Disclaimer: All my nefarious plots have failed--I still don't own Miles Vorkosigan, or any of his colleagues.
Chapter Two
Miles sat still, brain ticking away at its usual quick pace. All right, let's think. I'm in the past—and in a whole body. An alternate dimension, possibly? Though that doesn't explain how I got here…Focus, Miles. Pretend that you're an ImpSec agent who's just been inserted into an area with minimal intelligence. What do I know for sure? I know that I'm me. I know where and when I am. I know who my family is, probably, though there may be some people living or dead here who aren't back home. I don't, in fact, know a lot. Hell, I don't even know who's emperor…though, with the current state of affairs, it would be reasonable to assume that it's Gregor. After all, I'm alive and well and living in the Imperial Military Academy, which wouldn't seem likely if there was a pretender on the throne. So what do I do? Make contact with your inside agent. And if I don't have one? Create one. I really hope that the living members of my family have stayed, because I know just who would be really helpful right now…
Inwardly, he grimaced. He hadn't ever thought that there would be a time when That-Idiot-Ivan would prove useful for intelligence, for God's sake! Still, you worked with what you were given, and Ivan was the only one he could trust. Well, probably. At any rate, it was likelier that he'd trust Ivan than anyone else.
He ate quickly, scarfing down his breakfast and eyeing the door with ever-increasing impatience, searching for signs of Ivan. Hurry up, damnit, he thought wildly, I know you sleep late but this is important!
It seemed an infinity until Ivan, still sleepy, dragged himself into the cafeteria. Miles was at his side in a flash, still surprised at how quickly he was moving in this body.
"Ivan," he growled. "I need to talk to you."
Ivan's look of sleepy good-naturedness disappeared, and another look took its place. It took Miles a moment to place that particular look, but when he did he nearly groaned: it was one that he'd worn, quite often, when defending Mark to his friends and family. It appeared that here—whatever here was—Ivan was, god help him, protective of Miles.
"Are you all right, Coz?" queried Ivan worriedly.
Miles sighed in irritation. "I'm fine, Ivan. Or I will be, once you get your ass over to my table and I can talk to you!"
Ivan took his arm, frowning. "Piotr, is there something the matter?"
Miles snorted. You bet there's something the matter, he thought wildly, you try waking up fifteen years younger, in a different body, without kids and a wife! And then, Piotr? I suppose with an undamaged body, Grandfather had no reason to deny me his name.
He gritted his teeth. "Ivan. Get breakfast and come over here."
Maybe it was something in his tone, but—thank God—Ivan listened to him. Miles nearly pranced with impatience as Ivan selected his breakfast, and, once he was done, dragged him over to the seat he was occupying.
Ivan, to Miles' surprise, didn't eat first but began by asking questions.
"All right, Piotr, what's going on? You don't sound like yourself. Hell, you don't walk like yourself."
"That would be," said Miles tightly, "because I'm not the Piotr you know."
Upon seeing Ivan's expression, he reached out and grabbed his elbow in a strong grip. "No, don't; I'm no spy. I'm loyal to Barrayar."
Ivan's face was still wary. "You can consider yourself loyal to Barrayar without being loyal to its Emperor. Or his Prime Minister."
Miles sighed, but kept his grip firm. "Look. I am, I assure you, the son of Cordelia Naismith and Aral Vorkosigan."
Ivan's face now lost its wary look and became confused. "Huh? Coz, you're not making sense."
Miles let Ivan's elbow go and grinned at the return of an Ivan who was familiar to him. "My name," he said, "is Miles Naismith Vorkosigan."
"Wha—" began Ivan.
"Because," continued Miles relentlessly, "when I was crippled at—before—birth by soltoxin gas, Grandfather refused to give me his name. I'm thirty-three years old. I'm a retired Admiral, of a sort. I've been charged for treason. I'm an Imperial Auditor. Oh, and I'm married, with kids…"
Butterfly's Wings
Ivan stared at him in shock as he finished his tale. "You know, coz," he said, "I shouldn't believe you. That's the most ridiculous story I've ever heard. But…"
"But?" prompted Miles.
Ivan shook his head. "But I do. No offence meant, but why did you tell me?"
Miles smiled dryly. Now, if ever, was a time to use his favourite opening line on Ivan…but, alas, he could not afford to alienate this version of his cousin by calling him an idiot. "Judging from your reaction to me and my story, I'm not exactly the same here as I was there," he explained. "I need someone to coach me, tell me how I'm supposed to act."
"Huh." Ivan paused thoughtfully. "Well, all right. First thing—from what you said, you were somewhat military-mad, right?"
"Naturally. What else would I be, growing up as I did?"
"Ah," said Ivan. "Um." Silence fell.
Miles broke it. "Ivan," he said, "what are you not telling me?"
"Well," said Ivan. "Um. Well. You might have grown up thinking of the military as a waste of time. You might only be here because you have no choice. Your ambition might have been to become an…well, an actor."
Miles blinked. Then he said flatly, "You're joking."
"Um. No."
"An actor?"
"Well. Yes. Look, there are worse things…"
"An actor?"
"Yes."
"Dear God, was I insane or just an idiot?"
"Hey," said Ivan, frowning. "I agree that it's not the…best of jobs, but it was what he wanted, and I happened to be his cousin. He's no idiot, and no coward either."
His, not yours, right. "You're right," said Miles shortly. "I apologize. It's just…an actor?"
Ivan tried not to grin, and failed. "You have no idea how good it feels to see you agreeing with me about this, for once."
"Yeah, well, don't get used to it."
Ivan snorted. "I guess not." He looked briefly uncomfortable, but then began, "You've got to understand, Miles, Piotr wasn't a weak man, or a dishonourable one, but he…didn't want to be in the military. I'm not even sure if he wanted to be an actor or if he chose that one because it was one of the most shocking he could think of."
"I can think of more," commented Miles.
"I said one of. There were depths he wasn't going to descend to."
"Quite," Miles remarked dryly. H shook his head, and brought his mind back to the focus of the conversation. "Is there anything else I should know?"
Ivan considered this for a moment. "Probably, but nothing I can remember right now. Well…"
"Yes?" queried Miles.
"I, ah, think you'll be surprised by the guest lecturer you've got for Strategy today."
"Why?" asked Miles, instantly curious.
"Oh, you'll see."
"Ivan, you idi—"
Just then, there was a large buzzing sound. Miles cursed his cousin, his luck, and his timing. I wonder who—well, I'll find out eventually. In the meantime, I'd better get to class.
He grabbed Ivan's shoulder before he could run off and hissed, "Ivan, what classes do I have."
Ivan paused to consider this, then said, "Let's see…today you have Piloting, Physical Activity, Psychology and Strategy & Tactics." He grinned. "I wish I could see your face when you see the guest lecturer, though."
"Ivan, just who—"
"Gotta go, Coz!" chirped Ivan, slipping out of his grip, "See you at lunch!"
Miles cursed, and began to run to Piloting.
Butterfly's Wings
He arrived at Piloting out of breath, panting and five minutes early. He knew that, eventually, he'd need to adjust his mental time-keeping, but for now, he thought it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, thought Miles sardonically, it's bad enough that people think I want to be an actor. I'd die of shame if I were late.
He'd expected the class to be interesting; from what he remembered, the Piloting instructor was an amazing teacher who went out of his way to make things more interesting for his students. Unfortunately, he was wrong—though he was certain that this was interesting to his classmates, he knew this. The more advanced classes would probably make for an interesting review, but this class made him wish he was creating committees again.
Through great effort, he managed not to fall asleep. I should get an award, he thought dryly. Maybe an Order of Merit, or possibly an Imperial Auditor's Seal. Or something else that's rightfully mine…
It wasn't so easy to stay focused. In fact, it might be said that it was incredibly difficult. In normal circumstances, Miles might have been up to it, but these circumstances were by no definition "normal". His wife wasn't his wife; his kids weren't born yet, not even Nikki; he was out of a job—and his main ambition in life was to be…
He shuddered just thinking about it.
"Cadet Vorkosigan?"
Miles jerked to awareness. "Yes, sir?"
"Could you please answer the question?"
Miles felt his face flushing. God damn it, Vorkosigan, he berated himself, stay aware! What would all your tutors say if they knew you could lose your focus by reviewing? For that matter, what would your enemies say?
He gulped. "Ah…could you repeat the question, sir?"
The instructor sighed. God, what's his name? It's been so long…
"Yes, Cadet, I could. If you were piloting myself from, say, this station to Barrayar, which ship would you choose: an RZ47 or a QH39?
Miles jerked, pride stung. There was no need to insult him with such an obvious question as that—even as a Cadet, he'd known that much.
"An RZ47, sir," he replied indignantly.
His teacher—Vordanos, right—raised an eyebrow. "But in our book, I believe you'll note that the QH39 is the quicker ship."
Miles barely restrained an impatient sigh. "Yes, sir, but only for long-distance runs. The QH39 has a much higher acceleration than the RZ47, but it takes longer to reach that acceleration. For a short trip such as the one between here and Barrayar, the RZ47 is the clear choice." He paused a moment before adding, "In addition, sir, the RZ47 has much comfier lounges, so if I were piloting you, a superior officer"—even if you're not—"the comfort would have a clear priority. Unless, of course, it was an emeregency. Sir."
"Very good, Cadet," returned Vordanos. "Have you been studying?"
Miles gave the teacher an incredulous look. This was basic stuff, any fool knew it. How could the man think that Miles, of all peo—oh. Right.
Goddamn Miles' counterpart and his acting obsession.
The rest of the lessons passed in a similar manner, with the instructors asking questions even Ivan would have known the answer to. Miles' answers became more succinct, and he struggled not to grit his teeth. He knew, logically, it wasn't an insult—but it still felt like one. And he felt a deep, deep shame on the part of his counterpart. Ivan had said that he wasn't an idiot, but how anyone other than an idiot could miss this stuff was beyond Miles—
Calm down, boy. There's no need to go into hysterics. They won't help, and you know it.
Another thing that was bothering him were Ivan's oblique hints about the mysterious guest lecturer in S&T. He hadn't managed to catch Ivan at lunch—Ivan had, he was sure, purposefully avoided him.
He was currently in Psychology, which was, at least, not so bad as the others. Piotr Miles apparently was fairly good at this, though not as good as Miles Naismith. But then, he'd have to be, to be an actor.
He sighed gloomily, then glanced at the clock thoughtfully. It was five minutes until Psychology ended.
Four minutes.
Three minutes.
Two.
One.
The buzzer buzzed, and Miles hissed under his breath with triumph. Nearly overturning his desk in his haste to be out of it, he ran full out until he reached the Strategy & Tactics classroom. He sat himself in the front row, center, wanting to find out as soon as possible who was this damned mysterious lecturer of Ivan's. Who could it be? His father, maybe? His mother? No.
Who, though?
He was lost in thought when he heard a familiar voice by the door.
"Hello, son," greeted Kai Tung. "Long time no see."
A/N: Yes, I'm evil. Deal with it. No, I don't know when I'll update again—my habits in that area are irregular, to say the least. I hope you enjoyed it—if you did, or even if you didn't, why not leave a review?