Shards of Honor (Vorkosigan Saga)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Her fingers found a surface at last, and scrabbled for a hold. A corner: good. She braced herself in it, curled up on the floor, breath firing in and out of her lungs in uneven gasps.

  An unknowable time passed in the stygian dark. Her arms and legs trembled with the effort of bracing herself in place. Then the ship groaned about her, and the lights came back on.

  Oh hell, she thought, this is the ceiling.

  The gravity returned and smashed her to the floor. Pain flashed up her left arm, and numbness. She scrambled back to the bunk, taking a white-knuckle grip on its rigid bars with her right hand, sticking one foot through as well, bracing herself again.

  Nothing. She waited. There was a wetness soaking her orange shirt. She looked down to see a shard of pinkish-yellow bone poking through the skin of her left forearm, and blood welling around it. She slipped awkwardly out of her smock top, wrapping it around one arm and trying to stanch the flow. The pressure woke the pain. She tried, rather experimentally, calling out for help. Surely the cell was monitored.

  No one came. Over the next three hours she varied the experiment with screaming, speaking reasonably, banging on the door and walls endlessly with her good hand, or simply sitting on the bunk crying in pain. The gravity and lights flip-flopped several more times. Finally she had the familiar sensation of being pulled inside-out through a pot of glue, marking a wormhole jump, and the environment steadied.

  When the door of the cell opened at last, it startled her so she recoiled into the wall, banging her head. But it was the lieutenant in charge of the brig, with a medical corpsman. The lieutenant had an interesting reddish-purple bruise the size of an egg on his forehead; the corpsman looked harried.

  “This is the next worst one,” said the lieutenant to the corpsman. “After that you can just go down the row in order.”

  White faced and exhausted into silence, she unwrapped her arm for examination and repair. The corpsman was competent, but lacked the delicacy of touch of the chief surgeon. She nearly fainted before the plastic cast was at last applied.

  There were no more signs of attack. A clean prisoner’s uniform was delivered through a wall slot. Two ration packs later she felt another wormhole jump. Her thought revolved endlessly on the wheel of her fears; her sleep was all dreams and her dreams were all nightmares.

  *

  It was Lieutenant Illyan who came to escort her at last, along with an ordinary guard. She nearly kissed him, in her joy at seeing a familiar face. Instead she cleared her throat diffidently, and asked with what she hoped would pass for nonchalance, “Was Commodore Vorkosigan all right, after that attack?”

  His eyebrows rose, and he shot her a look of bemused study from beneath them. “Of course.”

  Of course. Of course. That “of course” even suggested, uninjured. Her eyes puddled with relief, which she attempted to mask with an expression of cool professional interest. “Where are you taking me?” she asked him, as they left the brig and started down the corridor.

  “Shuttle. You’re to be transferred to the POW camp planetside, until the exchange arrangements are made, and they begin shipping you all home.”

  “Home! What about the war?”

  “It’s over.”

  “Over!” She assimilated that. “Over. That was quick. Why aren’t the Escobarans pursuing their advantage?”

  “They can’t. We’ve blocked the wormhole exit.”

  “Blocked? Not blockaded?”

  He nodded.

  “How the devil do you block a wormhole?”

  “In a way, it’s a very old idea. Fireships.”

  “Huh?”

  “Send a ship in, set up a major matter-antimatter explosion at a midpoint between nodes. It sets up a resonance—nothing else can get through for weeks, until it dies down.”

  Cordelia whistled. “Clever—why didn’t we think of that? How do you get the pilot out?”

  “Maybe that’s why you didn’t think of it. We don’t.”

  “God—what a death.” Her vision of it was clear and instant.

  “They were volunteers.”

  She shook her head numbly. “Only a Barrayaran …” She probed for some less horrifying subject. “Did you take many prisoners?”

  “Not very. Maybe a thousand in all. We left over eleven thousand ground troops behind on Escobar. It makes you rather valuable, if we have to try to trade you more than ten for one.”

  The prisoners’ shuttle was a windowless craft, and she shared it with only two others, one of her own engineer’s assistants, and the dark-haired Escobaran girl who had been in her cell. Her tech was eager to exchange stories, although he didn’t have much to trade. He had spent the whole time locked in one cell with his other three shipmates, who had been taken downside yesterday.

  The beautiful Escobaran, a young ensign who had been captured when her ship was disabled in the fighting for the wormhole jump to Beta Colony over two months ago, had even less to tell. “I must have lost track of time, somewhere,” she said uneasily. “Not hard to do in that cell, seeing no one. Except that I woke up in their sickbay, yesterday, and couldn’t remember how I’d come there.”

  And if that surgeon’s as good as he looked, you never will, thought Cordelia. “Do you remember Admiral Vorrutyer?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  The shuttle landed at last, and the hatch was opened. A shaft of sunlight and a breath of summer-scented air fell through it, sweet green air that made them suddenly realize they had been breathing reek for days.

  “Wow, where is this place?” said the technician, awed, as he stepped through the hatch, prodded by the guards. “It’s beautiful.”

  Cordelia followed him, and laughed out loud, although not happily, in instant recognition.

  The prison camp was a triple row of Barrayaran field shelters, ugly gray half-cylinders surrounded by a force screen, set at the bottom of a kilometers-wide amphitheater of dry woodland and waterfall, beneath a turquoise sky. It was a hazy, warm, quiet afternoon that made Cordelia feel she had never left.

  Yes, there was even the entrance to the underground depot, not camouflaged anymore, but widened, with a great paved area for landing and loading gouged out before it, alive with shuttles and activity. The waterfall and pool were gone. She turned about, as they walked, gazing at her planet. Now that she thought about it, it seemed inevitable that they should end up here, quite logical really. She shook her head helplessly.

  She and her young Escobaran companion were signed in by a neat and expressionless guard and directed to a shelter halfway down one row. They entered, to find it occupied by eleven women in a space meant for fifty. They had their choice of bunks.

  They were pounced upon by the older prisoners, frantic for news. A plump woman of about forty restored order, and introduced herself.

  “I’m Lieutenant Marsha Alfredi. I’m ranking officer in this shelter. Insofar as there is order in this cess pit. Do you know what the hell is going on?”

  “I’m Captain Cordelia Naismith. Betan Expeditionary.”

  “Thank God. I can dump it on you.”

  “Oh, my.” Cordelia braced herself. “Fill me in.”

  “It’s been hell. The guards are pigs. Then, all of a sudden yesterday afternoon, this bunch of high-ranking Barrayaran officers came trooping through. At first we thought they were shopping for rapees, like the last bunch. But this morning about half the guards had disappeared—the worst of the lot—and been replaced by a crew that look like they’re on parade. And the Barrayaran camp commandant—I couldn’t believe it. They paraded him out on the shuttle tarmac this morning and shot him! In full view of everyone!”

  “I see,” said Cordelia, rather tonelessly. She cleared her throat. “Uh—have you heard yet? The Barrayarans have been run completely out of Escobaran local space. They’re probably sending around the long way for a formal truce and some sort of negotiated settlement by now.”

  There was a stunned silence, then jubila
tion. Some laughed, some cried, some hugged each other, and some sat alone. Some broke away to spread the news to neighboring shelters and from there up and down the whole camp. Cordelia was pressed for details. She gave a brief précis of the fighting, leaving out her own exploits and the source of her information. Their joy made her a little happier, for the first time in days.

  “Well, that explains why the Barrayarans have straightened up all of a sudden,” said Lieutenant Alfredi. “I guess they didn’t expect to be held accountable, before.”

  “They’ve got a new commander,” explained Cordelia. “He’s got a thing about prisoners. Win or lose, there’d have been changes with him in charge.”

  Alfredi didn’t look convinced. “Oh? Who is he?”

  “A Commodore Vorkosigan,” Cordelia said neutrally.

  “Vorkosigan, the Butcher of Komarr? My God, we’re in for it now.” Alfredi looked genuinely afraid.

  “I should think you had an adequate pledge of good faith on the shuttle pad this morning.”

  “I should think it just proves he’s a lunatic,” said Alfredi. “The commandant didn’t even participate in those abuses. He wasn’t the worst by a long shot.”

  “He was the man in charge. If he knew about them, he should have stopped them. If he didn’t know, he was incompetent. Either way, he was responsible.” Cordelia, hearing herself defending a Barrayaran execution, stopped abruptly. “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I’m not Vorkosigan’s keeper.”

  The noise of near-riot penetrated from outside, and their shelter was invaded by a deputation of fellow prisoners, all eager to hear the rumors of peace confirmed. The guards withdrew to the perimeter and let the excitement play itself out. She had to repeat her précis, twice. Her own crew members, led by Parnell, came over from the men’s side.

  Parnell jumped up on a bunk to address the orange-clad crowd, shouting over the glad babble. “This lady isn’t telling you everything. I had the real story from one of the Barrayaran guards. After we were taken aboard the flagship, she escaped and personally assassinated the Barrayaran commander, Admiral Vorrutyer. That’s why their advance collapsed. Let’s hear it for Captain Naismith!”

  “That’s not the real story,” she objected, but was drowned out by shouts and cheers. “I didn’t kill Vorrutyer. Here! Put me down!” Her crew, ringled by Parnell, hoisted her to their shoulders for an impromptu parade around the camp. “It’s not true! Stop this! Awk!”

  It was like trying to turn back the tide with a teacup. The story had too much innate appeal to the battered prisoners, too much wish-fulfillment come to life. They took it in like balm for their wounded spirits, and made it their own vicarious revenge. The story was passed around, elaborated, built up, sea-changed, until within twenty-four hours it was as rich and unkillable as legend. After a few days she gave up trying.

  The truth was too complicated and ambiguous to appeal to them, and she herself, suppressing everything in it that had to do with Vorkosigan, was unable to make it sound convincing. Her duty seemed drained of meaning, dull and discolored. She longed for home, and her sensible mother and brother, and quiet, and one thought that would connect to another without making a chain of secret horror.

  Chapter Eleven

  Camp returned to routine soon, or what routine should always have been. There followed weeks of waiting for the slow negotiations for prisoner exchange to be completed, with everyone honing elaborate plans for what they would do when they arrived home. Cordelia gradually came to a nearly normal relationship with her shelter mates, although they still tried to give her special privileges and services. She heard nothing from Vorkosigan.

  She was lying on her bunk one afternoon, pretending to sleep, when Lieutenant Alfredi roused her.

  “There’s a Barrayaran officer out here who says he wants to talk to you.” Alfredi trailed her to the door, suspicion and hostility in her face. “I don’t think we should let them take you away by yourself. We’re so close to going home. They’ve surely got it in for you.”

  “Oh. It’s all right, Marsha.”

  Vorkosigan stood outside the shelter, in the dress greens worn daily by the staff, accompanied as usual by Illyan. He seemed tense, deferential, weary, and closed.

  “Captain Naismith,” he said formally, “may I speak with you?”

  “Yes, but—not here.” She was acutely conscious of the eyes of her fellows upon her. “Can we take a walk or something?”

  He nodded, and they started off in shared silence. He clasped his hands behind his back. She shoved hers into the pockets of her orange smock top. Illyan trailed them, doglike, impossible to shake. They left the prison compound, and headed into the woods.

  “I’m glad you came,” said Cordelia. “There are some things I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “Yes. I wanted to see you sooner, but winding this thing up properly has been keeping me rather busy.”

  She nodded toward his yellow collar tabs. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “Oh, that.” He touched one briefly. “It’s meaningless. Just a formality, to expedite the work I’m doing now.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Dismantling the armada, guarding the local space around this planet, shuffling politicians back and forth between Barrayar and Escobar. General housecleaning, now the party’s over. Supervising prisoner exchange.”

  They were following a wide beaten path through the gray-green woods, up the slope out of the crater’s bowl.

  “I wanted to apologize for questioning you under drugs. I know it offended you deeply. Need drove me. It was a military necessity.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for.” She glanced back at Illyan. I must know… . “Quite literally nothing, I eventually realized.”

  He was silent. “I see,” he said at last. “You are very acute.”

  “On the contrary, I am very baffled.”

  He swung to face Illyan. “Lieutenant, I crave a boon from you. I wish a few minutes alone with this lady to discuss a very personal matter.”

  “I shouldn’t, sir. You know that.”

  “I once asked her to marry me. She never gave me her answer. If I give you my word that we will discuss nothing but what touches on that, may we have a few moments’ privacy?”

  “Oh …” Illyan frowned. “Your word, sir?”

  “My word. As Vorkosigan.”

  “Well—I guess it’s all right then.” Illyan seated himself glumly on a fallen log to wait, and they walked on up the path.

  They came out, at the top, on a familiar promontory overlooking the crater, the very spot where Vorkosigan had planned the repossession of his ship, so long ago. They seated themselves on the ground, watching the activity of the camp made silent by distance.

  “Time was you would never have done that,” Cordelia observed. “Pledged your word falsely.”

  “Times change.”

  “Nor lied to me.”

  “That is so.”

  “Nor shot a man out of hand for crimes he didn’t participate in.”

  “It wasn’t out of hand. He had a summary court-martial first. And it did get things straightened around in a hurry. Anyway, it will satisfy the Interstellar Judiciary’s commission. I’ll have them on my hands too, come tomorrow. Investigating prisoner abuses.”

  “I think you’re getting blood-glutted. Individual lives are losing their meaning for you.”

  “Yes. There have been so many. It’s nearly time to quit.” Expression was deadened in his face and words.

  “How did the Emperor buy you for that—extraordinary assassination? You of all men. Was it your idea? Or his?”

  He did not evade, or deny. “His idea, and Negri’s. I am but his agent.”

  His fingers pulled gently on the grass stems, breaking them off delicately one by one. “He didn’t come out with it directly. First he asked me to take command of the Escobar invasion. He started with a bribe—the viceroyalty of this planet, in fact, when it’s colonized
. I turned him down. Then he tried a threat, said he’d throw me to Grishnov, let him have me up for treason, and no Imperial pardon. I told him to go to hell, not in so many words. That was a bad moment, between us. Then he apologized. Called me Lord Vorkosigan. He called me Captain when he wished to be offensive. Then he called in Captain Negri, with a file that didn’t even have a name, and the playacting stopped.

  “Reason. Logic. Argument. Evidence. We sat in that green silk room in the Imperial Residence at Vorbarr Sultana one whole mortal week, the Emperor and Negri and I, going over it, while Illyan kicked his heels in the hall, studying the Emperor’s art collection. You are correct in your deduction about Illyan, by the way. He knows nothing about the real purpose of the invasion.

  “You saw the Prince, briefly. I may add that you saw him at his best. Vorrutyer may have been his teacher once, but the Prince surpassed him some time ago. But if only he had had some saving notion of political service, I think his father would have forgiven him even his vilest personal vices.

  “He was not balanced, and he surrounded himself with men whose interests lay in making him even less balanced. A true nephew of his Uncle Yuri. Grishnov meant to rule Barrayar through him when he came to the throne. On his own—Grishnov would have been willing to wait, I think—the Prince had engineered two assassination attempts on his father in the last eighteen months.”

  Cordelia whistled soundlessly. “I almost begin to see. But why not just put him out of the way quietly? Surely the Emperor and your Captain Negri could have managed it between them, if anyone could.”

  “The idea was discussed. God help me, I even volunteered to lend myself to it, as an alternative to this—bloodbath.”

  He paused. “The Emperor is dying. He has run out of time to wait for the problem to solve itself. It’s become an obsession with him, to try to leave his house in order.

  “The problem is the Prince’s son. He’s only four. Sixteen years is a long time for a Regency government. With the Prince dead Grishnov and the whole Ministerial party would just slide right into the power vacuum, if they were left intact.