Memory

had to get back and fix it with Quinn at his earliest opportunity. She'd relented enough to come to see him off at the Peregrine's shuttle hatch, but their good-byes had been formal and strained.

'There you go,' said Galeni tolerantly. 'She's a Komarran. From the Toscane family. After she took a doctoral degree in business theory on Komarr, she went into the family transhipping concern. She's now stationed in Vorbarr Sultana as a permanent lobbyist with the trade group representing all the Komarran shipping concessions, as sort of an interface between them and the Imperium. A brilliant woman.'

Coming from Galeni, who'd taken an academic doctorate in history himself before becoming one of the first Komarrans ever admitted to the Imperial military service, this was high praise. 'So . . . are you romancing her, or thinking of hiring her for your department?'

Miles swore Galeni almost blushed. 'This is serious, Vorkosigan.'

'Ambitious, too. If she's a scion of those Toscanes.'

'I was a scion of those Galens, once. Back when the Galens rated that particular inflection.'

'Thinking of rebuilding the family fortunes, are you?'

'Mm . . . times have changed. And they aren't changing back. But they are changing onward. It's time for a little ambition in my life, I think. I'm almost forty, you know.'

'And tottering on the brink of complete decrepitude, obviously.' Miles grinned. 'Well, congratulations. Or should I say, good luck?'

'I'll take the luck, I believe. Congratulations are still premature. But they will be in order soon, I hope. And you?'

My love-life is entirely too complicated at the moment. Or at any rate . . . Admiral Naismith's is. 'Oh! You mean, work. I'm, ah … not working, at present. I just got back from a little galactic tour.'

Galeni twitched an eyebrow in understanding; his own encounter several years past with the Dendarii mercenaries and 'Admiral Naismith' was certainly still vivid in his memory. 'Are you headed up and in, or down and out?'

Miles pointed to the down tube. 'I'm headed home. I have a few days leave.'

'Maybe I'll see you around town, then.' Galeni swung into the down tube, and rendered Miles a cheerful parting semi-salute.

'I hope so. Take care.' Miles descended in turn, exiting at the ground floor.

At the side entrance's security desk, Miles paused in a minor dilemma. Every time he'd ever gone home after a final ImpSec mission debriefing, he'd either called for a car from the Counts garage, driven by an Armsman or servant, or more often found one waiting for him when he emerged from Illyan's lair. But Armsmen, servants, vehicles, and all the rest of the household had decamped with the Count and Countess for the Viceroys Palace on Sergyar (though his mother had written him dryly that the term 'palace' was most misleading). So should he requisition a ride from ImpSec HQ's motor pool? Or order a commercial cab? Though one might be certain that any cab which came here had been vetted by Security first. He'd sent his sparse luggage directly home from the shuttleport.

It was chill and gray out, but not raining. And he'd just spent a great many days stuck aboard a decidedly cramped (if fast) jump-ship. He collected his greatcoat and stepped outside. He was only under orders to keep a bodyguard on duty at all times during his galactic travels, after all.

It was about four kilometers from ImpSec HQ to Vorkosigan House, both centrally located in the Old Town. I do believe I'll walk home.

He turned the last corner onto the street Vorkosigan House faced just as the gray afternoon darkened into drizzle, and congratulated himself on his timing. Four kilometers in … well, maybe it wasn't the fastest time he'd ever done, but at least he wasn't gasping for breath as he would have been six months ago.

The brisk walk had been a … nonevent. The streets of the central capital were thick with afternoon traffic and clogged with pedestrians, who hurried past on their various businesses, sparing barely a glance for the striding little man in military dress. No long stares, no rude gestures or comments, not even one covert old hex sign against mutation. Had getting rid of his uneven limp, leg braces, and most of the crookedness in his back made that much difference? Or was the difference in the Barrayarans?

Three old-style mansions had once shared the city block. For security reasons the one on this end had been bought up by the Imperium during the period Miles's father had been Regent, and now housed some minor bureaucratic offices. The one on the other end, more dilapidated and with bad drains, had been torn down and replaced only by a little park. In their day, a century and a half ago, the great houses must have loomed magnificently over the horse-drawn carriages and riders clopping past. Now they were overshadowed by taller modern buildings across the street.

Vorkosigan House sat in the center, set off from the street by a narrow green strip of lawn and garden in the loop of the semicircular drive. A stone wall topped with black wrought-iron spikes surrounded it all. The four stories of great gray stone blocks, in two main wings plus some extra odd architectural bits, rose in a vast archaic mass. All it needed was window slits and a moat. And a few bats and ravens, for decoration. Earth-descended bats were rare on Barrayar, as there were not enough earth-descended insects for them to eat, and the native creatures incorrectly called bugs were usually toxic when ingested. A force screen just inside the wall provided the real protection, and eliminated the romantic possibility of bats. A concrete kiosk beside the gate housed the gate guards; in the heyday of the Regency three full platoons of ImpSec guards had traded shifts around the clock, in posts all around the building and for several blocks beyond, watching the important government men hurry in and out.

Now there was one lone gate guard, a young ImpSec corporal who poked his head out the open door at the sound of Miles's steps, emerged, and saluted him. A new man, no one Miles recognized.

'Good afternoon, Lieutenant Vorkosigan,' the young man said. 'I was expecting you. They brought your valise a couple of hours ago. I scanned it and everything; it's ready to go in.'

'Thank you, Corporal.' Gravely, Miles returned his salute. 'Been any excitement around here lately?'

'Not really, sir. Not since the Count and Countess left. About the most action we've had was the night a feral cat somehow got past the scanner beams and ran into the tangle-field. I never knew cats could make such a racket. She apparently thought she was about to be killed and eaten.'

Miles's eye took in an empty sandwich wrapper on the floor, shoved against the far wall, and a small saucer of milk. A flicker of light from the banks of vid displays for the perimeter monitors in the kiosks second tiny room cast a chilly glow through the narrow doorway. 'And, er . . . was she? Killed, I mean.'

'Oh, no, sir. Fortunately.'

'Good.' He retrieved his valise, after an awkward scramble with the guard as he belatedly tried to hand it to Miles. From the shadows under the guards chair beside the saucer, a pair of yellow-green eyes glinted in feline paranoia at him. The young corporal had an interesting collection of long black cat hairs decorating the front of his uniform, and deep half-healed scratches scoring his hands. Keeping pets on duty was highly un-regulation. Nine hours a day stuck in this tiny bunker … he must be bored out of his mind.

'The palm-locks have all been reset for you, sir,' the guard went on helpfully. 'I've rechecked everything. Twice. Can I carry that for you? Do you know how long you will be here? Will there be anything . . . going on?'

'I don't know. I'll let you know.' The kid was clearly longing for a little conversation, but Miles was tired. Maybe later. Miles turned to trudge up the drive, but then turned back. 'What did you name her?'

'Sir?'

'The cat.'

A look of slight panic crossed the young man's face, as that regulation about pets no doubt recalled itself to his mind. 'Er . . . Zap, sir.'

He was honest, at least. 'How appropriate. Carry on, Corporal.' Miles gave him a parting ImpSec HQ Analyst's salute, which was a sort of wave of two fingers in the general vicinity of one's temple; ImpSec analysts tended not to have a great deal of respect for anyone whose measured IQ was lower than their own, which included most of the rest of the Imperial Service. The guard returned a snappier grateful version.