Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (7/20)

[jetta_e_rus]

It's a long way to Escobar

by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Vorkosiverse. Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here

Chapter Seven,

where Simon and Aral nearly fight and then have the very serious and frank conversation

***

Precisely a half hour before the meeting Illyan knocked on his ward's door.

There was an unaccustomed crush in the ship's corridor. Beside the nearest lift tube Illyan had just seen a confused ensign with another ship's insignia on his sleeve who was hanging about, hastily checking his holomap of this cruiser in search of the briefing room. Illyan and Vorkosigan should have headed to the meeting in advance so the crowds
q> of men would not make them late.

Vorkosigan wasn't waiting for him ready at the door, as Illyan had expected. Instead he was sitting at the comconsole, so fascinated with his occupation that he hardly noticed Illyan's appearance. Over the vidplate there was not the upcoming report's text, but... Illyan approached to make sure that his eyes didn't beguile him into a false perception. Yes, it was a cartoon, sketched with a few negligent strokes of a light pen, but easily recognisable; Vorrutyer's head was put on a naked and ludicrously plump female body. Vorkosigan was drawing with sincere enthusiasm; his face, usually reserved and cool, was alight with a sort of fierce joy and his broad smile looked like a wolfish grin.

This shock was the first but not the only one. There were other oddities. For example, before Illyan's arrival, the neat Commodore Vorkosigan had already begun to change his clothes to proper dress greens, but he had broken off half-way. He had put on his piped trousers but the shined polished boots were still in their sealed bag on the floor near the wardrobe; the gold-embroided tunic wasn't buttoned up, and the cuff of his creamy high-collar shirt jutted sloppily out of the tunic's sleeve. And the stained crumpled trousers of his undress greens lay on the bed, waiting in vain for cleaning.

"Sir," he called to Vorkosigan, trying to muffle the voice of alarm in the bottom of his mind, "it's time to go."

"Oh, Illyan," the man answered almost absently, "wait a little, I'm just finishing." He eyed the picture pensively, his fingers linked. Then he dropped the light pen on the console (and didn't make any attempt to catch it as it rolled toward the edge), closed the file, pulled out the code card from the reader slot and twiddled it. "A nice gift, isn't it?"

Illyan looked at him spellbound. Vorkosigan reddened; the flush outlined his sharp cheek-bones. He rose, staggered, leaned on the comconsole still smiling...

"Why, you are drunk!" Illyan blurted out against all military etiquette, astonished. "It's impossible for you to go anywhere!"

"Me?" The Commodore's voice was edged with a sincere perplexity, "Rubbish! I only had a drop. I'm just in the pugnacious mood that I was so shamefully lacking before.. And that rat Ges was asking for a few slaps long ago. I have to seize the opportunity." He snorted.

"You are not good in drinking. And never were."...

"You lost your temper, notoriously and scandalously"...

"... your service to me, not your revenge against your commanding officer".

Oh, shit!

Illyan was frozen. The diagnosis was clear; the dripping had worn away the stone at last, and now the great boulder was freed and rolling quickly towards disaster. His ward had broken loose with the alcohol. The drunken Commodore Lord Vorkosigan was going to tan the hide of his Commander and Vice Admiral outright at the official meeting, in sight of all the fleet captains. He already clenched his fists and his eyes were clouded with a tipsy merry rage, forcing its way out at such an improper moment.

More than an improper one. A suicidal one.

Yes, the officers of General Vortugalov were in the know that their Commander-in-Chief had vexed his subordinate keenly and methodically, day by day. But the visitors from other ships weren't up on it. They would see Vorkosigan for the first time after his five-year exile and would consider him right away a drunken brawler, not observing propriety, even in formal surroundings. That would be an indelible impression.

Meanwhile Vorkosigan fastened his tunic; his fingers were decisive but still all thumbs. The tunic's bronze buttons defied him, and he grumbled something under his breath. It would be merely ridiculous, just like Illyan's attempts to be overcautious, if the current dilemma weren't so serious. If a Staff officer was absent from an important briefing, this would be a mark on his service record and a reason for rumors. If he made a row at this briefing, that would be the worst. But did this danger exist in Illyan's imagination only?

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Illyan got over his stupor and took a step, blocking Vorkosigan's way to the door.

"You should not show up drunk at this meeting," he repeated with desperate inexorability.

"Why do you harp on the same string?" Vorkosigan grinned, sleeked his hair as if his wiry crew-cut could be disheveled, then eyed his own palm. "Let me go. You weren't appointed my nurse."

And to what duty he had been appointed? Nurse, corpsman, duenna? 'My lieutenant will look after you and keep you from compromising yourself.' Illyan hadn't supposed, at the time, that he would have to carry out this order to the letter and not just be a silent reminder of good conduct. Unfeigned resentment had flashed at Vorkosigan's staunch self-control, now shattered. But orders are orders.

"I haven't the right to do this, and you know it," he said firmly. Such was indeed the case. Even if he was overcautious, at least he made decisions with a sober head. And that would be his responsibility.

"Don't be obstinate, Illyan. I'm s-sober." Unfortunately Vorkosigan stammered at this very word. "I only drank a thimbleful."

Illyan resisted the temptation to open the drawer and check how much brandy remained at the bottom of the bottle. No, it wasn't essential since the unattractive proof was already right in front of him, but he didn't stir a step from the door.

"You don't see yourself from the outside, sir. I do. If my word isn't enough for you, any test could verify your intoxication."

"What fucking test?" Vorkosigan interrupted him, chafed. His merry rage wasn't so merry anymore, and its strain increased headily, "Get out, boy. My dear Ges will get tired of waiting for me."

He stepped forward heavily, radiating rage like an invisible force field, and leaned one hand on the doorframe, balancing himself.

Illyan shifted unwittingly backward, feeling the closed metal door behind his shoulders. He clenched the right fist so that his strained fingers wouldn't search automatically for the stunner in the holster on his belt. He thought suddenly that if they ended up in a fight, Vorkosigan would have a double advantage of weight and a lack of restraint. No, if they fought, Illyan would lose in any case, whoever beat down the other. Vorkosigan's pride had been already hurt by incessant mockery, including implications that the lieutenant-spy could constrain him.

Logical arguments wouldn't work. He spoke hastily, discarding to hell all 'commodores', 'sirs', seniority and Regulation references.

"Aral, please. You aren't aware that you are drunk, so you could do any folly. You lost your temper; it happens -- Vorrutyer could drive a saint crazy. Damn it, let him wait for you at this meeting till doomsday. Don't disgrace yourself in the face of them all."

What feeble nonsense do I talk? Never mind; I'll say anything if only to talk Vorkosigan's head off, to prevent his rage from bursting out in a way he would regret later. Illyan needed to keep shouting until his charge's reason or his curiosity would be awakened.

Illyan thought that Aral's wolfish grin was an innate talent; it looked very impressive when he bent to his interlocutor, now driven into a corner. But at least they talked now, not fighting one against the other, and this was a small victory for Illyan.

"Disgrace myself? Folly?" Aral eyed him closely, intently, as if tasting his own words and rolling them on his tongue. After Aral's conversation with Vorhalas, Illyan had looked through his medical files; now, fully in agreement with his clinical finding, the first effect of intoxication was the lack of self-control, then the legs faltered, and only the last symptom was the stammer. If the wild light didn't flick in his eyes and his speech wasn't a bit rambling, Illyan might think that Vorkosigan was quite right. "You are so prim and proper a guy, indeed. What could you know ab-bout my follies?"

"That they are able to damage you more certainly than any enemy," Illyan said softly.

"Are you afraid that I would damage you?" Vorkosigan asked just as softly, flicked a brow. "That dirt would stick to you? This, for example?"

Certainly they stood too close one to another.

An analyst's job was to investigate and to dig out reasons for all kinds of things. But was there a kiss among these things? It was hot, almost aggressive, overwhelming like point-blank fire. This wasn't friendly teasing, but a challenge, an open attempt to confuse, a disallowed trick in their confrontation.

Illyan could recoil in a pointed manner; he could act with an officer's injured indignation. Or he could keep his usual image of an unfeeling statue troubled by Service business only, and show nothing but an iced scoffing cool. But both reactions seemed to him equally unfair. Either would be the smug hypocrisy of a person who had the cheek to lie that he was blameless and raised above all fleshly desires. Above this sin, which stung Aral despite all his bravado. So Illyan returned the kiss and accepted the challenge.

Ooh! It turned out serious. The dead sincerity of real, hot desire, camouflaged unconvincingly as a joke, drove them. And this desire was mutual. Perhaps, they now had exhausted, one month too soon, all potentialities to surprise each other. Not till the last split second before their cover would burst like a soap-bubble did Vorkosigan step back.

Only then they faced each other directly. Aral's expression, unprecedented, was slightly bemused. Illyan tried not to think yet about his own look. The broad smile and contentedly narrowed eyes would be the last straw.

Keep yourself busy.

"Aral, take it on trust if you can't believe my arguments," he continued as if nothing happened. Nothing at all, but now he called Aral by name, "You ought not to go." He had to improvise, "Look. This is a primitive method, and there isn't a floor board here, only the metal desk covered with a mat..."

Illyan slipped out easily from under Aral's hand and unbuckled his belt. Vorkosigan turned out and raised his brows, surprised, since he didn't expect that his lieutenant would begin to undress right now. Illyan knelt down on the floor, spread the belt out in a straight line and pressed one edge with his map-case so that it wouldn't roll up.

"Walk along it with small steps, in a straight line."

Vorkosigan hemmed before submitting to this offer. As expected, he staggered at the third step, but didn't fall since he hoisted a hand toward the wall and held himself upright. Now he didn't strive to go into the corridor any more. Quite the contrary, he stood motionless as if some sudden and unpleasant idea had just dawned upon him. "If I stay, will you keep me company? Lieutenant Illyan, er, Simon, had you counted upon it? Did you act as duty-bound?"

It would be impossible to count all the surprises of this evening, Illyan thought. He almost ignored Aral's irony. "You overestimate my capacities. I'm not the bastard of a patrol dog and a ship's tactical computer," he informed Aral dryly, "I wasn't able to foretell your, er, initiative."

"That would make you a real son-of-a-bitch," Aral snickered confusedly, "Sorry. I'm drunk."

'Drunk'. At last this word came from Aral Vorkosigan himself. It was no longer some observers’ business to elicit why the Commodore had broken down on the day of the common briefing. There could be a lot of reasons. He thought that Aral could have vividly imagined that Vorrutyer would humiliate Aral before his own former subordinates. Especially if one of them had been Aral's intimate friend... Illyan caught himself feeling something like a trivial jealousy, and didn't redden any more only because his face still blushed, as if it was he who had got drunk.

Aral gave up and sank onto his bed. It wasn't right; humility was not Vorkosigan's nature when he was in his cups, so he just switched his urgent interest from one object to another, rather than give up. Thankfully, the idea of vengeance on Ges had given way to the idea of closer acquaintance with Simon. It was no less risky to be an object of this awesome interest than to try hand-to-hand fighting with Vorkosigan. And equally attractive.

"Why do you stand like you're at a formal reception?" Vorkosigan nodded, "Sit down."

With his toe, Illyan pushed aside the belt laid on the floor; it wasn't opportune to pick it up now, but he didn't like to increase mess in another man's cabin. Besides that, his gear looked slightly improper, lying glaringly in the middle of the room. Then he sat down.

"Do you think that I wanted to insult you?" Vorkosigan asked bluntly.

"To sting, perhaps. Didn't you?"

"I did," Vorkosigan admitted, "You tried to order me about, Simon. It's hard for me to remember that you are not an ordinary newly-made aide-de-camp. You look too inoffensive. And young."

"But if you meant to sting me, why this way?"

Vorkosigan paused. At last he said, "You see, the old sins often catch you up and seize you by your throat at the most improper moment. It's better always to remember they are there."

"Spare me your analogies," Illyan said. "Honestly speaking, you have overwhelmed me, flattered me, tempted me with this challenge, shaken me deeply. But it wasn't an insult, not in the least."

"Besides, you have frustrated such a good opportunity to get even with my old sin," Vorkosigan added, "Or haven't you done it yet?"

Illyan flapped his hand on the stunner holster, supposedly by accident. "I'm not going to let you go, Aral."

Vorkosigan didn't move. "I'm heavier than you. And I've fought before, and not only in the ring."

"Well, you'll waste all your fighting heat trying to pass me. And then you'll lack the energy for a showy scene in Vorrutyer's company."

"Have you already decided for me the public reason of my absence?"

Illyan considered for a moment only, flicking through Vorkosigan’s medical files in his mind. "Yes. For plausibility, it will be named as an 'ulcer attack'. I'll prove it by Zarowski's certificate. This explanation isn't worse than any other, and it's certainly better than the diagnosis 'a state of intoxication''."

"I've barely drunk anything!" Vorkosigan pointed out, annoyed, and yawned suddenly, getting angry with himself at this. "Simon! You are like a shrewish wife and a commander of the guard taken together."

"I'm better", Illyan grinned, "I request neither pin money nor yielding your weapon."

"Why do I have to give in?" Vorkosigan considered pensively. "I exceed you in age, rank and weight, after all. And you are a cheeky boy."

"But I have good connections," Illyan concluded, "In our corrupted time nepotism conquers all."

Aral laughed. Along with the laughter the remaining tension and rage left him like air leaves a bod-pod through the valve. Illyan was used to seeing him somber and reserved, but the laughing Commodore suddenly revealed in all its glory the crushing charm of the personality that made him such an excellent commander.

"Oh, yes, since you were engaged to my service, you ought to be a good match."

The interesting associations came to light. Vorkosigan selected peculiar metaphors for his speech - "to engage", "shrewish wife", and that bawdy drawing was not without purpose too. The kiss was the most revealing example, of course.

Illyan wondered whether he became so unconcealed when he got drunk himself. No, Vorkosigan's nerve-strain hadn't disappeared, it had only turned into strong personal interest. Illyan felt clearly the weight of Aral's glance - peering, merry, sure - like a hand on his shoulder. It was as real as a touch.

"You've surprised me today, Simon."

"You too," Illyan sighed.

"I thought you were warned. You have certainly read my uncut file. Is it interesting?"

"Just like a history textbook with medical bits ingrained. Plus sometimes it was a sort of thriller. However, there wasn't any note saying 'in a fight he uses tricks on the brink of illicit'."

"We didn't fight. And this trick didn't work on you."

"It did," Illyan grinned.

"Then you weren't the only person who fell victim to it. And I have nothing to complain about but my own presumption. When you collide with an opponent, you should assume a priori that he wields same tricks as you." Aral stretched himself and tensed his jaw, suppressing a yawn. "But you have an advantage; I know nothing about you."

"I have to have some advantages, my Commodore. You exceed me in age, rank, weight and experience, as you've seen."

"And with a fair amount of follies that I got up to the past."

"But I've mentioned an experience of my own."

"The experience of having been around, isn't it?" Aral grinned, hands behind his head, stretched himself one more time, wrinkled his nose. He clearly wrestled against drowsiness, Illyan noted. "You are impervious, Simon." He bent lower, so close. His half-closed eyes looked persistently and fixed hard despite the coming doze.

"Experience is experience," Illyan answered frankly. "Besides I'm not impervious to everybody. Some persons know more about me than there is in my file, and my file isn't smaller than yours."

"Who are they?"

"My big brass."

"All?" Aral blinked a few times.

"All," Illyan said firmly. He didn't specify if he meant by this 'all' the full information about him or both great men, Ezar and Negri, whom he had the honor to call his actual superiors. It seemed their number could increase soon to three, if the ImpSec lieutenant could keep this third person from discrediting himself.

"Is that why-y," Aral could not help an audible yawn and tossed his head perplexedly as if shaking out the doze, "Ezar has appointed you to look after me, indeed?"

You are a provocateur or telepath, Aral. What are you going to do, if I answer 'yes'? Will you kiss me again, this time deliberately, or will you take offence to death?

No, he was going to do nothing. Aral Vorkosigan rested himself against the wall and closed his eyes, struck down by drunken sleep immediately on the spot. Illyan shook Aral's shoulder but he didn't open his eyes, only slipped aside and muttered. Illyan managed to make out only '... Ges, poor bastard, not for a long...'

Well. First of all he had to deal with the comconsole. Illyan needed to switch all calls from Vorkosigan's console to his own comlink. Since he knew all the ship's security codes, this task was easy, and even a green ensign, having only just completed the ImpSec courses, could do it. The meeting would be over in half an hour or more, but it would be better to set it up all in advance.

Then he helped Aral to settle comfortably. It was hard to turn his heavy body, and Illyan fell short of the skills of a practiced batman. However he succeeded in taking off Aral's tunic, rigid with all its gold embroidery and awards, pulling off his boots, and making him lay down flat. Then Illyan covered him with the bedspread and turned the air refresher on.

It turned out that his precaution wasn't out of place. The comconsole chimed, and Illyan's wrist com echoed.

"Commodore Vorkosigan?" As expected, it was Serg's aide-de-camp, Vorinnis, who had certainly received an order to find out 'what this Vorkosigan permits himself' and take him and call him on the carpet in front of the commanding officers.

"Lieutenant Illyan here. Commodore Vorkosigan feels unwell; it's an ulcer attack."

"Is he at the ship infirmary?" Vorinnis asked in downright perplexity.

"No, Commander. He stayed in his own cabin, took his medicine and fell asleep. He charged me to respond to his calls until he wakes up."

"I'll report to His Highness", he said displeasedly.

"Be so kind, Vorinnis."

The next call occurred a few minutes later.

"Aral?" It was the voice and number of Admiral Vorhalas. And this voice was worried.

Illyan repeated his standard explication about the ulcer, Vorkosigan sleeping, and call transfer, but Vorhalas wasn't satisfied. He listened to all, then demanded hard, "Where is he?"

"In his cabin."

"Is he under arrest, Illyan?"

Aral's old friend came close to the truth, and this was off the point. Technically, Illyan had the right not to answer, because an ImpSec officer wasn't subordinate to the Staff; he didn't take orders from the fleet officers at all, excepting a direct order from the C-in-C. But he answered immediately and straightaway, "No, sir. My word as an officer. This is an ulcer attack, and you can ask him about it tomorrow morning."

"I have to talk with Aral now."

"I doubt that you could wake him up easily, Admiral. He took a sleeping-draught. Unless our cruiser has just been hit, and it hasn't, or I would have heard an alarm. It makes sense to wait till the morning."

Vorhalas clearly didn't like him, the same way as a battle-tried officer didn't like a political spy even if he was the Emperor's personal spy. Vorhalas distrusted him, but at least he didn't speak it aloud. "How strong was this... attack?"

"Now he is safe. As you know, this disease is chronic for him. The intense..." Illyan paused a split second, "... work provoked it to exacerbation."

"Thank you, lieutenant. That's all," Vorhalas cut the com.

It seemed they understood each other, more than well.

Illyan waited about ten minutes more, but nobody either called or appeared (the latter was even more important).

It remained to do only a little to repair the damage. Illyan had to clear up the cabin so that tomorrow morning it would look neat as usual, with no reminders of this evening's spree. He hung the tunic and trousers in the wardrobe, picked up his own belt and map-case from the floor, collected the pile of flimsies and disks from the comconsole and hesitated where Aral had put them down. The top drawer seemed appropriate. Then Illyan jerked it open, and the glassy bottle laying inside rolled with a muffled rumble. Yes, it was the very bottle of brandy, almost full; the fluid level was barely a thumb lower than the rim.

Illyan, bewildered, glanced aside at the sleeping Vorkosigan, who snored heavily. The he returned his eyes to the bottle, shrugged and put Vorkosigan's property away next to the map-case. Something was not on, but it was also beyond his grasp after the exertion that he has had been through. He had to sit back and concentrate at least ten minutes.

What a pity that he couldn't hide from all troubles with the covers pulled over his head, for example, these covers under which Aral sprawled.