“Shouldn’t we be thinking of some way to get them both out of here?” protested Illyan.
“Think away.” Vorkosigan began plugging the new data disks into his console and viewing the tactical readouts. “But as a hiding place it has two advantages not shared by any other spot on the ship. If you’re as good as you claim, it’s not monitored by either the Chief Political Officer or the Prince’s men—”
“I’m quite sure I swept them all. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“Right now you’re staking your life on it, so you’d better be correct. Second, there are two armed guards in the corridor to keep everybody out. You could scarcely ask for more. I admit it’s a bit crowded.”
Illyan rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I’ve diddled the Security search to the limit I dare. I can’t do any more without drawing more attention than I divert.”
“Will it hold twenty-six more hours?”
“Maybe.” Illyan frowned at his charge, baffled and bothered. “You have something planned, don’t you, sir.” It was not a question.
“I?” His fingers worked the keys of his console, and reflections of colored light from the readouts played over his impassive face. “I’m merely waiting in hope of some reasonable opportunity. When the Prince leaves for Escobar most of his own security people will go with him. Patience, Illyan.”
He keyed his console again. “Vorkosigan to Tactics Room.”
“Commander Venne here, sir.”
“Oh, good. Venne, I’d like hourly updates piped down here from the time the Prince and Admiral Vorhalas leave. And let me know immediately, regardless of time, if you start getting anything unusual, anything not in the plans.”
“Yes, sir. The Prince and Admiral Vorhalas are leaving now, sir.”
“Very good. Carry on. Vorkosigan out.”
He sat back and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Now we wait. It will be about twelve hours before the Prince reaches Escobar orbit. They’ll be starting landings soon after that. An hour for signals to reach us from Escobar. An hour for signals to return. So much lag. A battle can be over in two hours. We could cut the lag by three-quarters if the Prince would let us move off station.”
His casual tone barely masked his tension, in spite of his advice to Illyan. The room in which he sat scarcely seemed to exist for him. His mind moved with the armada wheeling in a tightening constellation around Escobar, fast glittering couriers, grim cruisers, sluggish troop carriers, bellies crammed with men. A light pen turned, forgotten, in his fingers, around and over, around and over.
“Hadn’t you better eat, sir?” suggested Illyan.
“What? Oh, yes, I suppose. And you, Cordelia—you must be hungry. Go ahead, Illyan.”
Illyan left to forage. Vorkosigan worked at his desk console for a few more minutes before shutting it down with a sigh. “I suppose I’d better think about sleep, too. Last time I slept was on board the General Vorhartung, closing on Escobar—a day and a half ago, I guess. About the time you were being captured.”
“We were captured a bit before that. We were in tow for almost a day.”
“Yes. Congratulations, by the way, on a very successful maneuver. That wasn’t a real battle cruiser, I take it?”
“I really can’t say.”
“Somebody wants to claim it as a kill.”
Cordelia suppressed a grin. “Fine by me.” She braced herself for more questioning, but, strangely, he turned the subject.
“Poor Bothari. I wish the Emperor might give him a medal. I’m afraid the best I’ll be able to do for him is get him properly hospitalized.”
“If the Emperor disliked Vorrutyer so, why did he put him in charge?”
“Because he was Grishnov’s man, and widely famous as such, and the Prince’s favorite. Putting all the bad eggs in one basket, so to speak.” He cut himself off with a fist-closing gesture.
“He made me feel like I’d met the ultimate in evil. I don’t think anything will really scare me, after him.”
“Ges Vorrutyer? He was just a little villain. An old-fashioned craftsman, making crimes one-off. The really unforgivable acts are committed by calm men in beautiful green silk rooms, who deal death wholesale, by the shipload, without lust, or anger, or desire, or any redeeming emotion to excuse them but cold fear of some pretended future. But the crimes they hope to prevent in that future are imaginary. The ones they commit in the present—they are real.” His voice fell, as he spoke, so that by the end he was almost whispering.
“Commodore Vorkosigan—Aral—what’s eating you? You’re so keyed up I expect you to start pacing the ceiling any minute.” Hagridden, she thought.
He laughed a little. “I feel like it. It’s the waiting, I expect. I’m bad at waiting. Not a good thing, in a soldier. I envy your ability to wait in patience. You seem calm as moonlight on the water.”
“Is that pretty?”
“Very.”
“It sounds nice. We don’t have either one at home.” She was absurdly pleased by the implied compliment.
Illyan returned with a tray, and she got no more out of Vorkosigan. They ate, and Vorkosigan took a turn at sleeping, or at least lying on the bed with his eyes shut, but getting up every hour to view the new tacticals.
Lieutenant Illyan watched over his shoulder, and Vorkosigan pointed out salient features of the strategy to him as they came up.
“It looks pretty good to me,” Illyan commented once. “I don’t see why you’re so anxious. We really could carry it off, in spite of the Esco’s superior command of resources in the long run. Won’t do them any good if it’s all over in the short run.”
Afraid to put Bothari back into a deep coma, they let him return to near-consciousness. He sat in the corner in a miserable knot, drifting in and out of sleep with bad dreams in both states.
Eventually Illyan took himself off to his own cabin to sleep, and Cordelia had another nap herself. She slept a long time, not waking until Illyan returned with another tray of food. She was becoming disoriented with respect to time, locked in this changeless room. Vorkosigan, however, was tracking time by the minute now. After they ate he vanished into the bathroom to wash and shave, and returned in fresh dress greens, as neat as though ready for a conference with his emperor.
He checked through the last tactical update for the second time.
“Have they started landing troops yet?” Cordelia asked.
He checked his chronometer. “Almost an hour ago. We should be getting the first reports through any minute.” He sat now without fidgeting, like a man in deep meditation, face like stone.
That hour’s tactical update arrived, and he began sorting through its reports, apparently checking key items. In the middle of it his screen was overridden by the face of Commander Venne.
“Commodore Vorkosigan? We’re getting something very strange here. Do you want me to shunt a copy of raw incoming straight down there?”
“Yes, please. Immediately.”
Vorkosigan searched through an assortment of chatter of all kinds, and picked out a verbal from a ship commander, a dark and heavy-set man who spoke into his log with a guttural accent tinged by fear.
Here it comes, moaned Cordelia inwardly.
“—attacking with shuttles! They’re returning our fire shot by shot. Plasma shields at maximum now—we can’t put more power into them and still keep firing. We must either drop shields and try to increase our firepower, or give up the attack… .” The transmission was interrupted by static. “—don’t know how they’re doing it. They can’t possibly have packed enough engine in those shuttles to generate this… .” More static. The transmission abruptly broke off.
Vorkosigan selected another. Illyan leaned over his shoulder anxiously. Cordelia sat on the bed, silent, head bowed, listening. The cup of victory; bitter on the tongue, heavy in the stomach, sad as defeat …
“—the flagship is under heavy fire,” reported another commander. Cordelia recognized the voice with a start, and crane
d her neck for a view of his face. It was Gottyan; evidently he had his captaincy at last. “I’m going to drop shields altogether and attempt to knock one out with a maximum burst.”
“Don’t do it, Korabik!” Vorkosigan shouted hopelessly. The decision, whatever it was, had been made an hour ago, its consequences ineradicably fixed in time.
Gottyan turned his head to one side. “Ready, Commander Vorkalloner? We are attempting—” he began, and was drowned by static, then silence.
Vorkosigan struck his fist on the desk, hard. “Damn! How the hell long is it going to take them to figure …” He stared into the snow, then reran the transmission, transfixing it with a frightening expression, grief and rage and nausea mixed. He then selected another band, this time a computer graphic of the space around Escobar, and the ships as little colored lights winking and diving through it. It looked tiny, and bright, and simple, like a child’s game. He shook his head at it, lips tight and bloodless.
Venne’s face interrupted again. He was pale, with peculiar lines of tension running down to the corners of his mouth.
“Sir, I think you’d better come to the Tactics Room.”
“I can’t, Venne, without breaking arrest. Where’s Commodore Helski, or Commodore Couer?”
“Helski went forward with the Prince and Admiral Vorhalas, sir. Commodore Couer is here now. You’re the ranking flag officer aboard now.”
“The Prince was quite explicit.”
“The Prince—I believe the Prince is dead, sir.”
Vorkosigan closed his eyes, and a sigh went out of him, joylessly. He opened them again, and leaned forward. “Is that confirmed? Do you have any new orders from Admiral Vorhalas?”
“It’s—Admiral Vorhalas was with the Prince, sir. Their ship was hit.” Venne turned away to view something over his shoulder, then turned back. “It’s”—he had to clear his throat—“it’s confirmed. The Prince’s flagship has been—obliterated. There’s nothing left but debris. You’re in command now, sir.”
Vorkosigan’s face was cold and unhappy. “Then transmit Contingency Blue orders at once. All ships cease firing immediately. Put all power into shields. This ship to make course for Escobar now at maximum boost. We have to cut down on our transmission time lag.”
“Contingency Blue, sir? That’s full retreat!”
“I know, Commander. I wrote it.”
“But full retreat …”
“Commander Venne, the Escobarans have a new weapon system. It’s called a plasma mirror field. It’s a new Betan development. It turns the attacker’s burst back on itself. Our ships are shooting themselves down with their own firepower.”
“My God! What can we do?”
“Not a damn thing, unless we want to start boarding their ships and strangling the bastards by hand, one at a time. Attractive, but impractical. Transmit those orders! And order the Commander of Engineers and the Chief Pilot Officer to the Tactics Room. And get the guard commander down here to relieve his men. I don’t care to be stunned on the way out the door.”
“Yes, sir!” Venne broke off.
“Got to get those troopships turned around first,” muttered Vorkosigan, rising from his swivel chair. He turned to find both Cordelia and Illyan staring at him.
“How did you know—” began Illyan.
“—about the plasma mirrors?” finished Cordelia.
Vorkosigan was quite expressionless. “You told me, Cordelia, in your sleep, while Illyan was out. Under the influence of one of the surgeon’s potions, of course. You’ll suffer no ill effects from it.”
She stood upright, aghast. “That—you miserable—torture would have been more honorable!”
“Oh, smooth, sir!” congratulated Illyan. “I knew you were all right!”
Vorkosigan shot him a look of dislike. “It doesn’t matter. The information was confirmed too late to do us any good.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come on, Illyan. It’s time to take my soldiers home.”
Chapter Ten
Illyan came back promptly for Bothari, barely an hour later. This was followed for Cordelia by twelve hours alone. She considered escaping the room, as her soldierly duty, and engaging in a little one-woman sabotage. But if Vorkosigan was indeed directing a full retreat, it would hardly do to interfere.
She lay on his bed in a black weariness. He had betrayed her; he was no better than the rest of them. “My perfect warrior, my dear hypocrite”—and it appeared Vorrutyer had known him better than she, after all—no. That was unjust. He had done his duty, in extracting that information; she had done the same, in concealing it for as long as possible. And as one soldier to another, even if an ersatz one—five hours active service, was it?—she had to agree with Illyan, it had been smooth. She could detect no aftereffects at all in herself from whatever he had used for the secret invasion of her mind.
Whatever he had used … What, indeed, could he have used? Where had he cadged it, and when? Illyan hadn’t brought it to him. He had been as surprised as she when Vorkosigan dropped that bit of intelligence. One must either believe he kept a secret stash of interrogation drugs hidden in his quarters, or …
“Dear God,” she whispered, not a curse, but a prayer. “What have I stumbled into now?” She paced the room, the connections clicking unstoppably into place.
Heart-certainty. Vorkosigan had never questioned her; he had known about the plasma mirrors in advance.
It appeared, further, that he was the only man in the Barrayaran command who knew. Vorhalas had not. The Prince certainly had not. Nor Illyan.
“Put all the bad eggs in one basket,” she muttered. “And—drop the basket? Oh, it couldn’t have been his own plan! Surely not …”
She had a sudden horrific vision of it, all complete; the most wasteful political assassination plot in Barrayaran history, and the most subtle, the corpses hidden in a mountain of corpses, forever inextricable.
But he must have had the information from somewhere. Somewhere between the time she had left him with no worse troubles than an engine room full of mutineers, and now, struggling to pull a disarmed armada back to safety before the destruction they had unleashed crashed back on them. Somewhere in a quiet, green silk room, where a great choreographer designed a dance of death, and the honor of a man of honor was broken on the wheel of his service.
Vorrutyer of the demonic vanity shrank, and shrank, before the swelling vision, to a mouse, to a flea, to a pinprick.
“My God, I thought Aral seemed twitchy. He must be half-mad. And the Emperor—the Prince was his son. Can this be real? Or have I gone as crazy as Bothari?”
She forced herself to sit, then lie down, but the plots and counterplots still turned in her brain, an orrery of betrayal within betrayal lining up abruptly at one point in space and time to accomplish its end. The blood beat in her brain, thick and sick.
“Maybe it’s not true,” she consoled herself at last. “I’ll ask him, and that’s what he’ll say. He just questioned me in my sleep. We got the drop on them, and I’m the heroine who saved Escobar. He’s just a simple soldier, doing his job.” She turned on her side, and stared into the dimness. “Pigs have wings, and I can fly home on one.”
Illyan relieved her at last, and took her to the brig.
*
The atmosphere there was somewhat changed, she noticed. The guards did not look at her in the same way; in fact, they seemed to try to avoid looking at her. The procedures were still stark and efficient, but subdued, very subdued. She recognized a face; the guard who had escorted her to Vorrutyer’s quarters, the one who’d pitied her, seemed to be in charge now, a pair of new red lieutenant’s tabs pinned hastily and crookedly to his collar. She had donned Vorrutyer’s fatigues again for the trip down. This time she was permitted to change in to the orange pajamas in physical privacy. She was then escorted to a permanent cell, not a holding area.
The cell had another occupant, a young Escobaran woman of extraordinary beauty who lay on
her bunk staring at the wall. She did not look up at Cordelia’s entrance, nor respond to her greeting. After a time, a Barrayaran medical team arrived and took her away. She went wordlessly, but at the door she started to struggle with them. At a sign from the doctor a corpsman sedated her with an ampule which Cordelia thought she recognized, and after another moment she was carried out unconscious.
The doctor, who from his age and rank Cordelia guessed might be the chief surgeon, stayed a short time to attend to her ribs. After that she was left alone, with nothing but the periodic delivery of rations to mark the time, and occasional changes in the slight noises and vibrations from the walls around her on which to base guesses about what was happening outside.
About eight ration packs later, as she was lying on her bunk bored and depressed, the lights dimmed. They came back, but dimmed again almost immediately.
“Awk,” she muttered, as the bottom dropped out of her stomach and she began to float upward. She made a hasty grab and held on to her bunk. Her foresight was rewarded a moment later when she was crushed back into it at about three gees. The lights flickered on and off again, and she was weightless once more.
“Plasma attack,” she murmured to herself. “Shields must be overloaded.”
A tremendous shock rattled the ship. She was flung from her bunk across the cell into total blackness, weightlessness, silence. Direct hit! She ricocheted off the far wall, flailing for a handhold, banging an elbow painfully on—a wall? the floor, the ceiling? She spun in midair, crying out. Friendly fire, she thought hysterically—I’m going to be killed by friendly fire. The perfect end to my military career … She clamped her jaw and listened with fierce concentration.
Too much silence. Had they lost air? She had a nasty vision of herself as the only one left alive, trapped in this black box and doomed to float until either slow suffocation or slow freezing squeezed out her life. The cell would be her coffin, to be unsealed months later by some salvage crew.
And, more horribly: could the hit have been on the bridge? The nerve center where Vorkosigan would surely be, on which the Escobarans would surely concentrate their fire—was he smashed by flying debris, flash frozen in vacuum, burned up in plasma fire, pinned somewhere between crushed decks?
Shards of Honor (Vorkosigan Saga) Page 15