The Vor Game

Chain-of-command, for example, would have been a legal fiction out in the farbeyond, the wishes of Betan HQ a matter for speculation and side bets.

She moved now so wavelessly through Barrayaran society, only her most intimate observers realized how detached she was from it, fearing no one, not even the dread Illyan, controlled by no one, not even the Admiral himself. It was the casual fearlessness, Miles decided, that made his mother so unsettling. The Admiral's Captain. Following in her footsteps would be like firewalking.

'What's going on out there?' Miles asked. 'This place is almost as much fun as solitary confinement, y'know? Have they decided I'm a mutineer after all?'

'I don't think so,' said the Countess. 'They're discharging the others—your Lieutenant Bonn and the rest —not precisely dishonorably, but without benefits or pensions or that Imperial Liegeman status that seems to mean so much to Barrayaran men—'

'Think of it as a funny sort of Reservist,' Miles advised. 'What about Metzov and the grubs?'

'He's being discharged the same way. He lost the most, I think.'

'They're just turning him loose?' Miles frowned.

Countess Vorkosigan shrugged. 'Because there were no deaths, Aral was persuaded he couldn't make a court martial with any harsher punishment stick. They decided not to involve the trainees with any charges.'

Hm. I'm glad, I think. And, ah … me?'

'You remain officially listed as detained by Imperial Security. Indefinitely.'

'Limbo is supposed to be an indefinite sort of place.' His hand picked at his sheet. His knuckles were still swollen. 'How long?'

'However long it takes to have its calculated psychological effect.'

'What, to drive me crazy? Another three days ought to do it.' Her lip quirked. 'Long enough to convince the Barrayaran militarists that you are being properly punished for your, uh, crime. As long as you are confined in this rather sinister building, they can be encouraged to imagine you undergoing—whatever they imagine goes on in here. If you're allowed to run around town partying, it will be much harder to maintain the illusion that you've been hung upside down on the basement wall.'

'It all seems so … unreal.' He hunched back into his pillow. 'I only wanted to serve.'

A brief smile flicked her wide mouth up, and vanished. 'Ready to reconsider another line of work, love?'

'Being Vor is more than just a job.'

'Yes, it's a pathology. Obsessional delusion. It's a big galaxy out there, Miles. There are other ways to serve, larger . . . constituencies.'

'So why do you stay here?' he shot back. 'Ah.' She smiled bleakly at the touche. 'Some people's needs are more compelling than guns.'

'Speaking of Dad, is he coming back?'

'Hm. No. I'm to tell you, he's going to distance himself for a time. So as not to give the appearance of endorsing your mutiny, while in fact shuffling you out from under the avalanche. He's decided to be publicly angry with you.'

'And is he?'

'Of course not. Yet … he was beginning to have some long-range plans for you, in his socio-political reform schemes, based your completing a solid military career … he saw ways of making even your congenital injuries serve Barrayar.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'Well, don't worry. He'll doubtless think of some way to use this, too.'

Miles sighed glumly. 'I want something to do. I want my clothes back.'

His mother pursed her lips, and shook her head.

He tried calling Ivan that evening. 'Where are you?' Ivan demanded suspiciously. 'Stuck in limbo.'

'Well, I don't want any of it stuck to me,' said Ivan roughly, and punched off-line.

7

The next morning Miles was moved to new quarters. His guide led him just one floor down, dashing Miles's hopes of seeing the sky again. The officer keyed open a door to one of the secured apartments usually used by protected witnesses. And, Miles reflected, certain political nonpersons. Was it possible life in limbo was having a chameleon effect, rendering him translucent?

'How long will I be staying here?' Miles asked the officer. 'I don't know, Ensign,' the man replied, and left him.

His duffle, jammed with his clothes, and a hastily-packed box sat in the middle of the apartment's floor. All his worldly goods from Kyril Island, smelling moldy, a cold breath of arctic damp. Miles poked through them— everything seemed to be there, including his weather library—and prowled his new quarters. It was a one-room it efficiency, shabbily furnished in the style of twenty years back, with a few comfortable chairs, a bed, a simple kitchenette, empty cupboards and shelves and closets. No abandoned garments or objects or leftovers to hint at the identity of any previous occupant.

There had to be bugs. Any shiny surface could conceal a vid pickup, and the ears were probably not even within the room. But; were they switched on? Or, almost more of an insult, maybe Illyan wasn't even bothering to run them?

There was a guard in the outer corridor, and remote monitors, but Miles did not appear to have neighbors at present. He discovered he could leave the corridor, and walk about the few non-top-secured areas of the building, but the guards at the outside doors, briefed as to who he was, turned him back politely but firmly. He pictured himself attempting escape by rappelling down from the roof—he'd probably get himself shot, and ruin some poor guard's career.

A Security officer found him wandering aimlessly, conducted him back to his apartment, gave him a handful of chits for the building's cafeteria, and hinted strongly that it would be appreciated if he would stay in his quarters between meals. After he left Miles morbidly counted the chits, trying to guess the expected duration of his stay. There were an even hundred. Miles shuddered.

He unpacked his box and bag, ran everything that would go through the sonic laundry to eliminate the last lingering odor of Camp Permafrost, hung up his uniforms, cleaned his boots, arranged his possessions neatly on a few shelves, showered, and changed to fresh undress greens.

One hour down. How many to go?

He attempted to read, but could not concentrate, and ended sitting in the most comfortable chair with his eyes closed, pretending this windowless, hermetically-sealed chamber was a cabin aboard a spaceship. Outbound.

He was sitting in the same chair two nights later, digesting a leaden cafeteria dinner, when the door chimed.

Startled, Miles clambered up and limped to answer it personally. It was probably not a firing squad, though you never knew.

He almost changed his assumptions about the firing squad at the sight of the hard-faced Imperial Security officers in dress greens who stood waiting. 'Excuse me, Ensign Vorkosigan,' one muttered perfunctorily, and brushed past him to start running a scan over Miles's quarters. Miles blinked, then saw who stood behind them in the corridor, and breathed an 'Ah' of understanding. At a mere look from the scanner man, Miles obediently held out his arms and turned to be scanned.

'Clear, sir,' the scanner man reported, and Miles was sure it was. These fellows never, ever cut corners, not even in the heart of Imp-Sec itself.

'Thank you. Leave us, please. You may wait out here,' said the third man. The ImpSec men nodded and took up parade rest flanking Miles's door.

Since they were both wearing officers' undress greens, Miles exchanged salutes with the third man,