Shards of Honor (Vorkosigan Saga)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “Good morning, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Going to watch us hatch this chick today?”

  “I wish you’d find some other term for it,” said the doctor.

  “Yes, but you can’t call it being born,” he pointed out reasonably. “Technically, they’ve all been born once already. You tell me what it is, then.”

  “They call it cracking the bottle at home,” suggested Cordelia helpfully, watching the preparations with interest.

  The technician, laying out measuring devices and placing a bassinet under a warming light, shot her a look of great curiosity. “You’re Betan, aren’t you, milady? My wife caught the Admiral’s marriage announcement in the news, way down in the fine print. I never read the vital statistics section, myself.”

  The doctor looked up, startled, then returned to his checklist. Bothari pretended to lean against the wall, eyes half-closed, concealing his sharp attention. The doctor and the technician finished their preparations and motioned them closer.

  “Got the soup ready, sir?” muttered the technician to the doctor.

  “Right here. Inject into feed line C …”

  The correct hormone mixture was inserted into the right aperture, the doctor rechecking the instruction disk on his monitor repeatedly.

  “Five minute wait, mark—now.” The doctor turned to Vorkosigan. “Fantastic machine, sir. Have you heard any more about getting funding and engineering personnel to try to duplicate them?”

  “No,” replied Vorkosigan. “I’m out of this project officially as soon as the last live child is—released, finished, whatever you call it. You’re going to have to work on your own regular superiors for it, and you’ll have to think up a military application to justify it, or at least something that sounds like one, to camouflage it.”

  The doctor smiled thoughtfully. “It’s worth pursuing, I think. It might be a nice change from thinking up novel ways of killing people.”

  “Time mark, sir,” said the technician, and he turned back to the current project.

  “Placental separation looks good—tightening up just like it’s supposed to. You know, the more I study this, the more impressed I am with the surgeons who did the sections on the mothers. We’ve got to get more medical students off planet, somehow. Getting those placentas out undamaged must be the most—there. There. And there. Break seal.” He completed the adjustments and lifted the top. “Cut the membrane—and out she comes. Suction, quickly, please.”

  Cordelia realized that Bothari, still pinned to the wall, was holding his breath.

  The wet and squirming infant took a breath and coughed as the cold air hit her. Bothari breathed, too. She looked rather pretty to Cordelia, unbloodied, and much less red and squashed-looking than the vids of vivo newborns she had seen. The infant cried, loud and strong. Vorkosigan jumped, and Cordelia laughed out loud.

  “Why, she looks quite perfect.” Cordelia hovered at the shoulders of the two medical men, who were making their measurements and taking their samples from their tiny, astonished, bewildered and blinking charge.

  “Why is she crying so loudly?” asked Vorkosigan nervously, like Bothari still in his original spot.

  Because she knows she’s been born on Barrayar, was the comment Cordelia suppressed on her lips. Instead she said, “What, you’d cry too if a bunch of giants hooked you out of a nice warm doze and tossed you around like a bag of beans.” Cordelia and the technician exchanged a look half-amused, half-glowering.

  “All right, milady,” surrendered the technician, as the doctor turned back to his precious machine.

  “My sister-in-law says you’re supposed to hold them close, like this. Not out at arm’s length. I’d squall too if I thought I was being held over a pit about to be dropped. There, baby. Smile or something for Auntie Cordelia. That’s it, nice and calm. Were you old enough to remember your mother’s heartbeat, I wonder?” She hummed at the infant, who smacked her lips and yawned, and tucked the receiving blanket around her more firmly. “What a long, strange journey you’ve had.”

  “Want a look at the inside of this, sir?” the doctor went on. “You, too, Sergeant—you were asking so many questions the last time you were here… .”

  Bothari shook his head, but Vorkosigan went over for the technical exposition the doctor was obviously itching to supply. Cordelia carried the baby over to the sergeant.

  “Want to hold her?”

  “Is it all right, milady?”

  “Heavens, you don’t have to ask me for permission. If anything, the other way around.”

  Bothari picked her up gingerly, his large hands seeming almost to engulf her, and stared into her face. “Are they sure it’s the right one? I thought she’d have a bigger nose.”

  “They’ve been checked and rechecked,” Cordelia reassured him, hoping he wouldn’t ask her how she knew. But it seemed a safe assumption. “All babies have little noses. You don’t know what kids are going to look like till they’re eighteen.”

  “Maybe she’ll look like her mother,” he said hopefully. Cordelia seconded the hope, silently.

  The doctor finished dragging Vorkosigan through the guts of his dream machine, Vorkosigan politely managing to look only a little unsettled.

  “Want to hold her too, Aral?” Cordelia offered.

  “Quite all right,” he excused himself hastily.

  “Get some practice. Maybe you’ll need it someday.” They exchanged a look of their private hope, and he loosened up and permitted himself to be talked into it.

  “Hm. I’ve held cats with more heft. This isn’t really my line.” He looked relieved when the medical men repossessed her to complete their technical log.

  “Um, let’s see,” said the doctor. “This is the one we don’t take to the Imperial Orphanage, right? Where do we take her, after the observation period?”

  “I’ve been asked to take care of that personally,” said Vorkosigan smoothly. “For the sake of her family’s privacy. I—Lady Vorkosigan and I, will be delivering her to her legal guardian.”

  The doctor looked extremely thoughtful. “Oh. I see, sir.” He didn’t look at Cordelia. “You’re the man in charge of the project. You can do what you like with them. No one will ask any questions, I—I assure you, sir,” he said earnestly.

  “Fine, fine. How long is the observation period?”

  “Four hours, sir.”

  “Good, we can go to lunch. Cordelia, Sergeant?”

  “Uh, may I stay here, sir? I’m—not hungry.”

  Vorkosigan smiled. “Certainly, Sergeant. Captain Negri’s men can use the exercise.”

  On the way to the groundcar, Vorkosigan asked her, “What are you laughing about?”

  “I’m not laughing.

  “Your eyes are laughing. Twinkling madly, in fact.”

  “It was the doctor. I’m afraid we combined to mislead him, quite unintentionally. Didn’t you catch it?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “He thinks that kid we uncorked today is mine. Or maybe yours. Or perhaps both. I could practically see the wheels turning. He thinks he’s finally figured out why you didn’t open the stopcocks.”

  “Good God.” He almost turned around.

  “No, no, let it go,” said Cordelia. “You’ll only make it worse if you try to deny it. I know. I’ve been blamed for Bothari’s sins before. Just let him go on wondering.” She fell silent. Vorkosigan studied her profile.

  “Now what are you thinking? You’ve lost your twinkle.”

  “Just wondering what happened to her mother. I’m certain I met her. Long black hair, named Elena, on the flagship—there could only have been one. Incredibly beautiful. I can see how she caught Vorrutyer’s eye. But so young, to deal with that sort of horror …”

  “Women shouldn’t be in combat,” said Vorkosigan, grimly glum.

  “Neither should men, in my opinion. Why did your people try to cover up her memories? Did you order it?”

  “No, it was the surgeon’s idea. He felt sorry for he
r.” His face was tense and his eyes, distant.

  “It was the damnedest thing. I didn’t understand it at the time. I do now, I think. When Vorrutyer was done with her—and he outdid himself on her, even by his standards—she was catatonic. I—it was too late for her, but that’s when I decided to kill him, if it happened again, and to hell with the Emperor’s script. First Vorrutyer, then the Prince, then myself. Should have left Vorhalas in the clear …

  “Anyway, Bothari—begged the body from him, so to speak. Took her off to his own cabin. Vorrutyer assumed, to continue torturing her, presumably in imitation of his sweet self. He was flattered, and left them alone. Bothari fuzzed his monitors, somehow. Nobody had the foggiest idea what he was doing in there, every minute of his off-duty time. But he came to me with this list of medical supplies he wanted me to sneak to him. Anesthetic salves, some things for treatment of shock, really a well-thought-out list. He was good at first aid, from his combat experience. It occurred to me then that he wasn’t torturing her, he just wanted Vorrutyer to think so. He was insane, not stupid. He was in love, in some weird way, and had the mother wit not to let Vorrutyer guess.”

  “That doesn’t sound altogether insane, under the circumstances,” she commented, remembering the plans Vorrutyer had had for Vorkosigan.

  “No, but the way he went about it—I caught a glimpse or two.” Vorkosigan blew out his breath. “He took care of her in his cabin—fed her, dressed her, washed her—all the while keeping up this whispered dialogue. He supplied both halves. He had apparently worked out this elaborate fantasy in which she was in love with him, married in fact—a normal sane happy couple. Why shouldn’t a madman dream of being sane? It must have terrified the hell out of her during her periods of consciousness.”

  “Lord. I feel almost as sorry for him as I do for her.”

  “Not quite. He slept with her, too, and I have every reason to believe he didn’t limit that marriage fantasy thing to just words. I can see why, I suppose. Can you imagine Bothari getting within a hundred kilometers of such a girl under any normal circumstances?”

  “Mm, hardly. The Escobarans fielded their best against you.”

  “But that, I believe, is what he chose to try and remember from Escobar. It must have taken incredible strength of will. He was in therapy for months.”

  “Whew,” breathed Cordelia, haunted by the visions his words conjured. She was glad she would have a few hours to settle before seeing Bothari again. “Let’s go get that drink now, all right?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Summer was waning when Vorkosigan proposed a trip to Bonsanklar. They were about half-packed on the morning selected when Cordelia looked out of their front bedroom window, and said in a constricted voice, “Aral? A flyer just landed out front and there are six armed men getting out of it. They’re spreading out all over your property.”

  Vorkosigan, instantly alert, came to her side to look, then relaxed. “It’s all right. Those are Count Vortala’s men. He must be coming to visit my father. I’m surprised he found time to break away from the capital just now. I heard the Emperor’s been keeping him jumping.”

  A few minutes later a second flyer landed beside the first, and Cordelia had her first view of Barrayar’s new prime minister. Prince Serg’s description of him as a wrinkled clown was an exaggeration, but a just one; he was a lean man, shrunken with age but still moving briskly. He carried a stick, but from the way he swung it around Cordelia guessed it was an affectation. Clipped white hair fringed a bald and liver-spotted head that shone in the sunshine as he and a pair of aides, or bodyguards, Cordelia was not sure which, passed under her line of sight to the front door.

  The two counts were standing chatting in the front hall as Cordelia and Vorkosigan came down the stairs, the general saying, “Ah, here he comes now.”

  Vortala looked them over with a bright and penetrating twinkle. “Aral, my boy. Good to see you looking so well. And is this your Betan Penthesileia? Congratulations on a remarkable capture. Milady.” He bent over her hand and kissed it with a sort of manic savoir faire.

  Cordelia blinked at this description of herself, but managed a “How do you do, sir?” in return. Vortala met her eyes in calculation.

  “Nice that you could get away for a visit, sir,” said Vorkosigan. “My wife and I”—the phrase was emphasized in his mouth, like a sip of wine with a superior bouquet—“very nearly missed you. I’m promised to take her to the ocean today.”

  “Just so … This isn’t a social call, as it happens. I’m playing messenger boy for my master. And my time is unfortunately tight.”

  Vorkosigan gave a nod. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it, then.”

  “Ha. Don’t try to weasel off on me, boy. The message is for you.”

  Vorkosigan looked wary. “I didn’t think the Emperor and I had anything further to say to each other. I thought I made that clear when I resigned.”

  “Yes, well, he was perfectly content to have you out of the capital while that dirty work on the Ministry of Political Education was in progress. But I am charged to inform you”—he gave a little bow—“that you are requested and required to attend him. This afternoon. Your wife, too,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Why?” asked Vorkosigan bluntly. “Frankly, Ezar Vorbarra was not in my plans for the day—or any other day.”

  Vortala grew serious. “He’s run out of time to wait for you to get bored in the country. He’s dying, Aral.”

  Vorkosigan blew out his breath. “He’s been dying for the last eleven months. Can’t he die a little longer?”

  Vortala chuckled. “Five months,” he corrected absently, then frowned speculation at Vorkosigan. “Hm. Well, it has been very convenient for him. He’s flushed more rats out of the wainscotting in the last five months than the past twenty years. You could practically mark the shakedowns in the Ministries by his medical bulletins. One week: condition very grave. Next week: another deputy minister caught out on charges of peculation, or whatever.” He became serious again. “But it’s the real thing, this time. You must see him today. Tomorrow could be too late. Two weeks from now will definitely be too late.”

  Vorkosigan’s lips tightened. “What does he want me for? Did he say?”

  “Ah … I believe he has a post in mind for you in the upcoming Regency government. The one you didn’t want to hear about at your last meeting.”

  Vorkosigan shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a post in the government that would tempt me to step back into that arena. Well, maybe—no. Not even the Ministry of War. It’s too damned dangerous. I have a nice quiet life here.” His arm circled Cordelia’s waist protectively. “We’re going to have a family. I’ll not risk them in those gladiator politics.”

  “Yes, I can just picture you, whiling away your twilight years—at age forty-four. Ha! Picking grapes, sailing your boat—your father told me about your sailboat. I hear they’re going to rename the village Vorkosigan Sousleau in your honor, by the way—”

  Vorkosigan snorted, and they exchanged an ironic bow.

  “Anyway, you will have to tell him so yourself.”

  “I’d be—curious, to see the man,” murmured Cordelia. “If it’s really the last chance.”

  Vortala smiled at her, and Vorkosigan yielded, reluctantly. They returned to his bedroom to dress, Cordelia in her most formal afternoon wear, Vorkosigan in the dress greens he had not worn since their wedding.

  “Why so jumpy?” asked Cordelia. “Maybe he just wants to bid you farewell or something.”

  “We’re talking about a man who can make even his own death serve his political purposes, remember? And if there’s some way to govern Barrayar from beyond the grave, you can bet he’s figured it out. I’ve never come out ahead on any dealing I’ve ever had with him.”

  On that ambiguous note they joined the prime minister for the flight back to Vorbarr Sultana.

  *

  The Imperial Residence was an old building, almost a museum piece,
thought Cordelia, as they climbed the worn granite steps to its east portico. The long facade was heavy with stone carving, each figure an individual work of art, the aesthetic opposite of the modern, faceless Ministry buildings rising a kilometer or two to the east.

  They were ushered into a room half hospital, half antique display. Tall windows looked out on the formal gardens and lawns to the north of the Residence. The room’s principal inhabitant lay in a huge carved bed inherited from some splendor-minded ancestor, his body pierced in a dozen places by the utilitarian plastic tubes that kept him alive this day.

  Ezar Vorbarra was the whitest man Cordelia had ever seen, as white as his sheets, as white as his hair. His skin was white and wrinkled over his sunken cheeks. His eyelids were white, heavy and hooded over hazel eyes whose like she had seen once before, dimly in a mirror. His hands were white, with blue veins standing up on their backs. His teeth, when he spoke, were ivory yellow against their bloodless backdrop.

  Vortala and Vorkosigan, and after an uncertain beat Cordelia, went down on one knee beside the bed. The Emperor waved his attendant physician out of the room with a little effortful jerk of one finger. The man bowed and left. They stood, Vortala rather stiffly.

  “So, Aral,” said the Emperor. “Tell me how I look.”

  “Very ill, sir.”

  Vorbarra chuckled, and coughed. “You refresh me. First honest opinion I’ve heard from anyone in weeks. Even Vortala beats around the bush.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat of phlegm. “Pissed away the last of my melanin last week. That damned doctor won’t let me out into my garden anymore during daylight.” He snorted, for disapproval or breath. “So this is your Betan, eh? Come here, girl.”

  Cordelia approached the bed, and the white old man stared into her face, hazel eyes intent. “Commander Illyan has told me of you. Captain Negri, too. I’ve seen all your Survey records, you know. And that astonishing flight of fancy of your psychiatrist’s. Negri wanted to hire her, just to generate ideas for his section. Vorkosigan, being Vorkosigan, has told me much less.” He paused, as if for breath. “Tell me quite truly, now—what do you see in him, a broken-down, ah, what was that phrase? hired killer?”