'Who?'
'Never mind.'
The shuttle landed at last, and the hatch was opened. A shaft of sunlight and a breath of summer-scented air fell through it, sweet green air that made them suddenly realize they had been breathing reek for days.
'Wow, where is this place?' said the technician, awed, as he stepped through the hatch, prodded by the guards. 'It's beautiful.'
Cordelia followed him, and laughed out loud, although not happily, in instant recognition.
The prison camp was a triple row of Barrayaran field shelters, ugly grey half-cylinders surrounded by a force screen, set at the bottom of a kilometers-wide amphitheater of dry woodland and waterfall, beneath a turquoise sky. It was a hazy, warm, quiet afternoon that made Cordelia feel she had never left.
Yes, there was even the entrance to the underground depot, not camouflaged anymore, but widened, with a great paved area for landing and loading gouged out before it, alive with shuttles and activity. The waterfall and pool were gone. She turned about, as they walked, gazing at her planet. Now that she thought about it, it seemed inevitable that they should end up here, quite logical really. She shook her head helplessly.
She and her young Escobaran companion were signed in by a neat and expressionless guard and directed to a shelter halfway down one row. They entered, to find it occupied by eleven women in a space meant for fifty. They had their choice of bunks.
They were pounced upon by the older prisoners, frantic for news. A plump woman of about forty restored order, and introduced herself.
'I'm Lieutenant Marsha Alfredi. I'm ranking officer in this shelter. Insofar as there is order in this cess pit. Do you know what the hell is going on?'
'I'm Captain Cordelia Naismith. Betan Expeditionary.'
'Thank God. I can dump it on you.'
'Oh, my.' Cordelia braced herself. 'Fill me in.'
'It's been hell. The guards are pigs. Then, all of a sudden yesterday afternoon, this bunch of high-ranking Barrayaran officers came trooping through. At first we thought they were shopping for rapees, like the last bunch. But this morning about half the guards had disappeared—the worst of the lot—and been replaced by a crew that look like they're on parade. And the Barrayaran camp commandant—I couldn't believe it. They paraded him out on the shuttle tarmac this morning and shot him! In full view of everyone!'
'I see,' said Cordelia, rather tonelessly. She cleared her throat. 'Uh—have you heard yet? The Barrayarans have been run completely out of Escobaran local space. They're probably sending around the long way for a formal truce and some sort of negotiated settlement by now.'
There was a stunned silence, then jubilation. Some laughed, some cried, some hugged each other, and some sat alone. Some broke away to spread the news to neighboring shelters and from there up and down the whole camp. Cordelia was pressed for details. She gave a brief precis of the fighting, leaving out her own exploits and the source of her information. Their joy made her a little happier, for the first time in days.
'Well, that explains why the Barrayarans have straightened up all of a sudden,' said Lieutenant Alfredi. 'I guess they didn't expect to be held accountable, before.'
'They've got a new commander,' explained Cordelia. 'He's got a thing about prisoners. Win or lose, there'd have been changes with him in charge.'
Alfredi didn't look convinced. 'Oh? Who is he?'
'A Commodore Vorkosigan,' Cordelia said neutrally.
'Vorkosigan, the Butcher of Komarr? My God, we're in for it now.' Alfredi looked genuinely afraid.
'I should think you had an adequate pledge of good faith on the shuttle pad this morning.'
'I should think it just proves he's a lunatic,' said Alfredi. 'The commandant didn't even participate in those abuses. He wasn't the worst by a long shot.'
'He was the man in charge. If he knew about them, he should have stopped them. If he didn't know, he was incompetent. Either way, he was responsible.' Cordelia, hearing herself defending a Barrayaran execution, stopped abruptly. 'I don't know.' She shook her head. 'I'm not Vorkosigan's keeper.'
The noise of near-riot penetrated from outside, and their shelter was invaded by a deputation of fellow prisoners, all eager to hear the rumors of peace confirmed. The guards withdrew to the perimeter and let the excitement play itself out. She had to repeat her precis, twice. Her own crew members, led by Parnell, came over from the men's side.
Parnell jumped up on a bunk to address the orange-clad crowd, shouting over the glad babble. 'This lady isn't telling you everything. I had the real story from one of the Barrayaran guards. After we were taken aboard the flagship, she escaped and personally assassinated the Barrayaran commander, Admiral Vorrutyer. That's why their advance collapsed. Let's hear it for Captain Naismith!'
'That's not the real story,' she objected, but was drowned out by shouts and cheers. 'I didn't kill Vorrutyer. Here! Put me down!' Her crew, ring-led by Parnell, hoisted her to their shoulders, for an impromptu parade around the camp. 'It's not true! Stop this! Awk!'
It was like trying to turn back the tide with a teacup. The story had too much innate appeal to the battered prisoners, too much wish-fulfillment come to life. They took it in like balm for their wounded spirits, and made it their own vicarious revenge. The story was passed around, elaborated, built up, sea—changed, until within twenty- four hours it was as rich and unkillable as legend. After a few days she gave up trying.
The truth was too complicated and ambiguous to appeal to them, and she herself, suppressing everything in it that had to do with Vorkosigan, was unable to make it sound convincing. Her duty seemed drained of meaning, dull and discolored. She longed for home, and her sensible mother and brother, and quiet, and one thought that would connect to another without making a chain of secret horror.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Camp returned to routine soon, or what routine should always have been. There followed weeks of waiting for the slow negotiations for prisoner exchange to be completed, with everyone honing elaborate plans for what they would do when they got home. Cordelia gradually came to a nearly normal relationship with her shelter mates, although they still tried to give her special privileges and services. She heard nothing from Vorkosigan.
She was lying on her bunk one afternoon, pretending to sleep, when Lieutenant Alfredi roused her.
'There's a Barrayaran officer out here who says he wants to talk to you.' Alfredi trailed her to the door, suspicion and hostility in her face. 'I don't think we should let them take you away by yourself. We're so close to going home. They've surely got it in for you.'
'Oh. It's all right, Marsha.'
Vorkosigan stood outside the shelter, in the dress greens worn daily by the Staff, accompanied as usual by Illyan. He seemed tense, deferential, weary, and closed.
'Captain Naismith,' he said formally, 'may I speak with you?'
'Yes, but—not here.' She was acutely conscious of the eyes of her fellows upon her. 'Can we take a walk or something?'
He nodded, and they started off in shared silence. He clasped his hands behind his back. She shoved hers into the pockets of her orange smock top. Illyan trailed them, dog-like, impossible to shake. They left the prison compound, and headed into the woods.
'I'm glad you came,' said Cordelia. 'There are some things I've been meaning to ask you.'
'Yes. I wanted to see you sooner, but winding this thing up properly has been keeping me rather busy.'
She nodded toward his yellow collar tabs. 'Congratulations on your promotion.'
'Oh, that.' He touched one briefly. 'It's meaningless. Just a formality, to expedite the work I'm doing now.'
'Which is what?'
'Dismantling the armada, guarding the local space around this planet, shuffling politicians back and forth between Barrayar and Escobar. General housecleaning, now the party's over. Supervising prisoner exchange.'
