"Whatever it chooses, I presume. Though they cannot linger, this close to Barrayar."
"Are we to be abandoned again?" asked Elena.
"Abandoned?"
"You made us an Imperial force, once. I thought. Baz thought. Then Miles left us, and then . . . nothing."
"Just like Kyril Island," Miles remarked. "Out of sight, out of mind." He shrugged dolefully. "I gather they suffered a similar deterioration of morale."
Count Vorkosigan gave him a sharp look. "The fate of the Dendarii —like your future military career, Miles—is a matter still under discussion."
"Do I get to be in on that discussion? Do they?"
"We'll let you know." Count Vorkosigan planted his hands on his desktop, and rose. "That's all I can say now, even to you. Lunch, officers?"
Miles and Elena perforce rose too. "Commodore Tung knows nothing of our real relationship yet," Miles cautioned. "If you wish to keep that covert, I'm going to have to play Admiral Naismith when we rejoin him."
Count Vorkosigan's smile turned peculiar. "Illyan and Captain Ungari must certainly favor not breaking a potentially useful cover identity. By all means. Should be fascinating."
"I should warn you, Admiral Naismith is not very deferential."
Elena and Count Vorkosigan looked at each other, and both broke into laughter. Miles waited, wrapped in what dignity he could muster, till they subsided. Finally.
Admiral Naismith was painfully polite during lunch. Even Lieutenant Yegorov could have found no fault.
The Vervani government courier handed the credit chit across the homeside station commandant's comconsole desk. Miles testified receipt of it with thumbprint, retina scan, and Admiral Naismith's flourishing illegible scrawl, nothing at all like Ensign Vorkosigan's careful signature. "It's a pleasure doing business with you honorable gentlemen," Miles said, pocketing the chit with satisfaction and carefully sealing the pocket.
"It's the least we can do," said the jumppoint station commandant. "I cannot tell you my emotions, knowing that the next pass the Cetagandans made was going to be their last, nerving to fight to the end, when the Dendarii materialized to reinforce us."
"The Dendarii couldn't have done it alone," said Miles modestly. "All we did was help you hold the bridgehead till the real big guns arrived."
"And if it had not been held, the Hegen Alliance forces—the big guns, as you say—could not have jumped into Vervani local space."
"Not without great cost, certainly," Miles conceded.
The station commandant glanced at his chrono. "Well, my planet will be expressing its opinion of that in more tangible form quite shortly. May I escort you to the ceremony, Admiral? It's time."
"Thank you." Miles rose, and preceded him out of his office, his hand rechecking the tangible thanks in his pocket. Medals, huh. Medals buy no fleet repairs.
He paused at a transparent portal, caught half by the vista from the jump station and half by his own reflection. Oseran/Dendarii dress greys were all right, he decided; soft grey velvet tunic set off with blinding white trim and silver buttons on the shoulders, matching trousers and grey synthasuede boots. He fancied the outfit made him look taller. Perhaps he would keep the design.
Beyond the portal floated a scattering of ships, Dendarii, Ranger, Vervani and Alliance. The Prince Serg was not among them, being now in orbit above the Vervani homeworld while high-level—literally—talks continued, hammering out the details of the permanent treaty of friendship, commerce, tariff reduction, mutual defense pact, &etc, among Barrayar, Vervain, Aslund and Pol. Gregor, Miles had heard, was being quite luminous in both the public relations and the actual nuts and bolts part of the business. Better you than me, boy. The Vervani jumppoint station was letting its own repairs schedule slacken to lend aid to the Dendarii; Baz was working around the clock. Miles tore himself away from the vista and followed the station commandant.
They paused in the corridor outside the large briefing room where the ceremony was to take place, waiting for the attendees to settle. The Vervani apparently wished the principals to make a grand entrance. The commandant went in to prepare. The audience was not large—too much vital work going on—but the Vervani had scraped up enough warm bodies to make it look respectable, and Miles had contributed a platoon of convalescent Dendarii to fluff up the crowd. He would accept on their behalf, in his speech, he decided.
As Miles waited, he saw Commander Cavilo arrive with her Barrayaran honor guard. As far as he knew, the Vervani were not yet aware that the honor-guard's weapons were lethally charged and they had orders to shoot to kill if their prisoner attempted escape. Two hard-faced women in Barrayaran auxiliary uniforms made sure Cavilo was watched both night and day. Cavilo did a good job of ignoring their presence.
The Ranger dress uniform was a neater version of their fatigues, in tan, black, and white, subliminally reminding Miles of a guard dog's fur. This bitch bites, he reminded himself. Cavilo smiled and drifted up to Miles. She reeked of her poisonous green-scented perfume; she must have bathed in it.
Miles tilted his head in salute, reached into a pocket, and took out two nose filters. He thrust one up each nostril, where they expanded softly to create a seal, and inhaled deeply to test them. Working fine. They would filter out much smaller molecules than the vile organics of that damned perfume. Miles breathed out through his mouth.
Cavilo watched this performance with an expression of thwarted fury. "Damn you," she muttered.
Miles shrugged, palms out, as if to say, What would you have of me? "Are you and your survivors about ready to move out?"
"Right after this idiot charade. I have to abandon six ships, too damaged to jump."
"Sensible of you. If the Vervani don't catch on to you soon, the Cetagandans, when they realize they can't get at you themselves, will probably tell them the ugly truth. You shouldn't linger in these parts."
"I don't intend to. If I never see this place again it will be too soon. That goes double for you, mutant. If not for you . . ." she shook her head bitterly.
"By the way," Miles added, "the Dendarii have now been paid three times for this operation. Once by our original contractors the Aslunders, once by the Barrayarans, and once by the grateful Vervani. Each agreed to cover all our expenses in full. Leaves a very tidy profit."
She actually hissed. "You better pray we never meet again."
"Goodbye, then."
They entered the chamber to collect their honors. Would Cavilo have the iron nerve to accept hers on behalf of the Rangers her twisted plots had destroyed? Yes, it turned out. Miles gagged quietly.
The first medal I ever won, Miles thought as the station commandant pinned his on him with embarrassingly fulsome praise, and I can't even wear it at home. The medal, the uniform, and Admiral Naismith himself must soon return to the closet. Forever? The life of Ensign Vorkosigan was not too attractive, by comparison. And yet . . . the mechanics of soldiering was the same, from side to side. If there was any difference between himself and Cavilo, it must be in what they chose to serve. And how they chose to serve it.Not all paths, but one path. . . .
When Miles arrived back on Barrayar for home leave, a few weeks later, Gregor invited him for lunch at the Imperial Residence. They sat at a wrought-iron table in the North Gardens, which were famous for having been designed by Emperor Ezar, Gregor's grandfather. In summer the spot would be deeply shaded; now it was laced with light filtering through young leaves, rippling in the soft airs of spring. The guards did their guarding out of sight, and servants waited out of earshot unless Gregor touched his pager. Replete with the first three courses, Miles sipped scalding coffee and plotted an assault on a second pastry, which cowered across the table linen under a thick camouflage of cream. Or would that overmatch his forces? This had it all over the contract slave rations they'd once divided, not to mention Cavilo's doggie chews.