“Kill only if he can’t capture. I will, when the time is right, produce Gregor.”
“Why not right now?”
He sat back with a tired sigh, and pushed away his tray with a few bites of stew and a ragged bread shred still left in his bowl. “Because I wish to see how many of Vordarian’s forces I can woo back to my side before the denoument. Desert to me is not quite the right term … come over, maybe. I don’t wish to inaugurate my second year of office with four thousand military executions. All below a certain rank can be given a blanket pardon on the grounds that they were oath-bound to follow their officers, but I want to save as many of the senior men as I can. Five district counts and Vordarian are doomed now, no hope for them. Damn him for starting this.”
“What are Vordarian’s troops doing? Is this a sitzkrieg?”
“Not quite. He’s wasting a lot of his time and mine, trying to gain a couple of useless strong points, like the supply depot at Marigrad. We oblige and draw him in, or out. It keeps Vordarian’s commanders occupied, and their minds off the real high ground, which are the space-based forces. If only I had Kanzian!”
“Have your intelligence people located him yet?” The admired Admiral Kanzian was one of the two men in the Barrayaran High Command whom Vorkosigan regarded as his superiors in strategy. Kanzian was an advanced space operations specialist; the space-based forces had great faith in him. “No horse manure stuck on his boots,” was the way Kou had once expressed it, to Cordelia’s amusement.
“No, but Vordarian doesn’t have him either. He’s vanished. Hope to God he wasn’t caught in some stupid street cross-fire and is lying unidentified on a slab somewhere. What a waste that would be.”
“Would going up help? To sway the space forces?”
“Why d’you think I’m troubling to hold Tanery Base? I’ve considered the pros and cons of moving my field HQ aboard ship. I think not yet; it could be misinterpreted as the first step in running away.”
Running away. What a seductive thought. Far, far away from all this lunacy, till it was all reduced to the single dimension of a minor filler in some galactic news vid. But … run away from Aral? She studied him, as he sat back on the padded sofa, staring at but not seeing the remains of his supper. A weary middle-aged man in a green uniform, of no particular handsomeness (except perhaps for the sharp grey eyes); a hungry intellect at constant internal war with fear-driven aggression, each fueled by a lifetime crowded with bizarre experience, Barrayaran experience. You should have fallen in love with a happy man, if you wanted happiness. But no, you had to fall for the breathtaking beauty of pain… .
The two shall be made one flesh. How literal that ancient pious mouthing had turned out to be. One little scrap of flesh, prisoned in a uterine replicator behind enemy lines, bound them now like Siamese twins. And if little Miles died, would that bond be slashed?
“What … what are we doing about Vordarian’s hostages?”
He sighed. “That is the hard nut in the center. Stripped of everything else, as we are gradually doing, Vordarian still holds over twenty district counts and Kareen. And several hundred lesser folk.”
“Such as Elena?”
“Yes. And the city of Vorbarr Sultana itself, for that matter. He could threaten to atomize the city, at the end, to get passage off—planet. I’ve toyed with the idea of dealing. Have him assassinated later. Can’t just let him go free, it would be unjust to all those who’ve died already in loyalty to me. What burning could satisfy those betrayed souls? No.”
“So we’re planning various rescue-raid options, for the end. The moment when the shift in men and loyalties reaches critical mass, and Vordarian really starts to panic. Meanwhile we wait. In the end … I’ll sacrifice hostages before I’ll let Vordarian win.” His unseeing stare was black, now.
“Even Kareen?” All the hostages? Even the tiniest?
“Even Kareen. She is Vor. She understands.”
“The surest proof I am not Vor,” said Cordelia glumly. “I don’t understand any of this … stylized madness. I think you should all be in therapy, every last one of you.”
He smiled slightly. “Do you think Beta Colony could be persuaded to send us a battalion of psychiatrists as humanitarian aid? The one you had that last argument with, perhaps?”
Cordelia snorted. Well, Barrayaran history did have a sort of weird dramatic beauty, in the abstract, at a distance. A passion play. It was close-up that the stupidity of it all became more palpable, dissolving like a mosaic into meaningless squares.
Cordelia hesitated, then asked, “Are we playing the hostage game?” She was not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
Vorkosigan shook his head. “No. That’s been my toughest argument, all week, to look men in the eye who have wives and children up in the capital, and say No.” He arranged his cutlery neatly on his tray, in its original pattern, and added in a meditative tone, “But they aren’t looking widely enough. This is not, so far, a revolution, merely a palace coup. The population is inert, or rather, lying low, except for some informers. Vordarian is making his appeals to the elite conservatives, old Vor, and the military. The Count can’t count. The new technoculture is producing plebe progressives as fast as our schools can crank them out. They are the majority of the future. I wish to give them some method besides colored armbands to distinguish the good guys from the bad guys. Moral suasion is a more powerful force than Vordarian suspects. What old Earth general said that the moral is to the physical as three to one? Oh, Napoleon, that was it. Too bad he didn’t follow his own advice. I’d put it as five to one, for this particular war.”
“But do your powers balance? What about the physical?” Vorkosigan shrugged. “We each have access to enough weapons to lay Barrayar waste. Raw power is not really the issue. But my legitimacy is an enormous advantage, as long as weapons must be manned. Hence Vordarian’s attempts to undercut that legitimacy with his accusations about my doing away with Gregor. I propose to catch him in his lie.”
Cordelia shivered. “You know, I don’t think I would care to be on Vordarian’s side.”
“Oh, there are still a few ways he could win. My death is entailed in all of them. Without me as a focus, the only Regent annointed by the late Ezar, what’s to choose? Vordarian’s claim is then as good as anyone’s. If he killed me, and got possession of Gregor, or vice versa, he could conceivably consolidate from there. Till the next coup, and train of revolts and vengeance-killings rebounding into the indefinite future …” His eyes narrowed, as he contemplated this dark vision. “That’s my worst nightmare. That this war won’t stop if we lose, till another Dorca Vorbarra the Just arises to put an end to another Bloody Century. God knows when. Frankly, I don’t see a man of that calibre among my generation.” Check your mirror, thought Cordelia somberly.
“Ah, so that’s why you wanted me to see the doctor first,” Cordelia teased Aral that night. The doctor, once Cordelia had adjusted a few of his confused assumptions, had examined her meticulously, changed his prescription from exercise to rest, and cleared her to resume marital relations, with caution. Aral merely grinned, and made love to her as if she were spun glass. His own recovery from the soltoxin was nearly complete, she judged from this. He slept like a rock, only warmer, till the comconsole woke them at dawn. There must have been some military conspiracy at work, for it not to have lit up before then. Cordelia pictured some understaffer confiding to Kou, “Yeah, let’s let the Old Man get laid, maybe he’ll mellow out. …”
Still, the miserable fatigue-fog lifted faster this time. Within a day, with Droushnakovi for escort, Cordelia was up and exploring her new surroundings.
She ran across Bothari in the base gymnasium. Count Piotr had not yet returned, so once he’d debriefed to Aral Bothari had no duties either. “Got to keep in training,” he told her shortly.
“You been sleeping?”
“Not much,” he said, and resumed his running. Compulsively, too long, far past the optimum effect-for-time-spent trade-of
f. He sweated to fill time and kill thought, and Cordelia silently wished him luck.
She caught up on the details of the war from Aral and Kou and the controlled newsvids. What counts were allied, who was known hostage and where, what units were deployed on each side and which were ripped apart and scattered to both; where fighting had taken place, what damages, which commanders had renewed oath … knowledge without power. No more, she judged, than her intellectualized version of Bothari’s endless running; and even less useful for distracting her mind from unbroken concentration on all the horrors and disasters, past or impending, that she could presently do nothing about.
She preferred her military history with more temporal displacement. A century or two in the past, say. She imagined some cool future scholar looking through a time-telescope at her, and gave him a mental rude gesture. Anyway, she now realized, the military histories she’d read had left out the most important part; they never told what happened to people’s babies.
No—they were all babies, out there. Every mother’s son in a black uniform. One of Aral’s reminiscences floated up in her memory, velvet voice rumbling, “It was about that time that soldiers started looking like children to me. …” She pushed away from the vidconsole, and went to search the bathroom for medication for pain.
On the third day she passed Lieutenant Koudelka in a corridor, stumping along at a near run, his face flushed with excitement.
“What’s up, Kou?”
“Illyan’s here. And he’s brought Kanzian with him!”
Cordelia followed him to a briefing room. Droushnakovi had to lengthen even her long stride to keep up. Aral, flanked by two staffers, sat with his hands clasped on the table before him, listening with utmost attention. Commander Illyan sat on the edge of the table, swinging one leg in rhythm to his voice. A bandage on his left arm was stained with yellow seepage. He was pale and dirty, but his eyes shone in triumph, gilded with a touch of fever. He wore civilian gear that looked as if it had been stolen out of someone’s laundry, and then rolled downhill in.
An older man was sitting beside Illyan—a staffer handed the man a drink, which Cordelia recognized as a potassium-salts-laced fruit-flavored pick-me-up for the metabolically depleted. He tasted it dutifully, and made a face, looking as if he would have preferred some more old-fashioned revivifier such as brandy. Overweight and undertall, greying where he was not balding, Admiral Kanzian was not a very martial-looking man. He looked grandfatherly—though only if one’s grandfather was a research professor. His face was held together with an intensity of intellect that seemed to give the term “military science” real clout. Cordelia had met him in uniform; his air of quiet authority seemed unaffected by civilian shirt and slacks that might have come from the same laundry basket as Illyan’s.
Illyan was saying, “—and then we spent the next night in the cellar. Vordarian’s squad came back the next morning, but—Milady!”
His grin of greeting was blunted by a flash of guilt, as he glanced to and away from her waist. She’d rather he kept piffling on, excited, about his adventures, but her arrival seemed to deflate him, ghost of his most notable failure at his banquet of victory.
“Wonderful to see you both, Simon, Admiral.” They exchanged nods; Kanzian made to rise, but was unanimously waved back to his seat, which made his lip twist in bemusement. Aral signed her to sit next to him.
Illyan continued in a more clipped fashion. His past two weeks of hide-and-seek with Vordarian’s forces seemed to parallel Cordelia’s, though in the far more complex setting of the seized capital. But Cordelia recognized the familiar terrors under his plain words. He brought his tale swiftly up to the present moment. Kanzian nodded an occasional confirmation.
“Well done, Simon,” said Vorkosigan when Illyan concluded. He nodded toward Kanzian. “Extremely well done.”
Illyan smiled. “Thought you’d like it, sir.”
Vorkosigan turned to Kanzian. “As soon as you feel able, I would like to brief you in the tac room, sir.”
“Thank you, my lord. I’ve been out of communications—except for Vordarian’s newscasts—since I escaped Headquarters. Though there was much to be deduced from what we did see. By the way, I commend your strategy of restraint. Good so far. But you’re close to its limits.”
“So I’ve sensed, sir.”
“What’s Jolly Nolly doing at Jumppoint Station One?”
“Not answering his tightbeam. Last week his understaffers were offering an amazing array of excuses, but their ingenuity finally dried up.”
“Ha. I can just picture it. His colitis must be in wonderful form. I’ll bet not all of those ’indisposeds’ were lies. I think I should begin with a private chat with Admiral Knollys, just the two of us.”
“I would appreciate that, sir.”
“We will discuss the inevitabilities of time. And the defects of a potential commander who bases an entire strategy on an assassination he then does not succeed in carrying out.” Kanzian frowned judgmentally. “Not well constructed, to let your whole war turn on one event. Vordarian always did have a tendency to pop off.”
Cordelia, aside, caught Illyan’s eye. “Simon. Did you pick up any information at all, while you were trapped in Vorbarr Sultana, about the Imperial Military Hospital? Vaagen and Henri’s lab?” My baby?
Regretfully, he shook his head. “No, Milady.” Illyan glanced in turn at Vorkosigan. “My lord, is it true about Captain Negri’s death? We’d only had it from rumor, and Vordarian’s propaganda broadcasts. Thought it might have been a he.”
“Negri is dead. Unfortunately.” Vorkosigan grimaced. Illyan sat upright in alarm. “And the Emperor, too?”
“Gregor is safe and well.”
Illyan slumped again. “Thank God. Where?”
“Elsewhere,” said Vorkosigan dryly.
“Oh. Quite, sir. Beg pardon.”
“As soon as you’ve hit sickbay and the showers, Simon, I have some housecleaning chores for you,” Vorkosigan continued. “I want to know just exactly how ImpSec was blindsided by Vordarian’s coup. I have no wish to malign the dead—and God knows the man paid for his mistakes—but Negri’s old personal system for running ImpSec, with all his little secret compartments shared only with Ezar, has to be taken completely apart. Every component, every man re-examined, before it’s all put back together. That will be your first job as the new Chief of Imperial Security. Captain Illyan.”
Illyan’s face went from pale-tired to green-white. “Sir—you want me to step into Negri’s shoes?”
“Shake them out, first,” Vorkosigan advised dryly. “And with dispatch, if you please. I cannot produce the Emperor until ImpSec is again fit to guard him.”
“Yes, sir.” Illyan’s voice was thin with his staggerment.
Kanzian levered out of his seat, shrugging off the help of an anxious staff officer. Aral squeezed Cordelia’s hand under the table, and rose to accompany the nucleus of his new General Staff. As they all exited, Kou grinned over his shoulder at Cordelia and whispered, “Things are looking up, eh?”
She smiled bleakly back at him. Vorkosigan’s words echoed in her head. When the shift in men and loyalties reaches the critical point, and Vordarian starts to panic …
The trickle of refugees appearing at Tanery Base became a steady stream, as the week wore on. The most spectacular after Kanzian was the breakout of Prime Minister Vortala from Vordarian’s house arrest. He arrived with several wounded liveried men and a hair-raising tale of bribery, trickery, chase, and exchange-of-fire. Two lesser Imperial Ministers also turned up, one on foot. Morale rose with each notable addition; the base’s atmosphere grew electric with anticipation of action. The question exchanged by staffers in corridors became not, “Who’s come in?” but “Who’s come in this morning?” Cordelia tried to appear cheered by it all, hugging her dread to her private mind. Vorkosigan grew both pleased and tenser.
As instructed, Cordelia rested a lot in Vorkosigan’s quarters. All too soon she felt re-ene
rgized enough to start beating on the walls. She then tried varying the prescription with a few experimental push-ups and knee-bends (but not sit-ups). She was just contemplating the merits and drawbacks of going to join Bothari in the gym, when the comconsole chimed.
Koudelka’s apprehensive face appeared over the vid plate. “Milady, m’lord requests you join him now in Briefing Room Seven. Something’s come in he wants you to see.”
Cordelia’s stomach twisted. “All right. On my way.”
An array of men were waiting in Briefing Room Seven, clustered around a vidconsole in low-voiced debate. Staffers, Kanzian, Minister Vortala himself. Vorkosigan looked up and gave her a brief, unfelt smile.
“Cordelia. I’d like your opinion on something that’s come in.”
Flattering, but, “What sort of something?”
“Vordarian’s latest special report has a new twist. Kou, replay the vid, please.”
Vordarian’s propaganda broadcasts from the capital were mostly subjects for derision, among Vorkosigan’s men. Their faces looked rather more serious, this time.
Vordarian appeared in what was recognizably one of the state rooms of the Imperial Residence, the formal and serene Blue Room. Ezar Vorbarra used to make his rare public pronouncements from that background. Vorkosigan frowned.
Vordarian, in full dress greens, was seated on an ivory silk sofa, Princess Kareen at his side. Her dark hair was pulled back severely from her oval face with jeweled combs. She wore a striking black gown, somber and formal.
Vordarian spoke only a few earnest words, invoking the viewers’ attention. Then the vid cut away to the great chamber of the Council of Counts at Vorhartung Castle. The vid zoomed in on the Lord Guardian of the Speaker’s circle, dressed in his full regalia. The vid did not show what, besides its own pickup, was aimed at the Lord Guardian’s head, but something in his repeated looks, just to one side instead of directly at the focus, made Cordelia place a lethally armed man, or maybe a squad, in that unseen position.
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