec man without any navy experience understood this.

"... It's really wasteful to hold you back in patrol until you get moldy", added Ezar suddenly from the middle of a sentence as if he had heard Illyan's thoughts. Nobody was mistaken whom this phrase has been addressed to, "And even there you have managed to grapple with Grishnov's fellow". The Emperor's voice sounded almost peevish, "I'm tired of shielding you".

The hero of Komarr didn't move, even having received this excoriating in the presence of the junior officer. This junior officer (having been brought up to date in this way) was still, too. His other reason to keep perfectly immobile was Negri's glare.

"You wear my uniform. And you will serve me wherever and however I consider necessary", Ezar snapped, "Right now it means a post in Ops with the fleet going to Escobar. And so as to keep you from any of the usual quarrels in which you always think yourself right, I will put you on a short leash. There is your leash", a little move of his chin pointed out Illyan.

Well, such a recommendation isn't particularly flattering.

Vorkosigan turned to the new character in this scene and measured him with a brief and almost astonished look.

Illyan did his best to make a stony face. Obviously in this performance he was supposed to play the role of a silent supernumerary. Nobody expected him to present his special skills and to apologize, at the same time, making excuses that he didn't have the chip's barcode on his forehead.

Ezar continued: "Lieutenant Illyan has, besides the usual merits of my ImpSec men," -- Illyan saw out of the corner of his eye that Negri nodded -- "one additional advantage: a memory bio-chip. And he has the unusual right to report to me directly. Aral, you wouldn’t be wrong to consider these Silver Eyes on his collar to be my own eyes. He'll be appointed to look after you for the sake of security. Including protecting you from your own ill-advised doings."

Vorkosigan should fly into a rage now, if Illyan ever knew anything about human behavior. But even if a dark light flashed if his eyes, it was concealed by drooping eyelids.

"My word is not enough for you, Sire?" he asked, almost as if for the form's sake.

Illyan noticed that his voice sounded more a bit toneless than it did in recordings. Maybe the man had just overstrained his voice in a two-hour debate with the sovereign of two planets. Illyan wouldn't be surprised. In his secret files, which Illyan had been ordered to read yesterday, the phrase "stubborn son-of-a-bitch" was as frequent as "strategical genius". And both definitions could have been poetic hyperbole as well as simple truth.

"Hm, the word of Vorkosigan?" The Emperor's remark was edged with... what? Irritation? Sarcasm? Or the gloating pleasure of a debater who catches his opponent's error of logic? Illyan had taken up his post of an Emperor's secretary a few years ago. Now he knew Ezar's face better and saw it more often than his own face in the mirror (and sometimes - closer, but that was nobody's business). He still made mistakes now and then in reading emotion in his master's features.

"No. Your mutual confrontation has gone too far for it to stop by your word of honor. This man," he nodded towards Illyan, frozen still, "will guarantee that you'll be busy with your service to me, not your revenge against your commanding officer".

His commanding officer?

"You have already confirmed his appointment." From Vorkosigan's lips this came as a simple statement, not a question or even a frustrated regret.

"Vorrutyer will be promoted to vice-admiral so as to match my son's rank and to share command with him," Ezar stated. No comments were expected, "And you will be promoted to the rank of commodore. This is your second chance to deserve an admiral's yellow tabs again. And my lieutenant will look after you and keep you from compromising yourself."

Illyan bit his tongue, resisting the temptation to foolishly ask, "What?" Vorrutyer's name should have been expected. But this fact also explained Aral Vorkosigan's strained despair. In the disgraced former admiral's place, Illyan would apply for a transfer to Kyril Island instead of the post in Ops. Perhaps Illyan, the prospective peacemaker, should do it himself, and right now?

"You will serve me wherever and however I consider necessary", he remembered. Illyan wondered if this last remark was also addressed to him, and in what measure.

Ezar slapped on the tabletop. "The discussion is closed. Dismissed, gentlemen. You'll get your directions the usual way. Illyan, please, accompany Commodore Vorkosigan to the East entrance and then come back".

Vorkosigan rose, and his straight chair creaked. He looked around, shooting a single glance at Negri's file-folder, faced his Emperor and saluted neatly. "Yes, Sire." Then he turned to Illyan, knitting his thick eyebrows questioningly. No doubt, the son of Count Vorkosigan could find his way out the Residence on his own, and he didn't like an unexpected escort.

"Sir?" Illyan opened the door wide in front of him. The man who should be called a commodore henceforth strode through without glancing back. Illyan shut the leaf of the door softly behind them.

The syncopated clomp of their boots echoed in the gallery. Vorkosigan strode forth, not looking around. Probably he had been this way dozens of times before his disfavor. He looked distracted, like Illyan himself. Questions crowded Illyan's brain, outnumbering the matching responses. The silence lasted right up to the doors.

Before the exit Illyan saluted his companion, for a split second hesitating over whether this salute should be an analyst's vague wave or the perfectly accurate movement specified exactly by the Service Regulations. Which would seem to be a mockery? No, Vorkosigan took the exact salute as a matter of course and returned it with an almost automatic gesture.

"Do you already have experience in looking after somebody, Lieutenant?" Aral Vorkosigan asked suddenly with a mirthless grin.

Are you asking if I'm an experienced spy?

"During the last year His Majesty has often commissioned me to observe", replied Illyan dryly, almost despite himself. Everybody expects the fellow with the mechanism in his brain to always have a blank face, not a confused one. It was difficult to let Vorkosigan know that they were fellow victims. Because neither of them could completely understand: why?

No. Vorkosigan certainly understands. But he doesn't intend to share his conclusions.

And Illyan's understanding had to wait for its proper moment in the Emperor's office. He hurried up, though not enough to draw attention, in hopes of a quick enlightenment.

Chapter Two

When Illyan came back, Ezar was still sitting at the table, but Negri had already gone. The Emperor sipped his tea; on the dark glass tabletop wet circles marked places where the teacup had been. Ezar's posture was slack, as if he were now taking a rest after a hard job. It grew cool in the room; the air-conditioner functioned at its full power, drawing out the heat and tension of the last hours. The sunlight made its way through the narrow slit between the curtains and fell on the parquetry, making a gold streak like a sword laid aside.

"Well, and what were you talking about?" asked the Emperor straight off.

"Almost nothing, sir. He took an interest in my experience."

"And you bragged about it?" Ezar waved towards the next straight chair as a suggestion to sit down. But he didn't tell Illyan to help himself to tea.

"You think I have something to brag about to Vorkosigan?" Illyan dared to be a bit sarcastic. It was difficult to retain complete impassivity when one's heart pounded, and not only due to the run from the other end of the Residence.

Ezar looked up and down and frowned. "Is something wrong? Are you discontented?" The small porcelain cup went down on the comconsole with a slight tinkle. It seemed that his Emperor's slackness was no more than a self-deception. Illyan was not the only person in this room who needed to speak his mind.

"Sir, allow me to consider this matter as an analyst."

"Try, then", Ezar permitted with a skeptical "hm-m". He sat down at his chair, linking his fingers in a customary gesture. A repelling gesture. It hinted that he was ready to hear out all considerations which his junior analyst would apply to this delicate matter, and then smash them to shards.

Illyan focused. Of course, he understood that his every doubt would be rebutted by his Emperor's reason, but now, after a quarter-hour of reflection, he needed to have his say. He screwed himself up and began from the point which would be the main stumbling-block.

"Based upon the files given to me, sir, I think that you have poorly chosen a person to work with Commodore Vorkosigan."

"And why?" Ezar's voice just oozed causticity.

"Point by point, sir. The first. All officers assigned to control him are obviously an abhorrence to Vorkosigan. Heretofore this role had belonged to Political Officers, and you well know the conflicts that resulted. He is a man of habit, so it's dangerous to extend his reach to your personal Security Service, Sire. And especially to present me to him in such an emphatic manner. The second. Vorkosigan is a senior officer and he has a charismatic personality. He isn't used to receiving any direction from a man younger than him in age and rank. A lieutenant advising an admi... sorry, commodore with so brilliant and long record of service is grotesque. I appreciate your confidence, sir, but I'm not the only person you can trust. The third. Because of my biochip I have been accustomed to the position of a passive onlooker. The Psychological Department gave me conditioning but not training. So I know how to provide for Vorkosigan's safety in the narrow sense, but I doubt that my skills are enough to make his relations with Vice Admiral Vorrutyer safe."

"Do you fear failure?" Ezar flicked his brow in feigned astonishment, and shook his head. "Perhaps this is the fear of something else? For instance, I suppose you are afraid to lose a cushy job in my office now. But you wanted to go to the front line before, didn't you?"

Things look bad, Illyan thought coolly. It seemed this point was so sensitive and embarrassing that Ezar was immediately trying to change the subject and to shift all discussion from logic to emotions. But the situation was not critical yet; in that case Ezar would have said "in my bed", not "in my office". Maybe these emotions that he didn't have the right to discuss were exactly the challenge? After all, Ezar was informed about his feelings as well as about the content of his memory chip.

"No, sir", he replied pronouncedly dryly. Now wasn't the proper time to joke that he was seriously afraid of the possibility of sharing the destiny of the two Political Officers appointed to look after Vorkosigan (the one's neck has been wrung, and the other was now under a military tribunal). Not that this jest would have much truth; there wasn't an officer rank below ensign, and Illyan was not going to make troubles comparable with the Solstice Massacre.

"What the hell's your lame excuse, then?" Ezar rose, and leaned across the table.

Illyan also sprang up. It was impossible to stop this talk. They would continue even if they never could look at each other afterwards. Damn, what was the reason for his teeth chattering: the air-conditioning or something worse? He was shivering, but continued stubbornly:

"I know my limits. Do you really believe that Vorkosigan would consider my opinion?"

You know he doesn't even consider yours sometimes? This would remain unsaid.

Ezar swept these considerations aside with a jerky wave of his palm.

"Bosh! Weren't you listening at all half an hour ago? When I talked about wastefulness, it concerned your person too. You have not spent these three years in the Residence to regulate your... private life. And I did not hold you here to sit idle in conferences. I taught you. Myself. And now kindly be consistent and not shy! I insist that you are ready and don't you dare to object."

Illyan didn't object: he never tended to suicide or suicidal stupidity. He did nothing but asked, "You are moving me to be the permanent subordinate of Vorkosigan, sir?"

"Yes, if you can hold down this task. You have to learn to work well together. And to know how to stabilize him. If you achieve success, Negri will hand over a commander's tabs to you. If you fail..." The pause sustained so long that it had time to freeze in the cold air of the room, "Then the ImpSec Chief would try to use your talent in another way. As an archivist, for example."

"To work well together..." Why does he turn me out now: because I haven't already handled the same task concerning himself, or because I've done it perfectly?

Doubtless, he had succeeded. Ezar had become the center of his universe. At first it had been an effect of the superfluous eagerness of the ImpSec psychologists who had conditioned him. But then it had happened by Illyan's own choice. However he wasn't blind and he saw that the Emperor was flattered by this selflessness despite himself, that it appealed to his emotions (although the term "sentimentality" was not applicable to a man like Ezar Vorbarra). But what if now he didn't want to let Illyan go? The harsh "I've said. Enough" could conceal Ezar's uncertainty, regret, tiredness... Or jealousy.

It was impossible to be sure enough about these matters even to talk about them, not only now but always. During their midnight tete-a-tetes everything was allowed: from silly endearing words to caustic jokes, from familiarities to dirty phrases, so stimulating at the proper moment and so embarrassing afterwards. Everything was allowed except the one taboo subject: their parting. Such a resounding silence, on account of the alleged importance of this matter.

But Illyan was an analyst; his work was to seek any modifications of the usual pattern, any aberration, even if the norm was unique. Ezar's sudden try to hurt Illyan's pride and to reproach him for an imaginary fault could be a symptom of the Emperor's weakness, concealed thoroughly. This insight made him dizzy. Illyan froze suddenly as if he had run against an invisible force shield. Perhaps it was good to think sometimes not only about his own modest person and his fictitious offences?...

"Lieutenant, are you sleeping?" An irritated call brought him back to the reality.

Illyan remembered the previous question and answered briefly: "I'll do my best, sir." Now he managed to say the simplest answers slowly, as if for the first time, "But I need some additional directions."

"What directions?" questioned Ezar wearily, "You have read his files. Completely. Don't tell me that you have forgotten something important."

Illyan drew up the Emperor’s chair, inviting. Ezar sank heavily on its cool silk upholstery, and held on firmly to the armrests, as if he had suddenly given up to gravity. His tension fell down, flowed down like water. Only the exhausted old man remained, who had already made a decision, endured its bitterness and dealt with its consequences. Illyan positioned his straight chair right up against the Emperor's, in the way they usually sat in the evenings. These evenings could turn into private briefings, reports, unforgettable lessons, rare heart-to-heart talks and so on, and Illyan had almost never guessed what it would be when he opened the heavy door of Ezar's apartments.

Now he focused upon work. Work only.

"You certainly understand, sir, that Commodore Vorkosigan confronting any junior officer could eat him alive, whether this officer were equipped with expensive electronics or not. Even if that's your real purpose... What is my role in his entourage? Supervisor? Bodyguard? An independent witness for a future military court? A scapegoat? A living reminder of your anger for all who would be nearby?"

"Do you need to choose one variant, no more?" Ezar asked, suddenly peaceful.

"I'm not an all-round craftsman; I'm an analyst with a good memory. And it is best to use my strength against any opponent instead of my weaknesses."

"And who is the opponent?"

Illyan sighed. "The same question, sir, I would ask you."

"I hear you." Ezar sat down, his palms resting on his lap. Obviously he intended to explain nothing, only to confirm some guesses which Illyan would have to make sense of by himself. Well...

"Using logical reasoning... You've assigned Vorkosigan to be a subordinate of the very two persons who have a lot of reasons to hate him. Vorrutyer's motives are evident: he has personal ones, due to their former relations, and political ones, because of his alliance with Minister Grishnov. The Crown Prince also feels jealousy toward Vorkosigan. Not only because of his friend Ges, but first of all, because of you."

"You are too bold," Ezar frowned, "My relations with my son are not your business, boy."

"I know," Illyan stepped back, "and that is why I don't analyze these relations themselves, only their effects. The hatred is one of those effects. Let us assume that my presence prevents them both from assaulting Vorkosigan openly, for fear of your anger. However, they could find a lot of ways to annoy their subordinate indirectly. What do you buy at this cost? If Vorkosigan were the Commander of the invasion fleet, it would countervail any enmity and squabble in the fleet headquarters. But Aral Vorkosigan as the sixth officer by his rank in Vorrutyer's staff is useless. Is this a punishment for him, and I the personification of the stigma? Or is his post a challenge, which I have to help him cope with? Or is his subordination a compromise for Vorrutyer's sake, and my job to keep an eye on the Vice Admiral so he doesn't go too far?"

"Have you enumerated all your versions?"

"No," Illyan admitted, "but I could look over my guesses until next Winterfair."

"You are splitting hairs, boy, and complicate everything," Ezar moved his hands apart. "I've said just what you've heard, without any implication. You have to work well together with Vorkosigan. He is supposed to serve me again with all his best. All means to achieve this are at your discretion. Be happy that you were presented to him as my personal spy. He would press down a mere lieutenant without noticing it.

So, that's the task. To work well together with the famous Admiral, the Conqueror of Komarr, a Count's heir and a cult figure among the military. This man is well-known in the Vor circle for his free-thinking and stubbornness. And I need to guard him. Personally. 'Nothing but that'.

"Then I need exhaustive files of all fleet senior officers..."

"All details are Negri's concern", Ezar waved away.

"... Including the file of the First Commander-in-Chief," added Illyan obstinately.

"You have lived in the Residence for a few years. Really, don't you know all about my son? Well. We'll have a special talk about it. Tonight. And now you are dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

"Tonight." And how many talks remain for me until my departure?

Chapter Three

The Escobaran campaign had started at the appointed time. The invasion fleet's ships jumped one after another through the Komarr wormhole and rejoined together in the orbit of the newly-disclosed, nameless planet. Up to that moment it had been only a meaningless number in the galaxy's catalogue. There hadn't such a huge Barrayaran battle-fleet for five years, since the time of the victorious Komarr campaign. But if the Komarr expansion had been supplied via diplomatic and intelligence successes, then now, it seemed, the Imperium was going to count upon surprise and outnumbering only for Escobar. There were dozens of cruisers of the newest series, troopships, mine sweepers, monitoring ships, couriers. All this multitude was crowned by the flag cruiser General Vortugalov, which carried on board both Commanders-in-Chief and their Staff. It brought up the rear and was now at one-day distance from the orbit of Barrayar and several wormhole jumps behind most of the fleet. It was hoped that keeping the flagship back would keep the surprise that was crucial to the invasion's success.

Illyan's last month had turned out to be... interesting. Any day when he managed to sleep six whole hours had been equal to a vacation. Around the clock the lieutenant had devoured confidential records, one after another, without thinking over their content. The files had contained memoranda, summaries, staff reports, court processes, extracts from the old archives of the capital Municipal Guard... Even if he should fail and be dishonorably dischanged from the Imperial Service, he would have a chance to take the post of the Vorkosigans' official biographer. And also he had to study all procedures of the fleet security, military laws, hand-books of shuttle emergency pilotage and, of course, files of all senior officers and other persons who had served with Vorkosigan. They had been so plentiful that the phrase from one of the records saying 'every brush-fire in the last twenty years had his name in it' looked like plain truth, not metaphor.

Finally Illyan had received the order to arrive at the assembly point in the military shuttleport. He had felt the relief of a man sentenced to be shot early in the morning, who had already dug his own grave and now rested while the soldiers of the death squad ate their breakfast and loaded their guns.

The second of the five wormhole jumps between Barrayar and Komarr fell in the middle of the night cycle. Illyan had checked the flight schedule beforehand in Nav and Com and set his chip's alarm clock to wake him a quarter of an hour before the jump. This precaution was not superfluous. Illyan had found out four years ago, on his way back from Illyrica, that if he slept during a wormhole jump, it gave him the strongest headache. He remembered now in every detail this inexpressible sensation, as if somebody had twisted a blunt and rusty screw into his forehead above and between the brows. Perhaps this effect had been reduced in the years since, or it had been a temporary side effect of the newly installed biochip, but Illyan wouldn't like to risk finding out otherwise.

The world blinked and got back to its original state, and only an annoying sickness remained as the effect of the jump. Illyan knew that he was a bit jump-lagged. This weakness could stand in the way of a space officer. How many times had he thought that on graduating from the Imperial Academy, it has been reasonable to turn him down for long-awaited ship duty? Other than this temporary problem, the modest, if ascetic, decor of the cruiser's quarters didn't cause him any discomfort. His cabin was no bigger than a medium closet, and moreover, he enjoyed the privilege of occupying it on his own only because he was an ImpSec man, whereas any ordinary junior officer would have had to share it with a roommate. Anyway, he didn't feel any claustrophobia or unrest. His room was cozy, and it seemed there weren't going to be any surprises on their route to Komarr.

The jump had been completed, so Illyan could once again rest his head on his pillow and fall back asleep. There was no need for him to get dressed, leave his cabin and check to see if his famous charge was on site. Vorkosigan had made more battle wormhole jumps than Illyan had read files; therefore he would be sleeping easily in his own bed. It would be useless, and moreover, offensive, for Illyan to go out into the corridor to see the color of the light on Vorkosigan's door lock. He knew it, but felt an impulse to be up. Never mind. It will be over. This he recognized as a syndrome of a newcomer, who worried about failing at the crucial task. Later, after a few weeks, his job would become automatic and he would stop feeling nervous.

His formal orders said: "to attend all conversations between Aral Vorkosigan and any unauthorized persons, especially when they talked about Service matters, and to accompany him on all official business". If Aral would only help him, he could carry out this order. Otherwise, it would be only so many empty words. Covert shadowing was not the right way to strengthen relations with a man so painfully focused on his word of honor. The Lieutenant would have to rely on Aral's promise to serve. However, Illyan suspected that there was a bug installed somewhere in the line of Vorkosigan's comconsole, and a man among the ship's crew assigned secretly to judge his, Illyan's, diligence. As usual, this assignment was a test, but it was meant for more people than Illyan or Aral, and afterwards Ezar would judge them all.

Illyan lay down, his linked fingers under the nape of his neck. Unusually for him, sleep didn't seize him in a trice. Well, if a man could not spend a night in health-giving rest, at least he could divert himself with the analysis of the current situation.

No. The self-analysis.

Where had his sensation of having failed an examination appeared from? After his dismissal from the post of Emperor's secretary, he felt irrationally as if he was guilty of something. But he had made neither real transgressions nor failures. It's impossible to know whether one's answer was right, if one didn't catch the question.

Illyan understood that it hadn't been a problem in him, but in the other person. It had not been true that Ezar hadn't enjoyed seeing him. No, he'd refused flatly to allow himself to be seen later on by his young lieutenant. Illyan remembered the remark that Ezar had let drop not long before his departure. It had been whispered in his ear quietly, at a moment of unguarded relaxation, when words passed easily through the mind and out the lips: "I'm growing weak. I wouldn't like you remember me such an old man." Accidentally, perhaps, but Illyan's paranoia knew the worth of this accident.

Ezar had said goodbye and let him go, for Illyan's own benefit.

And this benefit was undoubted. He became conscious as never before that he was utterly efficient and in total harmony with his brain. He no longer felt burdened by the Illyrican gear. He felt as never before the peace of his mind, the indifference to his own desires, and the lack of fear of showing emotions. He was not afraid to love any more. It had already happened, and it had been high and piercing. It was like a person who, having already climbed Sky Scrape Peak in the Black Escarpment, no longer itched to attack other mountain heights with a climbing iron.

Illyan tossed and turned. This point, which he had just inadvertently turned to, was slightly uncomfortable. Exciting, also. But his own bed was the best place to think about it. Now he was all alone, behind locked doors and perfectly secure.

Yes, the same thing that had been a shameful drawback before has receded into the background now. His sexual choices no longer provoked awful confusion in him; they became just a particular detail of his character, like his persistent weakness for expensive chocolate. His fleshly desires could now not appear at all, or could co-exist with any feeling, however strong, from pure hatred to awe, and not combine with it into a detonating mixture. Like oil and water, separate. Even if his judgment hadn't become as entirely free of emotions and personal opinions as Captain Negri had wanted, he had only one passion now. Work.

And no simple co-worker had fallen to his lot.

Their personal acquaintance had only confirmed the assumption that nobody could treat Aral Vorkosigan indifferently; one would instantly feel either sympathy or smouldering irritation towards him. A counter-question: what did Aral Vorkosigan feel towards his personal spy? He could guess it without delay: irritation, of course. Illyan thought that it wouldn't be bad to counter his ambiguous status with something confidential. Perhaps he should drop hints about a hidden resentment against His Imperial Majesty, one held in common between them.

And we also have at least one common fancy, registered accurately in the secret part of Vorkosigan's files.

Illyan chuckled involuntarily but admitted that this joke wasn't too funny. There was too much truth in it. And too many singular coincidences for bare chance.

It seemed I'm not forsaken. It's worse; I'm a gift.

The next piece of the puzzle settled into place with a distinct click. It was as if he had heard his Emperor's voice when he had asked with a grouchy approval: "Do you see, Lieutenant?" Illyan felt an odd medley of emotions, old bitterness overlaid with the elation of baited intellectual curiosity.

He needed to think over this new-formed picture with all his analyst's thoroughness, but it would be better to sleep beforehand. Illyan stretched himself with a crack and yawned. Then he pulled up his military issue sleeping-bag and fell asleep until reveille, without dreams as usual.

Chapter Four

In the morning, the officers' mess in the cruiser resembled a live illustration of Brownian motion. Batmen hurried out with food trays for the commodores and admirals, who enjoyed the privilege of having breakfast in their cabins. The rest were satisfied on site with coffee, sausages, eggs and groats. Junior officers settled at the vacant tables with jokes and laughter; they exchanged remarks about the previous night shift or talked over their immediate business. A hum of voices filled the room, broken by hails, snickers and the jingle of tableware. Even if ship officers regarded ImpSec men as presumptuous free-thinkers with no idea of discipline, the morning atmosphere here was the same as at any cafeteria at ImpSec HQ.

But it was strikingly different at lunch.

When the Crown Prince had chosen the General Vortugalov as his flagship, he spread the ceremonies and traditions of formal discipline there. He did this eagerly, with the enthusiasm of a man who was by no means tired of these ceremonies. At every lunch and dinner, the tables were covered with starched tablecloths, officers always stood at attention and saluted when their Commander-in-Chief appeared in the room, industrious, silent privates served as waiters, and everyone's table and seat was assigned according to his ship rank. Though Serg had declared before many a time, aloud and in everyone's hearing, that he hated all the Residence's formalities, now he imposed them as a duty upon all the ship's crew. Backed up by Space Navy tradition, Commodore Couer, the flagship's captain, checked for instructions from his admiral promptly and without comment. And although the Prince himself frequently didn't find time to be present at these meals, this fact never countermanded his order.

Illyan wasn't a man of fashion, but he handled a dinner fork and knife easily. The new order of meals had only one uncomfortable point for him; Illyan was almost assigned a seat at the other side of the wardroom near the ensigns' table, at a fair distance from his charge. He had found it necessary to allude to the Emperor's direct orders. His pride wouldn't have been wounded by the necessity of silently propping up the nearest wall throughout lunch and eating later in his cabin, but, as it had proved, there was another way out.

Illyan has been temporarily equalized in status with Commander Vorinnis, a personal aide-de-camp of the Prince, and settled beside him at the right wing of the captain's table. At first the commander, military to the bone and the Count's third son, had glanced aside at the ImpSec lieutenant with dislike. For a few days they ate silently, besides the occasional polite request to pass the salt. Then this watchfulness had given place to hidden curiosity. Illyan had waited for a question, and it happened.

"Do you really have to keep all this in mind exactly?" Vorinnis asked him in an undertone once between the main course and the dessert.

"That is the least onerous of all my duties," Illyan replied matching his tone, "I'm a Security officer. All the rest is an addition only."

"I never thought that Vorkosigan was in charge of the Security here," Vorinnis said caustically and very quietly.

Illyan pretended not to hear it. His unseemly spy role itself didn't worry him much. And Vorkosigan seemed not to hear this remark; he sat at the dinner table (two seats aside from Admiral Vorrutyer's chair) dead-pan, and his stony face was more appropriate for a statue, not a human being.

Wait. The stony face, was it? After a few weeks in the company of Aral Vorkosigan, Illyan had had time to notice that his ward, energetic and given to dry humor, turned into a lifeless statue only when there was something amiss. The simple fact that Vorrutyer was in his sight couldn't provoke this magic transformation. The lieutenant scanned through the last few minutes in his memory, focusing on catching low-voiced remarks, and winced. The table conversation had just taken a particular tendency.

"... Escies are already waiting for us on the other side of the wormhole..."

"... we'll cork up the Betan wormhole, and they'll have no choice but..."

"... said that we lost the surprise as soon as those Betans had run away from aboard the General Vorkraft... "

"... Nonsense. A Political Officer co-operating with strangers?..."

"... he brought the saboteur aboard himself and handed over the gun and the cipher key of his safe to her. A peculiar thing, isn't it?"

The last remark was, of course, Vorrutyer’s. And he continued immediately in a confidential undertone, turning to the target of his wit and leaning forward, "Had you been mad after women before, er, Aral?"

Illyan noticed that this phrase contained several nasty hints at the same time. It wasn’t impromptu; it was obviously composed in advance and with remarkable familiarity with Vorkosigan's habits. Illyan had no choice but to hope that Vorkosigan would keep in mind whom he was dealing with.

Illyan saw with relief that Vorkosigan preferred the most sensible choice and ignored this remark. Without changing his passionless expression, which any stranger would take for an indifferent tranquility, Aral replied to the previous remark, "Owing to the mutiny aboard the General Vorkraft, the Betans escaped instead of being interned".

"Oh, that mysterious mutiny, yes," said Vorrutyer slowly and thoughtfully. "My batman was related to it in such a strange way. Whether he meant to kill you, Aral, or strike you, or save you, or vice versa...? Would you like to remind me of this fantastic case?"

"Nothing fantastic," Vorkosigan grimaced with frustration. "Lieutenant Radnov and his cronies got themselves into a military court, the Betans escaped, and we almost lost the warship. And enough of that."

"Yes, a mutiny took place aboard your ship, Vorkosigan," the Prince put in, "Why doesn't that surprise me? I always insisted that the infection of liberalism is dangerous. A Progressive manner doesn't become a true Vor. These officers' common meals and trainings together with non-coms encourage a sort of fraternization across ranks, and that cannot be allowed in my fleet."

The Crown Prince's aide-de-camp made his face intent and prim. Vorkosigan, who had been just openly rebuked by his Commander-in-Chief, remained silent, looked down at his plate and didn’t show any interest in further discussion about discipline. Illyan kept his face blank and polite but was reminded that a few month ago at the Residence, Serg had acted as an example of true fraternization. Evidently, he just thought that his honorary post of Commander-in-Chief would automatically give him the manner of a true leader and knowledge of the Service.

"My ship's crew keep proper seniority which lets them operate successfully and efficiently, sir," Commodore Couer put in, with wounded pride.

"No doubt, aboard my flagship the discipline is perfectly in order", the Prince waved out, "and I believe this will continue henceforth." He ate up his dessert, touched his lips with a napkin and rose. "All dismissed, gentlemen. Ges, go on." The Prince pulled him by the sleeve as he hurried up to leave the wardroom.

In spite of the Prince's urgent request, Vorrutyer lingered near the table a moment longer; he leaned toward Vorkosigan, tapped on his shoulder and said something in a low voice. Illyan managed to hear only a snatch of this phrase: "... you usually fell for soldiers, what a shame..."

Thank God, Vorkosigan controlled himself and kept silent. But Illyan was sure that all the splendid food was now stuck in his throat. Ges Vorrutyer was going too far. A commander had the right to call his staff officer down for any fault, but it was intolerable to humiliate Vorkosigan with mockery and scabrousnesses in the presence of his subordinates. After all, these men were supposed to respect him and to obey him implicitly. But Vorkosigan ate up his lunch nevertheless, and only when he was finished did he rise, take his leave with a nod to his fellow officers, and stride to the exit. Illyan followed him like a faithful shadow.

In the corridor, near the officers' cabins, Vorkosigan came to a halt. Until then he had been straight as a ramrod, but suddenly he relaxed and his back softened. He looked round with an almost badgered gesture, so unusual for him, and made sure that nobody was near. Then Vorkosigan punched the wall once and swore mutely. He didn't pay any more attention to Illyan than to the vid-pickups down the corridor. Oh, no. He turned out, narrowed his eyes.

"Lieutenant, what are you doing here?" Vorkosigan said this in a such low voice that it was almost a whisper. This whisper resembled a snake's hiss, and there was enough poison in Vorkosigan's voice to stock a
small bio laboratory.

"Can I come in, commodore, sir?" Illyan nodded toward the cabin door.

"Can I refuse you?" At least Vorkosigan didn't send him away with a brief "Dismissed!" Illyan would have had to obey the order of a superior officer.

Illyan shrugged. "You can, of course. According to my orders I'm supposed to be close by you only when you are not alone. You are not a prisoner, I'm not your jailer, and I absolutely don't intend to trespass upon your private life."

Vorkosigan tapped the code panel on his door by touch, half-turned to him. He missed one of numbers, shrugged in frustration, and tried again more carefully. The door moved aside.

"Come in, Illyan."

Through the hiss of the closing door Illyan caught some barely audible voices from around the corner. They were too distant to identify them clearly, but he kept in mind that Vorrutyer's cabin was almost across the corridor.

"Well?" Vorkosigan occupied the single station chair, his palms laid down on the armrests and his elbows apart. Illyan had no choice but to lean against the wall or to sit on the edge of the flatly covered bed. But he didn't want to rumple the covers, for some reason, so he remained standing. Vorkosigan's cabin was neat and perfectly in order except for a mug with a band of dried-up tea inside on the comconsole, and a light-pen in the wrong place. "What is the cause of your visit if not a forced escort?"

"Yes, it is better for me to be present if you should run across somebody along your way," Illyan admitted, "but that isn't really the matter at hand. I didn't understand one thing I heard about at lunch. I wanted to ask you, sir."

Vorkosigan narrowed his eyes, as if he expected that Illyan would ask him to interpret one of Vorrutyer's obscenities.

"When Vice Admiral Vorrutyer talked about the mutiny aboard the General Vorkraft, he mentioned his batman. Who is this?"

Vorkosigan's lips parted with a grin. "Ah, this is an old story. Sergeant Bothari, one of my commandos from the General Vorkraft, was unlucky enough to have served before as Vorrutyer's batman. Then the Commodore got angry with the sergeant for some fault, and sent him off to the patrol ship as punishment. But this is Bothari's proper place. He is an excellent soldier, so he had been up to the mark at the time of the mutiny."

Illyan concentrated, reminded of one of a few hundred files that he had flicked through quickly during the last month. Yes, Konstantine Bothari, thirty-eight years old, a sergeant, had a lot of notes in his personal files and an awfully ugly face. Illyan knew, though, what an ID picture could make of an ordinary fellow's face. But Illyan had already seen this name before somewhere else... He mentally skipped through the registry of daily orders, for conscience's sake, and was surprised.

"Commodore Vorkosigan. Are you aware that two days ago this man was moved aboard the flagship? This order was signed by the Vice Admiral himself. Bothari was re-appointed as his batman."

"Is that so?" This news was a surprise for Vorkosigan, an obviously unpleasant one. It seemed that he didn't look forward to encountering his former brother-soldier. And he explained why. "It wouldn't be for the sergeant's good, if you take his troubles into account."

"Troubles? What kind?" This fellow Bothari had never crossed his mind until this moment, but now Illyan pricked up his ears. The man was Vorrutyer's batman and Vorkosigan's former subordinate at the same time, and there was the keyword "troubles". Illyan didn't like troubles any more than the lack of logic. A combatant non-com of humble origin, a gutter bastard, roughly speaking, had been suddenly requested by Vorrutyer himself to be transferred from the battleship and assigned as his personal batman. This was fraught with potential surprises.

Vorkosigan paused, selecting exact words. Thankfully, he drew himself away from his own worries. "He is unbalanced. And aggressive too. This is a good strain for an active service, so the medics wouldn't reject him as unfit. But Vorrutyer's company only shakes him loose. Sergeant Bothari is an excellent soldier, but whilst serving Vorrutyer, his military service nearly came to 'discharged without prejudice'."

"Are you afraid of him?" Illyan asked bluntly. Vorkosigan smiled and shook his head without any comments.

So be it. Anyway Illyan now marked this name as red-flagged for his immediate attention. He was going to work over the sergeant's files according to procedure. And enough talking now. The ImpSec lieutenant found a new chore for this evening, and his ward relaxed and stopped clenching his fist in spite of himself.

"Thank you, sir," Illyan said formally, "May I go off? Call me if you need to go to a meeting."

"Of course, lieutenant." Vorkosigan dismissed him with a brief nod. He looked dissatisfied and tired, but the fierce tension had left him. Illyan hoped that he would spend his time until the dinner in his own cabin and, perhaps, wash out the bitterness of today's humiliation with a glass of some strong drink.

Frankly speaking, Illyan thought that Vorrutyer had deserved to have his mouth washed out with soap so as to wean him from saying foul things, but now he was in command, and Vorkosigan would have to submit. This campaign would last only few months. Or Vorrutyer would tire soon of trying Aral's impregnable patience and calm down.

That was what Illyan wanted to believe.

Chapter Five

Illyan had already become accustomed to the procedure of monthly neurological testing a few years ago, but he had some doubt of its necessity until now. But it was no more sensible to object to medics than to go up against a force shield or to spit into the wind.

The two officers exchanged greetings: Illyan saluted, Surgeon Zarowski returned a mere nod and pointed him to the examination chair. The lieutenant sat where was directed to. The doctor left his comconsole, rose and pulled out a scanner's lamp on the articulated arm. Illyan settled back and pressed the nape of his neck to the cold metal plate, then turned his head obediently left and right. As usual, the results of the tests were within the limits from "good" to "excellent". The thing which really worried Illyan was in his head but not literally.

Illyan's duty to medicine finished, he stood up, holding one elbow slightly off at a distance. Unfortunately, this detail didn't escape a professional surgeon's sight.

"Have you soiled your sleeve, lieutenant, or is it something more in my line of work?" he asked nodding towards the suspected limb.

Illyan bent his neck contritely, "Injured during a... a fight."

"Let me see," the surgeon ordered.

Illyan took off the uniform tunic, which was carefully hung on the station chair's back, and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt.

Zarowski felt all over his swollen elbow without delicacy, took a portable scanner from the comconsole, passed it over the arm, and snorted with disapproval. "You are not a seventeen-year-old boy breaking your arm in training. Where did this come from?"

"Breaking?" Illyan repeated, surprised.

"I frighten you. In fact, this is only a serious sprain. I'm going to work on it with an electrical stimulator so you will be able to fight again in three days." The surgeon performed all this without interrupting the conversation; he fastened the cuff on Illyan's elbow joint, put contact plates under it and connected the device up. "Who was it?"

"Bothari," the lieutenant informed him. But he preferred to hold back the other details; for example, it hadn't been training at all. But these details were definitely odd.

Since his military school years Illyan had become used to the fact that when his messmates had had drawn up ranks according to size, he had found himself in the middle at best. This had never worried him too much; in his first year he had even regarded his height as an advantage when he had desired to serve aboard a fast courier. But the most important criteria for recruitment of the Crown Prince's personal guards was "large and tall", although they were as well-trained, of course, as they were tall. Because of his slighter physique, Illyan was hopelessly eclipsed by these fellows, even in the same uniform and with the same Horus Eyes on the collar as his own.

But Vorrutyer's new, or more precisely, former, batman stood out even against this background. He was broad-shouldered, stringy, tall, but he always hunched up strangely as if he tried to hide his height. Moreover, Sergeant Bothari had a face so notably ugly that after looking at him Illyan changed his mind and thought that his ID picture rather flattered him. No wonder that Bothari, looking like this, was an unsociable man. Illyan had never seen the sergeant talk with anybody as a friend. Bothari hadn't attended common gym training with the other guards; when he had come to lunch at the non-com mess, he had tried to occupy an empty table, and nobody had taken a seat near him. When the sergeant hadn't been hurrying to carry out the Vice Admiral's instructions, he had mostly hidden either in Vorrutyer's cabin or in his own.

Illyan was wary of conflict with Bothari. It was rubbish that in a fight your opponent's comparative size was not important. Maybe, his height wasn't so essential but his arm's length and his weight determined too much when your training was almost equal. Oh, yes, in a real hand-to-hand fight or in the ring, the one who had more adrenalin boiling in his blood had an advantage. But then Illyan had been in the Admiral's cabin and hadn't waited for a direct attack.

A physical attack, he meant. Illyan hadn't doubted that the Vice Admiral would immediately turn this almost-private talk between him and Vorkosigan into an occasion to shake off the venomous foam from his lips. The Commodore had received a direct order to come in the door of Vorrutyer's indecently luxurious cabin.

As expected, Aral's bitterest friend Ges hadn't failed to say some scurrilous things about everything concerning him, not excepting Illyan himself in his duties as Aral's company. He had hoped to provoke Vorkosigan, but in vain. Vorrutyer's expected dialogue had been reduced a monologue, interrupted from time to time by Vorkosigan's standard remarks of "Yes, sir" only. Finally, he had replied to the last mockery, "Have you finished speaking your mind yet, Commander? I need to go. I have no time," and turned to the door.

Near the oval doorframe Vorrutyer's sergeant had loomed like a single gargoyle, glancing at the visitors silently. The slow-witted batman had blocked Vorkosigan's way, and Illyan had had to nudge him carefully aside...

Contrary to all tales, ImpSec men don't have a sixth sense for danger, but good reflexes, gotten into shape during hundreds of hours of training. There had been reflexes that had saved Illyan's arm from a fracture; the sergeant had applied a painful arm-lock at his full, and enormous, strength. Illyan had hardly kept his balance and felt that his released arm had hung down as if it had just been stunned, and waves of fiercely boiling water had emanated from his elbow to shoulder and to his fingers.

But the pain hadn't been so strong as his astonished bewilderment. The soldier - an excellent soldier, as Vorkosigan had said - had tried to fall on an officer without any cause. This accident had been as incredible as if he had cut himself with a dull ceremonial sword. Or he had fumbled in the bread-basket and his finger had caught there by a mouse trap. Or he had got a poisoned cup of coffee from an ordinary public coffee machine...

"I would not have expected this folly from you," the surgeon muttered, "This guy has his head on backward, but the yours is ok, isn't it?"

Illyan had already managed to notice that Bothari had some mental troubles, but it would be useful to hear the story from the very outset. The treatment for his injuries wasn't pleasant, and his aching elbow throbbed and stung hotly. It made sense at least to profit from this quarter of an hour and to make a plausible pretext to talk of the treatment.

"And what is wrong with his head? His files are quite silent in this matter."

"Are you curious for keeping up the conversation or asking as an official request, Lieutenant?" the surgeon replied with a counter-question, and this question wasn't rhetorical.

With all his apparent dislike for the system of seniority, Colonel Zarowski, the chief surgeon of the flagship, was subordinate to the same boss as Illyan himself, although this fact was advertised in no way. Negri's clear and unambiguous orders to Illyan included, among other things, a list of fully trusted persons on this ship's crew. The colonel was at the head of this list. And their disparity in ranks kept the Emperor's spy from over-perseverance, so he yielded a little.

"The official one, sir. How would you describe his psychiatric problem, as a doctor?"

"An aggressive sociopath." Surgeon Zarowski eyed Illyan skeptically as if he doubted of his knowledge about psychiatric terms. But Illyan had seen so many psychiatrists since his chip's installation that all their favorite learned words had been stamped firmly on his indiscriminate electronic memory.

"Let me explain what I'm asking about. Commodore Vorkosigan considers your Bothari to be a good soldier in the hands of a worthless commanding officer. And I regard him as a loony that it would be dangerous to issue a digging tool to, not to mention a plasma arc. Where am I wrong?"

"Bothari's madness is useful here, as his respect for the Regulations".

"Are you calling this as a 'respect for the Regulations'?" Illyan moved his shoulder significantly since his elbow was fixed.

"Bothari thinks straightforwardly. He fulfils orders, one at a time. But he has not a whit of respect for rank, so you shouldn't believe that your lieutenant's tabs would be of importance to him." The medical officer's nail snapped on his own collar tab. "Bear in mind that this judgment about the sergeant isn't my own at all. Our Captain knows better, Illyan, if he thinks that Bothari is in the right place."

Ah. Zarowski was an agent, too, so Security itself -- that is, Negri -- had examined and confirmed the fitness of the deranged non-com to this post.

"As Vorrutyer's batman."

"Indeed. Vorrutyer thinks that he entirely controls his tame madman. We don't prohibit him from thinking that."

"But who does control him? You?"

"Good God, no! I'm only watching for results, the rest is not in my purview... Lieutenant, don't jerk your elbow, you'll disturb it."

Colonel, don't digress, anyway you'll fail to disturb me, Illyan countered in his mind, Although... thank you for the hint.

"Besides, the pharmacology that the Vice Admiral possesses and applies doesn't do his batman good," Zarowski added.

"He treats Bothari? On his own?" Illyan was surprised.

"Quite the contrary," the surgeon corrected dryly. "I suspect an extensive psychedelic assortment."

"Does Vorrutyer really not understand what is he doing?" Illyan almost jumped but he was held in place by the strong surgeon's hand. Yes, he had never thought that Vorrutyer had much good sense, but this news was beyond all boundaries, even the boundaries of the mere instinct of self-preservation.

But the colonel obviously didn't want to continue this talk. "I don't discuss my commander's conduct and recommend you don't do so, either," he snapped out. It looked as if he was well-informed about this entire situation but wasn't going to tell anything. "Don't meddle in matters that don't concern you directly or else you won't get off with a contused elbow. Do your service duties reserve you too much free time for thinking?"

"Indeed, I do no more now than think," Illyan sighed. "'Wait and watch' is our motto, and all the secret meaning of our work. Sometimes I think that those monsters near the main entrance to the Headquarters are an apt illustration of a model ImpSec man. Awesome, silent and not doing anything until real troubles come."

"If they come," said Zarowski sarcastically, "your exemplary watchfulness isn't worth a pin."

This sentence, heavy with warning, paused their talk. Illyan could concentrate either on the sensation in his long-suffering elbow or on his thoughts about what he had just heard. The latter seemed to him more interesting, though it was just as ticklish.

Well. Vorrutyer is sure that he controls Bothari. Negri believes that Bothari respects the Regulations above all else, so... is this his only reason to obey his tormentor and commander? It is interesting. It means that he would carry out any order, if only it... Wait. Who is the fleet Commander-in-Chief subordinated to, according to the Service Regulations? The answer is obvious: to the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, that is to say to the Emperor. But the reasons aren't so obvious. Is the mad sergeant a sort of human insurance policy against Vorrutyer’s potential mutiny? Where is his trigger if he is a gun? There is no sense here. Especially as the Crown Prince of the Imperium is the First Commander-in-Chief... or is it just a reason, maybe?

Illyan was so focused that he bit his lip. The surgeon eyed him reproachfully, because this treatment wasn't so painful that he should demonstrate his agony.

The Crown Prince Serg. Of course, it had been impossible for me to get the complete file of the First Commander, but Ezar had told me something peculiar that evening. During the last two years the Prince had attempted to usurp the Emperor's title at least twice. His father overlooked these attempts only because they had been crushing failures. But who knows... Why wouldn't he dare to try a third time, when he has the largest body of troops for a decade under his command? However it's odd to rely in this matter on a drugged psycho who is not aware of reality.

But... why not? This is a redoubling. Insurance. The right hand doesn't know what the left one is doing, as usual. The same principle as in the structure of the Emperor's personal Security service: all the little secret and separate compartments are known only to Negri and Ezar.

Or maybe it's only my delusion. I have eluded schizophrenia produced by the memory chip, but it seemed I have just caught paranoia as an occupational disease...

"Are you so delighted with the electrical stimulation, Illyan, or have you fallen into a trance so as to endure the intolerable pain?" the spiteful voice of Zarowski interrupted his thoughts. The chief surgeon was caustic even in a kindly mood, since his medical cynicism was doubled with the same strain typical for an ImpSec man.

"Delighted, of course," Illyan answered coolly, "But it's enough, I think. I'm afraid of dependence."

"Such a laudable caution." The surgeon turned the device off and uncoiled the cuff from his elbow. "I believe you will keep your caution when you come into contact with Vorrutyer's men."

"I shall not fail to do it, sir," Illyan agreed. Oh, he would be very cautious on the thin ice of assumptions, guesses and secrets, which he couldn't speak aloud, even if he were all alone.

Chapter Six

Usually the ship's wardroom had been in favor during the ship evening time. Its empty space and dim light turned it into the best imitation of a typical Vorbarr-Sultana tavern that the ascetic warship's decor could provide. The ship's designers had thankfully not assumed that officers were made out of the same stuff as the ship's walls; they needed a place to make themselves comfortable and relax after their shifts. Of course, the atmosphere of the wardroom hadn't been absolutely free, since any time somebody from Command could visit it. On the other side, there was no alternate way to gather in groups, because the cabins had room only for a broad smile, not another man.

But today the wardroom was almost empty after dinner.

Illyan settled alone at a table, looking at his hand reader and pretending unconvincingly that its contents took all his attention. His evening cocktail was a glass of cold soda water slightly colored with rose wine. But all courtesies were observed, so two senior officers talking as friends could formally regard him as just a lieutenant at rest, not a spy on duty.

Commodore Aral Vorkosigan and Admiral Rulf Vorhalas sat together two tables away from Illyan. It was their presence in the wardroom this evening which made the junior officers go search for a snug place as far as possible from their higher-ups. It was a good move. The confidential talk of two old friends had to go on tete-a-tete, and Vorkosigan needed to have his say. His other ways of spending time looked too much like solitary confinement.

Illyan took no obvious heed of their talk, but only caught its keywords, for the future. And he only glanced aside occasionally.

"... happy that Ezar has tempered his justice with mercy eventually. I don't know whose words he decided to listen to. Everyone mentioned your name recently."

"Of course, for my sins I've deserved a lifelong patrol duty..." Vorkosigan's rumbling baritone sounded quite caustic.

"You are offended."

"Do you think I have no reason, Rulf?"

"Frankly speaking? I think that Solstice accident was your disaster, Aral, but not your fault. But what happened later was only your fault."

"And you reproach me just the same as everyone else!" His voice lowered, edged with hiss. But it meant rather resentment than anger.

"Yes, it is yours only. You were in command. You should have sent that git to the military court on site; a report from a fast-penta interrogation would have adorned his coffin wonderfully and nobody would have minded. You lost your temper, Aral, it was notorious and scandalous. You know it. But a half-year at Kyril Island had to cool your hot brillant head. The assignment to patrol beats everything."

Vorkosigan sighed. "Kyril... damn, I don't remember that winter at all. It has been thoroughly washed away by the alcohol."

"You are not good at drinking. And never were." Vorhalas paused. "However, it was your turn to take command. I recommended your candidature and I have no idea why it wasn't confirmed."

"I know," Vorkosigan said softly, "Anyway I wouldn't have accepted this appointment, but it wasn't offered to me."

"I don't understand," Vorhalas said, puzzled. He added firmly, "Whatever your post is in the chain of command, sixth or first... for God's sake, that son-of-a-bitch shouldn't get a chance to make you break up again!" Now, Vorhalas' composure also failed him.

Vorkosigan responded with a brief joyless snicker. "There is a game called 'I know that you know that I know.' Ges imagines himself as my evil fate. And I..." He paused again, "I should drink now. I'd like to wash the after-taste of his name away from my lips. And enough of him."

Illyan agreed silently that to mention Vorrutyer was the best way to mar your mood. Yes, his ward was fully aware who tried to drive him crazy and how. But the way he controlled himself, he was at most in danger of getting an ulcer from swallowing his own caustic words.

***

The flagship General Vortugalov had arrived in a day at the fleet assembly location in the orbit of the newly disclosed planet. It was spread out beneath, green and blue, fresh, virgin, having no name yet but with an atmoshere suitable for breathing and a non-aggressive biosphere. Vorkosigan, who had landed here with his patrol a year ago dropped now only a few words, but they described the planet's illusory fascination as 'an almost impassable jungle teeming with parasites'. Vorkosigan had never been a connoisseur of unexplored wilderness, even in a normal mood, but now his views on life had become particularly dismal.

The common meeting was arranged for the the latter half of the day. It was planned that personnel pods would ferry aboard the flagship the cruiser's captains and the commanders of troop formations so that they could be informed about the details of the strategic plans of this campaign and get the guidelines directly from their Commanders-in-Chief. Speaking bluntly, it would be the most official and pompous event of the few next months excluding the future Victory feast; the Prince had already forecast how the president of Cortes Planetaris would hand over to him the keys to surrendered Escobar. The flagship had been cleaned more spotlessly than ever before and obtained the awesome perfection of a show model. This morning Illyan had already seen a private disciplined for an unfastened button and an officer reprimanded for bringing a coffee cup to Nav and Com.

No doubt, Vorkosigan had done his homework beforehand, but he had spent all morning at the comconsole, checking one more time the theses for his coming report. However, Illyan wondered if Vorkosigan would even get his turn to report at the meeting or not. As if it had been in mockery, Commodore Vorkosigan had been charged with working up the retreat plan, redundant during the future victorious campaign and required for form's sake only. Nevertheless, when Illyan had come to his cabin as usual a half-hour before the lunch, the Commodore had just risen from the console and was stretching himself with a crackle, straightening his back after the long hours preparing paperwork. Illyan considered that Vorkosigan had hidden behind his work to avoid the Crown Prince's magisterial fault-finding, with which he had recently been terrorizing all his Staff.

Illyan sensed Vorkosigan's tension, the same as all the ship's crew was imbued with. They reached the wardroom for lunch in silence, having uttered no words to each other.

There was a man among the crew, though, who was in a serene, elevated mood. It was His Lordship Vice Admiral Vorrutyer. His excitement showed as an endless stream of some sort of biting wit. The term 'biting' was almost literal, because every time he spoke, Vorkosigan winced secretly as if Vorrutyer's words were not mere remarks but mosquito bites. Throughout all the lunch, Illyan felt heartburn. It was the same, over and over again, and even the subject of Vorrutyer's jests didn't change. Was this the dripping that, repeatedly falling at the same point, would wear away the stubborn stone?

"... a nice place for a resort below; do you agree, Aral? Perhaps last time it was extreme tourism, but a first-class service. The Betans haven't any prejudices, do they? She had to please not only you but all your ship's crew. Your former executive officer will be here today; I should ask him about his impressions..." Vorrutyer continued almost under his breath, leaning in confidently, "I understand now why the personal observer was appointed to look after you. He has to confine your wild private life. 'Confine', what a significant word. In other words, does it mean that your private life is confined to him? Interesting." Vorrutyer paused to sip wine and continued, "Doesn't he really have to sleep in your cabin? I remember it was difficult, because you, er, snored... Or only when you're drunk, Aral?"

This lasted during all the lunch. Vorrutyer almost ignored the meal, as if his flow of words satiated him enough. Bothari, the Vice Admiral's batman, loomed behind him and served at the captain's table as a steward, but the ugly fellow disgusted Illyan less than his satisfied, smiling master. The Crown Prince enjoyed it openly, but his contributions were confined to laughing after his friend's jokes; it sounded like the offscreen bursts of laughter which were a permanent feature of cheap comedies. Illyan thought that perhaps Serg felt no less nervous before the meeting than young ensigns during their first campaign did.

Vorkosigan kept silent.

Vorrutyer, incapable of breaking through the armor with words, finally lost his restraint and turned to action. He patted Aral on the shoulder, supposedly friendly, leaned in confidently, and trespassed on his personal space in every way possible. Aral obviously felt uncomfortable, but he didn't move, in his stubborn reluctance to give up. But he had to leap up anyway when the cordially gesticulating Vice Admiral waved awkwardly and brushed against his crystal glass with his sleeve, who knew, by accident or knowingly. Vorkosigan was fast in his response, lest he be embarassed by a wine stain on his uniform, but he saved only his tunic, not the glass.

Vorrutyer poured out his exaggerated mocking apologies, "Oh, Aral, how clumsy we are both today!" The waiter cleared away the shards, covered the wine stain on the table-cloth with a napkin and put out a new glass for Vorkosigan. A scandal hadn't happened, yet again. It seemed that Vorrutyer had exhausted the supply of dirty tricks he had stored up for today's lunch. Illyan counted off every minute until the end of the meal and felt his tension turning into an iced knot in the pit of his stomach.

At last the time came for the final toast. By tradition officers and gentlemen stood upright to drink to the 'Victory of our Imperium!', and then one might leave the wardroom without any fanfares. Vorkosigan was among the first to excuse himself. Illyan noticed that there was an inconspicuous wet stain along the bottom of his dark green trousers; it was the mark of wine from the shattered glass. Cleaning them would be one more annoying task before the meeting, one more trifle meant to shake Vorkosigan's self-control. As yet the disgraced commodore's mood was stable, severe, and dark like a moss-grown mountain.

Vorkosigan stepped out resolutely torward his cabin. There remained only few hours until the meeting, and he needed to spend them on putting himself and his uniform in order. It seemed that a batman wasn't due to his post, or he had refused the service himself. His washroom was supposed to be equipped with an ultrasonic cleaner, as it should be in the cabin of every senior officer. If only it would be so easy to lighten his mood as to clean his clothes! Illyan didn't know whether the after-pains of today's loathing could be washed away with fifty grams of the very strong and seasoned medicine that Vorkosigan reserved in the drawer of his desk. Illyan had seen this bottle once.

"I am ashamed," Vorkosigan said before entering his door.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Illyan returned automatically.

"I know. But I'm ashamed anyway. He make me a laughing-stock... in the face of my own officers."

"First of all he made himself one."

"I don't care about the reputation Ges earns. Besides, it's impossible to discredit it more. Everybody knows that Ges is a selfish, evil, revengeful, irresponsible son-of-a-bitch!" Vorkosigan spat out every word as if spitting snake poison sucked from a bite. He gritted his teeth, then breathed out loudly. "That's all, Illyan, go off. I'd like to let off steam without witnesses. Come back for me half an hour before the meeting. If there's a need, I call you."

Illyan considered it best to pass from the sight of his irritated ward. Vorkosigan didn't have steel nerves, and he shouldn't fray them any more with his presence.

Chapter Seven

Precisely a half hour before the meeting Illyan knocked on his ward's door.

There was an unaccustomed crush in the ship's corridor. Beside the nearest lift tube Illyan had just seen a confused ensign with another ship's insignia on his sleeve who was hanging about, hastily checking his holomap of this cruiser in search of the briefing room. Illyan and Vorkosigan should have headed to the meeting in advance so the crowds of men would not make them late.

Vorkosigan wasn't waiting for him ready at the door, as Illyan had expected. Instead he was sitting at the comconsole, so fascinated with his occupation that he hardly noticed Illyan's appearance. Over the vidplate there was not the upcoming report's text, but... Illyan approached to make sure that his eyes didn't beguile him into a false perception. Yes, it was a cartoon, sketched with a few negligent strokes of a light pen, but easily recognisable; Vorrutyer's head was put on a naked and ludicrously plump female body. Vorkosigan was drawing with sincere enthusiasm; his face, usually reserved and cool, was alight with a sort of fierce joy and his broad smile looked like a wolfish grin.

This shock was the first but not the only one. There were other oddities. For example, before Illyan's arrival, the neat Commodore Vorkosigan had already begun to change his clothes to proper dress greens, but he had broken off half-way. He had put on his piped trousers but the shined polished boots were still in their sealed bag on the floor near the wardrobe; the gold-embroided tunic wasn't buttoned up, and the cuff of his creamy high-collar shirt jutted sloppily out of the tunic's sleeve. And the stained crumpled trousers of his undress greens lay on the bed, waiting in vain for cleaning.

"Sir," he called to Vorkosigan, trying to muffle the voice of alarm in the bottom of his mind, "it's time to go."

"Oh, Illyan," the man answered almost absently, "wait a little, I'm just finishing." He eyed the picture pensively, his fingers linked. Then he dropped the light pen on the console (and didn't make any attempt to catch it as it rolled toward the edge), closed the file, pulled out the code card from the reader slot and twiddled it. "A nice gift, isn't it?"

Illyan looked at him spellbound. Vorkosigan reddened; the flush outlined his sharp cheek-bones. He rose, staggered, leaned on the comconsole still smiling...

"Why, you are drunk!" Illyan blurted out against all military etiquette, astonished. "It's impossible for you to go anywhere!"

"Me?" The Commodore's voice was edged with a sincere perplexity, "Rubbish! I only had a drop. I'm just in the pugnacious mood that I was so shamefully lacking before.. And that rat Ges was asking for a few slaps long ago. I have to seize the opportunity." He snorted.

"You are not good in drinking. And never were."...

"You lost your temper, notoriously and scandalously"...

"... your service to me, not your revenge against your commanding officer".

Oh, shit!

Illyan was frozen. The diagnosis was clear; the dripping had worn away the stone at last, and now the great boulder was freed and rolling quickly towards disaster. His ward had broken loose with the alcohol. The drunken Commodore Lord Vorkosigan was going to tan the hide of his Commander and Vice Admiral outright at the official meeting, in sight of all the fleet captains. He already clenched his fists and his eyes were clouded with a tipsy merry rage, forcing its way out at such an improper moment.

More than an improper one. A suicidal one.

Yes, the officers of General Vortugalov were in the know that their Commander-in-Chief had vexed his subordinate keenly and methodically, day by day. But the visitors from other ships weren't up on it. They would see Vorkosigan for the first time after his five-year exile and would consider him right away a drunken brawler, not observing propriety, even in formal surroundings. That would be an indelible impression.

Meanwhile Vorkosigan fastened his tunic; his fingers were decisive but still all thumbs. The tunic's bronze buttons defied him, and he grumbled something under his breath. It would be merely ridiculous, just like Illyan's attempts to be overcautious, if the current dilemma weren't so serious. If a Staff officer was absent from an important briefing, this would be a mark on his service record and a reason for rumors. If he made a row at this briefing, that would be the worst. But did this danger exist in Illyan's imagination only?

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Illyan got over his stupor and took a step, blocking Vorkosigan's way to the door.

"You should not show up drunk at this meeting," he repeated with desperate inexorability.

"Why do you harp on the same string?" Vorkosigan grinned, sleeked his hair as if his wiry crew-cut could be disheveled, then eyed his own palm. "Let me go. You weren't appointed my nurse."

And to what duty he had been appointed? Nurse, corpsman, duenna? 'My lieutenant will look after you and keep you from compromising yourself.' Illyan hadn't supposed, at the time, that he would have to carry out this order to the letter and not just be a silent reminder of good conduct. Unfeigned resentment had flashed at Vorkosigan's staunch self-control, now shattered. But orders are orders.

"I haven't the right to do this, and you know it," he said firmly. Such was indeed the case. Even if he was overcautious, at least he made decisions with a sober head. And that would be his responsibility.

"Don't be obstinate, Illyan. I'm s-sober." Unfortunately Vorkosigan stammered at this very word. "I only drank a thimbleful."

Illyan resisted the temptation to open the drawer and check how much brandy remained at the bottom of the bottle. No, it wasn't essential since the unattractive proof was already right in front of him, but he didn't stir a step from the door.

"You don't see yourself from the outside, sir. I do. If my word isn't enough for you, any test could verify your intoxication."

"What fucking test?" Vorkosigan interrupted him, chafed. His merry rage wasn't so merry anymore, and its strain increased headily, "Get out, boy. My dear Ges will get tired of waiting for me."

He stepped forward heavily, radiating rage like an invisible force field, and leaned one hand on the doorframe, balancing himself.

Illyan shifted unwittingly backward, feeling the closed metal door behind his shoulders. He clenched the right fist so that his strained fingers wouldn't search automatically for the stunner in the holster on his belt. He thought suddenly that if they ended up in a fight, Vorkosigan would have a double advantage of weight and a lack of restraint. No, if they fought, Illyan would lose in any case, whoever beat down the other. Vorkosigan's pride had been already hurt by incessant mockery, including implications that the lieutenant-spy could constrain him.

Logical arguments wouldn't work. He spoke hastily, discarding to hell all 'commodores', 'sirs', seniority and Regulation references.

"Aral, please. You aren't aware that you are drunk, so you could do any folly. You lost your temper; it happens -- Vorrutyer could drive a saint crazy. Damn it, let him wait for you at this meeting till doomsday. Don't disgrace yourself in the face of them all."

What feeble nonsense do I talk? Never mind; I'll say anything if only to talk Vorkosigan's head off, to prevent his rage from bursting out in a way he would regret later. Illyan needed to keep shouting until his charge's reason or his curiosity would be awakened.

Illyan thought that Aral's wolfish grin was an innate talent; it looked very impressive when he bent to his interlocutor, now driven into a corner. But at least they talked now, not fighting one against the other, and this was a small victory for Illyan.

"Disgrace myself? Folly?" Aral eyed him closely, intently, as if tasting his own words and rolling them on his tongue. After Aral's conversation with Vorhalas, Illyan had looked through his medical files; now, fully in agreement with his clinical finding, the first effect of intoxication was the lack of self-control, then the legs faltered, and only the last symptom was the stammer. If the wild light didn't flick in his eyes and his speech wasn't a bit rambling, Illyan might think that Vorkosigan was quite right. "You are so prim and proper a guy, indeed. What could you know ab-bout my follies?"

"That they are able to damage you more certainly than any enemy," Illyan said softly.

"Are you afraid that I would damage you?" Vorkosigan asked just as softly, flicked a brow. "That dirt would stick to you? This, for example?"

Certainly they stood too close one to another.

An analyst's job was to investigate and to dig out reasons for all kinds of things. But was there a kiss among these things? It was hot, almost aggressive, overwhelming like point-blank fire. This wasn't friendly teasing, but a challenge, an open attempt to confuse, a disallowed trick in their confrontation.

Illyan could recoil in a pointed manner; he could act with an officer's injured indignation. Or he could keep his usual image of an unfeeling statue troubled by Service business only, and show nothing but an iced scoffing cool. But both reactions seemed to him equally unfair. Either would be the smug hypocrisy of a person who had the cheek to lie that he was blameless and raised above all fleshly desires. Above this sin, which stung Aral despite all his bravado. So Illyan returned the kiss and accepted the challenge.

Ooh! It turned out serious. The dead sincerity of real, hot desire, camouflaged unconvincingly as a joke, drove them. And this desire was mutual. Perhaps, they now had exhausted, one month too soon, all potentialities to surprise each other. Not till the last split second before their cover would burst like a soap-bubble did Vorkosigan step back.

Only then they faced each other directly. Aral's expression, unprecedented, was slightly bemused. Illyan tried not to think yet about his own look. The broad smile and contentedly narrowed eyes would be the last straw.

Keep yourself busy.

"Aral, take it on trust if you can't believe my arguments," he continued as if nothing happened. Nothing at all, but now he called Aral by name, "You ought not to go." He had to improvise, "Look. This is a primitive method, and there isn't a floor board here, only the metal desk covered with a mat..."

Illyan slipped out easily from under Aral's hand and unbuckled his belt. Vorkosigan turned out and raised his brows, surprised, since he didn't expect that his lieutenant would begin to undress right now. Illyan knelt down on the floor, spread the belt out in a straight line and pressed one edge with his map-case so that it wouldn't roll up.

"Walk along it with small steps, in a straight line."

Vorkosigan hemmed before submitting to this offer. As expected, he staggered at the third step, but didn't fall since he hoisted a hand toward the wall and held himself upright. Now he didn't strive to go into the corridor any more. Quite the contrary, he stood motionless as if some sudden and unpleasant idea had just dawned upon him. "If I stay, will you keep me company? Lieutenant Illyan, er, Simon, had you counted upon it? Did you act as duty-bound?"

It would be impossible to count all the surprises of this evening, Illyan thought. He almost ignored Aral's irony. "You overestimate my capacities. I'm not the bastard of a patrol dog and a ship's tactical computer," he informed Aral dryly, "I wasn't able to foretell your, er, initiative."

"That would make you a real son-of-a-bitch," Aral snickered confusedly, "Sorry. I'm drunk."

'Drunk'. At last this word came from Aral Vorkosigan himself. It was no longer some observers' business to elicit why the Commodore had broken down on the day of the common briefing. There could be a lot of reasons. He thought that Aral could have vividly imagined that Vorrutyer would humiliate Aral before his own former subordinates. Especially if one of them had been Aral's intimate friend... Illyan caught himself feeling something like a trivial jealousy, and didn't redden any more only because his face still blushed, as if it was he who had got drunk.

Aral gave up and sank onto his bed. It wasn't right; humility was not Vorkosigan's nature when he was in his cups, so he just switched his urgent interest from one object to another, rather than give up. Thankfully, the idea of vengeance on Ges had given way to the idea of closer acquaintance with Simon. It was no less risky to be an object of this awesome interest than to try hand-to-hand fighting with Vorkosigan. And equally attractive.

"Why do you stand like you're at a formal reception?" Vorkosigan nodded, "Sit down."

With his toe, Illyan pushed aside the belt laid on the floor; it wasn't opportune to pick it up now, but he didn't like to increase mess in another man's cabin. Besides that, his gear looked slightly improper, lying glaringly in the middle of the room. Then he sat down.

"Do you think that I wanted to insult you?" Vorkosigan asked bluntly.

"To sting, perhaps. Didn't you?"

"I did," Vorkosigan admitted, "You tried to order me about, Simon. It's hard for me to remember that you are not an ordinary newly-made aide-de-camp. You look too inoffensive. And young."

"But if you meant to sting me, why this way?"

Vorkosigan paused. At last he said, "You see, the old sins often catch you up and seize you by your throat at the most improper moment. It's better always to remember they are there."

"Spare me your analogies," Illyan said. "Honestly speaking, you have overwhelmed me, flattered me, tempted me with this challenge, shaken me deeply. But it wasn't an insult, not in the least."

"Besides, you have frustrated such a good opportunity to get even with my old sin," Vorkosigan added, "Or haven't you done it yet?"

Illyan flapped his hand on the stunner holster, supposedly by accident. "I'm not going to let you go, Aral."

Vorkosigan didn't move. "I'm heavier than you. And I've fought before, and not only in the ring."

"Well, you'll waste all your fighting heat trying to pass me. And then you'll lack the energy for a showy scene in Vorrutyer's company."

"Have you already decided for me the public reason of my absence?"

Illyan considered for a moment only, flicking through Vorkosigan’s medical files in his mind. "Yes. For plausibility, it will be named as an 'ulcer attack'. I'll prove it by Zarowski's certificate. This explanation isn't worse than any other, and it's certainly better than the diagnosis 'a state of intoxication''."

"I've barely drunk anything!" Vorkosigan pointed out, annoyed, and yawned suddenly, getting angry with himself at this. "Simon! You are like a shrewish wife and a commander of the guard taken together."

"I'm better", Illyan grinned, "I request neither pin money nor yielding your weapon."

"Why do I have to give in?" Vorkosigan considered pensively. "I exceed you in age, rank and weight, after all. And you are a cheeky boy."

"But I have good connections," Illyan concluded, "In our corrupted time nepotism conquers all."

Aral laughed. Along with the laughter the remaining tension and rage left him like air leaves a bod-pod through the valve. Illyan was used to seeing him somber and reserved, but the laughing Commodore suddenly revealed in all its glory the crushing charm of the personality that made him such an excellent commander.

"Oh, yes, since you were engaged to my service, you ought to be a good match."

The interesting associations came to light. Vorkosigan selected peculiar metaphors for his speech - "to engage", "shrewish wife", and that bawdy drawing was not without purpose too. The kiss was the most revealing example, of course.

Illyan wondered whether he became so unconcealed when he got drunk himself. No, Vorkosigan's nerve-strain hadn't disappeared, it had only turned into strong personal interest. Illyan felt clearly the weight of Aral's glance - peering, merry, sure - like a hand on his shoulder. It was as real as a touch.

"You've surprised me today, Simon."

"You too," Illyan sighed.

"I thought you were warned. You have certainly read my uncut file. Is it interesting?"

"Just like a history textbook with medical bits ingrained. Plus sometimes it was a sort of thriller. However, there wasn't any note saying 'in a fight he uses tricks on the brink of illicit'."

"We didn't fight. And this trick didn't work on you."

"It did," Illyan grinned.

"Then you weren't the only person who fell victim to it. And I have nothing to complain about but my own presumption. When you collide with an opponent, you should assume a priori that he wields same tricks as you." Aral stretched himself and tensed his jaw, suppressing a yawn. "But you have an advantage; I know nothing about you."

"I have to have some advantages, my Commodore. You exceed me in age, rank, weight and experience, as you've seen."

"And with a fair amount of follies that I got up to the past."

"But I've mentioned an experience of my own."

"The experience of having been around, isn't it?" Aral grinned, hands behind his head, stretched himself one more time, wrinkled his nose. He clearly wrestled against drowsiness, Illyan noted. "You are impervious, Simon." He bent lower, so close. His half-closed eyes looked persistently and fixed hard despite the coming doze.

"Experience is experience," Illyan answered frankly. "Besides I'm not impervious to everybody. Some persons know more about me than there is in my file, and my file isn't smaller than yours."

"Who are they?"

"My big brass."

"All?" Aral blinked a few times.

"All," Illyan said firmly. He didn't specify if he meant by this 'all' the full information about him or both great men, Ezar and Negri, whom he had the honor to call his actual superiors. It seemed their number could increase soon to three, if the ImpSec lieutenant could keep this third person from discrediting himself.

"Is that why-y," Aral could not help an audible yawn and tossed his head perplexedly as if shaking out the doze, "Ezar has appointed you to look after me, indeed?"

You are a provocateur or telepath, Aral. What are you going to do, if I answer 'yes'? Will you kiss me again, this time deliberately, or will you take offence to death?

No, he was going to do nothing. Aral Vorkosigan rested himself against the wall and closed his eyes, struck down by drunken sleep immediately on the spot. Illyan shook Aral's shoulder but he didn't open his eyes, only slipped aside and muttered. Illyan managed to make out only '... Ges, poor bastard, not for a long...'

Well. First of all he had to deal with the comconsole. Illyan needed to switch all calls from Vorkosigan's console to his own comlink. Since he knew all the ship's security codes, this task was easy, and even a green ensign, having only just completed the ImpSec courses, could do it. The meeting would be over in half an hour or more, but it would be better to set it up all in advance.

Then he helped Aral to settle comfortably. It was hard to turn his heavy body, and Illyan fell short of the skills of a practiced batman. However he succeeded in taking off Aral's tunic, rigid with all its gold embroidery and awards, pulling off his boots, and making him lay down flat. Then Illyan covered him with the bedspread and turned the air refresher on.

It turned out that his precaution wasn't out of place. The comconsole chimed, and Illyan's wrist com echoed.

"Commodore Vorkosigan?" As expected, it was Serg's aide-de-camp, Vorinnis, who had certainly received an order to find out 'what this Vorkosigan permits himself' and take him and call him on the carpet in front of the commanding officers.

"Lieutenant Illyan here. Commodore Vorkosigan feels unwell; it's an ulcer attack."

"Is he at the ship infirmary?" Vorinnis asked in downright perplexity.

"No, Commander. He stayed in his own cabin, took his medicine and fell asleep. He charged me to respond to his calls until he wakes up."

"I'll report to His Highness", he said displeasedly.

"Be so kind, Vorinnis."

The next call occurred a few minutes later.

"Aral?" It was the voice and number of Admiral Vorhalas. And this voice was worried.

Illyan repeated his standard explication about the ulcer, Vorkosigan sleeping, and call transfer, but Vorhalas wasn't satisfied. He listened to all, then demanded hard, "Where is he?"

"In his cabin."

"Is he under arrest, Illyan?"

Aral's old friend came close to the truth, and this was off the point. Technically, Illyan had the right not to answer, because an ImpSec officer wasn't subordinate to the Staff; he didn't take orders from the fleet officers at all, excepting a direct order from the C-in-C. But he answered immediately and straightaway, "No, sir. My word as an officer. This is an ulcer attack, and you can ask him about it tomorrow morning."

"I have to talk with Aral now."

"I doubt that you could wake him up easily, Admiral. He took a sleeping-draught. Unless our cruiser has just been hit, and it hasn't, or I would have heard an alarm. It makes sense to wait till the morning."

Vorhalas clearly didn't like him, the same way as a battle-tried officer didn't like a political spy even if he was the Emperor's personal spy. Vorhalas distrusted him, but at least he didn't speak it aloud. "How strong was this... attack?"

"Now he is safe. As you know, this disease is chronic for him. The intense..." Illyan paused a split second, "... work provoked it to exacerbation."

"Thank you, lieutenant. That's all," Vorhalas cut the com.

It seemed they understood each other, more than well.

Illyan waited about ten minutes more, but nobody either called or appeared (the latter was even more important).

It remained to do only a little to repair the damage. Illyan had to clear up the cabin so that tomorrow morning it would look neat as usual, with no reminders of this evening's spree. He hung the tunic and trousers in the wardrobe, picked up his own belt and map-case from the floor, collected the pile of flimsies and disks from the comconsole and hesitated where Aral had put them down. The top drawer seemed appropriate. Then Illyan jerked it open, and the glassy bottle laying inside rolled with a muffled rumble. Yes, it was the very bottle of brandy, almost full; the fluid level was barely a thumb lower than the rim.

Illyan, bewildered, glanced aside at the sleeping Vorkosigan, who snored heavily. The he returned his eyes to the bottle, shrugged and put Vorkosigan's property away next to the map-case. Something was not on, but it was also beyond his grasp after the exertion that he has had been through. He had to sit back and concentrate at least ten minutes.

What a pity that he couldn't hide from all troubles with the covers pulled over his head, for example, these covers under which Aral sprawled.

Chapter Eight

After finishing the clean-up, Illyan sat down at Aral's comconsole. He felt exhausted, as if this quarrel and the following conversation had taken all night. But his inner chrono informed him accurately 'forty eight minutes past twenty-hundred', the middle of the ship's evening time. The fleet surgeon had to be on his workstation, and if not, he would not hesitate to call Colonel Zarowski away from the banquet under some far-fetched pretext. However, the best action would be to appeal to him as soon as possible - and in private.

It turned out that luck favored Illyan in compensation for this evening's surprises. The surgeon was found, not at the infirmary, but at his own cabin that was just two doors away from Vorkosigan's. From the undone high collar of his dress greens and his look of relief, Illyan figured out that the surgeon had just arrived from the notorious meeting. Zarowski was glad since Illyan's call had obviated the necessity to clear up in a roundabout way what has become of Vorkosigan. But the news about the ulcer hadn't reached the doctor's ears yet, or else he would have called himself. It was one more piece of the information about the speed of rumor's circulation.

Illyan closed the cabin door after himself. Of course, Aral didn't hear him going away, as he had fallen into a deep sleep and, perhaps, he wouldn't wake up even to the sound of the ship's alarm. So Illyan set the magnetic latch so it would snap shut inside. He could enter the cabin because he knew the code, but any other outsider couldn't. Thankfully, Vorkosigan lacked the paranoia to have changed his door code after he had reluctantly let his personal spy know it.

The fleet surgeon was Negri's man, and his Security experience was a several times more than Illyan's, but even so the lieutenant wasn't completely sure that Zarowski's cabin hadn't been bugged by the Crown Prince's security service or the senior Political Officer of this ship. In these matters, Illyan trusted only what he had checked himself. He would bet his ImpSec silver eyes that Vorkosigan's cabin was bug-free only because he scanned it personally every three days at least. So Illyan stated his case to Zarowski with the utmost compactness. "Commodore Vorkosigan feels quite unwell," he said, half-opening his map-case and showing him the bottle's neck, "Would you come with me?"

"What kind of illness is this?" the Colonel asked for form's sake, fastening his collar.

"An ulcer, he considers it."

The surgeon told him nothing about the danger of self-treatment, but he rummaged in his wall safe for a long time. At last he drew out a hypospray and few ampoules. From his angle of view Illyan could make out only the color codes, but not the inscriptions. He only knew the synergine by its three bright red lines; this universal medication hadn't any contra-indications and took away everything from medical hangovers to shock after trauma amputations. A quarter of an hour ago Illyan had already thought about whether to give Aral an injection of synergine on his own, in order to relieve his coming waking up and hangover, but finally had reserved it for the doctor's concern. Caesar's things would be rendered unto Caesar, so to speak.

In the corridor they both maintained a discreet silence. Illyan tapped the code on the door panel; Zarowski took this in absolutely coolly, and waved him to enter. Vorkosigan hadn't woken up yet and didn't responded when the light turned on; he lay supine, snoring with a whistle, one hand hanging down from the bed, the blood flushing his cheeks and pouches under his eyes.

The surgeon half-turned to Illyan and inquiringly flicked his brow. "What swill has he drunk?"

Illyan suppressed an annoyed sigh about his ward, opened the map-case and handed the forfeited bottle to Zarowski. The canteen-shape bottle looked solid and expensive; its thick milky glass with the raised tracery, the engraved silver screw-top that could be used as a small cup, and the matching decorative moulding on the bottle's bottom suggested that its contents were hardly swill. The doctor opened it, passed it under his nose, sniffed and came to the same conclusion.

"Did you give him any medicines? Synergine, for example?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Let us cross-check our information, Illyan. Was there any note about allergies in his medical records? Recall this, please."

Illyan focused himself on mentally scanning through the medical part of Vorkosigan's file. It was in his mind, of course, but he mostly didn't understand it.

"It seems there wasn't. What kind of allergy?"

"An undoubted one. See this," Zarowski passed his finger, pressing a little, over the gummy cheek of a sleeping man. A whitening track marked his touch. "The symptom does not agree with how it would look if he were just drunk. But the typical disease of drunkards is an upset metabolism. Nobody knows what he was reacting to this time. All his old bio-chemical tests are useless; I will have to make them anew."

Zarowski screwed the empty ampoule deftly onto the hypospray, switched it to suction mode and rolled up the left sleeve of Vorkosigan's creamy military shirt. The back of Aral's arm was also dotted with swollen pink spots that looked like a nettle-rash. He wasn't awakened, even when the prick pierced his ulnar vein. Illyan thought that such a deep sleep rather resembled a faint, but the surgeon was cool and didn't show any concern. He set the next tiny empty flask on the hypospray, this time putting the point to the glass bottleneck.

"Now I'll see what the High Vors usually poison themselves with," he said, and put the samples away in his breast pocket, "When I run the tests, I'll then have a clear conscience about giving him any injection of synergine or acetalane." Illyan's questioning face caused Zarowski to show him one of the ampoules and explain, "This is an acetaldehydrogenase stimulator. Well, you don't understand... This stuff breaks down the ethyl alcohol in the blood into natural metabolites. So if you started a rumor about an ulcer, the next morning, your charge shouldn't show all the symptoms of a hang-over. But his stomach won't like this medicine, really. Never mind, let him suffer a little for cogency. Now I need a half of hour at least for all tests."

"Anyway, what is to be done about the allergy?"

"If the edema hasn't impeded his breathing so far, we don't need to hurry up. But you can keep an eye on him, only for conscience' sake. The antihistamine is in the standard first-aid kit, here in the bathroom. I believe you know how to use it."

Yes, I'm already a big boy who knows how to lace up his shoes, Illyan thought, absently looking at the surgeon who left with his loot. So he had a half hour of a respite, or, perhaps, of waiting. Illyan thought about reducing the light intensity to dim; then he thought better of the idea and concluded that neither light nor sound would disturb the heavy sleeper.

He had to busy his brains and hands instead of waiting idly. Take for example this bottle. Until Surgeon Zarowski analyzed its contents, Illyan could study its quaint appearance. This wasn't obviously the swill that the senior yeoman stored for the privates. Such a top-quality brandy wasn't destined even for mere lieutenants. He remembered suddenly that once had had a brandy with chocolate at the Emperor's apartments, and this memory made his heart ache slightly for a split second. He ordered himself not to digress. Without looking, he traced with his finger the raised pattern at the base of the bottle, and then turned it upside-down and looked to make certain that it was a wreath of maple leaves. This was the imprint of an old vintage drink manufacturer in Vorkosigan District, as was fit for a Count's son.

Could it be that Aral had brought along a whole box of this vintage stuff? This bottle was almost full; indeed, the missing portion wasn't enough even for Illyan, who had become a forced teetotaler after the chip's setup, to become tipsy. Where were the other bottles, whether empty or full? For instance, if Aral had had a sudden fit of secrecy, he could have regarded the empty glass as a betrayal and sent it instantly to the disposer. It was possible but very strange, because Vorkosigan hadn't made any other attempt to put the cabin in order. Illyan felt he should search the cabin to discover all traces and stock of alcoholic drinks; it wouldn't be ethical, but quite useful. Really, what if he found the hidden flask of special liqueur with wild skellytum tendrils or hopper's fresh horns? Illyan laughed at his own private joke and took to the task.

A quarter of an hour later, Illyan felt himself to be a stark fool, and a tactless one. He either had no experience to conceal the alcohol, or there was nothing illicit in this cabin; both of these reasons were true, he thought. There were no bottles whatsoever either in the bathroom, or in the wardrobe behind the neatly polished boots, or under the bed. He didn't find any edible stuff at all, except an open pouch of candied nuts and fruits in the lowermost drawer. It was unexpected and amusing to know that they both were soul mates in a certain sense of their sweet tooth. Well, glucose was good for the brain. Illyan didn't help by cracking one nut absently and eating it.

Zarowski was back after ten minutes; he looked worried and very energetic.

"Lieutenant, how is your ward? Is he sleeping without changing his state? Excellent. Look here, I have some news. The good bit first. He has only 0.25 ppm of alcohol in his blood; I have had occasions before to permit a operational flight for pilots with that blood level. So I see no need to make him sober forcibly. I've made an analeptic mix for him. What does it contain? Antiallergic drug, synergine and vitamins. Come, don't stand rooted to the ground; help me to turn him!" Vorkosigan was stocky, brawny and heavy, and the hypospray needed to be set right at the jugular vein on the side of his neck.

The Colonel straightened, and put the empty hypospray on the comconsole. "Have you already inspected the room?"

Illyan kept cool as if a search in a superior officer's cabin was something common. "Of course. What is the matter?"

The surgeon didn't answer straight and spoke in a roundabout way instead. "It's hard for medics to deal with men like Vorkosigan. They are strong, over-reliable; that's why one never knows when they will break off at last. By the way, this refers to you too, Simon, but I won't digress. This is my second piece of news, the bad one; before the briefing Vorkosigan evidently decided to take a drug for treating his nerves, which had been shattered by our, er, permanent ulcer. I don't know yet what this nonprescription drug was. But probably he hadn't used it before, and due to the lack of experience he didn't take into account that it is also an alcohol catalyst. And one drink was enough. I'm going to identify the medication, and you have to figure out where he has got this bane and where he keeps it now. Anticipating your question, the brandy is totally clear. When he becomes sober, I'll talk to him seriously. However, I doubt that Aral could confess to this weakness. But I believe he'll draw the right conclusion from the fact that if he had drunk more, he would have had a laryngeal edema."

Illyan suddenly felt very uncomfortable; his ImpSec reflex snapped into action. It was one matter when only your ward's reputation was in danger; as they said, 'hard words break no bones', and once said would be corrected also with words. But it was quite another matter to figure out that the menace had been real and close. Yes, Vorkosigan didn't look like a neurotic who would eat a handful of sedative drugs at once, but he had managed to procure this damned drug somewhere!

"Colonel, sir, how soon could you give me the list of the suspect medicines? To search, I need to know what I'm looking for."

"By tomorrow morning I'll hand you over all the data extracted from our pharmacological registry. Unfortunately, we have here only the brief version, not containing anything beyond Barrayaran medicines. Meanwhile you could look for its packaging. By the morning, Vorkosigan will wake up and recover his sound mind; then ask him yourself, however, there is the chance that the required few hours will not reveal themselves in his remembrance. You chip could be very useful, but as ill luck would have it, you weren't with him this time," Zarowski added peevishly and left.

Illyan thought that this is the guard's dilemma. How should he behave, to not take his eyes off his ward, down to the bathroom door, or to give him as much free play as possible? What is more right, to take care or to respect him? What is more dangerously to risk, Aral's health or his wounded pride? Vorkosigan had to keep the spirit of a commanding officer who had his subordinates' credence. If the young ImpSec guy controlled him openly, it would undermine his authority. Damn, this psychological riddle was beyond Illyan's scope. It hadn't a clear solution, like the task of searching for some unknown medicine. Where could an empty plastic blister or broken ampoule be? Illyan did it step by step; he didn't hesitate to turn Vorkosigan's pockets inside out (the undress greens hung in the wardrobe, and it was lucky that the trousers of the dress greens hadn't any pockets, so he had did not have to turn the sleeping man), looked in the wastebasket, and rummaged under the desk.

The doorbell interrupted his unsuccessful search.

Chapter Nine

Illyan was unpleasantly surprised by the bell.

The surgeon would call him up via comm. And any other person's visit would be utterly inopportune. Actually, Illyan could simply not show his presence in Commodore Vorkosigan's cabin, since Aral was in heavy sleep and didn't hear the buzz. But the sound repeated immediately, therefore, the man behind the door was impatient and wasn't going to go away. Illyan rose, automatically shook off the dust from his trouser's knees, though the mat on the floor was quite clean, and looked around to find any possible mess. Then he went to open the door.

Speak of the devil and he was sure to appear; it was the worst kind of visitor, in other words, Ges Vorrutyer.

Illyan thought that it had been useless two hours ago to fence himself to the cabin's door like an armsman covering his lord with his body against fire if Vorrutyer now arrived here in person. His face expressed anticipate and irritation at the same time; he held under his arm a bottle of a transparent glass, filled to the brim with a dense, lightly opalescent, olive green liquid. Absinthe? It didn't matter. Anyway, it was strong drink, flatly contra-indicated for Vorkosigan, whether the matter concerned his false ulcer or his true hard drinking.

"Vice Admiral, sir." Illyan nodded briefly, automatically stepping forward. Now he stood in the doorframe leaning his shoulder against the door-post and setting the opposite hand against the door slot. This posture was far from a Regulation stand at attention and open to rebuke. But it blocked the way completely.

Vorrutyer was as much surprised with his presence as Illyan himself. His amazement was so great that he stretched out his neck in an attempt to discern something in the shadow over Illyan's shoulder, but it was in vain. Then the Admiral eyed him from head to foot; his stare was evaluating, as if Illyan was a horse being traded.

"Lieu-te-nant?" Vorrutyer syllabled his rank with a venomous distrust. "Does the Commodore feel so bad?"

"Commodore Vorkosigan's health is satisfactory; he fell asleep after the ulcer attack," Illyan reported; this was a brief version of his official communique.

Vorrutyer stared at the hand that prevented him from entering as he might have at an odd physical phenomenon, for example, a double halo; a thing that he had heard and read about in the manual, but hadn't expected to encounter. "Then what are you doing in his cabin?"

It was a reasonable question. The true answers would be 'I am searching the cabin' or 'I banish Aral's nightmares', but he couldn't say that, even with the principal nightmare of Aral's list now standing on the threshold of Vorkosigan's cabin. "I am making a report, Vice Admiral."

"At night?"

Illyan hadn't imagined before that one could attach significant indecency to that phrase with only an emphasizing inflection. He shrugged. "Junior officers have to give up to duty all their time, regardless of hours."

Vorrutyer moved forward slightly. "Do you need to have your ward right in front of you in order to make a report about his... misdeed? Such an odd method; this is the first time I've heard of it."

A kind of trap like 'Have you stopped beating your wife?'. Ges Vorrutyer was good at casuistry.

"Your question, sir, has two answers, No and Yes. No, I didn't intend to qualify the Commodore's illness as a misdeed. Yes, when I write my report I must see him in person, his comconsole and all the room. And yes again, I stick to my directions," he added, his tone edged with inflexibility of a Serviceman, who would act by all the rules even as the world collapsed.

"Is this procedure so complex?" The Admiral flicked his brow with a deliberate amazement, "It gives the impression that the Commodore's illness was something... extraordinary."

Extraordinary, to be sure! But how had Vorrutyer happened to know it? Why did he long to enter this door so much if there was only a victim of ulcerous colic behind it? Was it possible that the Vice Admiral had managed to miss Aral Vorkosigan's company during the few hours after the lunch?

"You would be better to inquire of the fleet surgeon whether this illness was extraordinary or normal," Illyan answered with a blank face. "Could I help you with something else, sir?"

Vorrutyer winced clearly. "You can. Would you be so kind as to move away from this damned door and not hold me in the corridor, lieutenant? This is an order."

Unfortunately, is was impossible to contest this. Illyan stepped aside, letting Vorrutyer pass into the narrow passage along the bathroom. The Commander-in-Chief almost shouldered his way in; he strove to get into the cabin as soon as possible.

Illyan wondered what Vorrutyer had expected to see here. There was the usual ascetic order in Vorkosigan's cabin; Aral breathed heavily, but quietly, covered with a bedspread. Evidently, he had been slightly reanimated by the injection, and his fainting unconsciousness had gave place to normal sleep. Illyan hadn't wanted to disturb him and dimmed the light to minimum luminance, since his hand light was enough for searching. The ceiling panel smoldered dimly amber in the "night-lamp" mode. The light from the passage formed a yellow rectangle on the floor, that did not reach the bed. The comconsole display was turned off and dark: the open files didn't shimmer like moonlight above the vidplate. Illyan figured that, all things considered, his remark about the report now fell on a fertile breeding ground in Ges's mind, if he effectively grasped Vorrutyer's way of thinking.

"As I have just reported," Illyan explained under his breath, "the Commodore had just taken a strong soporific. When he wakes up, he will pay his respects to you in person."

The unspoken part of the phrase meant: "Up to that moment you have nothing to do in his cabin which you weren't invited to, so it would be better for you to go away as far as possible." But a junior officer couldn't say that to his Commander-in-Chief unless he wanted to get a disciplinary punishment and, what would be worse, to make him a personal enemy, in addition to the animosity that the C.-in-C. already felt towards Illyan's ward.

Vorrutyer certainly caught the implication but didn't answer. He only glanced aside to the sleeping man, and then strolled along the cabin. The floor mat muffled his steps, and the Vice Admiral, rather corpulent, moved softly as if he slunk. Finally he nodded, coming to some decision, and made for Illyan. He approached so closely that Illyan had to make an effort not to shrink back after this intrusion into his personal space.

Vorrutyer grinned and offered kind-heartedly, "Well, if the Commodore is sleeping, you could be his pinch-hitter," Vorrutyer sustained a brief significant pause like an actor on stage, "Where is his might-have-been report? Give it to me.�

I have a feeling that Vorrutyer just doesn't want to go away, and so tries a plausible pretext. It's so touching! Ges Vorrutyer supposedly feels miserable, all alone; he has nobody to exchange a few words with and seeks sympathy and cordiality from his former friend. But such ill luck; this friend has drunk himself into oblivion and sleeps. Now poor Ges has nothing to do but to loaf around Vorkosigan's cabin in the company of his lieutenant.

Illyan carefully noted the atypical behavior of these two men, when inflexible Vorkosigan had takes anxiolytics and cynical Vorrutyer looks for his company. He managed not to change his face from bland to surprised or sarcastic.

"I don't have it, Vice Admiral. The Staff strategical plans are outside my competence; moreover, I was not appointed Vorkosigan's aide-de-camp."

"Pack it in, Illyan. It's dead certain you have thoroughly rummaged through Vorkosigan's files while he slept." The insult was accentuated by his nod towards the sleeping comconsole, "And you know where it is. Indeed, don't you want to correct the misdeed of the officer who is in your charge? Taking into account the necessity of strict observance of discipline and seniority," this was almost an exact quote from Prince's speeches during lunch, "the Commodore had to remember that the fruits of his thought were supposed to appear in the nick of time."

"To avoid any misunderstanding, sir," Illyan put in, "My business is only Lord Vorkosigan personally, and guarding his safety. Discipline or the Commodore's staff duties aren't my prerogative. I do nothing but observe and analyze; my time for reporting will come only on our return."

The implication, that wasn't spoken aloud due to their disparity of ranks, clearly said: "... and you are not the person I'll report to". It seemed that for a split second Ezar's shadow revealed itself on the dark wall, and Vorrutyer saw it.

"Of course, when Vorkosigan wakes up, I'll cite your words, to the letter," Illyan added after the tiny pause.

He had no choice but to hope that Vorkosigan's sleep wasn't too light, and this awakening wouldn't take place right now. Illyan thought that his ongoing face to face encounter with Vorrutyer was utterly undesirable for Vorkosigan to witness. It might seem that it was ridiculous to shelter him physically from the awful Vorrutyer; they had rubbed shoulders for many years and managed not to kill each other yet. But Illyan suddenly found himself moving in such a strange way; when Vorrutyer stepped towards the sleeping man, Illyan shifted unconsciously from foot to foot, Vorrutyer tried to outflank him stealthily, and he repeated the step. This waltz went on for a long time.

"Are you going to wait for his awakening, Simon? Right here?"

"Perhaps."

"What attention!" Vorrutyer gestured in a pointed manner, holding the bottle in the left hand, "Simon, you are just a model wife."

Illyan smiled carefully, and his nail flicked on the collar rectangle and the silver pin on it. "Security often have to fulfill an unusual job, including concern for some people round-the-clock."

Vorrutyer stepped back and sat on the station chair, at last putting his bottle on the smooth glass surface. His features blurred over with shadow, dark eyes shone with excitement and the smile spread slowly. "Perhaps, I'm lacking for this... cordial concern. And safety. Did this never occur to you?"

Does he make advances to me, really? Oh, shit. I certainly can't be Vorkosigan's pinch-hitter in this way.

The bright, expressive eyes on the thoroughbred face watched every move of his lips, noticed every tiniest detail of his expression. Lieutenant Illyan had to be very prudent...

Illyan slowly unfastened the folding chair from the wall and hooked it into its floor bolts next to the comconsole. He sat, and only then answered, "Unlike your work schedule, Vice Admiral, mine is round-the-clock. I can't spare you time for a permanent concern. No more than a quarter of an hour."

"Should you drink with me, Simon?" Vorrutyer unscrewed the bottle's cap. "I think we might not find any wineglasses in this barracks, but we could drink straight from the bottle's neck, by turns."

"Unfortunately, I'm on duty." This was a proper excuse, since ImpSec men on duty weren't allowed to eat or drink anything but their own military-issued rations; a fact that the Vice Admiral had to know. Besides, for caution, Illyan would take nothing from Vorrutyer's hands, not excepting even an award, and disdained to drink after him.

"You are trying in vain to look like a stubborn martinet. I beg to differ. Such a fellow would hardly find a common language with my Aral." He sighed expressively. "He is too unsociable. I wonder, do you imitate your companion as a faceless mirror on your own initiative, or have specialists worked on you before?"

Vorrutyer paused, waiting, and took a gulp of his beverage with pleasure. Did he expect that the scurrilous things he had just said would also bring him a pleasing, delicious result? Alas, he missed, and did not hit. These attentions hadn't been a trigger point for the ImpSec lieutenant for a long time. Illyan only smiled in return.

"You have guessed almost right. But I'm a glass, not a mirror. And any clever man doesn't argue with the person behind this glass. As for the rest, I'm lucky, because I resemble Vorkosigan just enough."

Skepticism was written all over Vorrutyer's face.

"Resemble? I wouldn't say so. You are dead serious and excel in self-control better than any other of our officers." He paused and glanced aside, checking whether the lieutenant fell for the bait of flattery or not. "They couldn't say that about Aral; he is a sheer fount of emotions which he has never learned to restrain. You witnessed our talks at the table, didn't you? Oh, yes, the poor fellow is sure that his stony mask can deceive anybody, until now. If you believe it, you understand your ward very poorly still, I'm afraid."

"This disadvantage is transient, like youth. I get rid of more of it every day," Illyan promised.

"And every night?"

Illyan wondered if it was Vorrutyer's company that made him take any gentle obscene hint, or his own peccadillo of today. What a pity that he couldn't omit all ambiguities and and directly answer directly the Vice-Admiral's unspoken question, "No, we don't have sex, Aral and me. Are you interested in something else?" Alas, the virtual Ges in the bottom of his subconsciousness struck back easily, "You haven't gotten laid by him yet, but it's only a matter of time, isn't it?" Illyan succeeded in forcing this uninvited mental guest to shut up only by will-power, and after a promise to set against him a virtual Negri.

"Sometimes I do, as you see", Illyan said briefly.

"I hope you will not have to know Commodore Vorkosigan as well as I know him. Then you will be able to keep some respect for the Butcher of Komarr. Alas, I failed to do it, but anyway I have some responsibility for him."

Was it jealousy or just hypocritical peacockery? He should try to draw more.

Illyan gestured palms up, tilted his head.

"I can say with all due certainty that the Commodore isn't your responsibility any more, sir. Rather mine than yours."

In a split second Ges' handsome face became harsh with sharp features, that of a dying man. "Aral Vorkosigan," he said, "is my personal responsibility. Formerly, now and always, not dependent on any official assignment."

It gave Illyan the shivers, despite himself. This "my" sounded so peremptory that it explained much. Vorrutyer's perpetual mockery proved to be not some little revenge, taken out of boredom, but the possessiveness of a man who was sure of his power by right, the power of the lord over his own thing. This conviction was irrational, and therefore it made the pure logician Illyan shiver. He realised suddenly that Vorrutyer was restrained only by a thin thread of law. If the Vice Admiral could find a way at the same time to not break the Emperor's order and to skin Aral alive, literally, he would do it in the firm belief that he acted for Vorkosigan's good, since he was never wrong in this matter.

"Neverless, I'm a typical man of Service, Admiral. I don't divide personal responsibility from official assignment." Illyan sat cross-legged, leaned forward supposedly confidentially. "Besides, you shouldn't bear this burden. You are already charged with the most important person, the Heir of the Imperium. Concentrate on him, please, and leave Vorkosigan to me. As the folk of our District say, 'nobody can hold two melons in the hand at once.'"

Vorrutyer narrowed maliciously, as he found himself getting really and truly brushed off. He shrugged with deliberate indifference. "As you wish. But I warn that you are playing with fire, Illyan. Believe me, it makes burns that hurt a long while, never heal completely, and leave behind ugly scars." He rose abruptly, took his bottle from the tabletop, glanced aside to Vorkosigan and nearly stepped toward the bed but caught sight of Illyan's slight move and thought better of it.

"Thank you for your advice, sir," Illyan answered, almost without an edge of acidity in his tone. "I would be glad to listen to it in future. It will be easy for you to find me; every time you encounter Commodore Vorkosigan you'll spot me nearby."

"I have no doubt of it." Vorrutyer's face remained arrogant, but his eyelid twitched slightly. "You are a model guard."

Illyan saluted without words, seeing the Admiral to the door.

Unfortunately Vorrutyer said in the end, when he was already in the doorway, "I wonder what a kind of lover you are. Have you had this special training too?"

Illyan had a chance to swear in return, under his breath, only when he locked the door.

Chapter Ten

Illyan strolled along the room, recovering his usual coolness with the aid of many ordinary activities. He had to put away the recently taken chair and to wipe away from the surface of the comconsole a few oily shining drops, which had trickled down the neck of Vorrutyer's bottle. No, he had a better idea. He went to the bathroom, took a sterile dry tissue from the first-aid kit, used it to wipe clean the dark glass, and sealed the tissue to the waterproof cover. These moves were useless but worked through. When he concealed the little cover in the pocket of his tunic, he had already restored the state of an analyst's concentration, unshattered by any emotions.

What had Vorrutyer wanted? Why had he longed to get in here?

During the three weeks of the flight the Commander-in-Chief had never deigned to visit Vorkosigan's cabin. He had baited Aral at dinner, called him on the carpet in his room, tested for his strength at every Staff briefing, kept on trying to catch him in a corridor, but never had paid a personal visit. But just today, when Vorkosigan was lying on his bed like a tree cut down, open to injury, Vorrutyer had taken a chance to drop in for a round of drinking.

The official version said that Vorkosigan had an ulcer attack. Of course, one could suppose that the well-known sadist, Ges Vorrutyer, had been going to force the suffering patient to stand at attention and report properly. It would be a kind of discipline parade, where the ulcer pain would be a substitute for lead-lined rubber hoses. But this explanation didn't square with the lonely visit and the bottle. Had this bottle been a gift? In that case, an unsuitable one.

Had Vorrutyer meant some sexual outlook? The unconscious body didn't fit in with such plans. On second thought, Illyan understood that Vorrutyer hadn't made any advances at him, either; it had been his usual provocation towards 'hypocritical martinets'. Thank God! Illyan would have been killed by the sudden revelation that all the High Vors were mad after his fatal seductiveness. He had to set himself straight now and not fall under the scandalous reputation of the Co-Commanders.

What had Vorrutyer felt when he had come in? Illyan considered that it had been curiosity and... frustration, just in that order. But Vorrutyer hadn't already felt this frustration when he had arrived; he hadn't brought it with him from this meeting that Vorkosigan had dared to miss.

It would make sense if Vorrutyer had expected to see Vorkosigan not suffering from an ulcer but blind drunk, not controlling himself. This assumption fit with the bottle, the private visit and the following disappointment. But there was just one snag; only two people, Illyan himself and Zarowski, had been well-informed about Vorkosigan's true state.

However during two earlier hours, Aral had been beyond Illyan's surveillance... He sighed, glanced aside to the sleeping man and made sure that his breathing was quiet enough that Aral wasn't going to wake up. Then he sat down decidedly at the comconsole and deliberately turned off the audio channel. The comconsole wasn't shut down, only hibernating, and even an ImpSec trainee could unseal the standard blocking program of the sleeping mode. The trouble was rather ethical than technical; it was equally reprehensible to rummage through Vorkosigan's private files and to pry into his closet, which Illyan had been just doing a half-hour ago. A spy was a spy, indeed. But this was useless; Illyan's assumption proved to be wrong, because nobody had called Vorkosigan lately, according to the recorder, therefore nobody had had chance to see him tipsy.

But Vorrutyer had known it already.

Did that fact mean bugs? Illyan had examined the room for them a day ago, but... He rushed to his cabin to take the scanner and returned at such high speed that this could suggest a suspicion to everybody who came along. As one said, 'when the officer was running, it excited laughing in time of peace and provoked panic in time of war'. Illyan himself didn't tend to panic now but he felt quite uncomfortable, as he doubted his own competence. However it was in vain; the cabin was totally bug-free.

Nevertheless Vorrutyer had been well informed about what had happened in the closed cabin where no bugs had been installed. They had taught ImpSec analysts that after casting-out all that was disproved, only truth would remain. If the Commander couldn't get to know about Vorkosigan's intoxication before his coming then... he had plotted it in advance.

Motive, method and opportunity composed the classical trio of every investigation. At least the first clause was evident, so Vorrutyer would get a great pleasure and advantage from Vorkosigan's drunken rebellion in the presence of other officers. But the rest was more intricate. As for the method... why did Zarowski still dawdle over his pharmaceutical guide? Illyan would have to go to see him.

Illyan blocked the access to the com, tore away a flimsy and wrote in a bold hand the new door code on it. He added the request to Vorkosigan to ring him up, and then laid this sheet at the center of the black glass surface. If Aral should wake up in his right mind, it would be impossible to him not to notice the flimsy; else he would be locked in the cabin by the next half-hour.

Zarowski's search was close to finished. The surgeon had gotten into the database thoroughly. The heaps of open files flowed over the vid plate, and the reverse side of the plastic flimsy on the console was scribbled all over with notes. It was the correct choice; one could destroy the hand-written document instantly and without a trace, but a file in the com net could be detected by any curious man with a high access level, for example, the Chief of the Prince's personal security.

"See, Illyan. I have here only our domestic pharmacological registry. The Betans certainly have many analogues of our medications, but nobody has managed to load their data to the ship's database; as far as I see, it would be amiss and undesirable to send a query home. Didn't you find the packing? So we should take all the range of medications containing the required matter. Look and remember, I'll comment upon them. We deal with a strong anxiolytic, in other words, a sedative; you have to know this term. Usually it removes irritability, emotional tension or aggression. But this specific sedative, coupled with alcohol, caused a brief paradoxical reaction as aggression with psychomotor agitation instead of depression, then it produces quickly increased somnolence, sometimes right up to a coma. The effective period is... yes, from a half-hour to two hours from the time of taking a dose, that fits to our situation. Illyan, when did you see Vorkosigan last this afternoon?

"At lunch," he managed to put in at last.

"Did you notice anything odd in his behavior?"

Illyan considered and concluded, "Nothing."

"So we have the lower time boundary. As for the medication itself, a sufficient dose of active substance is some thousandths of milligram per one kilo of weight. It is produced in the form of capsules for oral dose or ampoules for injections. By the way, the latter is unlikely; I didn't notice any marks of injection. You could make yourself sure of it, but you should remember the two injections I have made. Of course, our ship's infirmary synthesizer hasn't a prescription of this medication and couldn't produce it, since it's useless on the battle field. But I have found some notes about this medication's former administration in medical files of the ship crew. A few persons; here is the list."

The list contained six items; it was very little for a crew of five hundred men. Illyan hadn't encountered the first five names before, but the sixth was Sergeant Bothari. Illyan verified his ID; yes, it was exactly Vorrutyer's batman, not his namesake. The case record had a treatment from five years ago, but this remoteness didn't prevent Illyan from pricking up his ears.

He stuck his finger into the row of the list. "The Sergeant is considered now sane and sound?"

"His treatment was cancelled a long time ago." The colonel frowned and answered from memory, without making inquiries to the medical files. He clearly had focused his permanent attention on Bothari due to the sergeant's unusual status. "I haven't done his checkup, but his files confirm that he is fit for combatant service. And..."

"Just a minute," Illyan interrupted him, informally holding a restrained palm up. "I need to focus."

He had the name and the exact date so this search in memory was quick; he found encrypted data of the checkup and treatment. Then he passed on to the records of Bothari's files related to the time of Vorkosigan's captaincy. He was surprised to see in the Sergeant's files the mention of assault and battery towards the captain and of the repeated detention, including the arrest on suspicion of mutiny. It was followed by the commendation for heroism during the scotching of a mutiny. Had it been the same mutiny? Illyan understood nothing. But the relations between Vorkosigan and this strange fellow hadn't been unclouded, so friendly that Bothari could call on him in a familiar way and offer a sedative pill from his own old reserve.

The parts of this puzzle didn't fit together; and the surgeon, who had previously been short with him, stared inquiringly at Illyan now, and this stare confused him. Well, he had the list of persons and names, and Zarowski couldn't give him more now.

"Let's forget about Bothari. Is there anything else related to this stuff that I need to know? The side effects or precautions?"

"The common warnings, I think," Zarowski sighed. "Vorkosigan should abstain from any alcoholic drink for at least the next day, and, for the future, not take any psychotropic medicine without consulting with me beforehand. At the table he should drink only soda water, that would blend well with his ulcer patient's image. I'll tell him this myself, though."

"Thank you, sir." Illyan saluted politely and excused himself, returning to Vorkosigan.

The situation in the Commodore's cabin hadn't changed a bit. Vorkosigan slept, breathing heavily. This picture was so calm and peaceful that Illyan suppressed an unexpected yawn. Perhaps he should go now to his cabin and follow the example of his senior officer... as regards the sound sleep, not the hard drinking, of course. But Illyan's old custom to work at night, that he owed to Ezar, prevented him from falling asleep. But he had inherited from his former job more than one habit. He should not react involuntary in that way to the fact that his senior officer was sleeping at arm's length from him...

Well, so get down to work. Let's examine the new figure (putting it more precisely, the known one).

Bothari was Vorrutyer's industrious servant, who had even waited on him at table despite the fact that other diners had lost their appetite at the sight of his remarkable face. Today's lunch had been the last case when Bothari and Vorkosigan had been at once in the same room. What did it mean? Nothing. Of course, Vorkosigan had taken nothing from Sergeant Bothari and never talked with him in the Crown Prince's presence, since Serg had made a strong rule of 'inadmissibility of fraternization across ranks'. Nevertheless, Bothari had waited on the table. Could he have secretly handed over something to Vorkosigan?

At the ordinary lunch the waiters only filled the officers' glasses and put away used plates. This time they had poured out wine from some "common" bottles, and the officers had helped themselves to salad, main course and garnish, which had been installed at the center of the table. All plates and dishes had been laid on the table in advance. Except... one wineglass. Yes, the very wineglass that Vorrutyer had shattered.

Illyan silently named himself a blind idiot and restored the picture from his memory. As the lowest by rank at the Captain's table, he had taken up a rather uncomfortable seat, facing towards the kitchen's door and the teacart. Of course, at that very moment he had looked at Vorkosigan's face only, beseeching him without words to control himself. Now he froze the picture and examined its background frame by frame. There is the waiter's green sleeve; his hand dries up the wine stain on the tablecloth and covers it with a tissue. This is another waiter, not Bothari. Meantime the Sergeant steps to the teacart and kneels down for some reason, only his shoulder is showing. The barely audible squeak and click are heard, and the Sergeant rises, holding a wineglass in his hand. There is quite a battery of clean shining glasses on the top level of the teacart, but Bothari has taken the spare one from below, hasn't he? The steps sound; Bothari's hand extends by Vorkosigan's shoulder and put the wineglass on the table. It looks just-washed; there are tiny transparent lenses of liquid on its inner surface, but the Bordeaux washes them out. And straight away Vorrutyer proposes a final toast "For our victory!", and the officers drink upright and to the dregs.

Perhaps, Illyan was downright paranoid. And Aral had taken a sedative pill without noticing the warning about precautions. And they had only swilled out the wineglass in haste before putting it in the teacart. And Bothari had been an unskillful waiter. And Ges had acted as a Good Samaritan and come to visit an ill friend.

And pigs have wings...

Bothari was mad. Bothari was a sociopath on the verge of attacking everybody. Bothari's personal file contained multiple reprimands from Vorkosigan, including the lockup arrest for open aggression towards his commanding officer. Bothari had stunned his captain in the jungle of the nameless planet they now orbited. Bothari had a sedative in his pocket. Bothari was now a dutiful instrument of the man who was obsessed by Aral.

But Vorrutyer himself was guilty of nothing, of course!

Chapter Eleven

So the poisoning had taken place during today's lunch, hadn't it?

This idea seemed so logical, melodramatic and sinister that it had to have some radical defect. Before he would accuse (even mentally) Ges Vorrutyer of attempting to poison Vorkosigan with the aid of his batman Bothari, Illyan had to sift through all other possibilities. Illyan remembered the instruction ordering to test for poison all remaining food and drink that had been available to the victim. What did he have now?

Simon pulled out the notorious pouch of candied nuts from its drawer, and put it on the console. Then he thought better and brought the tooth-paste from the bathroom; Vorkosigan could have brushed his teeth after lunch, so he shouldn't rule out this way of administering the medicine. Plates and glasses had been washed up after the lunch long ago, but the wine stain still remained on the trouser-leg. It was most likely that the preparation had been in the new wineglass, not the shattered one, but he needed to check all possible modes of delivery. He drew out from the closet the recently put away uniform trousers; then he imagined himself with the Commodore's pants in his hands, took a garment bag of dress greens and packed them up carefully.

Then he looked at chrono, clicked his tongue and quickly tapped Zarowski's number on the comconsole. The surgeon had probably tired of him recently.

"I need your help, sir. Could you meet me in infirmary?"

Zarowski frowned. "Are you OK? What has happened?"

"Nothing serious, but it's important."

"In a quarter of an hour, lieutenant," the colonel ordered and disconnected.

Illyan gather his trophies, checked the presence of the note on the comconsole and went to the corridor. He thought in passing that he looked quite strange now, with a puzzled face, a tube of toothpaste in his breast pocket, Vorkosigan's packed trousers in one hand and a transparent cone of sweeties in the other.

Of course, he wasn't so lucky as to reach his target unnoticed.

"Illyan?" the amazed voice of Commander Vorinnis called to him when he had nearly stepped into the lift tube. Serg's aide-de-camp would be the last straw. "Are you about to leave?"

Neither a sense of humor nor common sense allowed him just to pass by with the traditional ImpSec grumbling "Classified; Service affairs." Besides, Vorinnis had usually been taciturn before; Illyan wondered what the reason for this change was. Could it be concerning a call from a few hours ago?

Illyan pretended that it befitted an officer to walk along a ship's corridors at night with part of a uniform in his hands. "I have a clean-up," he explained.

Vorrinis' narrow face grew perplexed. He glanced at his chrono, "Between twelve and one?"

It is a pity that we are aboard a ship now. If this encounter had taken place at the Residence, I could have said that I was returning from a date at this time of night. But considering the masculine ship crew, this explanation would be right for Vorrutyer only.

Illyan smiled, leaned a bit forward confidently and said, "Please, it's private; I'm going to the infirmary, at once."

Vorinnis glanced aside to the toothpaste, and his aide's solidarity suggested a conclusion to him. "Are you going to hide out in the sick-bay, as far as possible from the Big Brass? I understand you. Some say, people suffering from stomach ulcer become too hypercritical." And the Commander added with a sigh, "For example, when the Crown Prince has a headache, sometimes one might as well wish one had never been born."

"I could keep nothing from you," Illyan admitted. "Indeed, you are right. Until I persuaded my boss that he was sick, I had my own headache."

Vorinnis wasn't able not to take this hint, but his curiosity overcame his tactfulness. Or it could be a result of a talking-to that his august boss had given him after the last scanty news about Vorkosigan. "Well, Commodore Vorkosigan will remain disabled for a long time, won't he?"

"Ask me something easier," Illyan shrugged and smiled. "The final verdict is in the medics' hands, but if the Commodore had his way, he would be on duty tomorrow morning."

"Oh," Vorinnis said with either envy or sympathy, "it's difficult to work with a job maniac. I hope you escape an ulcer yourself; you risk one with this work schedule and dry food... would you allow me?" Before Illyan had time to say anything against squandering the evidence, he fished out from the transparent cone one sweet nut and began to crunch it with open pleasure. "Lovely. Is it from your home purveyance?"

"The candy store two quarters from the Residence." Illyan opportunely remembered the nearest shop-windows. He had seen this expensive capital store outside but never crossed its threshold, avoiding temptations, because its prices had been beyond his lieutenant's means. "Sweets are bad for the teeth but good for the brain. Although nothing would help my head now but painkillers and sleep."

"Good night, then, lieutenant," Vorinnis said politely.

"As to you, commander." Illyan stepped into the lift tube at last.

A hour later he was back, yawning and disappointed, with the same burden in his hands. All the food had been checked and proved to be clear, include the red wine. The surgeon had eyed the trousers meant for tests very expressively puzzled, though. It would have been silly to explain to him that Aral had changed his clothes before he passed out, and that Illyan hadn't had to undress him. Perhaps, Zarowski hadn't thought of this aspect at all, and Illyan had been the only person who had seen any risque subtext in the stained trousers.

He put all of Vorkosigan's property in its place, set in plain view a bottle of soda water and a few pills and then went into his own cabin.

Yawning racked him to an extent that his cheekbones cramped, but sleep didn't come, and his thoughts ran in an endless loop. He had only two versions; Aral had either taken the pill knowingly during the two hours alone in his cabin or been poisoned secretly and purposely during the lunch. He wouldn't be able to verify the former hypothesis until next morning, but it was the latter one that worried him. What should he do if it should prove to be the truth?

He first assumed that he would take advantage of his ImpSec status and arrest Sergeant Bothari on the charge of assault upon an officer. But that would certainly lead him into a military court, and according to Zarowski, Captain Negri wanted Bothari kept in his post attached to Vorrutyer. Well, Illyan could modify the charge to contain only Bothari's assault on his recently injured elbow. One would be punished for such misdeeds only by imprisonment in the guardhouse, not a discharge.

The next assumption was that Bothari, despite his disease, would have a typical reaction to fast-penta and would answer all the questions, giggling inanely and fuming inwardly. "Why did you take the wineglass from the bottom shelf of the teacart?" - "Because there were glasses here." - "Why did you bring this glass to Vorkosigan?" - "Because the Vice Admiral ordered me to wait upon the officers during lunch." - "What was there in the wineglass?" - "Nothing, it was empty". And so on. A man dosed with a truth drug would answer with a sincere stupid submission, but the Sergeant had hardly been a deliberate companion in this crime. And after returning from the interrogation session, Vorrutyer would necessarily ask him about all the details. The Vice Admiral was vengeful. As a result, Illyan would be revealed before his enemy's eyes and take at best a pawn, and endanger his own king.

Frankly speaking, Illyan didn't like chess.

He imagined an unlikely situation where he might have legal grounds to prefer a charge of poisoning against Vorrutyer. What would follow? Nothing. He vividly imagined Ges' casual remark, when he retorted, "It was only a joke of an old friend." A rude one, yes, but it wasn't deathly dangerous. "Are you also playing here the role of the moral police, Illyan?"

He fell asleep just in the middle of this thought. So he had an odd dream about Ges in an unbuttoned velvet dressing gown (the effect of Vorkosigan's caricature, for sure) who gave a lesson in five-dimensional math at his military school, and thirty-years-old Illyan was among the young cadets. Vorrutyer shouted at Illyan, threatening him with kitchen duty of washing up glasses for lagging behind. Thankfully it was a nightmare only.

Chapter Twelve

The next morning Vorkosigan didn't look very well, as would be expected. His eyes were red, his voice sounded even more hoarse than usual; the Commodore kept on clearing his throat and taking a sip of sparkling water. Illyan never asked about his headache so he saw that there was only the empty pill's blister on the bedside-table.

"Yesterday I missed something, certainly." Vorkosigan's voice was edged with grim irony. "Tell me, Simon."

Ten minutes ago he had woken up his lieutenant with a com call and asked if he had understood correctly the note on the comconsole. Illyan had come immediately, in a great hurry. As a result, two unshaven, worried, puzzled officers were sitting face to face in Vorkosigan's cabin at half past eight, each seized on his mug of hot coffee like a drowning man grasping a life-buoy. Illyan had managed to get dressed properly at least, but Aral had had time only to slip on his uniform tunic. Don't mention it. Now wasn't the time for ceremonies, especially because, it seemed, they had turned to first names in the battle situation.

"Yes, you've missed much, Aral, and it's impossible for you to be ignorant of it any longer, " Illyan answered honestly. Yesterday he had felt a silly temptation to conceal these unpleasant events from his ward till he found out the solution of this problem on his own. Fortunately, it had been over quickly. It was none of his business to solve such a problem, especially since he hadn't found any solution. "I'm going to tell you all, but I would like to ask some questions first. May I?"

"It depends what your questions are," Aral smiled, though joylessly.

"I have only two. The first one is: during the time from lunch to my visit did anybody drop in to your cabin and did you leave it yourself?"

"No. I think Rulf might have called, but... that might be before lunch, I don't remember exactly. But I met with nobody, I'm sure. I'm aware that all my encounters should be under surveillance, Illyan. Do you think that I'm deceiving you, lieutenant?" Aral asked with annoyance and clear circumspection, since he had turned to surnames and ranks.

"I didn't think so, sir, but I must ask it."

"Well, sorry. And what is your second question?"

"Did you take any medicine during these two hours, and if you did, what what was it?"

"Nothing," Vorkosigan answered perplexedly. "What is the matter?"

Illyan breathed out as his second assumption had became no longer relevant and began to state briefly the fact of the matter. It contained the result of the blood test, the combined effect of the tranquilizer with alcohol, his testing of all the food and drink, Vorrutyer's night visit (when Aral heard of it, he said only, "Really?"). Then the mention of Bothari's medical file followed, and the wet wineglass, and the non-encouraging look-out of the Sergeant's possible interrogation. Vorkosigan winced and noted, "He has to avoid a military court, so he is able to go mad in solitary confinement." Illyan finished his description with the conclusion of the impossibility of proving the attempt or of catching the real culprit of the disaster.

"What a bastard! Really, Ges has gone too far," Vorkosigan said almost without any emotions, except a slight annoyance. "It's strange; I remember myself as I was yesterday and I don't feel that I was doped."

"You weren't, indeed," Illyan explained quickly. "This stuff doesn't have an effect like dope, rather it's a catalyst. As the chief surgeon has expounded me, you could get a similar effect if you drank the full bottle of brandy on an empty stomach and follow it with a 'blue pill' ".

Vorkosigan hummed, since he was keenly aware of the effect of the "blue" stimulator from the field first-aid kit; it produced a brief burst of energy for a few hours, then a complete breakdown followed.

"The way to get two hangovers at the same time," Vorkosigan added. "I wonder whether they cooked unusually disgusting coffee in the galley today or this is just the effect of last night's drink?"

He put the half-empty mug aside, rose and began to pace along the cabin, five steps to the door, over and back. He kept silence, didn't make notes or swear and looked rather thoughtful. Vorkosigan kept his calm perfectly. Illyan wouldn't content himself with a single expression of 'bastard', if someone had attempted to poison him.

Aral suddenly stopped pacing and approached closely to Illyan. "Simon, I've survived the last night without losses only with your help. Thank you." He smiled, but Illyan seemed to hear the slight anxiety in his tone.

Does he fear that I will reprimand him for the drunken brawl or get even with him for, er, flirtation? In vain, I think.

Vorkosigan paused a second and continued more resolutely and loudly. "Let's turn from yesterday's events to conclusions that we can draw from them. I ask you to help me as an analyst."

Illyan admitted silently that this request flattered him.

"Well." Aral ticked off the count on his fingers. "What does our dearest Vice Admiral try to get, except to simply amuse himself? He intends to win Escobar's laurels, but my share to his victory is insufferable for him. I was surprised when he agreed to take me on his Staff at all. But now he tries to dispose of me roundabout. Is it logical?"

Illyan agreed this question with an approving 'hm-m'.

Vorkosigan pulled up the chair and sat astride it, arms comfortably athwart its back. Though he was drained physically, but his spirit had revived now. His eyes were alight, his glance became sharp like a blade. Illyan suddenly realized how hard these weeks of silent passive defense had been for Aral.

"The attempt to make me out as a drunken idiot in the face of my men fits in this hypothesis. But Vorrutyer has failed. What would he do next, in your opinion?"

Illyan wondered what Aral was testing now, either the truth of his own argumentation or his lieutenant's train of thought. He thought over his answer properly. "He would try a new attempt. If it should miscarry, he would get to search for another way."

"Indeed," Vorkosigan nodded, satisfied. "Ges hates to lose. But I haven't any interest in measuring prestige with him. This is not my game. Should we suggest him the idea that it wasn't a failure and his attempt went wrong only by half, accidentally, not through my counteraction? It's always better to make your enemy underestimate you."

Aral was evidently carried away with this idea. Now he spoke with the same tone that he usually explained strategic plans to his staff officers.

"What do you mean?" Illyan asked. Of course, the last statement was true. But how could they make Vice Admiral Vorrutyer consider the bitter lemon a sweet one?

"Let's assume that he would interpret the situation in the following way: yes, unfortunately, I've missed this briefing, but that was a sheer accident. But this morning I have woken up crapulent, but suspecting nothing and habitually, er, had another drink, that has provoked me to hard drinking. Does that sound likely? What would we gain according to this scenario?"

"He wouldn't try to poison you again in the immediate future," Illyan supposed.

"True," Vorkosigan accepted, "Our first profit is a respite. In the second place, for the next few days I wouldn't leave my cabin for common meals on the plea of an ulcer attack; therefore, I would avoid Vorrutyer fortunately, but he would lose his temper, quite the contrary. And the third point, the most important one, is that our disinformation could provoke our enemy to hitting into my supposedly weak spot. There are all advantages of this strategy. Does it have some defects, what do you think?"

"Your damaged reputation, of course, and the fact that you would have to hide in your cabin."

"It's reasonable. But I suppose that Vorrutyer would rather count upon the final hit than on destroying my reputation with small bites and rumors. By the way, he would certainly try to dispatch me to the reserve, if not discharge, for medical reasons... hm-m, let him try." He smiled. "I think, one week of my seclusion would be enough. Bless the working com net that give me the chance to fulfill properly the duty of a Staff officer and not to see my commanding officer's face at the same time. Would you bring me food, Simon?"

"Yes. And I would supply you fresh news with it."

"Of course. Vorrutyer is sure that our long acquaintance gives him some advantages, that he knows how to control me. Let him believe it. I know him well too, and I'll be able to seize the very moment when he is at the end of his tether, when he opens up at the attack. According to my forecast, he'll become fully ripe after a week. Let him dig his own pitfall, stand on its brink and step forward. It's important that he do it on his own. Then even a complete paranoid couldn't blame me for the plot against my commanding officer."

Vorkosigan suddenly turned from a grim person, who was burdened with forced patience and the shadow of old sins, to a dangerous man, his eyes alight with a rapacious heat, who planed his counterattack swiftly and neatly. Illyan thought that he didn't feel now an urge to watch out for or protect this Aral, but only to salute him and to take his commanding dictation, although Illyan technically wasn't his subordinate at all.

So Illyan expressed his only anxiety: "Mightn't this, er, pretended illness be revealed untimely?"

"People believe what they want to believe, and Ges most of all. Of course, we will need the full support from the chief surgeon, and, perhaps, from Rulf. You'll have to have a run, Simon, and play, but without overdoing it."

Vorkosigan hadn't even asked whether Illyan would cope with this task or not. He had just easily included in his instantly made plan all available human resources. There was the ImpSec agent who knew professionally how to wear a mask and to scout, the old friend who worried about the Vice Admiral's intrigues, the fleet surgeon who had already showed a readiness to cover up for him with a false diagnosis... and Ges Vorrutyer himself, vain and revengeful. This plot was based on the same principle as judo when your enemy's own attack threw him down.

It seemed it would be fun.

Chapter Thirteen

There were only engineering and utility service rooms on the lower deck of the flagship, just as on any battle ship. One of them was the hangar for drop shuttles, but it was empty now, because it wasn't an autonomous mission, and the shuttles usually attached to the flagship had been transferred to carriers during the forming of the fleet. So the empty room had been rebuilt as a temporary gym. This fact reminded anybody that the flagship with all the Staff aboard would reach the Escobar orbit as a rear guard, but wouldn't be sent to the heat of the battle. This could have upset Illyan as a junior officer who was thirsting for glory, but in fact he was infinitely pleased as an ImpSec agent who had to secure his ward. Anyway, Illyan wondered which would prevail, Vorrutyer's envious hostility towards the Hero of Komarr, or the Vice Admiral's sense that couldn't allow him to leave his most experienced Staff officer idle in the rear during the offensive.

However, that would be in the distant future. Meanwhile Illyan needed to visit the gym.

The ceiling height even made it possible to install an assault wall in this room and to drill the troops for null-G or landing missions. But this time the grav grids had been adjusted to normal and the unused wall loomed aside in the shadows, looking like a tracery-spiked surrealistic construction. The center of the huge room was occupied by trivial gymnastic apparatus, training machines and floor-mats for fighting.

According to the schedule, in the afternoons this place was usually occupied by commando groups, non-coms drilling their private subordinates. From 7 p.m. to midnight the gym was vacant, so the officers could use it for their training. Both Commanders-in-Chief had completely ignored this opportunity, and the senior officers had either tried to find time after dinner, beyond the common turmoil, or to keep themselves in good form with pilot training rather than with public gym exercises. But ensigns, lieutenants and commanders had never been diffident, so they had encountered each other in the gym as often as in the wardroom, in an easy atmosphere.

Illyan finished his own exercises and hailed Commander Vorinnis, who had just ceded with a sigh of relief the abdominal crunch to the next man.

"Oh, Illyan!" Vorinnis greeted him; he was evidently pleased to see his fellow aide. The Commander was sweaty and breathless, but satisfied. "Fancy meeting you! I haven't seen you here the last few days."

"I've been too busy," Illyan grimaced slightly and waved away. "Have you finished your exercises yet?"

"No, but I'm going to finish in a quarter of an hour." Vorinnis said, and then asked belatedly, "What is the matter? Something urgent?"

"Oh, no. I need you help just here," Illyan smiled politely, "As a favor, do you mind sparring? According to my post, I'm supposed train to with my fellows from ImpSec, but aboard the flagship there are only the Prince's personal guards. And I'm not in a mood to let the bulky guys beat me with the dust from the mat."

Lanky Vorinnis also literally looked down on Illyan, but by his build was at the same weight as the lieutenant. So he accepted Illyan's offer with enthusiasm.

Illyan was going to avail himself of this training for three reasons. First, he had really lacked opportunities to spar in support of his good form. Second, it would be interesting to try Serg's polished aide-de-camp, who was, judging by his files, a staff officer, not a combat one. The third, and the most important, point was that a good training fight could help to make more friendly relations between them.

So it turned out. Vorinnis, despite having treated Illyan before with a watchful snobbery, now invited him to drink a cup of tea in the wardroom after the training. Illyan, rubbing his aching wrist, glanced at the chrono supposedly imperceptibly, though not entirely, and accepted immediately.

However, he refused to drink anything stronger than the good tea, blaming the Service matters.

"Will you be busy again till midnight?" Vorinnis was surprised.

"My boss is waiting for me at 20:00; since he slept this afternoon, he won't go to bed till late at night."

Vorinnis' face expressed all the bewilderment that a well-disciplined officer felt toward the man who slept during work time. "Yesterday Vorkosigan didn't attend lunch either."

"I know," Illyan sighed, "The medics ordered him almost confined to bed. His Highness was very angry, wasn't he?"

"Quite so! As you saw yourself." Vorinnis parted his hands.

Oh, yes, Illyan had seen and heard all. There had been Serg's remark 'What does one not invent to shirk the briefing! Hah, an ulcer; he shouldn't swill his brandy' and the Prince's grumbles towards some irresponsible subordinates presuming to be down during the combat mission. There had been Vorrutyer's hints at the sanatorium treatment as if the planet below was a real spa resort. There had been an annoyed note from the chief surgeon '... If you don't wish to mar your appetite completely, gentlemen, don't ask me to discuss a medical diagnosis during the meal.' There had been Vorinnis' puzzled glance when his table-mate Illyan had refused to drink the table wine and preferred soda water.

Aral Vorkosigan had mainly spent the past days in his cabin, hiding, and the entire portion of puzzled, curious or deprecating glances had fallen to the lot of his personal ImpSec man. Illyan had kept an utter impassivity, even when his ward had had to leave his refuge. Then Vorkosigan had been morose; he had either kept quiet or began to raise his voice before stopping short; a few times he had appeared in public without brushing his hair. He had never approached anybody so close that one could smell the alcohol on his breath, but he had kept on chewing mint pastilles. And he had moved with the slow caution of a man who had been tired, unwell or... drunk.

Ges Vorrutyer had looked satisfied. This had proved nothing except the well-known fact that Vorkosigan was much less valuable for him as a subordinate officer than as a potential object of mockeries. The Crown Prince, quite the contrary, had lost his temper repeatedly; he had kept on speaking about the crew's discipline and morale, and though those speeches had been intricate they were, in fact, empty pathos. He had once drawn a paradoxical conclusion that, to quote him, 'the junior officers have to stop babbling when nobody asks them and to idling whenever they have any opportunity, and the senior officers have to stop divesting the responsibility for this onto each other!'

Therefore, the aide of the angry Crown Prince and the aide of the defaulting Commodore (Illyan's real status aboard the flagship was hushed up thoroughly) had something interesting to talk about.

"It seems Vorkosigan has a difficult nature," Vorinnis said leaning forward confidentially.

"Oh, yes," Illyan didn't argue, "But I would hardly like to trade places with you, not counting the fact that it is a great honor to serve the Emperor-to-be personally."

"His Highness is peremptory sometimes," Vorinnis said carefully.

It meant that sometimes Serg blurts out rubbish but never goes back on it, Illyan interpreted this in his mind.

"How do you manage with it?" he inquired mildly, "Share your experience, Commander. It's really hard for me to deal with such an authoritative and stubborn commanding officer, especially now." He sighed again and automatically finger-combed his hair, still wet after the shower; this was an evident gesture of annoyance.

"That's an odd comparison, Illyan!" Vorinnis was patriotically indignant. "How could you compare the Butcher of Komarr and the Crown Prince?" However, they both held back from mentioning in whose favor this comparison would be. "Speaking of stubbornness, do you remember yesterday's scene?"

Although in Illyan's case the word "remember" was rather rhetorical, even an absent-minded fellow who normally left his umbrella behind or confused his acquaintances' names wouldn't have forgotten yesterday's dispute. Illyan fast-forwarded it mentally...

"... we drag along our Vorish snobbery to the galaxy, to mock everybody!" Vorkosigan gets excited. Nobody except Illyan still remembers what has initiated this talk in the wardroom and why the voices have become raised. "Is there anybody here who thinks that those three letters before his name add to his wits?"

"Speak for yourself", Vorrutyer points out sweetly. "About your own wit or your Vor blood... you are a quarter-Betan, aren't you?"

"Thank God," Aral snarls. "Everybody could see from your example what closely-related marriages lead to." He breathed. "I'm speaking about spirit, not heredity. The Vors have become a crowd of mossy fossils who like fine words about traditions but don't see far enough past the end of their noses. It's pitiful to see what we are," he gestures evenly at the encircling men.

"Does Lord Vorkosigan deign to condemn the Vor institution?" Serg demands arrogantly.

"Yes, I do." Aral's raised fist bangs down the tabletop, but suddenly softened, so only a forgotten teaspoon jingles on the saucer. "I'm surprised that you, Prince, don't do so."

Vorrutyer stops the overly excited Crown Prince short with a gesture of his open palm. Ges turns to Vorkosigan, and his voice is cool and dangerous, "Aral, it seems that you used to like to discuss about politics in your cups, didn't you?... "

"Serving officers are not recommended to discuss politics anyway," Vorinnis echoed his remembrance, in a disapproving tone.

"I know," Illyan agreed, "Those are your Vorish matters. I think that Vorkosigan, as a Count's heir, at his age, doesn't acknowledge any authority."

"I'm Vor too," Vorinnis, who was also a Count's son, became utterly stiff, "But I couldn't think of daring to say what he did."

"Touche, Commander," Illyan raised open palms placating. "You have just said that Vorkosigan had a difficult nature. But he has proved many times his loyalty to Imperium, in word and deed, hasn't he? "

"Indeed, you are from ImpSec," Vorinnis smiled confusedly, "I keep forgetting this fact. No, Illyan, I didn't mean anything of that kind, I assure you. This isn't disloyalty but bad form. It's improper when a Vor Lord thinks like a babbler from the People's Defense League."

"Let the Political officers worry about it," Illyan waved lightly. "I have quite enough that I'll have to be when I'm called on Vorkosigan's carpet at 20:00." He regretfully eyed his half-empty cup, as if he implied that he had to drink the tea up and go away.

"It's the Service," Vorinnis confirmed, "it can't be helped. I hope the higher-ups reward your long suffering. The Imperial ones, if not the actual," his forefinger was directed to the ceiling, symbolizing the distant Barrayar beyond a good dozen wormholes.

"Blue rectangles, you mean? Oh, don't tease me, Commander," Illyan said sadly, the last word emphasized a little. "Lord Vorkosigan doesn't make my task easier, and I just trust that I'll not be demoted to ensign on returning home."

He finished his tea, glanced worriedly at his chrono again, excused himself and left the friendly Vorinnis in the wardroom.

Strictly speaking, he hadn't had to do it. It was necessary neither to check the time in a pointed manner (his memory chip included an internal chronometer), nor spend a good hour discussing their commanding officers. Today's talk had only one clear result; the Prince's arrogant aide-de-camp had heard the prole lieutenant out attentively and taken on trust his complaints. Illyan didn't know the best way to carefully hint to Vorrutyer that his victim divided his time between tipsy sleep and making his cool observer hopping mad. Illyan couldn't directly report this himself.

So he had done his part and he could return to Aral. He wouldn't be sleeping, of course.

Chapter Fourteen

Of course, Aral wasn't sleeping, as Illyan had guessed. As far as Illyan had managed to learn his habits, before the lieutenant's arrival he had paced along the cabin, silently, without a needless sound, and occasionally glanced at his chrono. It was no wonder, since he had had to stay in forced seclusion the whole day and pretend that he had been at hard drinking. Aral was able to wait patiently, like a hiding hunter, but it had been long enough, not to become unnerved by the waiting, but to simply become bored.

The oval metal door had scarcely closed behind Illyan when Aral stepped forward with an impatient remark, "What is it?"

"Nothing new," Illyan shrugged. He couldn't part his hands for visible emphasis, since he had carried from the galley a food tray sealed with foil. It had only the dietary minimum allowed for an ulcer patient, but belly-pinched Vorkosigan, who had already reduced his store of sweet nuts by half, would be glad even for unsalted puree with a stew. Illyan put the tray on the drop table. "I believe our C-in-C will soon be informed that I had to keep watch until late at night over the impetuous Vorkosigan so that he wouldn't make a mess."

"Until late at night?" Vorkosigan echoed and raised an eyebrow. "Won't you fall asleep?"

"I have never slept on duty!" Illyan said indignantly, and then yawned despite himself, covering his mouth with his palm. After sitting motionless at the table with Vorinnis for tea, his previous physical activity had turned insensibly into a betraying muscular languor.

Aral laughed openly but it was encouraging, not offensive; then he reached for the food, asking, "Have you already eaten?"

"Of course."

"What common mood did you note during the dinner?" Vorkosigan scraped the plastic bowl with the spoon intensely, as if he regarded the meal as an annoying duty and wanted to put an end to it as soon as possible.

"The usual one. The junior officers are excited, waiting for a tactical exercise. Besides, most of them, like me, are not really battle-tested. They won't get rid of their pre-combat nerves till the first firefight. But you aren't asking about that, I assume. Nobody mentioned your name, Aral."

"Yeah," Vorkosigan agreed, with his mouth full. He swallowed the last bite and dropped the spoon, along with the crumpled foil, to the bowl, where only tiny bread crumbs were left. Then he eyed this mean installation. "Should we dispose of this now or keep it for better show?"

"Do you suppose there will be an audience?"

"Depend upon the best, get ready for the worst," Aral answered with a common saying. "I hope the worst won't knock at my door immediately, but I know Ges, and I wouldn't be surprised otherwise."

"Then you should take away the upper coverlet from the bed," Illyan advised. "Officially, you are ill and slept all day, as I said."

"It's logical. I have to give the final touch, in that case..." He opened the drawer and took out the notorious bottle of brandy. He shouldered his way past Illyan, who stood stunned in the middle of the room, and strode into the bathroom without closing the door or switching on the light. Illyan stopped in the doorframe.

Aral took off the engraved screw-top, sipped directly from the bottle's neck, rinsed his mouth with the expensive beverage and spat it out into the wash-bowl. "Such a pity to waste it," he grinned. Then he examined himself in the mirror, hummed, turned around and winked at Illyan. "Do I look like a tipsy man, Simon?"

"Unfasten your collar," the ImpSec observer suggested.

"Right," Vorkosigan obeyed. "I have to look suitable for a tavern, not for a General Staff briefing."

Illyan thought that perhaps Aral had overdone it when he talked about the briefing. Neither the round-the-clock stubble nor his red eyes (Aral had deliberately spent all the previous night at the comconsole) satisfied the image of a paragon officer, and the alcoholic fragrance, slight but perceptible, perfectly completed the desired picture.

"Well, we have prepared the scenery," Aral smiled, screwing on the top; he put the bottle on its place, shut the drawer decidedly, and began to tick off the tasks on his fingers. "You've fed me dinner and reported the news, or the lack of it. What will be next?"

Waiting for an answer, Aral sat automatically on the edge of the uncovered bed, then he thought better and drew back toward the wall, trying intentionally to rumple the blanket for evidence. This masquerade amused rather than irritated him, or it was just that his nervous irony expressed the unpleasant necessity of enacting a farce. Judging by his files, a sense of humor wasn't typical for him before.

"If you had really gotten drunk, now I would be sitting near the door, all set to catch you, and you would pointedly pay me less attention that your chair. Indeed, I could pretend to be part of the furniture anyway, if it is necessary; my chip won't let me get bored. Is this what is needed?"

"Mind you, don't," Aral shook his forefinger inhibitorily. "I didn't consent to solitary confinement. Why this sudden fit of tactfulness?"

"Do you suppose that off-hand curiosity is more in an ImpSec fellow's nature?" Illyan asked.

Aral paused for a moment, deciding between honesty and courtesy. Then he grinned without words.

"You suppose right," Illyan added, and snorted, since it was slightly uncomfortable to confess this, and to allow such familiarities with the famous Vorkosigan. "I am too curious. This is the last warning, Commodore."

"Oh, you've scared me! I'm really dreading it," Aral said mockingly. "Are you hiding fast-penta in your pocket, Simon? No? That's nice." He added positively, "Let's talk. But you must consider what I want to ask you, too. We'll have an evening of questions and answers."

Illyan realized that the necessity of physical activity wasn't the only reason that Vorkosigan, locked in his cabin, had darted from one wall to another. There also had been uncertainty, so atypical for this strong man, deep in the bottom of his mind. He had paced from the door to the table, at one moment approaching Illyan, at another moving away from him, as if he couldn't decide once and for all what was the appropriate distance between them. The lieutenant had been assigned to this post by the Emperor's will. What was he doing here; was he taking care of Vorkosigan, or supervising him, or giving orders? Was Illyan sincere or well-trained as to their relations? Vorkosigan certainly hated ambiguity, so he surely had to know if he should forget the recent drunken unreserve or complete it.

Moreover, they both had an insistent need to sound off. Both Simon and Aral had been unwittingly entrapped by their image of utterly businesslike coolness; they usually permitted themselves only exact stingy words, dry humor, a professional tone of voice and an imperturbable face, but concealed their emotions as much as it was possible to. Yes, this was one more reason for them to become a perfect tandem; when Illyan had told Vorrutyer about his resemblance to Aral, he hadn't lied. Illyan had always tended to copy the manners of his superior automatically, but now this tendency turned into a suffocating feedback loop. The stone mask had begun to pinch.

However despite all the straightforwardness, there were questions that shouldn't be answered, since Aral and Simon would have to work together later. It was impossible to know in advance the boundaries of this minefield. So Illyan added scrupulously, "Frankly answer, you mean? But you, or I, could not want to answer about something."

"Well, then the answer would be honest or there would be nothing," Aral waved this away with vexation at having to explain what was obvious. "Does that suit you, being a formalist?"

"I'm not a formalist. I'm a red-tape-monger, an office drudge, or a walking reference book, depending on the need," Illyan corrected. Aral chuckled, and his vexation was successfully smoothed over with a joke. "By the way, was that the first question? It suits me."

"Plainly said," Aral smiled, "Well, ask."

Illyan paused and sat beside him on the bed. If they talked confidently, they should make themselves closer. It was easy to say 'ask'. Some questions seemed simple but trifling or silly; others were important but absolutely unutterable. He decided to begin with an easy question rather related to the situation.

"You bottle is almost full. Why do you keep it in the drawer at all if you don't drink?"

Vorkosigan wasn't surprised or offended. He rubbed his lips with a forefinger, thinking, and then answered. "I have now a specific attitude towards alcohol, considering all circumstances. It's an excess, especially during a campaign. But the simple fact that I have this bottle within easy reach puts me off drink. See, there is an analogue. When I attended the Military Academy, the-Count-my-father limited my pocket money to a cadet's scholarship, so I used it sparingly; and then I realized that I was just as pleased by simply regarding the weapon in the window-shop and keeping my purse full as by squandering all my money. But the former was less wasteful." He paused; it was a polite suggestion, meant to inquire if Illyan hadn't understood any detail. But Illyan kept silent. "Well, is this my turn?"

"Yeah," Illyan nodded.

"What did you expect after you agreed to have that chip installed in your brain? And what did you get, really?"

Yes, Vorkosigan hit the target with his questions like a sniper who aimed and struck the bull's eye with every needle of his gun.

"I expected" Illyan echoed, "that this would be a dead for the greater glory of the Imperium and a legal opportunity to cheat for myself, at the same time. In fact, I found it necessary to keep stretching myself up, to estrange myself from the other junior officers. Perhaps some simple fellows consider me a kind of mutie. I don't mind."

"You say that the others now regard you differently," Vorkosigan pointed out, "But have you changed yourself?"

"Yes, certainly. I have become more prudent... I don't speak about my health or physical state now. When you have to remember all the tiniest details of your every stupid action, you try with all your might to avoid them. This is essential to not go mad with caution, and keep in mind that avoiding a failure and achieving a success are not the same thing." Illyan smiled. "My memory is OK yet, and I look after myself."

"Interesting. Ask, then."

"By the way, about stupid things. This entire hoax may end with something stupid or bad. Aren't you afraid that you would look idio... hm, not worthy?"

"It's logical," Aral nodded. "I think, now I have to tell you my goals. Really, I never intended to try conclusions with Vorrutyer and gain points." This categorical denial was emphasized with a slap of his palm on the bedcover. "I don't care what he thinks about me or the potential victory I could have from our collision. Then this post was offered to me, and I either had to submit to stand Ges' company, or refuse." He winced as if he had eaten something disgusting or his false ulcer was bothering him. "That git isn't worthy of my discharge or exile to patrol duty."

It seemed Aral Vorkosigan needed to persuade himself not for the first time that his choice of humility had been right.

"Damn him, our dearest Admiral," Aral waved this away. "Let him bandy about my name. Speaking frankly, I'm very annoyed by it, especially because I haven't an easy temper, and Ges know my weak spots. However," Aral held up sharply a didactic finger, "it doesn't harm me seriously. We should only prevent his attempts to irretrievably undermine my authority over my subordinates or to cause me bodily harm. Agree?"

"Yes," Illyan confirmed.

"And we have to suffer all the rest," Aral said. He sighed and sat wearily against the wall, but evidently relaxed after this lecture. "This is more secure... 'Security' is the keyword, isn't it, Simon? By the way, I will take you up on that word. Such is my question: when you were assigned your mission, did the matter concern my security or not?

No, they hadn't yet reached the point where one would say "no answer". Ezar's explanations hadn't been fully classified, not "slit-your-throat-before-reading" material. And Illyan should tell Vorkosigan now about his former doubts.

"It's hard to say," Illyan paused briefly and corrected himself, "not that I'd like to keep it back. This word 'security' was formally spoken. To discover the true sense of the assignment, I only had to look over all the versions. Vorrutyer and the Prince are your enemies, but they weren't supposed to attempt murder upon you. I wonder if it is my presence that provokes them to assault you. 'Protect you from yourself' was rather a metaphor than a real order. I haven't any wide experience of political intrigues. I'm hardly right for the post of your personal bodyguard, since I'm anything but large and tall. Unless the assumption was that the Emperor wanted to give you a fully trusted man for backup. The matter of trust is more important sometimes than any talents."

"Were you glad to have this assignment? It meant a victorious campaign, a medal or promotion, didn't it?"

Frankly. You promised to answer frankly or not to answer at all.

"Not at all. I was more suspicious than glad. For one thing, I knew that Lord Vorkosigan had clearly disputed the Escobaran plan at the meeting. In the second place, I was afraid that you would equate me with your Political officers, since you don't like spies; and I didn't have any chance in an open collision."

"Were you afraid of me?" Aral asked softly.

"No, not you in person," Illyan bit his lip, hesitating. "I was afraid to be found unsuitable, perhaps. Don't know. This is another answer, long and difficult, but it is my turn to ask now!"

"A formalist, as I've said." Aral stretched himself with a crackle, hands behind his head. "Well. Go on."

"You've just mentioned the name." Illyan became serious, paused a little. "Ges. Admiral Vorrutyer. He's obsessed by you. This isn't just a simple jealousy, but something more terrible. What do you think about him?"

"But I said already..." Aral began crossly, and then stopped short. He kept silence so long that Illyan had the time to curse his own tactless curiosity. Damn Ges! It would be a great pity if this newly-gained confidence should be broken up because of him. However Aral spoke again.

"Well, I've promised to answer frankly. I hate him, despise him, sometimes I'm ready to strangle him - this is true. He spoils all that I like, whatever he touches. Vorrutyer as the Fleet Commander is worse than plague; he's a moral infection." Aral inhaled deeply. "But he was my best friend long ago, nevertheless. We were..."

Could he say 'lovers'? No.

"... we were very like each other. What if he is the thing that I could have become? Is he a reminder of my own sins? Perhaps, this is the true reason why he manages to wound me so easily; not because he is supposedly such an expert at subtle intrigues."

"But you haven't become that," Illyan dared to point out.

"Yes, I haven't," Aral confirmed. "I' wish I could know where I succeeded in catching the immunity, or where he managed to pick up this vile impurity. It would be easier to seek consolation in the idea that Ges was always a git, but I was a dolt in my twenties and didn't have any character judgment." Aral sighed and waved away his own reasoning. "Don't you believe that? You are right. Never underestimate Ges Vorrutyer; he is anything but a nonentity. Teamed with Serg, he is the brain and Serg is the power." He paused again. "Am I too late to teach you, though? How long have you been working in the Residence Office?"

"Four years."

"Then you have already had every opportunity to watch Vorrutyer in all his glory." Illyan nodded. Aral paused either to take heart or find the right word. "Now Ges has climbed so high that I wonder why he doesn't have a nosebleed. So the inclinations that he wants to emphasize become a kind of twisted social fashion. Does this grate upon you?"

"Yes, vastly."

"So you can say whether you are able to distinguish aversion towards somebody from dislike of his... inclinations or not? This is my question."

"I try to divide them, as far as possible." Illyan shrugged. "This is a matter of self-esteem, after all. Inclinations, hm, you've found a pretty word. I know about the same inclinations from my own experience. Does that mean that I'm immoral too? Really, is Vorrutyer an absolute infection which rots everything, whatever he just looks at?" Illyan paused, combing his short-cut hair with his fingers. "Wait, that won't work. This is a delicate topic, so I try to shield myself with fine words. I have to answer bluntly: yes, I love both men and women. Unfortunately, this coincides partly with milord Vorrutyer's taste. But I judge my behavior by my own standards, not his. "

Aral didn't ask him to repeat this and wasn't even surprised by this confession; he only leaned forward, slightly reducing the space between them, and his rumbled voice became a bit lower when he said, "How do you manage to reconcile this knowledge about yourself with the obvious streak of this... disgusting person?"

"With difficulty," Illyan admitted. "At first I have to suppress any self-humiliation, and then learn to focus not upon him, but the people I respect and appreciate. Indeed, it is risky to stare too intently and not be able to look away from them." He snorted, implying a jest, parted his hands, then paused and eventually dared to add, "I never get tired of looking at you. Sorry."

This jest was almost true. Looking at Aral, in a literal sense, was fascinating; his deceptively heavy features changed completely when he smiled or his glare lit up with an interesting idea. Why not? Illyan looked straight at Aral's face, firmly and calmly, without words. He held up a pause like a door held open.

Aral couldn't be confused by a pause. He hemmed, glanced Illyan over and asked laconically and strictly, defying their Q&A game, "Please, explain, was that a plain proposal or an attempt to flatter me?"

"It was a proposal", Illyan answered with the same brevity, and added accurately, as a good analyst, "An unchaste one."

It was evident that Admiral Vorkosigan was used to receiving quite different reports from his Staff analysts. Aral suddenly choked on a snicker that he pretended unconvincingly to be a bark, and bit his lip. He reddened, whether from suppressed laughter or from embarrassment, it was hard to say.

Illyan observed the changes of Vorkosigan's mimicry intently, without confusion or pity. "Do you want some water?" he asked Vorkosigan warm-heartedly as he kept barking. Aral only shook his head.

At last he stopped laughing and managed to say, "I wouldn't mind mind drinking something stronger and in your company, Simon. It's a pity that it is not allowed."

Well. Where are we? There is Aral, sitting on the bed at no distance, his collar unfastened. He is flushed, a bit confused, and clearly agitated. A strong and powerful person, but... not overpowering. I don't need to be awestruck and wait until he favors me with his interest; I could reach out and take it myself. Take the situation in my own hands.

"You already smack of good drinks," Illyan reminded him, " and it suits me. And you have already turned red, as if you have managed to drink. Are you hot? Should I help you unbutton your tunic?"

Illyan's fingers easily handled the embossed bronze circle of the top button. His next motion was just as easy but he didn't asked any permission before passing his lips over Aral's neck, from the edge of the beige shirt collar to his ear. Then Simon drew back a little, turned Aral's face to his own. Was the great, favorable Admiral Vorkosigan stunned? Very well. Illyan repeated his test of kissing, on the mouth this time, as it had been the day before yesterday. Now it wasn't the lieutenant who leaned his shoulders against the wall. The risible astonishment broke through the usual coolness on Aral's face. Enough. Move away.

Do you lose words, Aral, overwhelmed, as if you see me for the first time? Such initiative from me wasn't fully expected, wasn't it?. You are used to relying on your own initiative, reaching out based on your own wishes, whether you are ashamed of them or openly defiant. This is a non-winning strategy. Despite  your notorious reputation, your file doesn't contain any records about your personal contact during the last few years, except the brief note 'visits the caravanserai one time per several months, hasn't any constant choices'. What is it -- secrecy, decency, or self-control?

There was the riddle, the most burning challenge to Illyan’s curiosity.

You were utterly imprudent with your drunken kisses, my Commodore.

Chapter Fifteen

It wasn't true that an officer personally commissioned by the Emperor and equipped with top secret electronics had any advantages; the red lieutenant's rectangles overpowered all special statuses. Lieutenant Illyan sat in the crowd of the same junior officers in the ship's briefing room and listened to instruction on the emergency evacuation procedures.

The executive officer of the General Vorhartung, Commander Fouchet, gave the lecture; he was a solid, if pedantic, man, fully appropriate for the monotonous task of reading out all coded plans, training groups and emergency exits. The lieutenants and ensigns had known this tiresome procedure before; they didn't dare to grumble but managed to find ways to ignore the boredom, each within the limits of his ingenuity. The most daring ones stared devotedly at the senior officer but at the same time pushed a written sheet of paper toward their neighbor; during their Academy years they had learned well the skill of written conversations. Yes, almost all the young people in this room had had the honor to graduate from the most prestigious Barrayaran military educational institution. Illyan, when he had been of the proper age, had been short of money, syllables in front of his name, and (it must be owned) talents for the Imperial Service Academy.

On the other hand, he had now, during the dreariest briefing, at least one valuable advantage over the bored lieutenants; it was his eidetic chip. He didn't have to look over the rivets on the nearest wall and count the minutes until the next shift, or dare to anger the commanding officer by exchanging remarks with his friends. He had a private, personal cinema hall at his service. Who knew the pictures that ingenious Illyan scanned mentally, his eyes half-closed? His only problem was not to forget to look like he was paying attention, to make false notes 'for future remembrance' and keep his face serious and concentrated, rather than breaking into a blissful, happy smile.

Illyan was now utterly happy in his recent remembrances.

Aral's first, almost fleeting reaction to the kiss was astonishment; he breathed out briefly and carefully, and narrowed his eyes. Then astonishment was replaced with the wary curiosity that people feel towards an expensive gift with a surprise inside; but his face still kept the shadow of suspicion, nearly imperceptible to anybody but Illyan, who knew this unruffled face to the smallest detail.

This expression finally vanished later, when two officer's uniforms laid together on one station chair, regardless of different badges of rank; the lieutenant's tunic was neatly hung on the chair's back and the commodore's one was jauntily thrown over its armrest and dusted the floor with its sleeve. When two men rolled on the bed and kissed so intently that they didn't even have time to swear at the too narrow bunk. When Simon toppled Aral over himself, pulling off his t-shirt; he clawed tightly to Aral's shoulders, palpating his strained muscles, scratching him down the backbone, provoking a contented groan. When Aral, in his turn, examined closely his body, formed by many hours of physical training, and gave an approving whistle.

And when Aral asked, after pausing at a split second, "May I take you?"

Illyan didn't think that certain positions are incompatible with an officer's honor, so the direct question was following by the equally direct and perfectly frank answer, "Moreover, you ought." He felt an unexpected brief triumph at the sight of Aral's face, overwhelmed for a moment.

Aral who proved himself to be an excellent lover.

Only later, catching his breath, Illyan found himself behaving like a good analyst: he automatically compared and drew a parallel from what had happened to him. Yes, there was a parallel between Aral and Ezar. Of course, Aral was much younger and stronger, but that wasn't the point. The Emperor had often showed anger demonstratively, but in fact he had kept his mind utterly cool. But Aral's character was passionate and aggressive by its nature; that was apparent on both the captain's bridge and in bed. Illyan even wondered if Aral's notorious stony restraint was the reverse side of his natural, expressive harshness, firmly controlled.

This time they both gave up the usual conventionalities, Aral's the tactful restraint of the strong man or Simon's the pliability of the inevitable subordinate. Their relations were plain as a battle order, and inescapable as the necessity of biting, at one moment, the edge of a pillow. Regardless of the fact that the cabin was, as Illyan had checked before, completely soundproofed.

The next pictures were too private to look through during the briefing; even his perfect self-control could show him up. He shouldn't go too far in his attempt to escape from boredom; the Executive Officer would be surprised if the description of locking procedures should make the attentive lieutenant blush and pant.

By the way, have they reached already the part about locking or not? Illyan listened.

"... So," Commander Fouchet went on, striding along the ship outline that was highlighted on the wall, "the cruiser's life-saving emergency equipment includes, in order: a) drop shuttles off the flight desk b) the combat armors and space-suits and c) bod-pods loaded in the board ejection devices. They are placed by quarter-bill in the C and D compartments of the lower deck; the reserve bod-pods are in the built-in closets. The procedure of locking... "

Yes, he had guessed right. Evidently he had managed to hook the keywords from Fouchet's lecture, in spite of the fact that they had been blurry due to his clear remembrances. Aral's voice in his head now sounded louder than the lecturer's speech, and the matters he talked about were more important than emergency life-saving.

It was in the small hours, but they both weren't drowsy; this was strange, since one usually fell asleep like a log after intimacy. Simon and Aral laid on the bunk side by side, naked, and couldn't manage to share the rumpled thin upper cover, since the blanket was spread on the floor over their scattered undergarments. They talked. Pillow talks were converted to business ones and back, and nothing in either of them found this strange...

"I would never consider you... You are too proper, Simon, stiff and buttoned-up, so to speak."

"Do you see any buttons on me now?"

"Quite so."

Aral yawned, deeply and earnestly. Illyan who lay with his head on Aral's chest caught this yawn too, stretched himself, shook his head. Vorkosigan rubbed his neck absently as the lieutenant's short ruffled hair tickled him.

"Aren't your higher-ups in on it?"

Illyan paused, chewed his lower lip. At last he found the most acceptable answer, "The highest higher-up knows all and always."

Aral hummed, flicked his brow. From this angle, from below, it looked very unusual. "Ezar knew, and he appointed you to me, didn't he?"

Illyan wondered what implication Aral had concealed in this question. 'Did he suppose we would sin?', 'Did he want to attach to me a fellow without prejudices?', 'What private life did he care about?' or even 'Was he jealous about this case?'

"I'll not answer you," Illyan smiled, as his finger traced the relief of the pectoral muscles; Aral shifted, satisfied. "That's a bit too much, to make an analyst work his job at night."

"You're wriggling."

"Hm-m. Negri once said, 'Our job is to collect information but not to spread it'. Most excellent wording that I'm able to quote even in the middle of the night."

"It is clear now; you decided to interrogate me to the third degree," Aral joked idly and demonstratively sighed.

"Sort of. But you saw through my craft and made a counter-attack, so I missed the strategic moment; half an hour ago you would have told me all, for sure."

"Like you. Then, if necessary, you'd have confessed to an affair with the statue of Dorca the Just and his bronze horse, bit by bit."

Illyan laughed, rolled on his side and turned Aral toward him to look at his face instead of down his chest and below. That was a fascinating view too, but now Illyan wanted to see his eyes, since the next question required it. "Aral, did you have sex before with anybody from the ship's crew, excluding Ges?"

"Are you jealous?" Aral's low, rumbled voice almost wasn't surprised.

The question was trivial, the counter-question was natural. Illyan thought over the right answer to break off this chain of ambiguities before saying, "No, I'm not. But Vorrutyer's jealousy already promises us serious troubles. I have to be aware of this kind of problem beforehand."

"You'll have to do without an answer to this." This was blunt, but Aral immediately tried to make up for it; he put his palm on the back of Illyan's head, rubbed his hands through his hair, and decidedly drew towards him up to kiss. Illyan thought that this kiss could easily make him forgive Aral for his attempt to get out of replying.

"Nobody is jealous of me," Aral said when they came up for air, "including Ges. He just feels angered by the fact that he isn't able to hit me, that's all."

"Then what are we doing here, in your cabin, already three days on end?"

"We make Vorrutyer believe that I'm a defenseless, feeble and delicious prey that will go right into his hands".

Such an interesting selection of words. It would be difficult to imagine Aral as somebody feeble or defenseless... of course, a naked man is vulnerable in a way; Illyan pulled up the cover, half-accidentally. But the term 'delicious' was quite appropriate for the current atmosphere, and suggested another kind of idea.

Illyan said this aloud, "Or we make him believe that we are a good, er, couple, don't we?"

"It is an inevitable risk," Aral agreed, 'but you know that Ges is mad on this subject. He would suspect this version even if in fact you were just keeping watch silently at my door. Do you feel uncomfortable now, Simon, that this assumption is true?"

"I don't care; I'm able to lie to him perfectly without batting an eyelid," Illyan reassured him.

The ability not to show emotions on his serene face proved useful to Illyan exactly now. He stared fixedly at Commander Fouchet, his eyes expressed a full interest in evacuation plans, but his thoughts were far away from here.

What were the relations between him and Aral? There were the interesting ones, including concern, sympathy and unreserved lust, but without any sentimentality, so jealousy would be out of place. But the resulting 'love polygon' was fraught with consequences, because it had many corners in addition to the evident ones. Vorkosigan was still in love with his Betan fugitive; Vorrutyer remained possessed by the relationship that had ended twenty years ago. Illyan would have to report to Ezar about every detail after their return...

No. He didn't have to fix upon a few months ahead instead of focusing on the tasks of the next day or two.

What was Commander Fouchet setting out now? ''The fleet will be shifted to six-hour alert status, preflight checks, marching state..." Their departure from orbit was planned in three days at the latest, therefore, they should expect the alarm for instruction tomorrow, when Illyan would want to stick to his ward like glue and not move a step from him.

He would have the time to think about intimate matters later. Many long briefings could be expected.

Chapter Sixteen

The cabin's door hissed and clicked. Vorkosigan turned out calmly at this sound.

"Simon, is that you? Why are you so disheveled?"

"Hm, really?" Illyan sleeked his wet hair, thought better and reached to his pocket for the comb. "I was running. Firstly I had a forced march on the hull, wearing a heavy vacuum suit, and then I hurried here through all the desks. I was almost sure that something would befall you exactly in my absence. But you just sit here, and nobody requires you. Isn't this a pity?"

"Awful pity," Aral grinned. "All the day was for nothing. By the way, did you succeed or flunk?"

"Do you doubt?" Illyan counter-asked, and added demonstratively proudly, "I confined myself to the time of two minutes less than the norm, although these metal boxes with servos aren't my part. I'm an ImpSec fellow. I 'm able to shoot, fight, feel paranoia, search for spies at every corner, and write analyst's reports. But a cross-country race in a space suit isn't my business."

He looked for a free seat as usual, but sat right on the covered bed as he would do in his own cabin instead of taking a chair from the wall. By the way, for the future he should keep tabs on this ease in the company of the senior officer so that it wouldn't grow into a habit. For conspiracy's sake.

"Are you planning to shoot and fight if our ship should be hit, God forbid?" Aral continued to demand.

"If it is hit, I'll do my best to push my careless ward into the same space suit. Indeed, you neglect these trainings."

"This is one of my post's privileges," Vorkosigan informed him. "A Staff officer looks imposing in a space suit but useless and silly. Besides, I've used one longer than you've worn trousers."

Illyan thought that there was something unnatural in the excited humorous remarks they were exchanging. But Vorkosigan would never admit that he was out of sorts, whatever the reason had been. Why did he feel nervous, because Ges's return move hadn't happened today, as their cunning calculations had said, or just because it had been Vorrutyer who had begun this set, and Aral had to react instead of act, and this defense position was certainly less profitable.

"Moreover," Aral added, "these trainings aboard the flagship are merely a convention and a tribute to discipline. Our ship is supposed to stay so far beyond the front line that the placement of evacuation modules is only an academic matter, unless the training is useful for novice boys. How many groups have already passed?

"I was in the group #3."

"At this speed this will last until evening," Aral glanced at the luminous figures of the wall clock. "Evidently, they didn't hasten. It's senseless for me to come into the tac room till this mess has finished up."

He yawned, closing his mouth with his palm, and began to stand up; the the comconsole buzzed at this very moment.

"Vorkosigan on line," he answered automatically before reading the com code.

It proved a mistake because it was Vice Admiral Vorrutyer who called up. "Vorkosigan?" His voice sounded abrupt and was edged with an exactly measured dose of feigned surprise as if Vorrutyer didn't count on an answer or expected to see another person. "Come to my cabin, for a Staff briefing, and make haste!"

"Er..." Aral began, supposedly perplexed; he bethought opportunely not to show his sober watchfulness to the Commander-in-Chief.

"I said, quickly!" Vorrutyer interrupted him and finished his order with the phrase he had evidently pre-prepared, "If you are not able to come, you could crawl." He cut the com.

"Here, we have waited." Aral came to the bathroom, examined himself in the mirror, turning his head left and right. Then he briefly rubbed his cheeks, rinsed his mouth with brandy and spat it in the sink with disgust. "Let's go."

***

Illyan thought that the mise-en-scene behind the door of Vorrutyer's cabin was staged excellently. The Crown Prince, in dress greens densely embroidered with gold, lounged on a red upholstered velvet chair and slightly patted his bootleg with the tip of a riding-crop. The riding-crop was in such keeping with his polished parade boots that Illyan wondered if there was a white horse somewhere in the cargo space, in foretaste of his future triumphal arrival at conquered Escobar. Admirals Vorrutyer and Vorhalas stood aside, by the comconsole, where some charts and diagrams glowed. Illyan wasn't able to say what it was since the picture was transparent and colourless from his angle of view. Ges leant across a table, right palm on the glass, as he twirled a magnetic chip by his left hand. Rulf put a fist on his hip and bent his head like a bull. One man reddened, the other was pale with rage. Obviously, their debate was at its height.

Vorkosigan and Illyan appeared just in the middle of Vorhalas's remark, "... completely inadmissible thing to change plans half-way, without getting approval from the General Staff and His Majesty personally. Vice Admiral Vorrutyer, have you any idea about the number of casualties that you would have to run up an account of your own adventurism?"

Vorrutyer's tone was acerb. "Vorhalas, the war doesn't come to ballet where all stands and pas are specified beforehand."

"But it has no concern for avant-garde impromptus either!" Vorhalas burst out. "Have you received any new military intelligence about the enemy's position?"

"You almost guessed," Vorrutyer parted his hands and moved from near the comconsole to a new strategic position, behind the Crown Prince's chair. "As His Highness has mentioned, the quick change of our plans would make any espionage ineffectual, and the decisiveness of our actions would raise the morale of our troops."

Serg smiled with satisfaction but kept silent. It was quite strange as the words 'morale' and 'discipline' had been the Prince's personal keywords in recent days, provoking him to give a pathetic speech even during meals. The Prince didn't have any experience in military strategy so he had made all efforts in the field of propaganda as he had interpreted it. However now he said nothing. Why? Had Vorrutyer convinced him before the meeting that silence would be his best strategy? In that case, the scene had all been staged in advance indeed.

Vorhalas sighed bitterly. "In this case we should choose Rho Ceta instead of Escobar. This would confuse the enemy's intelligence, of course." As the punctilious Admiral permitted himself open irony, this was evidently not the first round of this conversation.

Vorrutuer took Rulf Vorhalas immediately at his word, "I expect from my Chief of Staff accurate reports, not jests! Have you any arguments against this plan excluding the lack of bureaucratic authorizations?"

"Of course." Vorhalas forced himself to become utterly dry and polite. "Not speaking about morale since that is the Political Officer's concern, and reasons of counter-espionage that the Army Security is in charge of, I have the followed objections. I consider the blitzkrieg strategy fully unsuccessful when we deal with a fortified planet, expecting a potential attack. The Headquarters agree to this opinion; they have rejected this variant a month ago. If you don't trust my thirty-year professional reputation, you could ask other competent experts."

Vorhalas nodded towards Vorkosigan, to underscore his last words. Had the Chief of Staff relied upon the arrival of the enforcement? It wasn't a good idea. Illyan doubted that Vorrutyer would agree with Vorkosigan on any matter, including the result of two plus two.

Vorrutyer paused deliberately, eyed Aral up and down as if he was some strange thing that Ges hadn't seen before. Alas, his burning glare was in vain, as Vorkosigan looked rather troubled with his own headache than the other's opinion. Ges had to ask again, pronouncedly, "Well, what would the expert with a great, er, Komarr experience say?"

Vorkosigan strode towards comconsole, took a look at a pile of open files, winced, made a slight gesture as if he had wanted to press his fingers to the aching temple, but changed his mind. This gesture was almost imperceptible. Almost. "Say about what?"

"Is it difficult to understand, Aral?" Vorrutyer asked compassionately. "I'll explain. As a commander in this campaign I offered to change our strategical disposition. Instead of a prolonged siege we could force the planet with a shock rush of the cruising formation that would include all our heavy battleships. Including this one too; nobody would happen to stay safe in the rear during the battle. Our massive stroke would destroy their orbital stations in the first half-hour. When Escobar capitulate, we'll have their celebrated fleet safe, as loot for the winners."

Illyan was an ImpSec man, last time he had faced the strategy of the orbital battles had been during his military school years, but this offer seemed foolish even to him. Vorrutyer's eyes sparkled with maniacal excitement suggesting that the Vice Admiral wouldn't like to hear any objections. Was he drunk, or drugged, or just playing for high stakes? The Vice Admiral griped tightly his personal code card; when his electronic signature would be only properly registered then this new mad plan would become reality.

"It's suicide," Aral stated and began to enumerate, "There is a high probability of meeting with a rebuff of superior forces of the orbital fortresses on our way to the planet. The fleet on the march is vulnerable to attack, since our rear and backup ships become unprotected. In fact we would risk losing all our cruisers one after another, and after that the enemy fleet would destroy our troopships easily. The estimation of prospective losses is clearly unfavorable. Even if the wonder would happen, we'd win at a high cost only one month before the scheduled date. These are the possible consequences of this premature decision. Is it enough?"

"I expected nothing else," Vorrutyer sniffed scornfully. "Here are my Staff officers! One clings to the coward's caution, the other seeks approval from the Headquarters for his every step. Did neither of you, strategists, surmise that the original plan of Headquarters had been only a cover? The Crown Prince's authority is enough to conceal part of the real plan until this moment." Vorrutyer shouted. "And his subordinates haven't any right to hesitate or contest!"

Illyan saw clearly that both senior officers were shocked with idea of a secret offensive plan for His Highness's eyes only (although he was a strategist not at all), but hidden from his Staff for reasons of espionage. Vorkosigan snorted and murmured, "Don't tell me tales!". Admiral Vorhalas was more respectful to his Commander-in-Chief so he said only, "In that case I would like to see the written order about changing the operational plan, since I wasn't aware of it in advance due to... low access level."

Vorrutyer shrugged, grinned and moved aside slowly; then he made an expressive gesture towards the Prince. "There is our plan and the guarantee of my words' verity. Any authorization is nothing in comparison with the word of the Imperial Heir whom the Emperor has appointed at the head of the military campaign." He added, satisfied, "Do you call in question my words or His Highness's rights, Vorhalas?"

"My lords, they take on trust gambling-debts only," the Admiral cut short, uncomplying.

Ges Vorrutyer brightened up as if they four were now at the card-table and he had just receive a lucky card. "Oho, mutiny! Fortunately, it was recorded properly," he glanced significantly towards Illyan. The glance was immediately followed by a clap of the riding-crop; Serg gazed upon the scene like a good performance. "The Silver Eyes never close, don't they?"

Illyan thought that the world had turned upside down. Black is white, the Prince's silent approval overpowered the Emperor's direct order, and the Staff's refusal to accept blindly their Commander's deadly plan is a mutiny. Logic took a short-term rest, but this wasn't the most important thing at this moment. The main thing was now the code card, the sign of the power that Vorrutyer twiddled nervously.

Then he paused, Aral put in, deceptively awkwardly, but in fact at an exactly calculated moment, "Vorrutyer, what mutiny? You would ruin the fleet to hell. Give me a half-hour, and I'll explain it to you with computations, or," he paused for an instant, his palms open, "take it on trust."

At it was expected, Ges Vorrutyer burst out. "Especially for you, Aral," he shouted, "If you are not able to behave properly in the face of your authorities, I'll tell it in plain language. The command's orders are not for discussion! If the Commander-in-Chief would order you to take off your pants and stand at attention, your only question should be 'how fast, sir?'. I'll explain it to you without any computations!! Bothari!"

During all this talk Vorrutyer's batman had been holding up the wall, like a very ugly telamon, and hadn't claimed more attention than the other furniture. Why was he heeded now, indeed? Now the Sergeant had stood silently in parade rest before his master; he looked strange being a head above Vorrutyer who was a man of medium height.

"Undress," Vorrutyer ordered roughly.

It was... improper, despite the fact that the Vice Admiral formally had the right to do it with this own batman; not only improper, but obscene, mainly because Bothari got to obeyed this humiliating order busily and without any emotion. Then he finished stripping (his moves were exact but sharp and twitched as is he were a clumsy mechanical android), and he stiffened straight near the pile of his clothes, his large bony palms loosely clasped.

Illyan swallowed and winced, looking aside. Aral's jaw twitched but he kept silent. Vorhalas's expression turned slowly to the astonished aversion to the Vice Admiral's wild escapade. The Crown Prince put his riding-crop aside and clapped his hands a few times, for show.

"Look! This is a model soldier." Vorrutyer stepped decidedly to Aral, in passing muttered to his batman "Out with you!" through clenched teeth. "Have you grasped, Aral, who is command here? Do I need to continue the show?"

Vorrutyer's cheeks sharply flushed with excitement. He could order everybody to undress, Illyan thought with an unpleasant pit-a-pat heart, This trick probably won't work with the senior Staff officers, but he could start with me as a lowest person by rank. Illyan wasn't shy at all, but he wouldn't like to make the first strategically important choice between obedience and dignity.

Aral said very quietly, as if it was the last attempt of resistance, "You would not only make our soldiers end up losing their shirt but get them killed. Are you ready to squander a potential victory only in order to out-argue me?"

"Out-argue you? Your part is just to obey, understand?!" The words escaped Ges's lips like spittle spray. He began to press Vorkosigan aside. Aral grimaced as if he had tasted something unpalatable. Vorrutyer set both palms against the red silk-papered wall; Aral stood between his hands like in a cell. He stiffened almost standing at attention so as not to touch Vorrutyer as if he were soiled. A muscle jumped in Aral's jaw.

"Well, will you undress on your own?" Ges asked.

Serg suddenly burst out laughing. "Will you undress, Vorkosigan?"

Illyan prayed silently that Vorkosigan would find enough self-control not to respond to this shocking provocation. The term 'mutiny' was still hanging in the air; Vorrutyer also remembered this so he staked his all and intensified the pressing. He bared his teeth in a smile and added, "There was a time when you were so glad to stand before me without uniform or to lie under me without pants..."

One could hear clearly every word i] the viscous silence.

Vorhalas was struck dumb with indignation when he realized that the talk had suddenly become too ticklish and Aral had to get out by his own strength. Illyan automatically fingered the button on his uniform's cuff so that his hand would be busy and not reach to the stunner holster. Then he was astonished at his own reaction; he felt seized with a surge of hot, aggrieved jealous when Vorrutyer, on top of it all, kissed Aral full on the mouth.

Vorkosigan didn't even move. If he had pushed Vorrutyer away at full force, Ges would be thrown to the other wall of the cabin. Aral's expression was tired and disgusted, lips thinned as if he were suffering some unpleasant medical procedure, but that was all.

The moment stretched to a long viscous eternity. During this moment Illyan had time to look over the full dozen of ifs. What should he do... if he didn't have a feeling that Vorrutyer's hysteria was affected and false... if Aral would be really drunk but not pretending to it... if they hadn't get laid before...

Rulf Vorhalas was the first who came to himself. He darted forward with a wordless snarl and dragged Vorrutyer back, grasping him by the shoulder. Illyan wondered absently how fast and energetic was Vorhalas's response despite the fact that he was the oldest man in this room. It seemed that Vorhalas had hoped right up to the last second that Vorrutyer would come round on his own. Now Admiral Vorhalas was literally trembling with anger; he hauled Vorrutyer by his tunic and shook him like a delinquent idiot cadet. "Spoiled half-wit!" he hissed through his teeth.

Serg was stunned, his mouth open; his face expressed more sincere bewilderment than it had been during all Vorrutyer's tricks. It seemed that the script, known beforehand, had just finished and the improvisation had begun.

Illyan missed the moment when he pulled out his own stunner. It happened automatically. Who was the potential aim? Bothari, perhaps. If the mad naked sergeant should come to the defense of his master, who was getting now a deserved thrashing, the situation would become completely beyond control...

Aral stepped forward from the wall, spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his palm. "Let him go, Rulf. You see that it's an unconcealed provocation."

Boiling Vorhalas turned out with surprise, and his fingers were undone.

Vorrutyer straightened out his tunic and retreated quickly behind the Crown Prince's chair. Was he frightened of the forceful response from an unexpected person? "Indeed, Admiral, " the Commander-in-Chief reprimanded his Chief of Staff, reproachfully and almost calmly, "you shouldn't have done this."

Aral cleared his throat and muttered, "Excuse me, gentlemen," then he turned and strode decidedly to the bathroom. When he passed by Ges, he said, "You were lucky; I would have vomited." Vorrutyer pretended to not quite catch it. The bathroom door, closed shut, muffled all sounds except the noise of the water. Nobody knew if Commodore Vorkosigan only wanted to rinse his mouth or he really felt suddenly sick.

Ges bent and whispered something in Serg's ear. "Brandy", Illyan read his lips.

Vorhalas clenched his fists tightly and said through teeth, "Vorrutyer. If you you want us to be respectful to your post, you have to behave like an Imperial officer, not a woman. You owed your excuses for what happened to all us. And remove your... non-com away."

"Put your clothes on and go away!" Vorrutyer ordered briefly to Bothari, who was standing motionless by the wall. Then he turned to Vorhalas and continued, "Don't go too far, Admiral. I forgive you for the attempt to assault the commanding officer - one time, out of respect for your grey hairs, - but I won't tolerate any further insubordination." Vorrutyer's eyes sparked dangerously, "Now you are risking convincing me that my Staff is only a crowd of free-thinkers. Then I couldn't do anything but declare an all-fleet state of emergency and hand the command over to His Highness personally." The Vice Admiral meant his own personal leadership, of course.

Vorrutyer's voice eventually became a shout. "If you want to keep your post and help me later with your advice, kindly be dutiful!" he snapped. "As you were too lenient with your officers, they got a swelled head." As a live illustration to his irritated remark, Aral came from the bathroom, drying his wet reddened face with a handkerchief. "Do you all figure that disciplinary punishment are not your concern? Vorhalas, inform the Staff that I'll..." He paused, rubbed his forehead with annoyance and asked the First Commander in a lower voice, "Where does your Vorinnis gad about, when I need him?"

"On training. Did you forget, Ges?" the Prince suggested helpfully.

"Oh, training! That comes in handy. Well, Vorhalas, inform your idlers that I've ordered them to go on training along with the junior officers. Let start with this fellow," he nodded disdainfully towards Vorkosigan. "Do you understand, Commodore? Go jump and run with the lieutenants, perhaps this will teach you proper behavior. Go immediately. I'll inquire personally about your results." He added to Vorhalas again, almost cool, "We'll return later to the question of changing the plan. I would consider your arguments if they are presented in proper terms. Dismissed!"

The strategical retreat of three officers from Vorrutyer's luxurious cabin was so quick that if its speed would were increased a bit, it would become a panicked flight.

Flushed, Rulf Vorhalas mopped his brow with a trembling hand. "He went just mad," the Admiral said almost plaintively. "Aral, I'm your direct commanding officer, and I prescribe you to get in future any personal instructions from the Commander-in-Chief via com only."

"Well," Vorkosigan accepted grimly. "Come on, Illyan. I prefer to go on training than under arrest."

Chapter Seventeen

Aral tapped the buttons of the coded lock; it sounded like a brief furious burst of fire. "Come in," he nodded to Illyan, "If Ges expects that I will run to training at top speed, without even changing my clothes or visiting the bathroom, then he is really feeble-minded." He snorted.

Then he shut the cabin's door and added, "... And without talking with the executive officer. That is the most important." He jerked his hand; the address list spread over the vidplate. "Fouchet. Well. Sorry, man, but I have a surprise for you," Aral muttered while he dialed the number.

Illyan sat quietly on the bed. He felt a strange sensation of frustration, composed of vexation, suppressed anger, acerb jealousy that had boiled over in his heart, and bewilderment. It was very unprofessional to feel this dejection instead of the heated assurance of success. Quite the contrary, Vorkosigan, who
had had to shiver with indignation and loathing, was calm now, and even smiled as if he was satisfied with all events. His smile was joyless but it existed; and he described the situation to his fellow officer quite impassively.

"... The Commander insisted that the emergency training would involve the Staff officers too..."

The acoustic system of the comconsole specially made a narrow-beam sound that only a person in the station chair could hear distinctly. Illyan sat a few meters aside, and the answers of the Vorkosigan's interlocutor turned to inaudible mutter in his ears; if he stood near the door, he wouldn't hear anything at all. This was comfortable and confidential, but now Illyan had no choice but to contemplate Fouchet's puzzled face. The lieutenant completely understood his troubles. It would be little work to add five more people to the schedule, but it would be awkward to ask Vorkosigan about his knowledge of evacuation procedures. Vorkosigan had been a Captain when Fouchet had worn cadet's white tabs only, and now he would have to participate in a routine drill with twenty-year boys...

"... I saw this instruction, indeed..."

It seemed that the executive officer sighed with relief when he got Vorkosigan's parole. Yes, all military men were more bureaucratic than any official, and ImpSec was also one of the Imperial Service's departments. So Simon would have had to be consistent with his orders, instead of following his ward's reckless scheme. It had been a good idea to provoke Vorrutyer, but it had never occurred to any of them that Vorrutyer had lost all restraint long ago.

"I see." Vorkosigan echoed clearly, "Seventeen-fifteen, lock area number Three, Group Nine, and engineering Lieutenant Copeland. Illyan, have you recorded that?"

Illyan was distracted from his reflections and answered with a brief, "Yes, sir." Vorkosigan nodded, satisfied, and cut the com.

Aral glanced at his chrono. "We have twenty-two minutes yet. Why do you look so sour before the battle?"

"I doubt my command's strategy," Illyan answered dryly, despite himself.

Aral stretched himself, rose, and sat on the bed alongside him. "Vorrutyer has scared you," he said affirmatively without taking into account the possible answer 'officers are afraid of nothing'.

"He hasn't scared me but horrified me," Illyan corrected for greater accuracy, as an analyst should. "We made our plans counting upon an enemy who went too far but was not crazy."

"He isn't crazy, really," Aral explained. "It was an impressive show, with all his balancing on the verge, his hysteria and obscenities. You are not the only one who was shocked. Unfortunately for him, Vorrutyer didn't take into account a sober and attentive spectator who knew him well and long ago. I'm sure this hysteria was feigned; Ges controlled himself well. What does it mean?"

"That he deserved us tearing off his... er, head, " Illyan muttered, and then added seriously, "It means that we should reflect on his purpose; the keyword is not 'why' but 'what for?' "

"Good," Aral approved. "For what did he do this, indeed? Did he mean to provoke a furious Aral Vorkosigan into a fight? In that case he should have had some officers who didn't like me as witnesses, instead of my friend Rulf. Did he want to give a demonstration of his power? Those are our personal relations; they don't require the presence of strangers." He drew a conclusion, "The single real effect of today's rendez-vous is that I have to go to the drill; all the rest is trumpery."

"And what does that mean?" Illyan demanded. His anxiety and vexation were washed away with the flow of new information, replacing mere hypotheses.

Aral grinned, "It means that my ImpSec lieutenant shouldn't relax. It would be wrong to think that it is all over. Everything could happen when I am training; for example, Ges could furtively put something in my cabin. Is the brandy bottle still in the drawer?"

Illyan immediately rose and strode to the door. "You should have started with this," he reproached Aral mildly. "If I have a quarter of an hour only for setting a security perimeter, you shouldn't divert me with talking," he said, moving away the lock's lid and aiming at its electronic entrails with a probe.

"You'll manage," Vorkosigan said seriously.

***

Illyan remained with his ward in the armory room of Bay Three, where space suits hung on the props, already moved out, and awaiting their owners. Of course, the vacuum suit wasn't combat armor. The troopers wore an elaborate mechanism with a readout system, feedback, a built-in weapon and powerful servos that turned a soldier into a small live fortress, and an officer, with a computer in his command helmet, became a tactical center. They normally robed themselves in this armor not in a few seconds but long beforehand, with the help of technicians who checked its every system and junction with probes; it resembled an unhurried fitting with a good tailor. A simple space suit, on the contrary, was only supposed to save its wearer, who had to go safe and sound from Point A to Point B, from the dangers of vacuum, but a projectile or plasma beam could unseal this shell too easily. The space suit, light and easy-to-use, was intended for rescue, not for fighting; its most terrible weapon was the jet engine on the back.

The next group would start in five minutes. The senior instructor showed the door to all unauthorized persons - 'batmen, aides and nurses', as he murmured under his breath. Illyan wasn't offended and even sympathized with the instructor; he would feel embarrassed too if he had become responsible for the famous Admira... er, Commodore Vorkosigan. Why the formal mood? He had been in the same situation a month ago. Now it was quite another matter; Illyan dared not only to have sex but to have debates with Vorkosigan.

The result of the last debate was that Aral had agreed to put a micro earbug into his ear and to insert the plate of a throat mike, right before leaving his cabin. However he had threatened, half seriously, that Illyan would regret it if he ventured to have private talks during the trainings. Illyan considered the private channel necessary, although Aral objected. Firstly, Aral had observed logically that even if something bad should happen with the cabin, he would be able to do nothing since he would be outside the ship. Secondly, Illyan hadn't known in advance if the ship's skin would shield the retranslated signal or not. In the former case, this channel could be useless or worse, an adverse source of static, but Aral wouldn't have a chance to shut it off; when the space suit was hermetically sealed, it would be as impossible to press the button of the wrist com as to scratch oneself. Illyan thought that a nervous beginner often suffered from a space-suit's itch, but Vorkosigan must not remember at all how it had happened...

Beginners, weren't they? The group of navy officers that Vorkosigan had just joined didn't make an impression of a crowd of greenhorns, being composed of the lieutenants and technicians about Illyan's age. As was expected, the executive officer had lined up the new-fledged ensigns first, while the Tac Room had been still fresh and on its guard. It seemed this method had worked. Illyan slipped into the Tac room and immediately inquired of the duty officer, in an undertone, about the situation. It was good; none of the juniors had missed the target, a drop shuttle suspended at a distance of a kilometer from the flagship. No poor fellow had lost control of his space-suit and been dragged to the ship via tractor beam. It was all OK, except that a few people had made mistakes in orientation but the instructor returned them to the correct direction with a brief and energetic (unprintable, in other words) order.

Judge by the Crown Prince's disappointed face, this trifle couldn't be even considered a slip.

By the way, the Prince Serg in his brilliant dress greens had appeared in the Tac Room a few minutes after Illyan; Vorrutyer accompanied him. Fortunately, Illyan had passed ahead of them and now he settled comfortably at a reserved comconsole; the entering people could see only his unnamed shoulders and the back of his head, so Vorrutyer and the Prince had passed by without recognizing him. Their attention would be especially inopportune for Illyan, who concentrated now on the mental count. Vorkosigan is fourth in his group; let's assign ten minutes between every two starts that the lock mechanism works through its full cycle, minus eighteen minutes have already passed...

Well, Ges and Serg are here. It meant that they weren't organizing any dirty tricks in Vorkosigan's cabin right now. Frankly speaking, Illyan didn't suppose that the Prince would force its lock by his own hands; for that matter, the Prince and his friend had batmen, orderlies, aides, personal guards and so on. Perhaps, their presence in the Tac room was, quite the contrary, a kind of alibi, and Illyan should suspect that something bad was already taking place.

Damn it. He would know this when Vorkosigan returned. Illyan would bet that the well-trained ImpSec was able to get everything, possible and impossible, from the standard door lock. If only this idiotic exercise finished...

Chapter Eighteen

The muffled buzz from the duty officer's comconsole informed him that the time reckoning for the next examinee begun. Vorkosigan's sharp exhalation that Illyan heard from the com confirmed that he wasn't wrong in his counts and now it was Aral's turn. From this moment and during the next half of the hour Illyan would have to hear every hiss, comment or swear that Vorkosigan would be forced to by the exercises. Illyan could decipher these sounds like a rebus; there were heavy boots stamping on the desk, the click of facial plate closing shut, the brief rapid speech that marked the check of readouts... Illyan remembered his own actions a few hours ago and decided that at this moment Aral was entering - rushing! - into the lock chamber. Therefore Illyan had six or seven minutes free while the lock's full cycle completed.

Illyan turned his attention to Vorrutyer and the Prince. They were debating heatedly about some matter; Ges talked in a low voice, Serg's remarks were shrill and loud. "... he fenced well at show jumping, blind drunk!" Serg proved actively. "I said he couldn't!" Ges snubbed him, "Hush your tone, please."

Illyan didn't like this talk; frankly speaking, at this moment he would like nothing concerned with this couple. Had they arrived here to see Aral's fiasco? Did they think that he was drunk to such an extent that he was on his last legs? You'll be unpleasantly surprised, my lords...

Illyan realized that he was deeply meditating only at the moment when the muted curse from the earbug made him start. What is it? No, it was stupid to be alarmed. Vorkosigan could just have stumbled over, for example, when he had left the gravity-field of the ship, or, even more prosaically, his ear itched suddenly and awfully. Therefore Illyan bit his tongue and only kept to listening attentively to the background sounds from the com.

Vice Admiral Vorrutyer turned to the duty officer at the very moment when they heard the swearing. "Commander, key up the picture from the outer vid-pickup to my display," he demanded impatiently, and added crossly, when a tiny delay followed, "Of the exercise, of course!"

Vorrutyer evidently wasn't a master in the operating of a command channel but he handled it quite easily, being experienced. Although he was now the[omit] mostly an "Admiral for show", his military career in his youth had surely included field service; moreover, Vorrutyer hadn't neglected combat simulators lately when he had been in the Headquarters. Illyan reminded himself that the image of a hysterical depraved frill was only one of Ges’s comfortable masks, and it would be dangerous to underestimate him.

The flashing images from various cameras stopped on the view of the bulky shape on the ship's outer skin and the little scarlet pulsating beacon at a distance of a hundred meters from it. Illyan was surprised that the vacuum suite looked from the outside so clumsy and cumbersome. Looked only? The man moved along the hull not with an even stride, rolling his foot from heel to toe, as they all were taught. He... toddled; he was careening like a drunk and twitching his leg in a funny manner as if he groped his way. Illyan frantically glanced over the training vid in his memory and made sure that the scene was quite different; the man, moving in this way, could hardly confine himself to the standard time.

"What's that?" Vorrutyer demanded in disgust. He keyed up the conference circuit. "Tech bay, who is tumbling outside now?"

Doesn't you really know? Illyan thought darkly.

The engineering lieutenant's voice confirmed immediately, "Number Four is out." He paused, re-checking. "Commodore Vorkosigan".

"The Commodore?" Vorrutyer wondered specially. "Is he drunk or something?"

"Number Four-Eight, reply," the instructor called alarmingly. "What's happening?"

Aral's voice sounded from the loud speaker, echoing in Illyan's earbug, "Four-Eight on line. The situation is under control."

It was strange that the voice in the common line sounded deep and slow making an illusion of difficulty of speech but Illyan heard in his earbug that its inflexion and speed were normal. Did the microphone of the transmitting device malfunction? If it was so, could some other bugs be revealed shortly after? The alarm that chimed in Illyan's mind hadn't just turned on but rang loudly; he had a good temptation to call out 'Sabotage!'

He had to figure out what had happened. Illyan who had been mechanically rolling a light pen on the tabletop let the thing fall under the console, supposedly by accident. He smiled apologetically and ducked down to reach the pen. When he was under the console he whispered hastily in the comlink, "What's up?"

The pause of a second followed as Vorkosigan turned out the common conference; then he answered laconically, "The magnet of the left sole is failing. Irregularly. What is my lag?"

"Thirty-eight seconds," Illyan read the figures of the virtual timer that flowed before his eyes.

Aral clicked his tongue with annoyance but didn't waste priceless seconds with comments. "I'm going to start my engines right after the beacon, to use the impulse," he explained. "Out."

When Illyan scrambled out from under the console he glanced briefly aside to the Prince and his friend; no, they were still looking to the opposite side and didn't turned out towards him but regarded the vid image as if it would be the best show of the year and exchanged spiteful remarks about drunkards in the fleet. Illyan decided to turn a firmly deaf ear to these words.

Was this an accidental malfunction? In this matter Illyan didn't believe in accidents, he considered it more reasonable to be a paranoid and see their enemies’ machination in every disaster. It was incomprehensible yet how Vorrutyer had managed to have a hand in Aral's space-suit failure but this was of no importance in Illyan's conclusions. There was the more urgent question about Ges's primary purpose. Had he wanted the first time just to discredit Aral for his false drunkenness or to hold him away from the cabin? Illyan didn’t know it. He waited.

On the display the man in the vacuum suit had reached at last the little beacon with jerking moves. The flasher changed its light from bright red to blue; this meant that Vorkosigan hadn't missed the contact plate.

Their previous exchange of remarks was enough for Illyan to understand Aral's troubles and his intentions. The magnetic soles provided the space suit's adhesion with the ship's hull. The electric magnet turned on when one pushed on his heel and turned off when one shifted the body's weight onto the toe so that people usually moved like a sportsman in a foot-race. But if the magnetic control was defective the pressure on a heel only returned the additional impulse to the body. Nobody could figure out on site what defect in the electronics was its cause; the suit evidently would require repairing later. As a result, it was hard for Aral not just to walk but to push himself off in the jump. He would have to use the maneuvering jet engines behind his shoulders and it would have be done very neatly. At the first, it would be not allowed to scorch the ship's board with plasma jet; at the second, Aral would have to aim the nozzle perfectly in order to fly away from the ship and not to be dragged along its board. Illyan hoped that Vorkosigan should handle his equipment well as he was very experienced; he even had the chance to make up his lag for the distance of half of kilometer if he should risk starting and braking abruptly.

Illyan was waiting for the brisk start, but he didn't expect to hear the shout accompanied with the metallic clash. This sound burst in his earbug; Illyan slapped his ear as if he was stung. "Aral?" he breathed. His voice was low but nobody would hear him even if Illyan screamed at the top of his voice. The cacophony set in the Tac room; the alarm signal on the comconsole squeaked, the people from the Engineering bay asked via intercom what it was the outer had hit, the instructor shrieked out, 'Four-Eight, report!'. But Vorrutyer's dramatic cry overrode all the noise; he sprang to his feet and exclaimed, "Whatever does this alcoholic venture upon?!"

Illyan nearly darted off, towards the working comconsole, in order to look at the display past the duty officer's shoulder. He narrowed his eyes instead and looked at it from the distance seeking out the tiniest explanation of what had happened. The fluorescent stripes and sparkling mirror patches on the space suit that hovered by the beacon were easily discernible, but the figure didn't move and Illyan didn't see any jet engines' flash. Was Aral out? No, he shifted and grasped with difficulty the beacon's prop that was slightly crooked, by the way. During the next second Illyan had time to curse silently himself, their common plan, Vorrutyer, Aral's presumption, the stupid exercises and the entire space navy.

Then Vorkosigan's voice sounded from the loud speaker, still strangely low, "Four-Eight calls the ship. I've a technical failure and ask to stop the count. Evacuation isn't required; I'll cope by my own strength."

"You see," Vorrutyer exclaimed triumphantly, turning towards the officers, "He's not only criminally drunk but lies in an attempt to conceal it. An awkward lie, isn't it? Nobody else had the same 'technical failures'," he emphasized this word. "By the way, was he examined before his exiting outside? Did they rely upon," he grinned contemptuously, "Vorkosigan's notorious word?"

Illyan was stunned, blushing for shame and anger at the same time. Some security officer he was! Why had he let his ward go into the vacuum without checking his suit on his own? He would have had to stop the exercises and conduct a diagnostic... but nobody would have allowed him to disorder the work of the Engineering Bay under the pretext of supposedly untested equipment. For what reason? Is Vorkosigan a VIP who requires the special treatment? Oh, really, you doubt the Commander-in-Chief's good intention... Only this assumption would have be enough that the flight Chief engineer would have eaten him alive, without salt and butter.

What was left for him to do now?

"Well," the Vice Admiral stated with satisfaction. "I had to note with regret that we have a state of emergency. What are you going to do with this," he nodded toward the display, "... victim? Dispatch a rescue team? Who knows, he could make a row. Send a small shuttle; let them hook him on the tractor beam, and he won't resist." Vorrutyer grinned.

"Vorkosigan reported that evacuation wasn't required," the duty officer began, his palm covering the microphone.

Vorrutyer immediately snapped at him, "I don't care what nonsense he said. Carry out the order!"

"I'm finding out now from the engineers what way is the most quick, sir," the duty officer promised hastily.

"Quick?" Ges snorted and added in a falsely soft voice, "You should have hurried before. The exercises are already upset, the damage is done." He rose and inclined to Serg who sat still silent. "Wouldn't Your Highness like to call a meeting concerned this incident?"

"Yes," the Prince accepted cheerfully and rose too. "Immediately. Summon to the briefing room Vorhalas, Zarowski and someone from Engineering. Let them provide an explanation of this scandal. Bring Vorkosigan here, as soon he's arrived, whatever his condition should be."

They directed their steps to the door. Illyan repeated without delay his trick with a dropped light pen; the hiss of closing door sounded just at the moment when he scrambled up. They had left. The others people in the Tac room either were busy or considered normal the presence of an ImpSec officer here. Who is Vorrutyer's man among them? Didn't matter. If he would report his patron about Illyan, it would be later. Now Simon keyed up his wrist com hastily.

"Aral?" he called in low tones, "Is any harm done to you?"

"I'm safe and sound," Vorkosigan answered, slightly irritated. Illyan didn't blame him; if he was Aral, he would swear now, droningly and steadily. "But the space suit is out of order. The traction system works unpredictably; I 'm not only able to push myself correctly with one leg. The engines are misbalanced, their exhausts are mistimed or directed where only devil knows; the moment I attempt to switch them on I begin to twirl round. And I suspect, that the malfunctions extend further. What do you know? Report."

"Most likely, your suit was sabotaged. Vorrutyer was waiting for this incident, to all appearances. He made a row immediately, shouted about drunkenness and ordered the dispatch of an evacuation crew to capture you. They will be on site in a dozen minutes."

"What a disgrace," Aral noted grimly. "And I'm not able to reach Lock Three in the meantime by my own strength."

"Really," Illyan accepted. It would be unpleasant to be hooked with a gravity beam like a drowned man from the[a] stream and handed over to Vorrutyer's escort team; the chief of the Prince's Security had sent for a few bulky fellows for putting down a wild Vorkosigan, maybe with a stun-net. They had to wait for him by Lock Three... Wait. There were other locks besides Number Three, indeed.

"What if you just head to the nearest lock? You have dropped out of the race, anyway."

"I had this idea already," Aral admitted, "I'm unable to go a long distance now, but the exit Number Eight is at a stone's throw. Uselessly; it's so near and yet so far, because it is locked."

"Are you sure?" The mad hope flashed at a split second.

"I can test it." Aral's voice sounded weary. "But warily. When I lose hold of the prop, I'll risk drifting away but won't dare to turn off the engines."

Two minutes of indistinct sounds as a rustling of fabric and heavy breath was concluded with the disappointed remark, "Locked. I have the worst luck now, Simon."

"Doesn't the rack-gear turn? Is it blocked from inside?" Illyan asked.

Aral answered with a joyless snicker, "There is just a simple code lock."

Yes, this procedure was standard. The room behind Lock Eight was now assigned for storage, not a shuttle hangar; therefore the exit had to be locked shut. Any unauthorized people wouldn't get here from outside (just as an enemy boarding team during battle); in case of need the technicians could receive the code from the chief engineer. Now the chief engineer being rebuked by Vorrutyer, so Illyan couldn't ask him for this valuable information right now, as a personal favor. Moreover, it would be hard to convince him quickly that drunk (as everybody thought) Vorkosigan would be careful and his actions wouldn't threaten the hold's impermeability.

The time pressed, and they hadn't any chance to force a lock from outside.

Is it necessary to force it?

Illyan was stunned struck with a sudden idea. He extracted from his perfect memory a picture of ten days' prescription. Here he enters the Nav and Com, says hello, shakes hands, smiles... meantime the night duty officer, from the right of him, reloads data to the reserve comconsole for the next shift. The person on operative duty had received the highest access level, hadn't he? It remained to Illyan only to enlarge the blurry image, focus to officer's fingers, open the log-in window on his own comconsole and carefully tape all symbols of the spied password, one after another. If only they hadn't changed it since then...

They hadn't. The inner database opened hospitably before his eyes; the rest was the matter of ordinary ImpSec skills. The was it, the code to the outer hatch of the Lock Eight; six numbers, aka the emergency exit from the enemy's trap.

"Aral," Illyan said, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed. "I'm going to dictate numbers for you. Please, don't miss when you tap them..."

Chapter Nineteen

The door of the briefing room moved aside with a soft hiss, but this low sound was enough that everyone in the room stared at the incomers. There were annoyed, waiting, puzzled or glad glances; everybody responded to Vorkosigan's arrival in his own way. Illyan who hovered traditionally behind his shoulder didn't draw any attention.

Ges Vorrutyer took the seat at the head of the table, exactly facing the door. When the door opened, he was the first who saw them; then the slight irritation that made his face wry disappeared in a split second and gave place to open joy. The Vice Admiral sat back in the station chair, spreading his elbows wide, and patted the armchair softly. "Well," he said, "here is the hero of the occasion... Attention!" he bellowed suddenly with a well-trained voice.

Illyan subdued a brief temptation to salute automatically; some people at the table gave a start. By the way, Vorhalas wasn't here for any of several reasons; why? The Prince who sat in the station chair a bit behind from Vorrutyer's threw his palms together silently, applauding his friend. Aral squared his shoulders, slightly drooped with tiredness, and dutifully stood correctly for a moment.

"Did you want to see me, Commander-in-Chief?" His rumbled baritone voice was low but everybody in the room heard it clearly. Thank God, Aral's voice didn't drop to a furious and hardly audible whisper, Illyan thought with relief. Anger would be a problem now.

"See you?" Vorrutyer echoed with a dry irony. "During the last hour only, Commodore, you have managed to damage valuable equipment, cause a state of emergency and ruin the planned exercises, all due to your criminal irresponsibility. No, I don't want to see you further either aboard my flagship or in my fleet," Vorrutyer emphasized this 'my' expressively. "Such is indeed on the agenda of this extraordinary meeting, you see, Vorkosigan?"

The term 'military court' remained unspoken but there came a cold blast in the air. However Aral wasn't scared with the emphatic roar of the self-exciting Admiral and kept looking at the scene with patient curiosity.

"If you don't mind, Your Highness," Ges addressed Serg, who was keeping silence, with overdone respect. The Prince waved him away, making it clear that he was only a spectator of this show, not a participant or director. "Kindly approach... Commodore."

Aral strode toward the Admiral's chair without a word; the officers along the table were automatically turning and following him with their glances. Aral stood beside Vorrutyer who surely didn't offer him a seat.

They looked together utterly contrasting, the Commander-in-Chief, in his dress greens glittering with gold embroidery and awards, and the disgraced ex-Admiral, in his simple green fatigues which were distinguished from any trooper's uniform only by the low-key gray rectangles on their collar. Ges was well cared-for; Aral was tired, his crew-cut had become wet in the sweltering heat of the space suit, and he hardly had managed to comb it afterwards. From Illyan's point of view it was Vorrutyer who looked overdressed, but what was the opinion of other people in the room? What if this image proved to them once more that Vorkosigan was careless?

Vorrutyer looked his old antagonist up and down, snorted, and grimaced.

"Well," he began, "we are talking about a significant, but quite natural, misdeed." He raised his voice smoothly. "In the duration of his stay aboard my ship, Commodore," Vorrutyer made a brief deliberate pause in order to remind everybody about Aral's former high rank and the cause for which he had lost it, "Vorkosigan showed both a tendency to disobedience and a number of pernicious habits which have had a bad influence on the military morale. He has evident troubles with subordination; perhaps it was the former personal leadership that made him spoilt. By the way, his command every time finished with an incident, either on a whole fleet scale or a sole patrol cruiser. Gentlemen, you saw first-hand today's result. In battle this drunken foolhardiness would have cost us casualties or damage." He paused, looked at the chief engineer. "Was I wrong in using the conjunctive mood, Commander?"

The grim Lieutenant Commander wasn't glad that everybody's attention turned to him, but he informed them dryly and as exactly as it was possible, "Commodore Vorkosigan's vacuum suit is being delivered to the Repair Bay, sir; when its examination is done, I'll be able to report to you about the damage or malfunction. The portable beacon has a small mechanical failure; the ship's skin is intact."

I should think so! Illyan thought ironically. The armor plates of the ship's outer shell were supposed to stand hits of missiles running at enormous speed or plasma. Aral could never have made a dent in it; Vorrutyer's question was only a spiteful joke.

Vorrutyer crossly waved him away. "Such sluggishness; I need your report now, not later. The belated details won't be interesting to me, don't bother." Hm, was it possible that the idea of the space suit's expert examination seemed improper to him? "The proper statement of charge you could obtain from the Chief law officer. Something like '... damage to the Imperial property in a battle situation', and don't forget the aggravating circumstances of intoxication."

"I'm not drunk, Vorrutyer," Aral broke his silence; his remark was laconic, and his voice was injured.

Ges immediately caught up the line, "Not drunk?" he shouted expressively, half-turning to the defaulter. "Do you, Vorkosigan, dare to lie to your Commander's face? You reek of brandy, and you have the insolence to deny it, don't you? Zarowski!"

"Yes, sir?" The Chief surgeon answered; he had just twirled the light-pen and hadn't looked to his side advisedly.

"By the way, all the crew knows well what Vorkosigan's 'ulcer' is in actual fact," Vorrutyer said with a dangerous irony. "You'll answer, Zarowski, both for his concealment and your negligence; you didn't care to conduct his medical checkup before letting him go outside. Try to redeem your fault now at least and and quickly test his alcohol levels. Right here, not in your cubicle, so as to eliminate the possibility of any... fault. If he is afraid to admit his guilt of his own free will, he'll get a medical certificate for his file."

Vorrutyer stopped, sighed and added with a falsely soft voice, "Have you kept your old captain's tabs, Aral? If the military court will favor you, you'll deserve the right to wear them again. However, the lieutenant's ones more became you; you were so nice when..."

The silent Prince suddenly giggled.

However intense his diversion was, despite himself Illyan admired Vorrutyer's perfect self-assurance; Ges easily put the blame for the incident that he had cooked up by his own hands on all the people present. Did he count on the senior officers saving their files from a reprimand and actively wrecking Vorkosigan, their fellow officer who had been at fault?

However it looked so, technically. At least Vorrutyer had set the surgeon to energetic activity; Zarowsky immediately gave instructions via his wristcom and was waiting tensely, still twirling his damned light-pen. Illyan hoped vainly that he would drop this irritating glittering thing; the surgeon's fingers were skilful enough to hold the small metal stick. To Illyan's relief, the flashing lasted five minutes only. As this time passed, the breathless medic came to the briefing room; his hands were full with all sorts of things as the hypospray, the assay kit and even the translucent plastic pear of a gas analyzer. The latter was apparently borrowed from the equipment of the Army Security; the standard easy device was useful every now and then in order to bring in order uproarious privates. The Regulations inconsistently considered alcoholic intoxication as aggravation if the delinquency was committed in a battle situation and as extenuation if it happened during a crew rest period. This ambiguity could be interpreted loosely aboard the battleship.

Vorkosigan shrugged and breathed unquestioningly to the analyzer's tube. He looked worn out, and Illyan thought that Aral should talk to the doctors later about another matter than his supposed intoxication; they would have to examine if this incident had left him only bruises or worse. But this would be after a time; now it was the hour of battle, not of treatment. The long-expected culmination was going to come; the result for the sake of which they had risked (very unadvisedly, as Illyan saw now) to put him under threat and let become a mockery for his old enemy. If their booby trap would make now a harmless plop only, it would by very bad...

Zarowski read the indication, and spreaded his hands expressively. "The respiratory sample didn't reveal any traces of alcohol, Commander."

"Wha-at?!" Vorrutyer shouted. "This is a foolish mistake, of course. At least I believe that it's a mistake only, not the worst. Check once more. Don't you see that he's drunk?"

"Ges, what crap is this?" the uncomprehending Prince echoed. "Vorkosigan is drunk, I saw myself that his legs were giving out..."

Ges turned quickly and frowned Serg down; evidently, it had to be a solo part.

"Don't teach me my work, sir," the Colonel answered without piety; yes, medics never had over-respect for ranks. "The respiratory sample catches traces of alcohol for twelve hours afterwards; there isn't any."

"Then re-check it in another way, Zarowski! Don't bother your commander with every trifle," Ges snapped, irritated.

"... And a significant dose of alcoholic drinks that took place a few days ago can be found by the presence of ethyl-glucuronid in the urine," the surgeon added calmly. "However, that doesn't mean he's intoxicated at present."

"Do I have to piss right here so that the Commander doesn't suspect any forgery?" Aral asked too coolly that his irony was evident. Two of the officers snorted; Illyan did his very best to keep a stony face.

Vorrutyer was becoming furious. "Either you do all your available tests, Zarowski, or I put a question of your sabotage," he forced himself to speak through his teeth.

"It would be too radical a decision," the chief surgeon grinned without specifying to whoever's remark he answered. "The blood test also fits."

Vorkosigan rolled up his sleeve obediently and gave up a few millilitres of blood for the sake of the ascertainment of truth; in the meantime Zarowski explained with an academic tone, "I have here the chemicals for rapid analysis only. They reveal the decomposition products of ethanol that was in the body during the last week, not before." He described it in detail and glanced from time to time at his subordinate who was poring over the tests aside. "This will be enough; Vorkosigan had his first ulcer attack six days ago, and till this moment he shared the mess with other officers and openly drunk wine at the table, as far as I know. If you want earnestly to know whether my patient strongly obeyed the prescription it will be clear in five minutes.

The medic approached from behind and put the narrow band of listing results on the table before his chief, then modestly stepped aside. Colonel Zarowski traced the lines with his finger, hummed, "I have to disappoint you again, Vice Admiral; any decomposition products of ethanol aren’t revealed, he's cleared." The surgeon read the numbers aloud, underlined them with his nail and moved the flimsy politely toward Vorrutyer.

The Chief engineer who had spent this time listening and speaking intently but low to his comlink lifted his head. "I have already the preliminary results of the examination, sir," he said to the Commanders-in-Chief. Of course, he had been wounded by being blamed for slowness and now tried to improve the impression. "The space suit has a malfunction of the driving gear. It could look like its wearer, er, couldn't control his body but the real cause was the suit itself."

The engineer's testimony became the last straw. Vorrutyer jumped to his feet, his lips twitching with anger. "You too?! Your experts and your gadgets are fit only for dumping! Did you help to tune Zarowski's device so that it show... Clear?! Impossible. This is not sabotage alone] but a conspiracy!"

Ges became to pace the room quickly. Serg sat up in his chair, set his palms against the armrests and followed Vorrutyer with an uneasy glance. Ges spoke, hurriedly, unevenly, resorting to various subsidiary arguments when the main, the faultless one, had suddenly proved unworkable, "This is a falsification. I observed the exercises personally. Vorkosigan was so drunk that he wasn't be able to handle his own spacesuit. They had to dispatch the rescue team to catch him and drag him into the ship."

"The Commodore got back aboard on his own strength," the engineer corrected and broke off under the burning evil glance of the Vice Admiral.

"Don't mention. He was dead drunk anyway, right before the exercises, when I ordered him...." Vorrutuer ceased speaking briskly as if he had just bumped into a wall at full speed. Oh, yes, the experienced intriguer, Ges was so overwhelmed now that was caught in his own trap. If he had been any more carried away he would have said aloud something like 'when I kissed him, he reeked of brandy'. Anyway he had said too much; if the commander saw clearly his subordinate officer drunk but ignored it and even gave him a direct order, the consequences would be his fault only. The pause fell, awkward and hard. The officers kept silence and stony faces, but their eyes expressed an indulgent pity. Serg closed his eyes tight; Ges became flushed.

The Crown Prince's laugh broke the silence. It wasn't even a laugh but a short, light, almost scoffing snicker that made Vorrutyer turn out perplexedly.

"That's enough, gentlemen! When a joke becomes a farce it begins to irritate me. I believe, that any mentioning of conspiracy aboard my ship is a joke only, isn't it? Let them examine this incident and punish the guilty people. I'm tired of this. Go on, Ges." Serg rose and moved to the door.

Vorrutyer's utter surprise grew more if it was possible; the sabotage occured in his own ranks. Nobody knew whether the Prince considered that he was helping him overcome the stupid deadlock or His capricious Highness had really become tired. But he spoiled all Ges's plan. After the august words about jokes it was impossible to accuse Vorkosigan further. Vorrutyer's face expressed the agonizing fury, but he had to follow the First Commander. Probably, he had now a futile wish to strangle both Aral and Serg, it didn't matter whoever the first.

"I await from you all written reports on account of today's incident, at the latest this evening," Vorrutyer ordered gloomily in the end.

Serg turned and added, "Vorkosigan, you look like a prole. Make yourself presentable, and I will permit you to drink," he laughed at his own joke, embraced Vorrutyer and exited.

The automatic door was impossible to slam, but it closed with a snake-like hiss.

Illyan suddenly realised that he had tried not to breathe during all this time.

Aral pulled up the station chair and sank wearily into it. Was it just chance that it was the Commander's chair at the head of the table? Perhaps. During all the trial he had had to stand at attention near the seated Vorrutyer, after all. He rubbed his face intently as if he heartened, then said, "Gentlemen, I make my apologies that I caused involuntarily this... extraordinary meeting. I thank you for your opportune actions that have helped to clear up the mess." He smiled at his own formal words. "Indeed, I deserved it all. I should never relax and remember that exercises always harbour surprises. My lieutenant year passed a long time ago, and I have had time to forget the instructors' mean tricks."

Oh, right. The Chief engineer surely took the hint and now he was able to choose whether it had been a tuning defect (because they had had to get the space suit quickly from the storage) or a planned trouble, part of the emulated emergency situation. But the matter never concerned sabotage.

"Well, and Commander Vorrutyer," Aral suddenly stretched himself and yawned, "shouldn't be so biased."

And spread the idiotic panic, Illyan continued in his mind. It seemed he wasn't the single person who thought it.

"Now," Aral rose, "we are all dismissed. Alas, we have to spend this evening writing our reports."

Chapter Twenty

Their triumphant return to the cabin quite seemed like the arrival of reinforcements to a fortress under siege.

Aral took his boots off and sank to the bed with a satisfied groan. Illyan locked the door carefully and immediately turned the com on to check the results of the tracking program. When he didn't reveal anything suspicious, he read the data from the doorlock; no intruders were detected. He hummed, pulled out the scanner's probe from his customary map-case and began to scan the walls.

"Stop fussing, Simon," Aral patted the bed cover invitingly.

However the invitation didn't produce an effect. Illyan's posture expressed stubborn reluctance to interrupt his important business. He was aware that these routine actions helped him now to distract himself from some unpleasant feelings. It would be a bit too thick to show openly that an attack of trivial plain fear eventually made a knot in his stomach; it was vexing and very inopportune.

"I don't know yet if any trespasser visited this cabin during our absence or not," he expained without turning away. "Be patient, it won't be long."

"Be satisfied with success," Aral advised in a friendly way. "This set of games with Ges is finished, we won. In the near future he won't disturb us."

Illyan ran the probe over the last wall joint, remarked, "Cleared", rolled up the probe and put it back into the map-case. Only only then did he turn. "Yes, you have put Vorrutyer in his place," he admitted frankly, "but that still makes him crazy and doubt whether he miscalculated or you defeated him. Accept my compliments; you gained one point in the game of statuses."

"Indeed. But you grumble like an old geezer." Vorkosigan stretched himself, hands behind his head and fingers coupled tightly. "What is the matter, Simon?"

"No game is worth the real danger that you ran," Illyan retorted definitely.

Aral shrugged, "The result is worth any risk. The subject of my supposed drinking is closed for the next few months. Ges won't poison me from now on, it's useless. Otherwise I would have to suffer paranoia at the sight of any plate or glass and finally become mad like Yuri."

"'Success is never blamed', yes?"

"Of course. Do you have another opinion?"

"Another one, indeed. We have won by a fluke, the blind luck that that might not have happened. I hate to rely on luck and prefer sober planning," Illyan snorted disapprovingly, "although we had to figure on chance, from the spied code to my stupid trouble with the autoloader."

"What's the autoloader?" Vorkosigan was taken aback as he didn't understand this detail.

"Oh, you haven't even noted it," Illyan sat on the edge of the comconsole desk and began to tell him, one leg swinging. Eventually his story was carring himself too, "Lock Eight leads to the hold that now is serving as a store room; the exit is sealed, and suppliers have cluttered this side of the room from floor to celling with all sorts of stuff. Judging by the marking of goods, there were Service fatigues, Ground, Thermal, for winter use, Middle Size. Just think, it's midsummer at home now; why the hell have they decided to assault the Escobaran capital in winter?" Aral made an encouraging snicker; Simon continued, "Well, I've diverted from my story. I know how to drive a groundcar, lightflyer or even shuttle. But nobody trained me to be a stevedore who operates a heavy-duty tractor beam. The boy soldiers from the supply service are more experienced in this matter than me. Picture me taking control of this widget. If I had brought down one of stacks, thatwhich was very likely, we would have got into trouble. All our brilliant plan would be buried under a pile of quilted trousers."

Nervous oratory, yes. Take yourself in hand, officer.

"You are nervous," Aral noted it too but softened the fair reproof with a smile.

"A little, but not up to hysteria. I just need to speak my mind." Illyan paused, and then said what he was about to say from the very beginning, "Damn it! If I wasn't nobody... if I were your Chief of Security, I just wouldn't allow you leave your cabin."

"I'll take this menace into account for the future," Vorkosigan joked with so deliberately serious a tone that it sounded almost grim. "You're an overcautious boy."

Illyan repaid him with "You're an adventurer." Wholesome rage was displacing his fit of fear.

"What anger!" Aral shook his head.

Angry, to put it mildly. Irritated. Spiteful. This is a shock reaction to long-standing and permanent self-control. However it seemed that Aral wasn't confused but amused with this jittery familiarity. Probably, this isn't for the first time he's seen the adrenaline's exaltation after battle.

"Yeah, very angry, " Illyan admitted frankly. He found himself tapping softly on the glass tabletop and forced his palm to lie flat. "My word, I would start a fight with you if there wasn't another interesting alternative."

"Interestingly, yes," Aral noted, his brow flicked. He almost lay, comfortably, leaning against a wall, and his look was a bit ironic, but awfully satisfied, in contrast to his usual gloom. Illyan would say that Vorkosigan was slightly tipsy if he he weren't sure of the counter. Was it also a sort of nervous reaction? "You are flirting with me, aren't you?"

"What next!" Illyan suddenly realized that his fear, previously being transformed to anger, was turning into arousing interest. He paused, waited till Aral's face become surprised, and continued, "I'm coveting you."

Simon sank down beside him, resolutely, draped his arm across Aral's shoulders, and tightened his fingers. Even through the rigid fireproof fabric he felt that Aral's muscles now were hard as stone, despite the fact that he sat relaxed and made no resistance to Simon's impudent interest; without clothes Aral just presented a vivid illustration of muscular anatomy. It was easy to be in good form when you were twenty but its maintenance required permanent and deliberate efforts from a man in his forties; Aral's physical condition impressed Illyan and made him feel open good envy along with some secret wishes, especially now.

"I have a large number of complaints against your behavior," he whispered in Vorkosigan's ear, "as your ImpSec officer. You conduct yourself so that it makes me feel very uncomfortable. In no way I can figure out what I had to protect first, your body or your authority, and you ever endanger both of them by turns. But it's for nothing to discuss it now. It's rather better for us to get laid than fall out. "

"Indeed, I'm not given falling out with junior officers!" Aral cut short with his best commanding voice but he didn't make any attempt to draw back and let Simon to unbutton his jacket, little by little. "I'm tired for today."

"You look done up," Illyan agreed as helped him to pull off the black fatigue jacket. "Then take a shower and go to bed. To sleep, h'm."

"Do you mean I smell so badly after wearing a space-suit for one hour?

This detail was rather attractive, from Illyan's point of view, but Aral should buck up under the shower-bath.

"Hot water and soap are a good idea. And this is a question of my self-interest. You haven't your own batman, so I'm prepared for kindly helping you... a little. But I would prefer you to undress on your own, quickly and voluntarily. This is your part of the initiative tonight, OK?"

Aral moved his shoulders, stretched himself, rose, and began to pull away his clothes. "Are you going to stay? It's a pity that you don't any longer have the pretext that you had to keep watch over me all the night when I'm tipsy."

"'The water always finds the chink to leak'," Illyan answered with a proverb. "As to say, I have to watch you writing the report when you're sober, or to examine your collection of new bruises. This is quite a Security matter. "

Really, the long graze on Aral's torso, on the right, required to be examined at the shortest distance, presumably with Simon's lips. Why, he could test if his ward was trivially ticklish.

"Talking shop, again?" A mix of respect and mockery sounded in Aral's voice.

"Again and always, as you do," Illyan teased softly Commodore Lord Vorkosigam, and added with a clear hint, when Aral was stepping to the bathroom, "But I also have the rare but long-awaited minutes when basic instincts make my sense and call of duty fall silent."

To the accompaniment of the water streaming behind the wall, Illyan stripped fast (two minutes on according to Regulation's norm, and the clothes were folded neatly), and sat down on the bed. He felt the impatient looking-for, the excited foretaste, so untypical for his level character and regular life.

There was nothing unusual in the calm, middle-aged man, wasn't it? Why was Simon longing now to get him to the bed with the same enthusiasm that he had felt toward their discussions and team-work? It had been both honor and pleasure to aid him, argue, get commendation or reproof, share his victories, and learn. Now the fleshly lust manifested clearly but it wasn't the sole cause for his attraction. There wasn't also a jealous love passion; Illyan had once imagined Vorkosigan happily married and realized that this picture was convenient to him completely. A bit of friendship? Or respect?

It was impossible to remain an analyst when his lust was so strong.

Aral appeared from the bathroom, wet, and wrapped the issue towel around his hips. The terry-cloth didn't reveal the fact that he was aroused, but Aral managed to keep his face deliberately indifferent. He dropped the towel on the bed, and laid on it flat, his chin on coupled fingers. Moreover, he managed to rake up the single pillow. "Well," he said without turning his head, "someone mentioned about initiative, didn't he? The Command encourages initiative, Lieutenant."

Do you surrender at my discretion?

It turned out, that the flattery intoxicated as strong as lust. Illyan had always imagined Aral's irresistible charisma as a knocking out sea wave that was able to catch and drag away everybody. Now he enjoyed like hell saddling this wave and flying with it; he felt a mix of vehemence and pride, liking and excitement under the cover of casual confidence, and keen pleasure. It made the butterflies dance in his stomach, and this sense was as tickling as the wet stiff crew-cut under his palm.

"You see," Illyan breathed to the back of Aral's head and pressed him to the bed, "humility isn't quite your way."

This was his last logical conclusion for today's infinite day. The following sensations were too strong to think.

***

It was later when Illyan laid content, staring absently at the narrow stripe of dim, dark yellow light that bordered the celling. The lighting was so scant that it didn't disturb the sleeping man and showed only the contour of things in the cabin. Illyan eyed the man beside him; the shadows accentuated the sharp features of the face that nobody would name handsome. This was the face that Illyan was used to see anywhere but on his own pillow... well, it wasn't his pillow, but the sense was clear.

Illyan was ready to bet on his Silver Eyes that a love affair alone wouldn't have been enough to lead him here.

The last week had been... surprising. Or crazy. Or long as a whole year of training. A week ago it had been the first time in his life he'd ever argued with Vorkosigan, drunk and stubborn. Then sober Aral had offered his plan, impossible and hazardous, and this time Illyan had let him push himself around, because he hadn't dared to object yet. He had required time to learn that.

This week had passed and its lessons remained. Now Illyan knew how intimate he could be with Aral. This word meant not only their sexual relations but also their congenial minds; they two were able to think in accord, to argue as equals or take the initiative and reserve the final word by turns. It didn't matter whether the case in point was political security or just the way to smooth over the inevitable adrenalin peak after the victory.

What had been the Emperor's wording of this impossible mission? 'Learning to work well together'?

Ezar had known it beforehand.

The necessity to work together with Aral - difficult, excitable, imperfect, brilliant - had turned from a task too complex for a mere lieutenant into an admirable privilege that was within Illyan's strength and answered his wishes, not at all for reasons of his private life.

His curiousity awakened; what kind of common future awaited them?

***

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

"Some months later Cordelia Naismith, the Betan, became Lord Vorkosigan's wife, and Simon Illyan was appointed to the position of his Security Chief. Illyan did this work during the three decades and hadn't any private life besides the job; he was Aral's man, his family's closest friend and a 'foster uncle' for their son. Aral and Simon retired from the Imperial Service almost at one time and for analogous reasons.