Forward Momentum -- Chapter 4

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Chapter Four

Midweek found Miles at Vorkosigan Surleau with the free hours for which he had hoped after satisfying Guy Allegre’s very stern-looking young ImpSec captain the old house could be satisfactorily defended at need, and, more to the point, that Gregor could be safely evacuated in several directions. Though not all at once.

Miles nobly refrained from pointing out to Captain Khourakis that a five-year-old Gregor had been evacuated to this house (and almost immediately re-evacuated, by quarter-horse) at the outbreak of Vordarian’s War. More positively, Miles made sure that Armsman Jankowski, not just District- but village-born, and until eight years before a frighteningly efficient ImpSec sergeant on the diplomatic protection detail, was with them throughout and would remain at Vorkosigan Surleau as liaison and point­man for Khourakis and his team. Miles had also, as they contemplated possible fields of fire from the stable loft, taken the trouble to speak to Khourakis with an honesty he intended to show.

“ImpSec’s Horus eye never closes, Captain, That’s basic. But don’t be alarmed by all this, either. You know, I think, that while my official record says courier service, I actually did ten years in covert ops under Chief Illyan.” Khourakis nodded cautiously, so Miles risked a professional grin. “You don’t know any more details than you ought, I’m sure, but you know I survived. And my considered opinion is that the risk here is very low.” This earned him a searching look and Khourakis an explanation. “Frankly, the only people in a position to make trouble are already coming to this meeting. And the ones who would like to make trouble, if they knew what we shall be doing, don’t know anything of the sort. The only surprise is the one we’re debriefing, the Terran, Dr Chandler. Who has, by the way, readily agreed to co-operate with one total search, as Gregor requires, so you’ll need to let me know how you want to do that. He will also be bringing some equipment you can scan however you wish, but will then need to be installed.” Khourakis nodded regularly during this recital. “You have Jankowski as a liaison, and I am only a call away. Have you questions?”

“I don’t think so, Lord Auditor.” Khourakis gave him a keen appraisal. “You have been very helpful. Save for the secrecy it seems no different from a weekend at Count Vorvolk’s, where this squad has been many times.” Appraisal seamlessly became a bland look worthy of Pym at his most head-butlerish. “So any surprises would be down to you, my Lord. As host. And I’m sure you know better than that.”

Miles blinked. Where was Allegre getting them? Or was it some effect of working especially closely with Gregor? He made a rapid decision. “Let me apprise you also, Captain, that we shall have some late arrivals. But you need not be alarmed. The Viceroy and Vicereine of Sergyar have experienced delays. They will come in through the usual official channels at the shuttleport, then come directly here in an unmarked flier whose designation you will receive in good time from the senior ImpSec Duty Officer at the port.”

Khourakis offered a surprised nod. “Of course. That is very clear also, my Lord.”

“Otherwise, I assure you, all surprises will be inside our discussions, and no concern of yours.”

“Very good, my Lord.” Khourakis continued calmly to assess possible fields of fire, and when they emerged from the stable-block Miles was able to hand him off to Jankowski and claim his free hours. His reward was to visit a man he would cheerfully go out of his way to avoid. Staring glumly at the view as Pym sedately piloted the lightflyer over the lake and turned towards Hassadar, Miles thought there was probably no-one on Barrayar he would rather see less. Needs must when the devil drives, they said, and he knew it to be true; also that the devil’s worst was nothing to what had to happen when angels drove.

He glanced down the valley in the direction of Vorkosigan Vashnoi, or rather the glassy wasteland where the old District capital had been before the Cetagandans’ parting atomic gift to his grandfather-lands left specifically to him, not his father, in the old man’s will. In the first bitter flush of the gift he had with inner glee mortgaged them lock, stock, and barrel to an unsuspecting ship-owner on Beta, during the adventure that gave birth to the Dendarii Mercenary Fleet; but he had later taken care in his admittedly violent teenage fashion to redeem them from hock. More lately he had come to think of the once bustling, now barren site with more emotional attention. On the way down Pym had on instructions taken the specially shielded lightflyer much lower across the badlands than was officially permitted, after comconsoling a warning to their tracking ImpSec escort and air control in Hassadar. When he was a child they had still glowed faintly in the winter dark, but now they were dull and inert. Or not quite so inert: scrub and twisted trees were beginning to recolonise the outer zone, and earth had blown over the glassy centre of the site, reducing its odd refractions of light with a dull coating of soil, stunted weeds, and red Barrayaran grasses. An inheritance I have neglected.

Clearing the hills around the long lake Pym accelerated, and a brisk flight brought them to Hassadar, now District capital for more than seventy years and growing towards its second million residents. Ahead of them the boundaries of central traffic control were clearly visible as a convoy of lumbering heavyflyers entered the automated zone and were marshalled into a tighter string. Trade was booming. Good. We’re due some prosperity. But with the zone still several kilometres north Pym peeled to the right and brought the flyer down on a rooftop landing-pad marked with the Vorkosigan mountain-and-maple-leaf sigil. Still feeling proprietary, Mark? At least it wasn’t genetically branded on the building’s most important workers anymore. Exiting the flyer he found Martya Koudelka waiting by the entranceway, but Pym was speaking.

“Would you mind if I got some lunch, milord? We will need to leave by 15:00 if you wish to keep your later appointment.”

Which was with his seizure stimulator, and not to be missed if he wanted his brains tomorrow morning. “Of course, Pym. I’m sure you can find something splendid to eat here.” Very bland smiles were exchanged. “Carry on, then. Hello, Martya.”

“Hello Miles.”

Pym slipped past into an access-door, leaving Miles alone with Martya, though he imagined his Armsman would be checking on the building’s overall security before going in search of food. Above him the ImpSec escorts Gregor had insisted on began their wide waiting-and-watching circles.

“Is all well with the Koudelkas?”

“Yes, Mama and Delia send love. But your visit has Enrique distracted, poor man. He’s asked me at least a dozen times if I thought it could be those Escobarans back again to carry him off. I’ve assured him you wouldn’t allow that. Would you, Miles?”

At Martya’s potent look Miles thought better of teasing her. “No, no, nothing like that. I just need … a word about a project he mentioned to Ekaterin. Who sends you love, by the way.”

“She’s coming with you to Vorkosigan Surleau for the summer, isn’t she?”

“Oh yes. And Nikki. We come down on Friday in fact, though the weekend is given over to business. Call next week. I know she’ll be glad to see you.”

“I shall.” Martya was looking at him … affectionately? Eh? “I know Master Tsipis keeps you informed, Miles, and you’re pressed for time today, but there’s a lot here you should see.” Briefly, she squeezed his arm. “We’ve placed a large order with your meadery, you know. They’ll need some new investment for the money really to flow up into the hills.”

He glanced up at her sharply, but keeping data relevant to them secret from the Koudelka girls was not, in his experience, a useful thing to try. She was smiling at him with open approval. Dammit, this won’t do. Not that Martya was the sort to blab anything she didn’t mean to say. Even to Mark? His clone-brother could be persistent. But Mark and Kareen Koudelka were still on Beta. A good thing too. Such grumpy thoughts were dispelled when, swinging round a corner behind Martya Miles found himself abruptly in office-space, with half-a-dozen clerks of both genders gazing at him from behind data-units. He almost saluted them in reflex but hastily converted the twitch to a palms-down gesture as they started to rise; to no avail whatever. A young woman in the front row seemed to be their speaker.

“Welcome, my Lord.” A slightly strangled look came to her face as she found she had no room to curtsey behind her desk and attempted a bow. “We wanted to thank you for the work you’ve brought here. It’s making a big difference.”

What? The woman’s accent was pure mountain, thick as maple mead. Mark had taken care to recruit in the hills, had he? That was-smart of him-very proper. Or was there more to it? Miles’s own accent, he heard with amusement, thickened a little to match.

“Belike. I hoped it might. Ah … have we met before?” He looked up at her hopefully.

“Oh not to speak to, my Lord. I’m Vada Rachov, from Silvy Vale. I was one of the older ones at the school when you visited two years ago.” She smiled nervously. “I’m sure Ma Csurik would skin me if I didn’t give you her best wishes.”

“And please relay mine. Is she well?”

“Oh yes. Last I talked to my ma, anyway.”

“The comlinks were installed, then?”

“Oh yes, my Lord. It’s how I knew about this job. Having power has changed everything for the Vale.”

And not just on the surface, Miles thought. But the deeper changes were the more wrenching. No more Ma Mattulich now; Ma Csurik instead. And that’s not progress-that’s a miracle. He looked at the other clerks, also by their looks young mountain folk. “Are you all from Silvy Vale?” The expected flow of denials got him across the room with a word or two spoken to each person. None but Vada were from anywhere close to Silvy Vale, as it turned out, but all were from upland communities scattered along the flanks of the Dendarii, used to hard work and long winters, and, he was assured, sending some of the money they made back to folks at home. Martya, waiting by a further door, was grinning at him.

“You do public relations very well, you know, Miles,” she teased him as the door swung shut behind them. Drat the girl! But slightly to his own surprise Miles found himself more content than embarrassed, and freshly determined to take Ekaterin to meet Harra and Lem Csurik in Silvy Vale. It would be a good ride from Vorkosigan Surleau, and he wondered if the flood of wild roses he had once seen on that trail would still be there in their wondrous beauty for him to show her. And for Fat Ninny to eat. The thought of his beloved horse, growing stiff in the joints and more deserving of his disrespectful name but still hale and always eager to see him, cheered Miles immensely. It had been the best thing about his morning with Khourakis. After what seemed like a mile of corridor-and when did this place of Mark’s grow so large?-Martya led him into a conference-room where a familiar, ectomorphic figure nervously waited.

“Enrique.”

“Lord Vorkosigan.” Miles raised an eyebrow as he extended his hand. The Escobaran looked as if he was screwing up courage to dive into icy water, and his voice went up an octave as he took it. “Ah … Miles. How are you?”

Ah well. Points for effort. It had taken Ekaterin with extensive help from Martya and Kareen most of an evening to persuade Enrique to call Miles by his given name, on the one occasion since their marriage he had invited the scientist to eat with them. The little drama of Burgos’s attempted arrest by Parole Officer Gustioz had penetrated the genetic entomologist’s usual happy oblivion to worldly consequence, and the hypnotic authority Miles exerted to save him from incensed Escobaran authorities who had pursued him across the Nexus was branded deeply into his mind.

“Very well, thank you, Enrique. Ekaterin too.” Martya was twitching at him. “Please, there’s nothing to worry about. I can see this, ah, facility is running wonderfully, and has grown beyond recognition. Congratulations.” Surely that was enough to reassure anyone? Enrique still looked as if he might suffer a renewed attack of twitching at any moment. Forwards. “I wanted to ask you about a research-project Ekaterin mentioned to me. One you had to abandon, I gather, about reclamation of irradiated land.”

Enrique’s long face, which had brightened at Miles’s reassurances, became more lugubrious than ever. “Oh, that. I’m afraid it’s completely stalled.”

“Nevertheless. Ekaterin did tell me, but would you summarise for me what you hoped to do, and what prevented you?”

“Well … do you know about the betaradiophagic bacteria the Cetagandans found in a system near Sigma Ceta?”

As it happened, Miles did. Or he probably wouldn’t have been there, he thought, slightly guiltily in the light of his warm reception by Martya and the local employees. “Ah, yes. Clever little critters feeding on primordial radionuclides on an outcrop of rock in a saline lake somewhere.”

“Yes, exactly.” Enrique didn’t seem impressed Miles knew this string of unlikely facts. But perhaps he thought everybody should know about improbable Cetagandan bacteria in the same detail he undoubtedly did himself. “The mineral source gave unusually pure and steady beta-radiation, and the bacteria evolved to harvest it. And of course some Terran insects like the cockroach are extremely resistant to gamma-radiation. I was hoping I could splice some of each into an armoured version of the butterbug and get it to scavenge radioactive isotopes.”

Miles had heard more than one Koudelka sister remark that Enrique had bioscience ideas the way Zap the Cat had kittens. Judging from this, the ideas were not unlike the kittens in any case. Fascinated by a willing­ness to re-arrange nature almost as great as his own, he nodded for the Escobaran to go on. “What a splendid thought. But it didn’t work out?”

“No.” A hesitation. “It was Vorkosigan Vashnoi I had in mind.” Was it, indeed? Despite himself, Miles warmed to the Escobaran, who was frowning. “But the radiation plats were a shock. I don’t know what kind of bomb the Cetagandans used but there’s still an awful lot of alpha-radiation out there, far more than any data I’ve seen would predict.”

From a number of old ImpSec reports he’d managed to find in the family archives Miles also knew something about this. And he knew who would know a great deal more. “Yes. I believe there were some experimental features of the device. An unusually high level of continuing alpha-radiation was suggested as a possible consequence.”

“Well, it’s too high for my girls.” Miles presumed he meant the butterbugs. Armoured radiation-eating butter bugs. “They’d be torn apart.”

“So what you need is a … biologically compatible way of absorbing the alpha radiation?”

“Yes. But I really don’t think it can be done.”

“You might be right, of course. But I have a notion it may be possible, Enrique.” The Escobaran’s eyebrows shot up. Chandler had been very surprised, too, Miles recalled with pleasure, to be asked in a sudden call long after midnight whether it would be correct to think that an adapted version of frames, while unable to transmit particulate matter, could safely dispose of its energies whether directly emitted or produced by collision. It would. Excellent. And could such a cubic frame be made solid yet miniaturised to fit inside an insect? It could. Even better. And no, he didn’t want to explain what he had in mind just yet. “You said there were two problems?”

“Yes. Assuming the girls could concentrate radioactive materials, there would be considerable residue after they extracted energy for themselves. I thought to make them bind it with organo-magnetics into a pellet they would regurgitate, that could be swept up by a hover with a field-tractor. But I’m sorry, the genetics of the Sigma Cetan bacteria proved very hard to work with. I simply could not make the molecular equations work dynamically. So beta-radiation became a problem again. Round and round.” Another long hesitation. “I’m sorry, Miles. I wanted to help you, and all these people you look after.” Enrique’s loose-limbed gesture took in the whole population of the District. Now Miles was embarrassed. He knew only too well what absentee landlords the Vorkosigans had been in recent generations.

“Thank you, Enrique. It was a good thought.” That was true enough, but not much to offer. “Don’t despair. I take it what you would really like, if the alpha-radiation problem could be resolved, would be to talk to a top-flight Cetagandan geneticist about their bacteria? The papers were in their Journal of Non-Human Genetics, I believe.”

Enrique’s soaring eyebrows were a pleasure to behold. As were Martya’s. “That’s correct.” Enrique stole a sidelong glance at Martya. “I wanted to send an enquiry to their embassy, but Martya said that wasn’t a good idea. And that I shouldn’t really mention Cetaganda at all here, because of their Occupation.”

“She has a point,” Miles admitted. About five million of them. “But Gregor has always sought reconciliation and peace. I think you’ll find the process is much further along than people think. And you can always mention Cetagandans to me, you know. I’ve made some acquaintances among them, down the years.” Like the Emperor, the Handmaiden of the Star Creche, and the Chief of the Celestial Garden’s security. “Nice enough people when they’re not invading you or any of your close friends. Anyway, no promises, mind, but I just might be able to get you a Cetagandan consultant.” His wristcom vibrated gently to remind him of Pym’s admonitions. “And that would be a way forward, yes?”

Enrique manfully swallowed astonished curiosity. Martya looked as if she really hoped Miles was not teasing Enrique and couldn’t quite see how that could be. “Certainly. If the alpha-radiation issue were resolved. But how you propose to change the laws of physics …” Enrique trailed away into a mumble.

“Not physics.” Miles grinned. “Just reality.” Maybe. “I’ll get back to you.”

* * * * *

Very late that night, lying sleepless beside her, Gregor found his Empress no more asleep than he. Laisa propped herself on one elbow to look at him.

“What is it, love? Are you worried about this weekend?”

“Not exactly. I do think Chandler’s for real, and that we’re going to be faced with a major decision.” I am going to be faced with it. “But it’s not that. It’s … Miles.”

“Oh? He seemed cheerful enough when he called this evening to reassure you that your squad-captain was already patrolling the stables and posting lookouts all over.”

Gregor snorted. “Oh, he’ll survive.” Laisa didn’t think he meant Miles. “But … you heard Miles warn me the other day he’d used one of these frames to talk to Aral and Cordelia, and that they’ll be here, delays permitting, sometime late on Saturday night?”

“Yes?”

“Did anything strike you? About Miles, I mean.”

Laisa frowned in the thin summer darkness, thinking. “Not really. I was wondering if you’d mind him calling the Viceroy and Vicereine, but saw you were pleased. And I thought Miles was right we might need their … voices. That was his word, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. And I agree, he was right.” Gregor looked at her intently, his head turned on the pillow. “After yours, there is no-one whose advice I heed more than Aral’s in politics, and Cordelia’s in, ah, philosophy.” He paused, meditatively. “Their voices, yes. He did say that. But it was Miles’s voice I was thinking about.” He rolled to face her directly. “I can barely remember life before Miles, you know. As a child he filled this place with his needs. I adored him. So much determination in so tiny and fragile a being.” A gentle hand stroked her hair. “He gave me an inspiration I needed then, as you do now. A strategy.” His grin flashed. “Of course the tactics weren’t always so good.”

Restless, Gregor turned back to stare up at the high ceiling. “I’ve always admitted to myself that he saved me during that nonsense when I ran away. He and Aral, who could bring the fleet.” Almost in a murmur he added “The Prince Serg”, and Laisa’s heart beat a little faster. So far as she could see Gregor’s quiet obsession with defending himself from his father’s genetic and other legacies was his only real vulnerability-he had even insisted that what should be the Prince Serg class of warships be known for the second vessel of that design, the Princess Kareen, and Laisa knew there was much she had yet to learn about her husband’s private thoughts of his unlamented sire. The tale of Gregor’s youthful adventure in bond-slavery and strange part in orchestrating a timely start to the War of the Hegen Hub had left her speechlessly grateful to Miles in a much wider context than the personal ones she had expected of Gregor’s foster-brother. What was coming now?

“I think for Miles the best thing, really, was to have served his father’s reputation. Do you remember news of the victory reaching Komarr?

“Oh yes.”

“You were, what, nineteen?”

“That’s right.” She thought back to student days. “There were still a lot of people who wouldn’t believe anything good of Aral Vorkosigan.” The Viceroy’s old and unfair soubriquet, The Butcher of Komarr, had no place in her mouth, she thought. Nor in this bed. “And you’re right it was a turning-point. I remember a professor of politics made himself a considerable reputation by arguing on the ’vids that everyone on Komarr now owed Aral a dinner of his choice. And we Toscanes had a family meeting that grew smug with recollections of our wisdom in co-operating with the Imperium.” She paused to sort out memories, and frowned. “You know the Vorkosigans far better than I do, love, but I haven’t had the sense the Solstice Massacre troubles any of them deeply. Or … did you mean that Miles could actually equal his father for a minute? You said it was the only time, practically speaking, they ever met as Admirals.”

“Yes.” Gregor smiled reminiscently. “Technically Aral had to get me to confirm retrospectively his own reactivation as a fleet admiral, but I wasn’t going to quibble. And you’re right that Aral came to terms with what happened at Solstice long ago. Miles and Cordelia too.” His tone went bleak. “But there was another war, between our conquest of Komarr and lucky triumph in the Hegen Hub. Escobar. Where Aral commanded only retreat from a ghastly disaster.”

There were an awful lot of skeletons in Gregor’s family closet, but she had not forgotten this one. Time to be more direct. “Escobar, yes. Where your father was killed. Which-forgive me, my love-was not a disaster. It was your good fortune. As it was Barrayar’s by all the accounts I’ve ever heard, including yours.” Had his breath hitched?

“Exactly.” He turned to look at her. “Stupendous good fortune, for all except the soldiers and the crewmen who died with him.” Was that it? But surely … Gregor looked miserable. “The fortunes of war, that can affect even princes. A stunning lie.” What?  “Laisa, love, you know how risks must be calculated in business, and you have seen something of how it must be in politics. The Escobar disaster did not simply kill my father and all those other people. It killed his War Party, the whole reversion­ary interest, and the Political Officers, the Ministries as they had been for a generation. Look at it coldly. It did everything necessary for Aral’s Regency and my inheritance-right down to boosting his reputation again as the saviour of a hundred thousand men and three-quarters of a fleet. Ezar could hardly have planned it better.” A vile silence seemed to stretch around her and she heard Gregor’s voice down a tunnel. “D’you really think he didn’t?”

Her mouth was dry, but Gregor seemed calm. Your grandfather killed your father? “Ezar killed his son?” Once again she appreciated Cordelia’s use of her proprietary expletive: Barrayarans! What Russian moodiness and French romanticism didn’t add to their insane cultural mix, Greek tragedy soon took care of.

“I have thought so for many years. Since not long after the Hegen Hub business, in fact.” His hand held hers. “I told you what sent me climbing off the balcony and running away that night was finding out what kind of a man Prince Serg really was.” Gregor gave a twisted smile, as he spoke his father’s name. “At the end of it all I told Miles that, and he made me promise to speak to Cordelia. I did. She … set me straight on many things.”

I bet she did, poor love. Laisa risked a smile, but Gregor didn’t respond. Instead he grimaced.

“She was there, you know, for the worst of it. And told me things that aren’t mine to pass on. But thinking it through afterwards I realised she had been unusually careful about what not to tell me. Which Aral also hadn’t told me-how he came to be a junior to Vorrutyer and my father in that shambles.” There was another meditative pause. “After the Hegen Hub I talked about Serg with Aral, and saw he felt very constrained. To my great relief later I had the wit not to press it, and after a while I realised why.” Gregor took her hands in his. “Ezar lined up the shot but I think he made Aral pull the trigger.” His grasp tightened. “Then he made Aral take Serg’s place, as Regent and as my father. Think about it, love, for a man like Aral. Not his blood-claim to the throne-he’s never wanted it, truly-but his honour.” His grasp was painful, but not for the world would she interrupt him. “And Aral did it. Never once as a child did I fear him, never once did he disrespect our … titles. His love for me was and is unstinting, and untainted. But as an adult, knowing what I do now, I can see that under the iron control and open love something in him never stopped mourning.”

His hands relaxed, and he rubbed hers softly. “Sorry, love. What has me spooked is that ever since I’ve pretended to Aral with every power at my command that I do not know or suspect anything about his part in my father’s death. I’ve pretended that same thing to Miles. And I thought it had worked. But I think Miles has worked the assassination out, and I am very nervous about what he plans to do.”

So that was it; at least he knew. Cordelia’s voice sounded again in Laisa’s mind. Barrayarans! They eat their own young, you know. And so, it seemed, they did. She had to agree with Gregor there was no easy way out of this tangle-family secrets didn’t allow anything but painful melodrama anyway, and on Barrayar, with these families, so much more was always at stake. Not to mention Miles’s mysterious Terran and whatever surprises he had planned. Still … her grin surprised her. “Perhaps you’ll just have to wait and see what happens, love.”

Gregor gave her a rueful look. “Yes. And for once I hate it.”

* * * * *

When Miles, directed by Roic, strolled into the library at Vorkosigan House he found Ekaterin sitting with Nikki in front of the unsecured comconsole. Both seemed intent on a colourful display of cartography, by the look of it Barrayar’s Northern Continent at about, Miles calculated with a squint, the end of the Cetagandan Occupation. His cough was forestalled as both turned to look at him.

“Hello, love.”

“Hello, sir.”

“Hello Nikki.” He looked greetings and mild puzzlement at Ekaterin. “I thought homework was over for the season.” Ekaterin smiled and gestured at her son.

“It is, sir. I was asking Mama about the Cetagandans.”

Were you, indeed? But a thought saved Miles from over-reacting. “Would this be to do with your Captain Vortalon, by chance? I heard”-he tapped his nose-“that you and Arthur Pym had an earnest disagreement about him.” Nikki’s slit-eyed appreciation of good intelligence-work warmed Miles’s heart and Ekaterin looked at him with a smile, but the boy was shaking his head.

“Not Vortalon himself. It was something Emperor Dorca said.” A slight hesitation. “I can explain it, sir, but it involves some plot-stuff.”

“I’ve the time, if you want to explain it, Nikki.” And no terrible wish to use my seizure stimulator just yet. Nikki nodded, and with a glance at Ekaterin Miles settled into a spare chair. “So what did Dorca the Just say, and what is your dispute with Arthur?”

Nikki frowned. “I think you know, sir, that Captain Vortalon, well, Lord Vortalon really, had to hunt down the men who killed his da?”

It was Miles’s turn to nod, rather abruptly. Ekaterin too stiffened in her seat. It was Vortalon, after all, who had oppressed Nikki last year with consciousness of possible obligations to revenge, when slander had rumoured Miles as the killer of his own unlamented da. Not unlamented by him. The thought was shared, but Nikki was speaking again, at careful length.

“It took Lord Vortalon a long time to get the last assassin, the mastermind, because it turned out to be his cousin.” A steady look traversed them both. “A bit like Lord Richars attacking Count Dono last year. The cousin was going to kill him too-Lord Vortalon, I mean-so he could inherit the Countship. It was greed, really, I think. He was poor because his da and Lord Vortalon’s da quarrelled, and his da was disinherited, so he felt cheated.” Nikki took a breath. “Lord Vortalon couldn’t believe it for the longest time, but eventually his friend gave him evidence so he knew he had to kill him but he though the dishonour of kin-killing was too great. So he went to Prince Xav, who he always calls his mentor as well as his commander, and asked him what he should do.”

Despite the thorny ground and uncertain pronouns Miles was caught up in the tale and the unfolding problem. As his stepson spoke he also found himself appreciating the boy’s mind. Nikki had caught up quickly with the weight of Barrayaran history that had so suddenly entered his life with his new family.

“The Prince was your great-grandfather, wasn’t he, sir?”

“Quite right. His daughter Olivia married Count Piotr, and was my Da’s ma. So what advice did old Xav give Lord Vortalon?”

“He said everyone must decide for himself what truly matters. There was obviously dishonour and danger in killing the cousin, who was being protected by some Cetagandans, but also in letting him live. And Prince Xav said he couldn’t ever be allowed actually to inherit.”

“Did Lord Vortalon accept that?”

“Well, he had to. But he asked Prince Xav what he thought his Da would do-what Emperor Dorca would do.” Miles held his breath. “And Prince Xav said sadly that Dorca would certainly kill him, on principle. And that’s what Vortalon did, only they didn’t show the actual killing.” Nikki brooded briefly on this injustice, then looked straight at Miles. “Arthur and I agree Prince Xav was very noble but Lord Vortalon and Emperor Dorca were right. What do you think, sir?”

If they were agreed this was not the dispute, so Miles trod warily. “That is a mature point-of-view, Nikki, but I think myself it was Vortalon and Dorca who were noble, and Xav who was right.” He gave Ekaterin a mildly apologetic glance. “As to whether the cousin, ah, needed to be killed … well, I don’t think I can honestly say without knowing a lot more about him.” This seemed to be accepted. “What did you and Arthur disagree about?”

“What Emperor Dorca’s principle was, sir. Arthur says it’s revenge, that you have to avenge a wrong, especially a killing.”

“And what do you say?”

Nikki gave a sly grin. “I think it’s more complicated than that because emperors have to be.” Out of the mouths of babes … Gregor had taken to Nikki after the boy called him to request rescue from Vassily Vorsoisson’s panicked attempt to take custody of him from Ekaterin. “Of course, he’d want revenge”-he was now Ezar, Miles guessed-“just like everyone else. But he couldn’t make that a principle, I don’t think. Not over everything else.”

“You are very right, Nikki.” Speak to the heart. “And you have good reason to know why that must be so.”

“Yes. That’s part of it.” A frank look-good boy. No-smart boy. “But Prince Xav knew the cousin killing Count Vortalon wasn’t just murder, it was high treason. So it wasn’t in every case that Dorca would have said to kill the killer, only this particular one. Emperors can’t overlook treason.”

“That’s a persuasive idea, Nikki, and mostly right. But you know, emperors can overlook a lot, when they want to. Not all treason is equally threatening to the Imperium.”

“I thought of that, sir. But the cousin who murdered Count Vortalon wasn’t just stealing a rank. He was stealing a district. And he was …  I don’t know, poisoning the Council of Counts.” Nikki blushed a little. “I heard Count Dono say that about Lord Richars. It made me think of Lord Vortalon’s problem because he decided in the end he’d do it, the killing I mean, because it wasn’t only for himself, but for everyone the cousin would rule.” The frown returned. “But that’s a different thing, isn’t it? From Dorca’s principle? Or what I think his principle is.”

This scrupulous addition won Miles’s admiration. “You’ve certainly thought about it very carefully.” He peered at the comconsole display. “Where did the maps come in?”

“Oh … I was wondering where Vortalon’s District could have been. I know they made it up, but it’s supposed to be close to Vorbarr Sultana.” Another frown. “In the stuff at the beginning it’s always said to be heavily occupied. I was wondering if that could have been what Xav meant about Dorca, that the cousin would have to die because he was a collaborator.”

“Ah … probably not. But that’s just another version of the treason theory, Nikki. And like treason, collaboration comes in many forms.”

“Huh.” Nikki gave the comsonsole display a thoughtful look. “I don’t think I understand the Cetagandans, sir. How they think, I mean. Mama said the ones who came here were all ghem, but they would have orders from the haut who stayed behind.”

Did she, now?“That sounds right.” Miles considered. “I can’t think of a simpler way of putting it, Nikki, than to say the entire Cetagandan Imperium is a sort of giant genetic experiment. The haut want to become more than human. Post-human, some people say. They may already be … inhuman. But they certainly run the show, and though Cetagandans don’t talk about it much these days, your Mama is right that the ghem would not have invaded Barrayar without their haut emperor’s command.”

“But what do the ghem get out of it? Are they just troops, then?”

“Not really, Nikki. But what the ghem get out of subservience to the haut is a good question.” With no certain answer. Miles looked at Ekaterin more to gain time than anything else, but to his surprise she took it as a cue.

“Think about it, Nikki love. You know about the need to feel loyal to something-to love something. In their own way, I think, the ghem love the haut. As their parents, really. And they are fiercely loyal, as you are to Miles and I.”

Miles’s came to red alert. Not surprising Ekaterin was one thing, but that analysis cut deeper to Cetagandan bone than any reference article Miles had ever read, which was all of them. In about five thousand fewer words. To whom had Ekaterin been talking? And how had it been arranged?

“Loyalty? Huh.” Nikki brooded on this.

Time to switch tracks. Miles waved a hand airily. “In any case, I’m impressed by your and Arthur’s dispute.” He grinned at his delightful stepson. “It’s very high-minded. How shall you resolve it between you?”

“Well, that’s another thing. I was going to ask the Emperor when I had a chance.” Nikki glanced up as his parents came simultaneously to alarmed attention. “I know that’s not what the special card’s for. I meant at some party or something. You’re always going to them. But Arthur’s never met him at all so it doesn’t seem fair.” Had Nikki been standing he would, Miles thought, have been scuffling his feet, hands in pockets. “I suppose there isn’t really an answer anyway. They never said on the ’vid what the principle was.”

Miles and Ekaterin both eyed him warily. “You know, Nikki,” she began, “that episode was first shown only two or three years ago, wasn’t it? You could write a letter to the company that made it.”

“Would they reply?”

Good point. “They would, I fancy, if the letter was on Auditorial paper.” Miles had no objection to dumping problems on the scriptwriters, and grinned at Nikki, who grinned back.

“Yeah, they would then. I’ll ask Arthur. He and his Ma went down to the lake today. We’re going on Friday?”

“Yes.” Miles returned Ekaterin’s measured look. “It’ll be fun, Nikki. Summers on the lake and in the hills are among my best memories. But you know we have guests this weekend? And some business, I’m afraid.”

“Oh yes, Uncle Georg and Aunt Helen, and Aunt Alys and Uncle Simon, and others I’m Not to Ask About.” Nikki’s voice teased his Ma, who smiled back, but the boy’s face revealed sudden calculation. Uh-oh … At the same moment a thump and quacking miaow from the far side of the library revealed to three startled gazes a triumphant grey-and-tabby form perched precariously on the uppermost brass-ring of an armillary sphere of which Miles was extremely fond; it dated from the last decade of the Time of Isolation. A tail waved in uncertain balance. As if reminded Nikki shook himself free of his seat and stood, his head almost level with his mother’s and well above Miles’s.

“Can I go see the new kittens?”

Zap already had more of the persistent little horrors? How fast, exactly, could cats breed? Not for the first time Miles began to believe reports he’d read about feral colonies of Felis catus on old Terra, and shuddered at the thought of the progressing Barrayaran infestation for which he could probably be held single-cattedly responsible. Ekaterin was simply nodding at their son.

“Yes, but take care you don’t disturb Ma Kosti, Nikki dear. She’s … a bit preoccupied today.” And extremely indignant about Vorlynkin hating cauliflower. Apparently. Or so Roic had informed Miles with a whistle, to his lordship’s confusion. There was another wild miaow and clatter from the far side of the room; Miles carefully didn’t look. “We’ll see you at dinner, dear.” Ekaterin turned as Nikki slipped out. “Which is early, of course.” So I can use my stimulator and pass out at a decent hour.

“Right.” And onto more cheerful things, not before time. A small paw felt his shin and extended needle-sharp claws in secret greeting. Miles sighed and reached down. “Martya Koudelka sends love, and says she’ll call you at Vorkosigan Surleau sometime next week.”