Shards of Honor (Vorkosigan Saga)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  Vorkosigan sorted through the papers and disks, and handed the pertinent ones to the doctor. “Here. Cram this in your computer and get his release signed. Come on, Cordelia, let’s go surprise him.” He looked happier than he had all day.

  They entered Koudelka’s room to find him still dressed for the day in black fatigues, struggling with a therapeutic hand coordination exercise and cursing under his breath.

  “Hello, sir,” he greeted Vorkosigan absently. “The trouble with this damn tin-foil nervous system is that you can’t teach it anything. Practice only helps the organic parts. I swear some days I could beat my head on the wall.” He gave up the exercise with a sigh.

  “Don’t do that. You’re going to need it in the days to come.”

  “I suppose so. It was never my best part, though.” He stared, abstracted and downcast, at the board, then remembered to be cheerful for his commander. Looking up, he noticed the time. “What are you doing here at this hour, sir?”

  “Business. Just what are your plans for the next few weeks, Ensign?”

  “Well, they’re discharging me next week, you know. I’ll go home for a while. Then start looking for work, I guess. I don’t know what kind.”

  “Too bad,” said Vorkosigan, keeping his face straight. “I hate to make you alter your plans, Lieutenant Koudelka, but you’ve been reassigned.” And laid on his bedside tray, in order, like a fine hand of cards, Koudelka’s newly cut orders, his promotion, and a pair of red collar tabs.

  Cordelia had never enjoyed Koudelka’s expressive face more. It was a study in bewilderment and rising hope. He picked up the orders carefully and read them through.

  “Oh, sir! I know this isn’t a joke, but it’s got to be a mistake! Personal secretary to the regent-elect—I don’t know anything about the work. It’s an impossible job.”

  “Do you know, that’s almost exactly what the regent-elect said about his job, when he was first offered it,” said Cordelia. “I guess you’ll both have to learn them together.”

  “How did he come to pick me? Did you recommend me, sir? Come to think of it …” He turned the orders over, reading them through again, “who is the regent going to be, anyway?” He raised his eyes to Vorkosigan, and made the connection at last. “My God,” he whispered. He did not, as Cordelia thought he might, grin and congratulate, but instead looked quite serious. “It’s—a hell of a job, sir. But I think the government’s finally done something right. I’d be proud to serve you again. Thank you.”

  Vorkosigan nodded, in agreement and acceptance.

  Koudelka did grin, when he picked up the promotion order. “Thanks for this, too, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me too soon. I intend to sweat blood out of you in return.”

  Koudelka’s grin widened. “Nothing new about that.” He fumbled clumsily with the collar tabs.

  “May I do that, Lieutenant?” asked Cordelia. He looked up defensively. “For my pleasure,” she added.

  “It would be an honor, milady.”

  Cordelia fastened them to his collar straightly, with the greatest care, and stepped back to admire her work. “Congratulations, Lieutenant.”

  “You can get shiny new ones tomorrow,” Vorkosigan said. “But I thought these would do for tonight. I’m springing you out of here now. We’ll put you up at the Count-my-father’s Residence tonight, because work starts tomorrow at dawn.”

  Koudelka fingered the red rectangles. “Were they yours, sir?”

  “Once. I hope they don’t bring you my luck, which was always vile, but—wear them in good health.”

  Koudelka gave him a nod, and a smile. He clearly found Vorkosigan’s gesture profoundly meaningful, exceeding his capacity for words. But the two men understood each other perfectly well without them. “Don’t think I want new ones, sir. People would just think I’d been an ensign yesterday.”

  *

  Later, lying warm in the darkness in Vorkosigan’s room in the Count’s town house, Cordelia remembered a curiosity. “What did you say to the Emperor, about me?”

  He stirred beside her, and pulled the sheet tenderly up over her bare shoulder, tenting them together. “Hm? Oh, that.” He hesitated. “Ezar had been questioning me about you, in our argument about Escobar. Implied that you had affected my nerve, for the worse. I didn’t know then if I’d ever see you again. He wanted to know what I saw in you. I told him …” he paused again, and then continued almost shyly, “that you poured out honor like a fountain, all around you.”

  “That’s weird. I don’t feel full of honor, or anything else, except maybe confusion.”

  “Naturally not. Fountains keep nothing for themselves.”

  Aftermaths

  The shattered ship hung in space, a black bulk in the darkness. It still turned, imperceptibly slowly; one edge eclipsed and swallowed the bright point of a star. The lights of the salvage crew arced over the skeleton. Ants, ripping up a dead moth, Ferrell thought. Scavengers …

  He sighed dismay into his forward observation screen, picturing the ship as it had been, scant weeks before. The wreckage untwisted in his mind—a cruiser, alive with patterns of gaudy lights that always made him think of a party seen across night waters. Responsive as a mirror to the mind under its pilot’s headset, where man and machine penetrated the interface and became one. Swift, gleaming, functional … no more. He glanced to his right, and cleared his throat self-consciously.

  “Well, Medtech,” he spoke to the woman who stood beside his station, staring into the screen as silently and long as he had. “There’s our starting point. Might as well go ahead and begin the pattern sweep now, I suppose.

  “Yes, please do, Pilot Officer.” She had a gravelly alto voice, suitable for her age, which Ferrell judged to be about forty-five. The collection of thin silver five-year service chevrons on her left sleeve made an impressive glitter against the dark red uniform of the Escobaran military medical service. Dark hair shot with gray, cut short for ease of maintenance, not style; a matronly heaviness to her hips. A veteran, it appeared. Ferrell’s sleeve had yet to sprout even his first-year stripe, and his hips, and the rest of his body, still maintained an unfilled adolescent stringiness.

  But she was only a tech, he reminded himself, not even a physician. He was a full-fledged pilot officer. His neurological implants and biofeedback training were all complete. He was certified, licensed, and graduated—just three frustrating days too late to participate in what was now being dubbed the 120-Day War. Although in fact it had only been 118 days and part of an hour between the time the spearhead of the Barrayaran invasion fleet penetrated Escobaran local space, and the time the last survivors fled the counterattack, piling through the wormhole exit for home as though scuttling for a burrow.

  “Do you wish to stand by?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “Not yet. This inner area has been pretty well worked over in the last three weeks. I wouldn’t expect to find anything on the first four turns, although it’s good to be thorough. I’ve a few things to arrange yet in my work area, and then I think I’ll get a catnap. My department has been awfully busy the last few months,” she added apologetically. “Understaffed, you know. Please call me if you do spot anything, though—I prefer to handle the tractor myself, whenever possible.”

  “Fine by me.” He swung about in his chair to his comconsole. “What minimum mass do you want a bleep for? About forty kilos, say?”

  “One kilo is the standard I prefer.”

  “One kilo!” He stared. “Are you joking?”

  “Joking?” She stared back, then seemed to arrive at enlightenment. “Oh, I see. You were thinking in terms of whole—I can make positive identification with quite small pieces, you see. I wouldn’t even mind picking up smaller bits than that, but if you go much under a kilo you spend too much time on false alarms from micrometeors and other rubbish. One kilo seems to be the best practical compromise.”

  “Bleh.” But he obediently set his probes for a mass of one kilo, minimum, an
d finished programming the search sweep.

  She gave him a brief nod and withdrew from the closet-sized Navigation and Control Room. The obsolete courier ship had been pulled from junkyard orbit and hastily overhauled with some notion first of converting it into a personnel carrier for middle brass—top brass in a hurry having a monopoly on the new ships—but like Ferrell himself, it had graduated too late to participate. So they both had been rerouted together, he and his first command, to the dull duties he privately thought on a par with sanitation engineering, or worse.

  He gazed one last moment at the relic of battle in the forward screen, its structural girdering poking up like bones through sloughing skin, and shook his head at the waste of it all. Then, with a little sigh of pleasure, he pulled his headset down into contact with the silvery circles on his temples and midforehead, closed his eyes, and slid into control of his own ship.

  Space seemed to spread itself all around him, buoyant as a sea. He was the ship, he was a fish, he was a merman; unbreathing, limitless, and without pain. He fired his engines as though flame leapt from his fingertips, and began the slow rolling spiral of the search pattern.

  *

  “Medtech Boni?” He keyed the intercom to her cabin. “I believe I have something for you here.”

  She rubbed sleep from her face, framed in the intercom screen. “Already? What time—oh. I must have been tireder than I realized. I’ll be right up, Pilot Officer.”

  Ferrell stretched, and began an automatic series of isometrics in his chair. It had been a long and uneventful watch. He would have been hungry, but what he contemplated now through the viewscreens subdued his appetite.

  Boni appeared promptly, and slid into the seat beside him. “Oh, quite right, Pilot Officer.” She unshipped the controls to the exterior tractor beam, and flexed her fingers before taking a delicate hold.

  “Yeah, there wasn’t much doubt about that one,” he agreed, leaning back and watching her work. “Why so tender with the tractors?” he asked curiously, noting the low power level she was using.

  “Well, they’re frozen right through, you know,” she replied, not taking her eyes from her readouts. “Brittle. If you play hotshot and bang them around, they can shatter. Let’s stop that nasty spin, first,” she added, half to herself. “A slow spin is all right. Seemly. But that fast spinning you get sometimes—it must be very unrestful for them, don’t you think?”

  His attention was pulled from the thing in the screen, and he stared at her. “They’re dead, lady!”

  She smiled slowly as the corpse, bloated from decompression, limbs twisted as though frozen in a strobe-flash of convulsion, was drawn gently toward the cargo bay. “Well, that’s not their fault, is it?—one of our fellows, I see by the uniform.”

  “Bleh!” he repeated himself, then gave vent to an embarrassed laugh. “You act like you enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy? No … But I’ve been in Personnel Retrieval and Identification for nine years, now. I don’t mind. And of course, vacuum work is always a little nicer than planetary work.”

  “Nicer? With that godawful decompression?”

  “Yes, but there are the temperature effects to consider. No decomposition.”

  He took a breath, and let it out carefully. “I see. I guess you would get—pretty hardened, after a while. Is it true you guys call them corpse-sicles?”

  “Some do,” she admitted. “I don’t.”

  She maneuvered the twisted thing carefully through the cargo bay doors and keyed them shut. “Temperature set for a slow thaw and he’ll be ready to handle in a few hours,” she murmured.

  “What do you call them?” he asked as she rose.

  “People.”

  She awarded his bewilderment a small smile, like a salute, and withdrew to the temporary mortuary set up next to the cargo bay.

  *

  On his next scheduled break he went down himself, drawn by morbid curiosity. He poked his nose around the doorframe. She was seated at her desk. The table in the center of the room was yet unoccupied.

  “Uh—hello.”

  She looked up with her quick smile. “Hello, Pilot Officer. Come on in.”

  “Uh, thank you. You know, you don’t really have to be so formal. Call me Falco, if you want,” he said, entering.

  “Certainly, if you wish. My first name is Tersa.”

  “Oh, yeah? I have a cousin named Tersa.”

  “It’s a popular name. There were always at least three in my classes at school.” She rose, and checked a gauge by the door to the cargo bay. “He should be just about ready to take care of, now. Pulled to shore, so to speak.”

  Ferrell sniffed, and cleared his throat, wondering whether to stay or excuse himself. “Grotesque sort of fishing.” Excuse myself, I think.

  She picked up the control lead to the float pallet, trailing it after her into the cargo bay. There were some thumping noises, and she returned, the pallet drifting behind her. The corpse was in the dark blue of a deck officer, and covered thickly with frost, which flaked and dripped upon the floor as the medtech slid it onto the examining table. Ferrell shivered with disgust.

  Definitely excuse myself. But he lingered, leaning against the doorframe at a safe distance.

  She pulled an instrument, trailing its lead to the computers, from the crowded rack above the table. It was the size of a pencil, and emitted a thin blue beam of light when aligned with the corpse’s eyes.

  “Retinal identification,” Tersa explained. She pulled down a pad-like object, similarly connected, and pressed it to each of the monstrosity’s hands. “And fingerprints,” she went on. “I always do both, and cross-match. The eyes can get awfully distorted. Errors in identification can be brutal for the families. Hm. Hm.” She checked her readout screen. “Lieutenant Marco Deleo. Age twenty-nine. Well, Lieutenant,” she went on chattily, “let’s see what I can do for you.”

  She applied an instrument to its joints, which loosened them, and began removing its clothes.

  “Do you often talk to—them?” inquired Ferrell, unnerved.

  “Always. It’s a courtesy, you see. Some of the things I have to do for them are rather undignified, but they can still be done with courtesy.”

  Ferrell shook his head. “I think it’s obscene, myself.”

  “Obscene?”

  “All this horsing around with dead bodies. All the trouble and expense we go to collecting them. I mean, what do they care? Fifty or a hundred kilos of rotting meat. It’d be cleaner to leave them in space.”

  She shrugged, unoffended, undiverted from her task. She folded the clothes and inventoried the pockets, laying out their contents in a row.

  “I rather like going through the pockets,” she remarked. “It reminds me of when I was a little girl, visiting in someone else’s home. When I went upstairs by myself, to go to the bathroom or whatever, it was always a kind of pleasure to peek into the other rooms, and see what kind of things they had, and how they kept them. If they were very neat, I was always very impressed—I’ve never been able to keep my own things neat. If it was a mess, I felt I’d found a secret kindred spirit. A person’s things can be a kind of exterior morphology of their mind—like a snail’s shell, or something. I like to imagine what kind of person they were, from what’s in the pockets. Neat, or messy. Very regulation, or full of personal things … Take Lieutenant Deleo, here. He must have been very conscientious. Everything regulation, except this little vid disc from home. From his wife, I’d imagine. I think he must have been a very nice person to know.”

  She placed the collection of objects carefully into its labeled bag.

  “Aren’t you going to listen to it?” asked Ferrell.

  “Oh, no. That would be prying.”

  He barked a laugh. “I fail to see the distinction.”

  “Ah.” She completed the medical examination, readied the plastic body bag, and began to wash the corpse. When she worked her way down to the careful cleaning around the genital area, necessary because of
sphincter relaxation, Ferrell fled at last.

  That woman is nuts, he thought. I wonder if it’s the cause of her choice of work, or the effect?

  *

  It was another full day before they hooked their next fish. Ferrell had a dream, during his sleep cycle, about being on a deep-sea boat, and hauling up nets full of corpses to be dumped, wet and shining as though with iridescent scales, in a huge pile in the hold. He awoke from it sweating, but with very cold feet. It was with profound relief that he returned to the pilot’s station and slid into the skin of his ship. The ship was clean, mechanical and pure, immortal as a god; one could forget one had ever owned a sphincter muscle.

  “Odd trajectory,” he remarked, as the medtech again took her place at the tractor controls.

  “Yes … Oh, I see. He’s a Barrayaran. He’s a long way from home.”

  “Oh, bleh. Throw him back.”

  “Oh, no. We have identification files for all their missing. Part of the peace settlement, you know, along with prisoner exchange.”

  “Considering what they did to our people as prisoners, I don’t think we owe them a thing.”

  She shrugged.

  *

  The Barrayaran officer had been a tall, broad-shouldered man, a commander by the rank on his collar tabs. The medtech treated him with the same care she had expended on Lieutenant Deleo, and more. She went to considerable trouble to smooth and straighten him, and massage the mottled face back into some semblance of manhood with her fingertips, a process Ferrell watched with a rising gorge.

  “I wish his lips wouldn’t curl back quite so much,” she remarked, while at this task. “Gives him what I imagine to be an uncharacteristically snarly look. I think he must have been rather handsome.”

  One of the objects in his pockets was a little locket. It held a tiny glass bubble filled with a clear liquid. The inside of its gold cover was densely engraved with the elaborate curlicues of the Barrayaran alphabet.

  “What is it?” asked Ferrell curiously.

  She held it pensively to the light. “It’s a sort of charm, or memento. I’ve learned a lot about the Barrayarans in the last three months. Turn ten of them upside down and you’ll find some kind of good luck charm or amulet or medallion or something in the pockets of nine of them. The high-ranking officers are just as bad as the enlisted people.”