Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (14/20)
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 Fourteen,,
where Aral and Simon play the Q&A game until recieve the unexpected results.
***
Of course, Aral wasn't sleeping, as Illyan had guessed. As far as Illyan had managed to learn his habits, before the lieutenant's arrival he had paced along the cabin, silently, without a needless sound, and occasionally glanced at his chrono. It was no wonder, since he had had to stay in forced seclusion the whole day and pretend that he had been at hard drinking. Aral was able to wait patiently, like a hiding hunter, but it had been long enough, not to become unnerved by the waiting, but to simply become bored.
The oval metal door had scarcely closed behind Illyan when Aral stepped forward with an impatient remark, "What is it?"
"Nothing new," Illyan shrugged. He couldn't part his hands for visible emphasis, since he had carried from the galley a food tray sealed with foil. It had only the dietary minimum allowed for an ulcer patient, but belly-pinched Vorkosigan, who had already reduced his store of sweet nuts by half, would be glad even for unsalted puree with a stew. Illyan put the tray on the drop table. "I believe our C-in-C will soon be informed that I had to keep watch until late at night over the impetuous Vorkosigan so that he wouldn't make a mess."
"Until late at night?" Vorkosigan echoed and raised an eyebrow. "Won't you fall asleep?"
"I have never slept on duty!" Illyan said indignantly, and then yawned despite himself, covering his mouth with his palm. After sitting motionless at the table with Vorinnis for tea, his previous physical activity had turned insensibly into a betraying muscular languor.
Aral laughed openly but it was encouraging, not offensive; then he reached for the food, asking, "Have you already eaten?"
"Of course."
"What common mood did you note during the dinner?" Vorkosigan scraped the plastic bowl with the spoon intensely, as if he regarded the meal as an annoying duty and wanted to put an end to it as soon as possible.
"The usual one. The junior officers are excited, waiting for a tactical exercise. Besides, most of them, like me, are not really battle-tested. They won't get rid of their pre-combat nerves till the first firefight. But you aren't asking about that, I assume. Nobody mentioned your name, Aral."
"Yeah," Vorkosigan agreed, with his mouth full. He swallowed the last bite and dropped the spoon, along with the crumpled foil, to the bowl, where only tiny bread crumbs were left. Then he eyed this mean installation. "Should we dispose of this now or keep it for better show?"
"Do you suppose there will be an audience?"
"Depend upon the best, get ready for the worst," Aral answered with a common saying. "I hope the worst won't knock at my door immediately, but I know Ges, and I wouldn't be surprised otherwise."
"Then you should take away the upper coverlet from the bed," Illyan advised. "Officially, you are ill and slept all day, as I said."
"It's logical. I have to give the final touch, in that case..." He opened the drawer and took out the notorious bottle of brandy. He shouldered his way past Illyan, who stood stunned in the middle of the room, and strode into the bathroom without closing the door or switching on the light. Illyan stopped in the doorframe.
Aral took off the engraved screw-top, sipped directly from the bottle's neck, rinsed his mouth with the expensive beverage and spat it out into the wash-bowl. "Such a pity to waste it," he grinned. Then he examined himself in the mirror, hummed, turned around and winked at Illyan. "Do I look like a tipsy man, Simon?"
"Unfasten your collar," the ImpSec observer suggested.
"Right," Vorkosigan obeyed. "I have to look suitable for a tavern, not for a General Staff briefing."
Illyan thought that perhaps Aral had overdone it when he talked about the briefing. Neither the round-the-clock stubble nor his red eyes (Aral had deliberately spent all the previous night at the comconsole) satisfied the image of a paragon officer, and the alcoholic fragrance, slight but perceptible, perfectly completed the desired picture.
"Well, we have prepared the scenery," Aral smiled, screwing on the top; he put the bottle on its place, shut the drawer decidedly, and began to tick off the tasks on his fingers. "You've fed me dinner and reported the news, or the lack of it. What will be next?"
Waiting for an answer, Aral sat automatically on the edge of the uncovered bed, then he thought better and drew back toward the wall, trying intentionally to rumple the blanket for evidence. This masquerade amused rather than irritated him, or it was just that his nervous irony expressed the unpleasant necessity of enacting a farce. Judging by his files, a sense of humor wasn't typical for him before.
"If you had really gotten drunk, now I would be sitting near the door, all set to catch you, and you would pointedly pay me less attention that your chair. Indeed, I could pretend to be part of the furniture anyway, if it is necessary; my chip won't let me get bored. Is this what is needed?"
"Mind you, don't," Aral shook his forefinger inhibitorily. "I didn't consent to solitary confinement. Why this sudden fit of tactfulness?"
"Do you suppose that off-hand curiosity is more in an ImpSec fellow's nature?" Illyan asked.
Aral paused for a moment, deciding between honesty and courtesy. Then he grinned without words.
"You suppose right," Illyan added, and snorted, since it was slightly uncomfortable to confess this, and to allow such familiarities with the famous Vorkosigan. "I am too curious. This is the last warning, Commodore."
"Oh, you've scared me! I'm really dreading it," Aral said mockingly. "Are you hiding fast-penta in your pocket, Simon? No? That's nice." He added positively, "Let's talk. But you must consider what I want to ask you, too. We'll have an evening of questions and answers."
Illyan realized that the necessity of physical activity wasn't the only reason that Vorkosigan, locked in his cabin, had darted from one wall to another. There also had been uncertainty, so atypical for this strong man, deep in the bottom of his mind. He had paced from the door to the table, at one moment approaching Illyan, at another moving away from him, as if he couldn't decide once and for all what was the appropriate distance between them. The lieutenant had been assigned to this post by the Emperor's will. What was he doing here; was he taking care of Vorkosigan, or supervising him, or giving orders? Was Illyan sincere or well-trained as to their relations? Vorkosigan certainly hated ambiguity, so he surely had to know if he should forget the recent drunken unreserve or complete it.
Moreover, they both had an insistent need to sound off. Both Simon and Aral had been unwittingly entrapped by their image of utterly businesslike coolness; they usually permitted themselves only exact stingy words, dry humor, a professional tone of voice and an imperturbable face, but concealed their emotions as much as it was possible to. Yes, this was one more reason for them to become a perfect tandem; when Illyan had told Vorrutyer about his resemblance to Aral, he hadn't lied. Illyan had always tended to copy the manners of his superior automatically, but now this tendency turned into a suffocating feedback loop. The stone mask had begun to pinch.
However despite all the straightforwardness, there were questions that shouldn't be answered, since Aral and Simon would have to work together later. It was impossible to know in advance the boundaries of this minefield. So Illyan added scrupulously, "Frankly answer, you mean? But you, or I, could not want to answer about something."
"Well, then the answer would be honest or there would be nothing," Aral waved this away with vexation at having to explain what was obvious. "Does that suit you, being a formalist?"
"I'm not a formalist. I'm a red-tape-monger, an office drudge, or a walking reference book, depending on the need," Illyan corrected. Aral chuckled, and his vexation was successfully smoothed over with a joke. "By the way, was that the first question? It suits me."
"Plainly said," Aral smiled, "Well, ask."
Illyan paused and sat beside him on the bed. If they talked confidently, they should make themselves closer. It was easy to say 'ask'. Some questions seemed simple but trifling or silly; others were important but absolutely unutterable. He decided to begin with an easy question rather related to the situation.
"You bottle is almost full. Why do you keep it in the drawer at all if you don't drink?"
Vorkosigan wasn't surprised or offended. He rubbed his lips with a forefinger, thinking, and then answered. "I have now a specific attitude towards alcohol, considering all circumstances. It's an excess, especially during a campaign. But the simple fact that I have this bottle within easy reach puts me off drink. See, there is an analogue. When I attended the Military Academy, the-Count-my-father limited my pocket money to a cadet's scholarship, so I used it sparingly; and then I realized that I was just as pleased by simply regarding the weapon in the window-shop and keeping my purse full as by squandering all my money. But the former was less wasteful." He paused; it was a polite suggestion, meant to inquire if Illyan hadn't understood any detail. But Illyan kept silent. "Well, is this my turn?"
"Yeah," Illyan nodded.
"What did you expect after you agreed to have that chip installed in your brain? And what did you get, really?"
Yes, Vorkosigan hit the target with his questions like a sniper who aimed and struck the bull's eye with every needle of his gun.
"I expected" Illyan echoed, "that this would be a dead for the greater glory of the Imperium and a legal opportunity to cheat for myself, at the same time. In fact, I found it necessary to keep stretching myself up, to estrange myself from the other junior officers. Perhaps some simple fellows consider me a kind of mutie. I don't mind."
"You say that the others now regard you differently," Vorkosigan pointed out, "But have you changed yourself?"
"Yes, certainly. I have become more prudent... I don't speak about my health or physical state now. When you have to remember all the tiniest details of your every stupid action, you try with all your might to avoid them. This is essential to not go mad with caution, and keep in mind that avoiding a failure and achieving a success are not the same thing." Illyan smiled. "My memory is OK yet, and I look after myself."
"Interesting. Ask, then."
"By the way, about stupid things. This entire hoax may end with something stupid or bad. Aren't you afraid that you would look idio... hm, not worthy?"
"It's logical," Aral nodded. "I think, now I have to tell you my goals. Really, I never intended to try conclusions with Vorrutyer and gain points." This categorical denial was emphasized with a slap of his palm on the bedcover. "I don't care what he thinks about me or the potential victory I could have from our collision. Then this post was offered to me, and I either had to submit to stand Ges' company, or refuse." He winced as if he had eaten something disgusting or his false ulcer was bothering him. "That git isn't worthy of my discharge or exile to patrol duty."
It seemed Aral Vorkosigan needed to persuade himself not for the first time that his choice of humility had been right.
"Damn him, our dearest Admiral," Aral waved this away. "Let him bandy about my name. Speaking frankly, I'm very annoyed by it, especially because I haven't an easy temper, and Ges know my weak spots. However," Aral held up sharply a didactic finger, "it doesn't harm me seriously. We should only prevent his attempts to irretrievably undermine my authority over my subordinates or to cause me bodily harm. Agree?"
"Yes," Illyan confirmed.
"And we have to suffer all the rest," Aral said. He sighed and sat wearily against the wall, but evidently relaxed after this lecture. "This is more secure... 'Security' is the keyword, isn't it, Simon? By the way, I will take you up on that word. Such is my question: when you were assigned your mission, did the matter concern my security or not?
No, they hadn't yet reached the point where one would say "no answer". Ezar's explanations hadn't been fully classified, not "slit-your-throat-before-reading" material. And Illyan should tell Vorkosigan now about his former doubts.
"It's hard to say," Illyan paused briefly and corrected himself, "not that I'd like to keep it back. This word 'security' was formally spoken. To discover the true sense of the assignment, I only had to look over all the versions. Vorrutyer and the Prince are your enemies, but they weren't supposed to attempt murder upon you. I wonder if it is my presence that provokes them to assault you. 'Protect you from yourself' was rather a metaphor than a real order. I haven't any wide experience of political intrigues. I'm hardly right for the post of your personal bodyguard, since I'm anything but large and tall. Unless the assumption was that the Emperor wanted to give you a fully trusted man for backup. The matter of trust is more important sometimes than any talents."
"Were you glad to have this assignment? It meant a victorious campaign, a medal or promotion, didn't it?"
Frankly. You promised to answer frankly or not to answer at all.
"Not at all. I was more suspicious than glad. For one thing, I knew that Lord Vorkosigan had clearly disputed the Escobaran plan at the meeting. In the second place, I was afraid that you would equate me with your Political officers, since you don't like spies; and I didn't have any chance in an open collision."
"Were you afraid of me?" Aral asked softly.
"No, not you in person," Illyan bit his lip, hesitating. "I was afraid to be found unsuitable, perhaps. Don't know. This is another answer, long and difficult, but it is my turn to ask now!"
"A formalist, as I've said." Aral stretched himself with a crackle, hands behind his head. "Well. Go on."
"You've just mentioned the name." Illyan became serious, paused a little. "Ges. Admiral Vorrutyer. He's obsessed by you. This isn't just a simple jealousy, but something more terrible. What do you think about him?"
"But I said already..." Aral began crossly, and then stopped short. He kept silence so long that Illyan had the time to curse his own tactless curiosity. Damn Ges! It would be a great pity if this newly-gained confidence should be broken up because of him. However Aral spoke again.
"Well, I've promised to answer frankly. I hate him, despise him, sometimes I'm ready to strangle him - this is true. He spoils all that I like, whatever he touches. Vorrutyer as the Fleet Commander is worse than plague; he's a moral infection." Aral inhaled deeply. "But he was my best friend long ago, nevertheless. We were..."
Could he say 'lovers'? No.
"... we were very like each other. What if he is the thing that I could have become? Is he a reminder of my own sins? Perhaps, this is the true reason why he manages to wound me so easily; not because he is supposedly such an expert at subtle intrigues."
"But you haven't become that," Illyan dared to point out.
"Yes, I haven't," Aral confirmed. "I' wish I could know where I succeeded in catching the immunity, or where he managed to pick up this vile impurity. It would be easier to seek consolation in the idea that Ges was always a git, but I was a dolt in my twenties and didn't have any character judgment." Aral sighed and waved away his own reasoning. "Don't you believe that? You are right. Never underestimate Ges Vorrutyer; he is anything but a nonentity. Teamed with Serg, he is the brain and Serg is the power." He paused again. "Am I too late to teach you, though? How long have you been working in the Residence Office?"
"Four years."
"Then you have already had every opportunity to watch Vorrutyer in all his glory." Illyan nodded. Aral paused either to take heart or find the right word. "Now Ges has climbed so high that I wonder why he doesn't have a nosebleed. So the inclinations that he wants to emphasize become a kind of twisted social fashion. Does this grate upon you?"
"Yes, vastly."
"So you can say whether you are able to distinguish aversion towards somebody from dislike of his... inclinations or not? This is my question."
"I try to divide them, as far as possible." Illyan shrugged. "This is a matter of self-esteem, after all. Inclinations, hm, you've found a pretty word. I know about the same inclinations from my own experience. Does that mean that I'm immoral too? Really, is Vorrutyer an absolute infection which rots everything, whatever he just looks at?" Illyan paused, combing his short-cut hair with his fingers. "Wait, that won't work. This is a delicate topic, so I try to shield myself with fine words. I have to answer bluntly: yes, I love both men and women. Unfortunately, this coincides partly with milord Vorrutyer's taste. But I judge my behavior by my own standards, not his. "
Aral didn't ask him to repeat this and wasn't even surprised by this confession; he only leaned forward, slightly reducing the space between them, and his rumbled voice became a bit lower when he said, "How do you manage to reconcile this knowledge about yourself with the obvious streak of this... disgusting person?"
"With difficulty," Illyan admitted. "At first I have to suppress any self-humiliation, and then learn to focus not upon him, but the people I respect and appreciate. Indeed, it is risky to stare too intently and not be able to look away from them." He snorted, implying a jest, parted his hands, then paused and eventually dared to add, "I never get tired of looking at you. Sorry."
This jest was almost true. Looking at Aral, in a literal sense, was fascinating; his deceptively heavy features changed completely when he smiled or his glare lit up with an interesting idea. Why not? Illyan looked straight at Aral's face, firmly and calmly, without words. He held up a pause like a door held open.
Aral couldn't be confused by a pause. He hemmed, glanced Illyan over and asked laconically and strictly, defying their Q&A game, "Please, explain, was that a plain proposal or an attempt to flatter me?"
"It was a proposal", Illyan answered with the same brevity, and added accurately, as a good analyst, "An unchaste one."
It was evident that Admiral Vorkosigan was used to receiving quite different reports from his Staff analysts. Aral suddenly choked on a snicker that he pretended unconvincingly to be a bark, and bit his lip. He reddened, whether from suppressed laughter or from embarrassment, it was hard to say.
Illyan observed the changes of Vorkosigan's mimicry intently, without confusion or pity. "Do you want some water?" he asked Vorkosigan warm-heartedly as he kept barking. Aral only shook his head.
At last he stopped laughing and managed to say, "I wouldn't mind mind drinking something stronger and in your company, Simon. It's a pity that it is not allowed."
Well. Where are we? There is Aral, sitting on the bed at no distance, his collar unfastened. He is flushed, a bit confused, and clearly agitated. A strong and powerful person, but... not overpowering. I don't need to be awestruck and wait until he favors me with his interest; I could reach out and take it myself. Take the situation in my own hands.
"You already smack of good drinks," Illyan reminded him, " and it suits me. And you have already turned red, as if you have managed to drink. Are you hot? Should I help you unbutton your tunic?"
Illyan's fingers easily handled the embossed bronze circle of the top button. His next motion was just as easy but he didn't asked any permission before passing his lips over Aral's neck, from the edge of the beige shirt collar to his ear. Then Simon drew back a little, turned Aral's face to his own. Was the great, favorable Admiral Vorkosigan stunned? Very well. Illyan repeated his test of kissing, on the mouth this time, as it had been the day before yesterday. Now it wasn't the lieutenant who leaned his shoulders against the wall. The risible astonishment broke through the usual coolness on Aral's face. Enough. Move away.
Do you lose words, Aral, overwhelmed, as if you see me for the first time? Such initiative from me wasn't fully expected, wasn't it?. You are used to relying on your own initiative, reaching out based on your own wishes, whether you are ashamed of them or openly defiant. This is a non-winning strategy. Despite your notorious reputation, your file doesn't contain any records about your personal contact during the last few years, except the brief note 'visits the caravanserai one time per several months, hasn't any constant choices'. What is it -- secrecy, decency, or self-control?
There was the riddle, the most burning challenge to Illyan’s curiosity.
You were utterly imprudent with your drunken kisses, my Commodore.
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 Fourteen,,
where Aral and Simon play the Q&A game until recieve the unexpected results.
***
Of course, Aral wasn't sleeping, as Illyan had guessed. As far as Illyan had managed to learn his habits, before the lieutenant's arrival he had paced along the cabin, silently, without a needless sound, and occasionally glanced at his chrono. It was no wonder, since he had had to stay in forced seclusion the whole day and pretend that he had been at hard drinking. Aral was able to wait patiently, like a hiding hunter, but it had been long enough, not to become unnerved by the waiting, but to simply become bored.
The oval metal door had scarcely closed behind Illyan when Aral stepped forward with an impatient remark, "What is it?"
"Nothing new," Illyan shrugged. He couldn't part his hands for visible emphasis, since he had carried from the galley a food tray sealed with foil. It had only the dietary minimum allowed for an ulcer patient, but belly-pinched Vorkosigan, who had already reduced his store of sweet nuts by half, would be glad even for unsalted puree with a stew. Illyan put the tray on the drop table. "I believe our C-in-C will soon be informed that I had to keep watch until late at night over the impetuous Vorkosigan so that he wouldn't make a mess."
"Until late at night?" Vorkosigan echoed and raised an eyebrow. "Won't you fall asleep?"
"I have never slept on duty!" Illyan said indignantly, and then yawned despite himself, covering his mouth with his palm. After sitting motionless at the table with Vorinnis for tea, his previous physical activity had turned insensibly into a betraying muscular languor.
Aral laughed openly but it was encouraging, not offensive; then he reached for the food, asking, "Have you already eaten?"
"Of course."
"What common mood did you note during the dinner?" Vorkosigan scraped the plastic bowl with the spoon intensely, as if he regarded the meal as an annoying duty and wanted to put an end to it as soon as possible.
"The usual one. The junior officers are excited, waiting for a tactical exercise. Besides, most of them, like me, are not really battle-tested. They won't get rid of their pre-combat nerves till the first firefight. But you aren't asking about that, I assume. Nobody mentioned your name, Aral."
"Yeah," Vorkosigan agreed, with his mouth full. He swallowed the last bite and dropped the spoon, along with the crumpled foil, to the bowl, where only tiny bread crumbs were left. Then he eyed this mean installation. "Should we dispose of this now or keep it for better show?"
"Do you suppose there will be an audience?"
"Depend upon the best, get ready for the worst," Aral answered with a common saying. "I hope the worst won't knock at my door immediately, but I know Ges, and I wouldn't be surprised otherwise."
"Then you should take away the upper coverlet from the bed," Illyan advised. "Officially, you are ill and slept all day, as I said."
"It's logical. I have to give the final touch, in that case..." He opened the drawer and took out the notorious bottle of brandy. He shouldered his way past Illyan, who stood stunned in the middle of the room, and strode into the bathroom without closing the door or switching on the light. Illyan stopped in the doorframe.
Aral took off the engraved screw-top, sipped directly from the bottle's neck, rinsed his mouth with the expensive beverage and spat it out into the wash-bowl. "Such a pity to waste it," he grinned. Then he examined himself in the mirror, hummed, turned around and winked at Illyan. "Do I look like a tipsy man, Simon?"
"Unfasten your collar," the ImpSec observer suggested.
"Right," Vorkosigan obeyed. "I have to look suitable for a tavern, not for a General Staff briefing."
Illyan thought that perhaps Aral had overdone it when he talked about the briefing. Neither the round-the-clock stubble nor his red eyes (Aral had deliberately spent all the previous night at the comconsole) satisfied the image of a paragon officer, and the alcoholic fragrance, slight but perceptible, perfectly completed the desired picture.
"Well, we have prepared the scenery," Aral smiled, screwing on the top; he put the bottle on its place, shut the drawer decidedly, and began to tick off the tasks on his fingers. "You've fed me dinner and reported the news, or the lack of it. What will be next?"
Waiting for an answer, Aral sat automatically on the edge of the uncovered bed, then he thought better and drew back toward the wall, trying intentionally to rumple the blanket for evidence. This masquerade amused rather than irritated him, or it was just that his nervous irony expressed the unpleasant necessity of enacting a farce. Judging by his files, a sense of humor wasn't typical for him before.
"If you had really gotten drunk, now I would be sitting near the door, all set to catch you, and you would pointedly pay me less attention that your chair. Indeed, I could pretend to be part of the furniture anyway, if it is necessary; my chip won't let me get bored. Is this what is needed?"
"Mind you, don't," Aral shook his forefinger inhibitorily. "I didn't consent to solitary confinement. Why this sudden fit of tactfulness?"
"Do you suppose that off-hand curiosity is more in an ImpSec fellow's nature?" Illyan asked.
Aral paused for a moment, deciding between honesty and courtesy. Then he grinned without words.
"You suppose right," Illyan added, and snorted, since it was slightly uncomfortable to confess this, and to allow such familiarities with the famous Vorkosigan. "I am too curious. This is the last warning, Commodore."
"Oh, you've scared me! I'm really dreading it," Aral said mockingly. "Are you hiding fast-penta in your pocket, Simon? No? That's nice." He added positively, "Let's talk. But you must consider what I want to ask you, too. We'll have an evening of questions and answers."
Illyan realized that the necessity of physical activity wasn't the only reason that Vorkosigan, locked in his cabin, had darted from one wall to another. There also had been uncertainty, so atypical for this strong man, deep in the bottom of his mind. He had paced from the door to the table, at one moment approaching Illyan, at another moving away from him, as if he couldn't decide once and for all what was the appropriate distance between them. The lieutenant had been assigned to this post by the Emperor's will. What was he doing here; was he taking care of Vorkosigan, or supervising him, or giving orders? Was Illyan sincere or well-trained as to their relations? Vorkosigan certainly hated ambiguity, so he surely had to know if he should forget the recent drunken unreserve or complete it.
Moreover, they both had an insistent need to sound off. Both Simon and Aral had been unwittingly entrapped by their image of utterly businesslike coolness; they usually permitted themselves only exact stingy words, dry humor, a professional tone of voice and an imperturbable face, but concealed their emotions as much as it was possible to. Yes, this was one more reason for them to become a perfect tandem; when Illyan had told Vorrutyer about his resemblance to Aral, he hadn't lied. Illyan had always tended to copy the manners of his superior automatically, but now this tendency turned into a suffocating feedback loop. The stone mask had begun to pinch.
However despite all the straightforwardness, there were questions that shouldn't be answered, since Aral and Simon would have to work together later. It was impossible to know in advance the boundaries of this minefield. So Illyan added scrupulously, "Frankly answer, you mean? But you, or I, could not want to answer about something."
"Well, then the answer would be honest or there would be nothing," Aral waved this away with vexation at having to explain what was obvious. "Does that suit you, being a formalist?"
"I'm not a formalist. I'm a red-tape-monger, an office drudge, or a walking reference book, depending on the need," Illyan corrected. Aral chuckled, and his vexation was successfully smoothed over with a joke. "By the way, was that the first question? It suits me."
"Plainly said," Aral smiled, "Well, ask."
Illyan paused and sat beside him on the bed. If they talked confidently, they should make themselves closer. It was easy to say 'ask'. Some questions seemed simple but trifling or silly; others were important but absolutely unutterable. He decided to begin with an easy question rather related to the situation.
"You bottle is almost full. Why do you keep it in the drawer at all if you don't drink?"
Vorkosigan wasn't surprised or offended. He rubbed his lips with a forefinger, thinking, and then answered. "I have now a specific attitude towards alcohol, considering all circumstances. It's an excess, especially during a campaign. But the simple fact that I have this bottle within easy reach puts me off drink. See, there is an analogue. When I attended the Military Academy, the-Count-my-father limited my pocket money to a cadet's scholarship, so I used it sparingly; and then I realized that I was just as pleased by simply regarding the weapon in the window-shop and keeping my purse full as by squandering all my money. But the former was less wasteful." He paused; it was a polite suggestion, meant to inquire if Illyan hadn't understood any detail. But Illyan kept silent. "Well, is this my turn?"
"Yeah," Illyan nodded.
"What did you expect after you agreed to have that chip installed in your brain? And what did you get, really?"
Yes, Vorkosigan hit the target with his questions like a sniper who aimed and struck the bull's eye with every needle of his gun.
"I expected" Illyan echoed, "that this would be a dead for the greater glory of the Imperium and a legal opportunity to cheat for myself, at the same time. In fact, I found it necessary to keep stretching myself up, to estrange myself from the other junior officers. Perhaps some simple fellows consider me a kind of mutie. I don't mind."
"You say that the others now regard you differently," Vorkosigan pointed out, "But have you changed yourself?"
"Yes, certainly. I have become more prudent... I don't speak about my health or physical state now. When you have to remember all the tiniest details of your every stupid action, you try with all your might to avoid them. This is essential to not go mad with caution, and keep in mind that avoiding a failure and achieving a success are not the same thing." Illyan smiled. "My memory is OK yet, and I look after myself."
"Interesting. Ask, then."
"By the way, about stupid things. This entire hoax may end with something stupid or bad. Aren't you afraid that you would look idio... hm, not worthy?"
"It's logical," Aral nodded. "I think, now I have to tell you my goals. Really, I never intended to try conclusions with Vorrutyer and gain points." This categorical denial was emphasized with a slap of his palm on the bedcover. "I don't care what he thinks about me or the potential victory I could have from our collision. Then this post was offered to me, and I either had to submit to stand Ges' company, or refuse." He winced as if he had eaten something disgusting or his false ulcer was bothering him. "That git isn't worthy of my discharge or exile to patrol duty."
It seemed Aral Vorkosigan needed to persuade himself not for the first time that his choice of humility had been right.
"Damn him, our dearest Admiral," Aral waved this away. "Let him bandy about my name. Speaking frankly, I'm very annoyed by it, especially because I haven't an easy temper, and Ges know my weak spots. However," Aral held up sharply a didactic finger, "it doesn't harm me seriously. We should only prevent his attempts to irretrievably undermine my authority over my subordinates or to cause me bodily harm. Agree?"
"Yes," Illyan confirmed.
"And we have to suffer all the rest," Aral said. He sighed and sat wearily against the wall, but evidently relaxed after this lecture. "This is more secure... 'Security' is the keyword, isn't it, Simon? By the way, I will take you up on that word. Such is my question: when you were assigned your mission, did the matter concern my security or not?
No, they hadn't yet reached the point where one would say "no answer". Ezar's explanations hadn't been fully classified, not "slit-your-throat-before-reading" material. And Illyan should tell Vorkosigan now about his former doubts.
"It's hard to say," Illyan paused briefly and corrected himself, "not that I'd like to keep it back. This word 'security' was formally spoken. To discover the true sense of the assignment, I only had to look over all the versions. Vorrutyer and the Prince are your enemies, but they weren't supposed to attempt murder upon you. I wonder if it is my presence that provokes them to assault you. 'Protect you from yourself' was rather a metaphor than a real order. I haven't any wide experience of political intrigues. I'm hardly right for the post of your personal bodyguard, since I'm anything but large and tall. Unless the assumption was that the Emperor wanted to give you a fully trusted man for backup. The matter of trust is more important sometimes than any talents."
"Were you glad to have this assignment? It meant a victorious campaign, a medal or promotion, didn't it?"
Frankly. You promised to answer frankly or not to answer at all.
"Not at all. I was more suspicious than glad. For one thing, I knew that Lord Vorkosigan had clearly disputed the Escobaran plan at the meeting. In the second place, I was afraid that you would equate me with your Political officers, since you don't like spies; and I didn't have any chance in an open collision."
"Were you afraid of me?" Aral asked softly.
"No, not you in person," Illyan bit his lip, hesitating. "I was afraid to be found unsuitable, perhaps. Don't know. This is another answer, long and difficult, but it is my turn to ask now!"
"A formalist, as I've said." Aral stretched himself with a crackle, hands behind his head. "Well. Go on."
"You've just mentioned the name." Illyan became serious, paused a little. "Ges. Admiral Vorrutyer. He's obsessed by you. This isn't just a simple jealousy, but something more terrible. What do you think about him?"
"But I said already..." Aral began crossly, and then stopped short. He kept silence so long that Illyan had the time to curse his own tactless curiosity. Damn Ges! It would be a great pity if this newly-gained confidence should be broken up because of him. However Aral spoke again.
"Well, I've promised to answer frankly. I hate him, despise him, sometimes I'm ready to strangle him - this is true. He spoils all that I like, whatever he touches. Vorrutyer as the Fleet Commander is worse than plague; he's a moral infection." Aral inhaled deeply. "But he was my best friend long ago, nevertheless. We were..."
Could he say 'lovers'? No.
"... we were very like each other. What if he is the thing that I could have become? Is he a reminder of my own sins? Perhaps, this is the true reason why he manages to wound me so easily; not because he is supposedly such an expert at subtle intrigues."
"But you haven't become that," Illyan dared to point out.
"Yes, I haven't," Aral confirmed. "I' wish I could know where I succeeded in catching the immunity, or where he managed to pick up this vile impurity. It would be easier to seek consolation in the idea that Ges was always a git, but I was a dolt in my twenties and didn't have any character judgment." Aral sighed and waved away his own reasoning. "Don't you believe that? You are right. Never underestimate Ges Vorrutyer; he is anything but a nonentity. Teamed with Serg, he is the brain and Serg is the power." He paused again. "Am I too late to teach you, though? How long have you been working in the Residence Office?"
"Four years."
"Then you have already had every opportunity to watch Vorrutyer in all his glory." Illyan nodded. Aral paused either to take heart or find the right word. "Now Ges has climbed so high that I wonder why he doesn't have a nosebleed. So the inclinations that he wants to emphasize become a kind of twisted social fashion. Does this grate upon you?"
"Yes, vastly."
"So you can say whether you are able to distinguish aversion towards somebody from dislike of his... inclinations or not? This is my question."
"I try to divide them, as far as possible." Illyan shrugged. "This is a matter of self-esteem, after all. Inclinations, hm, you've found a pretty word. I know about the same inclinations from my own experience. Does that mean that I'm immoral too? Really, is Vorrutyer an absolute infection which rots everything, whatever he just looks at?" Illyan paused, combing his short-cut hair with his fingers. "Wait, that won't work. This is a delicate topic, so I try to shield myself with fine words. I have to answer bluntly: yes, I love both men and women. Unfortunately, this coincides partly with milord Vorrutyer's taste. But I judge my behavior by my own standards, not his. "
Aral didn't ask him to repeat this and wasn't even surprised by this confession; he only leaned forward, slightly reducing the space between them, and his rumbled voice became a bit lower when he said, "How do you manage to reconcile this knowledge about yourself with the obvious streak of this... disgusting person?"
"With difficulty," Illyan admitted. "At first I have to suppress any self-humiliation, and then learn to focus not upon him, but the people I respect and appreciate. Indeed, it is risky to stare too intently and not be able to look away from them." He snorted, implying a jest, parted his hands, then paused and eventually dared to add, "I never get tired of looking at you. Sorry."
This jest was almost true. Looking at Aral, in a literal sense, was fascinating; his deceptively heavy features changed completely when he smiled or his glare lit up with an interesting idea. Why not? Illyan looked straight at Aral's face, firmly and calmly, without words. He held up a pause like a door held open.
Aral couldn't be confused by a pause. He hemmed, glanced Illyan over and asked laconically and strictly, defying their Q&A game, "Please, explain, was that a plain proposal or an attempt to flatter me?"
"It was a proposal", Illyan answered with the same brevity, and added accurately, as a good analyst, "An unchaste one."
It was evident that Admiral Vorkosigan was used to receiving quite different reports from his Staff analysts. Aral suddenly choked on a snicker that he pretended unconvincingly to be a bark, and bit his lip. He reddened, whether from suppressed laughter or from embarrassment, it was hard to say.
Illyan observed the changes of Vorkosigan's mimicry intently, without confusion or pity. "Do you want some water?" he asked Vorkosigan warm-heartedly as he kept barking. Aral only shook his head.
At last he stopped laughing and managed to say, "I wouldn't mind mind drinking something stronger and in your company, Simon. It's a pity that it is not allowed."
Well. Where are we? There is Aral, sitting on the bed at no distance, his collar unfastened. He is flushed, a bit confused, and clearly agitated. A strong and powerful person, but... not overpowering. I don't need to be awestruck and wait until he favors me with his interest; I could reach out and take it myself. Take the situation in my own hands.
"You already smack of good drinks," Illyan reminded him, " and it suits me. And you have already turned red, as if you have managed to drink. Are you hot? Should I help you unbutton your tunic?"
Illyan's fingers easily handled the embossed bronze circle of the top button. His next motion was just as easy but he didn't asked any permission before passing his lips over Aral's neck, from the edge of the beige shirt collar to his ear. Then Simon drew back a little, turned Aral's face to his own. Was the great, favorable Admiral Vorkosigan stunned? Very well. Illyan repeated his test of kissing, on the mouth this time, as it had been the day before yesterday. Now it wasn't the lieutenant who leaned his shoulders against the wall. The risible astonishment broke through the usual coolness on Aral's face. Enough. Move away.
Do you lose words, Aral, overwhelmed, as if you see me for the first time? Such initiative from me wasn't fully expected, wasn't it?. You are used to relying on your own initiative, reaching out based on your own wishes, whether you are ashamed of them or openly defiant. This is a non-winning strategy. Despite your notorious reputation, your file doesn't contain any records about your personal contact during the last few years, except the brief note 'visits the caravanserai one time per several months, hasn't any constant choices'. What is it -- secrecy, decency, or self-control?
There was the riddle, the most burning challenge to Illyan’s curiosity.
You were utterly imprudent with your drunken kisses, my Commodore.