The Vor Game

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  For a moment, Miles thought Tung was about to faint. Tung inhaled alarmingly, and bellowed with delight, “Aral Vorkosigan! Here? Hot damn!” And in an only slightly more private whisper, “How'd they lure him out of retirement? Maybe I'll get to meet him!"

  Tung the military history nut was one of Miles's father's most fanatical fans, Miles recalled, and until and unless firmly suppressed could rattle off every public detail of the Barrayaran admiral's early campaigns. “I'll see what I can arrange,” Miles promised.

  “If you can arrange that, son.... “With an effort, Tung pulled his mind away from his beloved hobby of studying military history and back to his (admittedly, closely related) job of making it.

  The Cetagandan ships were breaking, first in panicked singles and then in more coordinated groups, trying to organize a properly covered retreat. The Prince Serg and its support group did not waste a millisecond, but followed up instantly, attacking and disordering attempted self-covering arrays of enemy ships, worrying the resulting stragglers. In the ensuing hours the retreat became a true rout when the Vervani ships protecting their high planetary orbitals, encouraged, at last broke orbit and joined the attack. The Vervani reserve was merciless, in the terror for their homes the Cetagandans had instilled in them.

  The mopping-up detail, the appalling damage control problems, the personnel rescues, were so absorbing that it took Miles those several hours to gradually realize the war was over for the Dendarii fleet. They had done their job.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Before departing the tactics room, Miles prudently checked with the Triumph's security to determine how their roundup of escaped prisoners was progressing. Missing and still unaccounted for remained Oser, the Peregrine's captain and two other loyal Oseran officers, Commander Cavilo, and General Metzov.

  Miles was fairly certain he had witnessed Oser and his officers converted to radioactive ash in his monitors. Had Metzov and Cavilo been aboard that fleeing shuttle too? Fine irony, for Cavilo to die at the hands of the Cetagandans after all. Though—admittedly—it would have been equally ironic had she died at the hands of the Vervani, Randall's Rangers, the Aslunders, the Barrayarans, or anyone else she'd double-crossed in her brief, cometary career in the Hegen Hub. Her end was neat and convenient if true, but—he didn't like to think that her last, savage remarks to him had now acquired the prophetic weight of a dying curse. He ought to fear Metzov more than Cavilo. He ought to, but he didn't. He shuddered, and borrowed a commando guard for the walk back to his cabin.

  On the way, he encountered a shuttle-load of wounded being transferred to the Triumph's sickbay. The Triumph, in the reserve group (such as it was) had taken no hits its shields couldn't handle, but other ships had not been so fortunate. Space battle casualty lists usually had the proportions reversed from planetary, the dead outnumbering the wounded, yet in lucky circumstances where the artificial environment was preserved, soldiers might survive their injuries. Uncertainly, Miles changed course and followed the procession along. What good could he do in sickbay?

  The triage people had not sent minor cases to the Triumph. Three hideous burns and a massive head injury went to the head of the line, and were whisked off by the anxiously waiting staff. A few soldiers were conscious, quietly waiting their turns, immobilized with air bag braces on their float pallets, eyes cloudy with pain and pain-killers.

  Miles tried to say a few words to each. Some stared uncomprehendingly, some seemed to appreciate it; he lingered a little longer with these, giving what encouragement he could. He then withdrew and stood dumbly by the door for several minutes, awash in the familiar, terrifying odors of a sickbay after a battle, disinfectants and blood, burnt meat, urine, and electronics, until he realized exhaustion was making him thoroughly stupid and useless, shaky and near-tears. He pushed off from the wall and stumped out. Bed. If anyone really wanted his command presence, they could come find him.

  He hit the code lock on Oser's cabin. Now that he'd inherited it, he supposed he ought to change the numbers. He sighed and entered. As he stepped inside he became conscious of two unfortunate facts. First, although he had dismissed his commando guard upon entering sickbay, he had forgotten to call him back, and second, he was not alone. The door closed behind him before he could recoil into the corridor, and he banged into it backing up.

  The dusky red hue of General Metzov's face was even more arresting to the eye than the silver gleam of the nerve disrupter parabola in his hand, aim centered on Miles's head.

  Metzov had somehow acquired a set of Dendarii greys, a little small for him. Commando Cavilo, standing behind Metzov, had acquired a similar set, a little large for her. Metzov looked huge and furious. Cavilo looked ... strange. Bitter, ironic, weirdly amused. Bruises marred her neck. She bore no weapon.

  “Got you,” Metzov whispered triumphantly. “At last.” With a rictus smile, he advanced stepwise on Miles till he could pin him to the wall by his neck with one big hand. He dropped the nerve disrupter with a clatter and wrapped the other hand around Miles's neck, not to break but to squeeze it.

  “You'll never survive—” was all Miles managed to choke out before his air pinched off. He could feel his trachea begin to crunch, purpling, his head felt on the verge of dark explosion as his blood supply was cut off. No talking Metzov out of this murder....

  Cavilo slipped forward, crouching, soundless and unnoticed as a cat, to take up the dropped nerve disrupter, then step back, around to Miles's left.

  “Stanis, darling,” she cooed. Metzov, obsessed with Miles's lingering strangulation, did not turn his head. Cavilo, clearly imitating Metzov's cadences, recited. “'Open your legs to me, you bitch, or I'll blow your brains out.’”

  Metzov's head twisted round then, his eyes widening. She blew his brains out. The crackling blue bolt hit him square between the eyes. He almost snapped Miles's neck, plastic-reinforced though those bones were, in his last convulsion, before he dropped to the deck. The blistering electrochemical smell of nerve-disruptor death slapped Miles in the face.

  Miles sagged frozen against the wall, not daring to move. He raised his eyes from the corpse to Cavilo. Her lips were curved in a smile of immense satisfaction, satiated. Had Cavilo's line been a direct and recent quote? What had they been doing, all the long hours they must have been waiting in the hunter's blind of Oser's cabin? The silence lengthened.

  “Not,” Miles swallowed, trying to clear his bruised throat, and croaked, “not that I'm complaining, mind you, but why aren't you going ahead and shooting me too?"

  Cavilo smirked. “A quick revenge is better than none. A slow and lingering one is better still, but to savor it fully I must survive it. Another day, kid.” She tilted the nerve disrupter up as if to flourish it into a holster, then let it hang pointed down by her side in her relaxed hand. “You've sworn you'll see me safe out of the Hegen Hub, Vor lord. And I've come to believe you are actually stupid enough to keep your word. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Now, if Oser had issued more than one weapon between us, or if he'd given the nerve disrupter to me and the code to his cabin to Stanis and not the other way around, or if Oser'd taken us with him as I begged ... things might have worked out differently."

  Very differently. Very slowly, and very, very carefully, Miles inched over to the comconsole and called security. Cavilo watched him thoughtfully. After a few moments, coming up on the time they might expect the reinforcements to storm in, she strolled over to his side. “I underestimated you, you know."

  “I never underestimated you."

  “I know. I'm not used to that ... thank you.” Contemptuously, she tossed the nerve disrupter onto Metzov's body. Then, with a sudden baring of her teeth, she wheeled, wrapped an arm around Miles's neck, and kissed him vigorously. Her timing was perfect; Security, Elena and Sergeant Chodak in the lead, burst through the door just before Miles managed to fight her off.

  * * * *

  Miles stepped from the Triumph's shuttle through the shor
t flex tube and on board the Prince Serg. He stared around enviously at the clean, spacious, beautifully-lit corridor, at the row of smart and gleaming honor guards snapping to attention, at the polished officers waiting in their Barrayaran Imperial dress greens. He stole an anxious glance down at his own Dendarii grey-and-whites. The Triumph, key and pride of the Dendarii fleet, seemed to shrink into something small and gritty and battered and used.

  Yeah, but you guys would not look so pretty now if we had not used ourselves so hard, Miles consoled himself.

  Tung, Elena, and Chodak were all goggling like tourists too. Miles called them firmly to attention to receive and return the crisp welcoming salutes of their hosts.

  “I'm Commander Natochini, executive officer of the Prince Serg,” the senior Barrayaran introduced himself. “Lieutenant Yegorov, here, will escort you and Commander Bothari-Jesek to Admiral Vorkosigan for your meeting, Admiral Naismith. Commodore Tung, I will be personally conducting your tour of the Prince Serg, and will be pleased to answer any of your questions. If the answers aren't classified, of course."

  “Of course.” Tung's broad face looked immensely pleased. In fact, if Tung grew any smugger he might implode.

  “We will join Admiral Vorkosigan for lunch in the senior officers’ mess, after your meeting and our tour,” Commander Natochini continued to Miles. “Our last dinner guest there was the President of Pol and his entourage, twelve days ago."

  Certain that the mercenaries understood the magnitude of the privilege they were being granted, the Barrayaran exec led the happy Tung and Chodak off down the corridor. Miles heard Tung chuckle under his breath, “Lunch with Admiral Vorkosigan, heh, heh...."

  Lieutenant Yegorov motioned Miles and Elena in the opposite direction. “You are Barrayaran, ma'am?” he inquired of Elena.

  “My father was liege-sworn Armsman to the late Count Piotr for eighteen years,” Elena stated. “He died in the Count's service."

  “I see,” said the lieutenant respectfully. “You are acquainted with the family, then.” That explains you, Miles could almost see him thinking.

  “Ah, yes."

  The lieutenant glanced down a little more dubiously at “Admiral Naismith."

  “And, uh, I understand you are Betan, sir?"

  “Originally,” said Miles, in his flattest Betan accent.

  “You ... may find the way we Barrayarans do things to be a little more formal than what you're used to,” the lieutenant warned. “The Count, you understand, is accustomed to the respect and deference due his rank."

  Miles watched, delighted, as the earnest officer sought a polite way of saying, Call him sir, don't wipe your nose on your sleeve, and none of your damned Betan egalitarian backchat, either. “You may find him rather formidable,” Yegorov concluded.

  “A real stuffed shirt, eh?"

  The lieutenant frowned. “He is a great man."

  “Aw, I bet if we pour enough wine into him at lunch, he'll loosen up and tell dirty stories with the best of ‘em."

  Yegorov's polite smile became fixed. Elena, eyes dancing, leaned down and whispered forcefully, “Admiral, behave!"

  “Oh, all right,” Miles sighed regretfully.

  The lieutenant glanced gratefully at Elena, over Miles's head.

  Miles admired the spit and polish, in passing. Besides just being new, the Prince Serg had been designed with diplomacy as well as war in mind, a ship fit to carry the emperor on state visits without loss of military efficiency. He saw a young ensign, down a cross-corridor that had a wall panel apart, directing some tech crew on minor repairs—no, by God, it was original installation. The Prince Serg had broken orbit with work crews still aboard, Miles had heard. He glanced back over his shoulder. There but for the grace of God and General Metzov go I. If he'd kept his nose clean on Kyril Island for just six months ... he felt an illogical twinge of envy for that busy ensign.

  They entered officers’ country. Lieutenant Yegorov led them through an antechamber and into a spartanly-appointed flag office twice the size of anything Miles had seen on a Barrayaran ship before. Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan looked up from his comconsole desk as the doors slid silently back.

  Miles stepped through, his belly suddenly shaking inside. To conceal and control his emotion he tossed off, “Hey, you Imperial snails are going to go all fat and soft, lolling around in this kind of luxury, y'know?"

  “Ha!” Admiral Vorkosigan stumbled out of his chair and banged around the corner of his desk in his haste. Well, no wonder, how can he see with all that water standing in his eyes? He enfolded Miles in a hard embrace. Miles grinned and blinked and swallowed, face smashed against that cool green sleeve, and almost had control of his features again when Count Vorkosigan held him out at arm's length for an anxious, searching inspection. “You all right, boy?"

  “Just fine. How'd you like your wormhole jump?"

  “Just fine,” breathed Count Vorkosigan back. “Mind you, there were moments when certain of my advisors wanted to have you shot. And there were moments when I agreed with ‘em."

  Lieutenant Yegorov, cut off in mid-announcement of their arrival (Miles hadn't heard him speaking, and he doubted his father had either), was standing with his mouth still open, looking perfectly stunned. Lieutenant Jole, suppressing a grin himself, arose from the other side of the comconsole desk and guided Yegorov gently and mercifully back out the door. “Thank you, Lieutenant. The Admiral appreciates your services, that will be all.... “Jole glanced back over his shoulder, quirked a pensive brow, and followed Yegorov out. Miles just glimpsed the blond lieutenant drape himself across a chair in the antechamber, head back in the relaxed posture of a man anticipating a long wait, before the door slid closed. Jole could be supernaturally courteous at times.

  “Elena.” With an effort, Count Vorkosigan broke away from Miles to take both Elena's hands in a firm brief grip. “You are well?"

  “Yes, sir."

  “That pleases me ... more than I can say. Cordelia sends her love and her best hopes. If I saw you, I was to remind you, ah—I must get the phrase exact, it was one of her Betan cracks—'Home is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’”

  “I can hear her voice,” smiled Elena. “Tell her thank you. Tell her ... I will remember."

  “Good.” Count Vorkosigan pressed her no further. “Sit, sit,” he waved them at chairs, which he snugged up close to the comconsole desk, and sat himself. For an instant, changing gears, his features relaxed, then concentrated with attention once again. God, he looks tired, Miles realized; for a split second, almost ghastly. Gregor, you have much to answer for. But Gregor knew that.

  “What's the latest word on the cease-fire?” Miles asked.

  “Still holding nicely, thank you. The only Cetagandan ships that haven't jumped back where they came from, had damaged Necklin rods or control systems or injured pilots. Or all three. We're letting them repair two of them and jump them out with skeleton crews, the rest are not salvageable. I estimate controlled commercial travel could resume in six weeks."

  Miles shook his head. “So ends the Five-Day War. I never once saw a Cetagandan face-to-face. All that effort and bloodshed, just to return to the status quo ante."

  “Not quite for everyone. A number of Cetagandan senior officers have been recalled to their capital, to explain their ‘unauthorized adventure’ to their emperor. Their apologies are expected to be fatal."

  Miles snorted. “Expiate their failure, rather. ‘Unauthorized adventure.’ Does anyone believe that? Why do they even bother?"

  “Finesse, boy. A retreating enemy should be offered all the face he can carry off. Just don't let him carry off anything else."

  “I understand you finessed the Polians. All this time, I expected it would be Simon Illyan to show up in person to haul us lost boys home."

  “He longed to come, but there was no way we could both leave home at the same time. The wobbly cover we'd put over Gregor's absence could have collapsed at any moment."
<
br />   “How did you pull that one off, by the way?"

  “Picked out a young officer who looked a lot like Gregor, told him there was an assassination plot afoot against the Emperor and that he was to be the bait. Bless him, he volunteered at once. He—and his Security, who had the same tale told them—spent the next several weeks leading a life of ease down at Vorkosigan Surleau, eating off the best plates—but with indigestion. We finally sent him off on a rustic camping trip, as inquiries from the capital were getting pressing. People will twig soon, I'm sure, if they haven't already, but now we've got Gregor back we can explain it away any way we like. Any way he likes.” Count Vorkosigan frowned an odd brief frown, odd because not wholly displeased.

  “I was surprised,” said Miles, “though very happy, that you got your forces past Pol so fast. I was afraid they wouldn't let you through till the Cetagandans were in the Hub. And then it would be too late."

  “Yes, well, that's the other reason you got me instead of Simon. As Prime Minister and former Regent, it was perfectly reasonable for me to make a state visit to Pol. We came up with a quick list of the top five diplomatic concessions they've been wanting from us for years, and suggested it for an agenda.

  “It being all formal and official and above-board, it was then perfectly reasonable for us to combine my visit with the Prince Serg's shakedown cruise. We were in orbit at Pol, shuttling up and down to official receptions and parties,” (his hand unconsciously rubbed his abdomen in a pain-warding motion) “with me still trying desperately to talk our way into the Hub without shooting anybody, when word of the Cetagandan surprise attack on Vervain broke. At that point, getting permission to proceed was suddenly expedited. And we were only days, not weeks, away from the action. Getting the Aslunders to lie down with the Polians was a trickier matter. Gregor astonished me, handling that. The Vervani were no problem, they were highly motivated to seek allies by then."