Miles arrived to find the gate guard had a visitor, a tall, blond young man who bore a notable, if softer, resemblance to the sharper-featured Corporal Kosti. He also bore a large lacquered box.
"Good morning, or should I say, afternoon, sir," the guard greeted him with a vague aborted salute almost worthy of an HQ analyst, belatedly recognizing the fact that Miles wore no uniform. "Um . . . may I introduce my younger brother Martin?"
You're not old enough to have a younger brother. Hello." Miles stuck out his hand. The blond youth shook it without hesitation, though is eyes did widen a bit, looking down at Miles. "Uh . . hello. Lieutenant. Lord Vorkosigan." Nobody'd briefed Kosti either, it appeared. The corporal was too far down in the hierarchy, maybe. Miles glanced away from the ImpSec silver eyes on Kosti-the-elder's stiff collar. Well, get it over with. "No more the lieutenant, I'm afraid. I've just mustered out of the Service altogether. Medical discharge."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, si—my lord." The gate guard sounded quite sincere. But he did not demand embarrassing explanations. Nobody, looking at Miles, would question the medical discharge story. Zap oozed from under the kiosks chair, and growled lightly at Miles, whom she was growing to recognize.
"That hairy beast isn't getting any friendlier, is she?" said Miles. "Just fatter."
"I'm not surprised," said Corporal Kosti. "Every time we change shifts she tries to convince whoever is coming on duty she's been starved by the last man."
Miles offered a scrap, which Zap deigned to accept in the usual manner, and then retreated to scarf her spoils. Miles sucked on the scratch on the back of his thumb. "Clearly, she's training to be a guard cat. If only we could teach her to tell friend from foe." He stood up again.
"Nobody wants to hire me for just two months," Martin said to his brother, evidently continuing a conversation Miles s arrival had interrupted. Miles's brow rose. "Looking for work, are you, Martin?' "Looking to turn eighteen, and apply to the Service," said Martin stoutly. "I've two more months to wait. But my mother said if I don't find something for me to do in the meanwhile she will. And I'm afraid it has something do with cleaning."
Wait till you meet your first master sergeant, kid. You'll find out about cleaning. "I cleaned drains on Kyril Island, once," Miles reminisced. "I was quite good at it."
"You, my lord?" Martin's eyes grew round.
Miles's lips crimped. "It was exciting. I found a body."
"Oh." Martin settled. "ImpSec business, right?"
"Not … at the time."
"His first sergeant will straighten him out," the corporal confided confidently to Miles.
He treats me as an honorable veteran. He does not know. "Oh, yes." The two insiders grinned malevolently at the would-be apprentice. "The Service is getting pickier with its recruits, these days. … I hope you didn't slack your schoolwork."
"No, my lord," said Martin.
If true, this one would be a shoo-in. He had the physique for a ceremonial guard; his brother, obviously, had the brains to be a real one. "Well, good luck to you." Better luck than mine. No, unjust to use his daily gift of breath to complain about his luck. "So, Martin . . . can you drive?"
"Of course, my lord."
"Lightflyer?"
A slight hesitation. "I've done a bit."
"I happen to be in temporary need of a driver."
"Really, my lord? Do you think—could I—?"
"Perhaps."
The corporal's forehead crinkled in mild dismay. "It's part of my job to keep him alive, Martin. You wouldn't embarrass me, would you?"
Martin gave him a brotherly curl of the lip, but disdained, interestingly, to rise to the bait. His attention was on Miles. "When could I start?"
"Any time, I suppose. Today, if you like." Yes, he needed to at least go to the grocery and get another crate of Reddi-Meals! "There probably wouldn't be much to do at first, but I wouldn't know in advance when I wanted you, so I'd like you to live in. You could spend your spare time studying up for your Service entrance evaluations." Plus, of course, the medical watch. Would the acquisition of the possibly-more-pliable Martin be enough to displace Ivan? He would have to apprise Martin of that extra little detail of his job later.
No. Sooner. The next attack could happen any time. Unfair, to hit the kid with a convulsing employer and no warning. Elli Quinn would agree. "I can't drive myself. I've been having trouble with seizures. An after-affect of an acute case of death I picked up last year, courtesy of … a well-aimed needle grenade. The cryo-revival almost worked."
The corporal looked enlightened. "I never thought a courier's job was the feather bed some people make it out to be."
Martin stared down at him in utter fascination, almost as impressed as he'd been by the drain-cleaning confession. "You were dead, my lord?"
"So they tell me."
"What was it like?"
"I don't know," said Miles shortly. "I missed it." He relented slightly. "Being alive again hurt, though."
"Wow." Martin shoved the lacquer box toward his brother. Zap the Cat emerged again to roll backwards across the mirror-polished toes of the corporal's boots, purring wildly, waving her claws in the air, and glaring at the box.
"Calm down, Zap, you'll set off the alarms," said the corporal, amused. He set the box down on the kiosk's tiny table and released the lid. Somewhat absently, he tore off the cover of his Service-issue ready-meal lunch, and set it on the floor; Zap sniffed it, and returned to clawing his booted leg and looking longingly at the lacquered box.
The inside of the box lid turned into a clever tray or plate, with little compartments. Onto it Kosti placed two temperature-controlled jugs, a bowl, and cups; there followed an assortment of sandwiches on two different kinds of bread with variously colored fillings, cut into circle, star, and square shapes, the crusts removed; carved fruit on a stick; buttery cookies; and round tarts with flaky, fluted, sugar-sprinkled crusts, oozing dark, thick fruit syrups. From one of the jugs Kosti poured a pinkish cream soup into the bowl; from the other, some spicy hot drink. Both steamed in the cool air. For Zap the Cat there was a wad of prettily tied green leaves that unfolded to reveal a meat paste of some kind, apparently the same as filled one of the sandwiches. Zap dived in the moment Kosti spread it on the floor, growling ecstatically, tail lashing.
Miles stared in amazement, and swallowed saliva. "What is all that, Corporal?"
"My lunch," said Kosti simply. "M' mother sends it over every day." He batted away a brotherly paw descending on one sandwich. "Hey. You can get yours at home. This is mine." He glanced up a little uncertainly at Miles.
Technically, ImpSec personnel on duty were not supposed to eat anything but ImpSec-issued rations, to avoid any attacks through ingestible drugs or poisons. But if you couldn't trust your mother and brother, who could you trust? Besides … it wasn't Miles's officerly job to enforce ImpSec regs in idiotic situations anymore. "Your mother makes all that? Every day?"
"Mostly," said Kosti. "With my sisters married—"