Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen

Chapter Ten

As Cordelia had foreseen, it was quite late by the time six overexcited and overtired children had at last been tied to their beds, or at least kissed goodnight and threatened with dire retribution if they popped up one more time. It took teamwork by four adults—Cordelia, Miles, Ekaterin, and the armsman’s daughter they’d brought along to help wrangle the kids in exchange for a generous stipend and the chance for an exciting trip offworld.

“We could have stunned them,” Cordelia wheezed, as the last door closed. “We have stunners…”

Their fond Da, who had actually been less use in the calming-down part than Cordelia had hoped, said, “Tempting, but Ekaterin would object.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Ekaterin faintly.

Indeed, she looked tired. Miles looked…wired, but that was his default mode. Cordelia considered just bagging the smoking remains of the evening and sending them to bed, too.

“Well!” said Miles, with a somewhat rehearsed-sounding cheeriness. “Now the grownups can sit down and talk.”

A mental review of all the times a worrisome Miles had been so remarkably elusive to her in his younger days paraded through Cordelia’s memory; she suppressed it. Forgive, forget. Well, try, anyway. She led them out to her favorite nook in the back garden, instead, pausing in the kitchen to snag a bottle of wine and three glasses, because the day staff had all gone home. In the soft shadows and low, colored lights they dragged the padded chairs around a small table, and she let Miles open and pour. His glass got a splash; hers, he filled nearly to the top before handing to her. Ekaterin’s glass was delivered half-full, or perhaps half-empty; after a wry hesitation, she topped it up herself.

“I use your garden every day,” Cordelia told Ekaterin. “For entertaining, diplomacy, work, and even, occasionally, sitting down and resting. It’s been a superb space.”

Her smile grew genuine. “Thank you. It will be good to get a chance to review it.”

“Actually, now you’re here, there’s another project I might have you look over. With the Gridgrad base project going live, my next goal is to move the planetary capital, while I still can. Which will, among other things, require a new Viceroy’s Palace. With a new garden, in a rather different climatic zone than this semi-desert.”

“That sounds interesting,” Ekaterin allowed. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be staying on this trip, though. And I didn’t plan to burden your staff with the children.”

Meaning, Cordelia decoded easily, that Ekaterin herself was understaffed for working. “I’ll see if I can rustle you up some local help, in that case.” Cordelia kicked off her shoes and wriggled her tired toes. “This was a wonderful surprise and I love you all dearly, Miles, but I’m quite tightly scheduled at present. Usually, I have several weeks’ notice to clear my time before a family visit.” She could see that the few breaks she’d earmarked for private time with Oliver were going to be the first to go on the fire, too. Dammit.

Ekaterin glanced at her husband, who was not-sipping wine and flexing his feet. She was far too loyal to say, I told him this was a bad idea, but Cordelia fancied she could read it in her body language.

Cordelia went on, “While a box of chocolates is a lovely gift, what I really need is a box of plumbers. You don’t happen to have a building-materials manufacturer up your sleeve, do you, Miles?”

“Sorry, no,” replied her son. “Ask Mark?”

“Tried that already. He’s not got back to me in any useful way, yet.”

“Ah.” Miles shifted uncomfortably. Probably looking for an opening to choke out his pitch, whatever it was. Ekaterin sat back and sipped, palpably not helping.

Not having been handed an easy hook, Miles refashioned the one in play. “So, ah…have you told Mark about this plan to resign the viceroyalty? And the, um, personal scheme?”

That was in reverse order of his chief concern, Cordelia suspected. “Yes, I sent a tightbeam to him and Kareen at the same time I messaged you and Ekaterin. And Gregor and Alys and Simon, for that matter. Don’t you people talk to each other anymore?”

“Mark’s offworld,” he excused this.

Slight, awkward pause, right. Cordelia prodded gently, “And Gregor and Alys and Simon? You didn’t bring me any personal greetings? I would almost trade the plumbers for those.” Almost.

“I talked to Gregor. He said he didn’t know any more than I did, and I should talk to you myself.”

Good boy, Gregor. Cordelia smiled. She wondered when the adult Gregor had been apprised of the complexities in his greatest supporter’s private life. Not during the earlier Vorbarr Sultana days, she would swear. Not later than that period in-between, when Aral had sent Oliver off to build his career, and it was all assumed to have been an anomalous fling—seven years was not just a fling, boys—regretfully, gently, and carefully concluded. So who had conducted that briefing, if not her? Simon? Aral? Some tag team? Aral must have endorsed it, certainly. Simon would have been relieved. Gregor, well, who knew what Gregor thought of it all. But the reunion on Sergyar hadn’t thrown him.

Miles continued, “I was wondering what brought on this extraordinary decision. About the daughters. I mean, now.”

“I thought I explained all that in my tightbeam message.”

“Yes, but…”

Miles, at a loss for words? Cordelia leaned her head back against the cushion and observed, “You know, we’ll likely all get to bed earlier if you try for a little Betan frankness, here.”

“Good idea,” murmured Ekaterin. Yes, if Miles had been venting any Betan frankness heretofore, it had probably been to her. Beleaguered woman. Wasn’t this spring in Vorbarr Sultana, the busiest season for Ekaterin’s garden design business? She could only have been dragged away by a force of nature. Which, Cordelia conceded, Miles on a tear could be.

Miles straightened his shoulders and steeled himself to bluntness. Thankfully. “But you already have six grandchildren. Isn’t that, like, enough?” And in a somewhat smaller voice—getting down to it, she recognized the style, “Don’t you like my work?” And blinked, as if surprised by the words that had fallen out of his own mouth.

Such a raw truth should be handled with care. Cordelia hoped she was up to it. “I adore your work. Consider it my inspiration, if you like.”

“It seems like…double dipping, somehow.”

She grinned over her wineglass. “That, too.” But I can. And I’m going to. “Look on the bright side. I’m not nearly as greedy as your Count Vormuir.”

Vormuir had tried to help his underpopulated district by a scheme involving a bank of uterine replicators, some dubiously acquired eggs, and a single sperm donor—himself—till he’d been shut down by Imperial order. Not quite directly; he’d merely been ordered to supply his progeny with proper Vor dowries. Two hundred of them. Ekaterin, who had originated that solution for the investigating Lord Auditor, made a face, laughing under her breath. Cordelia wondered how the count was doing these days. The first girls must be teenagers by now…

“Then why not when Da was still alive?” Miles’s voice, in the shadows, was smaller still.

That was harder. “We talked about it, a few times. He seemed to think he was too old to start such a long-term project.” Maybe he’d been shrewd. “If he’d lived to make it home, I might have persuaded him to it as, I don’t know, a retirement hobby.” Or not. Cordelia had been eleven years younger than Aral even without the Betan lifespan. Or maybe he had just been reluctant to give more hostages to fortune. From life came death, inevitably, and then grief. Possibly not something she ought to say to Miles, who had died once already. He might take it personally. He might be right to.

“Are you coming home, then? To retire?”

Hadn’t she mentioned that part of her plans? She really needed to review those tightbeam messages. She was losing track of what she’d said to whom. “No, I’m staying on Sergyar. I like everything about it except the name.” She wondered if she could fix that, as even the edited version of the late Crown Prince Serg was slowly fading from Barrayaran memory. And good riddance. “Barrayar was home while Aral was there. Now…” She didn’t want to say I’m freer, although it was true.

Miles’s voice grew nearly microscopic. “He still is, sort of.”

There was a place reserved for her beside that grave above the long lake at Vorkosigan Surleau. Was she planning to abandon that bed as well? The chill thought came to her that given his health issues, she might well outlive Miles. Thus no later change in her destination could dismay him, and there was no point in troubling him with such now. She settled on, “Of all of Barrayar, which he loved with all the passion, dispassion and anguish of his heart, Aral loved the lake place best. It’s so right that he be there.” And, experimentally, “But I prefer to build a more living monument to his memory.”

“Mm.” Miles seemed to take this in as a reconciling thought, suitably Barrayaran-romantic. Making this All About Aral would probably work on him rather well. She hid a grimace in a sip of wine.

“You really think you’ll be all right out here? So far away?”

Losing one parent could make a child—of any age—more anxious about the remaining one, true. She’d learned that when she was a lot younger than Miles. Aral had, too, having witnessed his mother’s political murder when he was eleven, though survivor Piotr had certainly been in a parental class by himself. So she perfectly understood why her son might suddenly want to put her in a safe box. The safe part she was fine with. The box, less so. “Have you somehow lost track of where I’ve been for the last thirteen years?”

That got through, a little. “Sorry,” he said gruffly, and drank more wine.

“So,” she said, changing, or at least spinning, the subject with ruthless cheer, “If I can pry open my schedule tomorrow, shall we take the kids to visit their new Aunt Aurelia down at the rep center? It’s actually just a short walk from here. I’ll bet I can get them a good behind-the-scenes tour. It could be very educational.”

Pitching Kayross as a sort of science museum worked better on Ekaterin than Miles, who was wearing a nonplussed expression. Ekaterin immediately responded, “Yes, really, you never know what experiences will spark a child’s interests. I’d love it.”

After which Miles, of course, could not refuse.

The wine bottle was empty. Deciding this was the best note she was going to find to stop and get three physically and emotionally exhausted people to bed, Cordelia stood up and firmly led the way.

And she still hadn’t got to Oliver, dammit. Well, one wormhole jump at a time.

As Jole escorted Freddie Haines purposefully down the street between the Viceroy’s Palace, where they had failed to find Cordelia and company, and Kayross, where he hoped to run his quarry to earth, she made one last attempt at escape.

“Really, sir, just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I know anything about babies. I was the youngest.”

“Freddie,” he said affably, “do you remember how much trouble you got into with the Kayburg guard for filching your da’s sidearm?”

She looked confused. “No…?”

“Precisely.”

Her face twisted up as she took the point.

“Think of this as the community service that you didn’t win from the night court. And I’m sure the Countess will recompense you generously for your services, unlike the night court. So, if you think it through—a good habit to get into, I might note—you see you are coming out ahead.” He added as he opened the clinic door for her, “It might even prove to be fun. The Vicereine’s grandchildren are a lively bunch.”

This was demonstrated as they found their way back to where the Vorkosigan family was being given a suitably modified VIP tour. Even just four of the six offspring managed to give an impression of an explosion of short humanity in the formerly quiet clinic. Their reactions to this excursion were interestingly varied. Helen seemed to be practicing a somewhat precocious studied teen indifference. Alex looked wary. Lizzie was plainly fascinated by the banks of replicators, pelting a tech with questions that sounded, from the snatches Jole caught, startlingly beyond her years. Taurie was busy being five, and had turned the drab tiles into an impromptu hopscotch grid in a complex pattern visible only to her.

Ekaterin’s eyes lit with joy when Jole presented her with his prize, and she shook Freddie’s hand in a very friendly way when he introduced them. Freddie managed one last gasp of resistance, despite looking considerably more daunted by a countess than by a mere admiral.

“I really don’t know much about babies, ma’am…”

“Oh, the two youngest will be looked after by their regular nanny. Alex and Helen”—Jole could sense her edit on the fly as the two drifted over to inspect the newcomer—“are too old for a babysitter as such. They’re really more in need of a native guide.”

Oh, good job, Ekaterin.

Freddie’s spine straightened considerably at this news. Ekaterin made the further introductions all round.

Jole put in, straight-faced, “Now, there will be no going out into the backcountry to blow up vampire balloons unless the Vicereine escorts you.”

Freddie winced. The twins both perked up, apparently not having realized that this healthy outdoor activity was among their options. After a thoughtful pause, Jole added, “Be sure she brings her laser pointer.”

This won him three extremely blank stares. Jole grinned and moved off in search of the Count. He found Miles standing with his mother by the bank that held, among other pre-persons, his sister Aurelia.

Miles gave up the viewer to Cordelia, and remarked, “Human beings really aren’t very prepossessing at this stage of the game.”

She peered into the display. “What, I recall you were enchanted with your own blobs.”

“Novelty?” he suggested. “It wears off.”

She smiled in profile. “You looked like a drowned kitten at five months along.”

Miles blinked. “You saw me?”

“Just a glimpse, between the time you were lifted out of the incision and the time I passed out from the hemorrhage.”

“Wait, you were awake during the surgery?”

“Initially. Have I mentioned that this way is better?”

“Repeatedly.”

Miles turned with some relief to the new visitor. “Good morning, Admiral Jole. Mother said you’d come through for her. I’m amazed, but gratified.”

Good. Cordelia’s call to Jole last night had been very late and very brief, but he seemed to have figured out her chief concern correctly. The labor shortage on Sergyar was a challenge at every level. He was nonetheless glad he hadn’t had to raid his actual chain of command for her, though he would have if put to it. Fyodor, when approached, had sacrificed Freddie not only without a qualm, but with a certain degree of enthusiasm.

Greeting Miles, Jole wondered for the first time how he had dealt with being the child whose life his mother had famously decapitated an emperor to save. Was it the sort of thing a boy was teased about at school? Miles had been twenty when Jole had first encountered him, soon to graduate from the Academy and laser-focused on his upcoming, and certainly hard-won, military career. Awed by the father he adored, he’d seemed to take his mother for granted. Would Cordelia consider that a subtle victory?

Jole led smoothly into his planned olive branch. “I thought you might be interested to know, Count, that the old Prince Serg is passing through local space shortly, on its way to cold storage. Decommissioned, you know.”

Miles’s eyes widened. “Really!” And, after a moment, “Already?”

“My feelings exactly, but there you go. I now have baby officers who are younger than that ship. I’d been planning to pay it a short visit while it’s in transit. Because…” Sentiment? Historical wonder? Mourning? He escaped the sentence with a shrug. “I wondered if you might like to go along. Together with whatever family members you deem appropriate.” Not, pray God, the toddlers.

Ekaterin had wandered up during this, Freddie and the twins at her elbow; Lizzie followed. It even drew Cordelia away from the scanner.

“Now, there’s a remarkable idea,” said Cordelia. “History and family history at one go.”

“I’m not history,” said Miles under his breath. “…Am I?”

His eye summing the assembled offspring, Jole could only think, You are now.

“What do you think, kids?” said Miles. “Would you like to see your grandfather’s old ship?”

“Wow, sure!” said Helen, echoed by Lizzie’s “Neat!” Alex looked wary, again. Freddie breathed, “Go upside…?” her babysitting job plainly acquiring an unexpected new glamour. Taurie cast no vote, having apparently abandoned hopscotch as so last-minute in favor of competitive twirling.

“Ekaterin…?” Miles belatedly sought endorsement.

Ekaterin looked to her mother-in-law. “Do you think it would be all right? Safe?”

“Sure,” said the Vicereine. “I’d love to go, too. I haven’t seen that old ship since I exploded a bottle of champagne on its hull when it was formally commissioned. Several months after its return from the Hegen Hub war, mind you, when they’d finished the repairs. Hugely fun, that. They produce a special break-away safety glass for the bottle, and you have to work in a force bubble to capture the debris. Entirely pointless and insane. Very Barrayaran.”

“That one’s not just a Barrayaran tradition,” Jole objected. “Other people’s orbital shipyards do things like it, too.” He added after a curious moment, “So what’s the Betan custom?”

“Splash the hull with water. Which, in a vacuum, is actually more exciting than it sounds.” She glanced down at the interested children. “It all goes back to superstitious Old Earth customs of making sacrifices to dangerous gods of fortune and the sea. Like a bribe. Take this wine, not my ship, as it were. Or our lives.”

Alex frowned. “But…Old Earthers didn’t have space gods back then, did they? So why do it now?”

“Because we still have fortune and misfortune, I suppose.” Cordelia shrugged. “Remind me to explain symbolism, projection, and displacement to you sometime.”

“Much easier than explaining fear, loss, death, and grief,” Jole murmured to her ear alone.

“Isn’t it, though?” she whispered back. “Why d’you suppose people made this psyche stuff up? Distancing, that’s another one for you.”

Jole thought that asking an ex-Betan-Survey commander for safety judgments might be going to the wrong store, but after making a few more cautious-mother noises Ekaterin allowed Cordelia to soothe her. Miles was all for the proffered treat, and regarded Jole almost favorably.

His invitation and the teen slave labor delivered, Jole bade everyone farewell and made to decamp, despairing of getting a private word with Cordelia, but she nipped out after him to the corridor. A brief handclasp was all they dared offer each other here.

“Six more children, Cordelia?” he teased her, with a glance back at the doors. “Are you so sure?”

“Not all at once,” she protested. “And I could stop any time. In theory.”

He snorted, then said more seriously, “Did you get any further with Miles this morning?”

“Not yet, no. It was noisy at breakfast. And you have to let me know what you want. I can’t…” She didn’t seem to know how that sentence should end, either. “I thought taking Miles to the rep center would help him process it all, but so far he seems to be less processing than, than storing it all up in his cheeks. Like a hamster.”

Jole tried not to be too distracted by this word-picture. “I had a couple more thoughts last night,” he told her. While lying awake for hours. “Until and unless my share of this project goes live, I don’t really suppose we have to tell Miles anything. Could be years. Decades. And even then, purchased donated eggs would cover it.” That had been her very own initial argument, come to think. Miles and his family had seemed a lot more remote, then.

“Mm,” she said.

“Or, a perfectly valid half-truth. We could say you donated those eggs to me entire. The boys would still be his half-brothers, same as before.” Well…not quite the same.

“Let me think about that.” Her expression was unpromising, but he wasn’t sure which aspect of these suggestions she was disliking most.

“No rush,” he backpedalled slightly.

“No, I suppose not.”

A couple of techs came through then, and the Vicereine’s bodyguard poked his head around the corner, and they both gave up and wryly parted.

Walking back toward the palace where he’d left his groundcar, Jole wondered how his personal life had grown so tangled in so short a time. Vorkosigans did that to you, though. Flung you off cliffs, expected you to absorb the flying lessons on the way down. And yet, if some—not good, not evil—if some ambiguity fairy suddenly appeared amidst the screams and offered to undo it all, roll back your life to Go, you would refuse her. Unsettling insight, that.

If you want a simple life, Adm’ral Oliver, you are making sacrifice to the wrong gods.

Jole detoured to grab lunch in downtown Kayburg before going back to the base. Returning along the main street, he was surprised to see Kaya Vorinnis coming down the steps of the city council building. She also had been due some leave after the long upside tour, and was dressed in civvies: Komarran trousers, sandals, and a halter top. She was waving a hand and talking to a tall, male companion whom Jole belatedly recognized as the Cetagandan cultural attaché, Mikos ghem Soren. Ghem Soren, too, was casually dressed in trousers, shirtsleeves, and sandals, and not only lacked face paint, but had foregone his ghem clan face decal. For a Cetagandan, that was downright going native. His symmetrical features looked younger without the window-dressing.

The pair turned onto the sidewalk, and Kaya glanced up and saw Jole. Her face lit not with the natural distanced courtesy of a subordinate encountering a boss outside of work, but with an alarming Aha! expression. She punched ghem Soren on the arm and gestured more vigorously at Jole, talking faster; as they came alongside, Jole caught the tail end of some pitch: “Well, ask him! One rebuff doesn’t make a defeat!”

“No, but that was the fourth—” Ghem Soren broke off, and switched to, “Good afternoon, Admiral Jole. I trust this day finds you well.”

“Yes, thank you,” responded Jole. He nodded. “Kaya.”

“Sir.”

Ghem Soren fell awkwardly silent. Another arm-poke failing to goose him into gear, Kaya went on, “Mikos has an interesting idea for a project. A cultural outreach sort of thing. He calls it a Cetagandan discernment garden.”

“Although it doesn’t actually have to be in a garden.” Ghem Soren quickly modified this. “Any publicly accessible venue would do to house the display.”

“And that’s the problem,” Kaya went on. “He hasn’t been able to find one. We’ve tried the library, two business headquarters, and city hall, and no one will give him the time of day. Or, more practically, a room.”

“I was told this would be a challenging posting,” said ghem Soren. “But surely a simple discernment garden should not inflame Barrayaran historical sensitivities. How can I work to overcome cultural ignorance if cultural prejudice refuses me any platform?”

“It might not be, ah, prejudice,” said Jole. “Space in Kayburg is at a premium, with new immigrants coming in every day seeking not only housing, but business sites. Why not just set up this…display, whatever it is, at the Cetagandan consulate?”

“But that fails the educational outreach purpose,” said ghem Soren earnestly. “No one goes there except on consulate business. Such persons are already willing to talk to us.” He added after a moment, “And also, my consul said it would be too childish. But to make a start with people, one must begin where they are.”

“But what the devil is—oh, here.” Jole jerked his thumb over his shoulder back to the cafe. “Let’s go sit down.”

Perhaps taking this as a chink in some imagined armor, rather than as Jole’s feet being tired, both Kaya and ghem Soren brightened up. They followed him to the cafe, and a few more minutes were spent securing coffee and finding a table for three. The lunch crowd was tailing off, but that was just the difference between jammed and busy. When they were settled at last, Jole continued, “So what exactly is a discernment garden, Lord ghem Soren?”

The cultural attaché’s spine straightened, perhaps at the prospect of a Barrayaran who actually showed some interest in culture. “It’s such a simple thing, really it’s not hard. You could find one at any children’s art museum, or academy, or in private homes, or anywhere there is an interest in cultivating our youth. A training aid, to put it in military terms. A well-designed display offers a carefully curated progression of challenges to each of the five senses, to increase the fine awareness of each. At the end, the student is invited to observe a piece of artwork aesthetically combining, first, a blend appealing to one sense, then a more complex work combining several senses.”

Kaya put in, “I guess it’s like tasting a string of varietal wines, and then trying some balanced blends and trying to guess what went into each. Except not with wine.”

Ghem Soren nodded. “Tastes, sights, sounds, textures, and scents.”

“The finer the gradations a person can distinguish, the more…the more points they get, I guess,” said Kaya. Ghem Soren looked faintly pained at this athletic metaphor, but Jole suspected she’d hit it square on.

“Your base,” said ghem Soren carefully, “is very large, and many people go there…”

Oh, right! thought Jole. By all means, let us expose as many of our soldiers as possible to the ingestion of untested Cetagandan biochemistry! And whatever else could be slipped into the audiovisual portion. All right, Jole couldn’t exactly see the somewhat feckless ghem Soren as such an agent provocateur, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being operated by someone subtler. On the other hand, perhaps the young man was simply trying to do his job, and without much support from his consulate, it sounded like. Or, even more likely, trying to impress a girl.

“Mm, I think using the base would be starting at the most difficult end of your cultural teaching challenge,” Jole said, more diplomatically. “I’d advise some practice in civilian venues, first. Observe, learn, modify, move up.”

Ghem Soren’s face pinched, trying to decode this; Kaya, sighing, translated, “That means no, Mikos.”

Jole thought she knew very well it meant, Over my dead body, but the lieutenant wouldn’t have been sent to him if she’d been as lacking in nous as some of the rank-and-file.

A little silence fell around the table, as each person followed out his or her not-necessarily-related line of reflection.

“Starting smaller,” said Kaya. “There’s a thought. What about—what about some temporary, simplified demonstration model, for a first outing? To prove the principle.”

“A discernment garden is already a simplified model,” objected ghem Soren. “It can’t get much simpler and still perform its function.”

“Yes, but I’m thinking…there’s an event coming up which will have base people and town people and all the consulates, and square kilometers of spare space. The Admiral’s birthday picnic. They’re setting it up a ways outside town. You could plunk in your garden as a sort of kiosk, and anybody could come by and look at it. It could be an advertisement. Then, once you’d worked up some interest, you might have a better chance setting up something more permanent in town.”

“You would have to clear it with the officers’ committee organizing the picnic,” said Jole, thinking, Wait, how did the consulates get in on this? He had steadfastly refused to involve himself in any planning for a party he didn’t actually want in the first place; perhaps he should have been paying closer attention…?

“Yes, I’m on the committee,” said Kaya. “It’s, um, it grew a bit while we were on upside rotation. We’ve got a lot of townies to help, including some of the galactics, and since the Vicereine’s coming you can’t invite one consulate without inviting them all. And some of the local businesses chipped in a bunch of supplies, so they had to be invited as well, of course.”

“Are you keeping the Kayburg municipal guard apprised of this…expansion?”

“Certainly, sir. We’ve got a couple of their people on the committee, too, now.”

He hesitated. “Did that by chance result in a mass invitation to that organization, as well?”

“Um, yeah, sort of. We thought it would be a good idea.”

Maybe, maybe not. Off-duty guardsmen weren’t quite the same as a scheduled patrol. And Kayburg’s on-duty guardsman had some vigorous history with off-duty soldiers from the base.

General Haines, Jole dimly recalled, had wanted to set up the party on-base to keep it under control. It had been Jole’s own bright idea to banish it to the wilderness, for what had seemed sound reasons. Right.

“The Vicereine,” Jole seized a straw. “Given that she’s coming, any such display would have to be checked by her ImpSec people. In advance. And again on-site.”

“But it’s only a—” began ghem Soren, only to be poked again.

“That was a yes, Mikos. Provisionally. You could get something together for them in time, surely?”

“Yes, but—” he glanced at her firm face, and mustered some manly resolution. “Yes.”

Jole was reminded that Cordelia’s ImpSec commander, Kosko, had annoyed him more than once, recently. And that if anyone had the resources to examine weird-ass Cetagandan art for hidden toxic properties, ImpSec did. It would be good exercise for them. Even though the absurd display was probably utterly benign, except for whatever hidden slur there might be in presenting a children’s show to adults. A prospect that ruffled Jole not at all; he’d met some scarily smart children.

Jole said thoughtfully, “You have had your anthelmintic vaccine, have you not, Lord ghem Soren?”

Ghem Soren nodded. “Yes, all the consulate personnel were required to receive them.”

Jole really ought not to think, Oh, too bad. “My one other suggestion is that you plan to have your display taken down and back to your consulate by dark. Most of the families will be going home then, too.”

“Is the Sergyaran wildlife that dangerous?” asked ghem Soren.

“Only if the troops share their booze with the hexapeds. Nightfall will be when the heavy drinking starts.”

Vorinnis grinned. “See your point, sir. It’s all right, Mikos. I’ll even help.”

And so it became a done deal, rather against Jole’s more conservative judgment. He probably could rely on Kosko to defend them all against Cetagandan art education; defending its earnest preceptor from his audience would be the chore of either the municipal or the base guards. Jole endured both his subordinate’s pleased beam and Cetagandan thanks—how did a man manage to be both gormless and patronizing simultaneously?—and made his escape.

Back at his base apartment, Jole checked his comconsole. His diligent second-in-command, Commodore Bobrik, had gone upside to the orbital transfer station yesterday as Jole came down, smoothly swapping chairs. All communications were routed through his office while Jole was supposedly off-duty; in theory, Bobrik ought let nothing through this filter but emergencies and personal messages, and any notification of emergencies should come immediately by wristcom. Jole was therefore a little surprised to find a message stamped Ops HQ in Vorbarr Sultana, addressed to him eyes-only.

The figure of Admiral Desplains, Chief of Operations, Barrayaran Imperial Service, formed over the vid plate. Ops was a tall building in downtown Vorbarr Sultana topped with communications equipment and packed from there down to the sub-subbasements with stress addicts and monomaniacal detail-men wearing (because this was the Imperial capital) dress greens. The rumor was not actually true that the taps in the lavs were labeled Hot, Cold, and Coffee. Desplains had been master of this domain and all it surveyed for the past nine years, so it was no wonder that his hair was a lot grayer than it used to be. The glimpse of window behind him suggested it was night outside, which put him at the end of a long day, an impression supported by the fatigue-lines in his face and the date stamp. But he was smiling, so this couldn’t be any surprise too horrifying.

“Hello, Oliver,” he began in warm tone, and Jole settled back in his chair, relieved, to attend to his distant commander. “I’m sending you this message by way of a private heads-up. There will be an opportunity opening up soon on my end here that I think is in your weight class.

“As you know, I passed my twice-twenty a few years back, but was persuaded to stay on at the helm of Ops by”—he waved a hand—“several people. My wife was not among them, I should add. It’s heartening that she thinks she wants me underfoot an extra sixteen hours a day, although that may only be because she’s not tried it lately.” His smile twisted at this not-quite-a-joke. “Which is to say, I will be mustering out in the near future, God and Gregor willing.

“This gives me the task of scouting for my own replacement. The last three years have made it plain to anyone who didn’t already realize it that it was never your formidable mentor propping you up, although I’m sure you miss his comradeship. And God knows anyone who worked with Aral Vorkosigan for so long knows how to survive in a high-pressure and high-political-stakes environment. Chief of Ops has always needed both. I have other candidates with the military depth, but none to match your insider’s view of the capital. And I have other insiders, but none who are not Vor.” Another little wave of Desplains’s hand acknowledged the political slant of that comment.

Jole wondered uncomfortably if Desplains realized how out-of-date Jole’s Vorbarr Sultana experience was. Never mind; Desplains was going on. Jole leaned forward, frowning.

“With your agreement, I’d like to put you in the queue for Chief of Ops. I may tell you confidentially that you are presently at the head of that queue. Gregor has mentioned to me on the q. t. that there may be some administrative changes coming up on Sergyar. I suspect you may know more about that than I do. It could be an ideal time for you to make a change as well.

“I might add that if I had dropped dead any time in the last two years, this might have been an order and not an invitation. In any case, please get back to me at your convenience. You can have a little time to think about it, of course, should you need it. Oh, and give my best to the Vicereine. I must say, I rather miss her nephew Ivan, speaking of the usefulness of high Vor insiders, although I’m glad to hear he seems to be coming along in his new career.

“Desplains out.” He cut the com.

Jole sat back and blew out his breath.

A little time, in Ops-speak, might mean days, but hours would not be disdained. Certainly not weeks. Desplains didn’t need an answer instantly, but a prompt reply would be courteous.

All right, admit it, he was stunned. Chief of Ops would be the crown of any twice-twenty-years man’s career. And this was an offer without the slightest tinge of Vor nepotism, favor, or privilege.

His first coherent thought was that Aral, were he still alive, would have been pleased, proud, smug, and have urged him to take it up. Followed by a darker might-have-been—would Aral have followed him home, would he have finally retired himself? Would that have made any difference to the aneurysm or its medical outcome?

His second was that Chief of Ops was a post that ate its holder’s personal life alive. Desplains had trailed a family when he’d started, true, but his children had been near-grown, and his wife had been his executive officer, master sergeant, and troop combined on the domestic side.

If Jole went back to Barrayar for this, the three frozen possibilities would have to stay in cold storage on Sergyar. Any other choice fell just short of madness. The job wouldn’t last forever, but then, neither would he. And when Ops spit out his cooked remains a decade from now, who would he be then? Besides ten years older.

I could do Desplains’s job. The certainty was sure, without false modesty or arrogance. He did not underestimate the task, but he didn’t underestimate himself, either.

I could be a father. An entirely different kind of challenge, and he didn’t have thirty years of training and career experience with which to approach it. That was a whole new world, without maps or navigation aids.

What he could not do was both at once. The choice was sharp-cut, like a blade.

Cordelia…Barrayar had been the scene of her greatest joys, but also of her greatest horrors and most grinding pain. He could feel that all the way down to his bones. If she would not return there for the sake of her own family and grandchildren, she sure as hell wouldn’t climb back down into that gravity well for Jole. However much he delighted her, and she’d left him in no doubt that he did. She was a woman full of mysteries, but there was no mystery about this: she would no more return to Barrayar than she would walk barefoot through a fire.

He reached for his comconsole to call her. Stopped.

What would she, could she, possibly say but This has to be your decision, Oliver? He could hear her Betan alto in his head. He could hear the pain lacing her voice.

He sat back.

He had a little time, yet.