Forward Momentum -- Chapter 10 (a)

[bracketyjack]

Chapter Ten

There were rearrangements for their return flight to the house.

Gregor commandeered Nikki and the Viceroy, joining an animated conversation about the Cetagandan boy at Nikki’s school and drawing both to the Vorpatril aircar, while Miles and Ekaterin went with the Vicereine and the Vorthyses. They settled in, but as the ImpSec pilot began to ramp up power his headset crackled, faint words sounding in urgent tones.

“Roger that, Control One. We await your go.” The pilot keyed his internal microphone. “My Lords, my Lady, Professora, we’re being asked to wait a moment.”

Miles tensed.  “What’s up?”

“The air escort are tracking an unidentified lightflyer, my Lord.”

“Where?”

“South-eastern perimeter of the security zone, my Lord.”

Which meant in or very close to the mountains. “Huh. There’s still quite a few unregistered flyers in the hills. Is it old and grubby?” The pilot enquired. “So they say, my Lord.”

“Probably just home-brewed maple mead being run. It is Sunday. Unless he’s heading closer it’s not worth interfering.”

The pilot consulted again. “They’re waiting for it to clear the zone, my Lord.”

“Very well.” Miles settled back with an air of patience. The resistance of hill-families to such tedious legalities as proper registration of flying vehicles and the obligation to buy mead only from the meadery did District revenue no good, and was occasionally, as now, a minor menace, but also part of their independent character, not to be lightly impugned. So now they waited. Bah. Looking round, he saw Georg had folded his arms and was eyeing his diminutive fellow-Auditor with a dubious air.

“Tell me, Miles, how many of those extraordinary words in the square came as a surprise to you?”

Miles raised an eyebrow in return. “Almost all of them, Georg. I had no idea Gregor was in such a decorating mood. Heh.” He clasped Ekaterin’s hand and smiled at her aunt. His aunt too, now. Hmm. “And I only learned last night from Khourakis that he proposed coming to the village at all. Truly.”

Georg looked unconvinced. “Mmm. In that case I congratulate you on your … awareness of how people are feeling. I would not have expected such strongly positive responses to Gregor’s question. Not that I expected the question in the first place.” Miles waggled a hand but Vorthys did not pause. “Frankly, Miles, while I appreciate your security logic, I have been feeling-dragooned is the word, I think-since shortly after lunch yesterday. Jack Chandler’s maths is dazzling but the spectre of what it might do to Barrayar is oppressive. Terrifying, in fact. Now, though … I don’t know, but I am beginning to think you have gauged your moment to perfection, and created an opportunity better than I can credit.” Georg rubbed his chin. “I’ve only been an Auditor five years, but I’ve never seen Gregor in any­thing like his mood today. Of course, yesterday’s events and revelations may be explanation enough, but I’m wondering what I don’t know.”

The Vicereine was also examining her small son thoughtfully. Miles resisted an urge to hunch. “I’m just reacting to events as best I can, Georg. Chandler came out of the blue, and he’s the one making us hop. With the Cetagandans we’re just making a virtue out of necessity. It’s a Vor tradition.” His mother raised an eyebrow, and he swept her a half-bow from his seat. “If there is a moment to gauge, it’s far more yours than mine, milady mother, and thirty years not ten days in the making.”

“Hmm. Thank you dear, but you are changing the subject.”

“No I’m not. Will you tell Helen where her Professor Vorlenski got his holovid image of Kou’s and Drou’s wedding, or shall I?”

“Oh my.” Looking at them both Helen laughed. “Did you really, Cordelia?”

The Vicereine grinned. “Yes, anonymously, because it was technically illegal to release an image taken in the Residence. Aral knew-he pointed out to me the change that wedding ceremony symbolised, and one of the ImpMil people I dealt with innocently recommended Vorlenski as an up-and-coming sociologist.” She sighed. “The Imperium was different then. Miles is right, Georg, that while Aral has worked on wider politics and structures, I have sought change from the bottom up. Health, education, access to the comnet, and uterine replicators, of course-thirty years ago Madame Csarna would not have been free so young to do the excellent work she does. So I did think, in the square, that we’ve made progress; it may even be enough for the strain we’re all about to be put under. But”-she turned to Miles-“Georg is also right. You are being evasive, dear, though I am not entirely sure about what.”

Miles offered a wounded shrug. Helen Vorthys shook her head slowly with a professorial look starting in her eye. “You know, Cordelia, I am beginning to realise you must have educated Gregor far more tellingly than the Academy. A good biography of you is a real desideratum.” His Ma rolled her eyes in what Miles suspected was not entirely mock-horror. “But whatever either of you incorrigible Vorkosigans may be hiding, the dynamics in that square didn’t feel under anyone’s control-even Gregor’s, for all he was acting as chair. The veterans’ attitudes were, I would say, generally predictable-fighting-men’s honour-talk and our Barrayaran admiration for an enemy’s courage-but Ma Gordunov was probably what we were all expecting to hear. That sergeant’s story was an eye-opener. Master Tsipis was interesting, too. I’m only sorry the whole thing wasn’t recorded.” Miles winked and patted the top-pocket of his tunic. “You didn’t, dear! That’s wonderful.”

“You won’t be able to use it for a while, Helen. If ever. And don’t look at me like that, Georg, it’s habit. I didn’t know what might be said, but I wanted a record anyway in case there was anything … heartwarming. And there was. What effect might Sergeant Barnev’s story have on the Cetagandans, do you suppose?” That produced a thoughtful silence.

“Do the haut deal in sentiment?” Georg asked after a moment.

“No. But the ghem deal in honour, and like us are ancestor-worship­pers.” Miles hesitated, shrugged again, and gave up fencing; making history of the kind he had in mind didn’t call for the same tactics as covert ops. “If things work out I’ll get you a copy of the recording, Helen. It may have to await posterity but I grant it should be pre­serv­ed.” He gave a demure look. “Your investiture is certainly public record.”

“Oh my.” Helen went pink again, one hand going in surprise to the medallion gleaming on her breast. “It’s quite something, isn’t it? And yours too, dear.”

She beamed at Ekaterin. The others laughed, and the pilot’s headset crackled again, followed by his crisp announcement “We’re cleared to go, my Lords and Ladies” and a rising whine of engines as the aircar lifted from the wharf. The academic mind was not so easily deflected. “But you know, Miles dear, Georg is right about your timing. Though when he says ‘moment’ I always suspect he means it in the engineering sense.” She smiled fondly at her husband. “I think more temporally, of course. Most of the time it’s hard to tell with Gregor, because he can make history just by speaking, and this whole weekend is so thick with obvious historical moments my poor brain is on overload anyway. But the sense of deep movements, historical movements, was for me very strong in that square. And if you didn’t exactly orchestrate it, Miles dear, it’s clear to a blind man that in the last day or so you have gathered into one hand the Emperor, the General Staff, ImpSec, and now apparently a hidden tide of public thought. It is … formidable.” She hesitated. “I am intrigued by the absence of any civilian politician.”

In for a groat, in for a bushel. “They blab. Both Racozy and Poincaré, who might be supposed to have a right to be here”-he named Gregor’s Prime Minister in succession to the Count-his-father and the current Minister of Defence-“also tend to think of delaying and weaseling all the time, which makes sense domestically dealing with the Council but won’t do with Ceta­gandans at all. Neither ghem nor haut.” He shook his head. “And in practical terms civil power is much more directly control­led by Gregor than military, despite his being Commander-in-Chief. All ministers serve at his pleasure. You couldn’t stage a coup now by seizing the Ministries but you could by controlling the Staff.”

“Yes, I see that. But you can’t really have feared a coup?”

Beside him Ekaterin was wide-eyed as her political horizons abruptly expanded yet again. “Oh, I don’t know. I agree it’s unlikely, but with this hypothesis selectively leaked? Get the order of the technology and its implications for us and Cetaganda wrong in presenting them, and you could revive the old war faction fast enough. Think how close René Vorbretten’s reconfirmation was last year.” Miles brooded. “For men like Boriz Vormoncrief it was self-interested politics as usual more than anything else, attacking a Progressive vote in Council, but to hear some of his supporters you’d have thought René had been revealed as a degenerate traitor rather than one-eighth Cetagandan.”

“But the Council of Counts did reconfirm him.”

“Yes. One straw I saw in the wind to suggest Cetagandans no longer meant to us quite what they used to. Vorhalas voted for him, you know.”

“Ah. And was young Nikki’s friend another straw? He hadn’t said anything about that to me or Georg.”

“Nor to me.” Miles looked at Ekaterin, who shook her head.

“Not a word. He did tell me he’d seen a fight where the boy being picked on beat his tormentors. But nothing about a Cetagandan.”

“Hmm.” Miles considered. “There could be many reasons. Most are harmless. Da and Gregor will be getting it out of him anyway, I imagine, but I suspect tact, not tactics. Nikki’s learned a lot about what not to say. And when not to say it.”

“He surely has.” The Vicereine’s voice was mellow. “I liked his ‘names I have been called’. Tact must be your doing, Ekaterin dear. Not that Miles wholly lacks it these days, but it was never his strong point except when doing charm.”

Ekaterin smiled at her alarming mother-in-law. “Actually, I think it’s the time he’s spent with the Pyms.”

“That would do it.”

Miles, carefully not rising to his mother’s unusually provocative bait, had hoped his historical pleasantries would steer the conversation somewhere other than what he had and hadn’t planned for the present, but the Professora had an unfamiliar but to her plainly important scent in her nose and was relentless.

“I don’t know if it’s what was bothering Georg, but what’s intriguing me, Miles dear, is that you are being a perfect reciprocal of the way you say Count Piotr was. He played the crusty Vor, but according to you was really a ruthless radical. You play the radical, relishing iconoclasm, but for all its setting of precedents that scene in the square was as feudal as anything I’ve seen in years-and living neo-feudalism, not a dead hand of tradition.” She looked at Cordelia. “But that can’t be right, can it?”

The Vicereine grimaced. “You tell me, Helen. I used to think Miles learned more from Piotr and Aral than he ever did from me.” She smiled to take sting from the words. “Though of late I have begun to wonder about that.”

Miles shrugged. It had taken him a long time to understand the conflicts in his mother about Gran’da, and he thought even now the old general’s legacy was one of the very few subjects about which she did not think clearly. He smiled at the Professora who was looking at him with concern. “It’s not for me to judge. But I’ll talk to your promising student about Gran’da sometime, in general terms, if you like.”

“Thank you, dear. Though I’m beginning to think it should be a family biography, not just a proper book on Count Piotr.”

Now that was a truly alarming thought but fortunately the soft bump of landing forestalled any reply. As Miles handed out his mother, Ekaterin, and Helen he saw the other aircar had emptied; Gregor and Laisa, followed by Simon and Alys, headed into the house behind Pym while Nikki and his father were walking towards him trailing Banharov and Ruchinski. Pym might have been willing expediently to forego the presence of Vorkosigan Armsmen on an impromptu visit to Vorkosigan Surleau, but he wasn’t going to allow such unplanned dereliction to continue. Grinning potently at Miles, the Count slowed his step, letting Nikki continue forward to report.

“Mama, Uncle Gregor says he and Aunt Laisa will be down for lunch shortly.” Uncle Gregor and Aunt Laisa? When did that happen? Miles and Ekaterin looked at Nikki with bemusement. “And the Emperor said to tell you, sir, he requests and requires you to tell General Allegre and Admiral Vorlynkin that he gave Mama and Aunt Helen medals, but not to tell them about the rest of what happened because he will.”

Behind Nikki the Count was grinning even more broadly. Miles groaned to himself. “Did he, indeed. Then I better had. And did either Uncle Gregor or the Emperor say anything else?”

Nikki grinned, then frowned. “He said I wasn’t to pester either you or Mama with questions about her medal or Aunt Helen’s because it was all part of what happened on Komarr and you couldn’t tell me yet. But I should be very proud of them both.”

“And so you should, though you’ll find it rather flummoxes your Ma.”

The Count came forward to put a hand on Nikki’s shoulder; his eyes were curiously bright on Miles, though his voice was calm. “Pym says Guy and Yuri are on the terrace, Miles. We’ll be along in ten minutes or so.”

After the shouting’s over. Miles nodded to Georg and Helen, kissed Ekaterin, gravely shook a startled Nikki’s hand, and stuck his tongue out at his father, who laughed. Then he went off to tell ImpSec and the General Staff of the latest revolution in their lives.

* * * * *

Guy Allegre had had an unexpectedly pleasant morning, and against all odds was a good deal more relaxed than the day before. He rarely got the chance to ride these days, and if his muscles were telling him he would before long regret this opportunity he was glad of the calm exercise brought him. In Count Piotr’s day the stables must have been something to see; Miles clearly kept fewer horses but those he did were handsome animals with easy gaits and friendly manners. And the ride had been beautiful, a long circuit taking he and Vorlynkin around the back of the crags topped by the old castle, through Terran wood­land betraying the terraforming beneath and, to his surprise at this low elevation, an upland meadow of sorts. One of the vigorous streams that notched the hillside provided a pleasantly scrambling, splashy route upwards, before a military supply-path created long ago with extensive labour branched away to climb the hill’s natural glacis to a greensward surrounding jumbled stones and abandoned arches.

Vorlynkin, whom he had known for years but with whom he did not socialise outside the melée of General Staff dinners, had proven good company. Given their jobs both men were above all realists, and once they absorbed the facts of Chandler’s extraordinary hypothesis and Vorkosigan’s even more extraordinary response to the potentially deadly problem it presented, they saw no point in fulmination or regret. Ceta­ganda clearly had to be contacted and Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja would respond as he responded, after which their Imperial Master would do whatever He decided to do. Then the real work would begin.

Most of their conversation had been about the wonder that was Miles Vorkosigan. With Gregor’s approval Allegre had, after the strange meet­ing culminating in the plan for this weekend, provided Vorlynkin with Miles’s ImpSec file, for which he was of course cleared but had not since his appointment four years before needed to consult. Even knowing Miles had been in covert ops for a decade, closely connected with the persistently useful Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet and in the redoubt­able Illyan’s view an outstanding agent, the Admiral had been as floored as everyone who read the bizarre dossier zig-zagging from Barrayar to Tau Verde, the Hegen Hub, Eta Ceta, Terra, Dagoola IV and countless points between. Picking it over as they rode, they decided the two most astounding personal successes were initial seizure of the Dendarii and the great Dagoola prison-break-the third largest on record and in its dramatic effect on the Marilacan War undoubtedly the most influential.

“At least the man’s an escape-artist,” Vorlynkin pointed out, grinning. “It’s good to know. But what really gets me is the way he put himself on the line. The response of his command staff in understanding the orders he passed in all that double­speak was very impressive-all Vorkosigans, by God, know how to pick people-and the evacuation itself beautifully run by that Tung fellow. But the whole thing was driven by Vorkosigan alone, from an inside position of apparently complete powerlessness. Just like at Tau Verde, really-enter a war-zone with an untrained staff of four, take over, stop the war in its tracks, and dictate terms to all sides before going your merry way. And in less than four months!”

He had shaken his head so comically in disbelief at the outrageous military and political sleight-of-hand a teenage Miles had pulled off that Allegre laughed aloud, before pointing out thoughtfully that Miles’s mother was famous for cutting a war abruptly short, with its instigator.

“Perhaps he has more of his mother in him than one would think.”

After that the tumbled and scorched stone ruins had distracted them for a while. They identified fallen remains of an alure and machicolations; there was also intriguing evidence that outcrops of the crag on the side they ascended had been partly shaped as demilunes, though dense moss and more than a century of weathering made it hard to be sure. The tremendous view over the lake was also exhilarating. Returning in a higher sweep back round the hill views from horseback over sunlit terrain were equally fine, and later vantages over the house and grounds comfortingly occupied by members of Khourakis’s team, saluting as he and Vorlynkin passed.

Now they each had a glass of the excellent local apple-juice and with the return of the aircars from this expedition of Gregor’s to Vorkosigan Surleau a prospect of lunch. On Vorlynkin’s lap, purring ecstatically, lay a grey-and-tabby kitten Allegre would have sworn was one of Zap the Cat’s infinite brood, last seen by ImpSec happily causing havoc with perimeter alarms at Vorkosigan House. Perhaps Miles was resorting to shipping the beasts about the country. Thoughts of lunch were more compelling. After a few minutes, though, Miles came out to the terrace alone, wearing his house uniform as Count’s heir.

“Good morning Guy, Yuri. Or afternoon, rather. Is all well?”

“Yes indeed, Miles.” Vorlynkin was enthused.

Miles inspected the kitten on his lap with a ruminative look. “You have hairs on your uniform.”

“Oh, never mind that. Friendly little thing, isn’t he? Fine horses, good riding country, a very interesting ruin to look at, a cat to stroke, and the prospect of another of your lunches. Nicest Sunday morning I’ve had in a long time.”

“Ah. Good. You went up to the castle then?”

“We did. Were those basalt outcrops behind the rear bastions deliberately shaped as demilunes?”

“Someone had a go at them once, certainly, but I’m not sure they were ever very serious about it.”

“Hmm.”

“Is all well with you and everyone else, Miles?” Allegre put in.

“Oh yes. We’re all fine.”

“Good.” On principle Allegre let a touch of acerbity enter his voice. “I hadn’t realised Gregor and Laisa would be leaving secured premises.”

“Nor I. It was Gregor’s desire. We followed full security protocol, of course-the air escort was up, and Khourakis attended in strength. Oh, and we had to wait coming back while air control tracked an unidentified lightflyer in the mountains but it went away harmlessly.” He grinned engagingly. “Probably unlicensed maple mead being privately shipped, but we tolerate that. Hill-folk don’t exactly believe in registering flyers.”

“No, I imagine not. Pym told me about the incident, and I agree it seems harmless, save to your District purse.”

Allegre had talked directly to air control as soon as Pym told him of the alert, and the duty-colonel commanding relayed Miles’s observations with news that the offending, less than airworthy flyer had hopped wheezily over a couple of ridges and vanished back into hills. As much a pragmatist as a realist and loyalist, Allegre was unconcerned, but Miles was looking at him very oddly. What now? Miles looked around to check Ma Kosti and the serving-staff were still in the kitchen, sat beside them, and lowered his voice.

“Um … would I be right, Guy, in thinking Yuri is in the need-to-know pool about events on Komarr?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you’ll know, Yuri, that my wife and Helen Vorthys were held hostage.”

Vorlynkin nodded, as puzzled as Allegre as to where Miles might be going with this. “Yes indeed, Miles. A terrible thing.” The kitten purred under his fingers.

“And that that proved a very stupid move on the Komarrans’ part, as their defective hell-weapon got itself broken into lots of small pieces.”

“Yes, certainly. Your wife is undoubtedly a very resourceful woman.”

“She is, and more. A very courageous woman.” Allegre closed his eyes and entertained a brief, highly treasonable vision of strangling Gregor. He heard Miles’s voice continue softly, yet again floating the absurd into existence.  “Ah. Guy knows what you do not Yuri, and has I fear made an inductive leap. Gregor, you see, was particularly grateful to Ekaterin, mostly I think because of the impact the terrorists’ plan, even misfiring, would have had on his wedding.”

“My word, yes, I can see that.” Vorlynkin’s tenor was still no more than puzzled.That will change soon. Miles was speaking rather briskly.

“So he wanted badly to give her a medal but Guy vetoed it because of the security risk from the curiosity any public citation would arouse. Now, however, Gregor requests and requires me to inform you both that he has this morning invested the Professora with a Silver Imperial Star, and Lady Vorkosigan with a Gold one.”

It could be worse. Contemplating the sun on his closed eyelids Allegre wondered what he would have done had Gregor chosen to bestow one of the awards for valour equally in his gift but traditonally given only to field-commanders on the recommendation of the General Staff. Could you strangle the same person twice?

“But …” Yuri’s tenor had dropped an octave.“But they’re …”

“Women, yes. Brave Barrayarans. Now decorated Barrayarans.”

“Vorkosigan!”

At the fully baritone note and sound of the kitten’s scrambling departure Allegre reluctantly opened his eyes and gestured Vorlynkin to eye-popping silence. “Miles, are they going to wear them in public in Vorbarr Sultana?”

“I should think so.” Miles grinned. “But perhaps not yet. They are, though, going to wear them this afternoon, I should think.”

Allegre sat up, eyes wide and intent. “He’s decided.”

Miles didn’t pretend not to follow. “He has said nothing to me, Guy, but I think so, yes. It’s the only thing that makes sense of his mood. He’s going to try to sell Giaja and Degtiar the whole package. The Jackson’s Whole package. Heh. And if they buy it’ll mean the Joint Fleet, its HQ, and major civilian institutes as well. So Gregor’s really giving you a kind of warning with these medals.”

“What kind of warning?” Vorlynkin was still looking incensed, but his voice had risen back to low tenor range.

“Think about it, Yuri. Where are you going to find another quarter-million Barrayaran personnel? And rising. And for all you’re scowling, Guy, ImpSec already has a female section in all but name.” It was true, Allegre had to admit, and he had thought privately, even before Gregor’s acquisition of Barrayar’s first Empress for more than half-a-century made it inevitable, that the expanding ad hoc female arm of the security forces ought to be properly integrated. He also suspected regular and space-based forces would have far less trouble in admitting women to their ranks than senior officers habitually supposed. Even so …

“That does not solve the security problem, Miles. When people ask why two women have Imperial Stars, how are we going to explain it without blowing the Komarr story wide open?”

“You will not need to lie, Guy. Yuri.”

Gregor came onto the terrace, a Vorbarra Armsman holding in the doorway behind him. As Allegre and Vorlynkin automatically began to rise he gestured them to stay seated and sat himself. “You may choose between exception­ally valorous service to Barrayar that cannot presently be specified, referring all enquiries to me, and formal release of a story that there was an attempt last year to take hostages on the jump-station that Ekaterin and Helen were caught up in and foiled-proper awards being delayed as a security concern, with the rest of the story, until after my wedding. I’m sorry not to have given you personal notice but I didn’t actually decide to do any awarding until this morning.” He smiled gravely at them all. “I imagine you realise I have decided to make this Cetagandan peace, if I can. It is a risk, but all alternatives are riskier.” He paused. “I should also tell you, Guy, Yuri, before others join us, that I took a sounding in the village this morning-nothing specific, of course, just a formal question to those assembled about whether they could imagine Cetagandans as allies, rather than enemies. There were eleven forty-year men present, and others of all ages and wisdoms. Their answers came to a very clear yes.” Gregor glanced at Miles and somehow converted imperial neutrality into a bland look. “I dare say Lord Vorkosigan has a recording. You should listen to it as soon as you can-before the frame-call. I was already inclined to think domestic as well as military reception of a treaty would be broadly and sufficiently positive, especially with the new technologies to explain its necessity and compound people’s emotional responses. I now think I should have taken more steps with Cetaganda already. There is clearly consular work that could have been done long ago, as you will hear from Sergeant Barnev, late of my Imperial Rangers.”

Vorlynkin frowned. “Bow-legged chap with a shock of grey hair?”

“White now, but bow-legged, certainly.”

“Huh. I remember him from training-days. He was a damn good sergeant.” From the doorway the Armsman gave a discreet cough.

“He still is.” Gregor rose, and they stood with him. “We have a little over three hours before the frame-call. Once we have eaten, Yuri, Guy, please start thinking seriously about what you will need to do in the coming weeks if Giaja says yes. Now …”

He turned to smile welcome as Lady Vorkosigan and the Empress came onto the terrace, leading others, including a less weary-looking Chandler. The Viceroy and Vicereine, attended by Pym, brought up the rear with young Nikolai Vorsoisson, as was; Master Vorkosigan now. Allegre had often had occasion as chief of ImpSec to observe Gregor’s seemingly effortless ability to switch conversational and mental modes from public to private, official to personal, at will. This time, as Miles simultaneously swung round and made an identical change without saying or seeming to do anything, Allegre was forcibly struck by just how much the Emperor and his odd foster-brother shared-not, he thought, groping to formulate it, mindset, exactly, but mental complexity of self-awareness. Both are great men. He shook his head to clear it, and set the back of his brain to working out what ImpSec might soon have to be doing while he enjoyed yet more of the Kosti woman’s remarkable food.

* * * * *