A Moment in the Mind
At 4'9", Miles Vorkosigan's genius was only matched by his ability to lead, whether in politics, military expeditions, or personal crises.
If you saw him today, you would see a man with severe hyperactivity, always moving, sharp features twisting at every new thought, each alighting rapidly in his mind. A manic gleam resides within his eyes, turned twitch with every wrench in the infancy of his plans. Those currently in his company admired him, those soon to face him despised him, all because defied every expectation.
Currently an hour away from Oser's fleet, paid off by the Cetagandans, or at least Emperor Gregor had hinted so. His cousin wouldn't lie outright, but was known to manipulate assumptions out of people. The stale smelling, weeks-recycled air aboard the ship tended to play around with his brain processes. When he had been told of his assignment, his dark brows had furrowed, curious as to why the Cetagandan government had taken such an interest in their uterine replicators being sent to Graff Station. It was considered a small hub, in what was originally the very corner of most jumpoint stations. They didn't use the Hegen hub, likely because Barrayar shared that airspace.
In his brief mental wanderings, Elli Quinn, shag-mate and second in command (the two occupations being totally disparate) had asked him a question…
"Are you in the action or not?"
It was a frivolous question, really, because he had only sat out once, due to medical reasons. He moved to tell her so, but paused upon seeing her face expectant of what she knew to be the answer. He suddenly felt a form of guilt pass through his stomach, or at least he assumed so since he had never had digestive issues.
"No, I believe with the multitude of ships at our disposal, I should be fully engaged using the main system to communicate with the officers. No nasty court martial if something technical goes wrong, that way."
It was an excuse, and they both knew it, because while a wise move, he would have done differently if it hadn't have been for that face. As it was, he saw it light up, and leave to dispatch modified orders.
Now the stage was set, Oser's mercenaries were here. In him, he felt a practiced calm that came with a near-to-flawless blend of experience and talent that had always astounded and ruffled the feathers of his superior officers. The audible hustle of the soldiers was quickly blocked out by the hiss of a vid-plate call to discuss terms.
He fixed an obsessively neat uniform, perhaps a bit stretched in the abdominal region due to his recent complacent lifestyle, once again and eagerly went at it.