The Vor Game

You were a lot drunk.

'Quick, yes. Smash my skull. It would hurt a lot, but not for long. Maybe even not a lot. Maybe just a flash of heat.'

Miles shuddered, concealed in his shock-stick tremula. 'I went over—I caught these plants. Then I realized, I could climb down as easily as up. More easily. I felt free, as if I had died. I started walking. Nobody stopped me. All the time, I expected someone to stop me.

'I ended up in the freightyard end of the shuttleport. At a bar. I told this fellow, the free trader, I was a norm-space navigator. I'd done that, on my ship duty. I'd lost my ID, and was afraid Barrayaran Security would rough me up. He believed me—or believed something. Anyway, he gave me a berth. We probably broke orbit before my batman went in to wake me that morning.'

Miles chewed his knuckles. 'So from ImpSec's point of view, you evaporated from a fully guarded room. No note, no trace—and on Komarr.'

'The ship made a straight run through to Pol—I stayed aboard-and then nonstop to the Consortium. I didn't get along too well at first, on the freighter. I thought I was doing better. Guess not. But I thought, Illyan was probably right behind me anyway.'

'Komarr.' Miles rubbed his temples. 'Do you realize what has to be happening back there? Illyan will be convinced it's some sort of political kidnapping. I bet he's got every Security operative and has the army tearing those domes apart bolt by bolt, looking for you. You're way out ahead of them. They won't look beyond Komarr till . . .' Miles counted out days on his fingers.

'Still, Illyan shot have alerted all his outlying agents . . . almost a week ago. Ha! I that was the message that put Ungari up in the air, just before he left in such a hurry. Sent to Ungari, not to me.' Not to me. Nobody's counting me. 'But it should have been all over the news—'

'It was, sort of,' Gregor offered. 'There was a sententious announcement that I'd been ill and retired to rest in seclusion at Vorkosigan Surleau. They're suppressing.'

Miles could just picture it. 'Gregor, how could you do this! They'll be going insane back home!'

'I'm sorry,' said Gregor stiffly. 'I knew it was a mistake … almost immediately. Even before the hangover cut in.'

'Why didn't you get off at Pol, then, and go to the Barrayaran embassy?'

'I thought I might still . . . dammit,' he broke off, 'why should these people own me?'

'Childish, stunt,' Miles gritted through his teeth.

Gregor's head jerked up in anger, but he said nothing.

The full realization of his position was just beginning to sink in to Miles, like lead in his belly. I'm the only man in the universe who knows where the Emperor of Barrayar is right now. If anything happens to Gregor, I could be his heir. In fact, if anything happens to Gregor, quite a lot of people will think I . . .

And if the Hegen Hub found out who Gregor really was, a free-for-all of epic proportions could follow. The Jacksonians would take him for simple ransom. Aslund, Pol, Vervain, any or all might seek some power play. The Cetagandans most of all—if they could gain possession of Gregor in secret, who knew what subtle psychological programming they might attempt; if openly, what threats? And Miles and Gregor were both trapped on a ship they didn't control—Miles might be snatched away at any moment by Consortium goons or worse—

Miles was an ImpSec officer, now, however junior or disgraced. And ImpSec's sworn duty was the Emperor's safety. The Emperor, Barrayaran's unifying icon. Gregor, unwilling flesh pressed into the mold. Icon, flesh, which claimed Miles's allegiance? Both. He's mine. A prisoner, on the run, trailed by God- knows-what enemies, suicidally depressed, and all mine.

Miles choked down a lunatic cackle.

10

With a little reflection, possible now that the shock-stick reverberations were wearing off, Miles realized that he needed to hide. Gregor, by his place as a contract slave, would be warm, fed, and safe all the way to Aslund Station if Miles did not endanger him. Maybe. Miles added it to his life's lessons list. Call it Rule 27B. Never make key tactical decisions while having electro-convulsive seizures.

Miles began by examining the bunk cubicle. The vessel was not a prison ship; the cabin had originally been designed as cheap transport, not a secured cell. Empty storage cupboards beneath the two bunkstacks were too large and obvious. A floor panel lifted for access to between-decks control, coolant and power lines, and the grav grid —long, narrow, flat. . . . Rough voices in the corridor propelled Miles's decision. He squeezed himself into the slice of space, face up arms tight to his sides, and exhaled. 'You always were good at hide-and-seek,' said Gregor admiringly and pressed the panel down.

'I was smaller then,' Miles mumbled through squashed cheeks-Pipes and circuit boxes sank into his back and buttocks. Gregor refastened the catches, and all was dark and silent for a few minutes. Like a coffin. Like a pressed flower. Some kind of biological specimen anyway. Canned ensign.

The door hissed open; footsteps passed over Miles's body, compressing him still further. Would they notice the muffled echo from this strip of floor?

'On your feet, Techie.' A guard's voice, directed to Gregor. Thumpings and hangings, as the mattresses were flipped and the cupboard doors flung open. Yes, he'd figured the cupboards for useless.

'Where is he, Techie?' From the directions of the shufflings, Miles placed Gregor as now near the wall, probably with an arm twisted up behind his back.

'Where is who?' said Gregor in a smeary tone. Face against the wall, all right. 'Your little mutant buddy.'

'The weird little guy who followed me in? He's no buddy of mine. He left.'

More shuffling—'Ow!' The Emperor's arm had just been lifted another five centimeters, Miles gauged. 'Where'd he go?'

'I don't know! He didn't look so good. Somebody'd worked him over with a shock stick. Recently. I wasn't about to get involved. He took off again a few minutes before we undocked.'

Good Gregor; depressed maybe, stupid no. Miles's lips drew back. His head was turned, with one cheek against the floor above and the other pressing against something that resembled a cheese grater. More thumps. 'All right! He left! Don't hit me!' Unintelligible guard growls, the crackle of a shock stick, a sharp intake of breath, a thump as of a body curling up on a lower bunk. A second guard's voice, edged with uncertainty, 'He must have doubled back onto the Consortium before we cast off.'

'Their problem, good. But we'd better search the whole ship to be sure. Detention sounded ready to chew ass on this one.'

'Chew or be chewed?'

'Hah. I'm taking no bets.'

The booted feet—four of them, Miles estimated—stalked toward the cabin door. The door hissed closed. Silence.

He was going to have a truly remarkable collection of bruises on his backside, Miles decided, by the time Gregor got around to popping the lid. He could get about half a breath with each pulse of his lungs. He needed to pee. Come on, Gregor. . . .

He must certainly free Gregor from his slave labor contract as soon as possible after their arrival at Aslund Station. Contract laborers of this order were bound to be stuck with the dirtiest and most dangerous jobs, the most exposure to radiation, to dubious life-support systems, to long, exhausting, accident-prone hours. Though—true—it was also an incognito no enemy would quickly penetrate. Once free to move they must find Ungari, the man with the credit cards and the contacts; after that—well, after that Gregor would be Ungari's problem, eh? Yes, all simple, right and tight. No need to panic at all. Had they taken Gregor away? Dare he release himself, and risk– Shuffling