Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (17/20)
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 Seventeen,
where everybody are preparing but nothing important happens
***
Aral tapped the buttons of the coded lock; it sounded like a brief furious burst of fire. "Come in," he nodded to Illyan, "If Ges expects that I will run to training at top speed, without even changing my clothes or visiting the bathroom, then he is really feeble-minded." He snorted.
Then he shut the cabin's door and added, "... And without talking with the executive officer. That is the most important." He jerked his hand; the address list spread over the vidplate. "Fouchet. Well. Sorry, man, but I have a surprise for you," Aral muttered while he dialed the number.
Illyan sat quietly on the bed. He felt a strange sensation of frustration, composed of vexation, suppressed anger, acerb jealousy that had boiled over in his heart, and bewilderment. It was very unprofessional to feel this dejection instead of the heated assurance of success. Quite the contrary, Vorkosigan, who
had had to shiver with indignation and loathing, was calm now, and even smiled as if he was satisfied with all events. His smile was joyless but it existed; and he described the situation to his fellow officer quite impassively.
"... The Commander insisted that the emergency training would involve the Staff officers too..."
The acoustic system of the comconsole specially made a narrow-beam sound that only a person in the station chair could hear distinctly. Illyan sat a few meters aside, and the answers of the Vorkosigan's interlocutor turned to inaudible mutter in his ears; if he stood near the door, he wouldn't hear anything at all. This was comfortable and confidential, but now Illyan had no choice but to contemplate Fouchet's puzzled face. The lieutenant completely understood his troubles. It would be little work to add five more people to the schedule, but it would be awkward to ask Vorkosigan about his knowledge of evacuation procedures. Vorkosigan had been a Captain when Fouchet had worn cadet's white tabs only, and now he would have to participate in a routine drill with twenty-year boys...
"... I saw this instruction, indeed..."
It seemed that the executive officer sighed with relief when he got Vorkosigan's parole. Yes, all military men were more bureaucratic than any official, and ImpSec was also one of the Imperial Service's departments. So Simon would have had to be consistent with his orders, instead of following his ward's reckless scheme. It had been a good idea to provoke Vorrutyer, but it had never occurred to any of them that Vorrutyer had lost all restraint long ago.
"I see." Vorkosigan echoed clearly, "Seventeen-fifteen, lock area number Three, Group Nine, and engineering Lieutenant Copeland. Illyan, have you recorded that?"
Illyan was distracted from his reflections and answered with a brief, "Yes, sir." Vorkosigan nodded, satisfied, and cut the com.
Aral glanced at his chrono. "We have twenty-two minutes yet. Why do you look so sour before the battle?"
"I doubt my command's strategy," Illyan answered dryly, despite himself.
Aral stretched himself, rose, and sat on the bed alongside him. "Vorrutyer has scared you," he said affirmatively without taking into account the possible answer 'officers are afraid of nothing'.
"He hasn't scared me but horrified me," Illyan corrected for greater accuracy, as an analyst should. "We made our plans counting upon an enemy who went too far but was not crazy."
"He isn't crazy, really," Aral explained. "It was an impressive show, with all his balancing on the verge, his hysteria and obscenities. You are not the only one who was shocked. Unfortunately for him, Vorrutyer didn't take into account a sober and attentive spectator who knew him well and long ago. I'm sure this hysteria was feigned; Ges controlled himself well. What does it mean?"
"That he deserved us tearing off his... er, head, " Illyan muttered, and then added seriously, "It means that we should reflect on his purpose; the keyword is not 'why' but 'what for?' "
"Good," Aral approved. "For what did he do this, indeed? Did he mean to provoke a furious Aral Vorkosigan into a fight? In that case he should have had some officers who didn't like me as witnesses, instead of my friend Rulf. Did he want to give a demonstration of his power? Those are our personal relations; they don't require the presence of strangers." He drew a conclusion, "The single real effect of today's rendez-vous is that I have to go to the drill; all the rest is trumpery."
"And what does that mean?" Illyan demanded. His anxiety and vexation were washed away with the flow of new information, replacing mere hypotheses.
Aral grinned, "It means that my ImpSec lieutenant shouldn't relax. It would be wrong to think that it is all over. Everything could happen when I am training; for example, Ges could furtively put something in my cabin. Is the brandy bottle still in the drawer?"
Illyan immediately rose and strode to the door. "You should have started with this," he reproached Aral mildly. "If I have a quarter of an hour only for setting a security perimeter, you shouldn't divert me with talking," he said, moving away the lock's lid and aiming at its electronic entrails with a probe.
"You'll manage," Vorkosigan said seriously.
***
Illyan remained with his ward in the armory room of Bay Three, where space suits hung on the props, already moved out, and awaiting their owners. Of course, the vacuum suit wasn't combat armor. The troopers wore an elaborate mechanism with a readout system, feedback, a built-in weapon and powerful servos that turned a soldier into a small live fortress, and an officer, with a computer in his command helmet, became a tactical center. They normally robed themselves in this armor not in a few seconds but long beforehand, with the help of technicians who checked its every system and junction with probes; it resembled an unhurried fitting with a good tailor. A simple space suit, on the contrary, was only supposed to save its wearer, who had to go safe and sound from Point A to Point B, from the dangers of vacuum, but a projectile or plasma beam could unseal this shell too easily. The space suit, light and easy-to-use, was intended for rescue, not for fighting; its most terrible weapon was the jet engine on the back.
The next group would start in five minutes. The senior instructor showed the door to all unauthorized persons - 'batmen, aides and nurses', as he murmured under his breath. Illyan wasn't offended and even sympathized with the instructor; he would feel embarrassed too if he had become responsible for the famous Admira... er, Commodore Vorkosigan. Why the formal mood? He had been in the same situation a month ago. Now it was quite another matter; Illyan dared not only to have sex but to have debates with Vorkosigan.
The result of the last debate was that Aral had agreed to put a micro earbug into his ear and to insert the plate of a throat mike, right before leaving his cabin. However he had threatened, half seriously, that Illyan would regret it if he ventured to have private talks during the trainings. Illyan considered the private channel necessary, although Aral objected. Firstly, Aral had observed logically that even if something bad should happen with the cabin, he would be able to do nothing since he would be outside the ship. Secondly, Illyan hadn't known in advance if the ship's skin would shield the retranslated signal or not. In the former case, this channel could be useless or worse, an adverse source of static, but Aral wouldn't have a chance to shut it off; when the space suit was hermetically sealed, it would be as impossible to press the button of the wrist com as to scratch oneself. Illyan thought that a nervous beginner often suffered from a space-suit's itch, but Vorkosigan must not remember at all how it had happened...
Beginners, weren't they? The group of navy officers that Vorkosigan had just joined didn't make an impression of a crowd of greenhorns, being composed of the lieutenants and technicians about Illyan's age. As was expected, the executive officer had lined up the new-fledged ensigns first, while the Tac Room had been still fresh and on its guard. It seemed this method had worked. Illyan slipped into the Tac room and immediately inquired of the duty officer, in an undertone, about the situation. It was good; none of the juniors had missed the target, a drop shuttle suspended at a distance of a kilometer from the flagship. No poor fellow had lost control of his space-suit and been dragged to the ship via tractor beam. It was all OK, except that a few people had made mistakes in orientation but the instructor returned them to the correct direction with a brief and energetic (unprintable, in other words) order.
Judge by the Crown Prince's disappointed face, this trifle couldn't be even considered a slip.
By the way, the Prince Serg in his brilliant dress greens had appeared in the Tac Room a few minutes after Illyan; Vorrutyer accompanied him. Fortunately, Illyan had passed ahead of them and now he settled comfortably at a reserved comconsole; the entering people could see only his unnamed shoulders and the back of his head, so Vorrutyer and the Prince had passed by without recognizing him. Their attention would be especially inopportune for Illyan, who concentrated now on the mental count. Vorkosigan is fourth in his group; let's assign ten minutes between every two starts that the lock mechanism works through its full cycle, minus eighteen minutes have already passed...
Well, Ges and Serg are here. It meant that they weren't organizing any dirty tricks in Vorkosigan's cabin right now. Frankly speaking, Illyan didn't suppose that the Prince would force its lock by his own hands; for that matter, the Prince and his friend had batmen, orderlies, aides, personal guards and so on. Perhaps, their presence in the Tac room was, quite the contrary, a kind of alibi, and Illyan should suspect that something bad was already taking place.
Damn it. He would know this when Vorkosigan returned. Illyan would bet that the well-trained ImpSec was able to get everything, possible and impossible, from the standard door lock. If only this idiotic exercise finished...
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 Seventeen,
where everybody are preparing but nothing important happens
***
Aral tapped the buttons of the coded lock; it sounded like a brief furious burst of fire. "Come in," he nodded to Illyan, "If Ges expects that I will run to training at top speed, without even changing my clothes or visiting the bathroom, then he is really feeble-minded." He snorted.
Then he shut the cabin's door and added, "... And without talking with the executive officer. That is the most important." He jerked his hand; the address list spread over the vidplate. "Fouchet. Well. Sorry, man, but I have a surprise for you," Aral muttered while he dialed the number.
Illyan sat quietly on the bed. He felt a strange sensation of frustration, composed of vexation, suppressed anger, acerb jealousy that had boiled over in his heart, and bewilderment. It was very unprofessional to feel this dejection instead of the heated assurance of success. Quite the contrary, Vorkosigan, who
had had to shiver with indignation and loathing, was calm now, and even smiled as if he was satisfied with all events. His smile was joyless but it existed; and he described the situation to his fellow officer quite impassively.
"... The Commander insisted that the emergency training would involve the Staff officers too..."
The acoustic system of the comconsole specially made a narrow-beam sound that only a person in the station chair could hear distinctly. Illyan sat a few meters aside, and the answers of the Vorkosigan's interlocutor turned to inaudible mutter in his ears; if he stood near the door, he wouldn't hear anything at all. This was comfortable and confidential, but now Illyan had no choice but to contemplate Fouchet's puzzled face. The lieutenant completely understood his troubles. It would be little work to add five more people to the schedule, but it would be awkward to ask Vorkosigan about his knowledge of evacuation procedures. Vorkosigan had been a Captain when Fouchet had worn cadet's white tabs only, and now he would have to participate in a routine drill with twenty-year boys...
"... I saw this instruction, indeed..."
It seemed that the executive officer sighed with relief when he got Vorkosigan's parole. Yes, all military men were more bureaucratic than any official, and ImpSec was also one of the Imperial Service's departments. So Simon would have had to be consistent with his orders, instead of following his ward's reckless scheme. It had been a good idea to provoke Vorrutyer, but it had never occurred to any of them that Vorrutyer had lost all restraint long ago.
"I see." Vorkosigan echoed clearly, "Seventeen-fifteen, lock area number Three, Group Nine, and engineering Lieutenant Copeland. Illyan, have you recorded that?"
Illyan was distracted from his reflections and answered with a brief, "Yes, sir." Vorkosigan nodded, satisfied, and cut the com.
Aral glanced at his chrono. "We have twenty-two minutes yet. Why do you look so sour before the battle?"
"I doubt my command's strategy," Illyan answered dryly, despite himself.
Aral stretched himself, rose, and sat on the bed alongside him. "Vorrutyer has scared you," he said affirmatively without taking into account the possible answer 'officers are afraid of nothing'.
"He hasn't scared me but horrified me," Illyan corrected for greater accuracy, as an analyst should. "We made our plans counting upon an enemy who went too far but was not crazy."
"He isn't crazy, really," Aral explained. "It was an impressive show, with all his balancing on the verge, his hysteria and obscenities. You are not the only one who was shocked. Unfortunately for him, Vorrutyer didn't take into account a sober and attentive spectator who knew him well and long ago. I'm sure this hysteria was feigned; Ges controlled himself well. What does it mean?"
"That he deserved us tearing off his... er, head, " Illyan muttered, and then added seriously, "It means that we should reflect on his purpose; the keyword is not 'why' but 'what for?' "
"Good," Aral approved. "For what did he do this, indeed? Did he mean to provoke a furious Aral Vorkosigan into a fight? In that case he should have had some officers who didn't like me as witnesses, instead of my friend Rulf. Did he want to give a demonstration of his power? Those are our personal relations; they don't require the presence of strangers." He drew a conclusion, "The single real effect of today's rendez-vous is that I have to go to the drill; all the rest is trumpery."
"And what does that mean?" Illyan demanded. His anxiety and vexation were washed away with the flow of new information, replacing mere hypotheses.
Aral grinned, "It means that my ImpSec lieutenant shouldn't relax. It would be wrong to think that it is all over. Everything could happen when I am training; for example, Ges could furtively put something in my cabin. Is the brandy bottle still in the drawer?"
Illyan immediately rose and strode to the door. "You should have started with this," he reproached Aral mildly. "If I have a quarter of an hour only for setting a security perimeter, you shouldn't divert me with talking," he said, moving away the lock's lid and aiming at its electronic entrails with a probe.
"You'll manage," Vorkosigan said seriously.
***
Illyan remained with his ward in the armory room of Bay Three, where space suits hung on the props, already moved out, and awaiting their owners. Of course, the vacuum suit wasn't combat armor. The troopers wore an elaborate mechanism with a readout system, feedback, a built-in weapon and powerful servos that turned a soldier into a small live fortress, and an officer, with a computer in his command helmet, became a tactical center. They normally robed themselves in this armor not in a few seconds but long beforehand, with the help of technicians who checked its every system and junction with probes; it resembled an unhurried fitting with a good tailor. A simple space suit, on the contrary, was only supposed to save its wearer, who had to go safe and sound from Point A to Point B, from the dangers of vacuum, but a projectile or plasma beam could unseal this shell too easily. The space suit, light and easy-to-use, was intended for rescue, not for fighting; its most terrible weapon was the jet engine on the back.
The next group would start in five minutes. The senior instructor showed the door to all unauthorized persons - 'batmen, aides and nurses', as he murmured under his breath. Illyan wasn't offended and even sympathized with the instructor; he would feel embarrassed too if he had become responsible for the famous Admira... er, Commodore Vorkosigan. Why the formal mood? He had been in the same situation a month ago. Now it was quite another matter; Illyan dared not only to have sex but to have debates with Vorkosigan.
The result of the last debate was that Aral had agreed to put a micro earbug into his ear and to insert the plate of a throat mike, right before leaving his cabin. However he had threatened, half seriously, that Illyan would regret it if he ventured to have private talks during the trainings. Illyan considered the private channel necessary, although Aral objected. Firstly, Aral had observed logically that even if something bad should happen with the cabin, he would be able to do nothing since he would be outside the ship. Secondly, Illyan hadn't known in advance if the ship's skin would shield the retranslated signal or not. In the former case, this channel could be useless or worse, an adverse source of static, but Aral wouldn't have a chance to shut it off; when the space suit was hermetically sealed, it would be as impossible to press the button of the wrist com as to scratch oneself. Illyan thought that a nervous beginner often suffered from a space-suit's itch, but Vorkosigan must not remember at all how it had happened...
Beginners, weren't they? The group of navy officers that Vorkosigan had just joined didn't make an impression of a crowd of greenhorns, being composed of the lieutenants and technicians about Illyan's age. As was expected, the executive officer had lined up the new-fledged ensigns first, while the Tac Room had been still fresh and on its guard. It seemed this method had worked. Illyan slipped into the Tac room and immediately inquired of the duty officer, in an undertone, about the situation. It was good; none of the juniors had missed the target, a drop shuttle suspended at a distance of a kilometer from the flagship. No poor fellow had lost control of his space-suit and been dragged to the ship via tractor beam. It was all OK, except that a few people had made mistakes in orientation but the instructor returned them to the correct direction with a brief and energetic (unprintable, in other words) order.
Judge by the Crown Prince's disappointed face, this trifle couldn't be even considered a slip.
By the way, the Prince Serg in his brilliant dress greens had appeared in the Tac Room a few minutes after Illyan; Vorrutyer accompanied him. Fortunately, Illyan had passed ahead of them and now he settled comfortably at a reserved comconsole; the entering people could see only his unnamed shoulders and the back of his head, so Vorrutyer and the Prince had passed by without recognizing him. Their attention would be especially inopportune for Illyan, who concentrated now on the mental count. Vorkosigan is fourth in his group; let's assign ten minutes between every two starts that the lock mechanism works through its full cycle, minus eighteen minutes have already passed...
Well, Ges and Serg are here. It meant that they weren't organizing any dirty tricks in Vorkosigan's cabin right now. Frankly speaking, Illyan didn't suppose that the Prince would force its lock by his own hands; for that matter, the Prince and his friend had batmen, orderlies, aides, personal guards and so on. Perhaps, their presence in the Tac room was, quite the contrary, a kind of alibi, and Illyan should suspect that something bad was already taking place.
Damn it. He would know this when Vorkosigan returned. Illyan would bet that the well-trained ImpSec was able to get everything, possible and impossible, from the standard door lock. If only this idiotic exercise finished...