Fic: Aral Vorkosigan's Dog 9/15
Special thanks for this chapter go to my father-in-law, an engineer and Bujold fan, who sat down with me and helped me work out which bits of a spaceship I could break and then explained how to fix them. I have diagrams! From multiple angles! And I know the names of all the parts and tools! Or at least I did once. Unfortunately, if I'd made use of all his advice, the fic would have unexpectedly turned into Aral Vorkosigan and the Really Interesting Engineering Problem, but hopefully my summarising of what I learned hasn't done too much violence to the technical detail...
Title: Aral Vorkosigan's Dog 9/15
Rating/warnings: R, Shards-level sexual and physical violence
Length: 70k (this chapter 6000 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
Their courier docked on the heavy cruiser Vengeance after a very fast run through Escobaran space. The Tau Cetan wormhole was very close, Illyan saw on the schema. When the Escobarans out there had themselves organised enough to jump through, the Vengeance would be first in line.
Captain Tugalov was waiting for them in the docking bay with his officers. Some of them looked awfully young, Illyan thought. All the ships had taken losses by now, but a few of Tugalov's officers looked like they'd been sent straight from the Academy to the warzone. But they received the Prince and Commodore Vorkosigan with all due formality, though Tugalov's eyes widened as he took in the six bodyguards and aide-de-camp accompanying the Prince, and Illyan's ImpSec insignia.
They exchanged regulation salutes and greetings. Illyan noticed that Tugalov was looking at Vorkosigan as eagerly as a little boy on his birthday.
"I don't suppose you remember me, sir," he began.
Vorkosigan tilted his head. "Let me think … ah. Lieutenant Tugalov. Comm officer on the Victoria. You were the man who brought me the news of the capture of the solar mirror at Komarr."
Tugalov looked wildly gratified. The Prince glowered at them both, and Vorkosigan's expression turned blank. Tugalov returned his attention to the Prince, all politeness. "Permit me to show you my ship, sir."
The bodyguards trailed after them as Tugalov began to usher the Prince away, leaving Vorkosigan with the executive officer, Commander Jones. He looked at Vorkosigan and Illyan in the shadows behind him.
"Commodore Vorkosigan, sir. I'm very pleased that you're here." Another veteran of Komarr, most likely. "And, ah, your aide?" He gave Illyan a perplexed look.
"This is Lieutenant Illyan. My spy."
Jones swallowed, but managed to nod courteously, his gaze flickering again to the Horus-eyes on Illyan's collar. It could have been worse, Illyan thought as he returned the nod. After he had suggested--very mildly--that Vorkosigan could use the time in the courier as a chance to catch up on his sleep, Vorkosigan had threatened to introduce him as his nanny. The gibe was a little too close to the truth right now.
Commander Jones turned back to Vorkosigan, his expression abstracted. "I hadn't expected so many. We're only a Thunder-class cruiser and there's not a lot of spare space, especially with the aft lower deck still being repaired. I've already got all my junior officers doubling up and I can't squeeze the men any further." His gaze flicked anxiously to Illyan. "Would you mind sharing with the Prince's ADC? I'm going to have to cram his bodyguards into two cabins too few already…" he trailed off distractedly, reminding Illyan of a busy housewife before Winterfair.
Illyan and Vorkosigan exchanged a glance of perfect understanding. Sharing a cabin with the Prince's closest ally on this ship, who undoubtedly had orders to find a way to murder him secretly, did not appeal.
"Perhaps Illyan had better bunk with me," Vorkosigan said. "It'll make it easier for me to haul him along whenever I have to go anywhere."
Jones looked both surprised and relieved at this suggestion. "I--well, if that's all right with you, it would be most helpful, sir."
"Fine, that's settled. Let's get started." Vorkosigan hustled them both down the corridor. "You'd better show me what you've planned so far and we'll take it from there."
The day was taken up with the arrival of the rest of the flotilla, briefing the other ship captains and a lengthy discussion with Prince Serg about strategy. To Illyan's surprise and relief, Serg's ideas about what they should do were not wholly ridiculous, and there were fewer clashes between him and Vorkosigan than Illyan would have imagined possible. Perhaps it was because Serg's anger seemed to have been diverted upon Illyan himself. The main problem was the state of the flotilla, since there were no ships in it that had not suffered damage during the earlier fighting to drive the Escobarans back to their planetary orbitals. On the flagship, Illyan had not entirely realised the extent of their losses during the earlier fighting.
They escaped after supper quickly, Vorkosigan pleading work, abandoning the job of entertaining the Prince to Captain Tugalov and his officers. Back in their cabin, Vorkosigan settled himself at the console and Illyan sat on the lower bunk and began to read a book-film, attempting to afford Vorkosigan some illusion of privacy. But after a time it became clear that Vorkosigan was staring into space and ignoring the reports on the holo-screen. He looked round at Illyan.
"You must be too young to remember Yuri's civil war."
As a conversation-starter, that had all the subtlety of a high-explosive bomb. "I was a baby when he was executed," Illyan agreed. "My father died in the battle of Lorimel River." He paused for timing. If Vorkosigan was throwing bombs around… "He was fighting for Yuri."
Vorkosigan blinked at that, diverted from whatever train of thought he had been pursuing. "Unusual that you should be in ImpSec, then. They're normally very picky about their candidates' backgrounds."
"My father was only a non-com, a sergeant. He didn't really care much about Yuri, but he was very loyal to his captain, and his captain wouldn't break his oath to Yuri even though he was upset by what he saw. The captain tried to urge my father to desert to Ezar's side, or go on a long leave, but my father wouldn't do that. He was killed saving his captain's life in the battle. The captain was executed as a traitor afterwards."
It was, Illyan frequently thought, a typically Barrayaran story. Everyone suffers for their honour and it all borders on being pointless. Perhaps a good playwright or novelist could make something interesting out of it. Vorkosigan looked sick.
"I'm sorry," he said. Illyan shrugged.
"It was a long time ago. I never really knew him, and I only found out the whole story later on. But Negri didn't think it meant I was likely to be a security risk."
"I suppose not." The lines in Vorkosigan's face deepened. "Would you do what they did? Stick to your oath even if you decided the man you'd given it to wasn't worthy of it?"
"I don't know." It was Illyan's turn to frown, as he realised what Vorkosigan must be thinking and suggesting in this roundabout way. He refrained from asking Vorkosigan if he would follow his father's footsteps; it was all too obvious that he would. Besides, there was no way he could avoid taking formal notice of Vorkosigan plotting treason out loud.
A thought burst in his mind. He had heard stories of what ImpSec had been under Yuri, and he had studied enough history to know of hundreds of other security forces which had been used by vicious rulers to terrorise their peoples, but the idea that he might suddenly find himself a member of such a force had never before occurred to him. And what then would he do? Ordered to move against the Emperor's enemies real or imagined, capture them, torture them, assassinate them… he stared at Vorkosigan and realised who would be first on Prince Serg's list of enemies when he took power.
Vorkosigan was watching him under his heavy-lidded eyes, shrewd and knowing. The last lingering shreds of prudence prevented Illyan from saying what was in his mind. Instead, after the silence had stretched nerve-tight, he answered.
"I think," he said slowly, "it would have to be very bad before I would break my oath."
"Oh," Vorkosigan breathed, "it would be."
*
Illyan gazed phlegmatically at the tactical display and hoped Vorkosigan was as good a strategist as rumour said. Jumpscout reports had given a clear picture of the Escobaran ships mustering at the far side of the wormhole jump point, and another group of Escobarans were forming up around the nearest orbital station, evidently planning a sortie to push through to link up with them. To meet this assault was the battle group under the command of the Prince and Vorkosigan, and it had taken all Vorkosigan's tact to get a half-decent plan formed with very little time.
Now everything was a bustle of preparations and checks as they waited for the Escos to make a move. Illyan leaned back in his station chair and consciously calmed himself, as he had been taught to do before any action. Not that he would be taking part in the action here, but the tense atmosphere was infecting him. Only Vorkosigan seemed truly at ease as he sat by Captain Tugalov and listened as the departments reported their status.
"Sir." The ensign's interrupting voice was breathy with nerves. Captain Tugalov rotated in his station chair. "Sir, there's something wrong with the main fore plasma cannon. It's not responding to the targeting commands."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know yet, sir. Could be another burned-out relay somewhere, but I thought we tested them all..."
"Well, find out and get it fixed."
The ensign flushed and looked at his screen. He was one of the very young officers, Illyan observed. Surely a ship of this class should have someone more senior as Weaponry Officer? The young man was listening to a report through his earbug and murmuring orders in a hesitant tone. Illyan heard the phrases 'I'm sorry' and 'I don't know' more than once.
Vorkosigan glanced at Tugalov, checking that he wasn't treading on the captain's toes, and went to look at the ensign's work more closely.
"What kind of cannon do you have here?" he asked.
"V-27s, sir. The old model."
"Ah, that's the first one I ever used in a real fight. Good weapons. You been making modifications to the software?"
"Not recently, sir. You think it's a bug?"
"Could be, or it could be one of the control relays, or there's always the main bearing. Get your engineering crew on it."
"Yes, sir." The weapons officer looked a little awestruck, and very relieved to have someone with solid experience interesting himself in the problem.
"I started out as a weapons officer on a ship like this," Vorkosigan remarked to the room at large. "Good ship."
Illyan saw the awe in the ensign's face turn to hope and desire, and he turned back to his engineering reports with resolve. That boy would do anything for Vorkosigan now, Illyan thought. He wondered if he would ever be able to inspire men like that. Well, if he couldn't learn from Vorkosigan he would have to be a hopeless case indeed.
The Prince had been loftily ignoring the discussion of junior officers, but now he spoke.
"If this ship is inactive I will transfer my flag to the Star Bridge." That comment, Illyan noted, lowered the morale of the officers as neatly as Vorkosigan's words had lifted it.
"Sir, none of the other ships in the battle group have such good communication links and tactical systems," Vorkosigan answered at once with remarkable patience. "In a real emergency, the Star Bridge can command, but it would not be ideal. I think you would find the accommodation there more cramped, also."
The Prince scowled. "You just want an excuse to lurk in the rear."
The other officers froze at the implied accusation, but both Vorkosigan and Illyan had heard this so frequently that it barely registered. All he said was, "I assure you, in a group of this size, every ship fights."
That remark closed the conversation for a while and the officers returned to their work. Illyan watched them and felt a twinge of jealousy. It had been a long time since he'd honestly dreamed of ship command, and he knew Intelligence work suited him well; it was the common effort he envied here, and the camaderie of the officers. He'd been working solo for too long, he wanted to get back to teamwork rather than bearing all the responsibility alone.
The weaponry officer was still looking frantic as he sorted through reports and spoke into his comm link.
"What's your status?" Captain Tugalov queried after a while.
"It's still not responding, sir," the ensign answered. "We can't seem to find anything."
"What do you mean, you can't find anything?" the Prince interjected. "It's your damn job to find out what's wrong. Are you the weaponry officer or the ship's cat?"
"Lay off," Vorkosigan muttered. The ensign looked despairing. "Have you done an external check yet?"
"No, sir. Not with the attack so near."
"What exactly are you getting as your fault reports?" Vorkosigan asked.
With a relieved expression, the ensign spouted technical jargon. Illyan let his chip file it without paying much attention. Vorkosigan listened with the distant attentiveness of an expert doctor taking a case history, asking a few questions.
"I think it's the bearing," Vorkosigan said at last. "They do wear out in time, and that's exactly the pattern of faults you get. I had this happen on me one time when--well, never mind that. When was the last time it was replaced?"
The ensign tapped into his console. "Two years ago, sir."
"And you saw heavy combat in the last two engagements, didn't you? You need to send a work party out there to replace it right now. Get your chief engineer on it."
"We've lost our chief engineer, sir. A plasma coil exploded in his face three days ago. He's on the hospital ship now. His second was killed. There's supposed to be a replacement coming over, but he hasn't arrived yet. Our techs are good at the ordinary stuff, but I don't know about this..."
"Well, someone's got to go," Vorkosigan said. "Only volunteers, naturally, this close to action, but the action won't last long without the main cannon."
The ensign began to scan through his duty rosters, a little hopelessly. "I don't know who's ever done this repair before," he said.
"Didn't you say you knew all about these cannons, Vorkosigan?" The Prince had been speaking quietly with his ADC, and his interruption made them all start. "Why don't you go?"
"I have worked on this particular problem before," Vorkosigan admitted. "But--"
"Very well, then. You may as well make yourself useful."
Illyan opened his mouth to object, but shut it again. Drawing more of the Prince's negative attention would not be wise, and Vorkosigan was quite capable of holding his own in an argument. Captain Tugalov was staring at the Prince, and the other officers were looking to their captain in equal surprise. Engineering repairs were a long way outside the purview of a staff officer, even if Vorkosigan did have the relevant experience; it was, Illyan thought, as humiliating as ordering a lieutenant to do a batman's job. Quite in the Prince's style, in other words.
Vorkosigan grimaced, gave Tugalov a quelling look and said, "As you wish, sir. Ensign, get the parts sorted and have a squad of eight techs at the nearest airlock. We'll get started right away." He turned to Illyan. "You can monitor communications from inside if you prefer, Lieutenant."
"Oh," said the Prince before Illyan could consider this suggestion, "surely you can't say you have to follow your master into private, personal conversations with Ges and me, but leave him alone for this?"
Illyan jerked his head in answer. "I'll come with you, sir." He ignored the Prince. It would be within the letter of his orders, just, to stay inside, but he would rather not remain on the bridge with the Prince and no Vorkosigan to focus his attention, especially with the Prince in this mood.
There was a delay whilst the ensign organised his men and Vorkosigan sat at a desk and went through the schema of the plasma cannon more carefully, reminding himself of the construction. The Prince was conferring with one of his men and looking at the tactical display.
It was not long before Illyan followed Vorkosigan through to an airlock where a sergeant from Engineering and a team of men were suiting up under the inquisitive eye of the Prince's aide-de-camp. Illyan took the suit that was given to him and accessed his chip for the details of the suit-check. He went through the procedure, then swapped suits with Vorkosigan for the double-check. Mindful of his batman's role he helped Vorkosigan suit up, set his comm link to have a constant feed from Vorkosigan's headset and allowed the corporal in charge of the equipment to help him into his own suit.
They pushed one by one out of the airlock in the slow balletic movement that was necessary outside the ship. Spacewalks were part of standard training for ImpSec galactic agents, and this was not the first time Illyan had been outside, but he had never before seen the exterior of a heavy cruiser. The external lights had been switched on so that they would be able to see their way, but beyond the ship was the immense darkness of space. Illyan felt tiny.
Vorkosigan was moving confidently up the side, and Illyan followed. The work team were clustered around them, tools and monitors strapped to their suits, but there was no sound other than the slight hissing of his suit's rebreather. The silence was unsettling, and Illyan nearly lost his hand-hold when Vorkosigan's voice came suddenly over the comm link.
"Right, sergeant. We need to get the muzzle off, and open her up."
The main plasma cannon's mouth was enormous, but in the weightlessness of space it took only three men to ease it free. Illyan found a good grip out of the way of the working men and watched as they moved in a measured sarabande, passing tools and scanners from hand to hand as they worked as delicately as a surgical team operating on a patient.
Illyan let the chatter over the comm links go straight to his chip, incomprehensible discussions of spiders and surface wear. He amused himself by calculating exactly where the first Esco jumpscout would emerge into local space, then tried to work out how they would fan out over the system. Right there. Then there would be a short space whilst the scout detected the cruisers, then went back to report. And then the Esco ships would start jumping in. Normally, the first ship through a defended wormhole was little better than a suicide run, hoping only to get an accurate report of the situation to the rest of the battle group, but with the Vengeance's main weapons system down the Escos would have a tremendous advantage.
A headache was beginning behind his eyes from the tension of waiting. He looked back at the repairs. They were removing an enormous bearing from its casing, and Vorkosigan was saying, "There, you see that? Completely worn. Get the new one over here now."
Over the private link to Vorkosigan's com, Illyan heard the weapons officer from inside the ship. "Commodore. Current best guess from our jumpscout is that the Escos will be here in about half an hour. Could be sooner. How much more have you got to do?"
Illyan's eyes were drawn magnetically to the spot where he had calculated the enemy would emerge.
"We're about halfway through. I'll send some of the men back, we don't need them all for the rest." Then Vorkosigan spoke privately to Illyan. "You hear that, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir."
"If you want to go back with the men, you may."
"No, sir." Illyan's response was automatic, despite the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd chosen this plan, now he'd better stick to it.
"Very well."
Vorkosigan relayed the message to the non-com in charge, Sergeant Medhi, and three of the men were sent back after they slotted the new bearing into its hole. The others remained, fitting the other end of the pipe into place and testing it. No Escos appeared.
"All right. Now we get the muzzle back on, then they can test it down at Weaponry, and if it passes we're done, sir," Medhi reported.
"Oh, fuck!" came across Illyan's channel, making him jump. Everyone was looking down at the innards of the cannon.
"It's cracked, sir," said one of the men, his voice painfully level. "We'll have to replace it."
Illyan replayed his chip and saw what had happened. One of the men had moved incautiously and struck a section of pipework with his toolbox. Medhi was chewing him out ferociously.
"That's the plasma feed," Vorkosigan said, also level-voiced. "Sergeant, save it for later."
"We don't have a replacement here," Medhi said. "I'll send someone back to get one."
"No time for that," Vorkosigan said shortly. "No. We'll just do a bit of a re-route... here, you see? We can just go around. Lieutenant, we'll need another pair of hands for this."
Illyan moved in closer and found himself drafted to help hold the muzzle whilst one of the more experienced techs went in to help with the new repair. He watched curiously as Vorkosigan gave orders and gestured. He seemed to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the innards of the plasma cannon, and Illyan couldn't help thinking that it was just as well the Prince had sent him out here.
"All right. Let's try this again now. Control, please test the pressure in the feed pipe."
The weapons officer's voice came back a few moments later. "The board is green, sir. And, um, the Esco jumpscout has just come through. It won't be more than about twenty minutes before this place gets really hot."
"Good. We'll get this in place, and then you take your men back, Medhi. We don't need you to do up the screws and run the rotation tests."
There was a brief argument as the sergeant tried to persuade Vorkosigan to return instead, which Vorkosigan won. Illyan gathered that Medhi had been at Komarr, since he called Vorkosigan 'Admiral' in parting. As the suited figures descended along the hull and out of sight towards the airlock, Illyan forced himself to stop looking for enemy ships and pay attention to the plasma cannon.
"Last checks now," Vorkosigan said. Illyan made no response. He wished his heart would stop pounding. He'd faced death many times, waited with his own life and the lives of others in the balance before, but for some reason this time his stomach was full of butterflies, his hands clammy in the atmosphere-controlled suit, and his breath fast in his chest. Perhaps it was the surroundings. He knew he had no latent agoraphobia--ImpSec's psychologists were picky about such things--but combination of the empty darkness and the tension might be the problem.
His mind wandered. Was Vorkosigan suicidal, to volunteer to stay out here? He recalled Vorkosigan's equally suicidal plans for the retreat, then gave a jaw-splitting yawn, and wondered how he could feel both tired and strung-out at once.
"Right, that looks good. Hold this for me, Lieutenant, and we'll tighten these screws and then we can get the hell out of here."
Illyan heard the words, but did not move. He couldn't catch his breath. It felt like giant hands were squeezing his chest.
"Wake up, this is no time for daydreaming."
Vorkosigan's tone was acerbic, and Illyan tried to force himself to respond. Go help fix the plasma cannon. The movement he attempted made his vision grey out, and he gasped like a landed fish.
"Is something wrong? Lieutenant, report!"
The sharp commanding tones forced a response from Illyan, product of years of drills. "Can't breathe, sir," he managed.
There was a pause, then Vorkosigan's muttered curses filled his ears.
"Your suit should have been sounding alarms ten minutes ago. O2 saturation is way below the minimum."
Oxygen deprivation. His chip poured the symptoms into his oddly sluggish mind. Lethargy. Flu-like symptoms. Nausea. Breathlessness. Coma. Death. A very nasty death. At least it wasn't cowardice, he thought muzzily. He tried to get his mind to start. An image appeared of himself checking his suit according to the standard routine before donning it, he and Vorkosigan doing the equally standard double-checks of each other's suits. They had seemed fine. Had he missed something in Vorkosigan's as well? His duty roused him.
"Check yours," he whispered.
"Just did, it's fine. Stay with me, Illyan."
Vorkosigan was moving towards him, reaching for his suit's life-support mechanisms. Illyan couldn't see what he was doing--it was a little behind him, and his vision was fading anyway.
"Escos in fifteen minutes, sir. You'd better get back here on the double."
"Not yet. Got a situation here."
"Sir, we can send the party back..."
"By the time they got suited up and out here again it would be too late. No point. We'll get this done."
It was a moment before he identified the voices as coming from Vorkosigan's comm link. Fifteen minutes. It took five minutes to get back to the airlock. Vorkosigan should leave off whatever he was doing to the rebreather, get the plasma cannon sorted and get himself inside, not waste precious time with this. That long without oxygen would kill him anyway, if the Escos didn't get him first. The thought was quite clear in his head, but he couldn't seem to find the mental pathways that would permit him to speak. He felt oddly distant from his body. Even his heaving stomach seemed to belong to someone else.
"There. You'll be all right now."
There was a draught. How could there be a draught in space? Suddenly and violently he was aware of the nausea again and the shaking of his hands. He swallowed hard. Don't vomit in a space suit.
"Sir? What have you done?"
"Got you some oxygen. Can you continue?"
"Yes, sir." Illyan willed the sickness and tremors to leave him. Fifteen minutes till the battle would start. He looked at Vorkosigan's space suit and blinked as his brain slowly came back online.
"Shit, sir, what is that?" The words escaped as he saw that the air pipe from Vorkosigan's rebreather was now attached to his suit. It was, his chip told him, a standard procedure for emergency situations, but he'd never actually seen it done before.
"When my suit alarms start going off you can switch it back. There's a fair bit of atmospheric oxygen in the suit as it is. Just keep within the length of the tube. Now, if you hold this…"
They worked their way around the cannon, fastening all the screws. Illyan nearly dropped the screwdriver when an earsplitting siren went off. He secured it hastily to his belt and turned to face Vorkosigan.
"Time to swap over, sir," he said, having to shout to be heard over the siren. "Can you shut that thing off?"
"Better not."
Illyan found the outlet where Vorkosigan's oxygen tube was attached to his spacesuit and detached it. There was a second's hiss, then the outlet self-sealed. He fitted it back onto Vorkosigan's own suit, the siren still deafening him. A moment later it fell silent.
"Are you all right?"
"Think so. Tell me when you start feeling the effects again and we'll change."
They fastened the final screw, then Vorkosigan called Control. "Run your tests. It all looks good here."
They waited. Illyan felt the nausea and light-headedness return, and spoke over their link. "Think you'd better change over again, sir."
"Hold still, then."
Illyan forced himself not to hold his breath as Vorkosigan again went through the delicate business of disconnecting the oxygen tube. Feeling better at once, he listened to the weaponry officer speaking to Vorkosigan.
"It's all moving properly, sir. You'd better hurry back."
"No need to say that, Ensign." Vorkosigan's voice was oddly cheerful considering their dangerous predicament. "Ready, Lieutenant?"
Illyan only grunted. Moving in null-gee over the hull of a spaceship whilst tethered to another man's oxygen supply was by no means easy. It reminded Illyan of the three-legged races that had been popular when he was a schoolboy, only with a far more deadly fate if they failed to move together. They moved side by side, attempting to coordinate their steps in the awkward gait caused by magnetic boots. Illyan was desperately aware of the imminent Esco cruisers. The ship's shields might protect them from an attack, but once their own plasma cannon was fired they would certainly be caught up in the backwash.
Vorkosigan's suit siren went off again. Vorkosigan shouted over it. "No time to play around. We'll get back there before it can actually do me any harm."
Illyan ran calculations in his head. They were a little more than three minutes from the lock. There should be enough oxygen in the safety margin to keep Vorkosigan alive till then. But the exertion of walking along the ship would consume oxygen more quickly than Illyan had whilst watching the repairs.
"Very well, but I'll tow you."
If Vorkosigan protested this, it was too quietly to be heard over the alarm. Illyan caught hold of Vorkosigan's arm with one hand and with the other pressed the safety override to release his magnetic boots. In null-gee this manoeuvre was remarkably easy, and he trod along as quickly as he could. After a moment the siren stopped, and he felt the sudden relief of quiet.
"That's better," Vorkosigan muttered. "Need to be able to hear Control."
They approached the lock at last. Illyan saw that Vorkosigan's oxygen levels were dangerously low, and he tried to go faster.
"Commodore! Five-space distortion on the wormhole--first ship is coming through! How far are you?"
Illyan answered for Vorkosigan. "Ten seconds. Open the lock, please."
"It's open."
As they came into the lighted area of the lock, he saw that it was indeed standing open. A very dangerous thing to do, but understandable, and Illyan's first thoughts were of gratitude. He gripped the handhold and pulled them both inside.
"Cycle the lock, we're in," he said at once. The airlock seemed to close with painful slowness. Then the artificial gravity kicked in as the air was pumped back into the lock, and Illyan staggered as he tried to keep his own balance and support Vorkosigan. As soon as the warning lights turned green, he wrenched off Vorkosigan's helmet. Vorkosigan's lips were blue and his face an alarming grey, but his eyes were open. He drew several ragged breaths and his colour improved. When he was steady on his feet, Illyan released him and unfastened his own helmet. Carefully he laid it on the floor away from Vorkosigan's. He would need to investigate the fault, or sabotage, or whatever it was.
Vorkosigan grinned at him suddenly. "Well, that was exciting."
Illyan glared. He found he was shaking slightly with reaction. "Do you have any idea how risky it was?" He got a clear look at the tubing running from Vorkosigan's rebreather to his own, and his eyes widened. "If you'd cut that a few millimetres to the right… you shouldn't have done that."
"If it comes to that, you should have remained inside, or gone back with the men. You wouldn't have got into this fix if you hadn't stuck your neck out for me."
The inner door slid open then, and Sergeant Medhi came in.
"If you'd cut that any tighter you'd have been toast," he said with a look of respect for Vorkosigan. "It's all working now, and the Escos are jumping in." He scanned them both. "Do you need a medic, sir?" His gaze flickered from Vorkosigan to Illyan, and Illyan wondered if he looked as pale and ill as Vorkosigan. "What happened?" He reached towards the oxygen tube curiously.
"Leave that, please," said Illyan sharply.
"Something malfunctioned in the Lieutenant's rebreather," Vorkosigan explained.
"Malfunctioned," Illyan echoed dryly. "Perhaps. I'll need a forensics kit, and I'll have to go over my entire suit, so don't touch anything from it or let anyone else do so, please." As he spoke he was unfastening the suit with great delicacy, watching all his own movements so as to have a clear record of every detail.
"I can get you one, sir," said Medhi. He looked again at Vorkosigan and repeated, "And a medic?"
"I'm fine," said Vorkosigan dismissively. Medhi took the hint and left.
"Not a malfunction?" Vorkosigan said as the door slid shut again.
"Well, it's not impossible, but under the circumstances..." Illyan did not need to name the suspect who came first to his mind. He forced himself to remain open to all possibilities, and let the evidence speak for itself. He laid his suit out neatly by a locker, whilst Vorkosigan put his off rather less carefully.
Vorkosigan's comm link beeped, and an anxious Captain Tugalov spoke. "Commodore, have you got back all right? We could use you on the bridge." Illyan recognised the note of frustration and worry in his voice that meant that the Prince was around, undoubtedly making his own 'contributions'.
Vorkosigan did not answer it, but jerked his head at Illyan. "We need to get up there. Can your forensics wait?"
"So long as this is undisturbed."
Medhi re-entered with the forensics kit.
"Sorry, Sergeant, we're going to have to go," Illyan said. "I'll put this in an empty locker and seal it. Don't let anyone, no matter who, touch it until I return to go over it properly."
"Right you are, sir." Medhi looked at the suit suspiciously. "You think it was foul play?"
"I don't know anything yet. The warning didn't go off when the oxygen level dropped, and it should have done. I'll go over it later."
Vorkosigan was donning his uniform jacket and moving to the door. Illyan followed, straightening his own uniform. He took long deep breaths as he did so, enjoying the sensation. He saw Vorkosigan was doing the same. At the entrance to the bridge, Vorkosigan paused.
"Well, we'll see who looks surprised to see you," he murmured. There was a note of real anger in his voice that surprised Illyan.
All heads swung around as they entered. The Prince and his ADC both scowled at Illyan, which made him faintly satisfied at his deduction even though his chip pointed out that they'd scowled every time they'd seen him for weeks.
"You cut that very fine," the Prince said. "I thought you knew how to fix these things. We were nearly too late."
"Lieutenant Illyan had a problem with his oxygen supply," Vorkosigan said curtly. "A suit malfunction, presumably. It delayed us."
The Prince raised an elegant eyebrow. "A problem with the oxygen supply? How unfortunate." He smiled a little. "But you haven't managed to lose your watchdog even so. What a shame."
Vorkosigan stared straight at the Prince. "I have always believed that however little you may have wished for one, once you have a dog, he's your responsibility."
Illyan suppressed a smile with difficulty. With such a show of support from Vorkosigan, the Prince would be very slow to dare a third attempt on his life. He was pleased too for another reason: it may not have been the method he would have wished to use, but it was clear that he had a certain measure of influence over Vorkosigan again.
***
Next Chapter
Title: Aral Vorkosigan's Dog 9/15
Rating/warnings: R, Shards-level sexual and physical violence
Length: 70k (this chapter 6000 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
Their courier docked on the heavy cruiser Vengeance after a very fast run through Escobaran space. The Tau Cetan wormhole was very close, Illyan saw on the schema. When the Escobarans out there had themselves organised enough to jump through, the Vengeance would be first in line.
Captain Tugalov was waiting for them in the docking bay with his officers. Some of them looked awfully young, Illyan thought. All the ships had taken losses by now, but a few of Tugalov's officers looked like they'd been sent straight from the Academy to the warzone. But they received the Prince and Commodore Vorkosigan with all due formality, though Tugalov's eyes widened as he took in the six bodyguards and aide-de-camp accompanying the Prince, and Illyan's ImpSec insignia.
They exchanged regulation salutes and greetings. Illyan noticed that Tugalov was looking at Vorkosigan as eagerly as a little boy on his birthday.
"I don't suppose you remember me, sir," he began.
Vorkosigan tilted his head. "Let me think … ah. Lieutenant Tugalov. Comm officer on the Victoria. You were the man who brought me the news of the capture of the solar mirror at Komarr."
Tugalov looked wildly gratified. The Prince glowered at them both, and Vorkosigan's expression turned blank. Tugalov returned his attention to the Prince, all politeness. "Permit me to show you my ship, sir."
The bodyguards trailed after them as Tugalov began to usher the Prince away, leaving Vorkosigan with the executive officer, Commander Jones. He looked at Vorkosigan and Illyan in the shadows behind him.
"Commodore Vorkosigan, sir. I'm very pleased that you're here." Another veteran of Komarr, most likely. "And, ah, your aide?" He gave Illyan a perplexed look.
"This is Lieutenant Illyan. My spy."
Jones swallowed, but managed to nod courteously, his gaze flickering again to the Horus-eyes on Illyan's collar. It could have been worse, Illyan thought as he returned the nod. After he had suggested--very mildly--that Vorkosigan could use the time in the courier as a chance to catch up on his sleep, Vorkosigan had threatened to introduce him as his nanny. The gibe was a little too close to the truth right now.
Commander Jones turned back to Vorkosigan, his expression abstracted. "I hadn't expected so many. We're only a Thunder-class cruiser and there's not a lot of spare space, especially with the aft lower deck still being repaired. I've already got all my junior officers doubling up and I can't squeeze the men any further." His gaze flicked anxiously to Illyan. "Would you mind sharing with the Prince's ADC? I'm going to have to cram his bodyguards into two cabins too few already…" he trailed off distractedly, reminding Illyan of a busy housewife before Winterfair.
Illyan and Vorkosigan exchanged a glance of perfect understanding. Sharing a cabin with the Prince's closest ally on this ship, who undoubtedly had orders to find a way to murder him secretly, did not appeal.
"Perhaps Illyan had better bunk with me," Vorkosigan said. "It'll make it easier for me to haul him along whenever I have to go anywhere."
Jones looked both surprised and relieved at this suggestion. "I--well, if that's all right with you, it would be most helpful, sir."
"Fine, that's settled. Let's get started." Vorkosigan hustled them both down the corridor. "You'd better show me what you've planned so far and we'll take it from there."
The day was taken up with the arrival of the rest of the flotilla, briefing the other ship captains and a lengthy discussion with Prince Serg about strategy. To Illyan's surprise and relief, Serg's ideas about what they should do were not wholly ridiculous, and there were fewer clashes between him and Vorkosigan than Illyan would have imagined possible. Perhaps it was because Serg's anger seemed to have been diverted upon Illyan himself. The main problem was the state of the flotilla, since there were no ships in it that had not suffered damage during the earlier fighting to drive the Escobarans back to their planetary orbitals. On the flagship, Illyan had not entirely realised the extent of their losses during the earlier fighting.
They escaped after supper quickly, Vorkosigan pleading work, abandoning the job of entertaining the Prince to Captain Tugalov and his officers. Back in their cabin, Vorkosigan settled himself at the console and Illyan sat on the lower bunk and began to read a book-film, attempting to afford Vorkosigan some illusion of privacy. But after a time it became clear that Vorkosigan was staring into space and ignoring the reports on the holo-screen. He looked round at Illyan.
"You must be too young to remember Yuri's civil war."
As a conversation-starter, that had all the subtlety of a high-explosive bomb. "I was a baby when he was executed," Illyan agreed. "My father died in the battle of Lorimel River." He paused for timing. If Vorkosigan was throwing bombs around… "He was fighting for Yuri."
Vorkosigan blinked at that, diverted from whatever train of thought he had been pursuing. "Unusual that you should be in ImpSec, then. They're normally very picky about their candidates' backgrounds."
"My father was only a non-com, a sergeant. He didn't really care much about Yuri, but he was very loyal to his captain, and his captain wouldn't break his oath to Yuri even though he was upset by what he saw. The captain tried to urge my father to desert to Ezar's side, or go on a long leave, but my father wouldn't do that. He was killed saving his captain's life in the battle. The captain was executed as a traitor afterwards."
It was, Illyan frequently thought, a typically Barrayaran story. Everyone suffers for their honour and it all borders on being pointless. Perhaps a good playwright or novelist could make something interesting out of it. Vorkosigan looked sick.
"I'm sorry," he said. Illyan shrugged.
"It was a long time ago. I never really knew him, and I only found out the whole story later on. But Negri didn't think it meant I was likely to be a security risk."
"I suppose not." The lines in Vorkosigan's face deepened. "Would you do what they did? Stick to your oath even if you decided the man you'd given it to wasn't worthy of it?"
"I don't know." It was Illyan's turn to frown, as he realised what Vorkosigan must be thinking and suggesting in this roundabout way. He refrained from asking Vorkosigan if he would follow his father's footsteps; it was all too obvious that he would. Besides, there was no way he could avoid taking formal notice of Vorkosigan plotting treason out loud.
A thought burst in his mind. He had heard stories of what ImpSec had been under Yuri, and he had studied enough history to know of hundreds of other security forces which had been used by vicious rulers to terrorise their peoples, but the idea that he might suddenly find himself a member of such a force had never before occurred to him. And what then would he do? Ordered to move against the Emperor's enemies real or imagined, capture them, torture them, assassinate them… he stared at Vorkosigan and realised who would be first on Prince Serg's list of enemies when he took power.
Vorkosigan was watching him under his heavy-lidded eyes, shrewd and knowing. The last lingering shreds of prudence prevented Illyan from saying what was in his mind. Instead, after the silence had stretched nerve-tight, he answered.
"I think," he said slowly, "it would have to be very bad before I would break my oath."
"Oh," Vorkosigan breathed, "it would be."
*
Illyan gazed phlegmatically at the tactical display and hoped Vorkosigan was as good a strategist as rumour said. Jumpscout reports had given a clear picture of the Escobaran ships mustering at the far side of the wormhole jump point, and another group of Escobarans were forming up around the nearest orbital station, evidently planning a sortie to push through to link up with them. To meet this assault was the battle group under the command of the Prince and Vorkosigan, and it had taken all Vorkosigan's tact to get a half-decent plan formed with very little time.
Now everything was a bustle of preparations and checks as they waited for the Escos to make a move. Illyan leaned back in his station chair and consciously calmed himself, as he had been taught to do before any action. Not that he would be taking part in the action here, but the tense atmosphere was infecting him. Only Vorkosigan seemed truly at ease as he sat by Captain Tugalov and listened as the departments reported their status.
"Sir." The ensign's interrupting voice was breathy with nerves. Captain Tugalov rotated in his station chair. "Sir, there's something wrong with the main fore plasma cannon. It's not responding to the targeting commands."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know yet, sir. Could be another burned-out relay somewhere, but I thought we tested them all..."
"Well, find out and get it fixed."
The ensign flushed and looked at his screen. He was one of the very young officers, Illyan observed. Surely a ship of this class should have someone more senior as Weaponry Officer? The young man was listening to a report through his earbug and murmuring orders in a hesitant tone. Illyan heard the phrases 'I'm sorry' and 'I don't know' more than once.
Vorkosigan glanced at Tugalov, checking that he wasn't treading on the captain's toes, and went to look at the ensign's work more closely.
"What kind of cannon do you have here?" he asked.
"V-27s, sir. The old model."
"Ah, that's the first one I ever used in a real fight. Good weapons. You been making modifications to the software?"
"Not recently, sir. You think it's a bug?"
"Could be, or it could be one of the control relays, or there's always the main bearing. Get your engineering crew on it."
"Yes, sir." The weapons officer looked a little awestruck, and very relieved to have someone with solid experience interesting himself in the problem.
"I started out as a weapons officer on a ship like this," Vorkosigan remarked to the room at large. "Good ship."
Illyan saw the awe in the ensign's face turn to hope and desire, and he turned back to his engineering reports with resolve. That boy would do anything for Vorkosigan now, Illyan thought. He wondered if he would ever be able to inspire men like that. Well, if he couldn't learn from Vorkosigan he would have to be a hopeless case indeed.
The Prince had been loftily ignoring the discussion of junior officers, but now he spoke.
"If this ship is inactive I will transfer my flag to the Star Bridge." That comment, Illyan noted, lowered the morale of the officers as neatly as Vorkosigan's words had lifted it.
"Sir, none of the other ships in the battle group have such good communication links and tactical systems," Vorkosigan answered at once with remarkable patience. "In a real emergency, the Star Bridge can command, but it would not be ideal. I think you would find the accommodation there more cramped, also."
The Prince scowled. "You just want an excuse to lurk in the rear."
The other officers froze at the implied accusation, but both Vorkosigan and Illyan had heard this so frequently that it barely registered. All he said was, "I assure you, in a group of this size, every ship fights."
That remark closed the conversation for a while and the officers returned to their work. Illyan watched them and felt a twinge of jealousy. It had been a long time since he'd honestly dreamed of ship command, and he knew Intelligence work suited him well; it was the common effort he envied here, and the camaderie of the officers. He'd been working solo for too long, he wanted to get back to teamwork rather than bearing all the responsibility alone.
The weaponry officer was still looking frantic as he sorted through reports and spoke into his comm link.
"What's your status?" Captain Tugalov queried after a while.
"It's still not responding, sir," the ensign answered. "We can't seem to find anything."
"What do you mean, you can't find anything?" the Prince interjected. "It's your damn job to find out what's wrong. Are you the weaponry officer or the ship's cat?"
"Lay off," Vorkosigan muttered. The ensign looked despairing. "Have you done an external check yet?"
"No, sir. Not with the attack so near."
"What exactly are you getting as your fault reports?" Vorkosigan asked.
With a relieved expression, the ensign spouted technical jargon. Illyan let his chip file it without paying much attention. Vorkosigan listened with the distant attentiveness of an expert doctor taking a case history, asking a few questions.
"I think it's the bearing," Vorkosigan said at last. "They do wear out in time, and that's exactly the pattern of faults you get. I had this happen on me one time when--well, never mind that. When was the last time it was replaced?"
The ensign tapped into his console. "Two years ago, sir."
"And you saw heavy combat in the last two engagements, didn't you? You need to send a work party out there to replace it right now. Get your chief engineer on it."
"We've lost our chief engineer, sir. A plasma coil exploded in his face three days ago. He's on the hospital ship now. His second was killed. There's supposed to be a replacement coming over, but he hasn't arrived yet. Our techs are good at the ordinary stuff, but I don't know about this..."
"Well, someone's got to go," Vorkosigan said. "Only volunteers, naturally, this close to action, but the action won't last long without the main cannon."
The ensign began to scan through his duty rosters, a little hopelessly. "I don't know who's ever done this repair before," he said.
"Didn't you say you knew all about these cannons, Vorkosigan?" The Prince had been speaking quietly with his ADC, and his interruption made them all start. "Why don't you go?"
"I have worked on this particular problem before," Vorkosigan admitted. "But--"
"Very well, then. You may as well make yourself useful."
Illyan opened his mouth to object, but shut it again. Drawing more of the Prince's negative attention would not be wise, and Vorkosigan was quite capable of holding his own in an argument. Captain Tugalov was staring at the Prince, and the other officers were looking to their captain in equal surprise. Engineering repairs were a long way outside the purview of a staff officer, even if Vorkosigan did have the relevant experience; it was, Illyan thought, as humiliating as ordering a lieutenant to do a batman's job. Quite in the Prince's style, in other words.
Vorkosigan grimaced, gave Tugalov a quelling look and said, "As you wish, sir. Ensign, get the parts sorted and have a squad of eight techs at the nearest airlock. We'll get started right away." He turned to Illyan. "You can monitor communications from inside if you prefer, Lieutenant."
"Oh," said the Prince before Illyan could consider this suggestion, "surely you can't say you have to follow your master into private, personal conversations with Ges and me, but leave him alone for this?"
Illyan jerked his head in answer. "I'll come with you, sir." He ignored the Prince. It would be within the letter of his orders, just, to stay inside, but he would rather not remain on the bridge with the Prince and no Vorkosigan to focus his attention, especially with the Prince in this mood.
There was a delay whilst the ensign organised his men and Vorkosigan sat at a desk and went through the schema of the plasma cannon more carefully, reminding himself of the construction. The Prince was conferring with one of his men and looking at the tactical display.
It was not long before Illyan followed Vorkosigan through to an airlock where a sergeant from Engineering and a team of men were suiting up under the inquisitive eye of the Prince's aide-de-camp. Illyan took the suit that was given to him and accessed his chip for the details of the suit-check. He went through the procedure, then swapped suits with Vorkosigan for the double-check. Mindful of his batman's role he helped Vorkosigan suit up, set his comm link to have a constant feed from Vorkosigan's headset and allowed the corporal in charge of the equipment to help him into his own suit.
They pushed one by one out of the airlock in the slow balletic movement that was necessary outside the ship. Spacewalks were part of standard training for ImpSec galactic agents, and this was not the first time Illyan had been outside, but he had never before seen the exterior of a heavy cruiser. The external lights had been switched on so that they would be able to see their way, but beyond the ship was the immense darkness of space. Illyan felt tiny.
Vorkosigan was moving confidently up the side, and Illyan followed. The work team were clustered around them, tools and monitors strapped to their suits, but there was no sound other than the slight hissing of his suit's rebreather. The silence was unsettling, and Illyan nearly lost his hand-hold when Vorkosigan's voice came suddenly over the comm link.
"Right, sergeant. We need to get the muzzle off, and open her up."
The main plasma cannon's mouth was enormous, but in the weightlessness of space it took only three men to ease it free. Illyan found a good grip out of the way of the working men and watched as they moved in a measured sarabande, passing tools and scanners from hand to hand as they worked as delicately as a surgical team operating on a patient.
Illyan let the chatter over the comm links go straight to his chip, incomprehensible discussions of spiders and surface wear. He amused himself by calculating exactly where the first Esco jumpscout would emerge into local space, then tried to work out how they would fan out over the system. Right there. Then there would be a short space whilst the scout detected the cruisers, then went back to report. And then the Esco ships would start jumping in. Normally, the first ship through a defended wormhole was little better than a suicide run, hoping only to get an accurate report of the situation to the rest of the battle group, but with the Vengeance's main weapons system down the Escos would have a tremendous advantage.
A headache was beginning behind his eyes from the tension of waiting. He looked back at the repairs. They were removing an enormous bearing from its casing, and Vorkosigan was saying, "There, you see that? Completely worn. Get the new one over here now."
Over the private link to Vorkosigan's com, Illyan heard the weapons officer from inside the ship. "Commodore. Current best guess from our jumpscout is that the Escos will be here in about half an hour. Could be sooner. How much more have you got to do?"
Illyan's eyes were drawn magnetically to the spot where he had calculated the enemy would emerge.
"We're about halfway through. I'll send some of the men back, we don't need them all for the rest." Then Vorkosigan spoke privately to Illyan. "You hear that, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir."
"If you want to go back with the men, you may."
"No, sir." Illyan's response was automatic, despite the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd chosen this plan, now he'd better stick to it.
"Very well."
Vorkosigan relayed the message to the non-com in charge, Sergeant Medhi, and three of the men were sent back after they slotted the new bearing into its hole. The others remained, fitting the other end of the pipe into place and testing it. No Escos appeared.
"All right. Now we get the muzzle back on, then they can test it down at Weaponry, and if it passes we're done, sir," Medhi reported.
"Oh, fuck!" came across Illyan's channel, making him jump. Everyone was looking down at the innards of the cannon.
"It's cracked, sir," said one of the men, his voice painfully level. "We'll have to replace it."
Illyan replayed his chip and saw what had happened. One of the men had moved incautiously and struck a section of pipework with his toolbox. Medhi was chewing him out ferociously.
"That's the plasma feed," Vorkosigan said, also level-voiced. "Sergeant, save it for later."
"We don't have a replacement here," Medhi said. "I'll send someone back to get one."
"No time for that," Vorkosigan said shortly. "No. We'll just do a bit of a re-route... here, you see? We can just go around. Lieutenant, we'll need another pair of hands for this."
Illyan moved in closer and found himself drafted to help hold the muzzle whilst one of the more experienced techs went in to help with the new repair. He watched curiously as Vorkosigan gave orders and gestured. He seemed to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the innards of the plasma cannon, and Illyan couldn't help thinking that it was just as well the Prince had sent him out here.
"All right. Let's try this again now. Control, please test the pressure in the feed pipe."
The weapons officer's voice came back a few moments later. "The board is green, sir. And, um, the Esco jumpscout has just come through. It won't be more than about twenty minutes before this place gets really hot."
"Good. We'll get this in place, and then you take your men back, Medhi. We don't need you to do up the screws and run the rotation tests."
There was a brief argument as the sergeant tried to persuade Vorkosigan to return instead, which Vorkosigan won. Illyan gathered that Medhi had been at Komarr, since he called Vorkosigan 'Admiral' in parting. As the suited figures descended along the hull and out of sight towards the airlock, Illyan forced himself to stop looking for enemy ships and pay attention to the plasma cannon.
"Last checks now," Vorkosigan said. Illyan made no response. He wished his heart would stop pounding. He'd faced death many times, waited with his own life and the lives of others in the balance before, but for some reason this time his stomach was full of butterflies, his hands clammy in the atmosphere-controlled suit, and his breath fast in his chest. Perhaps it was the surroundings. He knew he had no latent agoraphobia--ImpSec's psychologists were picky about such things--but combination of the empty darkness and the tension might be the problem.
His mind wandered. Was Vorkosigan suicidal, to volunteer to stay out here? He recalled Vorkosigan's equally suicidal plans for the retreat, then gave a jaw-splitting yawn, and wondered how he could feel both tired and strung-out at once.
"Right, that looks good. Hold this for me, Lieutenant, and we'll tighten these screws and then we can get the hell out of here."
Illyan heard the words, but did not move. He couldn't catch his breath. It felt like giant hands were squeezing his chest.
"Wake up, this is no time for daydreaming."
Vorkosigan's tone was acerbic, and Illyan tried to force himself to respond. Go help fix the plasma cannon. The movement he attempted made his vision grey out, and he gasped like a landed fish.
"Is something wrong? Lieutenant, report!"
The sharp commanding tones forced a response from Illyan, product of years of drills. "Can't breathe, sir," he managed.
There was a pause, then Vorkosigan's muttered curses filled his ears.
"Your suit should have been sounding alarms ten minutes ago. O2 saturation is way below the minimum."
Oxygen deprivation. His chip poured the symptoms into his oddly sluggish mind. Lethargy. Flu-like symptoms. Nausea. Breathlessness. Coma. Death. A very nasty death. At least it wasn't cowardice, he thought muzzily. He tried to get his mind to start. An image appeared of himself checking his suit according to the standard routine before donning it, he and Vorkosigan doing the equally standard double-checks of each other's suits. They had seemed fine. Had he missed something in Vorkosigan's as well? His duty roused him.
"Check yours," he whispered.
"Just did, it's fine. Stay with me, Illyan."
Vorkosigan was moving towards him, reaching for his suit's life-support mechanisms. Illyan couldn't see what he was doing--it was a little behind him, and his vision was fading anyway.
"Escos in fifteen minutes, sir. You'd better get back here on the double."
"Not yet. Got a situation here."
"Sir, we can send the party back..."
"By the time they got suited up and out here again it would be too late. No point. We'll get this done."
It was a moment before he identified the voices as coming from Vorkosigan's comm link. Fifteen minutes. It took five minutes to get back to the airlock. Vorkosigan should leave off whatever he was doing to the rebreather, get the plasma cannon sorted and get himself inside, not waste precious time with this. That long without oxygen would kill him anyway, if the Escos didn't get him first. The thought was quite clear in his head, but he couldn't seem to find the mental pathways that would permit him to speak. He felt oddly distant from his body. Even his heaving stomach seemed to belong to someone else.
"There. You'll be all right now."
There was a draught. How could there be a draught in space? Suddenly and violently he was aware of the nausea again and the shaking of his hands. He swallowed hard. Don't vomit in a space suit.
"Sir? What have you done?"
"Got you some oxygen. Can you continue?"
"Yes, sir." Illyan willed the sickness and tremors to leave him. Fifteen minutes till the battle would start. He looked at Vorkosigan's space suit and blinked as his brain slowly came back online.
"Shit, sir, what is that?" The words escaped as he saw that the air pipe from Vorkosigan's rebreather was now attached to his suit. It was, his chip told him, a standard procedure for emergency situations, but he'd never actually seen it done before.
"When my suit alarms start going off you can switch it back. There's a fair bit of atmospheric oxygen in the suit as it is. Just keep within the length of the tube. Now, if you hold this…"
They worked their way around the cannon, fastening all the screws. Illyan nearly dropped the screwdriver when an earsplitting siren went off. He secured it hastily to his belt and turned to face Vorkosigan.
"Time to swap over, sir," he said, having to shout to be heard over the siren. "Can you shut that thing off?"
"Better not."
Illyan found the outlet where Vorkosigan's oxygen tube was attached to his spacesuit and detached it. There was a second's hiss, then the outlet self-sealed. He fitted it back onto Vorkosigan's own suit, the siren still deafening him. A moment later it fell silent.
"Are you all right?"
"Think so. Tell me when you start feeling the effects again and we'll change."
They fastened the final screw, then Vorkosigan called Control. "Run your tests. It all looks good here."
They waited. Illyan felt the nausea and light-headedness return, and spoke over their link. "Think you'd better change over again, sir."
"Hold still, then."
Illyan forced himself not to hold his breath as Vorkosigan again went through the delicate business of disconnecting the oxygen tube. Feeling better at once, he listened to the weaponry officer speaking to Vorkosigan.
"It's all moving properly, sir. You'd better hurry back."
"No need to say that, Ensign." Vorkosigan's voice was oddly cheerful considering their dangerous predicament. "Ready, Lieutenant?"
Illyan only grunted. Moving in null-gee over the hull of a spaceship whilst tethered to another man's oxygen supply was by no means easy. It reminded Illyan of the three-legged races that had been popular when he was a schoolboy, only with a far more deadly fate if they failed to move together. They moved side by side, attempting to coordinate their steps in the awkward gait caused by magnetic boots. Illyan was desperately aware of the imminent Esco cruisers. The ship's shields might protect them from an attack, but once their own plasma cannon was fired they would certainly be caught up in the backwash.
Vorkosigan's suit siren went off again. Vorkosigan shouted over it. "No time to play around. We'll get back there before it can actually do me any harm."
Illyan ran calculations in his head. They were a little more than three minutes from the lock. There should be enough oxygen in the safety margin to keep Vorkosigan alive till then. But the exertion of walking along the ship would consume oxygen more quickly than Illyan had whilst watching the repairs.
"Very well, but I'll tow you."
If Vorkosigan protested this, it was too quietly to be heard over the alarm. Illyan caught hold of Vorkosigan's arm with one hand and with the other pressed the safety override to release his magnetic boots. In null-gee this manoeuvre was remarkably easy, and he trod along as quickly as he could. After a moment the siren stopped, and he felt the sudden relief of quiet.
"That's better," Vorkosigan muttered. "Need to be able to hear Control."
They approached the lock at last. Illyan saw that Vorkosigan's oxygen levels were dangerously low, and he tried to go faster.
"Commodore! Five-space distortion on the wormhole--first ship is coming through! How far are you?"
Illyan answered for Vorkosigan. "Ten seconds. Open the lock, please."
"It's open."
As they came into the lighted area of the lock, he saw that it was indeed standing open. A very dangerous thing to do, but understandable, and Illyan's first thoughts were of gratitude. He gripped the handhold and pulled them both inside.
"Cycle the lock, we're in," he said at once. The airlock seemed to close with painful slowness. Then the artificial gravity kicked in as the air was pumped back into the lock, and Illyan staggered as he tried to keep his own balance and support Vorkosigan. As soon as the warning lights turned green, he wrenched off Vorkosigan's helmet. Vorkosigan's lips were blue and his face an alarming grey, but his eyes were open. He drew several ragged breaths and his colour improved. When he was steady on his feet, Illyan released him and unfastened his own helmet. Carefully he laid it on the floor away from Vorkosigan's. He would need to investigate the fault, or sabotage, or whatever it was.
Vorkosigan grinned at him suddenly. "Well, that was exciting."
Illyan glared. He found he was shaking slightly with reaction. "Do you have any idea how risky it was?" He got a clear look at the tubing running from Vorkosigan's rebreather to his own, and his eyes widened. "If you'd cut that a few millimetres to the right… you shouldn't have done that."
"If it comes to that, you should have remained inside, or gone back with the men. You wouldn't have got into this fix if you hadn't stuck your neck out for me."
The inner door slid open then, and Sergeant Medhi came in.
"If you'd cut that any tighter you'd have been toast," he said with a look of respect for Vorkosigan. "It's all working now, and the Escos are jumping in." He scanned them both. "Do you need a medic, sir?" His gaze flickered from Vorkosigan to Illyan, and Illyan wondered if he looked as pale and ill as Vorkosigan. "What happened?" He reached towards the oxygen tube curiously.
"Leave that, please," said Illyan sharply.
"Something malfunctioned in the Lieutenant's rebreather," Vorkosigan explained.
"Malfunctioned," Illyan echoed dryly. "Perhaps. I'll need a forensics kit, and I'll have to go over my entire suit, so don't touch anything from it or let anyone else do so, please." As he spoke he was unfastening the suit with great delicacy, watching all his own movements so as to have a clear record of every detail.
"I can get you one, sir," said Medhi. He looked again at Vorkosigan and repeated, "And a medic?"
"I'm fine," said Vorkosigan dismissively. Medhi took the hint and left.
"Not a malfunction?" Vorkosigan said as the door slid shut again.
"Well, it's not impossible, but under the circumstances..." Illyan did not need to name the suspect who came first to his mind. He forced himself to remain open to all possibilities, and let the evidence speak for itself. He laid his suit out neatly by a locker, whilst Vorkosigan put his off rather less carefully.
Vorkosigan's comm link beeped, and an anxious Captain Tugalov spoke. "Commodore, have you got back all right? We could use you on the bridge." Illyan recognised the note of frustration and worry in his voice that meant that the Prince was around, undoubtedly making his own 'contributions'.
Vorkosigan did not answer it, but jerked his head at Illyan. "We need to get up there. Can your forensics wait?"
"So long as this is undisturbed."
Medhi re-entered with the forensics kit.
"Sorry, Sergeant, we're going to have to go," Illyan said. "I'll put this in an empty locker and seal it. Don't let anyone, no matter who, touch it until I return to go over it properly."
"Right you are, sir." Medhi looked at the suit suspiciously. "You think it was foul play?"
"I don't know anything yet. The warning didn't go off when the oxygen level dropped, and it should have done. I'll go over it later."
Vorkosigan was donning his uniform jacket and moving to the door. Illyan followed, straightening his own uniform. He took long deep breaths as he did so, enjoying the sensation. He saw Vorkosigan was doing the same. At the entrance to the bridge, Vorkosigan paused.
"Well, we'll see who looks surprised to see you," he murmured. There was a note of real anger in his voice that surprised Illyan.
All heads swung around as they entered. The Prince and his ADC both scowled at Illyan, which made him faintly satisfied at his deduction even though his chip pointed out that they'd scowled every time they'd seen him for weeks.
"You cut that very fine," the Prince said. "I thought you knew how to fix these things. We were nearly too late."
"Lieutenant Illyan had a problem with his oxygen supply," Vorkosigan said curtly. "A suit malfunction, presumably. It delayed us."
The Prince raised an elegant eyebrow. "A problem with the oxygen supply? How unfortunate." He smiled a little. "But you haven't managed to lose your watchdog even so. What a shame."
Vorkosigan stared straight at the Prince. "I have always believed that however little you may have wished for one, once you have a dog, he's your responsibility."
Illyan suppressed a smile with difficulty. With such a show of support from Vorkosigan, the Prince would be very slow to dare a third attempt on his life. He was pleased too for another reason: it may not have been the method he would have wished to use, but it was clear that he had a certain measure of influence over Vorkosigan again.
***
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