“No, of course not.”
He relaxed just slightly. “You needn’t say yes or no right now, of course. It will be months before we’re home. But I didn’t want you to think—it makes things awkward, your being a prisoner. I didn’t want you to think I was offering you an insult.”
“Not at all,” she said faintly.
“There are some other things I should tell you,” he went on, his attention seemingly caught by his boots again. “It wouldn’t be an easy life. I have been thinking, since I met you, that a career cleaning up after the failures of politics, as you phrased it, might not be the highest honor after all. Maybe I should be trying to prevent the failures at their source. It would be more dangerous than soldiering—chances of betrayal, false charges, assassination, maybe exile, poverty, death. Evil compromises with bad men for a little good result, and that not guaranteed. Not a good life, but if one had children—better me than them.”
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she said helplessly, rubbing her chin and smiling.
Vorkosigan looked up, uncertain of his hope.
“How does one set about a political career, on Barrayar?” she asked, feeling her way. “I presume you’re thinking of following in your grandfather Prince Xav’s steps, but without the advantage of being an Imperial prince, how do you get an office?”
“Three ways. Imperial appointment, inheritance, and rising through the ranks. The Council of Ministers gets its best men through the last method. It’s their great strength, but closed to me. The Council of Counts, by inheritance. That’s my surest route, but it waits on my father’s death. It can just go on waiting. It’s a moribund body anyway, afflicted with the narrowest conservatism, and stuffed with old relics only concerned with protecting their privileges. I’m not sure anything can be done with the Counts in the long run. Perhaps they should finally be allowed to dodder over the brink of extinction. Don’t quote that,” he added as an afterthought.
“It’s the weirdest design for a government.”
“It wasn’t designed. It grew.”
“Maybe what you need is a constitutional convention.”
“Spoken like a true Betan. Well, perhaps we do, although it sounds like a prescription for civil war, in our context. That leaves Imperial appointment. It’s quick, but my fall could be as sudden and spectacular as my rise, if I should offend the old man, or he dies.” The light of battle was in his eyes as he spoke, planning. “My one advantage with him is that he enjoys plain speaking. I don’t know how he acquired the taste for it, because he doesn’t get much of it.”
“Do you know, I think you’d like politics, at least on Barrayar. Maybe because it’s so similar to what we call war, elsewhere.”
“There is a more immediate political problem, though, with respect to your ship, and some other things …” He paused, losing momentum. “Maybe—maybe an insoluble one. It really may be premature for me to be discussing marriage until I know which way it’s going to fall out. But I couldn’t let you go on thinking—what were you thinking, anyway?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I want to say, just now. I’ll tell you someday. It’s nothing you’ll dislike, I don’t believe.”
He accepted that with a little hopeful nod, and went on. “Your ship—”
She frowned uneasily. “You won’t be getting into any trouble over my ship getting away, will you?”
“It was just the situation we were on our way out here to prevent. The fact that I was unconscious at the time should be a mitigating factor. Balancing that are the views I aired at the Emperor’s council. There’s bound to be suspicion I let it escape on purpose, to sabotage an adventure I deeply disapprove.”
“Another demotion?”
He laughed. “I was the youngest admiral in the history of our fleet—I might end up the oldest ensign, too. But no.” He sobered. “There will almost certainly be a charge of treason laid, by the war party in the Ministries. Until that’s settled, one way or another” —he met her eyes—“it may be difficult to settle any personal affairs either.”
“Is treason a capital crime on Barrayar?” she asked, morbidly curious.
“Oh, yes. Public exposure and death by starvation.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her appalled look. “If it’s any consolation, high-born traitors always seem to be smuggled some neat means to private suicide, before the event. It saves stirring up any unnecessary public sympathy. I think I should not give them the satisfaction, though. Let it be public, and messy, and tedious, and embarrassing as all hell.” He looked alarmingly fey.
“Would you sabotage the invasion, if you could?”
He shook his head, eyes going distant. “No. I am a man under authority. That’s what the syllable in front of my name means. While the question is still being debated, I’ll continue to argue my case. But if the Emperor puts his word to the order, I’ll go without question. The alternative is civil chaos, and we’ve had enough of that.”
“What’s different about this invasion? You must have favored Komarr, or they wouldn’t have put you in charge of it.”
“Komarr was a unique opportunity, almost a textbook case. When I was designing the strategy for its conquest, I made maximum use of those chances.” He ticked off the points on his thick fingers. “A small population, all concentrated in climate-controlled cities. No place for guerillas to fall back and regroup. No allies—we weren’t the only ones whose trade was being strangled by their greedy tariffs. All I had to do was let it leak out that we were going to drop their cut of everything that passed through their nexus points by half, and the neighbors that should have supported them fell into our pockets. No heavy industry. Fat and lazy from living off unearned income—they didn’t even want to do their own fighting, until those scraggly mercenaries they’d hired found out what they were up against, and turned tail. If I’d had a free hand, and a little more time, I think it could have been taken without a shot being fired. A perfect war, it should have been, if the Council of Ministers hadn’t been so impatient.” Remembered frustrations played themselves out before his eyes, and he frowned into the past. “This other plan—well, I think you’ll understand if I tell you it’s Escobar.”
Cordelia sat up, shocked. “You found a jump through here to Escobar?” No wonder, then, the Barrayarans had not announced their discovery of this place. Of all the possibilities she had revolved in her mind, that was the last. Escobar was one of the major planetary hubs in the network of wormhole exits that strung scattered humanity together. Large, old, rich, temperate, it counted among its many neighbors Beta Colony itself. “They’re out of their minds!”
“Do you know, that’s almost exactly what I said, before the Minister of the West started shouting, and Count Vortala threatened—well, became very rude to him. Vortala can be more obnoxious without actually swearing than any man I know.”
“Beta Colony would be drawn in for sure. Why, half our interstellar trade passes through Escobar. And Tau Ceti Five. And Jackson’s Whole.”
“At the very least, I should think.” Vorkosigan nodded agreement. “The idea was to make it a quick operation, and present the potential allies with a fait accompli. Being intimately familiar with everything that went wrong with my ‘perfect’ plan for Komarr, I told them they were dreaming, or words to that effect.” He shook his head. “I wish I’d kept my temper better. I could still be back there, arguing against it. Instead, for all I know, the fleet is being readied even now. And the further preparations go, the harder they will be to stop.” He sighed.
“War,” Cordelia mused, immensely disturbed. “You realize, if your fleet goes—if Barrayar goes to war with Escobar—they’ll be wanting navigators at home. Even if Beta Colony doesn’t get directly involved in the fight, we’re sure to be selling them weapons, technical assistance, shiploads of supplies—”
Vorkosigan started to speak, then stopped himself. “I suppose you would,” he said bleakly. “And we would be trying to blockade you.”
>
She could feel the blood beating in her ears in the silence that followed. The little noises and vibrations of Vorkosigan’s ship still drifted through the walls, Bothari stirred in the corridor, and footsteps passed by.
She shook her head. “I’m going to have to think about this. It’s not as easy as it looked, at first.”
“No, it’s not.” He turned his hand palm outward, a gesture of completion, and rose stiffly, his leg still bothering him. “That’s all I wanted to say. You need not say anything.”
She nodded, grateful for the release, and he withdrew, collecting Bothari and shutting the door firmly behind him. She sighed distress and deep uncertainty, and lay back staring at the ceiling until Yeoman Nilesa brought dinner.
Chapter Six
Next morning, ship time, she remained quietly in her cabin reading. She wanted time to assimilate yesterday’s conversation before she saw Vorkosigan again. She was as unsettled as if all her star maps had been randomized, leaving her lost; but at least knowing she was lost. A step backwards toward truth, she supposed, better than mistaken certainties. She felt a forlorn hunger for certainties, even as they receded beyond reach.
The ship’s library offered a wide range of Barrayaran material. A gentleman named Abell had produced a turgid general history, full of names, dates, and detailed descriptions of forgotten battles all of whose participants were irrelevantly dead by now. A scholar named Aczith had done better, with a vivid biography of Emperor Dorca Vorbarra the Just, the ambiguous figure whom Cordelia calculated was Vorkosigan’s great-grandfather, and whose reign had straddled the end of the Time of Isolation. Deeply involved in the multitude of personalities and convoluted politics of his day, she did not even look up at the knock on her door, but called, “Enter.”
A pair of soldiers wearing green-and-gray planetside camouflage fatigues fell through the door and shut it hastily behind them. What a ratty-looking pair, she thought; finally, a Barrayaran soldier shorter than Vorkosigan. It was only on the third thought that she recognized them, as from the corridor outside, muffled by the door, an alarm klaxon began to hoot rhythmically. Looks like I’m not going to make it to the B’s… .
“Captain!” cried Lieutenant Stuben. “Are you all right?”
All the crushing weight of old responsibility descended on her at the sight of his face. His shoulder-length brown hair had been sacrificed to an imitation Barrayaran military burr that looked as though it had been grazed over by some herbivore, and his head seemed small, naked, and strange without it. Lieutenant Lai, beside him, slight and thin with a scholarly stoop, made an even less likely looking warrior, the too-large uniform he wore folded up at the wrists and ankles, with one cuff coming unfolded and getting under the heel of his boot.
She opened her mouth once to speak, closed it, then finally ripped out, “Why aren’t you on your way home? I gave you an order, Lieutenant!”
Stuben, anticipating a warmer reception, was momentarily nonplussed. “We took a vote,” he said simply, as though it explained everything.
Cordelia shook her head helplessly. “You would. A vote. Right.” She buried her face in her hands a moment, and sobbed a laugh. “Why?” she asked through her fingers.
“We identified the Barrayaran ship as the General Vorkraft—looked it up and found out who was in command. We just couldn’t leave you in the hands of the Butcher of Komarr. It was unanimous.”
She was momentarily diverted. “How the devil did you get a unanimous vote out of—no, never mind,” she cut him off as he began to answer, a self-satisfied gleam starting in his eye. I shall beat my head against the wall—no. Got to have more information. And so does he.
“Do you realize,” she said carefully, “that the Barrayarans were planning to bring an invasion fleet through here, to attack Escobar by surprise? If you had reached home and reported this planet’s existence, their chance of surprise would have been destroyed. Now all bets are off. Where is the René Magritte now, and how did you ever get in here?”
Lieutenant Stuben looked astonished. “How did you find all that out?”
“Time, time,” Lieutenant Lai reminded him anxiously, tapping his wrist chronometer.
Stuben went on, “Let me tell you on the way to the shuttle. Do you know where Dubauer is? He wasn’t in the brig.”
“Yes, what shuttle? No—begin at the beginning. I’ve got to know everything before we set foot in the corridor. I take it they know you’re aboard?” The beat of the klaxon still sounded outside, and she cringed in expectation of her door bursting inward at any moment.
“No, they don’t. That’s the beauty of it,” said Stuben proudly. “We had the greatest piece of luck.
“They pursued us for two days when we first ran off. I didn’t put on full power—just enough to stay out of their range and keep them trailing us. I thought we might still get a chance to circle back and pick you up, somehow. Then all of a sudden they stopped, turned around, and started back here.
“We waited until they were well away, then turned around ourselves. We hoped you were still hiding in the woods.”
“No, I was captured the first night. Go on.”
“We got everything lined up, put on max boost, then cut everything we could think of that made electromagnetic noise. The projector worked fine as a muffler, by the way, just like Ross’s simulation last month. We waltzed right past ‘em and they never blinked—”
“For God’s sake, Stu, stick to the point,” muttered Lai. “We haven’t got all day.” He bounced on his heels in impatience.
“If that projector falls into Barrayaran hands—” began Cordelia in rising tones.
“It won’t, I tell you. Anyway, the René Magritte’s making a parabola around the sun—as soon as they get close enough to be masked by its noise, they’re supposed to brake and boost, then shoot back through here for a pickup. We’ll have a two-hour time window to match velocities starting—well, starting about ten minutes ago.”
“Too chancey,” criticized Cordelia, all the possible disasters inherent in this scenario parading through her imagination.
“It worked,” defended Stuben. “—at least, it’s going to work. Then we struck it lucky. We found these two Barrayarans wandering in the woods while we were looking for you and Dubauer—”
Cordelia’s stomach tightened. “Radnov and Darobey, by chance?”
Stuben stared. “How did you know?”
“Go on, just go on.”
“They were the ringleaders of a conspiracy to unseat that homicidal maniac Vorkosigan. Vorkosigan was after them, so they were glad to see us.”
“I’ll bet. Just like manna from heaven.”
“A Barrayaran patrol shuttled down after them. We set up an ambush—stunned them all, except for one Radnov shot with a nerve disruptor. Those guys really play for keeps.”
“Do you happen to know which—no, never mind. Go on.” Her stomach churned.
“We took their uniforms, took their shuttle, and slid on up to the General as neat as you please. Radnov and Darobey between ‘em knew all the countersigns. We made it to the brig—that was easy, it was where they were expecting their patrol to go anyway—we thought you and Dubauer would be there. Radnov and Darobey let all their buddies out, and went to take over the engine room. They can cut off any system from there, weapons, life support, anything. They’re supposed to cut weapons when we make our break with the shuttle.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Cordelia warned.
“No matter,” said Stuben cheerfully. “The Barrayarans will be so busy fighting each other we can walk right through. Think of the splendid irony! The Butcher of Komarr, shot by his own men! Now I know how judo is supposed to work.”
“Splendid,” she echoed hollowly. His head—I’m going to beat his head against the wall, not mine. “How many of us are aboard?”
“Six. Two at the shuttle, two looking for Dubauer, and we two to get you.”
“Nobody left planetside?”
; “No.”
“All right.” She rubbed her face tensely, ravenous for inspiration that would not come. “What a mess. Dubauer’s in sickbay, by the way. Disruptor damage.” She decided not to detail his condition just then.
“Filthy killers,” said Lai. “I hope they choke each other.”
She turned to the library interface by her bed, and dialed up the crude schematic map of the General Vorkraft, minus technical data, that the library was programmed to allow her. “Study this, and figure out your route to sickbay and the shuttle hatch. I’m going to find something out. Stay here and don’t answer the door. Who are the other two wandering around out there?”
“McIntyre and Big Pete.”
“Well, at least they have a better chance of passing for Barrayarans close up than you two do.”
“Captain, where are you going? Why can’t we just go?”
“I’ll explain it when I have a week to spare. This time follow your damned orders. Stay here!”
She slipped out the door and dogtrotted toward the bridge. Her nerves screamed to run, but it would draw too much attention. She passed a group of four Barrayarans hurrying somewhere; they barely spared her a glance. She had never been more glad to be a wallflower.
She found Vorkosigan on the bridge with his officers, clustered intently around the intercom from engineering. Bothari was there, too, looming like Vorkosigan’s sad shadow.
“Who’s that guy on the com?” she whispered to Vorkalloner. “Radnov?”
“Yes. Sh.”
The face was speaking. “Vorkosigan, Gottyan, and Vorkalloner, one by one, at two-minute intervals. Unarmed, or all life support systems will be cut off throughout the ship. You have fifteen minutes before we start letting in the vacuum. Ah. Have you patched it in? Good. Better not waste time, Captain.” His inflection made the rank a deadly insult.
The face vanished, but the voice returned ghostlike over the loudspeaker system. “Soldiers of Barrayar,” it blared. “Your captain has betrayed the Emperor and the Council of Ministers. Don’t let him betray you too. Turn him over to the proper authority, your Political Officer, or we will be forced to slay the innocent with the guilty. In fifteen minutes we will cut life support—”
Shards of Honor (Vorkosigan Saga) Page 9