Fic: Aral Vorkosigan's Dog 15/15
It's done! I have finished the story! *dances* I feel--well, about 70,000 words lighter, now that I've dispatched them all off into the world. So here you go, the last chapter. And thank you all very much for reading!
Title: Aral Vorkosigan's Dog 15/15
Rating/warnings: R, Shards-level sexual and physical violence
Length: 70k (this chapter 8400 words)
Summary: Illyan is assigned to watch Aral Vorkosigan during the Escobaran war. Soon he has to choose between his duty and his conscience, and the consequences rapidly get beyond him.
Index Post
Previous Chapter
Vorkosigan's drinking continued over the following weeks. Illyan read through all the reports from the surveillance team, first with dismay, then with weary resignation. But he had little time to dwell on it, because Project Guillotine involved a tremendous amount of planning. The Escobar invasion had destroyed and discredited Vorrutyer and the Prince, leaders of the centralising hawks on Barrayar, but many of their structures were still intact and would, in time, undoubtedly find new leaders and begin again. So the Emperor was cleaning out the rest of his government, and a steady stream of ministers and officials were developing chronic illnesses that required a long rest in the country or being discovered in unfortunate sex scandals, but there was one enemy remaining that required ImpSec's special attention: the Ministry of Political Education. Killing Grishnov and devastating his Ministry were the stated goals of Guillotine, and Illyan had access to more of ImpSec than he'd ever worked with before as he planned the methods for this purging. He immersed himself in the problems, trying not to think of anything else. He found being back at his real job both a relief and a struggle, enjoying the work but at the same time feeling oddly cut off and adrift, outside Vorkosigan's orbit.
When he was summoned abruptly away from his desk by Negri to attend on the Emperor, he assumed it was something related to Guillotine, since Negri had already relayed all the pertinent parts of Illyan's account of the Escobar expedition to the Ezar. He entered the Green Room where Negri and the Emperor already sat in conference, and swallowed. He hadn't seen the Emperor since before Escobar, and the change in him was shocking. His skin was translucent, his hands trembling, his breath noisy and fast. With Serg dead and little Gregor only four, they would be needing a Regent very soon. He understood now the pain he'd seen in Negri's eyes whenever Ezar was mentioned.
"Congratulations on your promotion, Commander," said Ezar blandly as he entered. His voice at least was as stern and cool as always.
Illyan bowed.
"The Emperor requires your thoughts concerning Admiral Vorkosigan," Negri said.
Illyan blinked at him. "Certainly, sire."
"Is he still trying to drink himself to death?" Ezar's voice was calm, dispassionate. Illyan strove for a similar calm in his reply.
"He generally spends one day drinking, the next being ill and the day after that making himself useful to his father. He has made three suicide gestures so far, one of which was nearly successful."
"Oh?"
"He went sailing one night, drunk, capsized the boat and was close to drowning by the time my men got to him." Illyan frowned. He'd been off-duty that evening, and had been frantically furious with the sergeant who had been leading the ImpSec surveillance team, though in all honesty there wasn't a lot more he could have done short of arresting Vorkosigan before he got in the boat.
"He's gone on benders like this before," Negri offered. "Twice, in fact. Both times he pulled out of it again in the end."
"Everyone gets drunk at Kyril Island." Ezar shook his head and looked to Illyan. "Besides, if one of his gestures, as you call them, gets out of hand, it doesn't matter whether he pulls out of it in the end or not. We need him alive and sober. You've been observing him closely, Commander. What do you suggest?"
If I knew, Illyan wanted to say, don't you think I'd have tried it by now? Instead he said, "So far it has only become worse over time. The suicide gestures have become more serious and the drinking is beginning to affect his health. None of his friends have had any ability to-to make a difference." To help him? Comfort him? Order him to stop wallowing in misery? None of those sounded like quite the right thing. Tell him that allowing his men and his friends to go to their deaths without lifting a finger to help them is fine so long as the Emperor orders it? Surely the Emperor must understand what pain it was that Vorkosigan drank to forget? After all, he had connived at the killing of his own son. But Ezar's face was still, unmoved. Illyan felt cold.
"I had hopes of that Betan woman. Naismith, wasn't it?" the Emperor said. "What happened to her?"
"She returned to Beta Colony. Lord Vorkosigan asked her to marry him, but she refused. She appeared fond of him, but did not wish to live on Barrayar."
"Can we get her back?" Ezar looked at Negri. "Betan security is shoddy. Surely you can arrange something?"
"I don't recommend that, sire," Illyan said at once. Negri gave him an irritated look, Ezar a more calculating one.
"Why not?"
"If it's to help Lord Vorkosigan, she must come of her own accord. And," he paused, searching for words, "I would not advise attempting to coerce Captain Naismith in any way. I do not think there is a man in ImpSec who is a match for her."
Negri's brows rose. "You could go yourself."
"I include myself in that assessment, sir."
"I grow more convinced than ever that I must meet this Captain Naismith." The Emperor frowned at Negri. "Perhaps you can convey her news of Lord Vorkosigan's unhappy situation, appeal to her, ah, womanly nature."
"That might have more chance of success," Illyan said, not altogether hopefully.
"Hm! We'll have to think about that." Ezar smiled slightly. "Only one way to handle women, you know. They're contrary little things. Got to convince her she can't ever have him back..." He stared into the distance, then nodded dismissal to Illyan.
"Thank you, Commander," Negri said.
Illyan was left wondering exactly how Ezar thought he could manoeuvre Captain Naismith into returning to Barrayar. Somehow, he didn't think it was beyond Ezar's power.
*
Smoke from the groundcars burning at the front gate was starting to drift towards them. The gatehouse was on fire too, and there were raucous cheers from the crowd as the old emblem given by Emperor Dorca came crashing down. Dorca's Hands. That had been the name of the forerunners of the Political Officers, as ImpSec had once been Dorca's Eyes.
Illyan didn't cheer. Dorca's Hands had saved Barrayar twice: once when they had been created to exert Imperial authority over the counts' armies, and again when they had borne much of the work of organising the resistance against the Ceta occupation. Grishnov had by all accounts learned his trade alongside General Count Vorkosigan, though they'd become enemies in the past decade. He knew what the Ministry of Political Education had become, what Grishnov had become, what they had done, what they had wanted to do. And he was happy to pull the trigger on the corrupt monster that had once been a hero of Barrayar. But he wasn't going to cheer as he did it.
Around him, men were shouting slogans his propaganda team had written, slogans about Escobar and the war in four languages. He heard some new ones mixed in, which was gratifying, proof that the destructive process he'd begun had taken on a life of its own. The Ministry would not survive the night.
The mob was pressed together here, and he was glad that his shoulders were jostled not by the inflamed citizenry but by his own men. For all his efforts, he knew there would be casualties before this operation was over, and he had a healthy desire not to be amongst them.
"Red Squad, update," he murmured into his discreet comm.
"We're at the gates, sir. It's going fine. Should be inside in the next few minutes."
"Good. Keep it up."
His eyes moved over the crowd. Even though he'd studied crowd psychology and propaganda, he could scarcely believe that his operation was succeeding. Green Squad had been hard at work for weeks, spreading rumours, encouraging angry voices, putting up posters and leaving flyers around, prodding the news media, setting the rockets in place for this fireworks show. Now the spark was racing towards the touchpaper.
"Look out!" A hand pushed him aside, and a moment later a stone hurtled past where his head had been. Illyan replayed the last few seconds on his chip, saw the stone, traced it back and identified the thrower. There were cries not far off from the unfortunate person it had hit.
"Thanks." He nodded to Sergeant Scott and spoke again into his pickup, broadcasting to all the squads. "Grishnov's got some men out here too. They can't hope to stop this, but they'll try to pick us off. Keep alert."
A series of acknowledgements sounded simultaneously; only by using his chip was he able to confirm that every squad leader had responded. How did men manage without a memory chip to help them keep track of things? His squad moved nearer to the gates of the Ministry of Political Education.
"All right, sir, we're in," came the next report. "Blew in the side door B-3."
"Good work. Try not to let too many civilians get in. We'll be right behind you."
He had four burly commandos at the edge of their little group, and they were slowly thrusting a route through the crowd towards the walls of the Ministry. For a moment a particularly violent and enraged portion of the mob seemed likely to split them up, but Scott made a sharp gesture and they closed tightly about Illyan.
He had never commanded anything this big before. A month of planning, full of meetings, reports and assessments, reconnaissance, research and groundwork had gone into making this, with help from almost every department and little secret team ImpSec contained. Negri had given him a free hand and access to all sorts of resources Illyan had barely known existed before. He knew ImpSec better now than he ever had before.
He listened as Blue Squad reported they had also entered the Ministry, this time through a broken window and were placing some tangle-fields to prevent further entry. Minimising civilian casualties had been one of his priorities in the planning: since the ultimate aim was to burn down the Ministry, it would not do to have too many unprepared people inside when they let off the charges. Once they were inside, they would have to work fast.
"Here we go, sir." Sergeant Scott had steered them towards their planned entrance point, and Illyan snapped his mind back to the immediate task. A group of men shouting to each other in Greek had succeeded in battering down the outer gate of the complex and people were clambering over the bent ironwork and broken bricks to get near their target. Illyan's squad pushed past.
The Ministry had not yet given up the fight, and there were snipers at the windows above, armed with stunners for the most part. A few of the earliest attackers lay stunned around the courtyard, but there were too many now for that tactic to work, and the Ministry's defence was thoroughly confused by now with the spreading flames and the multiple points of attack. And, of course, the fact that nobody was answering their calls for reinforcement.
"Disperse," Illyan murmured into his bug. This was the tricky bit. In the current climate the Ministry men would not quite dare to kill unarmed civilians protesting at their gates, even if they were protesting violently, but if the snipers identified Illyan's squad as ImpSec they would break out the nerve disruptors at once. Naturally, none of the men in any of the squads were in uniform, though their civilian clothes were made from combat-grade fabrics and concealed a number of useful devices. Their ability to blend into the crowds was an essential part of the plan. He shouted some of the slogans in Greek and his men gradually moved apart, advancing on the inner door obliquely. Scott stuck to him stubbornly, but Illyan couldn't really blame him. Protecting the overall commander of the operation was one of the duties of Black Squad, and whilst Illyan had a lieutenant with Green Squad ready and able to take over if necessary, he wanted to see this out himself.
"Got it." The triumphant tones of one of his men-Andreevitch, his chip supplied, along with all Andreevitch's relevant personal data, which he pushed impatiently aside-echoed through his earbug, and he saw the lock was blasted off the inner door. The squad moved swiftly and within moments were inside, two men having stunned the guards. Illyan moved in the centre of the squad.
"You know the route," he said, fighting down the adrenalin rush of their entrance. "If you can catch anyone to fast-penta, so much the better."
Reports were coming in steadily. Now that they were inside, he pulled out a more sophisticated command headset and used it to filter them. No sign of Grishnov on the top floors. No sign that he'd gone out any of the known exits. One man seriously hurt in Red Squad, evacuation being arranged, a walking wounded in Green, a number of civilians down amongst the crowd, status unknown.
Their primary goal was finding Grishnov, as well as retrieving important files and trashing as much of the Ministry as they could. The crowd would help destroy the building, but no mob of untrained rioters would be able to find and kill Grishnov. Knowing what he did about the point of the Escobar invasion, Illyan saw this as his half of the operation. Vorkosigan had seen to it that the Prince was killed and his faction discredited; now it was Illyan's job to destroy the other half of that dangerous pair. He had, he thought, been given the easier, and cleaner, job by far.
But to find Grishnov, they had to be quick. His intelligence had been as certain as possible that Grishov had been in the building at the start of this, and he'd had men watching every exit. Now the net was closing, and Grishnov was trapped. Trapped, and dangerous. The less time he had to prepare, the better.
His point men were exchanging fire with a team of defenders at the head of the stairwell. Scott jerked his head, and someone tossed a stun-grenade into the mêlée. It went off with no more sound than a gentle 'pop', and the nearest defenders slumped down. The thrower staggered to his knees too. That was the trouble with using it at close range-there was always some backwash. Scott moved instantly to cover him, and the defenders were forced back down the stairs. Another man, Bretten, heaved the half-stunned man to his feet and they joined Illyan in the centre of the squad.
Cautiously, they went down to the basement level and fanned out into the wide corridor.
"Sir, look at this." Andreevitch was shining his handlight on a small holoplate inset in the wall at the foot of the stairs. "It's the real plan of this place. With all the bits that we didn't have in the briefing."
Illyan strode over. The map was detailed and appeared complete. He called up the approximate plan he had used to plan the operation, and compared the two.
"Good work, corporal," he said, still assimilating the new data. "Take a holo of it, please, and transmit it to the other squads." He counted exits, and found two that had not been on their plan.
"Red squad. Add the exit via the inner courtyard to your route. We"ll take the sub-basement one."
"Yes, sir."
Illyan recognised their location now. Just along here was the cell he had collected Vorkosigan from at the start of this mission. Full circle.
"Sir," called the point man. "Sir, there are people in here!"
In the cells, Illyan realised. Shit. He had missed that out of his planning, he had no spare men or equipment or plan for evacuating the Ministry's assorted political prisoners. And it was going to delay everything. Illyan grimaced. Delay or not, he couldn't abandon them to burn to death.
"Scott," he said sharply. "Arrange an evacuation for the prisoners. To a secure location-just because the Ministry is holding them doesn't mean they're innocent." Though it's not a bad guide…. "And hurry."
"I'm on it, sir."
Illyan was briefly distracted by a vision of Vorkosigan in the cells here-of Elena-of the Escobarans in the prison camp. This time perhaps it would be simpler. He looked in as the cell Vorkosigan had occupied was opened. The man inside didn't look up, didn't respond to his rescuer, though he did get up and walk obediently out when ordered. Illyan looked away from the man's blank eyes.
Scott was coping with his increased work with the efficiency Illyan expected of his sergeants, and soon all the political prisoners were rounded up and being escorted under guard out of the building to the medical post a block away. Reports were coming in--the entire two two floors were secure now, and Grishnov wasn't there. Red Squad was in a nasty firefight on the first floor, but the lieutenant in charge didn't think Grishnov was there either. Seconds ticked in Illyan's head. They'd covered all the known exits. Grishnov was in here somewhere. Unless he had his own private escape route, something nobody else knew about. Soon he'd have to make the call, and the longer he waited, the more civilians would be in the building when they set the firebombs.
Consulting the new map of the building again, Illyan noticed a small unlabelled office just past the prison area, and sent his men forward to investigate.
"This is serious shit," the point man was saying as he came out. "You need to see this, sir."
It was clearly one of Grishnov's private offices. Illyan pounced on the console and began to vacuum out its files himself. They were all encrypted multiple times over, a nice little exercise for the cryptology department. Two of his men went through the rest of the office swiftly and methodically.
"Good find," Illyan said to his men, passing on the data crystals as he went back into the corridor. "Get that all bagged and stored. This is important stuff."
"Yes, sir."
There was a flurry of activity as everything was stowed away. Grishnov's files were second in importance only to Grishnov himself. Illyan suspected from the location that these would be records of the prisoner interrogations, all the dark secrets Grishnov had learned over the years. Or made up--determining fact from fiction would keep his analysts busy for a long time.
A shout of alarm spun him around in time to see their quarry, Grishnov himself, emerging from around the corner and heading towards the office, his finger already squeezing the trigger of a nerve disruptor pointed at Illyan's head. So, Illyan thought, he is still in here. Everything seemed to slow, the noise of his men receding and the sound of his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. He began to duck, as if his nervous system could be faster than a disruptor beam, raising his own weapon, targeting and firing with reflexes trained over hundreds of hours of simulator and live-fire drills. There was a flash of movement, the hiss of the energy beams and the hideous sizzle of burnt flesh.
But there was no pain. Illyan stared stupidly ahead at Grishnov's falling body. He shot Grishnov again, unnecessarily, as he fell. Then he stared at his feet, where the young corporal Andreevitch was still twitching in his death-agony. His chip replayed the last two seconds, very slowly, more vivid than the world before his eyes. The shout of alarm had been Andreevitch's. Illyan zoomed in on his face, first terrified, then angry as he saw where Grishnov was aiming, finally a curious blank, as if acting without thinking at all. He had flung himself in front of Illyan and absorbed the blast without impeding Illyan's returning fire.
"Sir, are you hurt?"
Scott's sharp voice in his ear jolted him back to reality. "No," he said. He began to run forward to Grishnov's body, Scott with him on the alert for more trouble. But Grishnov had been alone.
Illyan stared down at Grishnov's body, thinking of Vorrutyer and Serg. The third, most shadowy member of that little triumvirate was dead now. He knelt to search the body, quick and efficient despite his numb mind. Scott was ready with an evidence bag, and into it Illyan put a set of data chips and the rest of the contents of Grishnov's pockets.
"All right," he said. "On to the next stage." He switched to broadcast to the other squad leaders. "Implement phase three. Make sure you leave nobody behind, then set the firebombs. Grishnov's dead."
*
Coming down off a combat mission was always difficult, but Illyan had never before realised that this difficulty grew exponentially worse the further up the chain of command you stood. He had written his report, then reviewed the other squad leaders' reports, then written another report summarising all them for Negri, who, he supposed, had written yet another report for the Emperor. He had handed out commendations and criticisms, debriefed his officers and eased everyone else into their downtime after the operation. And most importantly, visited the injured and contacted the families of the dead. By the evening of the following day, Illyan felt he had hit bottom. Most of the work was done and he could have gone off duty, but he knew that if he went home he would sit and stare morosely into the night. Instead he looked at his regular work in-file and saw the reports of the most recent tails on Lord Vorkosigan. It was one of his nights for drinking. On impulse, Illyan decided to look him up and see if he wanted any company whilst he got drunk.
The first report back said that he had gone out wandering around the caravanserai. Illyan shrugged into his jacket, checked his weapons and went out to join the squad.
The back alleys of the city suited Illyan's mood perfectly. He suspected they suited Vorkosigan equally well. The looming old buildings towered over him as he walked a little way ahead of one of the teams, following Vorkosigan out of a seedy bar and into the caravanserai.
He wasn't sure whether it was good acting or the alcohol, but Vorkosigan seemed to be unaware of his ImpSec escort as he wandered away from the lights and traffic of the modern city. Illyan made sure his weapons were easy to hand. Drunk, well-dressed and not in uniform, Vorkosigan seemed to be a perfect target for any of the many gangs and thugs who had a long-running battle with the municipal guard for superiority in this part of the city. Charting Vorkosigan's probable direction, Illyan dispatched two ImpSec teams to clear his path.
Since it was that sort of night, Vorkosigan took a random turn away from the safely prepared routes and headed for an uncleared area, taking gulps from his flask as he walked. Illyan and his patrol closed as near as he dared to Vorkosigan, but having read in detail the report from the last time Vorkosigan had taken exception to his ImpSec protector-guards, took care to avoid notice.
Ahead, a pair of young men were sitting on a doorstep. When Vorkosigan came into sight, they stood up. A moment later another pair joined them. Illyan sighed as Vorkosigan's steps accelerated. Did he want the chance to fight with someone, no holds barred, or did he want to be beaten up? Either way he would have to intervene.
He couldn't quite hear the words Vorkosigan exchanged with the men, but watched the body language. When it was clear that the talking was about to end, he signalled his men and they stepped out of cover as two of the thugs leapt at Vorkosigan.
The two hanging back saw them at once, saw the ImpSec insignia and the weapons aimed at them, and began to back away, then turned and fled. Vorkosigan was knocked to the ground by his attackers, and for a moment nobody could get a clear shot at either. Illyan began to run forward with his squad. One of the two attackers saw him then and began to scramble away, but was felled by a stunner beam from one of the patrol. The final attacker was still grappling with Vorkosigan, and Illyan's chip reeled out memories of unarmed combat practice aboard the invasion fleet flagship. He held up a hand for the patrol to wait, watched for his moment, and fired his stunner. The attacker slumped across Vorkosigan and lay motionless. Illyan waved back the rest of the patrol and approached as Vorkosigan staggered to his feet.
"Oh. You. I might have known."
Illyan continued towards him. It could be worse. At least Vorkosigan hadn't started off with a stream of invective this time. "It's my job," he answered after a moment, and Vorkosigan gave a short nod.
There was blood trickling down his face. The guards were not supposed to interfere more than necessary in what Vorkosigan chose to do, but letting him go his way with an unknown injury was not acceptable. Vorkosigan ran a hand over his eyes, then stared at the bloodsmears in surprise.
"Let me see, please, sir."
Vorkosigan stood still as Illyan ran careful fingers over his scalp until he found the cut. Though bleeding profusely, it was small. Not worth bothering a medic for. He took his handkerchief, folded it neatly into a pad and held it in place.
Vorkosigan looked down at his stunned assailant. "Couldn't you have let me have it out in a fair fight?" he demanded.
Illyan's glower was answer enough, and Vorkosigan sighed. "I'm retired now. All this haring around after me is just a waste of your time. How many men do you have out here tonight down all these alleys? I thought I saw one lot a while back."
"Twenty-three." Illyan's earbug was reporting the outcome of his nearest patrol's one-sided battle with the gang, and he stared vaguely at the clotting blood in Vorkosigan's hair until his ensign fell silent. He hoped he wouldn't have to involve anyone else. Vorkosigan's mood would not tolerate a squad of ImpSec men escorting him to his car.
Vorkosigan took a long drink from the flask. "I only rated a handful until I got back here. I suppose I should be flattered."
Illyan wondered if Vorkosigan could truly be ignorant of the ImpSec men who had been assigned to watch over him-and watch him-since Ezar had come to power, just as they watched all the contenders for the Imperium. But since his return from Escobar Vorkosigan's status had risen abruptly from the routine six-man team like that on Vorpatril and Emperor Dorca's other more distant descendants to this serious protection unit. Only the Emperor and his family were more thoroughly guarded. No wonder Vorkosigan was chafing.
He lifted the handkerchief a little and saw that the bleeding had slowed. A bit longer. Vorkosigan took another gulp from his flask.
"Are you going to arrest me now?" he asked.
"It would make my life much easier," Illyan retorted. "There are lots of other places in the city to go if you want a drink, without having to explore these stinking alleys."
Vorkosigan's lip twisted. "Not to mention that you wouldn't need twenty-three poor wretches to follow me around." He sighed. "All right, I'll go somewhere more comfortable. I don't suppose there are any more young toughs hanging around within a two-mile radius of this place by now."
"If there are I'll have someone's head," said Illyan frankly. "If you really want a fight I'll be happy to oblige. But not when you're drunk."
"How kind." Vorkosigan raised his flask, but Illyan shook his head. A flash of anger crossed Vorkosigan's face. "Damn it, Simon, you're still not my nanny."
"No, but I do have to accompany you to somewhere the car can meet us. You can get as drunk as you like once we're somewhere civilised. I might even join you. It's been a long day. But, if you must know, you're an absolute bitch to carry."
Vorkosigan barked a laugh. "My Armsmen are never that honest, not even Bothari. All right." He raised his free hand to his head. "I think you can leave off now."
Illyan put his bloodstained handkerchief back in his pocket and murmured a few words to his squad, and they began retracing their steps back to the wider roads. After a while Vorkosigan offered Illyan his flask.
"A long day, you said?"
Illyan took a cautious sip. It was maple mead, and burned his throat. "Started off with a next-of-kin visit," he said, the images flashing involuntarily before his mind before he realised this was probably not the best choice of conversational gambits. But Vorkosigan only gave an understanding grunt.
"From that mess yesterday?"
"Yes. The kid stepped in front of a nerve disruptor bolt. Aimed at me. Haven't ever had one like that before."
"Hell. Yes. I remember the first time that happened to me. Comes with command rank, often. It was a boarding party, if you'll believe it, hijackers. Why in hell they thought they could hijack a Barrayaran Imperial cruiser I can't imagine, and we killed them all so I never found out. But it was just the same thing. One of my ensigns, a quiet boy, not really cut out to be an officer, but he traded his life for mine."
This time Illyan did not stop him as he sipped from the flask, though Vorkosigan's steps were growing more unsteady. Let him have his anaesthetic. Illyan would have liked the same release, but knew it was impossible. No matter how drunk he was he never forgot anything. At least only his organic memory still held the smell of Andreevitch's seared skin; one day it would fade and be gone. He would never lose the sight.
"It was a success, though. The mission. At least the first part was." The memory of Grishnov falling dead still filled him with a fierce satisfaction.
"I've been avoiding the news," Vorkosigan said. "I know Grishnov was killed and the place burned down."
"The news doesn't have much of what happened anyway. The rioting got bad, afterwards, and some people were killed before the troops could calm things down."
Vorkosigan grunted and sipped again, and passed the flask over. Illyan accepted.
"We got the prisoners all out, though," he felt compelled to add after a minute. "All safe and on the mend now."
The look Vorkosigan shot him was something like pride, and Illyan straightened. No need to add whom he was imitating in this. He caught hold of Vorkosigan's arm as he lurched. Fortunately it wasn't far to where the car would meet them.
"It is good that they're gone," Vorkosigan said at last. "All of them," and Illyan knew he referred to Serg and his cronies as well as the purges taking place here. "And some good has come of it. Must come of it. But the cost…" He trailed off. It was as near as he had come to speaking of the great plot he had participated in.
"Yes." Illyan hesitated, then added, "I know." He dared say no more, but his eyes met Vorkosigan's. Vorkosigan made the catch, and his grip on Illyan's arm crushed muscle to bone.
They walked in silence to the car. As they got in, Vorkosigan said suddenly, "It's a nice night and this isn't empty yet." He held up the flask. "I don't think I'll head home yet. Come have a drink with me. Somewhere peaceful and quiet. Outside."
"Vorbarra Park," Illyan offered after a second's thought, interpreting Vorkosigan's intent easily. "It's always pleasant there."
Vorkosigan nodded, and Illyan instructed the driver, then sat beside Vorkosigan in the rear compartment. They rode through the dark streets in the silence of shared conspirators.
"Check the area, and then you can keep to outer-perimeter distance," Illyan told his squad when they arrived at the main gates to the park. "I don't think we'll have any trouble here."
Vorkosigan walked alongside Illyan through the archway with its garlands of roses into the park. There were a few lights on the main paths, and the moons were both in the sky. Illyan reached to his earbug and switched it off, then set his comm link to emergency-messages-only and removed the sound pick-up from his collar. These things done, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device.
"You know what those guards are going to think?" Vorkosigan said, watching these preparations with amused curiosity.
Illyan blinked, then recalled that Vorbarra Park was famous for its assignations. He stared at Vorkosigan for a dazed moment, then recovered.
"So long as it's not this," he retorted, and switched on the device. There was a faint hum, and the moons' light was dimmer around them. "Portable cone of silence," he explained to Vorkosigan. "We're completely private now."
"Just so."
They walked through a shrubbery and passed a courting couple sitting on one of the benches. Illyan made for the picnic field, a large open space where they could be sure nobody was concealed around them. They sat on the dry grass, worn brown with the summer's use, and Vorkosigan leaned back with a sigh.
"How did you figure it out?" he asked.
"Negri personally trained me in analysis," Illyan said tartly.
"Hah. He wouldn't have you told beforehand." He uncorked his flask again and took a swallow, then passed it to Illyan. "At least you know I'm no hero."
"I don't know what you are," Illyan said honestly. "I believed you were a traitor for a time," he went on after a moment. "I thought it was your plan alone, and that I'd have to arrest you when we returned home. There were a few times when I nearly arrested you on the flagship."
Damnably, Vorkosigan recognised the full depth of his words. "I daresay you'd have managed."
Illyan flushed. "I don't think I could have bluffed you with the nerve disruptor. I'd have had to have stunned you."
"I assure you, I'd prefer to be bluffed."
Illyan gave a short laugh, and they sat in silence. Vorkosigan sipped from his flask and leaned back on one elbow wearily.
"You told Captain Naismith," Illyan said after a while.
Vorkosigan looked up. "She worked it out on her own. But I confirmed it." He took a breath. "I regret lying to you about that."
Illyan gave a noncommittal shrug. He'd known it had been a lie at the time, and he hadn't cared then.
"You don't have to worry about it. I told Ezar, and he agreed it was a good thing." Vorkosigan sighed. "Though it didn't seem to be helping from what I last heard from the Betans. They were still spitting nails. She should have reported it to Betan security by now, surely."
Illyan gave him a blank look.
"I thought if the Betans knew why we'd done it--under the table, of course--it would make it easier to reassure them that they aren't next," Vorkosigan explained. "Or any of our other neighbours. We used to have good relations with the Betans, in Xav's day. They like underdogs better than conquerors, though."
His voice seemed more animated as he laid out the politics for Illyan, or perhaps it was talking about Captain Naismith that had given that hint of life to him. Work and a wife, Illyan thought. That's what Vorkosigan needed.
"God, I hope she hasn't gone in for some kind of heroic silence," Vorkosigan went on. "I didn't want to stain her with this."
"She was involved already," Illyan offered, images of Captain Naismith in Ges Vorrutyer's cabin flashing though his mind.
"Yeah. Fuck." Vorkosigan took another drink, then leaned forward and began to scrape at the grass with his fingers, leaving a bare patch of earth. Then he pulled out a knife Illyan hadn't realised he was carrying. Illyan sat up sharply, wishing he hadn't had that last drink. Vorkosigan passed it hilt-first to him with a slight twisted smile. "I'm too drunk for this," he said. Illyan stared at him, then understood as Vorkosigan pulled at a clump of his hair and held it for Illyan to cut.
There had been a ceremonial burning for the Prince and all the dead of Escobar last week. Illyan had been there. It had been strange to sit quietly at the back whilst Vorkosigan stood at the front and lit the pyre and made a speech, not having to stick close to his elbow. It had been a good speech, too--Illyan suspected Ezar's speechwriters had been involved. It had been the only public appearance Vorkosigan had made since returning from Escobar, and Illyan didn't know how Ezar had coaxed him to do it. Once the ceremony had ended, Vorkosigan had gone back to Vorkosigan Surleau, got drunk and flown his lightflyer around Dendarii gorge for a while. He hadn't managed to do more than clip a wing, but not, Illyan had seen from the report, for want of trying.
Illyan sliced off the clump of hair neatly and then, with a quick glance at Vorkosigan for permission, cut off some of his own. Vorkosigan put them both together on the bare patch of earth, splashed them with his mead and then took an oldfashioned lighter and set it burning. It flamed up at once from the mead, then the hair caught and smouldered, sending up the familiar pungent smell, overlaid with alcohol instead of incense.
The little offering burned down rapidly, embers winking out into the earth. The first time anyone burned an offering on Barrayar, Illyan thought, it was probably a lot more like this than the Imperial ceremony last week. Vorkosigan lay back in the grass, watching it burn to ash.
"Do you think it was worth it, Simon?" he asked quietly. "Tell me the truth. You've seen it all. Was it worth it?"
Illyan plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers. "I worked out of the Residence office since I had this chip put in," he said. "I've seen ... a lot of things there, and heard a lot more. You can't ever know what would have happened, but..." He trailed off, staring at the night sky, searching for words. "I would have followed you," he said at last. "If Serg had inherited, and you had risen against him. I would have broken my oath and joined your revolt. You have spared me that, and I thank you."
Vorkosigan was silent a long time after that. Illyan saw his eyes gleaming wetly in the darkness, and looked away.
*
With all the clearing up from Guillotine over, Illyan found himself stuck at HQ most of the time, doing odd jobs for Negri and catching up on paperwork. And reading the reports on Vorkosigan with growing dread.
His comconsole gave an alerting beep, telling him something had fallen into one of his nets. He called it up, and stared at the screen for a full minute. At last.
He gave the ensign working with him a broad smile that made him sit up in surprise. "Here she is," he said.
"Sir?" his ensign asked politely. Illyan shook himself.
"I need to talk to the commander of security at the Vorbarr Sultana Orbital Station. No, whoever commands all the orbital stations, she might not go to Vorbarr Sultana. Get him on the comm for me at once."
"Yes, sir."
Illyan reviewed the data whilst he waited. There she was, travelling openly on her Betan passport, on a commercial flight from Komarr. There were a lot of red flags against her name, indications that when she reached Barrayaran orbit she would find the border guard waiting for her.
"Barrayar orbital stations security chief on the comm for you, sir," the ensign said.
"Thank you." Illyan opened his comconsole. "Good afternoon," he said politely to the middle-aged man who appeared on the viewscreen.
"Good afternoon," the chief replied in an extremely anxious voice. "How may I help you, sir?"
Being sirred by men like this was one of the little perks of the Horus-eyes on his collar. Illyan gave a biting smile, because he was in a good mood.
"There will be a passenger arriving from Komarr on the River Queen. A Betan woman. She is flagged to be arrested at the planetary border. I want her to go through. No questions, no searches, no trouble at all. We need her to get downside without a hitch." He pressed a button on his console. "I'm sending you her personal data. Grease her through immigration however you like, just make sure she gets here. Notify me personally when you have her on a shuttle downside; I'll be escorting her onwards. And don't give her any sign that you're letting her pass. Treat her exactly like an ordinary passenger with all papers in order."
The security chief stared at the records Illyan had sent. "But--sir, this says she's a wanted criminal. Murder, espionage, assault on--"
"I've read her file, thank you," Illyan said in a hard voice. "But you should forget you saw it. She is to arrive here without any trouble. Is that understood?"
The security chief was a man of principle, Illyan granted. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, in a strained voice. "I can't do that without authorisation from someone more senior."
"Is that so?" Illyan muttered. "Very well. We'll be in touch presently." He cut the comm. "Damn," he muttered. "Can you get me a chance to talk to Captain Negri?"
The ensign nodded and began to speak into his comm link. A few minutes later he said, "Captain Negri, sir," and Negri's face appeared on Illyan's display.
"Yes?" Negri said sternly. "What do you have for me?"
"Cordelia Naismith," Illyan answered succinctly. "Vorkosigan's Betan, sir. She's on her way here. I asked the chief of orbital security to grease her through immigration, but he's having an outbreak of conscience and wants someone senior to authorise it."
"Ah," said Negri. "Vorkosigan's Betan, indeed. I've been expecting her."
There was a pleased smile at the corner of Negri's mouth that prompted Illyan to ask, "What did we have to do with this, sir?"
"I barely had to do a thing," Negri said. "A few extra messages in our coded traffic--the coded traffic we know the Betans have broken, naturally. A modest deposit in a Jacksonian bank account in her name. Betan security did the rest for us. And Naismith herself." He shook his head. "Wouldn't have her as a spy even if she volunteered. Girl has no idea how to keep her head down and her eyes open. I hope she lives up to your expectations here."
"I think she will, sir."
"Good. I'll contact your security fellow and put the fear of God into him. You make sure she gets the rest of the way."
"Yes, sir." Illyan was already reviewing the flight schedule on his console. In the back of his mind, images were flashing over his chip from the previous week. Vorkosigan had made another suicide attempt, crashing his lightflyer drunk in the Dendarii gorge. Illyan had attached himself to the detail again that night, in the pursuing flyer, his heart in his mouth. Whatever gods or saints or ancestral spirits guarded the very drunk Illyan didn't know, but Vorkosigan had been dragged limp from the splintered and burning wreckage with barely a bruise on him, and had crowned the evening by vomiting on Illyan's boots. Illyan would be more than happy to hand him over to Captain Naismith. If he could just keep the damned fool alive long enough for her to get here.
*
He was at the wedding somewhat accidentally, since he'd tailed Captain Naismith to Vorkosigan Surleau personally and stayed to attach himself to the security detail there for a few days. Negri had made that strange grimace that might have been a smile, and given him permission to stay and keep an eye on them both. Vorkosigan didn't look healed as he spoke his oath to Captain Naismith, but he did look as though he'd stopped spiralling downwards and begun to climb out again. As the newlyweds settled down to a quiet domestic routine, and Vorkosigan drank no more than a glass of wine with his meals and lost his haggard look, Illyan felt a tension in him begin to ease at last. He returned to HQ and his work, and no longer held his breath as he read the reports from Vorkosigan's detail.
A few weeks after the wedding, Negri summoned Illyan to his office. When he entered, he found Negri still apparently immersed in his paperwork. He addressed a few inconsequential remarks to Illyan, who waited patiently. Squaring off a stack of flimsies, Negri looked up at Illyan at last.
"Lord Vorkosigan is going to be Regent," he announced.
Illyan nodded and said nothing. It was not a surprise. He'd run through the candidates himself and had seen that Vorkosigan was far and away the best. Even drunk and suicidal Vorkosigan had outshone the others on the list; now he was undeniably the only choice. The only catch would be Vorkosigan's willingness to accept, but if Negri had got him...
"He doesn't know it yet, naturally," Negri added, and Illyan choked.
"You think he won't accept?" Negri frowned at him. "I believe you know him better than I do now. He must take this job. Have you any suggestions?"
"Lady Vorkosigan," Illyan said at once. "If you can get her to accept the idea, there won't be a problem."
Negri nodded slowly. "His Captain, I believe he calls her. And so the Admiral obeys his Captain, does he? How interesting. Thank you, Commander." For a few moments Negri gazed into space.
"Now for you." A stern expression crossed his face. "Don't think I haven't noticed how this Escobar business has changed you. I suppose it is the natural order of things that you should transfer your loyalty from the old to the new, even before Ezar dies." Illyan wondered if he had imagined the sudden flick of pain in Negri's voice. "I plan to make the most of it. You will have command of the Regent's personal security and will be his liaison with ImpSec."
Illyan could not prevent a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he heard this.
"Ah, I thought that would suit you. I know what I can see, Simon. You're no man of mine any longer, if you ever were. Since that's the result I wanted when I set you to watch Vorkosigan, I can't complain. You'll serve him well."
Illyan thought he saw a faint sadness on the face of his old mentor. "Sir, I've always been your--"
"Don't bullshit me. I know you better than you do yourself. You respect me, no doubt, but you'll dance barefoot on broken glass for Vorkosigan. He'll need you to, and that's how I wish it. When he is Regent you will be responsible for his life, and you'll suit him much better than I will. The days of us old pirates are numbered now."
Since that agreed rather too neatly with Illyan's own analysis, he could do nothing but nod.
"I know times are changing. Dammit, I've made them change. You New Men will have to live in them. I hope you find it to your taste. I'm sure in twenty years ImpSec will look totally different."
Imagining ImpSec without Negri in charge was like imagining the Great Square without the statue of Dorca the Just. Illyan could not even begin to picture the Service without him, nor see how any other man could hold the reins of each of the wildly diverse men in ImpSec.
"Don't stare at me like a goggle-eyed cadet. You have your orders, off you go. Go start planning for your new master. You know what to do."
"Yes, sir." Illyan stood, then took the liberty boldly. "Thank you."
"Hah. You're welcome to it."
*
Ezar's health failed further, but Illyan heard nothing more of Vorkosigan's projected role in the government until several weeks had passed. Then, just as he'd been heading off-duty one evening, Negri called him.
"Got him at last," he said. "Ezar brought him round. And Lady Vorkosigan, like you said. Report to us at the Residence now, and bring your work."
Illyan hurried to obey, his heart light despite the difficult nature of the work. He'd been through the full threat assessment to Vorkosigan, studying everyone who already hated him--most Komarrans, the numerous planets where he was on lists of wanted criminals, his political enemies amongst the Counts, assorted revolutionary and radical parties, the last remnants of Grishnov's War Party--and he knew that when Vorkosigan became Regent that list was going to get approximately a hundred times longer. And Lady Vorkosigan introduced her own complications with the Betans--he had seen the full story now of how Captain Naismith had reached Barrayar and had been both disturbed and entirely unsurprised--not to mention the domestic dislike of seeing the Hero of Escobar partnered with the woman who had, at least in the public record, killed the Admiral. And that was just the start.
He found Vorkosigan and his wife with Negri in an antechamber. The Prime Minister must be around somewhere too, for Illyan spotted the captain of his personal guard lurking in the shadows.
Vorkosigan looked round as he entered. "Hello, Simon. Can't get rid of you, can I?" He grinned, belying his words.
"I hope not, sir."
"Ah well. I'm used to having you around now, and since it seems I'm going to need a nanny again…" He came over and extended a hand. "I'll be glad to have you watching my back."
Illyan shook his hand. It was the greeting of equals, but Illyan could almost feel Vorkosigan's other hand closed around his as they had the day Vorrutyer had died. He felt their pull on him like an anchor to his ship, like magnetic north to his steel, turning him to face the right direction. The direction he was meant to face.
At Escobar, Vorkosigan had been impressive, a man who could draw even a cool-headed spy like Illyan into his orbit. Now, meeting Vorkosigan's eye, Illyan realised he had only seen a shadow before. Vorkosigan was moving forward on his own now, no longer dragged under the wheels of Ezar's soul-crushing plot, and Illyan knew that if Vorkosigan's first order to him was to leap from the top of the Star Bridge and fly down, he'd do it without a blink.
"It's an honour, sir," he said, and meant it. He made a little bow to Lady Vorkosigan. "My lady." She gave him an amused look in return, evidently still adjusting to the title. Count Vortala joined them, and Vorkosigan looked around.
"All right," Vorkosigan said slowly, his eyes moving from face to face. "Let's get started."
Illyan could feel the change in the room as Vorkosigan straightened, the way everyone's body language began to mirror his as the focus of power settled on him. Vorkosigan opened the door to the briefing room and held it for his wife, then went in. With a smile, Illyan followed at his heels.
Title: Aral Vorkosigan's Dog 15/15
Rating/warnings: R, Shards-level sexual and physical violence
Length: 70k (this chapter 8400 words)
Summary: Illyan is assigned to watch Aral Vorkosigan during the Escobaran war. Soon he has to choose between his duty and his conscience, and the consequences rapidly get beyond him.
Index Post
Previous Chapter
Vorkosigan's drinking continued over the following weeks. Illyan read through all the reports from the surveillance team, first with dismay, then with weary resignation. But he had little time to dwell on it, because Project Guillotine involved a tremendous amount of planning. The Escobar invasion had destroyed and discredited Vorrutyer and the Prince, leaders of the centralising hawks on Barrayar, but many of their structures were still intact and would, in time, undoubtedly find new leaders and begin again. So the Emperor was cleaning out the rest of his government, and a steady stream of ministers and officials were developing chronic illnesses that required a long rest in the country or being discovered in unfortunate sex scandals, but there was one enemy remaining that required ImpSec's special attention: the Ministry of Political Education. Killing Grishnov and devastating his Ministry were the stated goals of Guillotine, and Illyan had access to more of ImpSec than he'd ever worked with before as he planned the methods for this purging. He immersed himself in the problems, trying not to think of anything else. He found being back at his real job both a relief and a struggle, enjoying the work but at the same time feeling oddly cut off and adrift, outside Vorkosigan's orbit.
When he was summoned abruptly away from his desk by Negri to attend on the Emperor, he assumed it was something related to Guillotine, since Negri had already relayed all the pertinent parts of Illyan's account of the Escobar expedition to the Ezar. He entered the Green Room where Negri and the Emperor already sat in conference, and swallowed. He hadn't seen the Emperor since before Escobar, and the change in him was shocking. His skin was translucent, his hands trembling, his breath noisy and fast. With Serg dead and little Gregor only four, they would be needing a Regent very soon. He understood now the pain he'd seen in Negri's eyes whenever Ezar was mentioned.
"Congratulations on your promotion, Commander," said Ezar blandly as he entered. His voice at least was as stern and cool as always.
Illyan bowed.
"The Emperor requires your thoughts concerning Admiral Vorkosigan," Negri said.
Illyan blinked at him. "Certainly, sire."
"Is he still trying to drink himself to death?" Ezar's voice was calm, dispassionate. Illyan strove for a similar calm in his reply.
"He generally spends one day drinking, the next being ill and the day after that making himself useful to his father. He has made three suicide gestures so far, one of which was nearly successful."
"Oh?"
"He went sailing one night, drunk, capsized the boat and was close to drowning by the time my men got to him." Illyan frowned. He'd been off-duty that evening, and had been frantically furious with the sergeant who had been leading the ImpSec surveillance team, though in all honesty there wasn't a lot more he could have done short of arresting Vorkosigan before he got in the boat.
"He's gone on benders like this before," Negri offered. "Twice, in fact. Both times he pulled out of it again in the end."
"Everyone gets drunk at Kyril Island." Ezar shook his head and looked to Illyan. "Besides, if one of his gestures, as you call them, gets out of hand, it doesn't matter whether he pulls out of it in the end or not. We need him alive and sober. You've been observing him closely, Commander. What do you suggest?"
If I knew, Illyan wanted to say, don't you think I'd have tried it by now? Instead he said, "So far it has only become worse over time. The suicide gestures have become more serious and the drinking is beginning to affect his health. None of his friends have had any ability to-to make a difference." To help him? Comfort him? Order him to stop wallowing in misery? None of those sounded like quite the right thing. Tell him that allowing his men and his friends to go to their deaths without lifting a finger to help them is fine so long as the Emperor orders it? Surely the Emperor must understand what pain it was that Vorkosigan drank to forget? After all, he had connived at the killing of his own son. But Ezar's face was still, unmoved. Illyan felt cold.
"I had hopes of that Betan woman. Naismith, wasn't it?" the Emperor said. "What happened to her?"
"She returned to Beta Colony. Lord Vorkosigan asked her to marry him, but she refused. She appeared fond of him, but did not wish to live on Barrayar."
"Can we get her back?" Ezar looked at Negri. "Betan security is shoddy. Surely you can arrange something?"
"I don't recommend that, sire," Illyan said at once. Negri gave him an irritated look, Ezar a more calculating one.
"Why not?"
"If it's to help Lord Vorkosigan, she must come of her own accord. And," he paused, searching for words, "I would not advise attempting to coerce Captain Naismith in any way. I do not think there is a man in ImpSec who is a match for her."
Negri's brows rose. "You could go yourself."
"I include myself in that assessment, sir."
"I grow more convinced than ever that I must meet this Captain Naismith." The Emperor frowned at Negri. "Perhaps you can convey her news of Lord Vorkosigan's unhappy situation, appeal to her, ah, womanly nature."
"That might have more chance of success," Illyan said, not altogether hopefully.
"Hm! We'll have to think about that." Ezar smiled slightly. "Only one way to handle women, you know. They're contrary little things. Got to convince her she can't ever have him back..." He stared into the distance, then nodded dismissal to Illyan.
"Thank you, Commander," Negri said.
Illyan was left wondering exactly how Ezar thought he could manoeuvre Captain Naismith into returning to Barrayar. Somehow, he didn't think it was beyond Ezar's power.
*
Smoke from the groundcars burning at the front gate was starting to drift towards them. The gatehouse was on fire too, and there were raucous cheers from the crowd as the old emblem given by Emperor Dorca came crashing down. Dorca's Hands. That had been the name of the forerunners of the Political Officers, as ImpSec had once been Dorca's Eyes.
Illyan didn't cheer. Dorca's Hands had saved Barrayar twice: once when they had been created to exert Imperial authority over the counts' armies, and again when they had borne much of the work of organising the resistance against the Ceta occupation. Grishnov had by all accounts learned his trade alongside General Count Vorkosigan, though they'd become enemies in the past decade. He knew what the Ministry of Political Education had become, what Grishnov had become, what they had done, what they had wanted to do. And he was happy to pull the trigger on the corrupt monster that had once been a hero of Barrayar. But he wasn't going to cheer as he did it.
Around him, men were shouting slogans his propaganda team had written, slogans about Escobar and the war in four languages. He heard some new ones mixed in, which was gratifying, proof that the destructive process he'd begun had taken on a life of its own. The Ministry would not survive the night.
The mob was pressed together here, and he was glad that his shoulders were jostled not by the inflamed citizenry but by his own men. For all his efforts, he knew there would be casualties before this operation was over, and he had a healthy desire not to be amongst them.
"Red Squad, update," he murmured into his discreet comm.
"We're at the gates, sir. It's going fine. Should be inside in the next few minutes."
"Good. Keep it up."
His eyes moved over the crowd. Even though he'd studied crowd psychology and propaganda, he could scarcely believe that his operation was succeeding. Green Squad had been hard at work for weeks, spreading rumours, encouraging angry voices, putting up posters and leaving flyers around, prodding the news media, setting the rockets in place for this fireworks show. Now the spark was racing towards the touchpaper.
"Look out!" A hand pushed him aside, and a moment later a stone hurtled past where his head had been. Illyan replayed the last few seconds on his chip, saw the stone, traced it back and identified the thrower. There were cries not far off from the unfortunate person it had hit.
"Thanks." He nodded to Sergeant Scott and spoke again into his pickup, broadcasting to all the squads. "Grishnov's got some men out here too. They can't hope to stop this, but they'll try to pick us off. Keep alert."
A series of acknowledgements sounded simultaneously; only by using his chip was he able to confirm that every squad leader had responded. How did men manage without a memory chip to help them keep track of things? His squad moved nearer to the gates of the Ministry of Political Education.
"All right, sir, we're in," came the next report. "Blew in the side door B-3."
"Good work. Try not to let too many civilians get in. We'll be right behind you."
He had four burly commandos at the edge of their little group, and they were slowly thrusting a route through the crowd towards the walls of the Ministry. For a moment a particularly violent and enraged portion of the mob seemed likely to split them up, but Scott made a sharp gesture and they closed tightly about Illyan.
He had never commanded anything this big before. A month of planning, full of meetings, reports and assessments, reconnaissance, research and groundwork had gone into making this, with help from almost every department and little secret team ImpSec contained. Negri had given him a free hand and access to all sorts of resources Illyan had barely known existed before. He knew ImpSec better now than he ever had before.
He listened as Blue Squad reported they had also entered the Ministry, this time through a broken window and were placing some tangle-fields to prevent further entry. Minimising civilian casualties had been one of his priorities in the planning: since the ultimate aim was to burn down the Ministry, it would not do to have too many unprepared people inside when they let off the charges. Once they were inside, they would have to work fast.
"Here we go, sir." Sergeant Scott had steered them towards their planned entrance point, and Illyan snapped his mind back to the immediate task. A group of men shouting to each other in Greek had succeeded in battering down the outer gate of the complex and people were clambering over the bent ironwork and broken bricks to get near their target. Illyan's squad pushed past.
The Ministry had not yet given up the fight, and there were snipers at the windows above, armed with stunners for the most part. A few of the earliest attackers lay stunned around the courtyard, but there were too many now for that tactic to work, and the Ministry's defence was thoroughly confused by now with the spreading flames and the multiple points of attack. And, of course, the fact that nobody was answering their calls for reinforcement.
"Disperse," Illyan murmured into his bug. This was the tricky bit. In the current climate the Ministry men would not quite dare to kill unarmed civilians protesting at their gates, even if they were protesting violently, but if the snipers identified Illyan's squad as ImpSec they would break out the nerve disruptors at once. Naturally, none of the men in any of the squads were in uniform, though their civilian clothes were made from combat-grade fabrics and concealed a number of useful devices. Their ability to blend into the crowds was an essential part of the plan. He shouted some of the slogans in Greek and his men gradually moved apart, advancing on the inner door obliquely. Scott stuck to him stubbornly, but Illyan couldn't really blame him. Protecting the overall commander of the operation was one of the duties of Black Squad, and whilst Illyan had a lieutenant with Green Squad ready and able to take over if necessary, he wanted to see this out himself.
"Got it." The triumphant tones of one of his men-Andreevitch, his chip supplied, along with all Andreevitch's relevant personal data, which he pushed impatiently aside-echoed through his earbug, and he saw the lock was blasted off the inner door. The squad moved swiftly and within moments were inside, two men having stunned the guards. Illyan moved in the centre of the squad.
"You know the route," he said, fighting down the adrenalin rush of their entrance. "If you can catch anyone to fast-penta, so much the better."
Reports were coming in steadily. Now that they were inside, he pulled out a more sophisticated command headset and used it to filter them. No sign of Grishnov on the top floors. No sign that he'd gone out any of the known exits. One man seriously hurt in Red Squad, evacuation being arranged, a walking wounded in Green, a number of civilians down amongst the crowd, status unknown.
Their primary goal was finding Grishnov, as well as retrieving important files and trashing as much of the Ministry as they could. The crowd would help destroy the building, but no mob of untrained rioters would be able to find and kill Grishnov. Knowing what he did about the point of the Escobar invasion, Illyan saw this as his half of the operation. Vorkosigan had seen to it that the Prince was killed and his faction discredited; now it was Illyan's job to destroy the other half of that dangerous pair. He had, he thought, been given the easier, and cleaner, job by far.
But to find Grishnov, they had to be quick. His intelligence had been as certain as possible that Grishov had been in the building at the start of this, and he'd had men watching every exit. Now the net was closing, and Grishnov was trapped. Trapped, and dangerous. The less time he had to prepare, the better.
His point men were exchanging fire with a team of defenders at the head of the stairwell. Scott jerked his head, and someone tossed a stun-grenade into the mêlée. It went off with no more sound than a gentle 'pop', and the nearest defenders slumped down. The thrower staggered to his knees too. That was the trouble with using it at close range-there was always some backwash. Scott moved instantly to cover him, and the defenders were forced back down the stairs. Another man, Bretten, heaved the half-stunned man to his feet and they joined Illyan in the centre of the squad.
Cautiously, they went down to the basement level and fanned out into the wide corridor.
"Sir, look at this." Andreevitch was shining his handlight on a small holoplate inset in the wall at the foot of the stairs. "It's the real plan of this place. With all the bits that we didn't have in the briefing."
Illyan strode over. The map was detailed and appeared complete. He called up the approximate plan he had used to plan the operation, and compared the two.
"Good work, corporal," he said, still assimilating the new data. "Take a holo of it, please, and transmit it to the other squads." He counted exits, and found two that had not been on their plan.
"Red squad. Add the exit via the inner courtyard to your route. We"ll take the sub-basement one."
"Yes, sir."
Illyan recognised their location now. Just along here was the cell he had collected Vorkosigan from at the start of this mission. Full circle.
"Sir," called the point man. "Sir, there are people in here!"
In the cells, Illyan realised. Shit. He had missed that out of his planning, he had no spare men or equipment or plan for evacuating the Ministry's assorted political prisoners. And it was going to delay everything. Illyan grimaced. Delay or not, he couldn't abandon them to burn to death.
"Scott," he said sharply. "Arrange an evacuation for the prisoners. To a secure location-just because the Ministry is holding them doesn't mean they're innocent." Though it's not a bad guide…. "And hurry."
"I'm on it, sir."
Illyan was briefly distracted by a vision of Vorkosigan in the cells here-of Elena-of the Escobarans in the prison camp. This time perhaps it would be simpler. He looked in as the cell Vorkosigan had occupied was opened. The man inside didn't look up, didn't respond to his rescuer, though he did get up and walk obediently out when ordered. Illyan looked away from the man's blank eyes.
Scott was coping with his increased work with the efficiency Illyan expected of his sergeants, and soon all the political prisoners were rounded up and being escorted under guard out of the building to the medical post a block away. Reports were coming in--the entire two two floors were secure now, and Grishnov wasn't there. Red Squad was in a nasty firefight on the first floor, but the lieutenant in charge didn't think Grishnov was there either. Seconds ticked in Illyan's head. They'd covered all the known exits. Grishnov was in here somewhere. Unless he had his own private escape route, something nobody else knew about. Soon he'd have to make the call, and the longer he waited, the more civilians would be in the building when they set the firebombs.
Consulting the new map of the building again, Illyan noticed a small unlabelled office just past the prison area, and sent his men forward to investigate.
"This is serious shit," the point man was saying as he came out. "You need to see this, sir."
It was clearly one of Grishnov's private offices. Illyan pounced on the console and began to vacuum out its files himself. They were all encrypted multiple times over, a nice little exercise for the cryptology department. Two of his men went through the rest of the office swiftly and methodically.
"Good find," Illyan said to his men, passing on the data crystals as he went back into the corridor. "Get that all bagged and stored. This is important stuff."
"Yes, sir."
There was a flurry of activity as everything was stowed away. Grishnov's files were second in importance only to Grishnov himself. Illyan suspected from the location that these would be records of the prisoner interrogations, all the dark secrets Grishnov had learned over the years. Or made up--determining fact from fiction would keep his analysts busy for a long time.
A shout of alarm spun him around in time to see their quarry, Grishnov himself, emerging from around the corner and heading towards the office, his finger already squeezing the trigger of a nerve disruptor pointed at Illyan's head. So, Illyan thought, he is still in here. Everything seemed to slow, the noise of his men receding and the sound of his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. He began to duck, as if his nervous system could be faster than a disruptor beam, raising his own weapon, targeting and firing with reflexes trained over hundreds of hours of simulator and live-fire drills. There was a flash of movement, the hiss of the energy beams and the hideous sizzle of burnt flesh.
But there was no pain. Illyan stared stupidly ahead at Grishnov's falling body. He shot Grishnov again, unnecessarily, as he fell. Then he stared at his feet, where the young corporal Andreevitch was still twitching in his death-agony. His chip replayed the last two seconds, very slowly, more vivid than the world before his eyes. The shout of alarm had been Andreevitch's. Illyan zoomed in on his face, first terrified, then angry as he saw where Grishnov was aiming, finally a curious blank, as if acting without thinking at all. He had flung himself in front of Illyan and absorbed the blast without impeding Illyan's returning fire.
"Sir, are you hurt?"
Scott's sharp voice in his ear jolted him back to reality. "No," he said. He began to run forward to Grishnov's body, Scott with him on the alert for more trouble. But Grishnov had been alone.
Illyan stared down at Grishnov's body, thinking of Vorrutyer and Serg. The third, most shadowy member of that little triumvirate was dead now. He knelt to search the body, quick and efficient despite his numb mind. Scott was ready with an evidence bag, and into it Illyan put a set of data chips and the rest of the contents of Grishnov's pockets.
"All right," he said. "On to the next stage." He switched to broadcast to the other squad leaders. "Implement phase three. Make sure you leave nobody behind, then set the firebombs. Grishnov's dead."
*
Coming down off a combat mission was always difficult, but Illyan had never before realised that this difficulty grew exponentially worse the further up the chain of command you stood. He had written his report, then reviewed the other squad leaders' reports, then written another report summarising all them for Negri, who, he supposed, had written yet another report for the Emperor. He had handed out commendations and criticisms, debriefed his officers and eased everyone else into their downtime after the operation. And most importantly, visited the injured and contacted the families of the dead. By the evening of the following day, Illyan felt he had hit bottom. Most of the work was done and he could have gone off duty, but he knew that if he went home he would sit and stare morosely into the night. Instead he looked at his regular work in-file and saw the reports of the most recent tails on Lord Vorkosigan. It was one of his nights for drinking. On impulse, Illyan decided to look him up and see if he wanted any company whilst he got drunk.
The first report back said that he had gone out wandering around the caravanserai. Illyan shrugged into his jacket, checked his weapons and went out to join the squad.
The back alleys of the city suited Illyan's mood perfectly. He suspected they suited Vorkosigan equally well. The looming old buildings towered over him as he walked a little way ahead of one of the teams, following Vorkosigan out of a seedy bar and into the caravanserai.
He wasn't sure whether it was good acting or the alcohol, but Vorkosigan seemed to be unaware of his ImpSec escort as he wandered away from the lights and traffic of the modern city. Illyan made sure his weapons were easy to hand. Drunk, well-dressed and not in uniform, Vorkosigan seemed to be a perfect target for any of the many gangs and thugs who had a long-running battle with the municipal guard for superiority in this part of the city. Charting Vorkosigan's probable direction, Illyan dispatched two ImpSec teams to clear his path.
Since it was that sort of night, Vorkosigan took a random turn away from the safely prepared routes and headed for an uncleared area, taking gulps from his flask as he walked. Illyan and his patrol closed as near as he dared to Vorkosigan, but having read in detail the report from the last time Vorkosigan had taken exception to his ImpSec protector-guards, took care to avoid notice.
Ahead, a pair of young men were sitting on a doorstep. When Vorkosigan came into sight, they stood up. A moment later another pair joined them. Illyan sighed as Vorkosigan's steps accelerated. Did he want the chance to fight with someone, no holds barred, or did he want to be beaten up? Either way he would have to intervene.
He couldn't quite hear the words Vorkosigan exchanged with the men, but watched the body language. When it was clear that the talking was about to end, he signalled his men and they stepped out of cover as two of the thugs leapt at Vorkosigan.
The two hanging back saw them at once, saw the ImpSec insignia and the weapons aimed at them, and began to back away, then turned and fled. Vorkosigan was knocked to the ground by his attackers, and for a moment nobody could get a clear shot at either. Illyan began to run forward with his squad. One of the two attackers saw him then and began to scramble away, but was felled by a stunner beam from one of the patrol. The final attacker was still grappling with Vorkosigan, and Illyan's chip reeled out memories of unarmed combat practice aboard the invasion fleet flagship. He held up a hand for the patrol to wait, watched for his moment, and fired his stunner. The attacker slumped across Vorkosigan and lay motionless. Illyan waved back the rest of the patrol and approached as Vorkosigan staggered to his feet.
"Oh. You. I might have known."
Illyan continued towards him. It could be worse. At least Vorkosigan hadn't started off with a stream of invective this time. "It's my job," he answered after a moment, and Vorkosigan gave a short nod.
There was blood trickling down his face. The guards were not supposed to interfere more than necessary in what Vorkosigan chose to do, but letting him go his way with an unknown injury was not acceptable. Vorkosigan ran a hand over his eyes, then stared at the bloodsmears in surprise.
"Let me see, please, sir."
Vorkosigan stood still as Illyan ran careful fingers over his scalp until he found the cut. Though bleeding profusely, it was small. Not worth bothering a medic for. He took his handkerchief, folded it neatly into a pad and held it in place.
Vorkosigan looked down at his stunned assailant. "Couldn't you have let me have it out in a fair fight?" he demanded.
Illyan's glower was answer enough, and Vorkosigan sighed. "I'm retired now. All this haring around after me is just a waste of your time. How many men do you have out here tonight down all these alleys? I thought I saw one lot a while back."
"Twenty-three." Illyan's earbug was reporting the outcome of his nearest patrol's one-sided battle with the gang, and he stared vaguely at the clotting blood in Vorkosigan's hair until his ensign fell silent. He hoped he wouldn't have to involve anyone else. Vorkosigan's mood would not tolerate a squad of ImpSec men escorting him to his car.
Vorkosigan took a long drink from the flask. "I only rated a handful until I got back here. I suppose I should be flattered."
Illyan wondered if Vorkosigan could truly be ignorant of the ImpSec men who had been assigned to watch over him-and watch him-since Ezar had come to power, just as they watched all the contenders for the Imperium. But since his return from Escobar Vorkosigan's status had risen abruptly from the routine six-man team like that on Vorpatril and Emperor Dorca's other more distant descendants to this serious protection unit. Only the Emperor and his family were more thoroughly guarded. No wonder Vorkosigan was chafing.
He lifted the handkerchief a little and saw that the bleeding had slowed. A bit longer. Vorkosigan took another gulp from his flask.
"Are you going to arrest me now?" he asked.
"It would make my life much easier," Illyan retorted. "There are lots of other places in the city to go if you want a drink, without having to explore these stinking alleys."
Vorkosigan's lip twisted. "Not to mention that you wouldn't need twenty-three poor wretches to follow me around." He sighed. "All right, I'll go somewhere more comfortable. I don't suppose there are any more young toughs hanging around within a two-mile radius of this place by now."
"If there are I'll have someone's head," said Illyan frankly. "If you really want a fight I'll be happy to oblige. But not when you're drunk."
"How kind." Vorkosigan raised his flask, but Illyan shook his head. A flash of anger crossed Vorkosigan's face. "Damn it, Simon, you're still not my nanny."
"No, but I do have to accompany you to somewhere the car can meet us. You can get as drunk as you like once we're somewhere civilised. I might even join you. It's been a long day. But, if you must know, you're an absolute bitch to carry."
Vorkosigan barked a laugh. "My Armsmen are never that honest, not even Bothari. All right." He raised his free hand to his head. "I think you can leave off now."
Illyan put his bloodstained handkerchief back in his pocket and murmured a few words to his squad, and they began retracing their steps back to the wider roads. After a while Vorkosigan offered Illyan his flask.
"A long day, you said?"
Illyan took a cautious sip. It was maple mead, and burned his throat. "Started off with a next-of-kin visit," he said, the images flashing involuntarily before his mind before he realised this was probably not the best choice of conversational gambits. But Vorkosigan only gave an understanding grunt.
"From that mess yesterday?"
"Yes. The kid stepped in front of a nerve disruptor bolt. Aimed at me. Haven't ever had one like that before."
"Hell. Yes. I remember the first time that happened to me. Comes with command rank, often. It was a boarding party, if you'll believe it, hijackers. Why in hell they thought they could hijack a Barrayaran Imperial cruiser I can't imagine, and we killed them all so I never found out. But it was just the same thing. One of my ensigns, a quiet boy, not really cut out to be an officer, but he traded his life for mine."
This time Illyan did not stop him as he sipped from the flask, though Vorkosigan's steps were growing more unsteady. Let him have his anaesthetic. Illyan would have liked the same release, but knew it was impossible. No matter how drunk he was he never forgot anything. At least only his organic memory still held the smell of Andreevitch's seared skin; one day it would fade and be gone. He would never lose the sight.
"It was a success, though. The mission. At least the first part was." The memory of Grishnov falling dead still filled him with a fierce satisfaction.
"I've been avoiding the news," Vorkosigan said. "I know Grishnov was killed and the place burned down."
"The news doesn't have much of what happened anyway. The rioting got bad, afterwards, and some people were killed before the troops could calm things down."
Vorkosigan grunted and sipped again, and passed the flask over. Illyan accepted.
"We got the prisoners all out, though," he felt compelled to add after a minute. "All safe and on the mend now."
The look Vorkosigan shot him was something like pride, and Illyan straightened. No need to add whom he was imitating in this. He caught hold of Vorkosigan's arm as he lurched. Fortunately it wasn't far to where the car would meet them.
"It is good that they're gone," Vorkosigan said at last. "All of them," and Illyan knew he referred to Serg and his cronies as well as the purges taking place here. "And some good has come of it. Must come of it. But the cost…" He trailed off. It was as near as he had come to speaking of the great plot he had participated in.
"Yes." Illyan hesitated, then added, "I know." He dared say no more, but his eyes met Vorkosigan's. Vorkosigan made the catch, and his grip on Illyan's arm crushed muscle to bone.
They walked in silence to the car. As they got in, Vorkosigan said suddenly, "It's a nice night and this isn't empty yet." He held up the flask. "I don't think I'll head home yet. Come have a drink with me. Somewhere peaceful and quiet. Outside."
"Vorbarra Park," Illyan offered after a second's thought, interpreting Vorkosigan's intent easily. "It's always pleasant there."
Vorkosigan nodded, and Illyan instructed the driver, then sat beside Vorkosigan in the rear compartment. They rode through the dark streets in the silence of shared conspirators.
"Check the area, and then you can keep to outer-perimeter distance," Illyan told his squad when they arrived at the main gates to the park. "I don't think we'll have any trouble here."
Vorkosigan walked alongside Illyan through the archway with its garlands of roses into the park. There were a few lights on the main paths, and the moons were both in the sky. Illyan reached to his earbug and switched it off, then set his comm link to emergency-messages-only and removed the sound pick-up from his collar. These things done, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device.
"You know what those guards are going to think?" Vorkosigan said, watching these preparations with amused curiosity.
Illyan blinked, then recalled that Vorbarra Park was famous for its assignations. He stared at Vorkosigan for a dazed moment, then recovered.
"So long as it's not this," he retorted, and switched on the device. There was a faint hum, and the moons' light was dimmer around them. "Portable cone of silence," he explained to Vorkosigan. "We're completely private now."
"Just so."
They walked through a shrubbery and passed a courting couple sitting on one of the benches. Illyan made for the picnic field, a large open space where they could be sure nobody was concealed around them. They sat on the dry grass, worn brown with the summer's use, and Vorkosigan leaned back with a sigh.
"How did you figure it out?" he asked.
"Negri personally trained me in analysis," Illyan said tartly.
"Hah. He wouldn't have you told beforehand." He uncorked his flask again and took a swallow, then passed it to Illyan. "At least you know I'm no hero."
"I don't know what you are," Illyan said honestly. "I believed you were a traitor for a time," he went on after a moment. "I thought it was your plan alone, and that I'd have to arrest you when we returned home. There were a few times when I nearly arrested you on the flagship."
Damnably, Vorkosigan recognised the full depth of his words. "I daresay you'd have managed."
Illyan flushed. "I don't think I could have bluffed you with the nerve disruptor. I'd have had to have stunned you."
"I assure you, I'd prefer to be bluffed."
Illyan gave a short laugh, and they sat in silence. Vorkosigan sipped from his flask and leaned back on one elbow wearily.
"You told Captain Naismith," Illyan said after a while.
Vorkosigan looked up. "She worked it out on her own. But I confirmed it." He took a breath. "I regret lying to you about that."
Illyan gave a noncommittal shrug. He'd known it had been a lie at the time, and he hadn't cared then.
"You don't have to worry about it. I told Ezar, and he agreed it was a good thing." Vorkosigan sighed. "Though it didn't seem to be helping from what I last heard from the Betans. They were still spitting nails. She should have reported it to Betan security by now, surely."
Illyan gave him a blank look.
"I thought if the Betans knew why we'd done it--under the table, of course--it would make it easier to reassure them that they aren't next," Vorkosigan explained. "Or any of our other neighbours. We used to have good relations with the Betans, in Xav's day. They like underdogs better than conquerors, though."
His voice seemed more animated as he laid out the politics for Illyan, or perhaps it was talking about Captain Naismith that had given that hint of life to him. Work and a wife, Illyan thought. That's what Vorkosigan needed.
"God, I hope she hasn't gone in for some kind of heroic silence," Vorkosigan went on. "I didn't want to stain her with this."
"She was involved already," Illyan offered, images of Captain Naismith in Ges Vorrutyer's cabin flashing though his mind.
"Yeah. Fuck." Vorkosigan took another drink, then leaned forward and began to scrape at the grass with his fingers, leaving a bare patch of earth. Then he pulled out a knife Illyan hadn't realised he was carrying. Illyan sat up sharply, wishing he hadn't had that last drink. Vorkosigan passed it hilt-first to him with a slight twisted smile. "I'm too drunk for this," he said. Illyan stared at him, then understood as Vorkosigan pulled at a clump of his hair and held it for Illyan to cut.
There had been a ceremonial burning for the Prince and all the dead of Escobar last week. Illyan had been there. It had been strange to sit quietly at the back whilst Vorkosigan stood at the front and lit the pyre and made a speech, not having to stick close to his elbow. It had been a good speech, too--Illyan suspected Ezar's speechwriters had been involved. It had been the only public appearance Vorkosigan had made since returning from Escobar, and Illyan didn't know how Ezar had coaxed him to do it. Once the ceremony had ended, Vorkosigan had gone back to Vorkosigan Surleau, got drunk and flown his lightflyer around Dendarii gorge for a while. He hadn't managed to do more than clip a wing, but not, Illyan had seen from the report, for want of trying.
Illyan sliced off the clump of hair neatly and then, with a quick glance at Vorkosigan for permission, cut off some of his own. Vorkosigan put them both together on the bare patch of earth, splashed them with his mead and then took an oldfashioned lighter and set it burning. It flamed up at once from the mead, then the hair caught and smouldered, sending up the familiar pungent smell, overlaid with alcohol instead of incense.
The little offering burned down rapidly, embers winking out into the earth. The first time anyone burned an offering on Barrayar, Illyan thought, it was probably a lot more like this than the Imperial ceremony last week. Vorkosigan lay back in the grass, watching it burn to ash.
"Do you think it was worth it, Simon?" he asked quietly. "Tell me the truth. You've seen it all. Was it worth it?"
Illyan plucked a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers. "I worked out of the Residence office since I had this chip put in," he said. "I've seen ... a lot of things there, and heard a lot more. You can't ever know what would have happened, but..." He trailed off, staring at the night sky, searching for words. "I would have followed you," he said at last. "If Serg had inherited, and you had risen against him. I would have broken my oath and joined your revolt. You have spared me that, and I thank you."
Vorkosigan was silent a long time after that. Illyan saw his eyes gleaming wetly in the darkness, and looked away.
*
With all the clearing up from Guillotine over, Illyan found himself stuck at HQ most of the time, doing odd jobs for Negri and catching up on paperwork. And reading the reports on Vorkosigan with growing dread.
His comconsole gave an alerting beep, telling him something had fallen into one of his nets. He called it up, and stared at the screen for a full minute. At last.
He gave the ensign working with him a broad smile that made him sit up in surprise. "Here she is," he said.
"Sir?" his ensign asked politely. Illyan shook himself.
"I need to talk to the commander of security at the Vorbarr Sultana Orbital Station. No, whoever commands all the orbital stations, she might not go to Vorbarr Sultana. Get him on the comm for me at once."
"Yes, sir."
Illyan reviewed the data whilst he waited. There she was, travelling openly on her Betan passport, on a commercial flight from Komarr. There were a lot of red flags against her name, indications that when she reached Barrayaran orbit she would find the border guard waiting for her.
"Barrayar orbital stations security chief on the comm for you, sir," the ensign said.
"Thank you." Illyan opened his comconsole. "Good afternoon," he said politely to the middle-aged man who appeared on the viewscreen.
"Good afternoon," the chief replied in an extremely anxious voice. "How may I help you, sir?"
Being sirred by men like this was one of the little perks of the Horus-eyes on his collar. Illyan gave a biting smile, because he was in a good mood.
"There will be a passenger arriving from Komarr on the River Queen. A Betan woman. She is flagged to be arrested at the planetary border. I want her to go through. No questions, no searches, no trouble at all. We need her to get downside without a hitch." He pressed a button on his console. "I'm sending you her personal data. Grease her through immigration however you like, just make sure she gets here. Notify me personally when you have her on a shuttle downside; I'll be escorting her onwards. And don't give her any sign that you're letting her pass. Treat her exactly like an ordinary passenger with all papers in order."
The security chief stared at the records Illyan had sent. "But--sir, this says she's a wanted criminal. Murder, espionage, assault on--"
"I've read her file, thank you," Illyan said in a hard voice. "But you should forget you saw it. She is to arrive here without any trouble. Is that understood?"
The security chief was a man of principle, Illyan granted. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, in a strained voice. "I can't do that without authorisation from someone more senior."
"Is that so?" Illyan muttered. "Very well. We'll be in touch presently." He cut the comm. "Damn," he muttered. "Can you get me a chance to talk to Captain Negri?"
The ensign nodded and began to speak into his comm link. A few minutes later he said, "Captain Negri, sir," and Negri's face appeared on Illyan's display.
"Yes?" Negri said sternly. "What do you have for me?"
"Cordelia Naismith," Illyan answered succinctly. "Vorkosigan's Betan, sir. She's on her way here. I asked the chief of orbital security to grease her through immigration, but he's having an outbreak of conscience and wants someone senior to authorise it."
"Ah," said Negri. "Vorkosigan's Betan, indeed. I've been expecting her."
There was a pleased smile at the corner of Negri's mouth that prompted Illyan to ask, "What did we have to do with this, sir?"
"I barely had to do a thing," Negri said. "A few extra messages in our coded traffic--the coded traffic we know the Betans have broken, naturally. A modest deposit in a Jacksonian bank account in her name. Betan security did the rest for us. And Naismith herself." He shook his head. "Wouldn't have her as a spy even if she volunteered. Girl has no idea how to keep her head down and her eyes open. I hope she lives up to your expectations here."
"I think she will, sir."
"Good. I'll contact your security fellow and put the fear of God into him. You make sure she gets the rest of the way."
"Yes, sir." Illyan was already reviewing the flight schedule on his console. In the back of his mind, images were flashing over his chip from the previous week. Vorkosigan had made another suicide attempt, crashing his lightflyer drunk in the Dendarii gorge. Illyan had attached himself to the detail again that night, in the pursuing flyer, his heart in his mouth. Whatever gods or saints or ancestral spirits guarded the very drunk Illyan didn't know, but Vorkosigan had been dragged limp from the splintered and burning wreckage with barely a bruise on him, and had crowned the evening by vomiting on Illyan's boots. Illyan would be more than happy to hand him over to Captain Naismith. If he could just keep the damned fool alive long enough for her to get here.
*
He was at the wedding somewhat accidentally, since he'd tailed Captain Naismith to Vorkosigan Surleau personally and stayed to attach himself to the security detail there for a few days. Negri had made that strange grimace that might have been a smile, and given him permission to stay and keep an eye on them both. Vorkosigan didn't look healed as he spoke his oath to Captain Naismith, but he did look as though he'd stopped spiralling downwards and begun to climb out again. As the newlyweds settled down to a quiet domestic routine, and Vorkosigan drank no more than a glass of wine with his meals and lost his haggard look, Illyan felt a tension in him begin to ease at last. He returned to HQ and his work, and no longer held his breath as he read the reports from Vorkosigan's detail.
A few weeks after the wedding, Negri summoned Illyan to his office. When he entered, he found Negri still apparently immersed in his paperwork. He addressed a few inconsequential remarks to Illyan, who waited patiently. Squaring off a stack of flimsies, Negri looked up at Illyan at last.
"Lord Vorkosigan is going to be Regent," he announced.
Illyan nodded and said nothing. It was not a surprise. He'd run through the candidates himself and had seen that Vorkosigan was far and away the best. Even drunk and suicidal Vorkosigan had outshone the others on the list; now he was undeniably the only choice. The only catch would be Vorkosigan's willingness to accept, but if Negri had got him...
"He doesn't know it yet, naturally," Negri added, and Illyan choked.
"You think he won't accept?" Negri frowned at him. "I believe you know him better than I do now. He must take this job. Have you any suggestions?"
"Lady Vorkosigan," Illyan said at once. "If you can get her to accept the idea, there won't be a problem."
Negri nodded slowly. "His Captain, I believe he calls her. And so the Admiral obeys his Captain, does he? How interesting. Thank you, Commander." For a few moments Negri gazed into space.
"Now for you." A stern expression crossed his face. "Don't think I haven't noticed how this Escobar business has changed you. I suppose it is the natural order of things that you should transfer your loyalty from the old to the new, even before Ezar dies." Illyan wondered if he had imagined the sudden flick of pain in Negri's voice. "I plan to make the most of it. You will have command of the Regent's personal security and will be his liaison with ImpSec."
Illyan could not prevent a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he heard this.
"Ah, I thought that would suit you. I know what I can see, Simon. You're no man of mine any longer, if you ever were. Since that's the result I wanted when I set you to watch Vorkosigan, I can't complain. You'll serve him well."
Illyan thought he saw a faint sadness on the face of his old mentor. "Sir, I've always been your--"
"Don't bullshit me. I know you better than you do yourself. You respect me, no doubt, but you'll dance barefoot on broken glass for Vorkosigan. He'll need you to, and that's how I wish it. When he is Regent you will be responsible for his life, and you'll suit him much better than I will. The days of us old pirates are numbered now."
Since that agreed rather too neatly with Illyan's own analysis, he could do nothing but nod.
"I know times are changing. Dammit, I've made them change. You New Men will have to live in them. I hope you find it to your taste. I'm sure in twenty years ImpSec will look totally different."
Imagining ImpSec without Negri in charge was like imagining the Great Square without the statue of Dorca the Just. Illyan could not even begin to picture the Service without him, nor see how any other man could hold the reins of each of the wildly diverse men in ImpSec.
"Don't stare at me like a goggle-eyed cadet. You have your orders, off you go. Go start planning for your new master. You know what to do."
"Yes, sir." Illyan stood, then took the liberty boldly. "Thank you."
"Hah. You're welcome to it."
*
Ezar's health failed further, but Illyan heard nothing more of Vorkosigan's projected role in the government until several weeks had passed. Then, just as he'd been heading off-duty one evening, Negri called him.
"Got him at last," he said. "Ezar brought him round. And Lady Vorkosigan, like you said. Report to us at the Residence now, and bring your work."
Illyan hurried to obey, his heart light despite the difficult nature of the work. He'd been through the full threat assessment to Vorkosigan, studying everyone who already hated him--most Komarrans, the numerous planets where he was on lists of wanted criminals, his political enemies amongst the Counts, assorted revolutionary and radical parties, the last remnants of Grishnov's War Party--and he knew that when Vorkosigan became Regent that list was going to get approximately a hundred times longer. And Lady Vorkosigan introduced her own complications with the Betans--he had seen the full story now of how Captain Naismith had reached Barrayar and had been both disturbed and entirely unsurprised--not to mention the domestic dislike of seeing the Hero of Escobar partnered with the woman who had, at least in the public record, killed the Admiral. And that was just the start.
He found Vorkosigan and his wife with Negri in an antechamber. The Prime Minister must be around somewhere too, for Illyan spotted the captain of his personal guard lurking in the shadows.
Vorkosigan looked round as he entered. "Hello, Simon. Can't get rid of you, can I?" He grinned, belying his words.
"I hope not, sir."
"Ah well. I'm used to having you around now, and since it seems I'm going to need a nanny again…" He came over and extended a hand. "I'll be glad to have you watching my back."
Illyan shook his hand. It was the greeting of equals, but Illyan could almost feel Vorkosigan's other hand closed around his as they had the day Vorrutyer had died. He felt their pull on him like an anchor to his ship, like magnetic north to his steel, turning him to face the right direction. The direction he was meant to face.
At Escobar, Vorkosigan had been impressive, a man who could draw even a cool-headed spy like Illyan into his orbit. Now, meeting Vorkosigan's eye, Illyan realised he had only seen a shadow before. Vorkosigan was moving forward on his own now, no longer dragged under the wheels of Ezar's soul-crushing plot, and Illyan knew that if Vorkosigan's first order to him was to leap from the top of the Star Bridge and fly down, he'd do it without a blink.
"It's an honour, sir," he said, and meant it. He made a little bow to Lady Vorkosigan. "My lady." She gave him an amused look in return, evidently still adjusting to the title. Count Vortala joined them, and Vorkosigan looked around.
"All right," Vorkosigan said slowly, his eyes moving from face to face. "Let's get started."
Illyan could feel the change in the room as Vorkosigan straightened, the way everyone's body language began to mirror his as the focus of power settled on him. Vorkosigan opened the door to the briefing room and held it for his wife, then went in. With a smile, Illyan followed at his heels.