Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (13/20)
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 Thirteen,,
where Illyan goes to the gym and finds here a good company.
***
There were only engineering and utility service rooms on the lower deck of the flagship, just as on any battle ship. One of them was the hangar for drop shuttles, but it was empty now, because it wasn't an autonomous mission, and the shuttles usually attached to the flagship had been transferred to carriers during the forming of the fleet. So the empty room had been rebuilt as a temporary gym. This fact reminded anybody that the flagship with all the Staff aboard would reach the Escobar orbit as a rear guard, but wouldn't be sent to the heat of the battle. This could have upset Illyan as a junior officer who was thirsting for glory, but in fact he was infinitely pleased as an ImpSec agent who had to secure his ward. Anyway, Illyan wondered which would prevail, Vorrutyer's envious hostility towards the Hero of Komarr, or the Vice Admiral's sense that couldn't allow him to leave his most experienced Staff officer idle in the rear during the offensive.
However, that would be in the distant future. Meanwhile Illyan needed to visit the gym.
The ceiling height even made it possible to install an assault wall in this room and to drill the troops for null-G or landing missions. But this time the grav grids had been adjusted to normal and the unused wall loomed aside in the shadows, looking like a tracery-spiked surrealistic construction. The center of the huge room was occupied by trivial gymnastic apparatus, training machines and floor-mats for fighting.
According to the schedule, in the afternoons this place was usually occupied by commando groups, non-coms drilling their private subordinates. From 7 p.m. to midnight the gym was vacant, so the officers could use it for their training. Both Commanders-in-Chief had completely ignored this opportunity, and the senior officers had either tried to find time after dinner, beyond the common turmoil, or to keep themselves in good form with pilot training rather than with public gym exercises. But ensigns, lieutenants and commanders had never been diffident, so they had encountered each other in the gym as often as in the wardroom, in an easy atmosphere.
Illyan finished his own exercises and hailed Commander Vorinnis, who had just ceded with a sigh of relief the abdominal crunch to the next man.
"Oh, Illyan!" Vorinnis greeted him; he was evidently pleased to see his fellow aide. The Commander was sweaty and breathless, but satisfied. "Fancy meeting you! I haven't seen you here the last few days."
"I've been too busy," Illyan grimaced slightly and waved away. "Have you finished your exercises yet?"
"No, but I'm going to finish in a quarter of an hour." Vorinnis said, and then asked belatedly, "What is the matter? Something urgent?"
"Oh, no. I need you help just here," Illyan smiled politely, "As a favor, do you mind sparring? According to my post, I'm supposed train to with my fellows from ImpSec, but aboard the flagship there are only the Prince's personal guards. And I'm not in a mood to let the bulky guys beat me with the dust from the mat."
Lanky Vorinnis also literally looked down on Illyan, but by his build was at the same weight as the lieutenant. So he accepted Illyan's offer with enthusiasm.
Illyan was going to avail himself of this training for three reasons. First, he had really lacked opportunities to spar in support of his good form. Second, it would be interesting to try Serg's polished aide-de-camp, who was, judging by his files, a staff officer, not a combat one. The third, and the most important, point was that a good training fight could help to make more friendly relations between them.
So it turned out. Vorinnis, despite having treated Illyan before with a watchful snobbery, now invited him to drink a cup of tea in the wardroom after the training. Illyan, rubbing his aching wrist, glanced at the chrono supposedly imperceptibly, though not entirely, and accepted immediately.
However, he refused to drink anything stronger than the good tea, blaming the Service matters.
"Will you be busy again till midnight?" Vorinnis was surprised.
"My boss is waiting for me at 20:00; since he slept this afternoon, he won't go to bed till late at night."
Vorinnis' face expressed all the bewilderment that a well-disciplined officer felt toward the man who slept during work time. "Yesterday Vorkosigan didn't attend lunch either."
"I know," Illyan sighed, "The medics ordered him almost confined to bed. His Highness was very angry, wasn't he?"
"Quite so! As you saw yourself." Vorinnis parted his hands.
Oh, yes, Illyan had seen and heard all. There had been Serg's remark 'What does one not invent to shirk the briefing! Hah, an ulcer; he shouldn't swill his brandy' and the Prince's grumbles towards some irresponsible subordinates presuming to be down during the combat mission. There had been Vorrutyer's hints at the sanatorium treatment as if the planet below was a real spa resort. There had been an annoyed note from the chief surgeon '... If you don't wish to mar your appetite completely, gentlemen, don't ask me to discuss a medical diagnosis during the meal.' There had been Vorinnis' puzzled glance when his table-mate Illyan had refused to drink the table wine and preferred soda water.
Aral Vorkosigan had mainly spent the past days in his cabin, hiding, and the entire portion of puzzled, curious or deprecating glances had fallen to the lot of his personal ImpSec man. Illyan had kept an utter impassivity, even when his ward had had to leave his refuge. Then Vorkosigan had been morose; he had either kept quiet or began to raise his voice before stopping short; a few times he had appeared in public without brushing his hair. He had never approached anybody so close that one could smell the alcohol on his breath, but he had kept on chewing mint pastilles. And he had moved with the slow caution of a man who had been tired, unwell or... drunk.
Ges Vorrutyer had looked satisfied. This had proved nothing except the well-known fact that Vorkosigan was much less valuable for him as a subordinate officer than as a potential object of mockeries. The Crown Prince, quite the contrary, had lost his temper repeatedly; he had kept on speaking about the crew's discipline and morale, and though those speeches had been intricate they were, in fact, empty pathos. He had once drawn a paradoxical conclusion that, to quote him, 'the junior officers have to stop babbling when nobody asks them and to idling whenever they have any opportunity, and the senior officers have to stop divesting the responsibility for this onto each other!'
Therefore, the aide of the angry Crown Prince and the aide of the defaulting Commodore (Illyan's real status aboard the flagship was hushed up thoroughly) had something interesting to talk about.
"It seems Vorkosigan has a difficult nature," Vorinnis said leaning forward confidentially.
"Oh, yes," Illyan didn't argue, "But I would hardly like to trade places with you, not counting the fact that it is a great honor to serve the Emperor-to-be personally."
"His Highness is peremptory sometimes," Vorinnis said carefully.
It meant that sometimes Serg blurts out rubbish but never goes back on it, Illyan interpreted this in his mind.
"How do you manage with it?" he inquired mildly, "Share your experience, Commander. It's really hard for me to deal with such an authoritative and stubborn commanding officer, especially now." He sighed again and automatically finger-combed his hair, still wet after the shower; this was an evident gesture of annoyance.
"That's an odd comparison, Illyan!" Vorinnis was patriotically indignant. "How could you compare the Butcher of Komarr and the Crown Prince?" However, they both held back from mentioning in whose favor this comparison would be. "Speaking of stubbornness, do you remember yesterday's scene?"
Although in Illyan's case the word "remember" was rather rhetorical, even an absent-minded fellow who normally left his umbrella behind or confused his acquaintances' names wouldn't have forgotten yesterday's dispute. Illyan fast-forwarded it mentally...
"... we drag along our Vorish snobbery to the galaxy, to mock everybody!" Vorkosigan gets excited. Nobody except Illyan still remembers what has initiated this talk in the wardroom and why the voices have become raised. "Is there anybody here who thinks that those three letters before his name add to his wits?"
"Speak for yourself", Vorrutyer points out sweetly. "About your own wit or your Vor blood... you are a quarter-Betan, aren't you?"
"Thank God," Aral snarls. "Everybody could see from your example what closely-related marriages lead to." He breathed. "I'm speaking about spirit, not heredity. The Vors have become a crowd of mossy fossils who like fine words about traditions but don't see far enough past the end of their noses. It's pitiful to see what we are," he gestures evenly at the encircling men.
"Does Lord Vorkosigan deign to condemn the Vor institution?" Serg demands arrogantly.
"Yes, I do." Aral's raised fist bangs down the tabletop, but suddenly softened, so only a forgotten teaspoon jingles on the saucer. "I'm surprised that you, Prince, don't do so."
Vorrutyer stops the overly excited Crown Prince short with a gesture of his open palm. Ges turns to Vorkosigan, and his voice is cool and dangerous, "Aral, it seems that you used to like to discuss about politics in your cups, didn't you?... "
"Serving officers are not recommended to discuss politics anyway," Vorinnis echoed his remembrance, in a disapproving tone.
"I know," Illyan agreed, "Those are your Vorish matters. I think that Vorkosigan, as a Count's heir, at his age, doesn't acknowledge any authority."
"I'm Vor too," Vorinnis, who was also a Count's son, became utterly stiff, "But I couldn't think of daring to say what he did."
"Touche, Commander," Illyan raised open palms placating. "You have just said that Vorkosigan had a difficult nature. But he has proved many times his loyalty to Imperium, in word and deed, hasn't he? "
"Indeed, you are from ImpSec," Vorinnis smiled confusedly, "I keep forgetting this fact. No, Illyan, I didn't mean anything of that kind, I assure you. This isn't disloyalty but bad form. It's improper when a Vor Lord thinks like a babbler from the People's Defense League."
"Let the Political officers worry about it," Illyan waved lightly. "I have quite enough that I'll have to be when I'm called on Vorkosigan's carpet at 20:00." He regretfully eyed his half-empty cup, as if he implied that he had to drink the tea up and go away.
"It's the Service," Vorinnis confirmed, "it can't be helped. I hope the higher-ups reward your long suffering. The Imperial ones, if not the actual," his forefinger was directed to the ceiling, symbolizing the distant Barrayar beyond a good dozen wormholes.
"Blue rectangles, you mean? Oh, don't tease me, Commander," Illyan said sadly, the last word emphasized a little. "Lord Vorkosigan doesn't make my task easier, and I just trust that I'll not be demoted to ensign on returning home."
He finished his tea, glanced worriedly at his chrono again, excused himself and left the friendly Vorinnis in the wardroom.
Strictly speaking, he hadn't had to do it. It was necessary neither to check the time in a pointed manner (his memory chip included an internal chronometer), nor spend a good hour discussing their commanding officers. Today's talk had only one clear result; the Prince's arrogant aide-de-camp had heard the prole lieutenant out attentively and taken on trust his complaints. Illyan didn't know the best way to carefully hint to Vorrutyer that his victim divided his time between tipsy sleep and making his cool observer hopping mad. Illyan couldn't directly report this himself.
So he had done his part and he could return to Aral. He wouldn't be sleeping, of course.
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 Thirteen,,
where Illyan goes to the gym and finds here a good company.
***
There were only engineering and utility service rooms on the lower deck of the flagship, just as on any battle ship. One of them was the hangar for drop shuttles, but it was empty now, because it wasn't an autonomous mission, and the shuttles usually attached to the flagship had been transferred to carriers during the forming of the fleet. So the empty room had been rebuilt as a temporary gym. This fact reminded anybody that the flagship with all the Staff aboard would reach the Escobar orbit as a rear guard, but wouldn't be sent to the heat of the battle. This could have upset Illyan as a junior officer who was thirsting for glory, but in fact he was infinitely pleased as an ImpSec agent who had to secure his ward. Anyway, Illyan wondered which would prevail, Vorrutyer's envious hostility towards the Hero of Komarr, or the Vice Admiral's sense that couldn't allow him to leave his most experienced Staff officer idle in the rear during the offensive.
However, that would be in the distant future. Meanwhile Illyan needed to visit the gym.
The ceiling height even made it possible to install an assault wall in this room and to drill the troops for null-G or landing missions. But this time the grav grids had been adjusted to normal and the unused wall loomed aside in the shadows, looking like a tracery-spiked surrealistic construction. The center of the huge room was occupied by trivial gymnastic apparatus, training machines and floor-mats for fighting.
According to the schedule, in the afternoons this place was usually occupied by commando groups, non-coms drilling their private subordinates. From 7 p.m. to midnight the gym was vacant, so the officers could use it for their training. Both Commanders-in-Chief had completely ignored this opportunity, and the senior officers had either tried to find time after dinner, beyond the common turmoil, or to keep themselves in good form with pilot training rather than with public gym exercises. But ensigns, lieutenants and commanders had never been diffident, so they had encountered each other in the gym as often as in the wardroom, in an easy atmosphere.
Illyan finished his own exercises and hailed Commander Vorinnis, who had just ceded with a sigh of relief the abdominal crunch to the next man.
"Oh, Illyan!" Vorinnis greeted him; he was evidently pleased to see his fellow aide. The Commander was sweaty and breathless, but satisfied. "Fancy meeting you! I haven't seen you here the last few days."
"I've been too busy," Illyan grimaced slightly and waved away. "Have you finished your exercises yet?"
"No, but I'm going to finish in a quarter of an hour." Vorinnis said, and then asked belatedly, "What is the matter? Something urgent?"
"Oh, no. I need you help just here," Illyan smiled politely, "As a favor, do you mind sparring? According to my post, I'm supposed train to with my fellows from ImpSec, but aboard the flagship there are only the Prince's personal guards. And I'm not in a mood to let the bulky guys beat me with the dust from the mat."
Lanky Vorinnis also literally looked down on Illyan, but by his build was at the same weight as the lieutenant. So he accepted Illyan's offer with enthusiasm.
Illyan was going to avail himself of this training for three reasons. First, he had really lacked opportunities to spar in support of his good form. Second, it would be interesting to try Serg's polished aide-de-camp, who was, judging by his files, a staff officer, not a combat one. The third, and the most important, point was that a good training fight could help to make more friendly relations between them.
So it turned out. Vorinnis, despite having treated Illyan before with a watchful snobbery, now invited him to drink a cup of tea in the wardroom after the training. Illyan, rubbing his aching wrist, glanced at the chrono supposedly imperceptibly, though not entirely, and accepted immediately.
However, he refused to drink anything stronger than the good tea, blaming the Service matters.
"Will you be busy again till midnight?" Vorinnis was surprised.
"My boss is waiting for me at 20:00; since he slept this afternoon, he won't go to bed till late at night."
Vorinnis' face expressed all the bewilderment that a well-disciplined officer felt toward the man who slept during work time. "Yesterday Vorkosigan didn't attend lunch either."
"I know," Illyan sighed, "The medics ordered him almost confined to bed. His Highness was very angry, wasn't he?"
"Quite so! As you saw yourself." Vorinnis parted his hands.
Oh, yes, Illyan had seen and heard all. There had been Serg's remark 'What does one not invent to shirk the briefing! Hah, an ulcer; he shouldn't swill his brandy' and the Prince's grumbles towards some irresponsible subordinates presuming to be down during the combat mission. There had been Vorrutyer's hints at the sanatorium treatment as if the planet below was a real spa resort. There had been an annoyed note from the chief surgeon '... If you don't wish to mar your appetite completely, gentlemen, don't ask me to discuss a medical diagnosis during the meal.' There had been Vorinnis' puzzled glance when his table-mate Illyan had refused to drink the table wine and preferred soda water.
Aral Vorkosigan had mainly spent the past days in his cabin, hiding, and the entire portion of puzzled, curious or deprecating glances had fallen to the lot of his personal ImpSec man. Illyan had kept an utter impassivity, even when his ward had had to leave his refuge. Then Vorkosigan had been morose; he had either kept quiet or began to raise his voice before stopping short; a few times he had appeared in public without brushing his hair. He had never approached anybody so close that one could smell the alcohol on his breath, but he had kept on chewing mint pastilles. And he had moved with the slow caution of a man who had been tired, unwell or... drunk.
Ges Vorrutyer had looked satisfied. This had proved nothing except the well-known fact that Vorkosigan was much less valuable for him as a subordinate officer than as a potential object of mockeries. The Crown Prince, quite the contrary, had lost his temper repeatedly; he had kept on speaking about the crew's discipline and morale, and though those speeches had been intricate they were, in fact, empty pathos. He had once drawn a paradoxical conclusion that, to quote him, 'the junior officers have to stop babbling when nobody asks them and to idling whenever they have any opportunity, and the senior officers have to stop divesting the responsibility for this onto each other!'
Therefore, the aide of the angry Crown Prince and the aide of the defaulting Commodore (Illyan's real status aboard the flagship was hushed up thoroughly) had something interesting to talk about.
"It seems Vorkosigan has a difficult nature," Vorinnis said leaning forward confidentially.
"Oh, yes," Illyan didn't argue, "But I would hardly like to trade places with you, not counting the fact that it is a great honor to serve the Emperor-to-be personally."
"His Highness is peremptory sometimes," Vorinnis said carefully.
It meant that sometimes Serg blurts out rubbish but never goes back on it, Illyan interpreted this in his mind.
"How do you manage with it?" he inquired mildly, "Share your experience, Commander. It's really hard for me to deal with such an authoritative and stubborn commanding officer, especially now." He sighed again and automatically finger-combed his hair, still wet after the shower; this was an evident gesture of annoyance.
"That's an odd comparison, Illyan!" Vorinnis was patriotically indignant. "How could you compare the Butcher of Komarr and the Crown Prince?" However, they both held back from mentioning in whose favor this comparison would be. "Speaking of stubbornness, do you remember yesterday's scene?"
Although in Illyan's case the word "remember" was rather rhetorical, even an absent-minded fellow who normally left his umbrella behind or confused his acquaintances' names wouldn't have forgotten yesterday's dispute. Illyan fast-forwarded it mentally...
"... we drag along our Vorish snobbery to the galaxy, to mock everybody!" Vorkosigan gets excited. Nobody except Illyan still remembers what has initiated this talk in the wardroom and why the voices have become raised. "Is there anybody here who thinks that those three letters before his name add to his wits?"
"Speak for yourself", Vorrutyer points out sweetly. "About your own wit or your Vor blood... you are a quarter-Betan, aren't you?"
"Thank God," Aral snarls. "Everybody could see from your example what closely-related marriages lead to." He breathed. "I'm speaking about spirit, not heredity. The Vors have become a crowd of mossy fossils who like fine words about traditions but don't see far enough past the end of their noses. It's pitiful to see what we are," he gestures evenly at the encircling men.
"Does Lord Vorkosigan deign to condemn the Vor institution?" Serg demands arrogantly.
"Yes, I do." Aral's raised fist bangs down the tabletop, but suddenly softened, so only a forgotten teaspoon jingles on the saucer. "I'm surprised that you, Prince, don't do so."
Vorrutyer stops the overly excited Crown Prince short with a gesture of his open palm. Ges turns to Vorkosigan, and his voice is cool and dangerous, "Aral, it seems that you used to like to discuss about politics in your cups, didn't you?... "
"Serving officers are not recommended to discuss politics anyway," Vorinnis echoed his remembrance, in a disapproving tone.
"I know," Illyan agreed, "Those are your Vorish matters. I think that Vorkosigan, as a Count's heir, at his age, doesn't acknowledge any authority."
"I'm Vor too," Vorinnis, who was also a Count's son, became utterly stiff, "But I couldn't think of daring to say what he did."
"Touche, Commander," Illyan raised open palms placating. "You have just said that Vorkosigan had a difficult nature. But he has proved many times his loyalty to Imperium, in word and deed, hasn't he? "
"Indeed, you are from ImpSec," Vorinnis smiled confusedly, "I keep forgetting this fact. No, Illyan, I didn't mean anything of that kind, I assure you. This isn't disloyalty but bad form. It's improper when a Vor Lord thinks like a babbler from the People's Defense League."
"Let the Political officers worry about it," Illyan waved lightly. "I have quite enough that I'll have to be when I'm called on Vorkosigan's carpet at 20:00." He regretfully eyed his half-empty cup, as if he implied that he had to drink the tea up and go away.
"It's the Service," Vorinnis confirmed, "it can't be helped. I hope the higher-ups reward your long suffering. The Imperial ones, if not the actual," his forefinger was directed to the ceiling, symbolizing the distant Barrayar beyond a good dozen wormholes.
"Blue rectangles, you mean? Oh, don't tease me, Commander," Illyan said sadly, the last word emphasized a little. "Lord Vorkosigan doesn't make my task easier, and I just trust that I'll not be demoted to ensign on returning home."
He finished his tea, glanced worriedly at his chrono again, excused himself and left the friendly Vorinnis in the wardroom.
Strictly speaking, he hadn't had to do it. It was necessary neither to check the time in a pointed manner (his memory chip included an internal chronometer), nor spend a good hour discussing their commanding officers. Today's talk had only one clear result; the Prince's arrogant aide-de-camp had heard the prole lieutenant out attentively and taken on trust his complaints. Illyan didn't know the best way to carefully hint to Vorrutyer that his victim divided his time between tipsy sleep and making his cool observer hopping mad. Illyan couldn't directly report this himself.
So he had done his part and he could return to Aral. He wouldn't be sleeping, of course.