Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (3/20)
It's a long way to Escobar
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Three,
where Illyan suffers from insomnia but doesn't yield to the temptation to make a visit.
***
The Escobaran campaign had started at the appointed time. The invasion fleet's ships jumped one after another through the Komarr wormhole and rejoined together in the orbit of the newly-disclosed, nameless planet. Up to that moment it had been only a meaningless number in the galaxy's catalogue. There hadn't such a huge Barrayaran battle-fleet for five years, since the time of the victorious Komarr campaign. But if the Komarr expansion had been supplied via diplomatic and intelligence successes, then now, it seemed, the Imperium was going to count upon surprise and outnumbering only for Escobar. There were dozens of cruisers of the newest series, troopships, mine sweepers, monitoring ships, couriers. All this multitude was crowned by the flag cruiser General Vortugalov, which carried on board both Commanders-in-Chief and their Staff. It brought up the rear and was now at one-day distance from the orbit of Barrayar and several wormhole jumps behind most of the fleet. It was hoped that keeping the flagship back would keep the surprise that was crucial to the invasion's success.
Illyan's last month had turned out to be... interesting. Any day when he managed to sleep six whole hours had been equal to a vacation. Around the clock the lieutenant had devoured confidential records, one after another, without thinking over their content. The files had contained memoranda, summaries, staff reports, court processes, extracts from the old archives of the capital Municipal Guard... Even if he should fail and be dishonorably dischanged from the Imperial Service, he would have a chance to take the post of the Vorkosigans' official biographer. And also he had to study all procedures of the fleet security, military laws, hand-books of shuttle emergency pilotage and, of course, files of all senior officers and other persons who had served with Vorkosigan. They had been so plentiful that the phrase from one of the records saying 'every brush-fire in the last twenty years had his name in it' looked like plain truth, not metaphor.
Finally Illyan had received the order to arrive at the assembly point in the military shuttleport. He had felt the relief of a man sentenced to be shot early in the morning, who had already dug his own grave and now rested while the soldiers of the death squad ate their breakfast and loaded their guns.
The second of the five wormhole jumps between Barrayar and Komarr fell in the middle of the night cycle. Illyan had checked the flight schedule beforehand in Nav and Com and set his chip's alarm clock to wake him a quarter of an hour before the jump. This precaution was not superfluous. Illyan had found out four years ago, on his way back from Illyrica, that if he slept during a wormhole jump, it gave him the strongest headache. He remembered now in every detail this inexpressible sensation, as if somebody had twisted a blunt and rusty screw into his forehead above and between the brows. Perhaps this effect had been reduced in the years since, or it had been a temporary side effect of the newly installed biochip, but Illyan wouldn't like to risk finding out otherwise.
The world blinked and got back to its original state, and only an annoying sickness remained as the effect of the jump. Illyan knew that he was a bit jump-lagged. This weakness could stand in the way of a space officer. How many times had he thought that on graduating from the Imperial Academy, it has been reasonable to turn him down for long-awaited ship duty? Other than this temporary problem, the modest, if ascetic, decor of the cruiser's quarters didn't cause him any discomfort. His cabin was no bigger than a medium closet, and moreover, he enjoyed the privilege of occupying it on his own only because he was an ImpSec man, whereas any ordinary junior officer would have had to share it with a roommate. Anyway, he didn't feel any claustrophobia or unrest. His room was cozy, and it seemed there weren't going to be any surprises on their route to Komarr.
The jump had been completed, so Illyan could once again rest his head on his pillow and fall back asleep. There was no need for him to get dressed, leave his cabin and check to see if his famous charge was on site. Vorkosigan had made more battle wormhole jumps than Illyan had read files; therefore he would be sleeping easily in his own bed. It would be useless, and moreover, offensive, for Illyan to go out into the corridor to see the color of the light on Vorkosigan's door lock. He knew it, but felt an impulse to be up. Never mind. It will be over. This he recognized as a syndrome of a newcomer, who worried about failing at the crucial task. Later, after a few weeks, his job would become automatic and he would stop feeling nervous.
His formal orders said: "to attend all conversations between Aral Vorkosigan and any unauthorized persons, especially when they talked about Service matters, and to accompany him on all official business". If Aral would only help him, he could carry out this order. Otherwise, it would be only so many empty words. Covert shadowing was not the right way to strengthen relations with a man so painfully focused on his word of honor. The Lieutenant would have to rely on Aral's promise to serve. However, Illyan suspected that there was a bug installed somewhere in the line of Vorkosigan's comconsole, and a man among the ship's crew assigned secretly to judge his, Illyan's, diligence. As usual, this assignment was a test, but it was meant for more people than Illyan or Aral, and afterwards Ezar would judge them all.
Illyan lay down, his linked fingers under the nape of his neck. Unusually for him, sleep didn't seize him in a trice. Well, if a man could not spend a night in health-giving rest, at least he could divert himself with the analysis of the current situation.
No. The self-analysis.
Where had his sensation of having failed an examination appeared from? After his dismissal from the post of Emperor's secretary, he felt irrationally as if he was guilty of something. But he had made neither real transgressions nor failures. It's impossible to know whether one's answer was right, if one didn't catch the question.
Illyan understood that it hadn't been a problem in him, but in the other person. It had not been true that Ezar hadn't enjoyed seeing him. No, he'd refused flatly to allow himself to be seen later on by his young lieutenant. Illyan remembered the remark that Ezar had let drop not long before his departure. It had been whispered in his ear quietly, at a moment of unguarded relaxation, when words passed easily through the mind and out the lips: "I'm growing weak. I wouldn't like you remember me such an old man." Accidentally, perhaps, but Illyan's paranoia knew the worth of this accident.
Ezar had said goodbye and let him go, for Illyan's own benefit.
And this benefit was undoubted. He became conscious as never before that he was utterly efficient and in total harmony with his brain. He no longer felt burdened by the Illyrican gear. He felt as never before the peace of his mind, the indifference to his own desires, and the lack of fear of showing emotions. He was not afraid to love any more. It had already happened, and it had been high and piercing. It was like a person who, having already climbed Sky Scrape Peak in the Black Escarpment, no longer itched to attack other mountain heights with a climbing iron.
Illyan tossed and turned. This point, which he had just inadvertently turned to, was slightly uncomfortable. Exciting, also. But his own bed was the best place to think about it. Now he was all alone, behind locked doors and perfectly secure.
Yes, the same thing that had been a shameful drawback before has receded into the background now. His sexual choices no longer provoked awful confusion in him; they became just a particular detail of his character, like his persistent weakness for expensive chocolate. His fleshly desires could now not appear at all, or could co-exist with any feeling, however strong, from pure hatred to awe, and not combine with it into a detonating mixture. Like oil and water, separate. Even if his judgment hadn't become as entirely free of emotions and personal opinions as Captain Negri had wanted, he had only one passion now. Work.
And no simple co-worker had fallen to his lot.
Their personal acquaintance had only confirmed the assumption that nobody could treat Aral Vorkosigan indifferently; one would instantly feel either sympathy or smouldering irritation towards him. A counter-question: what did Aral Vorkosigan feel towards his personal spy? He could guess it without delay: irritation, of course. Illyan thought that it wouldn't be bad to counter his ambiguous status with something confidential. Perhaps he should drop hints about a hidden resentment against His Imperial Majesty, one held in common between them.
And we also have at least one common fancy, registered accurately in the secret part of Vorkosigan's files.
Illyan chuckled involuntarily but admitted that this joke wasn't too funny. There was too much truth in it. And too many singular coincidences for bare chance.
It seemed I'm not forsaken. It's worse; I'm a gift.
The next piece of the puzzle settled into place with a distinct click. It was as if he had heard his Emperor's voice when he had asked with a grouchy approval: "Do you see, Lieutenant?" Illyan felt an odd medley of emotions, old bitterness overlaid with the elation of baited intellectual curiosity.
He needed to think over this new-formed picture with all his analyst's thoroughness, but it would be better to sleep beforehand. Illyan stretched himself with a crack and yawned. Then he pulled up his military issue sleeping-bag and fell asleep until reveille, without dreams as usual.
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Three,
where Illyan suffers from insomnia but doesn't yield to the temptation to make a visit.
***
The Escobaran campaign had started at the appointed time. The invasion fleet's ships jumped one after another through the Komarr wormhole and rejoined together in the orbit of the newly-disclosed, nameless planet. Up to that moment it had been only a meaningless number in the galaxy's catalogue. There hadn't such a huge Barrayaran battle-fleet for five years, since the time of the victorious Komarr campaign. But if the Komarr expansion had been supplied via diplomatic and intelligence successes, then now, it seemed, the Imperium was going to count upon surprise and outnumbering only for Escobar. There were dozens of cruisers of the newest series, troopships, mine sweepers, monitoring ships, couriers. All this multitude was crowned by the flag cruiser General Vortugalov, which carried on board both Commanders-in-Chief and their Staff. It brought up the rear and was now at one-day distance from the orbit of Barrayar and several wormhole jumps behind most of the fleet. It was hoped that keeping the flagship back would keep the surprise that was crucial to the invasion's success.
Illyan's last month had turned out to be... interesting. Any day when he managed to sleep six whole hours had been equal to a vacation. Around the clock the lieutenant had devoured confidential records, one after another, without thinking over their content. The files had contained memoranda, summaries, staff reports, court processes, extracts from the old archives of the capital Municipal Guard... Even if he should fail and be dishonorably dischanged from the Imperial Service, he would have a chance to take the post of the Vorkosigans' official biographer. And also he had to study all procedures of the fleet security, military laws, hand-books of shuttle emergency pilotage and, of course, files of all senior officers and other persons who had served with Vorkosigan. They had been so plentiful that the phrase from one of the records saying 'every brush-fire in the last twenty years had his name in it' looked like plain truth, not metaphor.
Finally Illyan had received the order to arrive at the assembly point in the military shuttleport. He had felt the relief of a man sentenced to be shot early in the morning, who had already dug his own grave and now rested while the soldiers of the death squad ate their breakfast and loaded their guns.
The second of the five wormhole jumps between Barrayar and Komarr fell in the middle of the night cycle. Illyan had checked the flight schedule beforehand in Nav and Com and set his chip's alarm clock to wake him a quarter of an hour before the jump. This precaution was not superfluous. Illyan had found out four years ago, on his way back from Illyrica, that if he slept during a wormhole jump, it gave him the strongest headache. He remembered now in every detail this inexpressible sensation, as if somebody had twisted a blunt and rusty screw into his forehead above and between the brows. Perhaps this effect had been reduced in the years since, or it had been a temporary side effect of the newly installed biochip, but Illyan wouldn't like to risk finding out otherwise.
The world blinked and got back to its original state, and only an annoying sickness remained as the effect of the jump. Illyan knew that he was a bit jump-lagged. This weakness could stand in the way of a space officer. How many times had he thought that on graduating from the Imperial Academy, it has been reasonable to turn him down for long-awaited ship duty? Other than this temporary problem, the modest, if ascetic, decor of the cruiser's quarters didn't cause him any discomfort. His cabin was no bigger than a medium closet, and moreover, he enjoyed the privilege of occupying it on his own only because he was an ImpSec man, whereas any ordinary junior officer would have had to share it with a roommate. Anyway, he didn't feel any claustrophobia or unrest. His room was cozy, and it seemed there weren't going to be any surprises on their route to Komarr.
The jump had been completed, so Illyan could once again rest his head on his pillow and fall back asleep. There was no need for him to get dressed, leave his cabin and check to see if his famous charge was on site. Vorkosigan had made more battle wormhole jumps than Illyan had read files; therefore he would be sleeping easily in his own bed. It would be useless, and moreover, offensive, for Illyan to go out into the corridor to see the color of the light on Vorkosigan's door lock. He knew it, but felt an impulse to be up. Never mind. It will be over. This he recognized as a syndrome of a newcomer, who worried about failing at the crucial task. Later, after a few weeks, his job would become automatic and he would stop feeling nervous.
His formal orders said: "to attend all conversations between Aral Vorkosigan and any unauthorized persons, especially when they talked about Service matters, and to accompany him on all official business". If Aral would only help him, he could carry out this order. Otherwise, it would be only so many empty words. Covert shadowing was not the right way to strengthen relations with a man so painfully focused on his word of honor. The Lieutenant would have to rely on Aral's promise to serve. However, Illyan suspected that there was a bug installed somewhere in the line of Vorkosigan's comconsole, and a man among the ship's crew assigned secretly to judge his, Illyan's, diligence. As usual, this assignment was a test, but it was meant for more people than Illyan or Aral, and afterwards Ezar would judge them all.
Illyan lay down, his linked fingers under the nape of his neck. Unusually for him, sleep didn't seize him in a trice. Well, if a man could not spend a night in health-giving rest, at least he could divert himself with the analysis of the current situation.
No. The self-analysis.
Where had his sensation of having failed an examination appeared from? After his dismissal from the post of Emperor's secretary, he felt irrationally as if he was guilty of something. But he had made neither real transgressions nor failures. It's impossible to know whether one's answer was right, if one didn't catch the question.
Illyan understood that it hadn't been a problem in him, but in the other person. It had not been true that Ezar hadn't enjoyed seeing him. No, he'd refused flatly to allow himself to be seen later on by his young lieutenant. Illyan remembered the remark that Ezar had let drop not long before his departure. It had been whispered in his ear quietly, at a moment of unguarded relaxation, when words passed easily through the mind and out the lips: "I'm growing weak. I wouldn't like you remember me such an old man." Accidentally, perhaps, but Illyan's paranoia knew the worth of this accident.
Ezar had said goodbye and let him go, for Illyan's own benefit.
And this benefit was undoubted. He became conscious as never before that he was utterly efficient and in total harmony with his brain. He no longer felt burdened by the Illyrican gear. He felt as never before the peace of his mind, the indifference to his own desires, and the lack of fear of showing emotions. He was not afraid to love any more. It had already happened, and it had been high and piercing. It was like a person who, having already climbed Sky Scrape Peak in the Black Escarpment, no longer itched to attack other mountain heights with a climbing iron.
Illyan tossed and turned. This point, which he had just inadvertently turned to, was slightly uncomfortable. Exciting, also. But his own bed was the best place to think about it. Now he was all alone, behind locked doors and perfectly secure.
Yes, the same thing that had been a shameful drawback before has receded into the background now. His sexual choices no longer provoked awful confusion in him; they became just a particular detail of his character, like his persistent weakness for expensive chocolate. His fleshly desires could now not appear at all, or could co-exist with any feeling, however strong, from pure hatred to awe, and not combine with it into a detonating mixture. Like oil and water, separate. Even if his judgment hadn't become as entirely free of emotions and personal opinions as Captain Negri had wanted, he had only one passion now. Work.
And no simple co-worker had fallen to his lot.
Their personal acquaintance had only confirmed the assumption that nobody could treat Aral Vorkosigan indifferently; one would instantly feel either sympathy or smouldering irritation towards him. A counter-question: what did Aral Vorkosigan feel towards his personal spy? He could guess it without delay: irritation, of course. Illyan thought that it wouldn't be bad to counter his ambiguous status with something confidential. Perhaps he should drop hints about a hidden resentment against His Imperial Majesty, one held in common between them.
And we also have at least one common fancy, registered accurately in the secret part of Vorkosigan's files.
Illyan chuckled involuntarily but admitted that this joke wasn't too funny. There was too much truth in it. And too many singular coincidences for bare chance.
It seemed I'm not forsaken. It's worse; I'm a gift.
The next piece of the puzzle settled into place with a distinct click. It was as if he had heard his Emperor's voice when he had asked with a grouchy approval: "Do you see, Lieutenant?" Illyan felt an odd medley of emotions, old bitterness overlaid with the elation of baited intellectual curiosity.
He needed to think over this new-formed picture with all his analyst's thoroughness, but it would be better to sleep beforehand. Illyan stretched himself with a crack and yawned. Then he pulled up his military issue sleeping-bag and fell asleep until reveille, without dreams as usual.