The figure of Admiral Desplains, Chief of Operations, Barrayaran Imperial Service, formed over the vid plate. Ops was a tall building in downtown Vorbarr Sultana topped with communications equipment and packed from there down to the sub-subbasements with stress addicts and monomaniacal detail-men wearing (because this was the Imperial capital) dress greens. The rumor was not actually true that the taps in the lavs were labeled Hot, Cold, and Coffee. Desplains had been master of this domain and all it surveyed for the past nine years, so it was no wonder that his hair was a lot grayer than it used to be. The glimpse of window behind him suggested it was night outside, which put him at the end of a long day, an impression supported by the fatigue-lines in his face and the date stamp. But he was smiling, so this couldn’t be any surprise too horrifying.
“Hello, Oliver,” he began in warm tone, and Jole settled back in his chair, relieved, to attend to his distant commander. “I’m sending you this message by way of a private heads-up. There will be an opportunity opening up soon on my end here that I think is in your weight class.
“As you know, I passed my twice-twenty a few years back, but was persuaded to stay on at the helm of Ops by”—he waved a hand—“several people. My wife was not among them, I should add. It’s heartening that she thinks she wants me underfoot an extra sixteen hours a day, although that may only be because she’s not tried it lately.” His smile twisted at this not-quite-a-joke. “Which is to say, I will be mustering out in the near future, God and Gregor willing.
“This gives me the task of scouting for my own replacement. The last three years have made it plain to anyone who didn’t already realize it that it was never your formidable mentor propping you up, although I’m sure you miss his comradeship. And God knows anyone who worked with Aral Vorkosigan for so long knows how to survive in a high-pressure and high-political-stakes environment. Chief of Ops has always needed both. I have other candidates with the military depth, but none to match your insider’s view of the capital. And I have other insiders, but none who are not Vor.” Another little wave of Desplains’s hand acknowledged the political slant of that comment.
Jole wondered uncomfortably if Desplains realized how out-of-date Jole’s Vorbarr Sultana experience was. Never mind; Desplains was going on. Jole leaned forward, frowning.
“With your agreement, I’d like to put you in the queue for Chief of Ops. I may tell you confidentially that you are presently at the head of that queue. Gregor has mentioned to me on the q. t. that there may be some administrative changes coming up on Sergyar. I suspect you may know more about that than I do. It could be an ideal time for you to make a change as well.
“I might add that if I had dropped dead any time in the last two years, this might have been an order and not an invitation. In any case, please get back to me at your convenience. You can have a little time to think about it, of course, should you need it. Oh, and give my best to the Vicereine. I must say, I rather miss her nephew Ivan, speaking of the usefulness of high Vor insiders, although I’m glad to hear he seems to be coming along in his new career.
“Desplains out.” He cut the com.
Jole sat back and blew out his breath.
A little time, in Ops-speak, might mean days, but hours would not be disdained. Certainly not weeks. Desplains didn’t need an answer instantly, but a prompt reply would be courteous.
All right, admit it, he was stunned. Chief of Ops would be the crown of any twice-twenty-years man’s career. And this was an offer without the slightest tinge of Vor nepotism, favor, or privilege.
His first coherent thought was that Aral, were he still alive, would have been pleased, proud, smug, and have urged him to take it up. Followed by a darker might-have-been—would Aral have followed him home, would he have finally retired himself? Would that have made any difference to the aneurysm or its medical outcome?
His second was that Chief of Ops was a post that ate its holder’s personal life alive. Desplains had trailed a family when he’d started, true, but his children had been near-grown, and his wife had been his executive officer, master sergeant, and troop combined on the domestic side.
If Jole went back to Barrayar for this, the three frozen possibilities would have to stay in cold storage on Sergyar. Any other choice fell just short of madness. The job wouldn’t last forever, but then, neither would he. And when Ops spit out his cooked remains a decade from now, who would he be then? Besides ten years older.
I could do Desplains’s job. The certainty was sure, without false modesty or arrogance. He did not underestimate the task, but he didn’t underestimate himself, either.
I could be a father. An entirely different kind of challenge, and he didn’t have thirty years of training and career experience with which to approach it. That was a whole new world, without maps or navigation aids.
What he could not do was both at once. The choice was sharp-cut, like a blade.
Cordelia…Barrayar had been the scene of her greatest joys, but also of her greatest horrors and most grinding pain. He could feel that all the way down to his bones. If she would not return there for the sake of her own family and grandchildren, she sure as hell wouldn’t climb back down into that gravity well for Jole. However much he delighted her, and she’d left him in no doubt that he did. She was a woman full of mysteries, but there was no mystery about this: she would no more return to Barrayar than she would walk barefoot through a fire.
He reached for his comconsole to call her. Stopped.
What would she, could she, possibly say but This has to be your decision, Oliver? He could hear her Betan alto in his head. He could hear the pain lacing her voice.
He sat back.
He had a little time, yet.
Chapter Eleven
This was not the day off that Jole had expected, but if he couldn’t flex in the face of tactical setbacks, he was in the wrong line of work. Cordelia had gone out on another fast-flying trip to Gridgrad to show her daughter-in-law the proposed site for the new Viceroy’s Palace—and garden—and have a consult with the young city architect brought in to manage the planning.
“I know everyone is leaning on the boy for maximum economic efficiency, but we need to persuade him to leave room for parks and gardens,” Cordelia had informed Jole in her hurried morning comconsole call. “Nothing makes a city civil like the injection of some country, paradoxically. I know it all looks like country now, but that won’t last. You have to plan ahead.” She added after a reflective moment, “And parking. And a bubble-car system. With adequate plumbing. Because wherever people are, they always want to get somewhere else, and generally hit the lav on the way.”
“With facilities for parents trailing little children,” Ekaterin’s voice put in from offsides, in a tone of muted passion. Sounds of young Vorkosigans having, apparently, a minor riot penetrated from farther rooms in the Palace. A muffled paternal bellow was either quelling the disorder or fomenting it.
“Yes,” said Cordelia. “Some architects’ designs look very snazzy, but when you drive down to the details you find they seem to think people are born fully formed out of their own heads at age twenty-two, never to reproduce. And vanish silently away at age seventy, I could add.”