Forward Momentum -- Chapter 5 (a)

[bracketyjack]

Chapter Five

To Ekaterin’s intense relief Saturday dawned fair and sunny.

She had been in two minds about Aunt Alys’s notion of eating outside, but a quiet hour the previous evening, sitting in peaceful twilight on the shaded south terrace while Miles showed Nikki round house and nearer grounds persuaded her she wanted to try. As she breathed upland air, even at this low elevation clearer and colder than that of Vorbarr Sultana, the improbable presence on her lap of a purring grey-and-tabby kitten also helped settle her mind while she wondered how the adventurous little beast had conned or stolen its way in Miles’s wake into one of the many aircars transporting Armsmen and staff. Rain, she discovered with surprise, would have been an absurdly bitter disappointment, and long before Miles was up, let alone about, she rounded up an assortment of staff and stray ImpSec men to rearrange tables and bear china or linen to their destinations.

Miles himself, having been brought a breakfast tray and coffee by Pym before leaving his own chambers, peered round the kitchen door at this organised bustle and sensibly headed in the opposite direction. Everything he was responsible for had been fine the previous evening-multiple security perimeters established, Chandler’s equip­ment screened and installed, Chandler himself resigned to an uncomfortable evening with ImpSec who would deep-screen him, keep him incommunicado over­night, and bring him in time for lunch. Nor, Miles told himself, was he nervous-it’s not like a combat drop mission; really-but did admit to a twangling anticipation a little north of his stomach, like waiting for fireworks to begin on the Emperor’s birthday.

Wandering round the house he was both mildly horrified and rather admiring to find at the side-door, where guests would enter, Captain Khourakis, in unexcep­tionable mufti but nevertheless at something very like parade rest, and on a nearby bench Nikki and Arthur Pym, suspiciously neatly turned out. Both greeted him politely as Khourakis nodded a mufti salute. Suppressing both a squawk and a grin he gave greetings back and went to lean against the wall by Khourakis. After a moment the boys resumed a muttered conversation both adults could hear perfectly well, and they listened together in, Miles thought, mutual fascination to Arthur’s colourfully indignant commentary on a young Jankowski hoyden in the village. He already had something of his father’s turns of phrase but without the senior Armsman’s range of nuance and banked-up tact, producing a sometimes compelling effect. Miles’s crystallising thought was that Miss Janowski sounded an ideal candidate for ImpSec training in a few years, for the women’s squad in the protection detail. A true niece of her uncle, belike. When he caught the captain’s eye at the end of the tale he knew his thoughts were shared. Miles smiled to himself but had to swallow a groan as Arthur guilelessly continued another fascinating conversation he and Nikki must have been having.

“Do you think He’ll be in an unmarked aircar, then?” The capital H was clearly audible, and Khourakis stiffened militarily inside his mufti.

“Probably. But you can’t be sure. It might have false markings, for disguise.”

“But there’s no danger here.”

“No, I know, but security’s like insurance, you know? You have to think it might happen.”

Miles had, he sadly realised, used his happy metaphor of explanation for apparently pointless precautions once too often; in Nikki’s mouth it sounded horribly like a quotation. Khourakis glanced at Miles accusingly, and cleared his throat. Nikki and Arthur looked round.

“Whom are you discussing, please, Master Vorkosigan?” The official ImpSec voice was as level and severe as Khourakis’s grammar. Nikki glanced at Miles, who shrugged. Your ball, kiddo. Nikki swallowed.

“The Emperor, sir.”

“And why should you think His Imperial Majesty is expected here today?”

Nikki sighed with the long-suffering tolerance of children for slow adults. “Well, you are here, sir, with your squad fully deployed. I remember you from my Mama’s wedding to Lord Vorkosigan.” Then he added in an undertone, “And everyone’s been so mysterious it has to be Gregor. I mean His Imperial Majesty.” Khourakis looked delightfully nonplussed.

“You see,” Miles observed sententiously, “how security can become self-defeating?”

Khourakis glared at him, and showed that nonplussed did not mean distracted. “So why are you and Master Pym waiting for Him?” This time Miles gave Nikki’s quick glance a fractional shake of the head. Greeting Gregor with Lord Vortalon’s problem was not what Miles wanted; not that it wasn’t rather horribly relevant in its own way, and the time might come. Nikki took the hint and answered smoothly.

“Because Arthur’s never met him, sir, and we thought he’d be busy all the rest of the time.”

“And you have met him, Master Vorkosigan?”

“Yes, sir. Several times.” He gave a sidelong glance at Arthur Pym, very still beside him. “Through my step-father, sir. And at my Mama’s wedding, of course, when he was being Count Vorbarra.”

Now that was a skillful deflection, Miles thought, and it was interesting that Nikki had not chosen to mention his personal access to Gregor to the ImpSec captain. Or in front of Arthur, whom he hasn’t told?  Either way, good boy. Miles levered himself off the wall.

“No security breach, you see, Captain Khourakis.” Khourakis had the grace to look down. Despite his apparent ease the ImpSec man was still, Miles thought, more unsettled by the oddity of this weekend than he ought to be after three days with Jankowski. Hmm. “I can’t see there’s any harm in my stepson and his friend being here. My foster-brother likes children, you know. And this is a family weekend, after all.”

The obligatory acknowledgement from Khourakis came out slightly strangled, but his blushes were spared by the arrival of a roomy old aircar bearing the Vorthyses. Nikki ran to greet his great-aunt and uncle, and after a moment he and Arthur extracted cases and valises from the hands of the ImpSec pilot and carried them into the house.

“Hello, Miles. A lovely day.” Shrewd eyes twinkled down at him.

“Georg. Helen.” He stretched to kiss the Professora’s cheek. “You’ll find Ekaterin directing a small army in the kitchen, if you care to risk life and limb. Or …” He steered the Vorthyses into the library, catching Roic’s eye at his duty station as they passed through the hall and requesting refreshments for the new arrivals. “There’s a nice spot here to curl up with coffee.” Miles glanced through the window as a sleek lightflyer he recognised as Allegre’s private vehicle came down. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course, Miles dear.” Helen Vorthys waved him on his way, her glance straying to the laden shelves around her. “We shall be fine.”

Allegre had brought Vorlynkin, Miles saw as he re-emerged into the morning sunlight. Both were, like Khourakis, in well-chosen but ineffective mufti-similarly unremarkable suits that did nothing to conceal habitually military bearings. Khourakis was already trotting towards them. Behind him Nikki and Arthur slipped out, peered briefly, and stepped aside to stand neatly in front of their bench as the party approached, the captain now bearing two small cases.

“Shall we take those to the guests’ rooms for you, sir?”

Miles enjoyed the look on Khourakis’s face as he tried to reconcile abandoning the personal property of two very senior officers to ten-year-old boys with his deeply engrained security protocols. Allegre, suppressing a grin, took pity on his man and thanked Nikki and Arthur gravely. The boys claimed their trophies and departed. Miles stepped forward.

“Good morning, Guy, Yuri. All well, I trust?”

Allegre looked at him sardonically. “Indeed, Miles, Captain Khourakis says so, as much as may be.” He took in the mellow stone of the house, then at the lake sparkling in the clear air, and with unfeigned approval gazed toward the Dendarii peaks, looming on the skyline as strengthen­ing summer light caught higher rockfields and meadows. “A beautiful setting. I’ve seen it on security ’vids many times, of course, but never been here in person. Your grandfather’s retreat in old age, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. With his horses.” Miles turned to Vorlynkin. “He and your late uncle exchanged stock once or twice, Yuri. And you ride yourself, I believe?”

“When I can.”

“The stables are over that rise, well inside our second perimeter. Wander over whenever you like. These days there’s nothing like the number of beasts my grandfather kept, but you’ll have a few to choose from. And the hacking paths beyond the paddock stay on the estate for several miles. Some go up to the castle.” He gestured at the crags with ruined fortifications topping them that rose above village and lake. “The ostlers will show you.” Miles thought of the cases he had seen. “There’s riding gear as well as tack.”

Vorlynkin looked disarmed at this friendly Vor beneficence. Good. “That’s very kind of you, ah, Miles. But I doubt I’ll have time.”

“Oh, early tomorrow you should, if it’s fine and you’re up. In the meantime …” He ushered them into the house and towards the library, where the Vorthyses stood in greeting. A footman, who had plainly only just set down a tray of coffee-pot and cups, retreated in search of additional china. Heads were nodding hellos.

“You all know one another, I think, except … Helen, this is Yuri Vorlynkin, of the General Staff. Yuri, Helen Vorthys of the History Department at Vorbarr Sultana University.”

“Admiral.”

“Professora.”

Everyone, it seemed, had been doing their homework.  Reward time. As the footman returned Miles gestured everyone to sit, placing himself where he could see out of the window. “Lunch will be on the south terrace, but frankly, it’s more than our skins are worth to go out before we are summoned. Though I hope Ekaterin may spare herself and join us before too long.” He settled back and turned to the Professora. “Guy has been asking about the house and Yuri has hopes of my horses. Did you find something on the shelves to interest you, Helen?”

“Oh yes, dear.” The Professora’s eyes twinkled. “I have had occasion recently to realise that a great deal of recent history is not in the books. Biographies of your grandfather, for example, are notably sparse and confused. But I have a promising young graduate who might rectify that for you, if you let her. And what do I see in those wonderful family bindings over there but muster-rolls for an entirely undocumented bit of the First Cetagandan War.” She shook a finger at him. “Really, dear, I know I agreed with you that Commodore Galeni was exaggerating when he denounced the uncatalogued state of your attics at Vorkosigan House, but I begin to wonder if he doesn’t have a point.”

Miles looked at Ekaterin’s smiling aunt with affectionate rue. Not quite the opening I wanted. But it’ll serve. He circled cautiously. “If you and Duv gang up on me, Helen, I expect I shall have to give in. I confess I had forgotten the muster-rolls, and”-a sly glance at Allegre-“I can’t see there’s any possible objection to releasing that sort of thing now.” Allegre twitched, but his job made him constitutionally allergic to telling anyone anything. “For a proper biography of Piotr, though, you’d need my Da, not muster-rolls. And I don’t know he’d be any more willing to co-operate now than he has ever been.” Miles steepled his fingers, glancing at Vorlynkin. “Strictly military seminars, yes. I think several of us here have heard one of those. But even in-house he says very little of his father.” Nor does Ma. Helen was nodding.

“I know, dear. And I see, of course, there might still be some very sensitive matters regarding Count Piotr. But I do think some greater openness, and frankness about matters that are open, would … serve the Vorkosigans and Barrayar better than the formal opacity we have all traditionally favoured.” The Professora smiled mischievously. “Do you agree, General Allegre? Can you? In principle, I mean.”

“Actually, I can, Professora. My concern is to keep secret what needs to be kept secret. My job is easier if there are fewer such things. You, I think”-he gave Miles a very dry glance-“are not discussing security issues at all, merely inefficient documentary accountancy on the civil side.” Ouch. Miles didn’t want anyone messing about with his Gran’da’s books and papers, never mind his own, but maybe a proper librarian was the lesser evil. Allegre smiled at him and went on. “Yuri may have a different perspective, of course. Military secrets are in a distinct category, and far less often my concern than people believe.”

“Well, that’s true, I suppose.” Relaxed in his chair, Miles found Vorlynkin a pleasant tenor counterpoint to Allegre’s baritone. “But military secrets tend to have short lives, for the most part. Secret weapons, for example, don’t stay very secret once you actually use them. It’s the ones you’ve never used that are the headache. And in a general sense I would certainly agree with the Professora that General Count Vorkosigan’s muster-rolls should be properly analysed and written-up. That’s a book I’d like to read myself.” He paused, choosing words carefully. “The guerrilla aspects of the First Cetagandan War are of interest to military historians everywhere, you know, Miles. I don’t have to answer them, thank God, but I know the Staff’s library people get a lot of galactic requests for access to our old records, as well as the usual heavy traffic from Barrayarans about their own relatives. Were I asked I would, I think, favour extensive declassification of materials predating the Komarr invasion. Even a little later.” He grinned. “And Colonel Vorinnis, our Chief Librarian, would doubtless be delighted to be able to refer enquiries to you.”

Miles smiled acidly, but there was his opportunity on a platter. “You don’t feel then, Yuri, that the Imperium would be ill-served by reviving so many memories of the, ah”-horror-show-“less savoury aspects of Barrayaran history? And the Occupation?” He gestured upwards. “I happened, for example, quite recently, in those attics at Vorkosigan House Duv Galeni is so keen for me to have inventoried, to come across a small bag among my grandfather’s things. It contained a score or so of rather tatty Cetagandan ghem-scalps. I confess, publishing on the matter did not cross my mind as an option when I was wondering what to do with them.” Miles smiled toothily. “Is Barrayar really ready to think about its Barrayarities? It would, I fancy, be news to my lady mother.”

A snort from the Professora reminded Miles that Helen and Cordelia were close allies in the great women’s league of benign family manage­ment, a channel of communication not to be underestimated and beyond his control. But Vorlynkin took his question straight and ignored its addendum.

“I see your point, of course, Miles. But … have you seen the tourists who go to Vorhartung Castle and pay to see Mad Yuri’s scalp with all the other Vor bits in the museum? And the way Barrayaran visitors, not just Vor or attendants, are amused by them? Not cross, or embarrassed-just amused.” He shook his head. “I’m not altogether sure how or when it happened, but since Komarr Barrayar has … grown up. And, frankly, things are stable. Safe, in the short and visible medium term, over, well, more than a decade now. Since the War of the Hegen Hub at any rate, and that was something of an anomaly. So I think probably we could afford to face ourselves a little more than we have.”

Thank you, Admiral. We could indeed. And we’re going to have to. As if on cue Miles saw in one corner of his eye the slow descent outside of another capacious old aircar discreetly marked on wide doors with the Vorpatril arms, and in the other Ekaterin appear in the library doorway, cool and elegant in a long summer dress shimmering with soft greens and blues. Yes! “Hold that thought, people.” Miles beamed at his wife. “We’ll be back in just a moment.”

* * * * *

Ekaterin’s morning had been efficiently productive and satisfying to her. At some basic level it was a pleasure, pure and simple, to be able to invest properly in the duty and reward of receiving interesting (and some beloved) guests in her home. One of her homes. Miles’s home. My home. The mantra had, she thought, worked to some degree. What she had caught of Admiral Vorlynkin’s words as she skimmed across the hall sounded positive, and Miles, when she saw him, looked like a cat choosing between a rich variety of canaries. As he bounced up, excusing himself, she saw the aircar coming down and with nods to the assembled company let him drag her out again.

“Is this just Alys and Simon, Miles? Or …”

“I suspect they have company.”

“Ah. Hold on a minute.” Ekaterin swung round to collar a passing maid. “Please ask Pym immediately to escort all the guests from the library to the terrace, and warn our special guest to be ready.”

The maid galloped off as they swung out through the door. Nikki and Arthur, Miles saw with approval, were back on parade. With considerably less approval but renewed admiration for the feline covert ops network he saw next to them a small, unusually marked kitten, not as smartly turned out or presented as the boys but doing its best to get there by washing vigorously. Briefly he pondered the possibility of recruiting Zap and all her offspring as ImpSec trainers at the Academy, but decided discipline would be a problem. And Guy would almost certainly not find the idea funny. Pity. In front of him Khourakis came to quivering attention, and two other ImpSec men in mufti drifted into view beyond the descending aircar. Miles clapped Nikki on the shoulder.

“Good work. Make sure everyone knows which room they’re in, mind. You and Arthur were so efficient they never got shown up to them.”

Nikki grinned, but kept his attention on the aircar, watching it settle solidly on the grass. As the kitten looked round the front canopy opened and a guard came smoothly out, eyes scanning round before turning to Khourakis. ImpSec nods were exchanged, and a second man slid out to open the rear canopy and let down a pair of steps. Nikki and Arthur more or less came to attention themselves as the bodyguard leaned in and handed out Empress L-no, judging from her Komarran trousers it was Countess Vorbarra today. Gregor, in  a simple suit but as dazzlingly elegant as ever, swung himself out next, before leaning back to hand Alys down the steps and receive her benign smile of approval. Illyan followed. The driver was still constantly scanning ground and sky with an even, quartering sweep, and Miles urged Ekaterin forwards to greet everyone in the hope of getting the whole party inside. But we’re lunching outside anyway. And there’s Nikki … With a mental shrug he reminded himself Vorkosigan Surleau was, after all, safe and ImpSec men paid to be alert. Besides, air cover was up, two further aircars had settled by the security-men’s barracks to disgorge liveried Vorbarra Armsmen, and before he and Ekaterin finished exchanging kisses all round Gregor noticed the children, and sent Nikki a quick grin before giving Arthur Pym an appraising look that made him quiver, and walking over.

“Hello, Nikki.”

“Hello, Sire. May I present my friend, Arthur Pym. You know his da, Armsman Pym.”

“I do.” Gravely Gregor shook Arthur’s hand. “Your father is a fine man. Laisa, love-“ He captured his wife and effected the further introduction. Arthur goggled, but manfully shook hands when they were offered. The kitten demanded to be introduced as well. Looking away with a sigh Miles noticed with greater satisfaction that the windows by the side-door framed a beaming Pym and Ma Pym, watching their son talk to his rulers, and nudged Ekaterin to follow his gaze.

“All is well.”

“Yes. It is, isn’t it.” But her eyes were serious. “Until your Dr Chandler sets us all by the ears. ImpSec delivered him by his request to the back door and he begged a chance to freshen up. Pym will bring him down at your signal.”

“Perfect.” Imperial introductions had been completed; the kitten trotted back towards the house while Nikki and Arthur claimed Alys’s and Illyan’s cases, leaving imperial baggage to be dealt with in proper security by the well-laden ImpSec captain. Gregor looked across at him.

“That’s an oddly coloured kitten you have there, Miles, and apparently a skilled tracker already. Why doesn’t it have a name yet?”

Miles sighed again. “Because ‘Armillary Sphere’, ‘Pierre le Sanguin­aire’, and even the simple ‘Pest’ have all been summarily rejected by my nearest and dearest. As it follows me everywhere like an interfering ghost I am presently considering ‘ImpSec’.” As he hoped this shotgun sally produced confused silence, save a stifled snort from Illyan. “Splendid. Everyone’s here. Let’s eat.”

Ekaterin wasn’t quite sure how it happened but tradition smoothly exerted itself and she found herself walking beside Gregor while before them Miles escorted Laisa; Alys and Simon brought up the rear. As they crossed the hall Pym and Jankowski stood tall without exactly coming to attention, and Pym peeled off to precede Miles through the kitchen. Ekaterin’s mind froze. Gak. Yes, she really was escorting the Emperor of Barrayar through her kitchen. Gregor looked … charmed; he didn’t, she supposed, get to see many kitchens. What Laisa might be thinking she would not imagine. The other guests, she saw as Pym exited to the terrace and deftly slid to one side, were already in their appointed places round the long table. Sunlight dappled china and expectant faces.

“Count and Countess Vorbarra. Lady Alys Vorpatril. Captain Illyan.”

Pym’s voice was just as usual. Laisa waved the company to keep their seats with a smile. Both Vorthyses managed to do so equably, Ekaterin noticed with restorative amusement at her aunt’s and uncle’s savoir faire, while Allegre and Vorlynkin half-rose and had to subside as Gregor held his own palms down, smiling round and taking in the scene.

“Professora, Gentlemen. No formalities today, please.” He turned to Ekaterin as Alys and Simon slid past to their places. “Save in thanking our hostess.” Momently full Emperor, he gave her a half-bow, eyes dancing but intent on her as his gesture encompassed terrace and gleaming table. “To bring such grace to events is a blessing, milady.”

The compliment was absurdly pleasing. I can do this. “I’ve had the best help, as you well know.” Her eyes sought Alys. “Lady Alys has been a godsend. And of course it’s Ma Kosti we must thank for the food. You and Laisa are in the middle there.”

She saw them seated and took her own place as Miles claimed his at the far end of the table, but remained standing beside his chair. Now only one place was empty, between Uncle Georg and Simon Illyan. Nikki would be fed elsewhere by Ma Pym. Numbers were hopelessly uneven, of course, but that she could not control.

“One formality, Gregor, and we’re away.” Miles looked over to where Pym waited, flanked by a Vorbarra Armsman, and nodded. Pym vanished. Eight faces looked at their host, and one at her husband, who gestured to the empty chair. “Friends. Our missing guest, as some of you know, is a Terran scientist who has an hypothesis upon which much may hang. I have asked you here that you may see and hear him for yourselves, with a little time at least to reflect on what he says.” Miles smiled at his assembled Imperial cabinet. “And on an idea or two of my own. All of you have special skills and areas of knowledge I ask you to draw on. And all of us-” he smiled warmly at Laisa-“have the interests of the Imperium close-held in our hearts.”

At least that provokes no shuffling in this company. He took a breath and looked at all in turn. “My Lady. My Lord Auditor. Professora. Lady Alys. Chief Illyan. General Allegre. Admiral Vorlynkin.” He grinned at Gregor and Laisa. “Even, in a strange way, Count and Countess Vorbarra.” Forwards. “As Simon will tell you, I have been known to exceed my orders. But in case any of you thought I was running away with myself again, please be assured you are all here not only informally, as valued friends of this house, but quasi-formally also, as advisers of Emperor Gregor. After lunch there is a seminar, to outline our problem, so I make no apology for the absence of wine now. But I do promise to raid the cellars this evening.”

Gregor was looking thoughtful. “You know, Miles, I’m not sure I can advise myself. But it’s a nice legal point and I shall certainly try, with or without wine’s help.”

“Thank you.” I think. And here was Pym, with Chandler at his shoulder, well-groomed and tense. “Ah, Dr Chandler.” Pym guided the Terran round to his chair. “Your Majesties, may I present Dr Jack Chandler, of Terra. Dr Chandler, Their Imperial Majesties Emperor Gregor and Empress Laisa Vorbarra of Barrayar.” Hands were offered and taken. “Who today are Count and Countess Vorbarra.”

Chandler nodded, studying Gregor intently, as the emperor studied him. Each, Miles was vastly relieved to see, seemed reassured by the other. Quickly he ran round the company again, this time giving first names and discarding the titles Chandler already knew.

“My wife, Ekaterin. Her uncle and aunt, Georg and Helen Vorthys. My aunt, Alys Vorpatril. Simon Illyan, formerly, and Guy Allegre, presently of ImpSec. Yuri Vorlynkin of the General Staff.”

Chandler nodded and shook hands in turn around the table, before seating himself as servitors began to appear with plates of delicious soup and warm, fresh bread. For a while everybody was occupied with tasting, noises of appreciation, and setting-to, and Miles was beginning to think he would have to set some harmless ball rolling when Chandler opened his own account by turning to Georg Vorthys.

“Lord Auditor.”

“Oh, Georg, please.”

“Thank you, but I meant the address. I have read some of your papers with admiration, but none with more fascination than your Auditorial report on the strange soletta disaster at Komarr early last year.” Eh? Did Chandler know he had just stiffened spines around the table? He did. “I thought it unwise to trail in negotiations with your fellow Auditor, so I have said nothing to anyone, but now I am here perhaps I may satisfy some part of my curiosity.” Chandler paused to eat, and glanced over to Miles. “Excellent soup. Of course, you also signed that report, Lord Vorkosigan, and naturally I believe every word of it. But it doesn’t explain why there should at the time of the disaster have been such a strong gravitic anomaly near the soletta array.” He dried his mouth. “Of course, granting the report as a cover, I must respect its motives. But as a scientist, Georg, relieve my curiosity on one specific matter.”

Vorthys’s gaze, Miles noticed, strayed momently to Gregor and re­turned to Chandler. “If I can.” Not ‘If I may’. Permission had been given.

“My own data, peripherally gathered, made me aware of the gravitic anomaly. A little work persuaded me the nearby jump-point was of interest.” Chandler paused. “My question is whether I should, in the natural course of events, expect other wormholes so to … fluctuate?”

Vorthys smiled appreciation. “That would be no. Nor even, I hope, in the unnatural.” The old engineer turned Auditor looked at the Terran keenly. “I suspect that was a fine deduction as well as a delicate question, Doctor.” He nodded at the murmured ‘Jack, please.’ “Jack. Have you a particular concern with wormholes? Or jump-points?”

“So long as they cannot spontaneously do what that Komarran one seemed to have done, not really. Save in political terms.”

This spread the conversation nicely. Miles leaned forward. “Do you mean as choke-points?” No-one was pretending to do anything but listen anyway.

“Partly.” Chandler gestured round at his audience. “There is an old Terran expression about not teaching one’s grandmother to suck eggs. Perhaps a Barrayaran equivalent would be not teaching your Baba to negotiate. I wouldn’t presume to lecture this company, nor any Barrayar­ans, on the importance of the wormhole network. But”-his hands spread eloquently-“our strengths are so often our weaknesses. Yes, wormholes are the skeleton of the nexus-so like a skeleton they support our movements but also determine where we can go, what we can do. My concern is with what may lie beyond those limits, as sensors go beyond eyes, and technology takes us beyond the limits imposed on us by our necessary possession of skeletons.” He smiled apologetically. “I mean that wormholes are merely a phenomenon. I come to the physical universe through another door. But wormholes have, quite incidentally to themselves and for accidental reasons, become critical to the Nexus and its polities in a manner no astrophysicist can ignore.”

Attention was sharp around the table.

“Accidental reasons, Doctor?” Gregor’s voice was neutral. “Cogent reasons, surely?”

“Certainly, ah, Count Vorbarra. Given the technology we have. I mean no disrespect to existing systems but the problems of the Nexus-as Barrayarans may especially appreciate-smell to me of epistemology, not ontology.” Vorthys was nodding at this; so, Ekaterin saw, were Allegre and Vorlynkin. “I may be wrong but I seriously doubt the use of mutually interfering Necklin fields to enter a spontaneous connection between points of quantum instability is the only means of rapidly trans­porting matter around the galaxy.”

Now Uncle Georg was laughing. “Put like that, I agree. It’s not elegant enough to be basic, is it? But it’s all we have.”

“Indeed. But not all we know.”

Illyan stirred on Chandler’s other side. “An interesting distinction, Doctor.” He paused as empty bowls were replaced with plates of cold smoked fish and delicate salad, glasses replenished with a strong, clear apple-juice. “Second-guessing is a tricksy game, prone to disappointment. But are you suggesting there is something else we could do?”

“Not that we could do today, sir. Wormholes remain a limiting condition on development for all, as Newtonian mechanics restrain free movement in space. My point is simply that they are tactical or strategic parameters, not eternal verities.” A slight hesitation. “Some of this will become clearer in due course, I believe.”

“It isn’t unclear now.” Illyan smiled. “And you are quite right that the wormhole network is only incidentally critical. A single new link may render a dozen strategies and installations obsolete overnight.”

“That’s certainly true.” Vorlynkin was nodding vigorously. “I remember a ‘what-if’ exercise they used to do at the Academy, where the variable was our wormhole connection. What if it wasn’t via Komarr, but, oh, Tauranira? Or Jackson’s Whole?”

Miles couldn’t ignore that opening. “Well now. There’s a planet I’ve dreamed of invading.” He glanced at Gregor and Guy Allegre. “During my first Auditorial case, two years ago, I was more or less urged to pay it an official and heavily armed visit, and I confess temptation. The gene-houses there really do deserve some, ah, cleaning up.” He looked back at Vorlynkin. “I remember that exercise too, Yuri. What were your conclusions?”

“Oh, nothing startling. But thinking the variables through makes one sharply aware of the distinction between the facts that our link to Komarr is our only link, a lifeline we cannot ever abandon, but also our link to Komarr specifically, as itself.” He nodded to Laisa uncertainly. “I mean no offence, Countess, but one of my conclusions was that Barrayar was lucky in its wormhole rediscovery. Komarr too. If Barrayar had been rediscovered through a Ceta planet … well, it was all guesswork, of course, but I didn’t like the implications for anyone.”

Laisa was looking thoughtful. “No offence taken, Admiral. I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way. These days Komarrans tend to see themselves as Barrayar’s galactic interface and, ah, buffer, not its victims. But those aware of the actuarial and insurance aspects of Komarran trade understand the degree of protection and consequent profit Barrayaran fleet-detachments afford us. What you say extends that awareness of a wider galactic shield to the relations of Komarr with Cetaganda-and I agree they might be most uncomfortable.”

Laisa paused while plates were again cleared and glasses filled. Then yet more plates appeared, bearing works of culinary and patisserie art. Ma Kosti, beaming in the kitchen doorway, had outdone herself, but waved away Miles’s nod of congratulations. When Gregor, contemplating a chocolate creation with at least three stories and delicate finials of cream, turned in his seat and half-bowed to her, however, she blushed scarlet without ceasing to beam. Alys sampled a peach tart with a sigh of pleasure.

“Ma Kosti really is the most extraordinary cook, Miles. I’m not sure it wasn’t your duty to let me poach her for the Residence.”

Miles hunched in his seat, Ekaterin saw with amusement. Laisa laughed. “Nooo, Alys. I should soon resemble a beachball, and so would you. Why Miles and Ekaterin don’t is a wonder to me.”

Amid general laughter and sugar-sated mellowness conversation became individual, food the common theme while Chandler and Georg rumbled science. Good coffee appeared, and Miles, judging his moment, caught Chandler’s eye. The Terran nodded, and Miles saw Ekaterin and Gregor had both noticed their exchange. Good. “Seminar time,” he sang out, and rose with Ekaterin to shepherd the party indoors.

* * * * *