“I’m assigned as Chief Meteorology Officer, Lazkowski Base. Where the hell is Lazkowski Base? I’ve never even heard of it!”
The sergeant at the desk looked up with a sudden evil grin. “I have, sir,” he offered. “It’s on a place called Kyril Island, up near the arctic circle. Winter training base for infantry. The grubs call it Camp Permafrost.”
“Infantry?” said Miles.
Ivan’s brows rose, and he frowned down at Miles. “Infantry? You? That doesn’t seem right.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Miles faintly. Cold consciousness of his physical handicaps washed over him.
Years of arcane medical tortures had almost managed to correct the severe deformities from which Miles had nearly died at birth. Almost. Curled like a frog in infancy, he now stood almost straight. Chalk-stick bones, friable as talc, now were almost strong. Wizened as an infant homunculus, he now stood almost four-foot-nine. It had been a trade-off, toward the end, between the length of his bones and their strength, and his doctor still opined that the last six inches of height had been a mistake. Miles had finally broken his legs enough times to agree with him, but by then it was too late. But not a mutant, not . . . it scarcely mattered any more. If only they would let him place his strengths in the Emperor’s service, he would make them forget his weaknesses. The deal was understood.
There had to be a thousand jobs in the Service to which his strange appearance and hidden fragility would make not one whit of difference. Like aide-de-camp, or Intelligence translator. Or even a ship’s weaponry officer, monitoring his computers. It had been understood, surely it had been understood. But infantry? Someone was not playing fair. Or a mistake had been made. That wouldn’t be a first. He hesitated a long moment, his fist tightening on the flimsy, then headed toward the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Ivan.
“To see Major Cecil.”
Ivan exhaled through pursed lips. “Oh? Good luck.”
Did the desk sergeant hide a small smile, bending his head to sort through the next stack of packets? “Ensign Draut,” he called. The line moved up one more.
Major Cecil was leaning with one hip on his clerk’s desk, consulting about something on the vid, as Miles entered his office and saluted.
Major Cecil glanced up at Miles and then at his chrono. “Ah, less than ten minutes. I win the bet.” The major returned Miles’s salute as the clerk, smiling sourly, pulled a small wad of currency from his pocket, peeled off a one-mark note, and wordlessly handed it across to his superior. The major’s face was only amused on the surface; he nodded toward the door, and the clerk tore off the plastic flimsy his machine had just produced and exited the room.
Major Cecil was a man of about fifty, lean, even-tempered, watchful. Very watchful. Though he was not the titular head of Personnel, that administrative job belonging to a higher-ranking officer, Miles had spotted Cecil long ago as the final decision maker. Through Cecil’s hands passed at the last every assignment for every Academy graduate. Miles had always found him an accessible man, the teacher and scholar in him ascendant over the officer. His wit was dry and rare, his dedication to his duty intense. Miles had always trusted him. Till now.
“Sir,” he began. He held out his orders in a frustrated gesture. “What is this?”
Cecil’s eyes were still bright with his private amusement as he pocketed the mark-note. “Are you asking me to read them to you, Vorkosigan?”
“Sir, I question—” Miles stopped, bit his tongue, began again. “I have a few questions about my assignment.”
“Meteorology Officer, Lazkowski Base,” Major Cecil recited.
“It’s . . . not a mistake, then? I got the right packet?”
“If that’s what that says, you did.”
“Are . . . you aware the only meteorology course I had was aviation weather?”
“I am.” The major wasn’t giving away a thing.
Miles paused. Cecil’s sending his clerk out was a clear signal that this discussion was to be frank. “Is this some kind of punishment?” What have I ever done to you?
“Why, Ensign”—Cecil’s voice was smooth—“it’s a perfectly normal assignment. Were you expecting an extraordinary one? My job is to match personnel requests with available candidates. Every request must be filled by someone.”
“Any tech school grad could have filled this one.” With an effort, Miles kept the snarl out of his voice, uncurled his fingers. “Better. It doesn’t require an Academy cadet.”
“That’s right,” agreed the major.
“Why, then?” Miles burst out. His voice came out louder than he’d meant it to.
Cecil sighed, straightened. “Because I have noticed, Vorkosigan, watching you—and you know very well you were the most closely watched cadet ever to pass through these halls barring Emperor Gregor himself—”
Miles nodded shortly.
“That despite your demonstrated brilliance in some areas, you have also demonstrated some chronic weaknesses. And I’m not referring to your physical problems, which everybody but me thought were going to take you out before your first year was up—you’ve been surprisingly sensible about those—”
Miles shrugged. “Pain hurts, sir. I don’t court it.”
“Very good. But your most insidious chronic problem is in the area of . . . how shall I put this precisely . . . subordination. You argue too much.”
“No, I don’t,” Miles began indignantly, then shut his mouth.
Cecil flashed a grin. “Quite. Plus your rather irritating habit of treating your superior officers as your, ah . . .” Cecil paused, apparently groping again for just the right word.
“Equals?” Miles hazarded.
“Cattle,” Cecil corrected judiciously. “To be driven to your will. You’re a manipulator par excellence, Vorkosigan. I’ve been studying you for three years now, and your group dynamics are fascinating. Whether you were in charge or not, somehow it was always your idea that ended up getting carried out.”
“Have I been . . . that disrespectful, sir?” Miles’s stomach felt cold.
“On the contrary. Given your background, the marvel is that you conceal that, ah, little arrogant streak so well. But Vorkosigan”—Cecil dropped at last into perfect seriousness—“the Imperial Academy is not the whole of the Imperial Service. You’ve made your comrades here appreciate you because here, brains are held at a premium. You were picked first for any strategic team for the same reason you were picked last for any purely physical contest—these young hotshots wanted to win. All the time. Whatever it took.”
“I can’t be ordinary and survive, sir!”
Cecil tilted his head. “I agree. And yet, sometime, you must also learn how to command ordinary men. And be commanded by them!
“This isn’t a punishment, Vorkosigan, and it isn’t my idea of a joke. Upon my choices may depend not only our fledgling officers’ lives, but also those of the innocents I inflict ’em on. If I seriously miscalculate, overmatch or mismatch a man with a job, I not only risk him, but also those around him. Now, in six months—plus unscheduled overruns— the Imperial Orbital Shipyard is going to finish commissioning the Prince Serg.”
Miles’s breath caught.
“You’ve got it.” Cecil nodded. “The newest, fastest, deadliest thing His Imperial Majesty has ever put into space. And with the longest range. It will go out, and stay out, for longer periods than anything we’ve ever had before. It follows that everyone on board will be in each other’s hair for longer unbroken periods than ever before. High Command is actually paying some attention to the psych profiles on this one. For a change.