Fic: Aral Vorkosigan's Dog 10/15
Title: Aral Vorkosigan's Dog 10/15
Rating/warnings: R, Shards-level sexual and physical violence
Length: 70k (this chapter 3600 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
The battle for the Tau Cetan wormhole went on for eight days, in the slow motion of space battles. The Barrayaran flotilla drove back the first wave of attackers and bunched them up around the wormhole exit, not quite in retreat. Then there was a long stalemate. The Escobarans' defensive position was almost unassailable, but they could not make an attack without being picked off easily. The Prince argued for a suicide mission to break them up, but Vorkosigan talked him down, and everyone hunkered down for a long wait. Then a second wave of attackers came through, straight into the trap Vorkosigan and the Prince had prepared for them. The battle ran on rails after that, and the wormhole was decisively held by the Barrayarans.
Illyan managed to steal half an hour to investigate his spacesuit thoroughly, under Sergeant Medhi's fascinated eye. On the main oxygen hose he found traces of a corrosive substance, one commonly used in by the maintenance and repair team. It could, theoretically, have found its way onto the hose by accident, but Illyan didn't believe in those kinds of accidents. And the O2 warning siren had been removed completely, which could never have been an accident. Questioning of Medhi and his men revealed that the Prince's aide-de-camp had been helping lay out the suits before Vorkosigan and Illyan arrived. Not evidence enough for a court, but Illyan wasn't planning to take anything before the clumsy arm of military justice. Vorkosigan's support had been enough to warn the Prince off any further attempts for the time being.
Prince Serg returned to the flagship as soon as it was clear that the interesting parts of the battle were over, leaving Vorkosigan with the mopping up and preparing a solid defence for the wormhole in the future. The military problems were rather relaxing, to Illyan's way of thinking; much easier to resolve than the poisonous battles amongst the Staff, and the never-ending war between Illyan's orders and his conscience.
Vorkosigan was recalled a few days afterwards. The last day had been rather dull, the mopping up done and the reports written. Vorkosigan had taken to pacing about the Vengeance looking for things to inspect, and Illyan had learned more than he had ever cared to know about the ship's pipes and ducts. Mercifully, early in the next day-cycle, the tight-beam orders recalling him came through, and the fast courier arrived several hours after.
Illyan found himself growing tense as they drew near the flagship. He saw Vorkosigan close too, his face turning cold and blank as they approached, and tried to think of something to say to lift the mood.
"It all seems to be going well so far," he commented as Vorkosigan idly reread the latest reports.
"For the time being."
"Do you really still think it's going to fail?"
Vorkosigan's lips thinned. "Of course it will. Taking the local space is the easy part, and we've already had more casualties and equipment loss than the Staff planned for. You saw the state old Vengeance was in. We'll never take the planet unless someone decides to raze it with nuclears."
Illyan sat mutely. He ran a search through all the Staff meetings he'd sat through over the past months, just in case someone had floated the suggestion of putting all Escobar to fire. Mercifully, nobody had. Surely nobody would start arguing for that as a way to end the war?
He must have been looking unnerved, for Vorkosigan took pity on him. "It won't come to that. If only because a radioactive planet can't be settled or assimilated or taxed. And even the Prince might realise what a public relations disaster it would be."
"True."
After that he made no more attempts at conversation, and they reached the flagship without incident. Immediately on their arrival an ensign approached.
"Admiral Vorrutyer would like you to join him in Briefing Room One, sir."
Vorkosigan gave a barely audible sigh and nodded. "Is it a meeting of the entire Staff?"
"Just Admiral Vorrutyer, Admiral Vorhalas and the Prince, sir."
"Very well."
The meeting was in full swing when they entered, and after some swift greetings Vorhalas returned to what he had been saying before.
"I tell you, we're too thinly spread. The Escos are happy to pick us off one by one around the wormhole jumps, and wait for us to walk into their traps."
"We have control of local space now," Vorrutyer returned. "Nothing is getting through to them. It's time to start thinking about the next step."
"Almost nothing is getting through," Vorhalas muttered. Vorkosigan turned sharply to face him.
"What's this?"
Vorhalas looked uncomfortable. "A convoy got through while you were away. Through the Beta jump right here."
Illyan's eyes fastened on Vorkosigan, an almost instinctive reaction Vorkosigan's sudden increase in tension.
"A convoy from Beta?"
"It was just three freighters and a dreadnought. We got the big one, but the freighters got away. Caught some Betans in a lifeboat, too." Prince Serg smiled complacently. "No need to be so jumpy, Aral."
"You do know what Beta Colony's main export is, don't you?" Vorkosigan snapped. "Keeping the Escos from getting better weapon systems is vital to the success of this little show."
"What can they get in three freighters?" drawled Vorrutyer. "A consignment of plasma arcs and spare shuttle parts? It's the warship we needed to keep away, and we got that, no problem." He pushed a disc across the table. "Here's the battle data-you can do the analysis on it if you're so worried. I've got better things to do now."
Vorkosigan passed it back to Illyan, who stuck it into the batch of files he was already holding, and the meeting broke up. Illyan noticed Vorrutyer making for the door at once, and let out his breath. He had feared that Vorrutyer would want to begin his baiting of Vorkosigan now that they were back. But it seemed they were being spared that, at least for now.
Prince Serg, however, remained. "You look at that data," he said, gesturing to the disc Illyan held. "See just who brought down that dreadnought. You think you're so much better than the rest of us, but you weren't even here for it."
Vorkosigan gave an abbreviated bow, and Illyan caught his almost-amused expression.
"Don't think I don't know what your game is. But you won't be off to the front again. You can just stay here, you and your precious watchdog, and let the people who matter lead."
He whisked out, leaving Vorkosigan alone with Vorhalas. Some of the tension left his stance.
"Glad you're back," Vorhalas said.
"You've been doing fine," said Vorkosigan. "I'd better take a look at this convoy business, though. I don't like it." He moved towards the door. "You can get some rest now, Rulf. If anything comes up I'll handle it."
Vorhalas smiled, the first smile Illyan had seen all day, and they went their separate ways. Illyan followed Vorkosigan to his cabin.
"Don't you want some lunch, sir?" he asked, not very hopefully, as Vorkosigan made straight for his console and gestured for the battle disc.
"Not hungry," Vorkosigan said briefly. "Go get something for yourself. I expect sifting through this lot is going to take a while."
Illyan frowned, but considering Vorkosigan's sombre expression decided against pressing the point. He nodded and slipped out of the cabin.
It was strange, he thought. Earlier on in this assignment, he'd felt relieved when he'd been dismissed and been able to escape his watchdog's duties. Now he felt the exact opposite. Vorkosigan's cabin was secure; it was the only safe place on the ship; it was, he sometimes thought, the only sane place on the ship.
He entered the officers' mess and found some amusement in the reactions of the other junior officers to his arrival. As he collected a plateful of whatever was being offered-he didn't particularly notice what-he gazed around the room with an intent expression. Everyone here knew about his memory chip and more than a few believed that he recorded every word and movement by every man aboard, expressly to show the Emperor. Now the officers were sitting up a little straighter, quite a lot of the swearing stopped and several conversations were blighted beyond recovery by his bland glance. It was entertaining, and Illyan did not particularly mind that it had prevented him from forming friendships with the other men. ImpSec agents didn't often have friends outside ImpSec in any case, it was too risky and too difficult. He had plenty of respect, and that was what he needed to do his job.
A movement caught his eye and he looked up. Hovering in the doorway between the officers' mess and the common mess a black-fatigued soldier was leaning on the wall, trying to look nonchalant and failing. His eyes met Illyan's and he did not look away. Illyan recognised Corporal Angelov, and his appetite disappeared as the image of when he had last seen the man rose before him. There was an urgency in Angelov's gaze that demanded response. Illyan gave a half-nod of acknowledgement, a bare motion of his head, and the man turned away.
Illyan did not hurry out. He pushed the food around on his plate a while longer, tried to choke a few more mouthfuls down and sipped water. What did Angelov want from him? He hadn't judged the man to be particularly subtle, but he did not overlook the possibility that Angelov was going to try blackmail. But Angelov could have only the faintest glimmerings of Vorkosigan's intentions on learning of the treatment of the Escobaran woman, and Illyan knew his own responses could not have given much away.
A memory emerged from his chip. Caught some Betans in a lifeboat. On duty in the brig, Angelov would know what was going on with the prisoners. They might have vital intelligence, and Illyan would not have hesitated to administer fast-penta, but what if Vorrutyer or Serg had commanded other methods of extracting information? Angelov had looked sickened enough for that.
Or it could be even worse. His chip provided another memory, a picture of exactly how much worse it could be. Illyan rose abruptly and left the table, then forced himself to moderate his stride as he walked out of the mess. He was too preoccupied to find any satisfaction in the relaxation that swept across the room as he departed. A little way down the bare corridor outside he saw Angelov waiting for him.
"Sir," Angelov began in a breathless undertone, "sir, you've got to do something."
Illyan surveyed him from head to toe, confident that his own expression was perfectly blank. Angelov was nervous, unhappy, sickened.
"Not here," he said in a voice exactly pitched to be quiet enough to elude the low-grade bugs the Political Officers would have in the corridor. Being ImpSec gave one a broad and useful base of knowledge. "What is it, Corporal?" he asked in a louder voice. Angelov-good man-caught his cue.
"I need you to, um, look at something, if you can spare me a moment, sir," he said. His voice was slightly too high and taut to be credible, but perhaps speaking to Negri's right-hand-man would be considered sufficient reason for nerves.
"Very well," said Illyan. He nodded for Angelov to follow him.
The only other room on the ship which had no bugs in it was Illyan's own tiny cabin, which he had swept as a matter of course twice a day. Most of the other lieutenants were two to a cabin, but somehow nobody had been willing to share with Illyan. He led Angelov in and sat casually on his bunk, where he had a clear line to the door and the light fell on Angelov's face whilst his own was in shadow.
"What is it?" he asked quietly. He hoped it was actually something important. If this little jaunt attracted attention, it had better be for something good.
Angelov began to speak, the words tumbling out in disorder. "Sir, it's Admiral Vorrutyer-he's got another woman-one of the Betans we caught earlier. He took her to his cabin, and, and he tied her onto that sick bed of his, and I just heard that Bothari's been sent for."
Illyan's jaw clenched. "What do you think I can do about this?" he asked in deliberately cold tones, not wanting to betray anything to Angelov yet. "I have no authority over the Admiral." The Escobaran woman's face floated mockingly inside his skull, her thin half-starved frame and swollen womb, her dead eyes. Not again.
"But Commodore Vorkosigan might, might do something," Angelov began uncertainly. "I know what he says about prisoners, one of my mates was on the General Vorkraft with him, he wouldn't let this continue. You could-you could go to him."
Illyan watched Angelov steadily. It was true. He could go to Vorkosigan, and he knew, as Angelov did not, that nothing short of divine intervention would prevent Vorkosigan from taking drastic action. Certainly Illyan could not. Would not. Illyan sat silently for a moment. If he started this, he needed to be prepared to finish it.
I give you my word. Illyan was no Vor, his word not a sacred bond of honour. But Vorkosigan held it as such. And Vorkosigan would learn, one way or another, about this new prisoner, and he would know that Illyan had broken the word he had given him. He could not walk that road, lose the trust Vorkosigan had placed in him, betray his conscience. He glanced up at his locker, at the ikon hanging by it. The angel's swords, his mother had told him, are to defend the innocent and slay the monsters. He sat up very straight.
"Thank you, corporal. I will see what can be done."
Angelov looked ready to drop with relief. "I didn't want any part in it," he said. "But if I'd tried anything the Admiral would just have had me thrown in the brig, and it wouldn't have helped her at all."
"Yes," said Illyan absently, his mind already full of plans. "You'd better go." He paused. "Thank you."
Angelov turned and hurried out. Illyan waited a moment, then checked the power on all his weapons. They were fully charged. He feared he would soon need them.
What would Vorkosigan do? Not nothing, that much he could guess. Would he argue? Confront the Admiral and the Prince? It could go very badly wrong, Illyan began to realise. Was it really worth it, to stop whatever Vorrutyer was doing?
What Vorrutyer was doing. Right now, while he sat here pondering, Vorrutyer was torturing a prisoner. Illyan got up abruptly and went straight to Vorkosigan's cabin.
Vorkosigan was still sitting at his desk, ship manoeuvres gleaming on the screen. He looked up in surprise as Illyan came in.
"Am I late for something?" he asked. "Surely you haven't got the time wrong? What are you doing here?" He took in the tense, unhappy expression Illyan had permitted to cross his face as he entered the cabin, and killed the console display with a wave. "What's happened?"
"Corporal Angelov has just spoken to me," said Illyan carefully. "He reports that Admiral Vorrutyer has another woman prisoner, taken from the Betan convoy. He has her in his cabin now."
Vorkosigan rose to his feet. In a gesture identical to Illyan's five minutes ago, he began to examine the weapons at his belt.
"What are you going to do? Sir?"
"I'm going to kill him."
"But--sir--" Illyan stuttered into silence at the expression on Vorkosigan's face. He took a deep breath. He'd hoped Vorkosigan would settle for threats, perhaps, or blackmail, or some such technique to get the Betan prisoner out, as with Ensign Beauregard. Not killing the Admiral. "I can't--surely there's some other way."
When he had been assigned this job, he had had no doubts that he could use his ImpSec-sharpened abilities to keep Vorkosigan in line. He almost laughed at his naivety now.
Vorkosigan looked at him and sighed. "Lieutenant. Simon. If you want to distance yourself from this, go now. I'll give you five minutes to do whatever you want, establish an alibi, and then I'll do what I want. It should give you a chance to escape--well, what follows."
For a second, a cowardly part of his mind was tempted. He could pull it off--no. Bending his orders to help Vorkosigan was one thing, abandoning his post was another. "No, sir. I must stay with you."
"This is a suicide mission," Vorkosigan said, the words blunt and heavy as bricks. "Volunteers only, Simon. And I know you didn't volunteer for this post."
Illyan realised then that he did still have the power to stop this, to alter Vorkosigan's plan to something less drastic. A little show of reluctance, a reminder of Vorkosigan's word given, a hint that Illyan had no choice… Vorkosigan would not force him into certain dishonour and likely death. No doubt what Negri would want him to do.
His conscience made a final stand. Defend the innocent and slay the monsters. He would not play games with this; he had given his word too. But he could think of no words to reassure Vorkosigan with, to make it clear that he would follow willingly and without reproach. At least, no words that were not outright treason.
It came to him then, a gesture from his schooldays, from the play every Barrayaran schoolboy knew, The Liegeman. He took a step closer to Vorkosigan and put forward his hands, palms together as if praying, silent. Vorkosigan stared at him, his lips parting with surprise as he recognised the gesture. Then he enclosed Illyan's hands with his own, warm and strong. Neither spoke. The silence, generations of literary and legal scholars had argued, meant that it was not a formal oath, it was not treason, but nonetheless it was real. It was an exchange of trust, of loyalty given and returned. It meant that Illyan was giving Vorkosigan permission to use his life in this cause. And that Vorkosigan would be responsible for the aftermaths.
Barely three seconds had passed. Vorkosigan released his hands--they felt suddenly cold--and nodded to him gravely. Neither man spoke, but Vorkosigan looked relieved of a burden, and Illyan knew that, however it might complicate matters later on, he had been right to give Vorkosigan this wordless oath.
"The Emperor," Vorkosigan said at length, "will not--will not wholly dislike what I'm going to do." He closed his mouth tight, and Illyan wondered what words he was leaving unsaid.
A cry rang through the walls. Vorkosigan's hand fell to his plasma arc as a spasm of terrifying anger crossed his face. "Right," he said. "I want you to stay well back and try to witness everything. When I'm--afterwards--you can say what you please. Lie, threaten, whatever it takes to get a complete report of events back to Ezar."
Illyan frowned. If Vorkosigan was going to die--and the man seemed to have no illusions about that--it would be better for Illyan to die with him. Better than having to face Negri and the Emperor after joining in a mutiny. "There's the other observer for that, the surgeon. He's not involved at all."
"And he won't know the truth of what's been happening. They probably won't shoot you out of hand, not if I get this right. Vorhalas will look after you." He paused. "Do you happen to know where the Prince is?"
Illyan called up the last memory he had of the Prince. "I think he must have gone to his own cabin." He realised why Vorkosigan must be asking, and swallowed. One last try to find a better way. "Um--sir, perhaps I can do something on my own. It might be better than, er, risking you. If I go in there," he gestured to Vorrutyer's cabin, "and start at him, threaten him with Negri and the Emperor, maybe I can get the girl out, without, um, doing something irrevocable."
Vorkosigan shook his head. "No." His face softened for a moment. "Good of you to offer. But if you go in there alone you're more likely to be shot yourself, or just chucked out. Bothari won't hesitate to turn on you. I can deal with him. Besides," his fey expression returned, "I've had enough of this. It's time to end it."
He drew his plasma arc and strode towards the door. This was it. Illyan was condoning a mutiny against the supreme commander of the fleet. He was about to witness the murder of Admiral Vorrutyer and most likely Prince Serg as well. After that Vorkosigan's death was almost certain, and his own likely. He hoped the Betan woman, whoever she was, would appreciate it. But it was clear that there was more at work than one woman's torture, some larger picture that Illyan couldn't see. He must trust that Vorkosigan was right, place his career and his life on Vorkosigan's judgment. It was surprisingly easy.
They stopped outside Vorrutyer's door. Vorkosigan gestured for Illyan to stand back a pace. Illyan obeyed instantly, almost more frightened by the expression on Vorkosigan's face than by what they were about to do. He was dead white, but with anger, not fear, and his teeth were bared. No man going to confront the nightmare of his past could have looked more deadly. Then Vorkosigan steadied his plasma arc, drew a breath, and flung the door wide.
***
Next Chapter
Rating/warnings: R, Shards-level sexual and physical violence
Length: 70k (this chapter 3600 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
The battle for the Tau Cetan wormhole went on for eight days, in the slow motion of space battles. The Barrayaran flotilla drove back the first wave of attackers and bunched them up around the wormhole exit, not quite in retreat. Then there was a long stalemate. The Escobarans' defensive position was almost unassailable, but they could not make an attack without being picked off easily. The Prince argued for a suicide mission to break them up, but Vorkosigan talked him down, and everyone hunkered down for a long wait. Then a second wave of attackers came through, straight into the trap Vorkosigan and the Prince had prepared for them. The battle ran on rails after that, and the wormhole was decisively held by the Barrayarans.
Illyan managed to steal half an hour to investigate his spacesuit thoroughly, under Sergeant Medhi's fascinated eye. On the main oxygen hose he found traces of a corrosive substance, one commonly used in by the maintenance and repair team. It could, theoretically, have found its way onto the hose by accident, but Illyan didn't believe in those kinds of accidents. And the O2 warning siren had been removed completely, which could never have been an accident. Questioning of Medhi and his men revealed that the Prince's aide-de-camp had been helping lay out the suits before Vorkosigan and Illyan arrived. Not evidence enough for a court, but Illyan wasn't planning to take anything before the clumsy arm of military justice. Vorkosigan's support had been enough to warn the Prince off any further attempts for the time being.
Prince Serg returned to the flagship as soon as it was clear that the interesting parts of the battle were over, leaving Vorkosigan with the mopping up and preparing a solid defence for the wormhole in the future. The military problems were rather relaxing, to Illyan's way of thinking; much easier to resolve than the poisonous battles amongst the Staff, and the never-ending war between Illyan's orders and his conscience.
Vorkosigan was recalled a few days afterwards. The last day had been rather dull, the mopping up done and the reports written. Vorkosigan had taken to pacing about the Vengeance looking for things to inspect, and Illyan had learned more than he had ever cared to know about the ship's pipes and ducts. Mercifully, early in the next day-cycle, the tight-beam orders recalling him came through, and the fast courier arrived several hours after.
Illyan found himself growing tense as they drew near the flagship. He saw Vorkosigan close too, his face turning cold and blank as they approached, and tried to think of something to say to lift the mood.
"It all seems to be going well so far," he commented as Vorkosigan idly reread the latest reports.
"For the time being."
"Do you really still think it's going to fail?"
Vorkosigan's lips thinned. "Of course it will. Taking the local space is the easy part, and we've already had more casualties and equipment loss than the Staff planned for. You saw the state old Vengeance was in. We'll never take the planet unless someone decides to raze it with nuclears."
Illyan sat mutely. He ran a search through all the Staff meetings he'd sat through over the past months, just in case someone had floated the suggestion of putting all Escobar to fire. Mercifully, nobody had. Surely nobody would start arguing for that as a way to end the war?
He must have been looking unnerved, for Vorkosigan took pity on him. "It won't come to that. If only because a radioactive planet can't be settled or assimilated or taxed. And even the Prince might realise what a public relations disaster it would be."
"True."
After that he made no more attempts at conversation, and they reached the flagship without incident. Immediately on their arrival an ensign approached.
"Admiral Vorrutyer would like you to join him in Briefing Room One, sir."
Vorkosigan gave a barely audible sigh and nodded. "Is it a meeting of the entire Staff?"
"Just Admiral Vorrutyer, Admiral Vorhalas and the Prince, sir."
"Very well."
The meeting was in full swing when they entered, and after some swift greetings Vorhalas returned to what he had been saying before.
"I tell you, we're too thinly spread. The Escos are happy to pick us off one by one around the wormhole jumps, and wait for us to walk into their traps."
"We have control of local space now," Vorrutyer returned. "Nothing is getting through to them. It's time to start thinking about the next step."
"Almost nothing is getting through," Vorhalas muttered. Vorkosigan turned sharply to face him.
"What's this?"
Vorhalas looked uncomfortable. "A convoy got through while you were away. Through the Beta jump right here."
Illyan's eyes fastened on Vorkosigan, an almost instinctive reaction Vorkosigan's sudden increase in tension.
"A convoy from Beta?"
"It was just three freighters and a dreadnought. We got the big one, but the freighters got away. Caught some Betans in a lifeboat, too." Prince Serg smiled complacently. "No need to be so jumpy, Aral."
"You do know what Beta Colony's main export is, don't you?" Vorkosigan snapped. "Keeping the Escos from getting better weapon systems is vital to the success of this little show."
"What can they get in three freighters?" drawled Vorrutyer. "A consignment of plasma arcs and spare shuttle parts? It's the warship we needed to keep away, and we got that, no problem." He pushed a disc across the table. "Here's the battle data-you can do the analysis on it if you're so worried. I've got better things to do now."
Vorkosigan passed it back to Illyan, who stuck it into the batch of files he was already holding, and the meeting broke up. Illyan noticed Vorrutyer making for the door at once, and let out his breath. He had feared that Vorrutyer would want to begin his baiting of Vorkosigan now that they were back. But it seemed they were being spared that, at least for now.
Prince Serg, however, remained. "You look at that data," he said, gesturing to the disc Illyan held. "See just who brought down that dreadnought. You think you're so much better than the rest of us, but you weren't even here for it."
Vorkosigan gave an abbreviated bow, and Illyan caught his almost-amused expression.
"Don't think I don't know what your game is. But you won't be off to the front again. You can just stay here, you and your precious watchdog, and let the people who matter lead."
He whisked out, leaving Vorkosigan alone with Vorhalas. Some of the tension left his stance.
"Glad you're back," Vorhalas said.
"You've been doing fine," said Vorkosigan. "I'd better take a look at this convoy business, though. I don't like it." He moved towards the door. "You can get some rest now, Rulf. If anything comes up I'll handle it."
Vorhalas smiled, the first smile Illyan had seen all day, and they went their separate ways. Illyan followed Vorkosigan to his cabin.
"Don't you want some lunch, sir?" he asked, not very hopefully, as Vorkosigan made straight for his console and gestured for the battle disc.
"Not hungry," Vorkosigan said briefly. "Go get something for yourself. I expect sifting through this lot is going to take a while."
Illyan frowned, but considering Vorkosigan's sombre expression decided against pressing the point. He nodded and slipped out of the cabin.
It was strange, he thought. Earlier on in this assignment, he'd felt relieved when he'd been dismissed and been able to escape his watchdog's duties. Now he felt the exact opposite. Vorkosigan's cabin was secure; it was the only safe place on the ship; it was, he sometimes thought, the only sane place on the ship.
He entered the officers' mess and found some amusement in the reactions of the other junior officers to his arrival. As he collected a plateful of whatever was being offered-he didn't particularly notice what-he gazed around the room with an intent expression. Everyone here knew about his memory chip and more than a few believed that he recorded every word and movement by every man aboard, expressly to show the Emperor. Now the officers were sitting up a little straighter, quite a lot of the swearing stopped and several conversations were blighted beyond recovery by his bland glance. It was entertaining, and Illyan did not particularly mind that it had prevented him from forming friendships with the other men. ImpSec agents didn't often have friends outside ImpSec in any case, it was too risky and too difficult. He had plenty of respect, and that was what he needed to do his job.
A movement caught his eye and he looked up. Hovering in the doorway between the officers' mess and the common mess a black-fatigued soldier was leaning on the wall, trying to look nonchalant and failing. His eyes met Illyan's and he did not look away. Illyan recognised Corporal Angelov, and his appetite disappeared as the image of when he had last seen the man rose before him. There was an urgency in Angelov's gaze that demanded response. Illyan gave a half-nod of acknowledgement, a bare motion of his head, and the man turned away.
Illyan did not hurry out. He pushed the food around on his plate a while longer, tried to choke a few more mouthfuls down and sipped water. What did Angelov want from him? He hadn't judged the man to be particularly subtle, but he did not overlook the possibility that Angelov was going to try blackmail. But Angelov could have only the faintest glimmerings of Vorkosigan's intentions on learning of the treatment of the Escobaran woman, and Illyan knew his own responses could not have given much away.
A memory emerged from his chip. Caught some Betans in a lifeboat. On duty in the brig, Angelov would know what was going on with the prisoners. They might have vital intelligence, and Illyan would not have hesitated to administer fast-penta, but what if Vorrutyer or Serg had commanded other methods of extracting information? Angelov had looked sickened enough for that.
Or it could be even worse. His chip provided another memory, a picture of exactly how much worse it could be. Illyan rose abruptly and left the table, then forced himself to moderate his stride as he walked out of the mess. He was too preoccupied to find any satisfaction in the relaxation that swept across the room as he departed. A little way down the bare corridor outside he saw Angelov waiting for him.
"Sir," Angelov began in a breathless undertone, "sir, you've got to do something."
Illyan surveyed him from head to toe, confident that his own expression was perfectly blank. Angelov was nervous, unhappy, sickened.
"Not here," he said in a voice exactly pitched to be quiet enough to elude the low-grade bugs the Political Officers would have in the corridor. Being ImpSec gave one a broad and useful base of knowledge. "What is it, Corporal?" he asked in a louder voice. Angelov-good man-caught his cue.
"I need you to, um, look at something, if you can spare me a moment, sir," he said. His voice was slightly too high and taut to be credible, but perhaps speaking to Negri's right-hand-man would be considered sufficient reason for nerves.
"Very well," said Illyan. He nodded for Angelov to follow him.
The only other room on the ship which had no bugs in it was Illyan's own tiny cabin, which he had swept as a matter of course twice a day. Most of the other lieutenants were two to a cabin, but somehow nobody had been willing to share with Illyan. He led Angelov in and sat casually on his bunk, where he had a clear line to the door and the light fell on Angelov's face whilst his own was in shadow.
"What is it?" he asked quietly. He hoped it was actually something important. If this little jaunt attracted attention, it had better be for something good.
Angelov began to speak, the words tumbling out in disorder. "Sir, it's Admiral Vorrutyer-he's got another woman-one of the Betans we caught earlier. He took her to his cabin, and, and he tied her onto that sick bed of his, and I just heard that Bothari's been sent for."
Illyan's jaw clenched. "What do you think I can do about this?" he asked in deliberately cold tones, not wanting to betray anything to Angelov yet. "I have no authority over the Admiral." The Escobaran woman's face floated mockingly inside his skull, her thin half-starved frame and swollen womb, her dead eyes. Not again.
"But Commodore Vorkosigan might, might do something," Angelov began uncertainly. "I know what he says about prisoners, one of my mates was on the General Vorkraft with him, he wouldn't let this continue. You could-you could go to him."
Illyan watched Angelov steadily. It was true. He could go to Vorkosigan, and he knew, as Angelov did not, that nothing short of divine intervention would prevent Vorkosigan from taking drastic action. Certainly Illyan could not. Would not. Illyan sat silently for a moment. If he started this, he needed to be prepared to finish it.
I give you my word. Illyan was no Vor, his word not a sacred bond of honour. But Vorkosigan held it as such. And Vorkosigan would learn, one way or another, about this new prisoner, and he would know that Illyan had broken the word he had given him. He could not walk that road, lose the trust Vorkosigan had placed in him, betray his conscience. He glanced up at his locker, at the ikon hanging by it. The angel's swords, his mother had told him, are to defend the innocent and slay the monsters. He sat up very straight.
"Thank you, corporal. I will see what can be done."
Angelov looked ready to drop with relief. "I didn't want any part in it," he said. "But if I'd tried anything the Admiral would just have had me thrown in the brig, and it wouldn't have helped her at all."
"Yes," said Illyan absently, his mind already full of plans. "You'd better go." He paused. "Thank you."
Angelov turned and hurried out. Illyan waited a moment, then checked the power on all his weapons. They were fully charged. He feared he would soon need them.
What would Vorkosigan do? Not nothing, that much he could guess. Would he argue? Confront the Admiral and the Prince? It could go very badly wrong, Illyan began to realise. Was it really worth it, to stop whatever Vorrutyer was doing?
What Vorrutyer was doing. Right now, while he sat here pondering, Vorrutyer was torturing a prisoner. Illyan got up abruptly and went straight to Vorkosigan's cabin.
Vorkosigan was still sitting at his desk, ship manoeuvres gleaming on the screen. He looked up in surprise as Illyan came in.
"Am I late for something?" he asked. "Surely you haven't got the time wrong? What are you doing here?" He took in the tense, unhappy expression Illyan had permitted to cross his face as he entered the cabin, and killed the console display with a wave. "What's happened?"
"Corporal Angelov has just spoken to me," said Illyan carefully. "He reports that Admiral Vorrutyer has another woman prisoner, taken from the Betan convoy. He has her in his cabin now."
Vorkosigan rose to his feet. In a gesture identical to Illyan's five minutes ago, he began to examine the weapons at his belt.
"What are you going to do? Sir?"
"I'm going to kill him."
"But--sir--" Illyan stuttered into silence at the expression on Vorkosigan's face. He took a deep breath. He'd hoped Vorkosigan would settle for threats, perhaps, or blackmail, or some such technique to get the Betan prisoner out, as with Ensign Beauregard. Not killing the Admiral. "I can't--surely there's some other way."
When he had been assigned this job, he had had no doubts that he could use his ImpSec-sharpened abilities to keep Vorkosigan in line. He almost laughed at his naivety now.
Vorkosigan looked at him and sighed. "Lieutenant. Simon. If you want to distance yourself from this, go now. I'll give you five minutes to do whatever you want, establish an alibi, and then I'll do what I want. It should give you a chance to escape--well, what follows."
For a second, a cowardly part of his mind was tempted. He could pull it off--no. Bending his orders to help Vorkosigan was one thing, abandoning his post was another. "No, sir. I must stay with you."
"This is a suicide mission," Vorkosigan said, the words blunt and heavy as bricks. "Volunteers only, Simon. And I know you didn't volunteer for this post."
Illyan realised then that he did still have the power to stop this, to alter Vorkosigan's plan to something less drastic. A little show of reluctance, a reminder of Vorkosigan's word given, a hint that Illyan had no choice… Vorkosigan would not force him into certain dishonour and likely death. No doubt what Negri would want him to do.
His conscience made a final stand. Defend the innocent and slay the monsters. He would not play games with this; he had given his word too. But he could think of no words to reassure Vorkosigan with, to make it clear that he would follow willingly and without reproach. At least, no words that were not outright treason.
It came to him then, a gesture from his schooldays, from the play every Barrayaran schoolboy knew, The Liegeman. He took a step closer to Vorkosigan and put forward his hands, palms together as if praying, silent. Vorkosigan stared at him, his lips parting with surprise as he recognised the gesture. Then he enclosed Illyan's hands with his own, warm and strong. Neither spoke. The silence, generations of literary and legal scholars had argued, meant that it was not a formal oath, it was not treason, but nonetheless it was real. It was an exchange of trust, of loyalty given and returned. It meant that Illyan was giving Vorkosigan permission to use his life in this cause. And that Vorkosigan would be responsible for the aftermaths.
Barely three seconds had passed. Vorkosigan released his hands--they felt suddenly cold--and nodded to him gravely. Neither man spoke, but Vorkosigan looked relieved of a burden, and Illyan knew that, however it might complicate matters later on, he had been right to give Vorkosigan this wordless oath.
"The Emperor," Vorkosigan said at length, "will not--will not wholly dislike what I'm going to do." He closed his mouth tight, and Illyan wondered what words he was leaving unsaid.
A cry rang through the walls. Vorkosigan's hand fell to his plasma arc as a spasm of terrifying anger crossed his face. "Right," he said. "I want you to stay well back and try to witness everything. When I'm--afterwards--you can say what you please. Lie, threaten, whatever it takes to get a complete report of events back to Ezar."
Illyan frowned. If Vorkosigan was going to die--and the man seemed to have no illusions about that--it would be better for Illyan to die with him. Better than having to face Negri and the Emperor after joining in a mutiny. "There's the other observer for that, the surgeon. He's not involved at all."
"And he won't know the truth of what's been happening. They probably won't shoot you out of hand, not if I get this right. Vorhalas will look after you." He paused. "Do you happen to know where the Prince is?"
Illyan called up the last memory he had of the Prince. "I think he must have gone to his own cabin." He realised why Vorkosigan must be asking, and swallowed. One last try to find a better way. "Um--sir, perhaps I can do something on my own. It might be better than, er, risking you. If I go in there," he gestured to Vorrutyer's cabin, "and start at him, threaten him with Negri and the Emperor, maybe I can get the girl out, without, um, doing something irrevocable."
Vorkosigan shook his head. "No." His face softened for a moment. "Good of you to offer. But if you go in there alone you're more likely to be shot yourself, or just chucked out. Bothari won't hesitate to turn on you. I can deal with him. Besides," his fey expression returned, "I've had enough of this. It's time to end it."
He drew his plasma arc and strode towards the door. This was it. Illyan was condoning a mutiny against the supreme commander of the fleet. He was about to witness the murder of Admiral Vorrutyer and most likely Prince Serg as well. After that Vorkosigan's death was almost certain, and his own likely. He hoped the Betan woman, whoever she was, would appreciate it. But it was clear that there was more at work than one woman's torture, some larger picture that Illyan couldn't see. He must trust that Vorkosigan was right, place his career and his life on Vorkosigan's judgment. It was surprisingly easy.
They stopped outside Vorrutyer's door. Vorkosigan gestured for Illyan to stand back a pace. Illyan obeyed instantly, almost more frightened by the expression on Vorkosigan's face than by what they were about to do. He was dead white, but with anger, not fear, and his teeth were bared. No man going to confront the nightmare of his past could have looked more deadly. Then Vorkosigan steadied his plasma arc, drew a breath, and flung the door wide.
***
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