clinging to the wormhole exit for home. If you want to talk of—undue caution.' His tone clearly made the phrase a euphemism for an uglier term.
'You can hardly order me confined to quarters and then accuse me of cowardice for not being at the front. Sir. Even Minister Grishnov's propaganda has to simulate logic better than that.'
'You'd just love that, wouldn't you, Vorkosigan,' hissed the Prince. 'Stick me back here, and grab all the glory for yourself and that wrinkled clown Vortala and his phoney progressives. Over my dead body! You're going to sit in here till you grow mold.'
Vorkosigan's teeth were clenched, his eyes narrowed and unreadable. His lips curled back on a white smile, but closed again instantly. 'I must formally protest. By landing with the ground troops on Escobar you are leaving your proper post.'
'Protest away.' The Prince approached him closely, leaning into his face and dropping his voice. 'But even my father can't live forever. And when that day comes, your father won't be able to protect you anymore. You, and Vortala, and all his cronies will be first against the wall, I promise you.' He looked up, remembering Illyan leaning silently against the doorjamb. 'Or perhaps you'll find yourself back on the Leper Colony, for another five years of patrol duty.'
In the bathroom, Bothari stirred uncomfortably in his semi-coma and, to Cordelia's horror, began to snore.
Lieutenant Illyan was seized by a spasmodic coughing fit. 'Excuse me,' he gasped, and retreated into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly.
He hit the light and traded a silent look of panic with Cordelia for an equally silent grimace of despair. With difficulty, they turned Bothari's deadweight to one side in the constricted space, until he breathed quietly again. Cordelia gave Illyan the thumbs-up signal, and he nodded and squeezed back out the door.
The Prince had left. Admiral Vorhalas lingered a moment, to exchange a last word with his subordinate.
'—put it in writing. I'll sign it before we go.'
'At least don't travel in the same ship,' begged Vorkosigan seriously.
Vorhalas sighed. 'I appreciate your trying to get him out of my hair. But somebody has to clean his cage for the Emperor, with Vorrutyer out, thank God. He won't have you, so it looks like I'm elected. Why can't you just lose your temper with subordinates, like normal men, instead of with superiors, like a lunatic? I thought you were cured of that, after what I saw you take from Vorrutyer.'
'That's dead and buried now.'
'Aye.' Vorhalas made a superstitious sign, automatically, evidently a gestural relic from childhood, empty of belief but full of habit.
'By the by—what's the Leper Colony?' asked Vorkosigan curiously.
'You never heard that? Well—maybe I can see why not. Did you never wonder why you received such a remarkable percentage of screw-ups, incorrigibles, and near-discharges among your crew?'
'I hadn't expected to get the cream of the Service.'
'They used to call it Vorkosigan's Leper Colony, at headquarters.'
'With myself as leper-in-chief, eh?' Vorkosigan seemed more amused than offended. 'Well, if they were the worst the Service has to offer, perhaps we shall not do so badly after all. Take care of yourself. I don't fancy being his second-in-command.'
Vorhalas chuckled, and they shook hands. He started for the door, then paused. 'Do you think they'll counterattack?'
'My God, of course they'll counterattack. This isn't some trade outpost. These people are fighting for their homes.'
'When?'
Vorkosigan hesitated. 'Sometime after you've started disembarking ground troops, but well before it's completed. Wouldn't you? Worst time to have to start a retreat. Shuttles not knowing whether to go up or down, their mother ships scattering to hell and gone under fire, supplies needed not landed, supplies landed not needed, the chain of command disrupted—an inexperienced commander in absolute control …'
'You give me the shivers.'
'Yes, well—try to hold the start for as long as possible. And make sure your troopship commanders have their contingency orders crystal clear.'
'The Prince doesn't see it your way.'
'Yes, he's itching to lead a parade.'
'What do you advise?'
'I'm not your commander this time, Rulf.'
'Not my fault. I recommended you to the Emperor.'
'I know. I wouldn't take it. I recommended you instead.'
'So we ended up with that sodomizing son-of-a-bitch Vorrutyer.' Vorhalas shook his head bleakly. 'Something wrong there …'
Vorkosigan chivvied him gently out the door, blew out his breath with a sigh, and remained standing, caught up in his vision of the future. He looked up, and met Cordelia's eyes with unhappy irony. 'Wasn't there some character, when the old Romans held their triumphs, who rode along whispering in the honored party's ear that he was mortal, and death waited for him? The old Romans probably thought he was a pain in the neck, too.'
She held her peace.
Vorkosigan and Illyan went to retrieve Sergeant Bothari from his makeshift and uncomfortable hiding place. They were halfway through the door with him when Vorkosigan swore. 'He's stopped breathing.'
Illyan hissed explosively, and they laid Bothari out quickly on the friction matting on his back. Vorkosigan laid his ear to his chest, and felt his neck for a pulse.
'Son-of-a-bitch.' He doubled his fists, and brought them down sharply against the Sergeant's sternum, then listened again. 'Nothing.'
He rolled back on his heels, looking fierce. 'Illyan. Whoever you got that lizard's piss from, go find him and get a shot of the antidote. Quickly. And quietly. Very quietly.'
'How did you—what if—shouldn't you—is it worth—' began Illyan. He threw up his hands helplessly, and fled out the door.
Vorkosigan looked at Cordelia. 'Do you want to push, or blow?'
'Push, I guess.'
She knelt by Bothari's side, and Vorkosigan went to his head, tilted it back, and gave him his first breath of air. Cordelia pressed the heels of her hands on his sternum and pushed with all her strength, setting up the rhythm. Push, push, push, blow, over and over, don't stop. After a short time her arms were shaking, and sweat beaded on her hairline. She could feel her own ribs grind with each push, screamingly, and her chest muscles knotted spasmodically.
'Got to switch.'
'Good. I'm hyperventilating.'
They changed places, Vorkosigan taking over the heart massage, Cordelia pinching Bothari's nostrils shut and closing her mouth over his. His mouth was wet from Vorkosigan's saliva. The parody of a kiss was horrible, but to shrink from it beneath contempt. They went on, and on.
Lieutenant Illyan returned at last, breathless. He knelt and pressed the new ampule against Bothari's corded neck over the carotid artery. Nothing happened. Vorkosigan kept pumping.
Suddenly, Bothari shuddered, then stiffened, arching his back. He took an irregular, gasping gulp of air, then stopped again.
'Come on,' urged Cordelia, half to herself.
With a sharp spasmodic intake he began to breathe again, raggedly, but persistently. Cordelia slumped from her knees to a sitting position on the floor and gazed at him in joyless triumph. 'Suffering bastard.'
'I thought you saw meaning in that sort of thing,' said Vorkosigan.
'In the abstract. Most days it's just stumbling around in the dark with the rest of creation, smashing into things and wondering why it hurts.'
Vorkosigan gazed at Bothari too, sweat runneling down his face. Then he jumped to his feet and hurried to
