Zeroing In

*1*

Captain Negri was scrutinizing a three-dimensional array of data projected above the comconsole; he leaned forward – almost entirely absorbed by it – and was tapping on the glass table in time with his thoughts. Commander Simon Illyan was already used to regarding this rather irritating «tap-tap» as an indispensable accompaniment to every meeting. Several times he barely caught himself just before saying, "Enough! Stop drumming, sir," - but he restrained his urge. It was not so much that interrupting Negri was tactless; primarily, it was pointless.

It was not recommended to irritate the chief of ImpSec a day after an unknown terrorist had failed to hit, by just a meter, the Regent’s groundcar with a sonic grenade. Negri had a very specific and quickly vanishing sense of humour that did not extend to one of his junior officers joshing about his little habits.

"Cetagandans." Negri screwed up his face. "It’s as sure as shooting." He poked his finger at one of the graph junctions. "Of course, we will not get corroboration of this earlier than two..."

"Three weeks," put in Commander Illyan, who was in charge of Regent Vorkosigan’s safety, "and it won't be any practical use. After all, we didn’t trace the weapon or get the assassin."

"You didn’t trace them," the Captain emphasized. "Not before, not after. You must thank the driver's quick reaction, Illyan. It wouldn’t be very nice if we were unable to gather enough pieces of flesh for the funeral of the head of the government."

Negri’s grim humor was now going beyond the pale. Illyan eyed the haggard look from the long night's vigil on his chief’s broad face and answered with the same strained intonation, "Yes, or else I would have to submit the preliminary report and solicit permission to commit suicide rightly and properly."

"I’m glad that you understand this," Negri confirmed sarcastically. He'd stopped smiling. "OK, now go on. What is your appraisal of the situation, Commander?"

"It was a standard pneumatic grenade launcher, one shot, and the ambush was made right at the edge of the protected area," Illyan sighed. "The subversive was as careful as is possible and well-versed in Vorkosigan’s movements. And I like that least of all."

"Least of all?" Negri looked up and shut down the comconsole with a movement of his wrist. Illyan knew the chief of ImpSec had a dislike for "paperwork," though papers themselves had become an item of history during his youth.

"Not to mention that My Lord Regent has settled down right in the centre of a rat’s nest, literally. There are the old underground tube networks, and disgustingly good firing points from the surrounding new high-rise buildings, and a groundcar can only creep through the streets."

It was an old conversation, and the points were known perfectly well by both of them. They both were aware that the complaint was rather pointless, like two society fops at a reception chatting about the weather.

Another sleepless night would not be good for anyone. Illyan rubbed his temples, and decided that he could give himself a rest for five minutes. "Maybe we should increase the active observation zone…"

"There is no point in expanding the protected sector, if the "fifth column", in all likelihood, is sitting inside," Negri said. Illyan blinked and drew himself up. Their small talk has definitely turned in another direction.

"Do you suppose…?"

"I do know," Negri snapped back, "that the culprit probably wears the same uniform as you do. Unfortunately, we don’t know who he is. It's a pity that we don’t have a big enough barrel of fast-penta to find him amongst all your colleagues."

"I would prefer to think that my people are loyal to me," Illyan retorted stiffly. "Or, at least, they should be checked with methods that can spare some of their pride."

"You are quite a good operative agent, Illyan, but it’s time for you to start thinking like one of ImpSec’s leading officers," Negri querulously corrected him. Long ago Illyan has noticed that after he had been appointed to this very high post under Vorkosigan, the Captain once and for all had stopped using his formal rank, Commander. However, both Illyan's subordination and age let Negri do this. More questionable, perhaps, was Negri's habit of addressing Illyan when he was in his cups, when Commander Illyan became, simply, Simon. "There is a person who is unreliable. We are always betrayed by our own people, and there is a certain limit up to which we can trust each of them. Your job is to calculate this limit. For some people it’s useful to know their own special 'hooks'. It could be money, pride, ambition, private affection. But even with a miracle chip in your head it’s impossible to hold everyone's string. That’s why there is only one way – not to allow your people to know too much. A battleship survives in combat by having its modules airtight and isolated."

"Survives," Illyan parried, "but doesn’t fight. An inability to delegate authority is an even worse mistake than over-trustfulness, and 'trust only yourself' is a deadlock. A solid cover only seems to be invulnerable, you know this even better than me."

"You can trust only those people whom you control absolutely." Negri looked at him coldly. "How strange is that I have to repeat this simple truth."

That means you completely trust neither who you serve nor those who serve you, Illyan thought. From the paranoid ImpSec chief’s perspective, there was only one exception, who had passed away and been laid in the ground two months ago, and from that time on, Captain Negri trusted no one, Illyan interpreted. Well, Aral is different from Ezar, and we too will have to change.

"What, even me with my chip, I haven't earned your confidence?" Illyan smiled, trying to turn this dangerous topic into a joke and revert to practical questions

But Captain Negri did not accept the joke. His eyes flashed and, having taken offense, he returned to his normal imperturbable state, and confirmed, "Of course not. How could I know what is happening in your technologically equipped head? Just as a mental exercise on this topic, Illyan, ask yourself – what would happen if you had to choose between the Regent’s safety and the Emperor’s?"

"I’ll leave Gregor in your hands and do my part of the job," Illyan answered vaguely.

The question of choosing between the personification of Barrayaran authority and its real power didn’t have a solution at all. Any variant was wrong, and God be thanked, the chief didn’t insist on Illyan's having a good answer. If a man was not able to save the Emperor, he would have formally violated his oath of allegiance. If, through his actions, the Regent died, it would be a death sentence for the little Emperor, or turn him into a doll in the hands of those who want to take power. If one were to prefer Aral to Gregor, that would mean that he was prejudging his own (and Aral's) loyalty; but if a man chose Gregor over Aral, he would violate his obligations and, also make others doubt Negri’s competence. The only right answer was outrageously apolitical, and so Illyan corrected himself: "I’ll save whoever I'm able to."

"So do that," Negri waved his hand, "instead of discussing your theory of personnel management."

*2*

Illyan exited from ImpMil onto the street. The autumnal wind punched him in the face, blowing away all remains of sleepiness. His night had been so extremely full of events, and not very pleasant ones at that.

He was just going to put his wristcom to his lips to call his driver, when suddenly a turbine's howl on his left made him glance back and take a quick step back onto the pavement. A car stopped a few steps from him, a canopy whirred open, and from the dark depths of the cabin were heard some very displeased words:

"Commander? Don't stand there like a statue; get into the car."

"Is there something urgent, sir?" Illyan asked the speaker, obeying his order. Probably not. Negri's voice did not seem to be too anxious.

"It's me who should ask you that," Negri snapped out. "You've already laid it out on the table at our morning meeting without explaining anything clearly. 'Attack against the Regent's secretary' - that's not an answer, but an attempt to reveal nothing. Is the target alive, how does he feel, how big is the news leak, who is behind the plot? Tell me this."

The car smoothly raised a little and set out. Negri did not say where. That meant that they were going to ImpSec headquarters.

"I was going to make a report to Regent Vorkosigan later," Illyan explained. "Right now I only have the raw data. Last night Lieutenant Koudelka, out for the evening, was severely attacked. His traumas won't affect his life, he is conscious, I've just interrogated him. He didn't cause any news leaks. Probably," Illyan qualified his assessment, because for things like this, an ImpSec officer cannot say for certain until he has checked it several times.

"Do you think, Illyan, that it is the business of a senior officer to investigate fights in taverns? Do you miss operational work so much?" Negri repeated with a bit of sarcasm. "You should confine yourself to punishing whoever let the secretary go into the caravanserai without an outer perimeter guard, and at the same time ask Vorkosigan to personally make his Lieutenant understand that he must be punished for taking advantage of the first man's lapse of judgment."

"It's not so easy," Illyan reluctantly confessed. "My observation agent for the caravanserai has disappeared, and Lieutenant Koudelka hasn't given me any intelligible explanation of what he was doing there at night."

"Do you suspect the Lieutenant of sabotage?" his chief asked.

"I doubt it. The Regent's secretary couldn't be such an idiot as to deliberately harm the Empire by letting somebody beat him up in the back streets of the caravanserai." Illyan sighed. He knew he should give a detailed account, or the chief would never stop asking him. "There were about ten attackers; they were a classic example of the local bandits. The ones who survived, I personally interrogated. They don't know anything about the vanished agent; fast-penta has confirmed this."

"Survived?" Negri's expressionless face reflected a pantomime of ironical astonishment. "But he fought in the caravanserai? As we know, the Regent's secretary was nearly removed from active service because of his disability."

"He was with one of Vorkosigan's armsmen, a retired commando," Illyan explained. "They managed to fight down three of them. But one, I'm afraid, is my fault. He had a strong allergy to fast-penta. Frankly, it's been a long time since I lost a prisoner for so silly a reason."

"You should start with this, Illyan!" Negri screwed up his eyes, moving forward a little bit. "Has an autopsy been done?"

"Wha..? Oh, yes." Illyan shook his head to clear out the fuzz. He'd better have a walk, he thought, instead of sitting the comfort of the groundcar. If he sat here any longer, he'd start yawning. "Are you asking if his allergy was congenital or artificially induced? The experts can't say for certain."

"And is it me who must help you draw conclusions?" the Captain impatiently asked again. "You know perfectly well who fit out their people with an allergy to fast-penta. It's the damn Cetas! If I was in your boots I'd start with the hypothesis that this was an attempted kidnapping, disguised as a local criminal case. The disappeared agent fits very well with everything else."

Illyan rubbed his face, and pressed on. "The whole area is rotten throughout, in every sense, and it's high time to put half the municipal guard, who are supposedly there to keep order, behind bars, but..." Suddenly the full meaning of Negri's "hypothesis" sunk in. "... the Cetagandan network?"

"Do you think," Negri badgered him, "our painted friends are so refined that they would not deign to work in the caravanserai? If you trace back a link from the side of your lost man, Illyan, you'll be surprised to find how many things you don't know about the collaborators. And, I think, you should begin with Lieutenant Koudelka."

"I've already done that," Illyan corrected him, surprised at how quickly the chief has forgotten about it.

"So how could your suspect not reveal everything under fast-penta, I wonder?" the chief asked again.

Illyan shrugged his shoulders. "He isn't a criminal, but a victim. There wasn't any fast-penta."

Negri frowned, giving him a piercing look. "That's not an excuse. Koudelka's allergy isn't in place yet, is it? It's your mistake, but now it is useful. So go and rectify it. If you have forgotten how to interrogate using truth serum, any investigator will give you a hint."

"Maybe I should cancel his painkillers and twist his arms?" The joke was on the brink of being outside the rules, but Illyan was too exhausted to be impeccably polite. "This fellow, because of his own stupidity, was bashed up nearly to total disability. You just reminded me that he was all but discharged on medical grounds, with only Vorkosigan's clever plan to invent a job for a near-cripple preventing that. I don't think it's necessary to add an interrogation to his traumas."

"I don't care about his stupidity, in contrast to your kindliness, Commander," Negri snapped out. "Would you bet your head, Commander, that this secretary of yours is an innocent lamb and isn't involved in potential blackmail, espionage and so on?"

"My head is Imperial property, and I can't guarantee anything with it," Illyan didn't yield to him. "But so far I haven't got any reason to think that Koudelka might be guilty."

To his surprise, Illyan found that he had began mixing metaphors. The lexicon of an ImpSec officer had no concept for the revolutionary Betan-style phrase "mental stability is part of security". But at the same time he clearly sensed that Koudelka, who always had been calm and friendly, was now balancing on the edge of a nervous breakdown, though Koudelka would never admit this. Also he understood that this kind of breakdown would not be good news for the Regent.

"He is the Regent's man," Illyan continued with confidence, "and if we need to interrogate him, I'll do it only with Vorkosigan's sanction."

Negri turned and peered at him; he looked like a tank turret aiming at its target. "So what do you think, Commander? Whose word will have more influence with him - mine or yours?" he asked.

"I don't know, sir," Illyan shrugged. "And I don't have any desire to find out."

"You want to stay clear, don't you?" Negri grumbled. "All right, in two days you must give me a report about the disappeared agent, and I'll make a decision then."

It was a good way to save face, and Illyan appreciated it. But he just wanted to know why the hell the agent had vanished into thin air. If in two days he could not produce him for the chief for an interrogation - alive and coherent, because Captain Negri didn't believe in spiritualistic seances - he certainly would revert to the conversation about Koudelka.

*3*

Illyan was meditating over his lunch: he looked absently at the pieces of greens and the orange spots of fat which were on the surface of the borsch, and was slow in starting eating. The mess was nearly full, but nobody bothered him or took a seat next to him – they had already got used to the periodical aloofness of the young Commander with a chip in his head. And who knew if he was going over some work data in his mind or was doing a crossword puzzle in his spare time. Only when he realized that the noise in the mess had subsided did he raise his head in perplexity. Captain Negri was standing near the bar with a plastic tray, and the space around him was slowly becoming deserted. It’s hard to salute with a tray in your hands, and nobody wanted to demonstrate a neglect of subordination to the boss. Negri looked around with irritation, tracked a worthy target down among the tables and resolutely picked his way towards it. In other words – went to Illyan’s table.

Illyan sighed. Well, it was logical. Recently Negri’s attention had certainly been concentrated on him. Maybe they had a lot of common problems; maybe it was his way of teaching quickly; or maybe he was getting used to seeing in Illyan not just the previous callow Lieutenant, but an equal colleague.

“May I sit here?” Negri absolutely non-regulationly specified and put the tray on the table without waiting for an answer.

“Yes, of course,” Illyan politely replied.

Negri pulled the chair closer and, with the same concentration, began examining the contents of his plate, as if he wanted to find there, among the shaped pieces of pasta, important Imperial evidence. He wondered whether their conversation was going to start with "have you noticed, sir, how lively it is in the mess today?" or "the fruit drink is better than usual today, isn’t it?"

“So where did you find your lost sheep?” Negri tranquilly inquired, finding a wise compromise between a business conversation and a simple chat.

The observer, who had disappeared several days ago, had been found alive, though injured, and been properly interrogated. But at the time Negri had not wanted to listen to any details. He had only briefly agreed “You were right, Illyan” and then switched over to the more important things than the life of an ordinary agent. But now it looked like he wanted to know.

“We didn’t find him – it was a pure accident,” Illyan said truthfully. The story about the agent was of the sort that Illyan would never believe without a fast-penta interrogation, and he would be the first to describe it as "the result of an over-active imagation" and demand the truth. “People are right, saying that all evil comes from women. I’ll add – it’s also from somebody’s irrepressible fantasy.”

“He was hiding in a woman’s place, wasn’t he?” Negri briefly cut down the discussion.

Nope, you’re not right.

“Not exactly,” Illyan corrected him. “Actually, my agent had acquired a girlfriend in one of the taverns. He says it’s a good cover. And, being dressed up completely inappropriately for the caravanserai, he decided to call her to bring him a plainer jacket. I should say it was a good idea. But there was one thing which, I think, was unnecessary: he started to play the hero, and stood up for a damsel against some local hoodlums. He ended up with a knife in the belly and instantaneous collapse from haemorrhagic shock."

“Thank you; that's a very nice topic at lunch.” The Captain grinned, sipping the soup.

“Aha,” Illyan agreed. “The most interesting part starts after this. The waitress realised to take him to the philanthropic hospital in time – the lad has her to thank for his life, precisely, - but she didn’t think about anything else than writing him down as her brother. As she told us, crying – she was trying to save her darling from the vengeance of his rivals. Because of some gentle hints the goose mistook an ImpSec agent for a Mafioso. Throughout the day we were ransacking the caravanserai, while this Romeo was lying unconscious in the Surgery Department under a counterfeit name. Thank God, he hit upon reporting via comm as soon as he returned to consciousness.”

“Are you filming a melodrama there or dealing with security?” Negri ironically asked.

“A melodrama,” Illyan gloomily agreed. “One young idiot decides to diversify his private life at a bordello in the worst part of the caravanserai; another acts the noble brigand with a slut from tavern; and as a result we are both vainly inspecting everything, looking out for the Cetas’ intrigues.”

“You are inspecting everything,” Negri gladly corrected him, moving the empty plate aside. “It’s your work, Illyan. You must always remember that half of our investigated cases are caused by simple human stupidity. Sometimes it even could be ridiculous and harmless, but I wouldn't advise you to rely on this.”

The chief of ImpSec, who was practical and always exact in everything, never bothered himself with general words unless they had some practical conclusions and lessons.

“If it would console you, I have had some moronic situations, too. The most ridiculous one was…” Negri screwed up his eyes, recollecting. Human memory cannot compete with a perfect chip, it is certain. “It was 2847, I think. The case was about a Ceta frog-infiltrator and an assault on a pet shop.”

In 2847, little Illyan had been six years old, and he liked tales - of this sort.

“My experts never did conclude whether it was a purposeful biological attack against Count Vorsmythe's family or not, anyway a note of protest was sent to the Cetas. Frankly speaking, it was an allergic reaction to these creatures, I mean frogs from an aquarium, it didn’t threaten their health, but looked impressive. They had bright blue circles around their eyes, yeah…”

Illyan quickly imagined this and tried valiantly to keep a poker face.

“At ease, Captain. You may smile,” Illyan’s struggle for seriousness did not escape the Chief’s attention. “Ezar, by the way, when he'd finished laughing, dressed me down and said that he wouldn’t allow these painted Cetas faces to propagate their aesthetics here.”

When Illyan finished laughing, he nevertheless noted this in his memory. This was strange. Negri was never keen on writing memoirs. Speaking clearly, if such a memoir ever existed it would have not just to be burnt before riding, but before writing. The iron Captain is getting older, is he becoming softer because of a glass of a fruit drink or is he just demonstrating to his subordinate a new level of trust, what is right?

Even if it is so, the time for jokes is over – together with the fruit drink.

“Now then, Illyan, enough sitting over your lunch like a girl over her dowry,” The Captain ruthlessly said, getting up from the table. “I’ll be waiting for you in my office in a quarter of an hour. We’ll discuss your short list once again.”

*4*

Will he raise his hand or not?

Negri was resolutely pacing the office; several times he took a step closer to his subordinate, but stopped as if he had met with an obstacle. In his hands he was twisting a light-pen, which was crackling dangerously in his grip.

Outside the windows the dim grey dawn was approaching. The morning after the soltoxin gas attack left an imperceptibly disgusting aftertaste on the tongue. It wasn’t more disgusting than this situation, of course.

“You do not have any excuses, Commander!”

The Captain threw away the pieces of the pen, nevertheless made a step to Illyan and grabbed his tunic as if he was going to show his indignation at the closest distance.

If he raises his hand it won’t be fatally. But on the other hand after manhandling him he will quickly calm down and unwillingly apologize to his brother officer. And then we’ll have a conversation about business instead of a scolding about these dubious ethical questions.

“You,” Negri said slowly and clearly, obviously trying to control the desire to shake his interlocutor, “were given a certain task – to ensure the security of the Regent and his inner circle. You had resources, authorities - and what?

However, no, I don’t think so. If he raises his hand against me I won’t stand like a statue. But what is right – to cover my face with my hands so as not to allow him to give me a likely slap in the face, rudely answer him or sympathetically offer the Captain a glass of water and a sedative?

“It was a straightforward task, Illyan!” The ImpSec Captain in disgust spoke through gritted teeth, then unclenched them. “And you couldn’t cope even with this. Lt. Vorhalas steals a weapon from the armoury for terrorism, penetrates well-secured territory, shoots in the Regent’s window, and during this you are gaping, aren’t you? This is worse than high treason – it is negligence.”

Illyan straightened his tunic and constrainedly tried to control himself and not rub his glowing cheeks with his hands.

“Vorkosigan House is under "A" category security,” he said, knowing the uselessness of these words. “And it is under surveillance. If I knew where the hole in the security was, it wouldn’t be there.”

“The hole is in your head!” Negri angrily answered. The past night had not been easy for him – it seems that he several times imagined a lethal outcome of yesterday’s attack. And he was ready to tear his subordinate to pieces because he had allowed this danger to happen. “Despite your electrical brains you contrive to forget obvious things, Illyan. One attack wasn’t enough for you to move the Regent into the palace from extremely dangerous territory, was it? Public threats from Vorhalas weren’t enough to keep him under strict observation, were they?”

Moving Vorkosigan and his family from their manor to the Imperial palace was prescribed according to his status, but during several months it had been the point at issue.

It is easy to be wise after the event. Even a shot at his groundcar had not changed his decision to live with his new wedded wife in his Family house. Illyan had tried to persuade him within reasonable limits, but all the time he had retreated in the face of Vorkosigan’s obstinacy. He could not command the first person of the Imperium and he knew that, and Negri knew, too, and he knew that Illyan knew…

“I’ve been raising the issue of moving every week, but the Lord Regent refused to move, in spite of my insistance,” Illyan as usual reminded the Chief.

He was not happy about this situation, but what could he do? The only thing was to reinforce the guard all around the mansion to the highest level, knowing that he could not say for sure that all the soldiers who were patrolling the territory were loyal. By the way, if we are speaking about Vorhalas: with whose help or connivance had he climbed unnoticed over the inner wall? And who gave a fleet officer the idea of using a specific terrorist’s weapon – a gas grenade with a military poison-gas and a mechanical crossbow, which would not be seen on the scanners? The fast penta interrogation has not given any answers yet…

“I’ll say.” Negri screwed up his eyes. “Are you running into the same trap again, Simon? You are way too soft for your age. It’s time for you to grow up, especially at your post.”

Illyan was so surprised about this unexpected “Simon” and this phrase itself, that he got stuck in the middle of his chain of logic. “Pardon?”

“While you were Ezar’s secretary, you could adapt to him and his wishes – that’s why I appointed you to look after him. And now your work is to protect the Regent, and nothing more,” Negri informed him with acrimony. “You do not need him to like you, nor indulge his caprices, nor hit it off with him, nor be afraid to disappoint him. You only have to protect him. My Lord Regent can think of you as a stubborn son of a bitch with an awful character, strip you of your rank, make you a rating – but on the other hand he will absolutely rely on your opinion concerning his security."

He made a long pause and ruthlessly added,

“And you have allowed yourself to get attached to someone, Simon. Again. You want to be 'one of the lads' so much with your protected subject that you allow him to twist you round his finger. It’s completely incompetent of you, Commander. And also it’s unacceptable."

During Captain Negri's whole long monologue Simon was perplexed and quiet - not so much because of respect for the Chief than because he could not find any words except quite feeble and late. –

“One might think you often used to succeed in proving more stubborn than the Emperor!"

“But then I succeeded in saving his life!” Negri answered brusquely.

Illyan said nothing. He was quite sure that in the very beginning not every plot was harmlessly discovered by the ImpSec chief, but he did not start disputing about this, crack down on his offence. It was extremely dangerous to speak abut Ezar now and certainly in this context. You allowed yourself to get attached to him, yes?

“Politics and compromises are Imperial business,” Captain Negri carried on, gradually calming down, “not yours. There are no polite half measures in security. Do you understand this? If you consider that it is dangerous for Vorkosigan in his mansion you have to make him move from there. I won't pretend to tell you how to do this, Illyan. He would even thank you, later."

His well-trained professional imagination immediately showed Illyan three or four scenarios which would demonstrate, with the help of some simple dramatization, to the Regent that in his house he (or even better, his wife) was going to fall victim to assassination. Vorkosigan is stubborn, but he doesn’t ignore the facts. He would agree to move from there. But what would he do, when this dramatization would come to light?

“The Regent should not twist me round his finger,” Illyan agreed with sudden composure. “It wouldn't be classy. There is only one worse variant – if I were to try to do what I like with him for his own sake. I swore an oath to serve him, didn’t I? ”

“Don’t play to the gallery,” Negri retorted. But he didn’t traverse. “We all did. It’s impossible to stay clear in our work, but this is irrelevant if we are doing it well. Do you understand?”

Of course he understands.

Illyan thought that the tale about Ezar’s two standard piles of documents – one was for promotion another for demotion – which had been rumoured on the sly in HQ – was not so absurd. Negri was still a Captain not only because of his non-existent ambition, but also because of his stubbornness, which the Emperor hadn't always been happy about.

“You fall short of your post,” The Captain finished with a cold discontent, but he had stopped shouting. “Take this into consideration and make your conclusions. We haven’t got enough time for a long discussion – Vorkosigan is waiting for your report. Dismissed, Commander.”

*5*

“Illyan,” Negri said shortly into the comm. “Are you in the building? Come to me.”

Simon Illyan took a second to shut down the commander's virtual simulation, realise that Negri had been speaking to him and answer with a short “yes, sir”.

“This is Leader-One, the training is over. Fall out,” he commanded into the microphone. The constellation of lights over the vid plate – the tactical scheme of the task force – began moving, very quickly losing their geometrical accuracy, but still still held in their previous perfection in his memory. “You’re free until I command, officers.”

He turned off the comm with one movement, as usual checked that that no papers remained on its smooth surface and went to the Chief. Judging by his voice, there was something urgent, but not an incident with a “prime” category. Well, he was grateful for that.

Negri was waiting near the big comm, tapping on the glass with a remote control. It seemed that he had a surprise. Surprises from the Chief weren’t like Father Frost’s presents, Illyan knew that perfectly.

“Where were you?” Negri started without prefaces.

“I was in my office,” Illyan tried not to show his astonishment. One might think he had taken an hour to come, not the prescribed six minutes.

“You weren’t in the basement storage, were you?” Negri persisted. In his voice was well-heard mordancy.

Illyan sighed. Now it was clear what kind of conversation this was going to be.

“Did Count Vorkosigan call you, sir?”

“Yes, Illyan, can you imagine this? Look.” Negri moved his palm and a hologram appeared over the comm-console. The harsh wrinkled face with its fierce frown was not looking more amiable than it had half an hour ago at Illyan’s own comm. The 'speaking head' was frozen, being caught in the middle of movement, and didn’t say a word. Instead of it Captain Negri started speaking.

“The General, who wasn’t allowed to enter the Imperial scientific institute, expressed an extreme dissatisfaction,” Negri scoffed, "not just about this fact, but about the quality of communication and the lack of discipline among my staff, especially the junior officers, who do not dare to speak with him personally and take responsibility for their actions. How was it..? Ah, “he's a young parvenu, who was indulged too much by the late Ezar”, yes, that’s it. It seems, Simon, he isn’t well disposed towards you.”

“This is very regrettable, sir,” Illyan answered with perfect calm.

“Did you, Commander, risk lying to Piotr Vorkosigan?” Negri asked, deceptively gentle. “It is not a very clever pretext: “I'm sorry, sir, but I’m in the basement, there is a very bad signal”. Were you really afraid to meet him? He is General Vorkosigan – the Hero of two wars, a ruling Count, a close friend of the late Emperor, the Regent’s father,” Negri was enumerating, counting off on his fingers. “And then, there's you. Don’t you think that the weight classes are extremely different? And did you believe that I would save you from his anger?”

“You’re right, the weight classes differ.” Illyan permitted himself to smile. “I am the head of the Regent’s security. And it wouldn't be very good to imperil one objective in saving another. Count Piotr is an old person with conservative views; there is no need to irritate him with a private meeting.”

“Well…” Negri hesitated thoughtfully. “I was wrong: you weren't afraid of him, no, quite the contrary you had sufficient insolence and, it seems to me, you decided that ImpSec officers were exempt from subordination.”

It was a good logic trap, Illyan mentally agreed, but answered only, “The General is out of my chain of command, sir.”

“You could argue that,” Negri indifferently nodded. “So what is this personal irritation?”

“General Vorkosigan,” is a stubborn and irritable old buzzard, who doesn’t like it when somebody doesn’t agree with him, but the Chief perfectly understands this, they have known each other for a long time, “found a very bad moment for solving their family problems – exactly today, when there are only a few hours left before the completion of Vordarian’s operation and a day before the extraordinary session of the Council. I decided not to waste my office hours on this discussion, which was going to turn into a wrangle. Especially since the restriction of access boils down to “this is the Emperor’s order, My Lord, cut and dried.”

“Do you not assume that Count Vorkosigan is doing this on purpose for Vordarian’s sake, drawing our attention away from solving the problem?” Negri suddenly asked. “In connection with the recent frictions in the Regent’s family it is…”

“What?” Illyan was taken aback. “Of course not, since conspirators could remove Vorkosigan from his post only after his death… no. Even with all the petulance of the old Count it is impossible.”

“I think so, too,” The Chief of ImpSec nodded and finally allowed himself to throw off the mask of a severe examiner. “Well, Illyan. I can only commend you for your quick and accurate decision. You have started setting your priorities correctly at last. Leave speaking with old Piotr for another day; he won't take long to give you the chance. Later you'll be able to practice how to diplomatically tell a High Vor to go to hell,” he ironically smiled. “But today we are interested in another Count. Is your task force ready?”

That was Negri: he gives a dressing-down tastefully and for a long time, and unwillingly compliments as if he were confused. Well, that is why it is even more valuable.

“The training didn't have any problems,” Illyan answered, involuntarily adjusting to the his Chief's chary style of praise. “And an hour ago the escort group reported from Vorkosigan Surleau. Do you still think that I will be useful as a tactical coordinator, not supervising the Regent’s private security?”

“For that," Negri lifted up his finger, “you have the captain of the guard and his men. Formally the arrest of Vidal Vordarian is a detention of someone who made an attempt on the Regent’s life, isn’t it?”

“We have only indirect evidence, you know that.” Illyan shrugged. “Vorhalas didn’t say much during the interrogation. His evidence is useful only in charging Count Vordarian as an instigator.”

“When we are able to speak,” Negri ungrudgingly emphasized the word “speak”, “with Vordarian personally, I’m sure we’ll have enough evidence. To the indictments of high treason and conspiracy, the indictment of assassination will be an extra one – anyway it’s impossible to cut off somebody’s head twice. The point is to clearly arrest him. In our bureaucratic time the arrest of a ruling Count is…” he straightened his shoulders and stretched himself, “not so easy a thing as it was in the past."

Illyan remembered some jokes about Negri in the time of the Civil war. Yes, had been easier – and ruder.

“I thought, we will block the possibility of an open confrontation, won’t we?” He specified.

“If everything goes according to plan, yes” Negri nodded. “But Commodore Vordarian understands that he isn't immune to fast-penta. He will have enough courage to beautifully finish his life, and your task is not to give him this opportunity. You, Commander, today will have to equally secure two people: the Regent and the plotter. And neither are going to help you with this,” he smiled. “So go and prepare for it.”

Everything should be done clearly and carefully.

***

Simon Illyan – who had seen no civil war in his lifetime, who had been born in the year Mad Yuri had died - was not right. Everything was unpleasant and complicated.

Even Captain Negri's pessimistic fantasy could not have predicted today's events.

That Vordarian would be aware and attack first. That the doors of headquarters would be opened for the plotters by their own comrades within ImpSec. That Vorkosigan’s comm would suddenly stop working and Illyan with a truly Barrayaran superstition would curse his fiction about a bad signal. That Negri and his soldiers would dart off, and the last news from them would be from half-way to the palace, and after this would be an absolute silence – forever. That HQ would be assaulted by heavy armoured vehicles. That Illyan would be attacked with a tangle-field by his own officers with Horus Eyes on their collars.

That the time for apprenticeship would be over in half an hour - and it would be time to save “whom you are able to”.