The Vor Game

'No.'

Illyan keyed something off—recording equipment, Miles realized. 'Very well,' he said, editorial doubt injected into his tone.

Miles saluted his father. His father ignored the salute and embraced him gravely, wordlessly, sat in the room's only other chair, crossed his arms and booted ankles, and said, 'Continue, Simon.'

Illyan, who had been cut off in the middle of what had been shaping up, in Miles's estimation, to a really classic reaming, chewed his lip in frustration. 'Rumors aside,' Illyan said to Miles, 'what really happened last night out on that damned island?'

In the most neutral and succinct terms he could muster, Miles described the previous night's events, starting with the fetaine spill and ending with his arrest/detainment/to-be-determined by Imperial Security. His father said nothing during the whole recitation, but he had a light pen in his hand which he kept turning absently around and over, tap against his knee, around and over.

Silence fell when Miles finished. The light pen was driving Miles to distraction. He wished his father would put the damned thing away, or drop it, or anything.

His father slipped the light pen back into his breast pocket, thank God, leaned back, and steepled his fingers, frowning. 'Let me get this straight. You say Metzov hopscotched the command chain and dragooned trainees for his firing squad?'

'Ten of them. I don't know if they were volunteers or not, I wasn't there for that part.'

'Trainees.' Count Vorkosigan's face was dark. 'Boys.'

'He was babbling something about it being like the army versus the navy, back on Old Earth.'

'Huh?' said Illyan.

'I don't think Metzov was any too stable when he was exiled to Kyril Island after his troubles in the Komarr Revolt, and fifteen years of brooding about it didn't improve his grip.' Miles hesitated. 'Will . . . General Metzov be questioned about his actions at all, sir?'

'General Metzov, by your account,' said Admiral Vorkosigan, 'dragged a platoon of eighteen-year-olds into what came within a hair of being a mass torture-murder.'

Miles nodded in memory. His body still twinged with assorted agonies.

'For that sin, there is no hole deep enough to hide him from my wrath. Metzov will be taken care of, all right.' Count Vorkosigan was terrifyingly grim.

'What about Miles and the mutineers?' asked Illyan.

'Necessarily, I fear we will have to treat that as a separate matter.'

'Or two separate matters,' said Illyan suggestively.

'Mm. So, Miles, tell me about the men on the other end of the guns.'

'Techs, sir, mostly. A lot of greekies.'

Illyan winced. 'Good God, had the man no political sense at all?'

'None that I ever saw. I thought it would be a problem.' Well, later he'd thought of it, lying awake on his cell cot after the med squad left. The other political ramifications had spun through his mind. Over half the slowly freezing techs had been of the Greek-speaking minority. The language separatists would have been rioting in the streets, had it become a massacre, sure to claim the general had ordered the greekies into the clean-up as racial sabotage. More deaths, chaos reverberating down the timeline like the consequences of the Solstice Massacre? 'It . . . occurred to me, that if I died with them, at least it would be crystal clear that it hadn't been some plot of your government or the Vor oligarchy. So that if I lived, I won, and if I died, I won too. Or at least served. Strategy, of sorts.'

Barrayar's greatest strategist of this century rubbed his temples, as if they ached. 'Well … of sorts, yes.'

'So,' Miles swallowed, 'what happens now, sirs? Will I be charged with high treason?'

'For the second time in four years?' said Illyan. 'Hell, no. I'm not going through that again. I will simply disappear you, until this blows over. Where to, I haven't quite figured yet. Kyril Island is out.'

'Glad to hear it.' Miles eyes narrowed. 'What about the others?'

'The trainees?' said Illyan. 'The techs. My . . . fellow mutineers.' Illyan twitched at the term.

'It would be seriously unjust if I were to slither up some Vor-privileged line and leave them standing charges alone,' Miles added.

'The public scandal of your trial would damage your father's Centrist coalition. Your moral scruples may be admirable, Miles, but I'm not sure I can afford them.'

Miles stared steadily at Prime Minister Count Vorkosigan. 'Sir?'

Count Vorkosigan sucked thoughtfully on his lower lip. 'Yes, I could have the charges against them quashed, by Imperial fiat. That would involve another price, though.' He leaned forward intently, eyes peeling Miles.

'You could never serve again. Rumors will travel even without a trial. No commander would have you, after. None could trust you, trust you to be a real officer, not an artifact protected by special privilege. I can't ask anyone to command you with his head cranked over his shoulder all the time.' Miles exhaled, a long breath. 'In a weird sense, they were my men. Do it. Kill the charges.'

'Will you resign your commission, then?' demanded Illyan.

Miles felt sick, nauseous and cold. 'I will.' His voice was thin.

Illyan looked up suddenly from a blank brooding stare at his com console. 'Miles, how did you know about General Metzov's questionable actions during the Komarr Revolt? That case was Security-classified.'

'Ah . . . didn't Ivan tell you about the little leak in the ImpSec files, sir?'

'What?'

Damn Ivan. 'May I sit down, sir?' said Miles faintly. The room wavering, his head thumping. Without waiting for permission, he sat cross-legged on the carpet, blinking. His father made a worried movement toward him, then restrained himself. 'I'd been checking upon Metzov's background because of something Lieutenant Ahn said. By the way, when you go after Metzov, I strongly suggest you fast-penta Ahn first. He knows more than he's told. You'll find him somewhere on the equator, I expect.'

'My files, Miles.'

'Uh, yes, well, it turns out that if you face a secured console to an outgoing console, you can read off Security files from anywhere in the vid net. Of course, you have to have somebody inside HQ who can and will aim the consoles and call up the files for you. And you can't flash-download. But I, uh, thought you should know, sir.'

'Perfect security,' said Count Vorkosigan in a choked voice. Chortling, Miles realized in startlement.

Illyan looked like a man sucking on a lemon. 'How did you,' Illyan began, stopped to glare at the Count, started again, 'how did you figure this out?'

'It was obvious.'

'Airtight security, you said,' murmured Count Vorkosigan, unsuccessfully suppressing a wheezing laugh. 'The most expensive yet devised. Proof against the cleverest viruses, the most sophisticated eavesdropping equipment. And two ensigns waft right through it?'

Goaded, Illyan snapped, 'I didn't promise it was idiot-proof!'

Count Vorkosigan wiped his eyes and sighed. 'Ah, the human factor. We will correct the defect, Miles. Thank you.'

'You're a bloody loose cannon, boy, firing in all directions,' Illyan growled to Miles, craning his neck to see over his desk to where Miles sat in a slumping heap. 'This, on top of your earlier escapade with those damned mercenaries, on top of it all—house arrest isn't enough. I won't sleep through the night till I have you locked in a cell with your hands tied behind your back.'

Miles, who thought he might kill for a decent hour's sleep right now, could only shrug. Maybe Illyan could be persuaded to let him go to that nice quiet cell soon.

Count Vorkosigan had fallen silent, a strange thoughtful glow starting in his eye. Illyan noticed the expression too, and paused.