Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (2/20)
It's a long way to Escobar
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Two,
where Illyan dares to discuss with the Emperor, and Ezar takes a decision.
***
When Illyan came back, Ezar was still sitting at the table, but Negri had already gone. The Emperor sipped his tea; on the dark glass tabletop wet circles marked places where the teacup had been. Ezar's posture was slack, as if he were now taking a rest after a hard job. It grew cool in the room; the air-conditioner functioned at its full power, drawing out the heat and tension of the last hours. The sunlight made its way through the narrow slit between the curtains and fell on the parquetry, making a gold streak like a sword laid aside.
"Well, and what were you talking about?" asked the Emperor straight off.
"Almost nothing, sir. He took an interest in my experience."
"And you bragged about it?" Ezar waved towards the next straight chair as a suggestion to sit down. But he didn't tell Illyan to help himself to tea.
"You think I have something to brag about to Vorkosigan?" Illyan dared to be a bit sarcastic. It was difficult to retain complete impassivity when one's heart pounded, and not only due to the run from the other end of the Residence.
Ezar looked up and down and frowned. "Is something wrong? Are you discontented?" The small porcelain cup went down on the comconsole with a slight tinkle. It seemed that his Emperor's slackness was no more than a self-deception. Illyan was not the only person in this room who needed to speak his mind.
"Sir, allow me to consider this matter as an analyst."
"Try, then", Ezar permitted with a skeptical "hm-m". He sat down at his chair, linking his fingers in a customary gesture. A repelling gesture. It hinted that he was ready to hear out all considerations which his junior analyst would apply to this delicate matter, and then smash them to shards.
Illyan focused. Of course, he understood that his every doubt would be rebutted by his Emperor's reason, but now, after a quarter-hour of reflection, he needed to have his say. He screwed himself up and began from the point which would be the main stumbling-block.
"Based upon the files given to me, sir, I think that you have poorly chosen a person to work with Commodore Vorkosigan."
"And why?" Ezar's voice just oozed causticity.
"Point by point, sir. The first. All officers assigned to control him are obviously an abhorrence to Vorkosigan. Heretofore this role had belonged to Political Officers, and you well know the conflicts that resulted. He is a man of habit, so it's dangerous to extend his reach to your personal Security Service, Sire. And especially to present me to him in such an emphatic manner. The second. Vorkosigan is a senior officer and he has a charismatic personality. He isn't used to receiving any direction from a man younger than him in age and rank. A lieutenant advising an admi... sorry, commodore with so brilliant and long record of service is grotesque. I appreciate your confidence, sir, but I'm not the only person you can trust. The third. Because of my biochip I have been accustomed to the position of a passive onlooker. The Psychological Department gave me conditioning but not training. So I know how to provide for Vorkosigan's safety in the narrow sense, but I doubt that my skills are enough to make his relations with Vice Admiral Vorrutyer safe."
"Do you fear failure?" Ezar flicked his brow in feigned astonishment, and shook his head. "Perhaps this is the fear of something else? For instance, I suppose you are afraid to lose a cushy job in my office now. But you wanted to go to the front line before, didn't you?"
Things look bad, Illyan thought coolly. It seemed this point was so sensitive and embarrassing that Ezar was immediately trying to change the subject and to shift all discussion from logic to emotions. But the situation was not critical yet; in that case Ezar would have said "in my bed", not "in my office". Maybe these emotions that he didn't have the right to discuss were exactly the challenge? After all, Ezar was informed about his feelings as well as about the content of his memory chip.
"No, sir", he replied pronouncedly dryly. Now wasn't the proper time to joke that he was seriously afraid of the possibility of sharing the destiny of the two Political Officers appointed to look after Vorkosigan (the one's neck has been wrung, and the other was now under a military tribunal). Not that this jest would have much truth; there wasn't an officer rank below ensign, and Illyan was not going to make troubles comparable with the Solstice Massacre.
"What the hell's your lame excuse, then?" Ezar rose, and leaned across the table.
Illyan also sprang up. It was impossible to stop this talk. They would continue even if they never could look at each other afterwards. Damn, what was the reason for his teeth chattering: the air-conditioning or something worse? He was shivering, but continued stubbornly:
"I know my limits. Do you really believe that Vorkosigan would consider my opinion?"
You know he doesn't even consider yours sometimes? This would remain unsaid.
Ezar swept these considerations aside with a jerky wave of his palm.
"Bosh! Weren't you listening at all half an hour ago? When I talked about wastefulness, it concerned your person too. You have not spent these three years in the Residence to regulate your... private life. And I did not hold you here to sit idle in conferences. I taught you. Myself. And now kindly be consistent and not shy! I insist that you are ready and don't you dare to object."
Illyan didn't object: he never tended to suicide or suicidal stupidity. He did nothing but asked, "You are moving me to be the permanent subordinate of Vorkosigan, sir?"
"Yes, if you can hold down this task. You have to learn to work well together. And to know how to stabilize him. If you achieve success, Negri will hand over a commander’s tabs to you. If you fail..." The pause sustained so long that it had time to freeze in the cold air of the room, "Then the ImpSec Chief would try to use your talent in another way. As an archivist, for example."
"To work well together..." Why does he turn me out now: because I haven't already handled the same task concerning himself, or because I've done it perfectly?
Doubtless, he had succeeded. Ezar had become the center of his universe. At first it had been an effect of the superfluous eagerness of the ImpSec psychologists who had conditioned him. But then it had happened by Illyan’s own choice. However he wasn't blind and he saw that the Emperor was flattered by this selflessness despite himself, that it appealed to his emotions (although the term "sentimentality" was not applicable to a man like Ezar Vorbarra). But what if now he didn't want to let Illyan go? The harsh "I've said. Enough" could conceal Ezar's uncertainty, regret, tiredness... Or jealousy.
It was impossible to be sure enough about these matters even to talk about them, not only now but always. During their midnight tete-a-tetes everything was allowed: from silly endearing words to caustic jokes, from familiarities to dirty phrases, so stimulating at the proper moment and so embarrassing afterwards. Everything was allowed except the one taboo subject: their parting. Such a resounding silence, on account of the alleged importance of this matter.
But Illyan was an analyst; his work was to seek any modifications of the usual pattern, any aberration, even if the norm was unique. Ezar's sudden try to hurt Illyan's pride and to reproach him for an imaginary fault could be a symptom of the Emperor’s weakness, concealed thoroughly. This insight made him dizzy. Illyan froze suddenly as if he had run against an invisible force shield. Perhaps it was good to think sometimes not only about his own modest person and his fictitious offences?...
"Lieutenant, are you sleeping?" An irritated call brought him back to the reality.
Illyan remembered the previous question and answered briefly: "I'll do my best, sir." Now he managed to say the simplest answers slowly, as if for the first time, "But I need some additional directions."
"What directions?" questioned Ezar wearily, "You have read his files. Completely. Don’t tell me that you have forgotten something important."
Illyan drew up the Emperor’s chair, inviting. Ezar sank heavily on its cool silk upholstery, and held on firmly to the armrests, as if he had suddenly given up to gravity. His tension fell down, flowed down like water. Only the exhausted old man remained, who had already made a decision, endured its bitterness and dealt with its consequences. Illyan positioned his straight chair right up against the Emperor's, in the way they usually sat in the evenings. These evenings could turn into private briefings, reports, unforgettable lessons, rare heart-to-heart talks and so on, and Illyan had almost never guessed what it would be when he opened the heavy door of Ezar's apartments.
Now he focused upon work. Work only.
"You certainly understand, sir, that Commodore Vorkosigan confronting any junior officer could eat him alive, whether this officer were equipped with expensive electronics or not. Even if that's your real purpose... What is my role in his entourage? Supervisor? Bodyguard? An independent witness for a future military court? A scapegoat? A living reminder of your anger for all who would be nearby?"
"Do you need to choose one variant, no more?" Ezar asked, suddenly peaceful.
"I'm not an all-round craftsman; I'm an analyst with a good memory. And it is best to use my strength against any opponent instead of my weaknesses."
"And who is the opponent?"
Illyan sighed. "The same question, sir, I would ask you."
"I hear you." Ezar sat down, his palms resting on his lap. Obviously he intended to explain nothing, only to confirm some guesses which Illyan would have to make sense of by himself. Well...
"Using logical reasoning... You've assigned Vorkosigan to be a subordinate of the very two persons who have a lot of reasons to hate him. Vorrutyer’s motives are evident: he has personal ones, due to their former relations, and political ones, because of his alliance with Minister Grishnov. The Crown Prince also feels jealousy toward Vorkosigan. Not only because of his friend Ges, but first of all, because of you."
"You are too bold," Ezar frowned, "My relations with my son are not your business, boy."
"I know," Illyan stepped back, "and that is why I don't analyze these relations themselves, only their effects. The hatred is one of those effects. Let us assume that my presence prevents them both from assaulting Vorkosigan openly, for fear of your anger. However, they could find a lot of ways to annoy their subordinate indirectly. What do you buy at this cost? If Vorkosigan were the Commander of the invasion fleet, it would countervail any enmity and squabble in the fleet headquarters. But Aral Vorkosigan as the sixth officer by his rank in Vorrutyer's staff is useless. Is this a punishment for him, and I the personification of the stigma? Or is his post a challenge, which I have to help him cope with? Or is his subordination a compromise for Vorrutyer's sake, and my job to keep an eye on the Vice Admiral so he doesn't go too far?"
"Have you enumerated all your versions?"
"No," Illyan admitted, "but I could look over my guesses until next Winterfair."
"You are splitting hairs, boy, and complicate everything," Ezar moved his hands apart. "I've said just what you've heard, without any implication. You have to work well together with Vorkosigan. He is supposed to serve me again with all his best. All means to achieve this are at your discretion. Be happy that you were presented to him as my personal spy. He would press down a mere lieutenant without noticing it.
So, that's the task. To work well together with the famous Admiral, the Conqueror of Komarr, a Count's heir and a cult figure among the military. This man is well-known in the Vor circle for his free-thinking and stubbornness. And I need to guard him. Personally. 'Nothing but that'.
"Then I need exhaustive files of all fleet senior officers..."
"All details are Negri's concern", Ezar waved away.
"... Including the file of the First Commander-in-Chief," added Illyan obstinately.
"You have lived in the Residence for a few years. Really, don't you know all about my son? Well. We'll have a special talk about it. Tonight. And now you are dismissed."
"Yes, sir."
"Tonight." And how many talks remain for me until my departure?
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Two,
where Illyan dares to discuss with the Emperor, and Ezar takes a decision.
***
When Illyan came back, Ezar was still sitting at the table, but Negri had already gone. The Emperor sipped his tea; on the dark glass tabletop wet circles marked places where the teacup had been. Ezar's posture was slack, as if he were now taking a rest after a hard job. It grew cool in the room; the air-conditioner functioned at its full power, drawing out the heat and tension of the last hours. The sunlight made its way through the narrow slit between the curtains and fell on the parquetry, making a gold streak like a sword laid aside.
"Well, and what were you talking about?" asked the Emperor straight off.
"Almost nothing, sir. He took an interest in my experience."
"And you bragged about it?" Ezar waved towards the next straight chair as a suggestion to sit down. But he didn't tell Illyan to help himself to tea.
"You think I have something to brag about to Vorkosigan?" Illyan dared to be a bit sarcastic. It was difficult to retain complete impassivity when one's heart pounded, and not only due to the run from the other end of the Residence.
Ezar looked up and down and frowned. "Is something wrong? Are you discontented?" The small porcelain cup went down on the comconsole with a slight tinkle. It seemed that his Emperor's slackness was no more than a self-deception. Illyan was not the only person in this room who needed to speak his mind.
"Sir, allow me to consider this matter as an analyst."
"Try, then", Ezar permitted with a skeptical "hm-m". He sat down at his chair, linking his fingers in a customary gesture. A repelling gesture. It hinted that he was ready to hear out all considerations which his junior analyst would apply to this delicate matter, and then smash them to shards.
Illyan focused. Of course, he understood that his every doubt would be rebutted by his Emperor's reason, but now, after a quarter-hour of reflection, he needed to have his say. He screwed himself up and began from the point which would be the main stumbling-block.
"Based upon the files given to me, sir, I think that you have poorly chosen a person to work with Commodore Vorkosigan."
"And why?" Ezar's voice just oozed causticity.
"Point by point, sir. The first. All officers assigned to control him are obviously an abhorrence to Vorkosigan. Heretofore this role had belonged to Political Officers, and you well know the conflicts that resulted. He is a man of habit, so it's dangerous to extend his reach to your personal Security Service, Sire. And especially to present me to him in such an emphatic manner. The second. Vorkosigan is a senior officer and he has a charismatic personality. He isn't used to receiving any direction from a man younger than him in age and rank. A lieutenant advising an admi... sorry, commodore with so brilliant and long record of service is grotesque. I appreciate your confidence, sir, but I'm not the only person you can trust. The third. Because of my biochip I have been accustomed to the position of a passive onlooker. The Psychological Department gave me conditioning but not training. So I know how to provide for Vorkosigan's safety in the narrow sense, but I doubt that my skills are enough to make his relations with Vice Admiral Vorrutyer safe."
"Do you fear failure?" Ezar flicked his brow in feigned astonishment, and shook his head. "Perhaps this is the fear of something else? For instance, I suppose you are afraid to lose a cushy job in my office now. But you wanted to go to the front line before, didn't you?"
Things look bad, Illyan thought coolly. It seemed this point was so sensitive and embarrassing that Ezar was immediately trying to change the subject and to shift all discussion from logic to emotions. But the situation was not critical yet; in that case Ezar would have said "in my bed", not "in my office". Maybe these emotions that he didn't have the right to discuss were exactly the challenge? After all, Ezar was informed about his feelings as well as about the content of his memory chip.
"No, sir", he replied pronouncedly dryly. Now wasn't the proper time to joke that he was seriously afraid of the possibility of sharing the destiny of the two Political Officers appointed to look after Vorkosigan (the one's neck has been wrung, and the other was now under a military tribunal). Not that this jest would have much truth; there wasn't an officer rank below ensign, and Illyan was not going to make troubles comparable with the Solstice Massacre.
"What the hell's your lame excuse, then?" Ezar rose, and leaned across the table.
Illyan also sprang up. It was impossible to stop this talk. They would continue even if they never could look at each other afterwards. Damn, what was the reason for his teeth chattering: the air-conditioning or something worse? He was shivering, but continued stubbornly:
"I know my limits. Do you really believe that Vorkosigan would consider my opinion?"
You know he doesn't even consider yours sometimes? This would remain unsaid.
Ezar swept these considerations aside with a jerky wave of his palm.
"Bosh! Weren't you listening at all half an hour ago? When I talked about wastefulness, it concerned your person too. You have not spent these three years in the Residence to regulate your... private life. And I did not hold you here to sit idle in conferences. I taught you. Myself. And now kindly be consistent and not shy! I insist that you are ready and don't you dare to object."
Illyan didn't object: he never tended to suicide or suicidal stupidity. He did nothing but asked, "You are moving me to be the permanent subordinate of Vorkosigan, sir?"
"Yes, if you can hold down this task. You have to learn to work well together. And to know how to stabilize him. If you achieve success, Negri will hand over a commander’s tabs to you. If you fail..." The pause sustained so long that it had time to freeze in the cold air of the room, "Then the ImpSec Chief would try to use your talent in another way. As an archivist, for example."
"To work well together..." Why does he turn me out now: because I haven't already handled the same task concerning himself, or because I've done it perfectly?
Doubtless, he had succeeded. Ezar had become the center of his universe. At first it had been an effect of the superfluous eagerness of the ImpSec psychologists who had conditioned him. But then it had happened by Illyan’s own choice. However he wasn't blind and he saw that the Emperor was flattered by this selflessness despite himself, that it appealed to his emotions (although the term "sentimentality" was not applicable to a man like Ezar Vorbarra). But what if now he didn't want to let Illyan go? The harsh "I've said. Enough" could conceal Ezar's uncertainty, regret, tiredness... Or jealousy.
It was impossible to be sure enough about these matters even to talk about them, not only now but always. During their midnight tete-a-tetes everything was allowed: from silly endearing words to caustic jokes, from familiarities to dirty phrases, so stimulating at the proper moment and so embarrassing afterwards. Everything was allowed except the one taboo subject: their parting. Such a resounding silence, on account of the alleged importance of this matter.
But Illyan was an analyst; his work was to seek any modifications of the usual pattern, any aberration, even if the norm was unique. Ezar's sudden try to hurt Illyan's pride and to reproach him for an imaginary fault could be a symptom of the Emperor’s weakness, concealed thoroughly. This insight made him dizzy. Illyan froze suddenly as if he had run against an invisible force shield. Perhaps it was good to think sometimes not only about his own modest person and his fictitious offences?...
"Lieutenant, are you sleeping?" An irritated call brought him back to the reality.
Illyan remembered the previous question and answered briefly: "I'll do my best, sir." Now he managed to say the simplest answers slowly, as if for the first time, "But I need some additional directions."
"What directions?" questioned Ezar wearily, "You have read his files. Completely. Don’t tell me that you have forgotten something important."
Illyan drew up the Emperor’s chair, inviting. Ezar sank heavily on its cool silk upholstery, and held on firmly to the armrests, as if he had suddenly given up to gravity. His tension fell down, flowed down like water. Only the exhausted old man remained, who had already made a decision, endured its bitterness and dealt with its consequences. Illyan positioned his straight chair right up against the Emperor's, in the way they usually sat in the evenings. These evenings could turn into private briefings, reports, unforgettable lessons, rare heart-to-heart talks and so on, and Illyan had almost never guessed what it would be when he opened the heavy door of Ezar's apartments.
Now he focused upon work. Work only.
"You certainly understand, sir, that Commodore Vorkosigan confronting any junior officer could eat him alive, whether this officer were equipped with expensive electronics or not. Even if that's your real purpose... What is my role in his entourage? Supervisor? Bodyguard? An independent witness for a future military court? A scapegoat? A living reminder of your anger for all who would be nearby?"
"Do you need to choose one variant, no more?" Ezar asked, suddenly peaceful.
"I'm not an all-round craftsman; I'm an analyst with a good memory. And it is best to use my strength against any opponent instead of my weaknesses."
"And who is the opponent?"
Illyan sighed. "The same question, sir, I would ask you."
"I hear you." Ezar sat down, his palms resting on his lap. Obviously he intended to explain nothing, only to confirm some guesses which Illyan would have to make sense of by himself. Well...
"Using logical reasoning... You've assigned Vorkosigan to be a subordinate of the very two persons who have a lot of reasons to hate him. Vorrutyer’s motives are evident: he has personal ones, due to their former relations, and political ones, because of his alliance with Minister Grishnov. The Crown Prince also feels jealousy toward Vorkosigan. Not only because of his friend Ges, but first of all, because of you."
"You are too bold," Ezar frowned, "My relations with my son are not your business, boy."
"I know," Illyan stepped back, "and that is why I don't analyze these relations themselves, only their effects. The hatred is one of those effects. Let us assume that my presence prevents them both from assaulting Vorkosigan openly, for fear of your anger. However, they could find a lot of ways to annoy their subordinate indirectly. What do you buy at this cost? If Vorkosigan were the Commander of the invasion fleet, it would countervail any enmity and squabble in the fleet headquarters. But Aral Vorkosigan as the sixth officer by his rank in Vorrutyer's staff is useless. Is this a punishment for him, and I the personification of the stigma? Or is his post a challenge, which I have to help him cope with? Or is his subordination a compromise for Vorrutyer's sake, and my job to keep an eye on the Vice Admiral so he doesn't go too far?"
"Have you enumerated all your versions?"
"No," Illyan admitted, "but I could look over my guesses until next Winterfair."
"You are splitting hairs, boy, and complicate everything," Ezar moved his hands apart. "I've said just what you've heard, without any implication. You have to work well together with Vorkosigan. He is supposed to serve me again with all his best. All means to achieve this are at your discretion. Be happy that you were presented to him as my personal spy. He would press down a mere lieutenant without noticing it.
So, that's the task. To work well together with the famous Admiral, the Conqueror of Komarr, a Count's heir and a cult figure among the military. This man is well-known in the Vor circle for his free-thinking and stubbornness. And I need to guard him. Personally. 'Nothing but that'.
"Then I need exhaustive files of all fleet senior officers..."
"All details are Negri's concern", Ezar waved away.
"... Including the file of the First Commander-in-Chief," added Illyan obstinately.
"You have lived in the Residence for a few years. Really, don't you know all about my son? Well. We'll have a special talk about it. Tonight. And now you are dismissed."
"Yes, sir."
"Tonight." And how many talks remain for me until my departure?