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portico of the Imperial Residence. Martin looked nervously back over his
shoulder toward the gates, and the gesturing guards clustered around them.
"Are you sure that s going to be all right, my lord?"
"Don t worry about it," said Miles, seated beside him in the drivers
compartment. "They ll have that little bit of wrought-iron straightened back
up and repainted before I m ready to be picked up again, I wager."
Martin made to pop the canopy, or at least, hunted valiantly for the control
to do so in the gleaming array before him. Miles pointed. "Thanks," Martin
muttered.
The canopy rose; Miles escaped with his life. "Martin... tell you what. While
I m engaged in here, why don t you take this barge for a practice spin around
the city." He dropped the groundcar s comm link into his pocket. "Ill call you
back when I need you. If you" - Miles deleted run into a -
"have a problem, call me... no." He suspected he would shortly be praying for
interruptions to his upcoming interview with Gregor, but it was cheating to
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prearrange them. "Call this number." He leaned over
and tapped a code into the car s elaborate console. "This will get you a very
competent gentleman named Tsipis, nice fellow, he ll tell you what to do."
"Yes, my lord."
"Watch your forward momentum. The power in this beast fools you. The
heavy-duty fuel cells add mass almost as badly as the armoring does. The
handling is quite deceptive. Take it out someplace where you have a lot of
space, and experiment, so it won t surprise you again."
"Uh... thank you, sir." The canopy hissed shut; through the polarized
half-mirroring Miles could see Martin suck on his lip in concentration, as the
car rose and moved forward once more. The car s silvery-gleaming left rear
edge was undamaged, Miles noted without surprise. Another trainee, ah yes. If
he d had his wits about him, he could have sent the boy out to practice all
last week, and avoided that minor embarrassment with Gregor s gate. But Martin
would do all right, once he d been permitted enough experience, and the better
for not having the unnerving presence of his lordly little new employer at his
elbow. One of the
Residence s liveried servants met Miles at the door, and escorted him to the
north wing; they were headed for Gregor s private office, then. The north wing
was the only section of the sprawling Imperial Residence less than two hundred
years old. It had been burned to the ground during the War of Vordarian s
Pretendership, the year of Miles s soltoxin-gas-damaged birth, and
subsequently rebuilt. The Emperor s ground-floor office was one of Gregor s
few truly private and personal spaces. The decoration was spare, the limited
artwork all purchased from rising young artists who were actually still alive,
and there wasn t an antique in it.
Gregor was standing by a tall, heavily draped window, staring out at his
garden, as Miles entered. Had he been watching? He wore his Vorbarra House
uniform today, very sharp; Miles, presently feeling allergic to uniforms, was
under-dressed for the
Residence in some slightly outdated street wear he d rummaged from the back of
his closet.
The servant announced, "Lord Vorkosigan," and followed himself out. Gregor
nodded, and waved Miles to a chair. Miles returned a somewhat leaden smile as
Gregor seated himself across from him, and leaned forward, hands clasped on
his knees.
"This is as difficult for me as I m sure it must be for you," Gregor began.
Miles s smile grew dryer. "Not... quite, I fancy," he murmured.
Gregor grimaced; one hand flipped outward, as if to bat away the bait. "I wish
you hadn t done it."
"I wish I hadn t done it too."
Gregor continued inconsistently, "We cannot undo what s done. No matter how we
might wish it."
"Mm. If I could - one of those one-wish things - I don t even know that I d
choose this. Maybe go back instead to the death of
Sergeant Bothari, and undo that, right at the beginning. I don t know... maybe
it wouldn t have worked out any better. Probably not. But that was a more
innocent mistake, if more lethal. I ve graduated to more calculated
stupidities, these days." His voice was stiff.
"You were on the verge of such great things."
"What, a desk job in Domestic Affairs? I beg to differ." That was, perhaps,
the sharpest bite in all this tangle: that he d sacrificed everything up to
and including his integrity to save an identity that was scheduled to be taken
away from him within a year anyway. If he had known, he would have... what?
What, huh
?
Gregor s lips thinned in serious displeasure. "I ve spent a lifetime having my
affairs managed by old men. You were the first man of my generation I thought
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I might successfully place in a position of real power and responsibility in
the upper echelons of what is ironically called my government."
And I screwed up, yes, we know, Gregor
. "You have to give them this much credit, they weren t old when they started
serving you. Illyan s brevet field promotion to Chief of ImpSec was at what,
age thirty? And he was going to make me wait to thirty-five, the hypocrite."
Gregor was shaking his head.
If he says, "Miles, Miles, whatever are we going to do with you?", I m walking
out of here
. But what he said instead was, "So what are you planning to do now?"
Almost as bad
. But Miles stayed seated. "I don t know. I need... some time off, serious
time off. Time to think. Medical leave and travel time aren t really the same
thing."
"I... request, that you not attempt to make independent contact with the
Dendarii Mercenaries. I realize that I and ImpSec combined probably couldn t
stop you, if you were determined to hijack them and take off. But there s no
way I d be able to save you from a treason charge this time."
Miles, managing not to swallow guiltily, nodded perfect understanding. He d
always known that would be a one-way trip.
"The Dendarii don t need a commander with convulsions either. Till I get my
head fixed - if it can be fixed - it s a null temptation." Perhaps
fortunately. He hesitated, then let his primary anxiety surface in the most
neutral wording he could muster.
"What will the status of the Dendarii Fleet be now?"
"That would seem to depend on its new commander. How will Quinn want to play
it?"
So, Gregor was not planning to unilaterally dispose of all of Miles s creative
efforts. Miles sighed inward relief, and chose his next words carefully.
"She d be a fool to throw away our - her - Imperial retainer. And she s
nobody s fool. I see no reason the fleet cannot continue to be the same
resource for ImpSec under her that they were under me."
"I m willing to wait and see how it works out. See if she can deliver the
successes. Or not." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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