“And the wind?”
“Winds from the east at nine kilometers per hour, sir.”
“Very good.” Metzov’s eye gleamed wolfishly. “Dismissed, gentlemen. See if you can carry out your orders, this time.”
General Metzov stood, heavily gloved and parka-bundled, beside the empty metal bannerpole in front of Admin, and stared down the half-lit road. Looking for what? Miles wondered. It was pushing midnight now. Yaski and Bonn were lining up their tech crews in parade array, some fifteen thermal-coveralled and parka-clad men.
Miles shivered, and not just from the cold. Metzov’s seamed face looked angry. And tired. And old. And scary. He reminded Miles a bit of his grandfather on a bad day. Though Metzov was in fact younger than Miles’s father; Miles had been a child of his father’s middle age, some generational skew there. His grandfather, the old General Count Piotr himself, had sometimes seemed a refugee from another century. Now, the really old-fashioned discipline parades had involved lead-lined rubber hoses. How far back in Barrayaran history was Metzov’s mind rooted?
Metzov smiled, a gloss over rage, and turned his head at a movement down the road. In a horribly cordial voice he confided to Miles, “You know, Ensign, there was a secret behind that carefully cultivated interservice rivalry they had back on Old Earth. In the event of a mutiny you could always persuade the army to shoot the navy, or vice versa, when they could no longer discipline themselves. A hidden disadvantage to a combined Service like ours.”
“Mutiny!” said Miles, startled out of his resolve to speak only when spoken to. “I thought the issue was poison exposure.”
“It was. Unfortunately, due to Bonn’s mishandling, it’s now a matter of principle.” A muscle jumped in Metzov’s jaw. “It had to happen sometime, in the New Service. The Soft Service.”
Typical Old Service talk, that, old men bullshitting each other about how tough they’d had it in the old days. “Principle, sir, what principle? It’s waste disposal,” Miles choked.
“It’s a mass refusal to obey a direct order, Ensign. Mutiny by any barracks-lawyer’s definition. Fortunately, this sort of thing is easy to dislocate, if you move quickly, while it’s still small and confused.”
The motion down the road resolved itself into a platoon of grubs in their winter-white camouflage gear, marching under the direction of a Base sergeant. Miles recognized the sergeant as part of Metzov’s personal power-net, an old veteran who’d served under Metzov as far back as the Komarr Revolt, and who had moved on with his master.
The grubs, Miles saw, had been armed with lethal nerve disruptors, which were purely anti-personnel hand weapons. For all the time they spent learning about such things, the opportunity for even advanced trainees such as these to lay hands on fully powered deadly weapons was rare, and Miles could sense their nervous excitement from here.
The sergeant lined the grubs up in a cross-fire array around the stiff-standing techs, and barked an order. They presented their weapons, and aimed them, the silver bell-muzzles gleaming in the scattered light from the admin building. A twitchy ripple ran through Bonn’s men. Bonn’s face was ghastly white, his eyes glittering like jet.
“Strip,” Metzov ordered through set teeth.
Disbelief, confusion; only one or two of the techs grasped what was being demanded, and began to undress. The others, with many uncertain glances around, belatedly followed suit.
“When you are again ready to obey your orders,” Metzov continued in a parade-pitched voice that carried to every man, “you may dress and go to work. It’s up to you.” He stepped back, nodded to his sergeant, and took up a pose of parade rest. “That’ll cool ’em off,” he muttered to himself, barely loud enough for Miles to catch. Metzov looked as if he fully expected to be out there no more than five minutes; he might already be thinking of warm quarters and a hot drink.
Olney and Pattas were among the techs, Miles noted, along with most of the rest of the Greek-speaking cadre who had plagued Miles early on. Others Miles had seen around, or talked to during his private investigation into the background of the drowned man, or barely knew. Fifteen naked men starting to shiver violently as the dry snow whispered around their ankles. Fifteen bewildered faces beginning to look terrified. Eyes shifted toward the nerve disruptors trained on them. Give in, Miles urged silently. It’s not worth it. But more than one pair of eyes flickered to him, and squeezed shut in resolution.
Miles silently cursed the anonymous clever boffin who’d invented fetaine as a terror weapon, not for his chemistry, but for his insight into the Barraryaran psyche. Fetaine could surely never have been used, could never be used. Any faction trying to do so must rise up against itself and tear apart in moral convulsions.
Yaski, standing back from his men, looked thoroughly horrified. Bonn, his expression black and brittle as obsidian, began to strip off his gloves and parka.
No, no, no! Miles screamed inside his head. If you join them they’ll never back down. They’ll know they’re right. Bad mistake, bad . . . Bonn dropped the rest of his clothes in a pile, marched forward, joined the line, wheeled, and locked eyes with Metzov. Metzov’s eyes narrowed with new fury. “So,” he hissed, “you convict yourself. Freeze, then.”
How had things gone so bad, so fast? Now would be a good time to remember a duty in the weather office, and get the hell out of here. If only those shivering bastards would back down, Miles could get through this night without a ripple in his record. He had no duty, no function here. . . .
Metzov’s eye fell on Miles. “Vorkosigan, you can either take up a weapon and be useful, or consider yourself dismissed.”
He could leave. Could he leave? When he made no move, the sergeant walked over and thrust a nerve disruptor into Miles’s hand. Miles took it up, still struggling to think with brains gone suddenly porridge. He did retain the wit to make sure the safety was “on” before pointing the disruptor vaguely in the direction of the freezing men.
This isn’t going to be a mutiny. It’s going to be a massacre.
One of the armed grubs giggled nervously. What had they been told they were doing? What did they believe they were doing? Eighteen-, nineteen-year-olds—could they even recognize a criminal order? Or know what to do about it if they did?
Could Miles?
The situation was ambiguous, that was the problem. It didn’t quite fit. Miles knew about criminal orders, every academy man did. His father came down personally and gave a one-day seminar on the topic to the seniors at midyear. He’d made it a requirement to graduate, by Imperial fiat back when he’d been Regent. What exactly constituted a criminal order, when and how to disobey it. With vid evidence from various historical test cases and bad examples, including the politically disastrous Solstice Massacre, which had taken place under the admiral’s own command. Invariably one or more cadets had to leave the room to throw up during that part.
The other instructors hated Vorkosigan’s Day. Their classes were subtly disrupted for weeks afterward. One reason Admiral Vorkosigan didn’t wait till any later in the year; he almost always had to make a return trip a few weeks after, to talk some disturbed cadet out of dropping out at almost the finale of his schooling. Only the academy cadets got this live lecture, as far as Miles knew, though his father talked of canning it on holovid and making it a part of basic training Service-wide. Parts of the seminar had been a revelation even to Miles.