Chapter 3. Temptation
"Countess Vormoncrief noted to me that the old Count is awfully interested in the coming property law reform. I don't know if Colonel Lord Vortala the Younger mentioned it to you earlier, but he was pressuring Gregor at the ball about it. So much that Gregor left early, in fact." Lady Alys said as she sipped the tea in front of her comsole.
It was a true pity that today's mess made it impossible for him to attend their usual tea sessions in person, Illyan thought and sighed, "I was aware."
Truly, Lady Alys was a remarkable woman and her work at gathering the relevant information from the hundreds of rumors circulating the High Vor-scene was invaluable. But over their official working relationship, the fact was that her mere company was a balm to his frayed nerves.
As a matter of fact, she was his confidante in many things. Her ability to keep secrets was in par to none, but there were still some things he couldn't ever share, not to anyone, not even to her. Among those was definitely this nightmarish reality where Miles's persona had been duplicated and the second copy was inhibiting the body of the Emperor–
"Simon… " Lady Alys started, then paused… as if in moment's indecision, but then continued, "do remember to take of yourself. No matter how complicated the situation is, you do have proficient subordinates that you can delegate tasks to."
Illyan felt a wave of tender warmth rising at hearing her lips form his name, a rare treat indeed. Most commonly Lady Alys preferred to keep a certain distance between them, choosing to address him by his rank. Not that he disapproved, he was married to his job and Lady Alys was a fine woman deserving a man's full attention, not mere scraps he could provide…
"I shall do my best, my lady." He answered to her with faux seriousness, but her slight ironic smile signaled that she was just humoring him.
Despite the light banter, the fact that she felt it necessary to note such things made it clear that he was getting too old to be pulling all-nighters' and riding the herd. Had been for years, but somehow there had been always another crisis, another year, some other miscellaneous excuse to postpone his retirement despite having had his letter of resignation sitting on his desk for the past five years. But Miles wasn't ready yet, there was no way he could let go…
Not right now, not maybe for years.
Illyan glanced at his wrist com for the time and saw that he still had a precious quarter hour left of his self-assigned break before he should make a call to the doctors regarding Miles's seizure investigation.
"Was there anything else noteworthy at the spring ball? I still have some time." Illyan noted calmly, pitching his voice to disinterested casualness. A lie, but then again, he was a regular liar regarding his emotions towards her.
She knew it all too well, after all… they had been dancing this dance for years. But she obliged him and started to go over the subsidiary rumors, the ones that weren't solid enough or important enough at the time.
Illyan let her voice wash over him, and tried to relax. His memory chip would record her every word, but right now… he was just too tired to focus on words, ideas and facts. Instead, he let his eyes wander to the corner of her lips, tilted in a slightly humorous way, then onwards to the sheer aesthetic beauty of her cheekbones…
But when he heard a change in tone from lively professional recounting to disapproving, he snapped out of his pleasant daze and was forced to pay attention.
"…I wasn't there at the time, but Countess Vorlakial mentioned to me that Ivan was seen talking with Lady Vorob'yev again. Not that it is a surprise, knowing the way my boy has been chasing her skirts, but according to the talk, she seemed more accepting to his advances. Which does worry me, I admit. I have been assuming that her motivations are… more political, so to say."
"Lady Vorob'yev, who owns a marked percentage of the Vorya comsole networks?"
"The very same, "Lady Alys nodded curtly.
Briefly, Illyan checked his memory chip for references, but Lady Vorob'yev's name didn't rouse up more relevant information that would account for that frown. The Lady in question had a rather marked reputation as a highly desirable woman that constantly refused all offers for the male company. Some years ago there had even been a circulating a rumor that she wasn't interested in male companionship at all, but it had been renounced as she had accepted an offer for a date from some Count's son shortly after her return to Barrayar from her galactic studies.
Nothing to explain Lady Alys's apparent distaste, on the surface she seemed to be a perfectly acceptable source of an interest for Ivan. And if Ivan had been after her for years, surely that was a sign that the feckless young man was finally settling down?
Perhaps that was the issue… yes, it was quite a bit more likely theory. Though Vorob'yevs were of good High Vor stock, their name had risen to a district clan's status quite recently, only after Emperor Dorca's unification. It was a rather unfortunate scandal when the old Vorsvalov's direct line of inheritance had broken and a vassal family had taken their spot. Thus the Vorob'yevs were seen as a bit of upstart. When one added to that the clan's rather entrepreneurial focus, and even their easy surrender during the occupation...
Illyan rubbed his aching forehead; the High Vor politics were enough to give anyone not born into it a headache. Though he had watched the circus for decades, even enjoying it these days – he had never really understood it the way Lady Alys did. For her, it was as easy as breathing.
So even though to him Ivan's interest to Lady Vorob'yev was only a positive thing, a good match even, he didn't want to dismiss Lady Alys's instincts. Habitually, when he had the time, he second-checked everyone she mentioned with disfavor, but right now it wasn't an option. However, maybe he did have something to share to ease this fear of hers regarding Ivan…
"I don't think you should be too worried about Ivan's interest to her. Just this morning I ran across Ivan in a rather unfortunate incident in the Residence's main foyer."
Lady Alys raised her perfectly shaped brow and lowered her tea, a sign of a wary interest.
It showed her skill in reading people, Illyan noted in appreciation and continued to explain the encounter, and recounting Ivan's rather… embarrassing choice of words in verbatim to Lady Alys.
She let out a charming tiny scoff in appreciation of the blunder, and then swept an artfully arranged slip of hair behind her ear.
While some might think that recounting her son's error's to Lady Alys would offend her, in truth she was disillusioned with Ivan's dating habits and blunders and had developed a rather thick-skinned sense of humor regarding them. In fact, she preferred knowledge over ignorance when it came to Ivan's doings, which was an approach that Illyan could respect.
Not to mention the way she tirelessly worked to smooth over the aftermath, just like now; "Poor girl, I will need to find out who she was and set things right. No young lady should be harassed so."
"I shall leave you to it, then," Illyan said and bowed slightly, "until next time."
After her warm farewells, he cut the com. Exhaled and leaned back in his chair. While he would rather do just about anything else, the fact was that his half an hour of a break was over and he had to get back to the business.
A com call to the team of doctor's investigating Miles's seizure didn't give any groundbreaking breakthroughs, not yet. However, the new addition to the team, Doctor Weddel, the previously known bioscience genius from Jackson's Whole, had some solid theories.
According to the Weddel, there could be more information coming quite soon, made possible by the surprisingly thorough technical reports his Eta Cetan agent had managed to weasel out earlier. Apparently, the nanochip's production materials included quite rare metals and the scientist's working theory was that the basic scanner could be adjusted uncover the spy device's presence.
It was the one of the very few good news they had gotten in this mess.
However, it didn't ease Illyan's worry at all. So far there was nothing definite the doctors could say about Miles's condition but for the facts he already knew. The rest was just speculation this early in the investigation.
"…wouldn't want to speculate with incomplete information, but we have managed to find some unusual activity with the brain's neurotransmitters, and while we haven't detected any reason for it, the idiosyncratic movement has yet to stabilize."
"What does it mean? When he will be able to return to duty?"
"It's impossible to say anything definite yet. We will do some more tests, but so far the situation hasn't changed." The doctor avoided saying anything definite, but his voice was grave, signaling clearly that not a single one of the potential prognosis were good.
"Very well, keep me posted on new developments," Illyan said, but after he curtly ended the call… he clenched his fists tight and grunted; "Damnit, boy!"
"Am I interrupting?"
Slowly opening his fist, and gathering himself, Illyan subtly straightened and turned to look at the door.
His office was the most secure room in the whole Imperium and during sensitive meetings the door was kept firmly locked. However, in a crisis situation, it wasn't very practical to stay away from the center of information flow, especially when he had delegated the immediate task down the command chain, so he tended to keep it closed but unlocked.
Available if something new came up, or if his personal attention was needed.
"No, no come in. What is it?"
…and considering that Head of Domestic affairs, Lucas Haroche was on his door, looking grimly excited and carrying a folder of flimsies with him, it had to be something big.
Haroche nodded at him and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
That big..?
Illyan pressed the control under his table, locking it – guaranteeing the privacy, while Haroche sat down and pushed the folder down on the table.
"That's some background that my men have managed to uncover, but the real news is that the spy just broke and started giving the good stuff. They have been pressing him for quick answers down there, as you ordered. He is Cetagandan counter-intelligence agent, confirming our earlier assumption. Ghem-lieutenant Arun Har, to be precise. Not remarkable enough to appear in our files of known Ceta operatives, but a good mole still. He has managed very nearly a spotless record in the four confirmable years he has been at this deep-cover post. They couldn't have managed to hack into our system, but we did find out that Vorbarr Sultana Military College records had been altered to include him. Beautiful work, truly. Very precise, very subtle. If we didn't have a good idea what we were looking for, our men wouldn't have found it." Haroche paused his report, looking very admiring.
"So that's how they got him in. A brilliant hacker." Illyan frowned, and then exhaled, "Makes it easier that he isn't one of our own turned a traitor."
Haroche nodded at him, eyes grim.
Traitors were a black mark on everyone. And while they weren't unknown, Impsec screening system was very thorough. If there was a hole in the system, then, on top of everything else, they would have to look for traitors in their own ranks for months after this mess was done… it was a scenario they all would rather prefer to avoid.
Cetas, in this case, were the easier solution. Find one, break them – find out his contact… and so on until every member in the cell was caught.
"So we know of two. What more we got out of the grunt so far?"
"Well, Lieutenant Har certainly isn't our hacker. His talent's lie on infiltration and recollecting information. Very specific and fitting skill-set for his role. So far he has confirmed that there were three targets, the Emperor, Lieutenant Vorpatril and Lieutenant Vorkosigan. However, something went wrong with the Emperor's implant and out of the three only Vorkosigan was certainly tagged. Vorpatril's tagging was a failure."
That… explains many things. Illyan relaxed minutely. Thank God and all the Saints.
This meant that the mess could be contained. He didn't have to let the knowledge of the crisis out in the open or to invite in all the probable target's who had taken Har's offered champagne… it was a weight straight off his shoulders, truly. Especially knowing that among the twelve had been rather difficult personages such as Counts Vorhalas and Vormoncrief and Prime Minister Racozy…
But, it was a rather curious choice of targets. Of all the people on the guest list, Miles and Ivan were seemingly a rather low in the priority. So, "why those three?"
"That's the thing I am not so sure off. It doesn't sound very logical to me at all, neither does the suggested motive. Har claims that Cetagandans motive is to gain an understanding of the Emperor and his suspected heirs. A very facetious claim. It makes no sense at all – Vorkosigan and Vorpatril aren't the Emperor's heirs, nor even close to critical information. Spying nor assassinating them would gain the Cetagandans nothing." Haroche critiqued.
It was a characteristic estimate from the man.
However, it reminded Illyan acutely just why he hadn't yet stepped down and given the reigns in interim to this man. Though Haroche was brilliant at his work and certainly ready for the promotion, occasionally he just couldn't see the way the Vor network truly worked, how the strings of nepotism, favors and obligations flowed. More importantly, Haroche willingly blinded himself with this prejudice.
Illyan didn't show any sign regarding this personal disapproval to show on his face, and not even momentarily deterred, Haroche continued, "Because of the information's low quality, I ordered the interrogators to use harsher methods. After some pushing, Har did present another theory that the device was intended for causing civil unrest. It's a far more likely one to my ears, especially combined with Vorkosigan's collapse. I would request to gather a team to explore the second theory more thoroughly."
Illyan frowned, and leaned his elbows on his table, tenting his fingers ahead of him. Though Haroche's theories had some perception errors, the underlying principle was not wrong. Especially now that Miles's persona had been duplicated to the Emperor's body. When combined with the fact that Miles's deep-cover as Admiral Naismith had been fraying very thin the past year, it was likely that the Cetagandan's had finally figured it out. And if anything, Admiral Naismith was a very unstable persona, often portrayed as mad, extremely eccentric and highly unpredictable.
So, if Cetagandans had wanted to cause civil unrest, then forcibly relocating the mind of the man they knew was in truth the crazy mercenary Admiral to the Emperor's body would be… a bizarre tactic, but still plausible. Even more likely, it could be indented as a distraction for a larger plot.
Thank god they don' know who the Miles Naismith Vorkosigan truly is.
Not like he did.
Miles didn't lie to him and could be trusted to handle Gregor's duties for the moment without causing a scene. And the information leakage could be contained because Miles knew he was compromised and knew to avoid critical information.
…but there was a part of him that was very, very glad that he had already arranged for most of the sensitive meetings to be reassigned to the later date in the Emperor's schedule.
Illyan let out a small sigh of relief.
Just to be on the safe side.
Haroche was looking at him strangely, clearly not having anticipated his reaction.
Illyan ignored the unspoken question and gave an acknowledging nod for his first subordinate. And what came to the request…
"Granted. Good work with the prisoner, General Haroche."
Miles had severely contrary feelings regarding his current situation.
He was stuck in the office, out of the loop and had no way of getting information regarding the seizure investigation without tipping his interest away to Illyan. And so far, Gregor hadn't come back to him with the facts either. So he had spent the rest of his morning and early afternoon in a panicked daze, trying desperately to figure a way out of the sinkhole of lies, cover-ups, and deceits regarding his health. At the failed contingency plan number 44 on how to save his career, well – life – Miles finally concluded that it was useless until he knew more.
So, he rather sensibly resolved to think of anything else than the way his life was falling into ruins around him.
That was when he had noted that his fears of being incapable of doing Gregor's job were rather superfluous because it was almost like having to play Admiral Naismith, here, on Barrayar. Well, not personality wise per se – he had to tune down and try to control most of his hyperactivity, inherent madcapness and attempt to limit his physical expressions. No, as roles the glum paper-pushing Emperor of Barrayar and dashing Galactic Mercenary Admiral were about as far from being alike as possible. But, they were frighteningly similar in way people looked up at him, obeyed him… as an unquestionable leader.
Extremely disconcerting, when one noted that he had grown up with these people barely tolerating him and hiding their personal disdain. No matter how supporting his family had been, the fact was that their shield of protection didn't come even close to hiding the ugliness in his countrymen's eyes. For the longest time, he had felt–
….like whatever he did, he could never be good enough for his birth planet.
Not that he hadn't tried, and tried and tried some more. He had been fighting for this need of acceptance so long that it was almost a cornerstone in his existence. And because of this, truthfully, Barrayar didn't feel like home to him. It was just a method to gain recognition, to fulfill his need to be useful. And while there had been always a reason to come back, for his family and duty… he had felt better – more like himself – while staying away.
But right now… his highly paranoid senses couldn't find even a hint of that contempt around him. So, for the first time ever, he had what he had always unconsciously yearned from his home planet.
It…it… was impossible explain what that felt like. It should have felt good. After all, it was something he had always wanted – had thought it would matter.
But now that he had it, he felt cheated out. Like having a victory turn hollow.
Maybe part of it was that it wasn't him gaining that recognition after having won these people's favor… But truthfully, he couldn't delude himself to believe that was it because the question that kept rising to his mind now was; 'did it ever matter at all?'
And Miles badly feared that the answer to that would be; 'no.'
His mother would note that such things had only as much importance as the person had given them, not a single bit more.
So, had he ran away all these years; fearing, hating but still yearning something that didn't even matter in the end?
Or perhaps, he was just going insane from boredom.
Subtly, he again checked the escape routes in Gregor's office that he knew of; the single door was the obvious choice, the windows – force shielded, but that could be circumvented by breaking them from inside with a flung out chair and then short-circuiting the safety cache… plus there was a rather curious button on the underside of the desk. While Miles didn't know exactly what it did, he had developed a rather alarming desire to try it out, just to see what would happen. In the worst case scenario it would cause an all-out intruder alarm and call Impsec squadrons to evacuate the Residence, which had a definite plus side of getting him the fuck out of this goddamn mind-numbing and all out untenable meeting with the most stodgy and stultifying Vor-bore Count in the existence, whose parched low voice was grinding on the last of his nerves–
"…the coming budget review would allow adjusting the sector's tax reliefs, which would, of course, enhance the effect of the property law reform if it passes the Council Vote. As the critical matter of cultivating the growth in the private sector and encouraging the development of on-shore entrepreneurship, it would benefit from the Emperor's decisive action on the matter."
"Excuse me, Count Vormoncrief, but are you asking for my official support for the reform, before the Council's judgment?" Miles asked, raising his brow raised in sheer surprise.
As far as he was aware, Gregor had never exercised his status as the Emperor in the Council of Counts, preferring to avoid antagonizing the governance by the blatant power play. While his foster brother had the right for two votes and could use them to sway the stragglers… announcing his preference for the result before the matter was even open for discussion was beyond the pale.
Preposterous.
A sheer impossibility.
Surely the old Count, who was the current head of the conservative party in the CoC was aware of this?
Before him, Count Boriz Vormoncrief clasped his slightly shaking hands together and cleared his throat, "No, of course not."
Miles frowned, and started to raise his hand to rub his chin in his own thoughtful gesture, but managed to contain the impulse just in time and redirect the motion by leaning back and lowering the traitorous hands over his crossed knees. He didn't care if that wasn't particularly typical way of sitting by Gregor, but it had become the only way to contain his restless feet and instinctive need to start pacing.
"Then what are you asking?"
"Your favor of the reform expressed in… a subtle way. Not officially, or forcibly… just to be made quietly known to few key players that the law has your good opinion behind it, Sire."
It wasn't any better, not really. Miles wasn't aware if Gregor did these sorts of backdoor deals, but something here smelled fishy.
The upcoming law reform was a particularly fine example of a mind-melting load of bullshit topped with a serving of overly elaborate terminology. Truthfully Miles wasn't all that certain what it included. So far he had managed to decrypt that the basic premise allowed for the first time in Barrayan history for juridical persons to buy, sell and possess property.
If the reform passed the vote, it would override the current law, which allowed only natural people that right – which meant that companies had been capable of owning the properties only in the name of their single owner, not as separate entities.
To his understanding of history, the system hadn't faced any real reformations since the Time of Isolation, and Dorca's emancipation of serf's. It had been working perfectly fine back then when entrepreneurship had consisted of only small businesses. But now that Barrayar was racing to catch the galactic standards, there had been a steadily rising number of larger companies and corporations, which ownership arrangements were diverse, such as having multiple shareholders…
So truly, Miles could see a certain logic in the reform.
But at the same time, why to make it so complicatedly worded? To hide another agenda, to circumvent other? And why on earth was this particular old Vor-bore even interested in passing a legislation reform that seemed to lower the Count's hold of the private companies? And would definitely lower their tax income? Wasn't it against the Conservative party's agenda?
And more importantly, what's driving Vormoncrief to push so damn hard?
Something rotten, without a doubt.
Miles personal opinion of the Count had been steadily sliding downwards since the beginning of the meeting, so he was inclined to oppose the man on a mere principle. He had never been a fan of these old dinosaurs desperately clinging to their past, and if one was behaving out of order like this – it couldn't mean anything good.
A quick glance at his wrist com confirmed that it would be only a few minutes more and the Armsman should announce the next meeting. Just a few more minutes…
And truly, Miles was quite sure that his father would have never supported this reform as it was. At least the Centrist Coalition wouldn't have encouraged entrepreneurship in a way that would relinquish the district's' control so badly…
…but what would Gregor do?
Miles didn't have the faintest idea, but he suddenly remembered acutely why he personally hated politics.
Well, better to go with his instincts. Nothing, absolutely nothing in him was inclined to trusts the Count Vormoncrief's bare word, so; "I cannot grant your request. As the Emperor, I am by necessity a neutral mediator in this matter and will trust the Council of Counts to come into a decision without outside interference. Thank you, Count Vormoncrief." Miles said and stood up.
Face blanched ashen white, the old Count rose too, bowed and dismissed himself. After the door closed behind the man, Miles couldn't help but to observe out loud, "What a sore loser."
He wasn't allowed more time for himself than just a few minutes before the Armsman announced, "Minister of Interior".
Miles sighed, but then steeled himself and welcomed the man….
It was like the rest of his afternoon went on extra slowly after that. Agonizingly slowly, because no matter who was petitioning what, coming to discuss that, needing the Emperor's attention on this very important thing after another… he just couldn't focus. He went through all mnemonic–tricks he knew to keep the petition matched to the name, and then to memorize core of the problem they had. However, he had only a mild success.
Or to say, almost none at all. He just… wasn't made for this stuff. He needed to be moving, on the spot… this stillness, this forcibly passive approach was just killing him.
….which really served to only remind him that he was utterly fucked. The seizures would chain him to a desk even in the best case scenario, and when Illyan figured out his lies...
He could very well flush of military in disgrace; destroying his career, his reputation, his dreams as the third great Vorkosigan Military hotshot in row, piss on his grandfather's and father's hopes–
–lose his freedom, his life with Dendarii. Lose Elli – she wouldn't follow him to Barrayar. She had made it painfully clear that she would gladly become Mrs. Naismith, the mercenary admiral's wife and second in command, but not some poor backwater planet's aristocrat scion's housewife.
To be honest, though Elli would be perfectly capable of fulfilling the tasks required of a Lady Vorkosigan and later, Countess Vorkosigan… the very image of the fierce, determined and magnificent Elli in a typical Vor-lady's evening dress – the type with meters and meters of velvet and corset lacings- entertaining the blue-blooded ladies, whose most typical vocation was idle living and gossiping… it was more than mildly laughable. He had sort of always known it, but still–
Elli loved him, he knew that, and he had sort of hoped that maybe that love would solve their problems with time… but now time was running out, and when the last drop of sand would hit the bottom of the hourglass, one way or another, he would lose it all.
It was a fact.
And he couldn't even run away, not while he was stuck in this body. And he couldn't do anything to make the investigation go faster either.
He was chained by duty, stuck in the wrong body and up to his chin in deep shit and still sinking.
Miles really didn't think there was a way for him to feel worse, but after his rather nice dinner, he received an update via secured comsole from Illyan. He couldn't even hear the rest of the report because somehow his mind had short-circuited and gotten stuck to repeating words; "… suspect that it is a permanent alteration to brain's neurotransmitters, and idiosyncratic activity will continue to express as seizures..."
Gregor felt like he was immersed into a deep shit and sinking fast. Here he was, stuck in the wrong body and chained by a moral obligation to return the favor for Ivan.
I don't know anything about casual dating!
Sure the book discs he had read during the sleepless nights had quite a bit of romantic ideas on how to go on about wooing the girl. But most of them were a ridiculously cliché form of approach, unlikely to work on the icy Lady Vorob'yev. That woman would see straight away through the Time of Isolation style "Noble Vor-lord on a white horse, out to charm and rescue the damsel in distress" –modus operandi.
No, he would need to be suave, modern, charming… something more to please her.
Speaking of which, what had Ivan done to gain her favor in the first place? Gregor frowned and started to button up the dress shirt again.
It didn't make any sense, now that he thought of it.
Lady Vorob'yev, who he had been introduced to and been peripherally aware of these last four years, was a creature of calculated smiles and cold piercing eyes. While she was beautiful in a classical way and was independently wealthy on top of having an impressive dowry, wasn't the fact that she was almost thirty years old and had never had a known paramour a sign for caution?
Gregor looked at the bedroom mirror, trying to decide what he thought of his latest garment choice. The civilian style cream silk shirt had finely stitched golden embroidery at the sleeve cuffs and collar and on top of it, he had fastened a fairly simple dark red tunic made of fine handcrafted wool. The trousers were dark. In his eye, the colors looked good and matched well to Ivan's coloring… but he had never actually seen Ivan wearing such a style.
Well, there had been some talk of Lady Vorob'yev having been connected briefly to that one Count's younger son, the widower, what was his name – Bogdan, Boris… no, close – ah, yes, Branislav Vormoncrief. So perhaps the lady was finally looking to settle down and was considering men with the right sort of status?
Reaching thirties could do that to anyone as Gregor very well knew. He was thirty-four years old now and had been slowly reaching the point of stumped panic regarding the marital matters. Lady Alys's increasing pushing was a signal of its own too… not a very helpful one, though.
And Ivan, too, had the highest of high-vor heritage, but the thing was… his honorary title of "Lord" didn't carry any real weight. And more importantly, all his life Ivan had been very careful to bury all and every hint of his political significance.
Something he had been successful beyond imagining, really, for publicly his relative Count Falco Vorpatril disdained Ivan. Of Vorkosigan's, the clearest connection was Miles, who was practically speaking unknown in the scene, too. Of political heavy hitters, even Aral had been careful to keep a certain distance to Ivan for that reason… And no one knew Lady Alys's classified connections to Impsec, and in Vor-social circles everyone had noted Lady Alys's disappointment in her son. And private connections to Emperor? Ivan hadn't used them. As far as the public was concerned, they didn't even exist.
So despite being just about of the best-connected bachelor in the Empire, well him and Miles both, it wasn't something that people were aware of.
Gregor frowned at the mirror.
Perhaps the tunic was too elaborate and colorful choice for a date? But weren't males supposed to attract females by showing off? Gregor turned to pose to the mirror, narrowing his eyes. The mirror image didn't relent and continue to show a stranger in Ivan's body. Experimentally Gregor tried to smile and to open his eyes wider to catch more Ivanish expression…
It looked just plain wrong.
With a disappointed sigh, he started to undress and fold the clothes back into the closet. A glance at the bedroom's alarm clock showed that it was nearing seven o'clock in the evening and he really should find suitable garments to wear. So far he had tried on four sets of civilian clothing, trying to avoid the easy solution of dress greens…
But returning to the puzzle at hand; was he trying to find a motive where there were none? Maybe he was just too used to looking through the bullshit, too keyed up for lies and plots and politics?
Perhaps it really was a matter of simple attraction.
While Ivan had a something of a bad reputation among the Highborn, having slept his way through practically every available lady -married or single – he wasn't without his charm, or so Gregor assumed. Ivan must have been doing something right for the girls to keep accepting his advances.
Just what that was – was the question.
Gregor bit his lip in frustration. How was he supposed to survive this evening? No matter how he tried to reason it out, to get a sense on how to go forward… he kept coming back to this ugly spot. He just didn't have the know-how and experience to seduce women, nor even a hint to narrow it down.
He was just screwed.
Literally.
"Fuck it all to hell." He cursed, a rare act indeed, and flung the most recent choice, a dark blue civilian tunic to the back of the closet's shelf. Then he gave up and got to dressing himself in the officer's dress green uniform. This time, he swallowed his pride and picked a set with well-worn boots to spare himself further pain from the rather ugly blisters in his heels that the morning's excursion had given him.
He was out of the front door some half an hour later, in shiny uniform, hair combed right, whiff of an expensive cologne that the bathroom mirror cabinet had hidden sprinkled under his chin, and a set of directions to Lady Vorob'yev's city apartment complex's address and the following route to the restaurant written up in a ripped up piece of flimsy in his pocket.
While Gregor had taken some time to memorize them earlier, it was better to be safe than sorry.
Especially because he was obliged to try to drive… early afternoon had given him some time to refresh and practice common maneuvers with lightflyers, but he was still far from the expert that Ivan supposedly was. But hopefully, it would prevent him from crashing the lightflyer, and causing an accident where he would manage to kill himself and/or his date.
He could just imagine the hell what that scenario would raise.
So, he sighed and sat on the pilot's chair in Ivan's sleek silver lightflyer – and gripped the controls tight to minimize the slight shakes. "Last chance to back off," he muttered under his breath, clenching his eyes tightly shut. Just a comsole call to Illyan and I could be out of this mess, back in my golden cage, safe-
"…no way in hell."
This was his chance to live, to try out what he could have had… his very own escapist fantasy. He wasn't going to let go of this chance just for simple fears and doubts. He was Gregor Vorbarra, and Vorbarras didn't give up.
Opening his eyes, he pressed the start button and the engine whirred to life. A release of parking brakes, the automatic transmission set to ascension, a swift look around that he wasn't scratching the surface enamel yet again to neighbors' flyers parked on either side of him, and then he was lifting up.
Nice and steady.
He relaxed minutely when he was finally out of the parking space and was flying at low altitude to the south side of the town. Despite his few doubts, Lady Vorob'yev's apartment complex was easy to find – it was the tallest building in the quarter. One of the few modern skyscrapers that had risen up to Barrayar during the last decade, when he had allowed their building plans.
There had been quite fierce of a resistance from conservatives on that front, and surprisingly – even from the Vorbarr Sultana's municipal officials on the grounds of "defiling historical city's skyline". It was resistance for resistance's sake, in his opinion, and more than slightly ridiculous. Barrayar was developing fast and rising to meet the galactic standards, and skyscrapers were a handy solution for creating more apartments and workings space in the tightly packed capital.
And what he really could appreciate now in modern architecture and building plans' in general – was that they included a broadly built parking space for vehicles; the lower lever for ground-cars and the upper lever for lightflyers. So, parking was reduced closer to a tolerable exercise of caution than nerve-breaking "hoping for best".
After managing to park, and check his appearance for the last time from the side mirror, Gregor sighed and climbed up. His hands felt empty, and he couldn't help but be aware how much he was breaking decorum because he hadn't prepared anything to gift the Lady with. The reason for it was simple – he was absolutely stumped on what to bring. The first choice of a bouquet of seasonal flowers felt a trifle cliché, confections doubly so. Some form of jewelry would have been his best guess, but Ivan's regular lieutenant's pay was, ah, how to put it – err, ridiculously low?
So he had finally opted to just show up, but mitigate the awkwardness of lacking the customary gifts by waiting for the Lady at the airy and well-light foyer. And it was the more politically correct form of approach, as a mere acquaintance, he wasn't yet invited to her home. Doubtlessly Ivan would have used the invitation to push more aggressively, but he wasn't Ivan and such presumptions sit badly on him.
However, after announcing his business, the receptionist looked at him incredulously and more oddly – eyes filled with skepticism, "Lady Vorob'yev doesn't receive guests at her private apartments, and there is no mention of her expecting you. I would recommend you to arrange a meeting with her beforehand, before trying to obtrude like this."
…what?
Gregor's cheeks tinged slightly in red in sheer embarrassment, if Ivan had set him up for this… no, while Ivan had participated in some pranks as a youth, the plans were originated by Miles and never been targeted at him. No, this was something else…
The receptionist's eyes looked so forbidding, condescending… was the man suggesting that he was forcing his presence on the Lady?
How dares he?
Reining in his flare of emotions, Gregor forced himself to his own habitual severe stillness and repeated; "Lady Vorob'yev is expecting me. If you would check with her, please."
"Mister Vorpatril–"
"Lord Ivan Vorpatril, if you would," Gregor corrected firmly. While he normally avoided pulling rank or had ever heard Ivan enforcing his honorary title either, it was certainly called for in this case. That "Mister" was an insult, especially given that he was wearing dress uniform and the correct mode of address in uncertainness was to use the military rank.
"I cannot–"
"Yes, you can. In fact, you have an obligation to check in cases of uncertainty. What if my claim is true and you have forestalled my meeting with the Lady Vorob'yev with your misconduct?"
The receptionist gritted his teeth, but took a step backward and went to the comsole, tapping in the codes for apartment 84, the top condo at the 32-floor building or so Gregor assumed. While the man waited for an answer, he eyed Gregor with clear disfavor but as the low-voiced discussion started and progressed… the receptionist kept losing color from his face, sweat gathering in his brow.
It was an enormously satisfying thing to witness.
"…yes, Lady Vorob'yev, right away. I'm terribly sorry, yes. Yes, I will be certain to do so."
Perhaps it was a little tactless, to let a hint of a satisfied smile grace his lips as the harried receptionist apologized profusely and told him that the Lady would be coming down in a short while if he would please be willing to wait...
He spent the few minutes decisively looking out of the large windows of the building's foyer, gazing at the colorful lights of the city. Sun had yet to set fully, and the way the sky was tinted with reds and shades of orange was a pleasing combination.
"Ivan." A pleasant alto voice called out behind him.
Lady Vorob'yev was beautiful as always; tall, thin, her dark long curls arranged in an artful fashion, smooth skin properly pale and dressed out in forest green evening dress with a modestly cut bosom. An ankle-length skirt wide like the current high-society fashion dictated. On her shoulders was a light bolero-jacket to protect against the spring evening's chill with beautifully detailed embroideries.
Something in Gregor, a small wistful hope that he would find some enjoyment in this evening despite the odds being stacked heavily against him, shriveled in disappointment and died. She is just another Vor-lady, exactly like the others. He knew this sort of women and had been forced to entertain them in various high society events year after another.
And now, on his chance to experience something new… here he was, again. There was something karmic in that, Gregor thought but tried to summon a pleased expression to his face and welcomed her with the familiar mode of address, following her lead; "Isabella, you look wonderful."
Her red painted lips tilted in a smile, "As do you."
"Shall we get going then?" Gregor asked, and offered her his arm.
The slight widening of her eyes signaled her surprise to the slightly old-fashioned and chivalrous offer, but she took a light hold and fell into step with him. Gregor cursed his instinctive misstep; clearly, it wasn't something Ivan would have done…
So at the lightflyer, he lowered his arm and took some distance to her and then opened the front door. A chauffeur would have had a lady sitting in the backseat, and while that was the safe choice it didn't feel right. And besides, how was he supposed to have a conversation over the seating divide?
However, her easy acceptance indicated that it was the correct choice.
I can't go like this, constantly running through the possible options and analyzing her reactions, Gregor thought in frustration. He had been set up to an impossible task, for he hadn't ever paid much attention to how Ivan's manners and methods. But he knew the proper manners, so better to go what with he knew. One couldn't err too much while following the etiquette.
His tentative plans for entertaining Lady Vorob'yev with discussion fell short, as he didn't have time to note her reactions or to figure anything witty to say while trying to keep them both safe in the city's tight traffic. After observing the insane driving behavior of the city folk first hand, Gregor mentally bumped the need for lightflyer traffic control system to a high priority in the coming budget review. It had been suggested for years but had been blindsided by other more pressing needs…
"Never again," Gregor swore under his breath as he braked fast when the fucking idiot swerved right in front of him.
"Ivan…" Lady Vorob'yev said bit breathlessly and a quick glance told him that she wasn't very pleased with him as her right hand was clutching the door handle with a dead grip. Trying to focus, he slowed the speed a notch and kept a wary eye to the next idiot on the neighboring lane that seemed to be poaching on his spot in the line. "I'm terribly sorry, Isabella… but I cannot help the traffic."
Thankfully, she let the matter lie and a few minutes later they arrived at the Galareya's entrance, where they rose out of the flyer and Gregor was able to relinquish the keys to valet. This time, as he escorted her inside to the top floor, where the highly exclusive restaurant was located, she seemed even glad for his offered arm. The reservations were in order, just like Ivan had promised they would be, and the maitre d' showed them into their table.
It was a romantic setting; a small table in front of the window offering a wonderful view. Impressive, especially as he had been let into the fact that the reservation was made last night. Lady Vorob'yev seemed to be mollified by it too and settled to sit in the chair he pulled out for her calmly.
Despite the somewhat awkward start, the dinner progressed fairly fine after that and they managed to start a polite conversation.
"…don't mean to suggest that the education opportunities in Barrayar are low, but I am very glad to have been privileged enough for a galactic education. It wasn't something the Count-my-father wished, but my honored uncle enforced my hopes and made it all possible."
"I am glad for you, Isabella." Gregor said, and cut a piece of the fine fillet steak in his platter, "If you do not mind me asking, what your studies consisted of?"
Her eyes were proud, "Oh, many subjects. I specialized in business administration, as I had to make sensible choices to please my father, but there were occasional miscellaneous courses, such as design, comsole engineering, programming, marketing and so forth. It was all bit convoluted as I changed Universities twice, taking some course in Beta, some in Escobar and even few in Illyrica. My studies took six years to finish, just for that reason."
Gregor couldn't help a pang of envy, what he would have given for a chance to study for years the subjects that caught his interest, jumping from one topic to the next..? Perhaps it was the reason why he allowed his eyes to wander and saw something quite stopping at only two tables away.
An utterly stunning woman dressed in bold red pantsuit dining with an Impsec captain. Very unusual choice of dress, definitely not a local… perhaps, yes it was – definitely Komarran fashion. She was short, vibrant, alive… and there was something absolutely mesmerizing in her smile and her generous figure.
"What about you, Ivan?"
"The Academy." Gregor murmured, still glancing from the corner of his eye at the zaftig goddess just a few feet away.
"But you haven't considered applying for courses later on in Vorbarr Sultana's university? The do take admissions."
Forcing his gaze back to Lady Vorob'yev, Gregor reran the question in his mind. Truthfully, he hadn't even thought of the option. It wasn't very common to see a Vor this interested and passionate about education, but she was right, it could have been possible…
"Ah, I have been doing a steady career at the Ops headquarters. But you do have a point, certainly. I can see the temptation for additional part-time studies. However, those courses would have to be taken on evenings, and such would add a large burden on my available time."
The goddess in red was smiling to something the Captain was saying, what was that graying older man doing right to get that reaction?
Before him, Lady Vorob'yev's voice gained an edge of purpose, "That is so. However, during my studies, I often participated in long distance learning programs, where the studies were concluded through comsoles. It's a shame that Barrayar hasn't yet caught up because the technology is already in place. Most of the households have a comsole, and the well-off have several."
Learning programs, comsoles, technology – Gregor, focus!
"Yes, the technology might be in place, but they have been mostly networked into small private networks. Creating a large network for institutions use, such as universities, would be an extremely expensive effort. At the moment there are only two institutions with a capability for such a thing in place. Impsec and the Imperial Military." Gregor said, and took a bite from his expensive dinner. While he wasn't very fond of Lady Vorob'yev, he could respect intelligent questions. "Both are highly secured and closed networks, developed to answer a major security and defensive need."
"You are right in your summary, Ivan. However… you are forgetting one system."
She had settled back in her seat and was swirling a glass of expensive red wine in her finely boned hands. Tilting his head, Gregor ran through the hints, trying to figure what she was suggesting. And narrowing his eyes, he finally remembered and reproved her; "The public network is an underdeveloped, underused ghost of a project."
"At the moment, perhaps so. However, it's the main problem is not the network's holding capability, the possibility of expansion, nor the security. It didn't lift off and gain users, simply because it's complicated to use. Without knowing exactly who or what to find, the user couldn't get anywhere with it."
"So you are suggesting that the main issue with that failure is a design defect?" Gregor recounted incredulously.
"Yes, partly. But more than that, I find that what the public network system needs is a way for people to find information: a program, which would allow the user to find certain key-phrasings from the publicly available information and private networks."
"Radical idea," Gregor paused, and for the first time, he was 100% focused to his date. "But practically speaking… rather impossible to fulfill. For instance, the security concerns are rather tremendous, as well as the development cost would be very high. You would need political backing for it, and in the current political climate getting it to pass the Council of Counts or the budget review committee is a tall order."
"That would be true for public development." She countered easily and stroked unconsciously a rather eye-catching amber brooch that hung on her bosom. "However… and please Ivan, this is fairly confidential information – the development for it is already underway in Vorya Comsole Networking."
Stunned, Gregor set his cutlery to the table and leaned forward.
She didn't falter but continued smoothly. "With it, the public network would gain the necessary element for it to start working and would be able to grow. And then… only the sky is limit – the companies, private households, institutions and so on, would have a common network platform. Instantaneous information relay – for everyone."
"You are suggesting a creation of a similar system as the Betan Universal Network on Barrayar. Out of our failed public network, no less." Gregor wasn't sure if he either admired the sheer amount of daring that this woman in front of him had or would he prefer to make a point by ripping her plans to shreds through the many optimistic presuppositions it had. First of all, she would need the permission for such development from the right political channels even with the private funding…
But still, the proposal showed a rather impressive radical vision and a terrifically intelligent mind behind it. After all, creating something this huge, with the key element to making it work being a company she owned a small percentage of, and had significant share pinned down as her dowry… damn, she had business sense.
It was a true shame that she was a woman and couldn't really push that vision forwards. Not on the old-fashioned, restricting and highly patriarchal Barrayar where women still couldn't own a significant amount of land or property in their own name. It was something Gregor had been steadily trying to chance with Cordelia's and Aral's help by crafting suitably ambiguous law reforms, but passing them was like pulling teeth from the conservative CoC.
Her vision wouldn't work, not while she was alone. Not without a man to lent legitimacy and a front to her plans.
Eyes widening, Gregor added the pieces together and whispered, "Why are you telling me this?"
She… she wasn't interested in titles, in the hereditary vor-legacy. She wanted something far rarer and more ambitious… and for that, Ivan was perfect. A lazy man, who had spent his entire life trying to lay low, avoiding responsibility, career advancement... a man whose common nickname was; "Ivan, you idiot".
A gullible, loyal to a fault Ivan.
Her beautiful, blood-red painted lips were curved in a secretive smile. "I don't know… Ivan. Perhaps I simply love Barrayar, despite its many faults. But it seems I have given you food for thought, so please excuse me for a moment, I shall have to powder my nose." With those words, she rose up and her purse in hand, left to walk through the busy dining room to the restrooms.
Gregor took a deep sip of his water, feeling badly out of balance. While it seemed that she was honest in her intentions, not planning to manipulate Ivan by leading him astray… Gregor couldn't say he appreciated this development and wasn't looking forward to explaining it to Ivan. What would he even say?
"Sorry, but the woman you have been chasing after is interested only because wants a boy-toy cover for her plots and machinations."
Ugh… his head hurt and he tried to relieve the pressure by rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Tough news?" questioned a vivid alto voice, peppered by a distinctive accent. Gregor looked up, and it was her, the Komarran beauty in red. She was offering a casing of painkillers.
Without thinking twice, Gregor plugged one and swallowed it dry. "Thank you," he said belatedly, and out of balance, added on the fly, "I'm in your debt, milady."
Her smile was true, lively and utterly charmed. "You are welcome, Lieutenant Vorpatril." And then she pulled out the only other chair at the table closer and sat down next to him, rather than opposite him.
"Excuse me, but do I know you?"
"Ah, no. But as Duv mentioned your service together at Earth, in the London's embassy… I rather wanted to take the chance to introduce myself to Duv's friends. He doesn't have many, here in Vorbarr Sultana at least and we had a quite a lively discussion since we noticed your presence here. Oh, I'm sorry… I'm Laisa Toscane." She finished and handed out her hand for an introductory handshake.
A practical solution, as they were both sitting, but charmingly alien – Barrayan women didn't usually shake hands.
Gregor took the offered hand, but on the fly changed the hold and lifted it up and pressed a whisper of a kiss to her knuckles.
She inhaled softly, and a nice shade of red rose to color her neck.
"I'm sorry for my forwardness, Miss Toscane. I don't know what has gotten into me." He apologized, mortified by his own behavior. But he couldn't help it, there was something in her that was causing his heart to pick up a pace and infused a certain mad courage to him to perform these silly chivalrous customs he had developed a fondness to.
"Not at all, Lieutenant Vorpatril. I am not offended, merely surprised. Say, is it a Barrayaran Vor-custom to kiss the ladies hands, rather than to shake them?"
"More common during the Time of Isolation, I'm afraid. These days we mostly bow or curtsey."
"Ah," She smiled a knowing smile and then changed the topic, "So, should I offer you congratulations?"
"What for?" Gregor asked, honestly puzzled.
"For the news your lady-friend gave you so suddenly, impending fatherhood I assumed?"
Perhaps his control was frayed so thin that his mortified stun showed in his face for all to see at the very suggestion, as she immediately continued with an apology in her eyes, "I mean, Duv says that here on Barrayar people still don't always invest in contraception implants and natural occurring pregnancies still happen, so I just–"
Gregor couldn't really help it, but he burst out into laughter. Her mortified backtracking in fear of having offered an insult, those very galactic unconscious assumptions… all were so foreign, so genuine, charming beyond anything he had ever experienced.
"I'm terribly sorry…"
"Miss Toscane, thank you. I really needed that." He said with a smile and he honestly meant it. It had been ages since he had laughed so, and it felt unaccountably good. "To answer your inquiry – no, nothing like that. Lady Vorob'yev and I had a rather enlightening discussion about business plans, and I just had a moment's realization."
"Oh?" Miss Toscanes' – Laisa's – eyes sparked in honest curiosity and for some reason, Gregor felt compelled to explain.
"She was proposing an alliance of sorts that, or so I would assume, would lead to a marriage arrangement to countermand Barrayar's still existing limitations. While I certainly admire her courage, vision, and intelligence… let's just say, I have this little bit of foolish hope for genuine affection, or as the romantic would put it – a true love."
Her eyes held a true sympathy like she knew exactly what he was speaking off, "I see…"
Odd, for Komarr was a good example of galactic sensibilities, which deemed more customary to people make their choice of spouse based on feelings, not arrangements.
It was then that Gregor remembered where the Komarran name of Toscane was familiar, and suddenly her sympathy made perfect sense.
Most of the families of the old oligarchy, who had survived the annexation and revolts, were still on top of the things. However, now more financially than politically and among them, the Toscanes were the name to know. It went without saying that as a member of that family, she couldn't marry just anyone.
"But perhaps there is a chance even for romantics to find a match if one looks far enough?" He suggested, desperately hoping to find a way to chase away the glum look that had settled on her lively face like she had been forcibly reminded of something unpleasant.
Her commiserating smile made it clear that she understood the meaning well enough, "Thank you, Lieutenant Vorpatril. I think that I too needed that. So, tell me more of your strange Barrayaran customs, if you please."
Gregor couldn't help the smile that rose to his lips any more than one could avoid sunrise, and he obliged, starting to expand on the sort of silliness that still ran rampant especially among the Time of Isolation themed thrash fictions.
"Good, and now lie back and if you would avoid moving for the next few minutes… yes, exactly there and now wait, Lieutenant."
Ivan sighed and obeyed. He didn't know what god he had angered to suffer through this, but surely this was getting a bit too much? Since the seizure at the early morning, his whole day had been filled with doctors, random tests, waiting…. and more increasingly grim doctors.
The location wasn't really helping his mood, either.
Thankfully he hadn't experienced another seizure since the first one. But on the other hand, maybe it would have been better if he had, just for him not to feel so patently useless.
What the heart of the issue was… that since the disorientation and the headache had faded, there hadn't been any more symptoms signaling the existence of a time bomb hidden in his head. He was feeling perfectly fine. Hundred percent healthy and ready to get out of here to find something edible to eat, not the pathetic cafeteria lunch he had been handed to earlier.
Well, almost hundred percent, but that was just Miles's body. A fact that the ill-used and scarred mess kept reminding him off by flinging constant pains whatever he did.
He had stopped reporting these findings, however, when the doctors' incredulous looks of "of course you still hurt, you idiot; over half of your skeleton is synthetic piecemeal, you have gone through cryogenic resurrection, your chest has been pierced together from scratch, not to mention the multiple other battle wounds, plasma cuts, knife cuts, shrapnel marks… and the rest of the skeleton which is unfortunately still original – ergo a useless chalk-stick knock-off" made it clear that the complaints weren't helping anybody.
But he digressed; the point was that there hadn't been a whiff of a coming seizure.
So please, could I just get out of here already? Ivan pleaded to all saints he could name up on the spot, to Betan theist god that aunt Cordelia occasionally mentioned and even the few pagan god's that the greekie hicks still kept going strong in the rural areas.
Just in case.
It was quite useless, but dammit, he was bored out of his mind in here!
As he tried to keep still, and idly listened the beeps and whirring of the scanner set over him. Not long after, he noticed faint shouting from the distance, and fast footsteps – running? Many people running and high pitched screeching of the tiny wheels rolling the linoleum floor…
It was getting nearer.
What the hell?
And suddenly a group of people busted through the hospital ward's doorway, pushing a stretcher and a terribly wounded man strapped to it. There was blood on their clothes, it had flowed everywhere… There was constant yelling as panicked doctors tried to handle the emergency. In the chaotic mess, it was difficult to pick out the words, but for the few doctor's babble orders, "arterial bleeding is getting out of control", "we need the synthetic blood transfusion, now!"
In honest truth, it all made little to no sense to him, well over the fact that the patient was bleeding to death. However, he had a working pair of eyes and could see everything all too clearly as there wasn't even a curtain pulled between them.
The patient looked horrible, but especially the left hand caught his eye from this vantage point. It hung demurely out of the cot, limp… but all of the fingernails were missing, as were few fingers and the wounds looked raw like they had been cauterized shut. On the back of the hand, the skin had been peeled away and there were spikes still protruding between the many bones and joints of the palm…
It was a disgusting sight.
And a rather clear sign that whatever a reason the Impsec men looking at the spectacle from the sides were worried for, it wasn't out of the goodness in their hearts. Ivan didn't think he had ever been as revolted with the spooks as he was at that moment. For a human being to do something like that to another and on purpose… it was just wrong.
Then the emergency life-support machinery quickly set around the tortured patient started flat-lining.
And the doctors got even more harried.
Of the two Impsec men following from near the wall, the other started pacing and cursing… and the higher ranked, the Captain hit his fist to the wall. And then General Haroche breezed through the door, took one look at the mess and got on the Captain's case.
"How could you mess up like this, Captain Mishnev? That prisoner was our only solid lead, in this case, a high priority!"
"General Haroche… there was nothing we could do," the Captain's face was stony as he started recounting the events, but there was a clear trickle of sweat flowing down his hairline; "We had been pushing him hard the last 16 hours, and then he just totally lost it. He started to rave, strain and tug the restraints madly, causing himself injuries. He literally tried to rip himself apart. Nothing we could do to calm him worked, and we couldn't risk losing additional time or allergic reaction for tranquilizers. And at that, he had managed to make enough damage that he started bleeding out, and he had to move him here."
"It didn't come to your mind that even stunned or tranquilized, we would lose less time than to have him healing in intense care? No, of course not. You couldn't make the call when the situation came your way. No time to consider, just a moment of choice – and you chose not choose. That has to be some kind of a record." Haroche finished his tirade, exhaling loudly. Lifting a hand in stopping motion, "No, don't defend yourself. That will come later when we review your decisions. Tell me what you got out of him before this monumental screw-up."
The public dressing down wasn't very loud, but the way Haroche moved, the way his shoulders were drawn closed with tension and fist were clenched shut… it all signaled a tremendously intense force concentrated on the poor Captain, and even Ivan found it in him to have pity for the man. He would have hated to be in that spot, to have something important in your responsibility and for one reason or another to have things going down to hell… a definite reason for why Ivan had avoided responsibility all his life.
"I… We... managed to confirm that the Cetagandans don't tap into the information that the device sends in here. Instead, they transmit it forward, all the way to the Eta Ceta for analyzing. Har didn't know who the middle man is, or how they smuggle it out. Rather, he let out that he has a partner here that is responsible for that part."
"Any info regarding the partner?"
"No, we had just started–"
"The patient has died at twenty-two thirty-four o'clock from intense blood loss caused by an internal arterial rupture in subclavian section…" The leading Impsec doctor started to rattle off to the recorder in dead calm tone.
For some reason, the official report quieted down the loud chaos in the room.
The click of stopping the recorder echoed loudly in the silence and then the doctor asked from Haroche; "General, do you wish for us to prepare for cryogenical freezing?"
They couldn't possibly mean… and suddenly it felt like Ivan had been inserted into a horrendous nightmare, where the most genial looking and calm men were all turned into cold, heartless monsters.
"Yes, and be quick about it. We need the prisoner alive and talking, asap."
"Very well. Steblev, go fetch the portable freezing unit. Ulanov, the preservation fluid and the pump… "
The nameless prisoner, whoever he was, had just died out of torture. And now he was being prepared for resurrection and medical treatment just so that they could start torturing him again?
And I am here, stuck, waiting for these people to figure out a treatment?
I need to get out.
Now.
Anywhere would better than this macabre imitation of a hospital…
Ivan's pulse was beating fast and sweat was gathering in his brow but then even the scanner set above him started beeping. And then Dr. Weddel, the man currently responsible for his treatment, exclaimed in delight… "Ah, there they are. Very fine tech like reported, and nicely burrowed in… ha! I said I would get this to work!"
The doctor/scientist had been utterly focused on his tasks, not having paid even the slightest attention to the chaos in the room over his numbers, theories and adjustments to the medical scanner...
"What did you find?" Ivan asked in panicky curiosity.
Weddel was immersed to the scanner readings, making quick notes and didn't even glance at Ivan before answering; "The nanochips. The modified scanner shows the conductors, especially yttrium and scandium, beautifully. Like I suspected, the devices are situated in the brain's neurotransmitters and take readings from there. Fantastic technology. Definitely, Illyrican make, no one else has this sort of stuff; multiple extremely small devices that work in sync – truly an incredible and groundbreaking concept."
"But what about my seizure?"
"Oh, that. It's nothing. Look, these nanochips tap into the electric impulses the neurons send and stimulate them. Your readings are idiosyncratic, and the seizure is caused by an alteration that causes the neurotransmitters to unduly build-up. Nothing fatal nor even harmful, just an overcharge that the brain bleeds of with the seizures. Sort of like a reset."
"Altercation… reset? You mean it will happen again? How often?"
"Well, yes. That has been suspected for hours. This just confirms it. And regarding how often… not very. During these eleven hours, there has been barely any change in the levels, just a minute rise of few percents. I cannot say for certain, but if there isn't any change, it means bouts of epileptic activity every few weeks. Truly, it's nothing."
That rare…. but that meant, "So I could get out?"
"After we confirm a few more theories, I don't see any reason to keep you here."
When he had finally retired for the day and sealed himself in the blessed peace in the private apartments, Miles slumped down to the lonely armchair next to the fake windows. It was just a projected holovid for security reasons, but the view of the shimmering city in spring evening's dusk was rather convincing all the same.
Not soon after, his inner restlessness resurfaced again, but this time, he didn't have to desperately fight it – no. Now he was free to take off his shoes and start pacing around the bedroom. Gregor's long legs combined with his own fast-paced steps made a rather dizzying combination, never mind that the room was large enough that no one should feel claustrophobic in it. Somehow he managed it, though. It told everything that at that moment, the only thing he wished from the deepest pits of his heart, was that he could be in small enclosed pace of a jumpship cabin outbound from the Imperium.
Don't wish for impossible, boy–
Why not?
You have a duty.
But right here, right now… he could order anything he wanted. He was the absolute power, anything he wanted was possible; a secret identity, a jumpship passage and who knew, what if the device would deactivate once he was out of the range?
Don't fool yourself, it doesn't work like that boy, and you know it.
This morning, Gregor's fingernails had been neatly groomed. Had being the key word. Now, they were a lot shorter and Miles was out of any piece of mental strength to try to stop gnawing. His continuing circuit around the bedroom was scuffing a slight trail to the fuzzy carpet, and for some odd reason, he felt like he couldn't breathe.
Unbuttoning the high collar of the silk dress shirt didn't help him any, but served only to give him an ugly reminder that it wasn't his body. Gregor's neck was longer and his shaky hands didn't hit the underside of his chin during the frantic effort. And after prying open a few buttons, he saw a chest with a faint trail of dark hair decorating it – unlike Miles's own scarred mess of a scar on top of a scar. He hadn't thought that there would be ever a moment when he would actually want to see the ugly piecemeal again, but right now…
What if Impsec couldn't solve this in time? What had Illyan reported about the devices operating time was, again?
A month?
Good God, what if he had to pretend to be the Emperor for four whole weeks…
Suddenly Gregor's secured comsole blinked to a life, yet again. A short investigation showed that it was Illyan with yet another of the updates. While technically Illyan wasn't required to report to him, especially now that the man knew Miles was just posing as the Emperor… it would look supremely odd if the Chief of Impsec suddenly stopped reporting. And maybe, it was just that the old fox did feel obliged to inform him of the things that impinged on Miles, but wasn't particularly sensitive information for the Cetas…
...or Illyan could be just dead tired and working on habit.
A scarily likely theory, as the old man looked like dead on his feet. Sunken eyes, dark smudges surrounding them, chalky skin… no, the chief of Impsec didn't look any good at all.
The exchange over the comsole was very brief, but it shook Miles's world to the core when he heard the report of the doctor's conclusions of the seizures being caused by the nanochips. He barely managed the matter-of-fact tone in his replies and the goodbyes… but the second the connection closed, Miles curled, clutching his mid-drift tight and begun to shake in hysterical relieved laughter. The tears watered his eyes and the moment just stretched and stretched until he just couldn't laugh anymore.
It was the realization that his betrayal didn't need to be exposed, ever – he could just sweep it under the rug and forget it. It literally felt like a mountain of stress taken off his shoulders. Like his life had been saved, out of sudden.
No one needs to know.
I don't need to be branded a liar.
AN: This is for Zoya1416, who left me a kind review asking for continuation.
Unfortunately, this is not a promise for more, but just the last chapter I wrote back in 2014. Worse, it hasn't been beta-read or even edited - so there can be quite a few of my dyslexic ESL mishaps. However, hopefully it will still bring you some delight even if I can't say when, if ever, I'll finish this story.