fermata

[isthisart]

Linya sees Dr. Cheung onto a ship other than the Ariel, which agrees to tote him to Komarr very, very slowly, knocking him out for each jump and having someone look after him when he comes around green in the gills. It's not going to be a fun trip for him, but it's better than trying to collaborate with a multi-week conversational turnaround time. It's pricey - the ship has nonperishable cargo with no deadline at its destination and already employs a medtech, but still - but she thinks it's worth it.

Her business on Earth concluded, she examines the list of tourist attractions she didn't get around to, determines that none of them are worth sticking around for, and gets on a much faster vessel and goes all the way home. The first thing she does when there is go looking for whichever of the Count or Countess is easiest to find.

Comments

[as_i_remember]

"If necessary."

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles lunges up out of his bed, spitting with rage, useless arms dangling from shaking shoulders.

"Call me a thief, will you? You shit-eating sheep-fucking monkey-tailed bastard! To think I'd steal from Barrayar! To think I'd steal from my own dead—!"

The sheer intensity of his emotion carries him as far as sitting upright, leaning unsupported and unsupportably out over the side of the bed, several feet short of his goal of... whatever he was going to do to Illyan. Yelling at him from closer range, perhaps. In any case, that single surge of strength is all he has in him; he lists helplessly, his head a dizzy swirl, red and purple clouds pulsing across his field of vision.

[as_i_remember]

Illyan has to dive to catch him before his face impacts the carpet.

"The hell d'you think you're doing, boy?" he demands.

Then the military doctor in charge of Miles's convalescence bursts in the door, trailed by a terrified underling. "What are you doing to my patient?"

"Sir," hisses the corpsman at his elbow, "that's Security Chief Illyan!"

"I know who it is. I don't care if he's Emperor Dorca's ghost. I will not have him carrying on his business here." The doctor turns a fiery glare on Illyan. "Your interrogation, or whatever, can take place in your own damned headquarters. I will not have that kind of thing going on in my hospital. This patient is not released to anybody yet!"

"I was not - " Illyan begins indignantly, then runs down for lack of a specific charge to deny.

[thisvorlunatic]

"How's that for appearances?" says Miles into Illyan's ear, baring clenched teeth in a vicious grin. "Not so fun from the other side, eh?"

He offers no resistance, not that he could muster any if he tried, as Illyan puts him back to bed with impeccable care and gentleness.

As soon as he's caught his breath at least halfway, he shakes his head quellingly to the doctor. "It's all right. It's... I was just..." What was he? Even if he had the words to express his emotional state just now, he fears the explanation would be the opposite of calming. "Ah, hell, never mind."

The crashing tidal force of his rage ebbs, baring a black shore of awful shame, hot as volcanic sand. His eyes prickle with tears. It hurts him in his soul, to think that Illyan could suspect him of such vile thievery; it calls into question whether he was ever trusted at all, whether his service to the Imperium has ever been needed... no. Surely the things he has done have mattered. Surely Dagoola mattered. But God, that Illyan could call him a peculator. And Illyan must think it possible, to be resorting to such measures to find out.

[as_i_remember]

Illyan looks unsettled.

"One way or another, Miles, I must defend your expenditures - my department's expenditures, on you - tomorrow."

[thisvorlunatic]

"I'd take the fucking court-martial over this," growls Miles.

[as_i_remember]

"...I'll come back later," he decides, and backs away. "Maybe you'll be more... coherent... after some sleep."

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles turns his face away, closes his eyes on a view of the blank white wall, and disregards sleep in favour of memory.

(See the short story The Mountains of Mourning by Lois McMaster Bujold.)

Some time later - his drifting mind neglects to count the hours - he hears a sound at the door, and turns his head to look.

[as_i_remember]

It's Illyan.

"Feeling better?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Mm," he says, his eyes drifting shut again. "Somewhat." He is certainly more peaceful.

[as_i_remember]

He pulls up a chair and sits by the side of the hospital bed. "I apologize, Lord Vorkosigan, for doubting your word."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Thank you," says Miles, half sincere, half dryly ironic. "You owe me as much."

[as_i_remember]

"I do," he acknowledges. "But Miles... in your position, as your father's son, have you never realized how necessary it is not only to be honest, but to seem it?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"As my father's son," he says, "no."

[as_i_remember]

"Ha. I take your point." He shakes his head. "Regardless - the money. Count Vorvolk has pinpointed two troubling discrepancies in your reports. Wild cost overruns on simple personnel pickups. I realize Dagoola snowballed in true Naismith fashion, but what about the first one - that pickup on Jackson's Whole, when you left two-thirds of your cargo behind and bolted?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"That was almost two years ago, hell," says Miles. "What do these people imagine I'm getting out of my imaginary peculation, anyway, have they noticed my wife makes nearly as much as my entire mercenary army put together...? Fuck it. Fine. What do you want to know? Wasn't the equipment bill all accounted for in my report?"

[as_i_remember]

"'Accounted for' and 'explained' are, alas, distinct concepts. Often startlingly so, in your mission reports. The explanation, please. In full."

[thisvorlunatic]

"I am at your disposal, sir," Miles sighs. "But it's a bit of a long story..."

He tells it, anyway, as best as his memory will supply.

[as_i_remember]

Illyan listens in fascination, and when Miles is done, he sits in silence for a few moments, contemplating the story.

"Well. And whatever happened to, ah, Recruit-trainee Asterion?"

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles grins. "He's doing pretty well. Working with the fleet surgeon to find a course of treatment that'll slow his raging metabolism, maybe extend his lifespan, without damaging combat effectiveness - and you would not believe his combat effectiveness. He seems very happy with himself."

[as_i_remember]

"All right. And now, Dagoola. The last word I have had from you on this subject, I remind you, is that... report... you filed from Mahata Solaris. I might charitably describe it as 'succinct'."

[thisvorlunatic]

He smiles in wry recollection. "Yeah, well, I was expecting to follow it up with something more substantial from Tau Ceti and an in-person report as soon as I got home. Shit happened."

[as_i_remember]

"Now's your chance," Illyan says dryly. "Let's hear the shit, Miles."

[thisvorlunatic]

He closes his eyes again. "Yeah. Fine..."

(See the short story The Borders of Infinity by Lois McMaster Bujold, if you haven't already.)

By the end of this long recital, Miles is shivering, unsteady and exhausted. If he'd been sitting up in the first place, he'd feel like he was about to fall over.

"Sorry... didn't realize it would hit me like that. I thought I must be over it by now."

[as_i_remember]

"Combat fatigue?"