Forward Momentum -- Chapter 11 (b)

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        “Your Imperial and Celestial Majesties. Honoured haut. Honourable ghem.” His hand sketched bows of precise declination. “I make no apology for mentioning, once, the unfortunate entanglements of Your Majesties’ imperia.

The Nexus knows that for ninety-one years Barra­yarans and Cetagandans have dealt in pain and grief. For each enmity has had rewards, in their season, but will any here say I lie when I declare we meet today not merely on Dr Chandler’s occasion but because our mutual losses, occasional and cumulative, have so long outweighed those rewards we would all forge something better, if we might?” No-one spoke. Giaja waved a hand, permissively. “Then my Imperial Master’s command to find a way forward is as congenial to us all as it was to me.”

The silence was briefly an absolute stillness, Barrayaran as much as Cetagandan. Had Gregor commanded this? Helen realised she had assumed, as so easily with Miles, that he was pulling the rabbits-make that dragons-out of the hat; but to whom would he have gone first with Chandler’s bombshell? It required finessing Allegre and Vorlynkin, and this weekend reeked of unseen imperial efficiency as much as Vorkos­igan derring-do. Then she saw painted faces nodding and as Degtiar drew breath a faint smile appear on Pel Navarr’s slim face.

“You are remembered here with some admiration, Lord Vorkosigan, for your forward ways. I hope they can serve Us as well again.”

Ooh! Miles bowed deeply, giving himself a chance, Helen imagined, to regain composure. The Cetagandans were straight-faced, though there was renewed astonishment in all ghem-eyes save Benin’s and a glint in the looks of Navarr and Robine. Strangled sounds came from several Barrayarans and, Helen thought with amuse­ment, one Betan. Her niece tried valiantly to suppress it but gurgled briefly with laughter. At the sound both Giaja’s and Degtiar’s eyes lit with true amusement and tension palpably eased around the circle as Miles straightened. His voice was rueful.

“Your Majesty, I have been called many things, some by Your Celestial Self, but I can learn. Let me then heed my wife’s lesson.” He opened hands and arms. “The Imperia have peace. We would all have more of it. Dr Chandler’s hypothesis endangers it. We would have a solution. And to work, any solution must”-he began the familiar count on his fingers-“please all Your Most Imperial cousinages”-four imperial mouths and Illyan’s twitched as Miles blatantly pronounced his strange coinage-“be acceptable to the muscles and sinews of Your Majesties’ imperia”-painted ghem-faces and unpainted Barrayaran ones above dress red-and-blues nodded in time with imperial heads-“and offer no gross provocation to the nerves of any of Your Majesties’ subjects.” More heads joined the dance, including Georg’s and, she realised after a moment, her own. “In short, it must be fair and be seen to be fair. Now …” Miles took a moment to gaze around the circle of his intent listeners. “These first fruits of Dr Chandler’s hypothesis set us all by the ears. Who knows what may come next? And uncertainty, like pain, will follow the path of least resistance. But may I ask us all to consider what realtime communication and the ability to manufacture anything from anything will do to the viability of galactic real estate?”

Miles had acquired Chandler’s remote control and with his last words the Nexus model, smaller than before, appeared before them. There was also a projection at the Cetagandan end, a glowing bolus of star­fields centred neatly within their semicircle, and an academic fragment of Helen’s brain made a note to ask Miles what assumptions about scales and distances he had made in calculating that distant yet immediately visible projection. The effect would work both ways, she realised-Barrayarans and Cetagandans alike could see each party saw exactly the same thing-and was itself a twinned symbol of unity.

Imperial planets and the snaky tubes of wormhole links began to glow, and Miles ran through the scheme of equal division and a joint fleet as he had yesterday. No surprises or unscheduled additions there, Helen thought, though in speaking of fairness he gave exact numbers of systems as they glowed into visibility. Colours had also been refined, losing the firework qualities that appealed to Barrayarans and acquiring subtler washes of shade and intensity; pride in her niece thrilled her. The final image, of balanced Barrayaran and Cetagandan imperia pressed against one another with thin grey sheets of the proposed neutral zone winding between, had also, she decided, been subtly enhanced to resemble bicameral human brains, without there being anything one could point to as distorted.

“Your Majesties. It is You who will be this space, these volumes, and You must do as You will. For the rest of us let me say there are room and resources for all; so much space will absorb ever so much energy, and on the bridge of a ship entering unexplored space one may learn just as well as in combat to appreciate and trust a stranger.”

After a moment Giaja and Degtiar both looked at Gregor, who looked back, clearly inviting them to respond. Celestial lips were straight and firm. “Lord Vorkosigan. How surprisingly … sensible a set of suggestions. I am almost disappointed. But I certainly hear in your notions a pleasant beginning in common sense.” He turned. “Admiral Lhosh, do you find this something you might in principle approve with honour?”

The short Lhosh stepped forward and bowed. “I think so, Sire. With your permission I say plainly to all our firm policy for eleven years has been to avoid conflict with the Barrayaran Imperium, and though we do not believe they have entirely avoided conflict with us, we neither desire nor intend to provoke future hostilities.” He shrugged. “This plan seems eminently fair, and Your Celestial Majesty knows it answers to core needs.” A slighter shrug and a pause. “The ghem will accept this, Sire, though like your Celestial Self they will find it … a tame ending.”

“Thank you, Admiral” Giaja’s eyes went to Raniton Degtiar, and the man stepped forward a fraction, inclining his head to Lhosh.

“Admiral, you speak most rationally, for the rational ghem. What of those with more … emotional approaches to the arts of living?”

Lhosh gave a third shrug, the least yet, merely rippling his shoulders. “Lord Governor, they may yet learn wisdom. And few such now hold any true power.”

Plainly this exchange was staged, and Helen began to wonder just how much Miles had really communicated to Benin in advance. No-one had mentioned any formal Cetagandan agenda for this meeting but this resembled one. And the light the exchange must have started in Vor­lynkin’s and Allegre’s eyes had started in her own. The ghem would deal. The mirror-dance symmetry of Miles’s negotiation held true for ghem, not haut, were twins of the Vor-military, feudal, sexist, and honour-bound in the strangest ways-and they, like Vor, seemed to possess that military willingness to make friends of enemies as readily as enemies of friends. But resolution must lie with the haut and many issues had yet to be breached. Miles coughed softly and Giaja’s head snapped round.

“I find it hard even now to believe, Lord Vorkosigan, that you can audit this matter for me or ghem-Admiral Lhosh.”

“Of course not, Celestial Lord. But earlier today I heard an audit of our equivalent matter I believe you may wish to consider.”

Giaja’s face was still but after a second Degtiar spoke. “How thoughtful, Lord Auditor.”

Who was playing whom here? Miles bowed to both Cetagandans, and looked at Vorlynkin, who with almost comical disbelief-generated, Helen imagined, by finding Miles’s prediction that his morning recording might be needed coming so swiftly true-bowed, took a pace forward and produced a tiny recorder from his pocket.

“Please understand, Your Imperial Majesties, this was an impromptu event, this morning our time, in a village near this location. The voices you will hear, besides that of my Imperial Master, are those of two forty-year veterans of His forces-Captain Penderecki, late of my Imperial Master’s Security service, and Regimental Sergeant Barnev, late of His Imperial Rangers. They speak standard Barrayaran with something of a hill accent.”

Giaja waved a hand. “That should cause Us no problems, Admiral Vorlynkin. Let Us hear these men.”

He had switched entirely from irritation to interest, which suggested he believed Vorlynkin-who had spoken nothing but truth, though not, Helen thought, truth in which a suspicious sometime enemy might easily believe. It was clever of Miles to use Vorlynkin rather than producing the recording himself, but the real implication, she saw with curling alarm and fascination, was that for all his clear impatience with Miles’s impertinent disregard of propriety, Giaja trusted the little lord to be more than pertinent in matters of substance; even internal Cetagandan ones. Despite its size the recorder’s playback was loud and crystal clear.

Sire. You asked a precise question-would we now be willing to make a proper peace with the Cetagandans, and to accept them as our allies and partners. Penderecki’s voice gave his reply to Gregor and was followed by Barnev’s moving story. As the recording played Helen was glad of the chance mentally to catch her breath. Penderecki’s soldierly preference for Cetagandan rather than Polian or Aslunder allies produced smiles from Lhosh and Coram, while as Barnev spoke all ghem, including Benin, grew intent; so did Giaja. Allegre and Illyan, like Vorlynkin and Aral, seemed to be studying all the painted ghem faces, as she had just been. Alys, Ekaterin, and Cordelia were exchanging long, slowly warming looks with the haut women. Miles, so far as she could tell, had one eye on each gender group. Beside her Georg seemed to be watching Kariam, but she bet most of his head was still tugging at Chandler’s disturbing maths. Chandler himself had not of course heard the story before and was as intent as the ghem. She wondered if his ear for Barrayaran in a Dendarii accent was as good as all the Cetagandans’ seemed to be.

That’s all, Sire. Except to say that I hope you and my Lord Count think I did right.

I do, Sergeant Barnev. Very right. And I’m sure Count Vorkosigan does too.

A deed of virtue, sergeant. I shall remember it. With Aral’s unmistakeable voice, rumbling reassurance for Barnev, Vorlynkin stopped playback, and bowed again, first to Giaja and Degtiar, then the ghem-officers. Her own head nodded in their direction, and she realised the whole Barrayaran party had managed to convey collective, ritual regret, not for Cetagandan deaths as such-they came here!-but for unhappy inheritances with which misfortunes of war might burden descendants of the brave. There was a long silence Gregor eventually broke, speaking in intimate mode to Giaja.

“Cousin, whatever else we may decide here today, perhaps we can agree now that some consular work is overdue.” He held Giaja’s eyes for a moment and something passed between them. Gregor nodded and turned. “Admiral Lhosh, you will find visa applications by Cetagandans wishing to make pilgrimages of ancestral grace are looked upon by My officials swiftly and kindly. Lord Auditor Vorkosigan will make arrangements in the Count-his-father’s District.” Lhosh bowed deeply. Gregor’s gaze went to Benin. “We are happy to trust General Benin to ensure none take improper advantage of the ancestral debt all owe.”

“Just so, cousin Gregor.” Giaja was also looking at Benin, who looked back, then at Gregor, and bowed.

“I gratefully acknowledge your directives, Your Imperial Majesty. And I will obey Your command, Sire.”

Helen could see why Miles liked Benin; the man was an artist with protocol. Gregor had meant seriously his trust in Giaja’s head of security, as Benin meant his declaration of obedience to be beyond countermand. Lhosh and Coram stepped forward as Giaja smiled invitation at them.

“Admiral Lhosh?”

“I wished, Sire, to express my own thanks to His Imperial Majesty.” He looked directly at Gregor and instead of bowing saluted, very crisply, for a measured second. So did Coram, in unison. “There are not a large number of such cases, sir. The forty officers mentioned by Colonel Lasedi to Sergeant Barnev represent the majority. But the issue has been very deeply felt, and Your Imperial Majesty’s … grace will be honoured by the ghem.” Fascinated by Lhosh’s solitary ‘sir’, which managed to introduce flexibility without losing respect, Helen also noted his immediate identification of the ghem-officer who had spoken to Barnev. Coram also addressed Gregor, but as he spoke nodded to Aral and Cordelia, then Miles and Ekaterin.

“Your Imperial Majesty, Lord Viceroy, Lady Vicereine, Lord and Lady Vorkosigan. With the permission of General Benin and my Imperial Master I shall be an early pilgrim myself. It is my good fortune that my grandfather’s body was recovered after his battledeath on Barrayar-in what surviving reports call an ambush in a deep gorge of the Dendarii.” He gave a little shrug. “I cannot be certain, but I believe the ghem-Colonel to whom Sergeant Barnev referred as respected by Count Piotr Vorkosigan to be my grandfather. I will honour his deathplace, if I may.”

Oh my. Had Miles known? How could he? Perhaps the gods were favouring him today. Coram’s eyes were focused behind her and Helen remembered the lone portrait Alys had left hanging in view. Not gods, then, only Vorkosigans and perhaps Benin. The ghem, she thought with sharp professional interest, would favour military biography themselves. What might Cetagandan archives offer a biographer of Count Piotr?

After a moment Aral spoke. “When you do, General Coram, you may of course have other duties. But if they permit, you will be welcome at my house in Vorkosigan Surleau. It is near the gorge, and the Count-my-father is buried there.”

With something like wonder in their eyes Coram and Lhosh saluted again and withdrew. Benin, she saw, had an air of sardonic admiration and Giaja seemed less than amused to see such senior military hearts-and-minds so deftly tickled. Not for a second did she doubt Aral’s sincerity, but it seemed his second nature to play symphonies on heart-strings. With exquisite timing Miles coughed again, even more gently. In narrowed preoccupation with Aral Giaja’s head almost snapped round, but he caught himself and turned with controlled grace, a single move­ment bringing eyes onto Miles and fractionally cocking one eyebrow.

“Lord Auditor?”

“I do so hate to disappoint, Celestial Lord. And there is one more element to this equitable plan.” His hand gestured at the Barrayaran model of the Nexus.

“One more, Lord Vorkosigan?” Degtiar’s voice was pleasantly pitched but steel rang in it.

“I meant so far as matters of empire go, Handmaiden, though one thing leads to another.” The stress and qualifying cliché clearly mollified Degtiar, and in both models Jackson’s Whole began to brighten and pulse in that horrible yellow. “For if Your Imperial and Celestial Majesties would indeed have a joint fleet to supplement Your control of these volumes, it must have a headquarters somewhere. And there are serious disadvantages for us all to using either Sergyar or Rho Ceta.”

Giaja gave what sounded like a genuine laugh, ironies and nuance rolling together in an impossibly rich, corniced sound. “Now that is more your stamp, Lord Vorkosigan. You propose We conquer Jackson’s Whole as a convenient headquarters.” He shook his head. “And why exactly should We wish to do that, Lord Auditor, besides gratifying what are doubtless hard feelings on your part towards certain Jacksonians?”

“Why not do it, Celestial Lord?” Giaja smiled impatiently at this, but as he opened his mouth to speak Miles went on-not actually interrupting but cutting it fine. “After all, what has stopped you these many years?” And just as yesterday with the Barrayarans, indignation with trifling absurdity was suddenly replaced by cold re-assessment. “I cannot believe either of Your Celestial Majesties has ever willingly tolerated Jacksonian political and genetic practice.” Miles paused, seeming to allow Giaja and Degtiar a moment to look at each other and mesh mental calculations. “Any more than my Imperial Master and we of Barrayar have willingly shown restraint. But beyond satisfactions of righteous­ness, Jackson’s Whole is best placed, given frame-technology, to serve as Your Majesties’ joint fleet’s main administrative base. There will, of course, be issues arising from Your joint fleet’s management of galactic access to the new volumes, and the position of Jackson’s Whole makes it well-suited to receive embassies to Your Majesties that bear upon the new volumes and technologies.”

All the Cetanagandans were intent, including, Helen thought, the haut women; certainly Pel seemed to have lost her irony. Giaja’s hands moved ambivalently, and he glanced at Gregor with a trace of surprise. “Yet again, Lord Vorkosigan, you strangely make sense. But … while Our ghem-commanders might welcome such a plan We do not believe We presently wish so to test and expend them.” He actually grimaced. “Street-fighting is exceptionally messy, as they found on Marilac.”

Miles’s smile blazed. “It is, Celestial Lord. Tedious, also. But may I remind You Dr Chandler’s frames transmit all waveform energy, including stasis-fields and tractor-beams. And that a small, thereby most potent frame may easily be borne in a small force-bubble. Like other things this remains to be scientifically proven, but I believe the nature of planetary annexation has, for Your Imperial and Celestial Majesties, changed somewhat. It would be fitting, surely, to give old ways a graceful as well as bloodless swansong.”

The lengthy silence was broken when Pel, eyes dancing as if she was swallowing peals of laughter, caught Giaja’s eye and with a slight frown was nodded to speak. “Your Majesty will recall Lord Vorkosigan once witnessed the capacities of a float-chair at … greater altitudes. Artificer General Kariam can confirm, I believe, he is correct to suppose frames might safely be dropped from orbit in force-bubbles. And if both stasis-fields and tractor-beams can indeed be … extended by frame from orbit to ground”-her beautiful voice became laced with a poisonous dislike that made Helen shudder-“the Jacksonian barons might be most satisfactorily taught proper humility.”

Giaja’s face was very still. Degtiar’s slim hand again rested on his arm. Why Pel should speak to a technical matter Helen couldn’t imagine, but no Cetagandan seemed surprised by it, nor the evident severity of the Star Crèche’s view of Jacksonians. Then the Cetagandan emperor turned to Lhosh and the other ghem, ferally agog at Miles’s first suggestion of planetary annexation but now looking more confused than anything else. Only Benin’s face, again, remained calmly thoughtful. The whole Barrayaran semi-circle, Helen thought, was holding its breath as Miles played out his strategy for Cetaganda in close echo of his previous strategy for his own side. And it was looking more and more as if there really might be only one side, after all.

“Admiral Lhosh.” How many layers of irony could that baritone manage? “I doubt it was quite what you had in mind, but would you care, for Our convenience and that of my Imperial cousins, bloodlessly to annex the planet of Jackson’s Whole with a force of … bubbles?”

Beneath his wavy blue-and-yellow paint Lhosh’s face was a very different kind of picture. “P-p-personally-” That had not, Helen thought, been a question, but Miles seamlessly took it as one.

“Actually, Admiral, I had in mind a joint-force, of course. Many hands make light work.”

Lhosh glared at him. “Under whose command?” Miles received no polite ‘Lord Auditor’ this time.

“Under all the circumstances, Admiral, I wondered if you and Your Imperial Master”-he turned to Giaja-“might be content with Viceroy Vorkosigan as the Barrayaran nominee for co-command.”

Eyes swung to Aral, who bowed to Giaja. “Celestial Lord, with my Imperial Master’s consent it would be my honour to be so nominated.”

Lhosh subsided into frowning thought but Coram looked positive and Benin wore a faint smile. As a security rather than field officer he perhaps had no great love for the belligerence of some fellow-ghem, and was ironically appreciative-make that hilariously appreciative, Helen thought, as she caught better sight of his eyes-of a plan that obligated them to wholly peaceful and no doubt colourful conquest under the command of an Admiral who had beaten them hands down at every belligerent encounter. She appreciated it herself; her nephew-in-law was nothing if not inventive. And suddenly, seemingly, it was a done deal. Giaja clapped, and every Cetagandan became sharply upright, the ghem-officers at attention.

“Very well. We have one half of a most curious but workable design. It suffices for my appraisal of the concerns of Empire in the matter of this new technology. We must now turn to the concerns of haut. Ghem-General Benin, please escort your fellow officers and the hauts Lady d’Lhosh and my Lord Governor to the antechamber until I recall you.”

Miles was suddenly as tensed as a bearing cable. Helen went numb with surprise as all the ghem-officers and Raniton bowed to Giaja; Lady d’Lhosh curtsied, and all filed out of sight through a doorway that appeared to one side of her view. The tall haut woman had not said a word since her murmured submission to Gregor and Laisa, but as she walked silently past the other haut a look between her and Pel suggested information was and would be exchanged. All the Barrayarans except Miles, Gregor, and Ekaterin looked shaken, uncertain what was happening; even Aral and Cordelia seemed taken aback.

As the door closed behind Benin Helen saw to her amazement that both Pel and Palma Robine were moving swiftly and without invitation to Giaja’s side. Both had looked with interest at the Barrayarans through­out; now rigid deference to imperial protocols vanished and faces snapped from beneath icy reserves, as Degtiar’s and-oh my-Giaja’s had also done. All haut faces were suddenly mobile, flickering with traces of amusement and revealing burdens of concern. She felt shock hit every­one in the Barrayaran party as it hit her, even Gregor and Miles, though both had plainly known what was coming, and Miles at least must have experienced this before. Allegre’s and Vorlynkin’s faces were momently as glassy as the hauts’ had been; Illyan’s eyes narrowed; Chandler gaped. Alys and Ekaterin showed the common surprise but their eyes were gleaming and Helen heard Cordelia draw contented breath, as of fresh air. Behind his back Miles’s hand twitched fiercely at Gregor.

“Would my Celestial Cousins wish any of us to withdraw also?”

Fear of sudden exclusion from this amazing scene had barely time to flower in Helen before Degtiar spoke, her alto voice still warm but far crisper. “There is no need, cousin. We trust your people to say nothing.”

“You have my name’s word on it, cousine, and theirs.”

“Good. Lord Vorkosigan.”

“Ma’am.” Miles’s voice was silken.

“You have played for the ghem. Well and good. We are content with an imperial peace and ending the vulgarity of Jackson’s Whole is a bonus. But you mentioned the Star Crèche, which is no business of yours.”

Vulgarity?

“Of course not, Ma’am. In the sense you mean.”

“In any sense, Barrayaran.” Robine’s voice was higher than Degtiar’s but carried the same steel. Perhaps she was as Miles remembered, usually vivacious, with her tumbling curls; now she only looked incensed.

Miles sighed. “Haut Palma, do you believe the Star Crèche wields power in the Nexus? Or only in the Celestial Garden?” The question seemed to arrest all three women and Giaja. “Because if it wields power in the Nexus, while it may remain hidden to all outside, it is our business here. I do not believe these new technologies directly affect the work of the Star Crèche at all, but indirectly they will swirl about everything. My Imperial Master requires some certitude that such indirect effects will be controlled.”

After a moment Degtiar inclined her head a fraction. “Go on.”

Instead Miles stepped aside a pace as Gregor came forward. “I am happy, cousins, ladies, to give you all my Word as Vorbarra that Barrayar recognises and accepts its utter exclusion from the inviolable secrecy of the Star Crèche. Lord Vorkosigan told us yesterday we would be fools to suppose, even after long and happy alliance, that the Star Crèche would reveal anything it did not choose to reveal. We have proceeded wholly in that belief, and as you trust our secrecy we trust your restraint.”

He stepped back, leaving the floor to Miles. Giaja’s eyebrows rose but he nodded. No-one mentioned bio-weapons. Degtiar smiled, equally briefly, before looking again at Miles. Her slim fingers were still tense. “That is all very well, but even if it is somehow your business, Lord Vorkosigan, what is our business here?”

“Reputation and honour, Ma’am. And profit.”

“Explain yourself.” Had that been four haut voices in chorus?

“That you are most secret does not mean you are least known. Across the Nexus those who decide where fleets are sent know the Star Crèche exists, and fear your power. We of Barrayar fear it too-for what we do not know we may yet fear, though we trust with our Imperial Master. But what will others fear when they hear two emperors speak jointly by frame from Jackson’s Whole to the watching billions of the Nexus?” That was a very good question. A tilting head perhaps meant Giaja thought so too, though he might merely be trying to absorb the sudden notion of himself and Gregor with an audience, not of three haut, ten Barrayarans, a Komarran, a Betan, and a Terran, but in all probability the whole galactic population of eight-hundred-and-fifty billion plus. “So, there is the matter of your reputation. And while your honour, as ours, will be well-served when all Jacksonian barons bend the knee and cease their genetic perversities, it occurs to me the honour gained, and more, will be … vulnerable.” Miles had no chair to sit back in but somehow managed an equivalent standing motion. “You should ask Benin to extra­polate what he thinks will happen once we jointly occupy Jackson’s Whole and close down all gene-houses and the clone trade. My own guess is galactic mayhem for several years followed by a black-money takeover of one or more relatively isolated stations. Morita, perhaps. Or Dalton, if they could get past the Betans. We shall all have to watch for that anyway. But there is another angle.”

“How surprising.” Perhaps it wasn’t so much how many layers of irony Giaja managed, but the weight of each layer there was. It occurred to Helen that this was like the way her own dress worked. Miles went on.

“I speak now not of what my Imperial Master desires, but again of what others will ask. A great alliance is formed and amity declared. Upon what is it founded? Equality of space. Fine. Fleet matches fleet. Fine. With the tractor-bubbles, if we get it right, we can also show the Nexus that as Barrayar brings to our partnership frames, so Cetaganda brings force-field technology-and the result is a weapon of most exquisitely bloodless precision and imperial mercy. Yes?”

Pel had apparently recovered her irony with a renewed vision of the coloured bubbles that might rain so potently down on the Jacksonian stew. She seemed in a strange way on Miles’s side, to Helen’s eye far more so than Degtiar, whom Miles had not seen for a decade; Pel had, after all, shown herself at Gregor’s wedding only to Ekaterin and Miles.

“I think we follow your analysis so far, Miles. We might even accept it, for now.” As Pel spoke the bare name Palma glanced at her in evident surprise, but Giaja merely nodded, intent on substance, while Degtiar smiled fractionally.

“And what should Barrayar also bring to the party matter technology?” All four haut stared at him. “What greater precision and mercy may we then hope to blend in our nanoforges?”

There was a long silence, eventually broken by Degtiar. “And what do you suggest, Lord Vorkosigan?”

Again Miles stood back further, though his feet did not move. It was, Helen thought, an ability he must have learned because he had to look up at everyone, even Nikki these days, though he looked up to very few people, almost all present company. And Degtiar was among them.

“We of Barrayar cannot share the wisdom of the haut, nor their perfection. Nor, surely, their destiny. Nor their height. And we are content. But more than we would share, if we might, a little of their age and health. With the greatest respect to him and my Lady mother”-Miles somehow twisted in air and bowed to his stiff and listening parents-“the Count-my-father is, to the best of my understanding, only seven years younger than you, Celestial Lord.”

Helen saw no eyes move but knew everyone was abruptly aware of the contrast. Giaja at eighty-four was still entirely dark-haired, hawk-face unlined, body slim and effortlessly upright. Aral, at seventy-seven, was old-white-haired, stocky, and, like Helen herself, on his second heart, his heavy face deeply lined; the scar on his jaw was more plainly visible than it had been when he was Lord Regent.

“Which is, forgive me, where profit comes in, of more than one kind. It would, for example, be symbolically unfortunate for us all if the co-commander of the fleet at Jackson’s Whole were to suffer any medical incapacity. And if you all agree there will soon be one hell of a hole in the galactic market in longevity, plug it.” Miles studied his fingernails. Helen, shocked at his idiom, knew of no ruler who did not like the sound of treasuries filling; they emptied fast enough. “Barrayar expects a major income-stream to develop from the frame and materials techno­logies. It will pay our share of the joint-fleet, and more. The real profit with nanoforges, though, will of course lie in designs for what they make, and if those are in effect atom-by-atom assembly instructions for a product reverse engineering processes of design will be impossible.”

Of course. Helen could have kicked herself. The point wasn’t only Cetagandan profit, but preservation of their present, massive financial advantage against potentially extremely rapid erosion. More dimly she glimpsed the other critical implication Miles was making, that releasing designs for genetic or medical material, the product of secret bio­science and high art, need not break secrecy or compromise art. They were points Giaja and the women had clearly taken; it would require a holovid recording to track the glances flickering between them. The haut Palma Robine broke the silence.

“Let us be clear, Lord Vorkosigan. You suggest a package of human geriatric, immunological, and post-traumatic genetic measures be made generally available?”

“Be marketed.”

“Yes. Under a Star Crèche imprimatur?” All the haut were tense. Miles spoke with great care.

“All matters of publicity remain to be decided. I had thought a Barrayaran technological embassy to Joint-Fleet Headquarters might be matched by a Cetagandan genetic embassy. But perhaps we may distinguish what is done from whatever it may be called.”

Pel smiled. The other haut were expressionless, eyes flickering, until Degtiar seemed to relax. She certainly smiled.

“What we may agree, Lord Vorkosigan, is that at this … unusual moment, certain symbolic gestures are certainly called for.” Now she seemed to study her nails. Pel spoke, irony again lacing her voice.

“Did you have any other such in mind, Miles?” Conscious of Cordelia’s quivering tension, Helen hardly dared follow the implications of this.

“Well … ” Miles looked up. “With apologies, Pel, you will recall you once pointed out to me the haut work only in human genetic material.”

“Yes?”

“We of Barrayar have many zoological and botanical problems also. For example, in my own District, not far from where the Count-my-father hopes to welcome ghem-General Coram, the badlands around the crater of Vorkosigan Vashnoi still have unusually high figures for alpha-radiation in their plats.”

“Yes?” Pel’s voice was dangerously edged. The haut, Helen thought, did not care to be reminded of what their ghem had actually done to Barrayar; abruptly she saw that what Miles was about now was, without ever calling it by name, negotiating reparations. The Barrayaran semi-circle was still as stone, though she heard Aral and Illyan take sharp breaths. Miles’s voice became brisker.

“As it happens, we are close to a novel answer-odd as it may sound, a variety of bug, bio-engineered of course, we believe can be persuaded to consume radioactive materials, bind them in a magnetic matrix, and regurgitate them for safe collection. A slight variation on Dr Chandler’s frames can rather ingeniously deal with alpha radiation, but there is of course beta-radiation also; and there are those interesting little creatures found by the Sigma Cetan expedition into local space.”

Helen felt faint. Was Miles really negotiating with the highest Cetagandan command about butter bugs? And what interesting little creatures from another part of Cetagandan space? She almost glared at him, but he was finding his nails again a source of fascination.

“And then, you know, olive-trees supply perhaps the oldest emblem of peace humanity has, but we just can’t grow them freely on Barrayar. A matter of soil pH, I believe.” Where was this coming from? Helen’s backbrain scrambled to retrieve what she knew of the ill-fated olive-tree project, centred in … Vorharopulous’s District, surely, hundreds of miles from Vorkosigan Vashnoi. Miles’s head suddenly jerked up, a reflex mannerism he had largely lost since his marriage, and while she could not say his voice now carried the murderous undertones it had suddenly held the day before when first mentioning Jackson’s Whole, it nevertheless declared-what had he called it, speaking of his Gran’da?-a bottom line. From their expressions the haut heard it too. “Suppose, then, the Count-my-father, in hale age, could walk among olives at Vorkosigan Vashnoi?”

Aral, she thought, all but staggered as his son spoke. Cordelia gripped his arm with hands gone as bone-white as Degtiar’s, though squarer and more powerful. Gregor’s and Laisa’s eyes flashed as they watched. Helen saw Degtiar’s hands relax.

“We of the Star Crèche, Lord Vorkosigan, like all haut, can under­stand need for symbolism. Grant it were all as you suppose. What then?”

Miles was visibly trembling as he looked up at the Cetagandan Empress but his voice didn’t acknowledge it. “Then, Handmaiden, we have what the soon-to-be unlamented Jacksonian barons would call a Deal.”

Another swift exchange of glances took place between the haut. Then abruptly Giaja turned to Gregor, ignoring Miles, who still stood, trembling. Ekaterin moved forward to lay a hand gently on his shoulder.

“On these terms, Imperial Cousin, spoken and understood, in spirit and in declared letter, are we agreed?”

“We are. Shall We have peace, Cousin Fletchir?”

“And prosperity, Cousin Gregor? We will.” Handhakes were impossible by frame, but two emperors did something equivalent with their eyes. Pel was already moving to the re-appearing doorway, and within seconds the haut Raniton, ghem-officers and Lady d’Lhosh were filing back in to the viewed room as haut women slid silently back to their places, gazes dropping and icy reserves re-appearing. All the Barrayarans instinctively straightened despite goggling eyes, and officers came to attention. As stillness returned to the reformed circle Giaja spoke formally.

“Let all haut and ghem know the proposed plan has been reconciled with the concerns of haut, as of empire. My Imperial Cousin and We will have peace, on terms variously known to all present.” Helen was appreciating that ‘variously’ when Gregor took up the declaration, looking to her now quite experienced imperial eye as if he knew with quiet glee he wouldn’t get to speak such words very often.

“The unrighteousness of Jackson’s Whole will be ended, the planet annexed to Our mutual convenience. Amity and exchange will replace the unhappiness of Our past.” He held out a hand and Laisa stepped forward to take it. After a second Giaja ghosted a grin at him and his own hand flickered. Degtiar stepped to his side, and after a millisecond of silent imperial and celestial exchanges voices sounded as one, first in Barrayaran, then Cetagandan.

“Let it be done. Let it be done.”

Ekaterin stooped to hold a trembling Miles who clung fiercely to her. Aral and Cordelia were embracing; so, astonishingly, were Illyan and Alys. She found herself holding tightly to Georg. The sonorous imperial voices ignored them all.

“Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, General Benin, please ensure all necessary exchanges of information are made. Imperial delegations headed by the haut Lord Governor with haut Palma and by the Lord Viceroy and Lady Vicereine will depart as soon as may be. That is all.”

Palma sat in her float-chair and her bubble flicked on, but Pel had a hand on Degtiar’s arm, both staring at Miles, now standing free of Ekaterin, his gaze boring into Degtiar’s. He had taken from his pocket something he turned in his hands-a braided ebony oval that gleamed in the light. With unreasonable certainty Helen knew it had to be a lock of Degtiar’s hair, no doubt already floor-length a decade past. Which had, surely, been before she had been wedded by Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja. Oh my. How much more could Miles gamble for? She had heard both Georg and Ekaterin say jokingly that the little Lord Auditor was unhealthily addicted to the last word.

“Wait.” How strangely like Ekaterin’s that melodious alto was. “Fletchir, I believe we may be leaving something undone.”

“What thing?” Nor did surprise and impatience make Giaja’s baritone less exquisite.

“Lord Vorkosigan has, I think, risked much for Us. Would you grant him in my name an Imperial boon?”

Everyone became very still indeed. Giaja stared at his wife, “A boon is a potent gift, Rian.”

“Even so. It is not unearned.”

“No.” Giaja turned to Gregor. Ironies layered as deep as the ocean floor where all layers became rock. “Imperial Cousin, will you permit this gift?”

Gregor neither hesitated nor looked at Miles. “I will, Fletchir, with all my heart.”

Looks flicked like knives. Everyone held their breaths. Giaja slowly turned. “It seems, Lord Vorkosigan, We should grant you a boon. And We confess you have made Our coming days a great deal more interesting than We had supposed they might be. What would you have of Us?”

Miles was still trembling, but stood straight, voice clear and firm, “Your consent to a christening, Celestial Lord.”

Giaja sighed. “Explain yourself.”

“It occurs to me none of Your Majesties can wish to continue to refer to the wretched place as Jackson’s Whole when it is no longer wretched, but prosperous and just under … new management.”

Giaja’s lips twitched, but Degtiar, Helen thought, was holding her breath. “That is certainly true.” The baritone rolled with amusements and anticipation. “Do you have a suggestion, my Lord?”

Spines snapped straight at the lash in Giaja’s tone and feudal acknowledgement of his words, her own among them. Miles’s voice was oddly quiet. “As all else has been, Celestial Lord, a name should be fair, honouring both our traditions. May I therefore suggest Aralyar Ceta.”

In an odd way, Helen thought, floating, because it was a boon it wasn’t a question. Cordelia’s arm around Aral was taking most of his weight, to judge by lines of dress and muscle. Laisa seemed momentarily to support Gregor; more strangely, Alys was being held up by Illyan. Giaja’s eyes went to Gregor, then Aral. “Are you content, Lord Viceroy?”

“He is, Celestial Lord. We are.” Cordelia’s voice was openly strained, but clear.

“Then by Our edict this day, let the planet known as Jackson’s Whole from the day of its conquest be called by all Our subjects, haut and ghem, Aralyar Ceta.”

“And so called by all Our subjects, Vor and common.”

Two more force-bubbles snapped on, and the haut were moving, as were Gregor and Laisa, though Gregor paused to rest a hand briefly on Aral’s shaking shoulder. Doors opened without apparent sign or warning, imperial bodies passed. Miles and Benin were making their way to the frame, Miles extracting from an inner pocket a flimsy that must carry details of the courier that had left Barrayar at least a week ago. Around Helen a burr of Barrayaran conversation began to grow. Georg grasped her hand again but not as tightly as Cordelia still held Aral, and Illyan Alys. Ekaterin was staring at her parents-in-law with such relief on her face tears came to Helen’s eyes as curiosity came to her brain. A very long talk with Ekaterin, she promised herself.

Then all was done. Miles and Benin nodded cordially and the frame winked into emptiness. The rich panelling behind it seemed amazingly bland. Then Vorkosigans were turning to one another, and Alys and Illyan ushering everyone else towards doors held open by Pym and a Vorbarra Armsman. The lamps along the walls were shining brightly, and through the windows Helen saw gathering dusk. How long had they been in here? Trailing the others a little with Georg, she slowed in the doorway as Pym waited patiently to close it. Aral’s shaken voice sounded behind her.

“Boy, what were you thinking?”

“Of a peaceful way forward for us all. And of gaining you and Mama some of the years Barrayar has stolen from you both, to enjoy it in.”

For a moment Helen’s eyes met Pym’s. Breaking contact she saw the grey-and-tabby kitten slip behind the Armsman’s legs; she went forward and as he swung the door closed heard Cordelia begin to cry.

* * * * *