Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (6/20)
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 Six,
where the friend urges Aral to restrain himself and the enemy tries to drive him crazy.
***
Usually the ship's wardroom had been in favor during the ship evening time. Its empty space and dim light turned it into the best imitation of a typical Vorbarr-Sultana tavern that the ascetic warship's decor could provide. The ship's designers had thankfully not assumed that officers were made out of the same stuff as the ship's walls; they needed a place to make themselves comfortable and relax after their shifts. Of course, the atmosphere of the wardroom hadn't been absolutely free, since any time somebody from Command could visit it. On the other side, there was no alternate way to gather in groups, because the cabins had room only for a broad smile, not another man.
But today the wardroom was almost empty after dinner.
Illyan settled alone at a table, looking at his hand reader and pretending unconvincingly that its contents took all his attention. His evening cocktail was a glass of cold soda water slightly colored with rose wine. But all courtesies were observed, so two senior officers talking as friends could formally regard him as just a lieutenant at rest, not a spy on duty.
Commodore Aral Vorkosigan and Admiral Rulf Vorhalas sat together two tables away from Illyan. It was their presence in the wardroom this evening which made the junior officers go search for a snug place as far as possible from their higher-ups. It was a good move. The confidential talk of two old friends had to go on tete-a-tete, and Vorkosigan needed to have his say. His other ways of spending time looked too much like solitary confinement.
Illyan took no obvious heed of their talk, but only caught its keywords, for the future. And he only glanced aside occasionally.
"... happy that Ezar has tempered his justice with mercy eventually. I don't know whose words he decided to listen to. Everyone mentioned your name recently."
"Of course, for my sins I've deserved a lifelong patrol duty..." Vorkosigan's rumbling baritone sounded quite caustic.
"You are offended."
"Do you think I have no reason, Rulf?"
"Frankly speaking? I think that Solstice accident was your disaster, Aral, but not your fault. But what happened later was only your fault."
"And you reproach me just the same as everyone else!" His voice lowered, edged with hiss. But it meant rather resentment than anger.
"Yes, it is yours only. You were in command. You should have sent that git to the military court on site; a report from a fast-penta interrogation would have adorned his coffin wonderfully and nobody would have minded. You lost your temper, Aral, it was notorious and scandalous. You know it. But a half-year at Kyril Island had to cool your hot brillant head. The assignment to patrol beats everything."
Vorkosigan sighed. "Kyril... damn, I don't remember that winter at all. It has been thoroughly washed away by the alcohol."
"You are not good at drinking. And never were." Vorhalas paused. "However, it was your turn to take command. I recommended your candidature and I have no idea why it wasn't confirmed."
"I know," Vorkosigan said softly, "Anyway I wouldn't have accepted this appointment, but it wasn't offered to me."
"I don't understand," Vorhalas said, puzzled. He added firmly, "Whatever your post is in the chain of command, sixth or first... for God's sake, that son-of-a-bitch shouldn't get a chance to make you break up again!" Now, Vorhalas' composure also failed him.
Vorkosigan responded with a brief joyless snicker. "There is a game called 'I know that you know that I know.' Ges imagines himself as my evil fate. And I..." He paused again, "I should drink now. I'd like to wash the after-taste of his name away from my lips. And enough of him."
Illyan agreed silently that to mention Vorrutyer was the best way to mar your mood. Yes, his ward was fully aware who tried to drive him crazy and how. But the way he controlled himself, he was at most in danger of getting an ulcer from swallowing his own caustic words.
***
The flagship General Vortugalov had arrived in a day at the fleet assembly location in the orbit of the newly disclosed planet. It was spread out beneath, green and blue, fresh, virgin, having no name yet but with an atmoshere suitable for breathing and a non-aggressive biosphere. Vorkosigan, who had landed here with his patrol a year ago dropped now only a few words, but they described the planet's illusory fascination as 'an almost impassable jungle teeming with parasites'. Vorkosigan had never been a connoisseur of unexplored wilderness, even in a normal mood, but now his views on life had become particularly dismal.
The common meeting was arranged for the the latter half of the day. It was planned that personnel pods would ferry aboard the flagship the cruiser's captains and the commanders of troop formations so that they could be informed about the details of the strategic plans of this campaign and get the guidelines directly from their Commanders-in-Chief. Speaking bluntly, it would be the most official and pompous event of the few next months excluding the future Victory feast; the Prince had already forecast how the president of Cortes Planetaris would hand over to him the keys to surrendered Escobar. The flagship had been cleaned more spotlessly than ever before and obtained the awesome perfection of a show model. This morning Illyan had already seen a private disciplined for an unfastened button and an officer reprimanded for bringing a coffee cup to Nav and Com.
No doubt, Vorkosigan had done his homework beforehand, but he had spent all morning at the comconsole, checking one more time the theses for his coming report. However, Illyan wondered if Vorkosigan would even get his turn to report at the meeting or not. As if it had been in mockery, Commodore Vorkosigan had been charged with working up the retreat plan, redundant during the future victorious campaign and required for form's sake only. Nevertheless, when Illyan had come to his cabin as usual a half-hour before the lunch, the Commodore had just risen from the console and was stretching himself with a crackle, straightening his back after the long hours preparing paperwork. Illyan considered that Vorkosigan had hidden behind his work to avoid the Crown Prince's magisterial fault-finding, with which he had recently been terrorizing all his Staff.
Illyan sensed Vorkosigan's tension, the same as all the ship's crew was imbued with. They reached the wardroom for lunch in silence, having uttered no words to each other.
There was a man among the crew, though, who was in a serene, elevated mood. It was His Lordship Vice Admiral Vorrutyer. His excitement showed as an endless stream of some sort of biting wit. The term 'biting' was almost literal, because every time he spoke, Vorkosigan winced secretly as if Vorrutyer's words were not mere remarks but mosquito bites. Throughout all the lunch, Illyan felt heartburn. It was the same, over and over again, and even the subject of Vorrutyer's jests didn't change. Was this the dripping that, repeatedly falling at the same point, would wear away the stubborn stone?
"... a nice place for a resort below; do you agree, Aral? Perhaps last time it was extreme tourism, but a first-class service. The Betans haven't any prejudices, do they? She had to please not only you but all your ship's crew. Your former executive officer will be here today; I should ask him about his impressions..." Vorrutyer continued almost under his breath, leaning in confidently, "I understand now why the personal observer was appointed to look after you. He has to confine your wild private life. 'Confine', what a significant word. In other words, does it mean that your private life is confined to him? Interesting." Vorrutyer paused to sip wine and continued, "Doesn't he really have to sleep in your cabin? I remember it was difficult, because you, er, snored... Or only when you're drunk, Aral?"
This lasted during all the lunch. Vorrutyer almost ignored the meal, as if his flow of words satiated him enough. Bothari, the Vice Admiral's batman, loomed behind him and served at the captain's table as a steward, but the ugly fellow disgusted Illyan less than his satisfied, smiling master. The Crown Prince enjoyed it openly, but his contributions were confined to laughing after his friend's jokes; it sounded like the offscreen bursts of laughter which were a permanent feature of cheap comedies. Illyan thought that perhaps Serg felt no less nervous before the meeting than young ensigns during their first campaign did.
Vorkosigan kept silent.
Vorrutyer, incapable of breaking through the armor with words, finally lost his restraint and turned to action. He patted Aral on the shoulder, supposedly friendly, leaned in confidently, and trespassed on his personal space in every way possible. Aral obviously felt uncomfortable, but he didn't move, in his stubborn reluctance to give up. But he had to leap up anyway when the cordially gesticulating Vice Admiral waved awkwardly and brushed against his crystal glass with his sleeve, who knew, by accident or knowingly. Vorkosigan was fast in his response, lest he be embarassed by a wine stain on his uniform, but he saved only his tunic, not the glass.
Vorrutyer poured out his exaggerated mocking apologies, "Oh, Aral, how clumsy we are both today!" The waiter cleared away the shards, covered the wine stain on the table-cloth with a napkin and put out a new glass for Vorkosigan. A scandal hadn't happened, yet again. It seemed that Vorrutyer had exhausted the supply of dirty tricks he had stored up for today's lunch. Illyan counted off every minute until the end of the meal and felt his tension turning into an iced knot in the pit of his stomach.
At last the time came for the final toast. By tradition officers and gentlemen stood upright to drink to the 'Victory of our Imperium!', and then one might leave the wardroom without any fanfares. Vorkosigan was among the first to excuse himself. Illyan noticed that there was an inconspicuous wet stain along the bottom of his dark green trousers; it was the mark of wine from the shattered glass. Cleaning them would be one more annoying task before the meeting, one more trifle meant to shake Vorkosigan's self-control. As yet the disgraced commodore's mood was stable, severe, and dark like a moss-grown mountain.
Vorkosigan stepped out resolutely torward his cabin. There remained only few hours until the meeting, and he needed to spend them on putting himself and his uniform in order. It seemed that a batman wasn't due to his post, or he had refused the service himself. His washroom was supposed to be equipped with an ultrasonic cleaner, as it should be in the cabin of every senior officer. If only it would be so easy to lighten his mood as to clean his clothes! Illyan didn't know whether the after-pains of today's loathing could be washed away with fifty grams of the very strong and seasoned medicine that Vorkosigan reserved in the drawer of his desk. Illyan had seen this bottle once.
"I am ashamed," Vorkosigan said before entering his door.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Illyan returned automatically.
"I know. But I'm ashamed anyway. He make me a laughing-stock... in the face of my own officers."
"First of all he made himself one."
"I don't care about the reputation Ges earns. Besides, it's impossible to discredit it more. Everybody knows that Ges is a selfish, evil, revengeful, irresponsible son-of-a-bitch!" Vorkosigan spat out every word as if spitting snake poison sucked from a bite. He gritted his teeth, then breathed out loudly. "That's all, Illyan, go off. I'd like to let off steam without witnesses. Come back for me half an hour before the meeting. If there's a need, I call you."
Illyan considered it best to pass from the sight of his irritated ward. Vorkosigan didn't have steel nerves, and he shouldn't fray them any more with his presence.
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Six,
where the friend urges Aral to restrain himself and the enemy tries to drive him crazy.
***
Usually the ship's wardroom had been in favor during the ship evening time. Its empty space and dim light turned it into the best imitation of a typical Vorbarr-Sultana tavern that the ascetic warship's decor could provide. The ship's designers had thankfully not assumed that officers were made out of the same stuff as the ship's walls; they needed a place to make themselves comfortable and relax after their shifts. Of course, the atmosphere of the wardroom hadn't been absolutely free, since any time somebody from Command could visit it. On the other side, there was no alternate way to gather in groups, because the cabins had room only for a broad smile, not another man.
But today the wardroom was almost empty after dinner.
Illyan settled alone at a table, looking at his hand reader and pretending unconvincingly that its contents took all his attention. His evening cocktail was a glass of cold soda water slightly colored with rose wine. But all courtesies were observed, so two senior officers talking as friends could formally regard him as just a lieutenant at rest, not a spy on duty.
Commodore Aral Vorkosigan and Admiral Rulf Vorhalas sat together two tables away from Illyan. It was their presence in the wardroom this evening which made the junior officers go search for a snug place as far as possible from their higher-ups. It was a good move. The confidential talk of two old friends had to go on tete-a-tete, and Vorkosigan needed to have his say. His other ways of spending time looked too much like solitary confinement.
Illyan took no obvious heed of their talk, but only caught its keywords, for the future. And he only glanced aside occasionally.
"... happy that Ezar has tempered his justice with mercy eventually. I don't know whose words he decided to listen to. Everyone mentioned your name recently."
"Of course, for my sins I've deserved a lifelong patrol duty..." Vorkosigan's rumbling baritone sounded quite caustic.
"You are offended."
"Do you think I have no reason, Rulf?"
"Frankly speaking? I think that Solstice accident was your disaster, Aral, but not your fault. But what happened later was only your fault."
"And you reproach me just the same as everyone else!" His voice lowered, edged with hiss. But it meant rather resentment than anger.
"Yes, it is yours only. You were in command. You should have sent that git to the military court on site; a report from a fast-penta interrogation would have adorned his coffin wonderfully and nobody would have minded. You lost your temper, Aral, it was notorious and scandalous. You know it. But a half-year at Kyril Island had to cool your hot brillant head. The assignment to patrol beats everything."
Vorkosigan sighed. "Kyril... damn, I don't remember that winter at all. It has been thoroughly washed away by the alcohol."
"You are not good at drinking. And never were." Vorhalas paused. "However, it was your turn to take command. I recommended your candidature and I have no idea why it wasn't confirmed."
"I know," Vorkosigan said softly, "Anyway I wouldn't have accepted this appointment, but it wasn't offered to me."
"I don't understand," Vorhalas said, puzzled. He added firmly, "Whatever your post is in the chain of command, sixth or first... for God's sake, that son-of-a-bitch shouldn't get a chance to make you break up again!" Now, Vorhalas' composure also failed him.
Vorkosigan responded with a brief joyless snicker. "There is a game called 'I know that you know that I know.' Ges imagines himself as my evil fate. And I..." He paused again, "I should drink now. I'd like to wash the after-taste of his name away from my lips. And enough of him."
Illyan agreed silently that to mention Vorrutyer was the best way to mar your mood. Yes, his ward was fully aware who tried to drive him crazy and how. But the way he controlled himself, he was at most in danger of getting an ulcer from swallowing his own caustic words.
***
The flagship General Vortugalov had arrived in a day at the fleet assembly location in the orbit of the newly disclosed planet. It was spread out beneath, green and blue, fresh, virgin, having no name yet but with an atmoshere suitable for breathing and a non-aggressive biosphere. Vorkosigan, who had landed here with his patrol a year ago dropped now only a few words, but they described the planet's illusory fascination as 'an almost impassable jungle teeming with parasites'. Vorkosigan had never been a connoisseur of unexplored wilderness, even in a normal mood, but now his views on life had become particularly dismal.
The common meeting was arranged for the the latter half of the day. It was planned that personnel pods would ferry aboard the flagship the cruiser's captains and the commanders of troop formations so that they could be informed about the details of the strategic plans of this campaign and get the guidelines directly from their Commanders-in-Chief. Speaking bluntly, it would be the most official and pompous event of the few next months excluding the future Victory feast; the Prince had already forecast how the president of Cortes Planetaris would hand over to him the keys to surrendered Escobar. The flagship had been cleaned more spotlessly than ever before and obtained the awesome perfection of a show model. This morning Illyan had already seen a private disciplined for an unfastened button and an officer reprimanded for bringing a coffee cup to Nav and Com.
No doubt, Vorkosigan had done his homework beforehand, but he had spent all morning at the comconsole, checking one more time the theses for his coming report. However, Illyan wondered if Vorkosigan would even get his turn to report at the meeting or not. As if it had been in mockery, Commodore Vorkosigan had been charged with working up the retreat plan, redundant during the future victorious campaign and required for form's sake only. Nevertheless, when Illyan had come to his cabin as usual a half-hour before the lunch, the Commodore had just risen from the console and was stretching himself with a crackle, straightening his back after the long hours preparing paperwork. Illyan considered that Vorkosigan had hidden behind his work to avoid the Crown Prince's magisterial fault-finding, with which he had recently been terrorizing all his Staff.
Illyan sensed Vorkosigan's tension, the same as all the ship's crew was imbued with. They reached the wardroom for lunch in silence, having uttered no words to each other.
There was a man among the crew, though, who was in a serene, elevated mood. It was His Lordship Vice Admiral Vorrutyer. His excitement showed as an endless stream of some sort of biting wit. The term 'biting' was almost literal, because every time he spoke, Vorkosigan winced secretly as if Vorrutyer's words were not mere remarks but mosquito bites. Throughout all the lunch, Illyan felt heartburn. It was the same, over and over again, and even the subject of Vorrutyer's jests didn't change. Was this the dripping that, repeatedly falling at the same point, would wear away the stubborn stone?
"... a nice place for a resort below; do you agree, Aral? Perhaps last time it was extreme tourism, but a first-class service. The Betans haven't any prejudices, do they? She had to please not only you but all your ship's crew. Your former executive officer will be here today; I should ask him about his impressions..." Vorrutyer continued almost under his breath, leaning in confidently, "I understand now why the personal observer was appointed to look after you. He has to confine your wild private life. 'Confine', what a significant word. In other words, does it mean that your private life is confined to him? Interesting." Vorrutyer paused to sip wine and continued, "Doesn't he really have to sleep in your cabin? I remember it was difficult, because you, er, snored... Or only when you're drunk, Aral?"
This lasted during all the lunch. Vorrutyer almost ignored the meal, as if his flow of words satiated him enough. Bothari, the Vice Admiral's batman, loomed behind him and served at the captain's table as a steward, but the ugly fellow disgusted Illyan less than his satisfied, smiling master. The Crown Prince enjoyed it openly, but his contributions were confined to laughing after his friend's jokes; it sounded like the offscreen bursts of laughter which were a permanent feature of cheap comedies. Illyan thought that perhaps Serg felt no less nervous before the meeting than young ensigns during their first campaign did.
Vorkosigan kept silent.
Vorrutyer, incapable of breaking through the armor with words, finally lost his restraint and turned to action. He patted Aral on the shoulder, supposedly friendly, leaned in confidently, and trespassed on his personal space in every way possible. Aral obviously felt uncomfortable, but he didn't move, in his stubborn reluctance to give up. But he had to leap up anyway when the cordially gesticulating Vice Admiral waved awkwardly and brushed against his crystal glass with his sleeve, who knew, by accident or knowingly. Vorkosigan was fast in his response, lest he be embarassed by a wine stain on his uniform, but he saved only his tunic, not the glass.
Vorrutyer poured out his exaggerated mocking apologies, "Oh, Aral, how clumsy we are both today!" The waiter cleared away the shards, covered the wine stain on the table-cloth with a napkin and put out a new glass for Vorkosigan. A scandal hadn't happened, yet again. It seemed that Vorrutyer had exhausted the supply of dirty tricks he had stored up for today's lunch. Illyan counted off every minute until the end of the meal and felt his tension turning into an iced knot in the pit of his stomach.
At last the time came for the final toast. By tradition officers and gentlemen stood upright to drink to the 'Victory of our Imperium!', and then one might leave the wardroom without any fanfares. Vorkosigan was among the first to excuse himself. Illyan noticed that there was an inconspicuous wet stain along the bottom of his dark green trousers; it was the mark of wine from the shattered glass. Cleaning them would be one more annoying task before the meeting, one more trifle meant to shake Vorkosigan's self-control. As yet the disgraced commodore's mood was stable, severe, and dark like a moss-grown mountain.
Vorkosigan stepped out resolutely torward his cabin. There remained only few hours until the meeting, and he needed to spend them on putting himself and his uniform in order. It seemed that a batman wasn't due to his post, or he had refused the service himself. His washroom was supposed to be equipped with an ultrasonic cleaner, as it should be in the cabin of every senior officer. If only it would be so easy to lighten his mood as to clean his clothes! Illyan didn't know whether the after-pains of today's loathing could be washed away with fifty grams of the very strong and seasoned medicine that Vorkosigan reserved in the drawer of his desk. Illyan had seen this bottle once.
"I am ashamed," Vorkosigan said before entering his door.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Illyan returned automatically.
"I know. But I'm ashamed anyway. He make me a laughing-stock... in the face of my own officers."
"First of all he made himself one."
"I don't care about the reputation Ges earns. Besides, it's impossible to discredit it more. Everybody knows that Ges is a selfish, evil, revengeful, irresponsible son-of-a-bitch!" Vorkosigan spat out every word as if spitting snake poison sucked from a bite. He gritted his teeth, then breathed out loudly. "That's all, Illyan, go off. I'd like to let off steam without witnesses. Come back for me half an hour before the meeting. If there's a need, I call you."
Illyan considered it best to pass from the sight of his irritated ward. Vorkosigan didn't have steel nerves, and he shouldn't fray them any more with his presence.