Forward Momentum -- Chapter 13 (b)
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So far as Ekaterin could see no-one but her uncle and aunt was in evidence when they arrived at the Vorthyses’ next evening, so once they all had drinks in hand she told them Gregor’s and Laisa’s news and decisions about naming.
Pleasure and deeply felt political relief blossomed on Barrayaran faces, and hugs were exchanged all round.
“Oh my. It’s going to be quite a year for babies. And for names.” Aunt Helen was flushed.
“It surely is,” Uncle Georg agreed, “but we must be careful not to mention this in any way at dinner.” He sounded solemn but looked mischievous. “Come on. You’ll see.”
To Ekaterin’s surprise he led the way to the kitchen table, not the more formal dining-room where larger parties usually ate, and sat them in chairs arranged asymmetrically, with two on one side for them and the fourth side bare. A smiling Aunt Helen whisked a first course into place as her guests looked round in puzzlement. The only thing different Ekaterin could see in the familiar kitchen was a dull strip of metal set into the untenanted edge of the table. Then Uncle Georg, consulting an oversize chrono he took from one of his capacious pockets, produced a little remote-control and with a huge wink tapped it. Abruptly the empty place was filled by a frame-bright image of Artificer General Kariam, wearing a loose civilian body-suit with a simple overrobe around his girth, and without face-paint. He was also seated at a table, with a plate of food in front of him whose image appeared where it ought in the fourth place; around him was only a shiver of background.
Miles and Ekaterin froze in surprise, then Miles’s chin jerked up.
“Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan. It is my pleasure to meet you both again.” Devoid of his distracting orange-and-green facial rosette the white-haired ghem-scientist was revealed as a genuine counterpart of Uncle Georg, Ekaterin saw, equally combining rumpled and cheerful, and while definitely second in the nose department would win on ears with ease. He was politely holding in amusement, but clearly pleased with the surprise; her uncle boomed laughter and Aunt Helen beamed.
“Vanos is a widower, you see,” Georg explained, “and I was making poor Helen into one with all the time I was having to spend on the frame in the basement. So we figured if two old engineers couldn’t rig up what they really wanted, who could?”
“Actually, Jack’s design makes this kind of adaptation very easy. And it was fun to do, as these meals with Georg and Helen have brightened my life.” Kariam’s basso gave meaty fullness to Barrayaran gutturals, and he was clearly at ease in the language. Miles recovered his wits.
“General Kariam. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Oh, Vanos, please.”
“Vanos. We are Miles and Ekaterin. I’m sorry to hear you are widowed.”
“Thank you. A long time ago. She was a haut bride, and I am not permitted to discuss what happened. But I was not married before, and I want no other woman now. My work is enough.”
“And fine work it is,” Georg chipped in with elephantine tact. “You know, Miles, we do believe your absurd tractor-bubbles are going to work beautifully. Three field technologies and frames in perfect conjunction. Do you really want to be able to, what was it you said, march the barons out of their own front doors?”
“Oh yes. And line them up, and make them bend the knee to our Imperial Masters.”
Miles wasn’t joking but Kariam smiled broadly. “That is a good phrase. And I remember haut Pel approved the sentiment. So, that is what we shall do. Georg-”
For a few moments the engineers broke into high formal engineering mostly in mathematical mode about, so far as Ekaterin could tell, combining sufficient power to compel a body to walk and kneel with sufficiently fine control not to break or permanently squish anything vital while doing so. Beside her Miles listened with equal bemusement, but satisfaction at the positive trend, while Aunt Helen took their plates and served the main course, declining help. Suddenly the babble ended and both engineers turned to their food with gusto. After a moment Ekaterin plucked up courage.
“So, are the tractor-bubbles going to be able to do that?”
Her uncle nodded, still chewing. “Yes, my dear, they are.”
Beside her Miles developed a grin with a feral edge. Ekaterin forged on. “And, excuse me, Vanos, but will the force-bubbles be tintable, like the ones haut ladies use?”
Kariam stared at her in surprise and swallowed. “I hadn’t planned so, but there is no reason they cannot be. It is a superficial additional tuning to their real business.”
Ekaterin smiled at him warmly. “Then do you think, Vanos, you could remind haut Pel of that possibility? I had the impression you had some technical contact with her.”
Kariam nodded. “Yes. Like all haut women she is a bioscientist, not an engineer, but she has formal responsibility for Star Crèche equipment, including float-chairs.” He hesitated. “Forgive me, Ekaterin, is there an agenda here I should understand?”
“Only that it may be as important how it all looks as that it be truly bloodless. I believe Miles is rather hoping the whole thing can be broadcast live to the Nexus.”
Georg snorted and Kariam stared again, but Aunt Helen was nodding. “You said it to Vanos’s Celestial Master, didn’t you, dear. The emperors will both make speeches, of course, and would I be right to think, Miles, you expect your father to address … the whole of creation as well?”
Miles smiled acknowledgement. “You would, Helen. And Ekaterin’s right, Vanos. It really does matter that it be bloodless and … aesthetic in its goodness. And you must admit, the haut do aesthetic better than anyone.”
“Ha. That’s true. And I heard the tone of haut Pel’s voice as well as what she said, so yes, thank you, Ekaterin. I shall ensure the trrractor-bubbles”- he smiled as he back-rolled the r-“are fully fielded and I shall be happy to relay your reminder to haut Pel. She speaks to your Lady Vorpatril also, at the Imperial Residence.”
All the Barrayarans grinned as Miles answered. “Yes-I think she must have liked my aunt when they were introduced at Gregor’s wedding. They seem to get on. It’s … scary.”
“Ha. Yes.” Kariam’s smile faded to a more serious expression. “While we are on this subject, forgive me, Miles, but Georg said he thought you would not mind. Please, I understand that your … agenda at the summit was far more than personal, but can you tell me a little of why you disapprove so strongly of … that planet. I found the speculations in the files I have seen hard to believe.” He frowned. “Or I did before that most surprising morning. You are, you see, our number one puzzle, in a way. An outlander who has an extraordinarily direct line into the heart of the Celestial Garden, and speaks compellingly to the concerns of empire and haut. I should say plainly I will be reporting your answer to many interested parties.”
Ekaterin held her breath, but her uncle did know Miles well.
“Ah. Well that would be a long story indeed, Vanos. I won’t ask why you’re not asking Dag Benin, who knows more answers than most. But I’ll try for some bones.” He ate and drank for a moment. “My clone-brother is cause enough. You know he was created there, a double to replace me in an absurd but vicious Komarran plot?”
“So the file said. But, forgive me again, your prenatal damage was teratogenic, no? So I do not understand how they created a double of you. Or … I do not want to understand.”
“Quite so, Vanos. Body-sculpting, massive biochemical and surgical intrusion, bone replacements, truly obscene conditioning as a spy-double and assassin. That last bit was the Komarrans, of course, but Baron Bharaputra knew whose money he took to supply the raw material.”
Kariam wore an expression of extreme distaste. “Yes. That is … infamous.”
“And then, well … I’m not allowed to talk about my, um, previous career, though I know Dag’s put some of it together and the Marilacans, bless ’em, did rather blow my cover wide open. As did the people in question, once, but that’s another story. Suffice to say I had dealings there, and beyond even their clone-murder business I came across cases of gene-servitude and technical serfdom that would cost you meals and sleep if I described them.” Miles shrugged, not with indifference. “When personal and outraged passion coincides with opportunity to … extirpate evil, why argue? For Mark alone, a part of me would like to hang the barons from a tree by their guts. But I will settle, oh yes, and gladly, for closing them down. Permanently. And Nexus-wide sight of their mass prostration before our Imperial Masters amid a perfectly dazzling display of cultural amity and justice is … a good start.”
Ekaterin smiled with grim pride. “I don’t mind adding, Vanos, that someone from there tried to arrange for me to die on my wedding-morning. May I suggest, if you are asked about my husband’s motives by anyone with whom you might prefer not to discuss friends, you tell them that, and point out what happened first to the immediate perpetrators, and shortly thereafter to their entire planet.” She turned to smile warmly at her aunt, who looked as if she was swallowing an oh my. “And it is nice to know one’s more cowardly enemies will pay a most exquisite as well as exceptionally high price for their malice.”
Everyone stared at her except Miles, who hissed something she thought was Truest Vor as he bent to kiss her hand, then straightened. His voice acquired a rumble of its own.
“So there you have it, Vanos. Take your pick.” His fingers drummed once on the table. Georg looked as if he might speak but at a glance from her aunt didn’t. “In return, may I ask what I hope is a lighter question? To answer, of course, only as it is proper for you to do.”
Kariam was still digesting with appreciation Ekaterin’s declaration, but slowly nodded. “Of course. Please.”
Ekaterin’s focus tightened. Could Miles work in the questions whose answers she needed, curling in her head since Kariam’s unexpected appearance?
“I said a lighter question, but I do not mean this lightly. Tell me, in all honour, what does face-painting now mean to the ghem?”
Her heart lifted and Kariam’s face lit up. “Face-painting? Ha! My own clan-design, of course, is perfectly appalling. My honoured forebears had no aesthetic sense at all. It’s why we needed the haut.” They all smiled but the Cetagandan’s humour ebbed. “But I hear your serious question, Miles. Yet it is a big topic. You must know its origins, in combat-display and clan-identity, so that cannot be what you want. Can you give me some parameters?”
“Four-but disconnected, alas. In no particular order … our son Nikki has a ghem-friend at school, and has expressed the desire to be shown how his friend’s father does that amazing face-painting in imperial black, white, and red with special brushes.”
No particular order, but Nikki was top of the list.
“Then, when I first saw ghem society on Eta Ceta a decade ago, there was a fashion among younger ghem for reducing full face-paint to stylised cheek-emblems, and I’ve wondered if that … movement? sentiment? is reflected at all in their seniors.”
Kariam was nodding briskly. “That is two. And perhaps not so disconnected.”
“The rest are in the future subjunctive. I shall, of course, soon be escorting General Coram and others at some emotive times that may be unusally private and public all at once. And as you may know, Ekaterin has an Imperial commission to refurbish the gardens at the Occupation Memorial, which has just become more urgent.”
Miles’s hand opened on the table and Ekaterin cut in smoothly. I like our double-act. “There is a question, you see, Vanos, if General Coram is to burn an offering there, what exactly he burns it to? And how, if at all, our design might … honourably reflect our guests in that place.”
“Ah, yes. This is less my competence, but I see the point.” Kariam put his chin in both hands and visibly thought. “First, as to your son, I think most ghem would be amused, flattered, and indulgent, as I am, though it would be better to use the father’s clan-design than the Imperial Array”-he grinned-“as well as easier, almost certainly. So, face-painting is not so sacred a thing a young outlander cannot try his hand at the art with enthusiastic curiosity. And the movement to reduce and stylise it, on occasions when all older ghem would wear full paint, has grown considerably, but is still largely confined to powerless youth. No senior ghem-lord has ever shown the slightest endorsement of the style, though they are obliged to tolerate it.”
On Eta Ceta, Ekaterin knew, powerless youth meant pretty much everyone under sixty. Kariam moved his big hands ambivalently.
“More analytically, now. Private and public occasions at once, you said. And I have said it is an old tradition, from our days before the haut. Then it was all display and a means of identification at distance, or in combat. But what the ghem know now is what the haut teach, that it is both a display and a hiding. The display is obvious, and remains the same. But you ask, I think, Miles, about the fact that what it hides has changed over time. And if it changes again. But this is not easy to say.”
Kariam again rested his chin in his hands for a moment. Then his gaze on them shifted oddly in intensity though his expression remained cautious. “I think I am forgetting, perhaps. You all stayed with your Imperial Master when we ghem left the room that day, yes?” All the Barrayarans nodded. “And was there perhaps a … change that you saw?”
Miles nodded again. “Vanos, there are things of which we may not speak, but we have all here seen the haut talk among themselves, when no ghem is present.”
Kariam visibly relaxed. “Yes. Then you know their stillness is a mask, or an aspect.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Please, understand this is very strange for me. As I think you must realise, few ghem know-or at least, few have seen. Our children speculate about how the haut must be in private. Adults understand more cautiously that one could not live always as the haut appear to us. But very few have seen. I know only because haut Pel has a certain liking for tinkering with gadgets and appreciates my technical conversation enough to … change masks.” Miles and Ekaterin smiled appreciation of that point. “In any case, you all know. So this will make sense to you. Before us the haut are always still. Before the haut we always wear full face-paint.”
There was a meditative silence until Aunt Helen voiced what Ekaterin thought was in all their minds. “Vanos, dear, I see the analogy perfectly, but there is an imbalance, isn’t there? The haut are still only before the ghem, but the ghem do not wear paint only before the haut.”
“Perhaps so.” Kariam wasn’t going to give any more just yet.
Miles leaned forward. “I asked, Vanos, partly because of Nikki’s friend and Ekaterin’s commission, but also because I have been thinking about the pilgrimage. And imagining the pilgrims might well feel it their duty and their honour to be in full paint most of the time.”
“Certainly.”
“But sitting here, talking so unexpectedly and … easily with you, it has occurred to me forcefully that I know Dag Benin as well as I know any Cetagandan, and I’d call him my friend, but I’ve never seen his naked face.” He sat straighter. “Forgive me Vanos, if I say that most Barrayarans, certainly those in my District where most of the pilgrims will be, would feel cheated if their special ghem-visitors did not wear full face-paint for the major ceremonies.”
“Oh, no apology needed, Miles. It is a show, like your Counts’ liveries.”
“Heh. Quite so. But outside major ceremonies, in conversation over food with local people, like the old soldiers you heard on that recording … I do believe being, ah, face to face might be important.”
“Yes, perhaps. I can see what you mean, Miles. But this is not an easy thing. You were right to be cautious.” He fell silent, obviously thinking, with creases of concern in his forehead. Ekaterin saw her aunt and uncle also had shadows in their faces, and perhaps Miles did too for his voice became a little brisker.
“Vanos, something of this kind cannot of course be mandated, anyway. And I am sorry to take such poor advantage of a fellow-guest and use you as a messenger again, but might I suggest a couple of things for General Coram and the, um, more senior ghem among the pilgrims to consider over the next month or so?”
Kariam brightened with the briskness and smiled wryly. “Miles, Georg and I decided late one night we would probably listen carefully to your suggestions were you proposing perpetual motion, so yes, of course.”
Endearingly, Miles looked mildly taken aback at this, and as her uncle snorted Ekaterin had to stifle a giggle with what she suddenly realised was an Alys-like quirk of her lips. Is that what Alys is doing too? New vistas opened up. But Miles had recovered.
“Yes, well, the first is that this pilgrimage is primarily ghem business, and secondarily Barrayaran business. But how is it haut business? There will be no haut pilgrims, for no haut has the need.”
“Ha. The whole ghem nation knows you have that right.” The ghem nation? Would that imply that there’s …
“And second, we are not haut. On my word as Vorkosigan we do not seek to rule you, only to live beside you in peace. All have their secrets, and their privacy. But will you ask yourselves what you now need to hide behind your paint, as well as what you would display to us?”
Koram blinked, stared intently, then nodded. “Yes, indeed. That is a … ha, I don’t know if there’s a Barrayaran word for it-it means not just a good question, but an elegant one, a sharp one. Your Sergeant Barnev’s response to Colonel Lasedi is already known, and his speech has made very wide rounds and won much good-feeling-including his comment on the strangeness of face-paint, so that will help. He is famous now among the ghem.”
Miles grinned. “Huh. I’ll tell him. And thank you.”
Ekaterin moved in. “Vanos, you said the whole ghem nation.”
“Yes?”
“Would it by chance have its own face-paint colours, or all-clan emblem?”
Kariam’s eyes lit up again. “I am an idiot! Yes, it does. You are thinking of your garden-a small display of that symbol as a focus for the pilgrims, yes?”
“Something like that.”
“I do not have an image of it here, but I can send one to Georg later. It is what I believe you call a Coptic cross, in red on a green ground, and it is worn as face-paint only by specific officials on certain occasions. No outlander would be present. But a simple version is used on gravestones and memorials, sometimes, where many clans have members buried together. I will ask friends among the pilgrims, but I believe it would answer your need well.”
Ekaterin smiled brilliantly. “Yes, I think so too. Is it permissible for me to see a scan of such a memorial?”
“I cannot imagine you should not. They are in public places here. I will send a scan with the design itself, and any comment I receive.”
“Thank you.”
“It will be my pleasure. You see, Georg and I were right. This is a better way of doing business. We are free to ask without fear of offending, and all learn more of what they need.”
They drank to that, and the conversation gentled. Aunt Helen, Ekaterin thought, couldn’t quite decide if she was relieved or disappointed as the faint ozone-crackle of history Miles had yet again induced faded. Certainly she had a professorial glint in her eye, as much for her niece as her nephew-in-law and galactic guest. But when they reached the coffee-stage Kariam reminded them he was eating lunch, not dinner, and should set about relaying his messages. After the frame-projection blinked off, leaving an abrupt consciousness of space Kariam’s image had filled, Uncle Georg blew out a long breath.
“I’m sorry, Miles. I didn’t think he’d be quite so blunt, nor so quick off the mark.”
“No, no, Georg. If I’m not mistaken we’ve just done a power of good. If the pilgrims can unbend even a bit they’ll get us by our Barrayaran hearts, as Barnev got them by their ghem ones.”
Aunt Helen laughed. “Was that what happened, dear? And whatever will the poor sergeant think of being so famous on Eta Ceta?”
“Who knows?” Miles brightened. “Perhaps they’ll give him an Order of Merit too. It’d tickle the District no end. But no, of course, it’s a haut award, in Giaja’s gift. Maybe there’s some ghem medal that’d fit the bill, though. Helen, you have a horribly historical look.”
“Do I, dear? Perhaps I was thinking how appropriate it would be for my department to invite you to lecture on Cetagandan relations. You could use those ghem-scalps of yours as a visual aid.” Uncle Georg hooted. Miles looked horrified. Ekaterin favoured her aunt with a dry look and Helen relented. “But I’ll keep that in reserve. What I was really thinking, dear, was that there are two questions I want to ask you over coffee, and I don’t think you’re going to want, or be able, to answer either. Can I try you anyway?”
Miles looked wary. “No promises.”
“No. First, I know something of what Jackson’s Whole means to you, but what does it mean to your Da? And second, with apologies but it’s really beginning to bother me, why does Gregor so detest the memory of his father?”
Ekaterin tried not to freeze, but Miles just grimaced.
“Ah. Others will be asking that, too. And they will not be getting an answer of any kind. But here and now … the answer to your first question is he does not yet know, which with the greatest respect you may chew on.” Helen grinned. Miles didn’t. “The second is the tricky one, Helen. What do you know about Serg?”
“More than the official line, but there have always been holes in the record. I know there was at least one fatal duel, which suggests others, and he was certainly a vigorous philanderer before his marriage. But I can’t see he would have had much contact with Gregor at all-it’s pretty clear he and Princess Kareen were … distant after the birth.”
“Hmm. I really don’t think I can go very far here, Helen. Certainly no detail. But I think none is needed, so I will tell you in the strictest confidence that what fills those holes is slit-your-throat-before-reading stuff, not good for sleep. I take it you’ve never spoken privately to anyone who actually knew Serg?”
“Privately? No. I’ve interviewed most of the Counts who did, at one time or another.”
“I doubt many of them knew much, whatever they guessed. Serg’s true cronies were some of Grishnov’s invisible people, and Ges Vorrutyer. All dead, and a good thing too.”
There was still a lot, Ekaterin thought, that she didn’t yet know, but her aunt was nodding sadly with an enlightened look. “Ah. Like that?”
“More like it than itself. Try Ma some time you’re alone with her-she actually saw Serg once, though he didn’t know it and never saw her. She remembers he had Ezar’s hazel eyes. And she knows what they had looked upon, which was not martial glory.”
“Oh. So … Gregor hates the lie?”
“No. Well, yes, but the lie was always necessary, more than ever once Serg died in battle. What Gregor hates-fears, really-is his paternal gene-complement. His father had the Vorrutyer madness that ran in Yuri. It’s why he wouldn’t marry a Vor, Helen. Can you fill in the last piece now?”
Ekaterin, surprised Miles had gone so far but pleased, as always, by how well he got on with her uncle and aunt, watched Helen thinking down the line Miles pointed, seeing the shape of Gregor’s fears and his genuine dilemma. Idly she turned her fingers on the table as if using a comconsole and saw the arresting memory come to her aunt of the other inter-imperial frame-conversation Ekaterin had reported to her but not detailed-between two empresses, one very aware of her husband’s acute political need for children and the factors inhibiting his decision, the other probably the best and unquestionably the best-resourced and most secretive geneticist in the Nexus. Miles had seen realisation dawn in Helen’s widening eyes too, and smiled tightly.
“There you go. I think it’s obvious, really. And it’s not as if we want our children to be dealing with Mad Aral in sixty years or whatever. More now, I suppose. Barring accident, he shouldn’t inherit much inside his century, which is a thought.”
“Isn’t it just.”
“But don’t say anything about any of this out loud, Helen. Not ever, not to anyone. Just think what can be tried politically with a charge of tainted blood or tampered genes. Which is, of course, why Gregor is ostentatiously going to ensure that Prince Aral’s and Princess Kareen’s replicator lids are cracked open simultaneously to the nanosecond, and then float a very convincing rumour he’s going to allow salic descent.”
“What?” Georg and Helen both sat bolt upright. No Barrayaran of their years could fail to understand what that simple change could do to the imperial throne and countships alike. Ekaterin laughed as she and Miles rose; it had taken Miles himself an hour of pacing and muttering before he’d figured it out.
“Exactly. Think about it.”
They made their farewells and escaped, each delighting in their synchrony, but in the groundcar Miles turned to her with what she recognised as his preparing-to-be-persuasive look. “I was thinking, love, if we still want to take that galactic honeymoon after your graduation, you should take a space travel and survival course at the Academy. And we’ll have another trip to make next year, unless we can combine them.”
Ekaterin had seen this one coming with trepidation ever since she had enthusiastically agreed to a far-flung honeymoon, and only later realised that Miles’s ideas of how Lord and Lady Vorkosigan would be travelling were on a considerably greater scale than she had quite imagined. But she thought she perhaps wouldn’t let on just now that she knew from some careful questions to Simon Illyan what that Academy course was actually called and what branch of the imperial service ran it. Some real training in certain matters might be very welcome, however wrapped.
“Then with personal equipment you wouldn’t be dependent when we were travelling on the public emergency spacesuits ships provide. Or bodpods-I’m damned if I’ll ever let you end up in one of those wretched last resorts.” That rang with truth too, and she wasn’t going to object to its sentiment. “The course would be a week or so, all in Vorbarr Sultana. I mean to send Nikki and Roic along as well. It’s good, preventive security, y’see? And I think you’d like … having done it. Very much.”
“Almost as much as I will dislike doing it, you mean? Space travel and survival, eh? Well …” To her slow delight she found she genuinely liked the idea now it came to it, whatever trepidation it roused. Her confidence was up, Miles was delivering growth as usual, and with her he seemed incapable of thinking anything but big, as he had (according to Illyan) been incapable in his ImpSec career of not vastly exceeding orders. Big is his style. I knew that. But she hadn’t always been content with it.
“Alright.”
Miles beamed at her. “Excellent. Are you good with the Memorial garden, now? You think the national emblem thing will work for you?”
“I’ll talk to Aunt Alys in the morning, but yes, I do. Red on green is perfect. I’ll want you to look at a design very soon, maybe even tomorrow, and”-she hesitated-“I’m sorry to have to ask, love, but I need you to be Auditorial at one or two people who don’t seem to understand the timescale.”
Miles frowned. “You have Gregor’s commission. Who’s messing you about?”
“It’s the Junior Lord Keeper of Vorhartung Castle, under whom the Occupation Memorial falls, apparently. He badgers me all day, objecting to everything. A man called Vorbalakleets.”
“Oh, him. Yes. Thinks changing his socks is a dangerous innovation and has a genius for all that delays. I’ll have him stunned for you.” For a second Ekaterin almost thought Miles meant it literally, but he grinned. “No, though it’s tempting. Just expect visitors at the site tomorrow afternoon who know how to push his buttons.”
“Thank you love. Oh, and can I commandeer Master Tsipis? He knows all the suppliers I used before and the work-sequence.”
“Commandeer whomever you will among Vorkosigan staff, love. You don’t have to ask.”
If her heart beat a little faster, her eyes gleamed. They travelled the rest of the way in companionable silence.
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