Legacy (Vorkosigan saga)
Title: Legacy
Rating: PG
Summary: Miles finds something his father left for him that only Simon Illyan can explain.
Note: govcampbell asked for something post-Cryoburn involving Simon and Miles and the liege relationship.
DISCLAIMER: Lois McMaster Bujold owns the Vorkosigan universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
His aunt greets him at the door. “Hello, Miles. You'll find him in the study.”
“It's not too late, is it? I can come back tomorrow--”
Her light touch on his arm quells him. “I think it's best you talk to him now. He's been expecting you for some time now.”
“He has?” Lady Alys hums in acknowledgment and steps aside, gesturing him into the home she's shared with Simon for several years.
Of course he has, Miles realizes. His father and Illyan had undoubtedly set up this appointment years ago. The particulars might have remained up to chance, but the crucial details would have been carefully organized. Aral Vorkosigan had not earned his reputation as a brilliant strategist for nothing.
As promised, Miles finds Illyan in his study, seated in one of two chairs arranged by a reading lamp. “Hello, Mi--” he begins before correcting himself, “Count Vorkosigan.”
Not yet accustomed to the honorific, Miles raises a hand in protest, but when he sees his former mentor start to rise his objection shifts focus. “Stop, Simon, there's no need to get up on my account.” He gestures to the empty chair. “May I?”
“By all means.”
When Miles drops into the chair, sighing, the bag he's holding lands on the floor at his feet with a clink. Illyan's eyebrows go up. “Is that what I think it is?”
“I suspect you know exactly what it is.” He reaches in and extracts the dusty brown bottle. “Of all things for my father to keep locked away until after his death, why beer?”
Simon chuckles as he takes the bottle, turning it to examine in the lamplight. “Oh, this isn't just any beer.”
“No?”
“Mm.” His thumb sweeps across the shoulder, exposing a streak in the dust. “This is a beer with a story to tell.”
Miles waits expectantly, but Illyan seems lost in his memories. When he can't bear the anticipation any longer, he coughs. “I wouldn't mind hearing that story.”
Simon smiles. “Someday you will, my lord. Now is not the time.” He sets the bottle on the table and turns his attention to Miles. “I believe you have something else for me?”
“Yes.” He takes the data rod from his pocket. “There's nothing on this, I checked. Da's letter said you would--”
“I do.” Simon holds up an identical rod. “If I may?”
Miles hands him his rod and watches in bemused curiosity as Illyan goes to a cabinet against the wall behind a comconsole station. With the push of a button a panel slides away to reveal a twinned data port, into which he inserts the two rods. While he waits for the information retrieval process to conclude, he drums his fingers against the cabinet. “How is the Countess adjusting to her new station?”
He shrugged. “Okay, I suppose. Aunt Alys could probably tell you better than I could.”
“I meant the present Countess, not Cordelia.”
“Oh, Ekaterin?” The look Simon gives him is full of fond exasperation. “Um, she's feeling a bit overwhelmed, but Mother seems to be doing a good job of talking her down off the ledge.”
“I should think she'd be used to it by now.” At Miles' querying look he explains, “Feeling overwhelmed. It's a common complaint among those closest to you.”
“Ha, ha.”
His expression remains benign, bland, schooled into that mask of of neutrality Miles remembers well from when he was head of ImpSec, but his eyes are crinkled with amusement. The data port buzzes, indicating it has completed the desired operation. Illyan extracts the two rods, replaces the panel, and returns to his seat, holding the rods out to Miles.
“What's on these? Coordinates to the lost city of Atlantis? Battle plans for an invasion of Cetaganda? Access codes to the Toscane family's personal bank accounts? Ma Kosti's recipe folder?”
“Good to know you haven't lost your flair for the dramatic, Miles. Nothing so sensitive as that.” He pauses, rubbing at his lower lip. His distant gaze reminds Miles of the look he would get whenever retrieving a memory from the chip implanted in his brain for over thirty years. The chip is long gone, but that thoughtful, faraway look is more deeply ingrained.
“These data rods contain your father's personal journals,” Illyan resumes after a moment. “Not his official logs from his military service or those he maintained in his capacity as Regent, Count, Prime Minister, and Viceroy for the imperial archive. The former, as you probably know, are available to those with the right level of security clearance, and the latter are a matter of public record. No, these, Miles”--his hand opens towards Miles--“these are his private diaries, going back over fifty years, with the most recent additions from last Winterfair.”
Miles can scarcely breathe. The two slim rods he holds, together no more than a few hundred grams, now seem to contain the weight of the world. Of worlds, he revises, thinking back on his father's long career trajectory. “I don't know what to say, Simon.”
He dismisses this with a small wave before returning his hand to his lap. “He wanted you... he wanted to leave you...” He stutters to a stop. It's a rare moment Miles has ever seen him at a loss for words as well. “You know what sort of life he's led, what he's done, the choices he's made. You know the official, public versions, and I daresay you know much more than most people in your position would about what was really happening behind the scenes. Aral thought you deserved more - the unvarnished truth, as best as he could express it in his own words. The biography of a man, not a historical figure.”
His throat feels tight. Will he ever not feel the pang of grief stabbing into his gut? He thought coming to terms with his father's death would be easier than when Grandfather Piotr died, because he's had years to prepare for it. It's not easier.
“I'm surprised you agreed to go along with this,” he manages to say, his voice thick, his grief weighing heavy on his tongue. “If this is as complete an account as you say, there must be all sorts of information ImpSec would prefer never saw the light of day.”
Illyan acknowledges the truth of this with a twitch of his brows and a tight smile. “Your father could be a very persuasive man, especially when it came to calling on old allegiances.”
“Ah. I take it all this rigamarole was your doing, then?”
He nods. “I convinced him to divide everything between the two rods in such a way that the data on one could not be retrieved without the other.” He leans forward. “It's incumbent on you to ensure no one else has access to them. If it were up to me you'd destroy them unread, but I'll restrain myself and ask only that you destroy them after you've read them. And for God's sake don't breathe a word of this to Guy Allegre or he'll have both our heads.”
“My lips are sealed.” He studies the rods, wondering what secrets they hold and at the same time hesitant to find out. He knows enough about the darker moments in his father's career to understand he may find much of what he learns from these journals uncomfortable, if not outright painful. Da would not want Miles to keep him on a pedestal, however. He pockets the rods and turns to Simon with a smile. “So, tell me about the beer.”
Rating: PG
Summary: Miles finds something his father left for him that only Simon Illyan can explain.
Note: govcampbell asked for something post-Cryoburn involving Simon and Miles and the liege relationship.
DISCLAIMER: Lois McMaster Bujold owns the Vorkosigan universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
His aunt greets him at the door. “Hello, Miles. You'll find him in the study.”
“It's not too late, is it? I can come back tomorrow--”
Her light touch on his arm quells him. “I think it's best you talk to him now. He's been expecting you for some time now.”
“He has?” Lady Alys hums in acknowledgment and steps aside, gesturing him into the home she's shared with Simon for several years.
Of course he has, Miles realizes. His father and Illyan had undoubtedly set up this appointment years ago. The particulars might have remained up to chance, but the crucial details would have been carefully organized. Aral Vorkosigan had not earned his reputation as a brilliant strategist for nothing.
As promised, Miles finds Illyan in his study, seated in one of two chairs arranged by a reading lamp. “Hello, Mi--” he begins before correcting himself, “Count Vorkosigan.”
Not yet accustomed to the honorific, Miles raises a hand in protest, but when he sees his former mentor start to rise his objection shifts focus. “Stop, Simon, there's no need to get up on my account.” He gestures to the empty chair. “May I?”
“By all means.”
When Miles drops into the chair, sighing, the bag he's holding lands on the floor at his feet with a clink. Illyan's eyebrows go up. “Is that what I think it is?”
“I suspect you know exactly what it is.” He reaches in and extracts the dusty brown bottle. “Of all things for my father to keep locked away until after his death, why beer?”
Simon chuckles as he takes the bottle, turning it to examine in the lamplight. “Oh, this isn't just any beer.”
“No?”
“Mm.” His thumb sweeps across the shoulder, exposing a streak in the dust. “This is a beer with a story to tell.”
Miles waits expectantly, but Illyan seems lost in his memories. When he can't bear the anticipation any longer, he coughs. “I wouldn't mind hearing that story.”
Simon smiles. “Someday you will, my lord. Now is not the time.” He sets the bottle on the table and turns his attention to Miles. “I believe you have something else for me?”
“Yes.” He takes the data rod from his pocket. “There's nothing on this, I checked. Da's letter said you would--”
“I do.” Simon holds up an identical rod. “If I may?”
Miles hands him his rod and watches in bemused curiosity as Illyan goes to a cabinet against the wall behind a comconsole station. With the push of a button a panel slides away to reveal a twinned data port, into which he inserts the two rods. While he waits for the information retrieval process to conclude, he drums his fingers against the cabinet. “How is the Countess adjusting to her new station?”
He shrugged. “Okay, I suppose. Aunt Alys could probably tell you better than I could.”
“I meant the present Countess, not Cordelia.”
“Oh, Ekaterin?” The look Simon gives him is full of fond exasperation. “Um, she's feeling a bit overwhelmed, but Mother seems to be doing a good job of talking her down off the ledge.”
“I should think she'd be used to it by now.” At Miles' querying look he explains, “Feeling overwhelmed. It's a common complaint among those closest to you.”
“Ha, ha.”
His expression remains benign, bland, schooled into that mask of of neutrality Miles remembers well from when he was head of ImpSec, but his eyes are crinkled with amusement. The data port buzzes, indicating it has completed the desired operation. Illyan extracts the two rods, replaces the panel, and returns to his seat, holding the rods out to Miles.
“What's on these? Coordinates to the lost city of Atlantis? Battle plans for an invasion of Cetaganda? Access codes to the Toscane family's personal bank accounts? Ma Kosti's recipe folder?”
“Good to know you haven't lost your flair for the dramatic, Miles. Nothing so sensitive as that.” He pauses, rubbing at his lower lip. His distant gaze reminds Miles of the look he would get whenever retrieving a memory from the chip implanted in his brain for over thirty years. The chip is long gone, but that thoughtful, faraway look is more deeply ingrained.
“These data rods contain your father's personal journals,” Illyan resumes after a moment. “Not his official logs from his military service or those he maintained in his capacity as Regent, Count, Prime Minister, and Viceroy for the imperial archive. The former, as you probably know, are available to those with the right level of security clearance, and the latter are a matter of public record. No, these, Miles”--his hand opens towards Miles--“these are his private diaries, going back over fifty years, with the most recent additions from last Winterfair.”
Miles can scarcely breathe. The two slim rods he holds, together no more than a few hundred grams, now seem to contain the weight of the world. Of worlds, he revises, thinking back on his father's long career trajectory. “I don't know what to say, Simon.”
He dismisses this with a small wave before returning his hand to his lap. “He wanted you... he wanted to leave you...” He stutters to a stop. It's a rare moment Miles has ever seen him at a loss for words as well. “You know what sort of life he's led, what he's done, the choices he's made. You know the official, public versions, and I daresay you know much more than most people in your position would about what was really happening behind the scenes. Aral thought you deserved more - the unvarnished truth, as best as he could express it in his own words. The biography of a man, not a historical figure.”
His throat feels tight. Will he ever not feel the pang of grief stabbing into his gut? He thought coming to terms with his father's death would be easier than when Grandfather Piotr died, because he's had years to prepare for it. It's not easier.
“I'm surprised you agreed to go along with this,” he manages to say, his voice thick, his grief weighing heavy on his tongue. “If this is as complete an account as you say, there must be all sorts of information ImpSec would prefer never saw the light of day.”
Illyan acknowledges the truth of this with a twitch of his brows and a tight smile. “Your father could be a very persuasive man, especially when it came to calling on old allegiances.”
“Ah. I take it all this rigamarole was your doing, then?”
He nods. “I convinced him to divide everything between the two rods in such a way that the data on one could not be retrieved without the other.” He leans forward. “It's incumbent on you to ensure no one else has access to them. If it were up to me you'd destroy them unread, but I'll restrain myself and ask only that you destroy them after you've read them. And for God's sake don't breathe a word of this to Guy Allegre or he'll have both our heads.”
“My lips are sealed.” He studies the rods, wondering what secrets they hold and at the same time hesitant to find out. He knows enough about the darker moments in his father's career to understand he may find much of what he learns from these journals uncomfortable, if not outright painful. Da would not want Miles to keep him on a pedestal, however. He pockets the rods and turns to Simon with a smile. “So, tell me about the beer.”