[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
One hour down. How many to go?
He attempted to read, but could not concentrate, and ended sitting in the most comfortable chair with his
eyes closed, pretending this windowless, hermetically-sealed chamber was a cabin aboard a spaceship.
Outbound.
He was sitting in the same chair two nights later, digesting a leaden cafeteria dinner, when the door
chimed.
Startled, Miles clambered up and limped to answer it personally. It was probably not a firing squad,
though you never knew.
He almost changed his assumptions about the firing squad at the sight of the hard-faced Imperial Security
officers in dress greens who stood waiting. "Excuse me, Ensign Vorkosigan," one muttered perfunctorily,
and brushed past him to start running a scan over Miles's quarters. Miles blinked, then saw who stood
behind them in the corridor, and breathed an "Ah" of understanding. At a mere look from the scanner
man, Miles obediently held out his arms and turned to be scanned.
"Clear, sir," the scanner man reported, and Miles was sure it was. These fellows never, ever cut corners,
not even in the heart of Imp-Sec itself.
"Thank you. Leave us, please. You may wait out here," said the third man. The ImpSec men nodded
and took up parade rest flanking Miles's door.
Since they were both wearing officers' undress greens, Miles exchanged salutes with the third man,
although the visitor's uniform bore neither rank nor department insignia. He was thin, of middle height,
with dark hair and intense hazel eyes. A crooked smile winked in a serious young face that lacked laugh
lines.
"Sire," Miles said formally.
Emperor Gregor Vorbarra jerked his head, and Miles keyed his door closed on the Security duo. The
thin young man relaxed slightly.
"Hi, Miles."
"Hello yourself. Uh . . ." Miles motioned toward the armchairs. "Welcome to my humble abode. Are the
bugs running?"
"I asked not, but I wouldn't be surprised if Illyan disobeys me, for my own good." Gregor grimaced, and
followed Miles. He swung a plastic bag from his left hand, from which came a muted clank. He flung
himself into the larger chair, the one Miles had just vacated, leaned back, hooked a leg over one chair
arm, and sighed wearily, as if all the air were being let out of him. He held out the bag. "Here. Elegant
anesthesia."
Miles took it and peered in. Two bottles of wine, by God, already chilled. "Bless you, my son. I've been
wishing I could get drunk for days, now. How did you guess? For that matter, how did you get in here? I
thought I was in solitary confinement." Miles put the second bottle into the refrigerator, found two
glasses, and blew the dust out of them.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Gregor shrugged. "They could scarcely keep me out. I'm getting better at insisting, you know. Though
Illyan made sure my private visit was really private, you can wager. And I can only stay till 2500."
Gregor's shoulders slumped, compressed by the minute-by-minute box of his schedule. "Besides, your
mother's religion grants some kind of good karma for visiting the sick and prisoners, and I hear you've
been the two in one."
Ah, so Mother had put Gregor up to this. He should have guessed by the Vorkosigan private label on
the wine heavens, she'd sent thegood stuff. He stopped swinging the bottle by its neck and carried it
with greater respect. Miles was lonely enough by now to be more grateful for than embarrassed by this
maternal intervention. He opened the wine and poured, and by Barrayaran etiquette took the first sip.
Ambrosia. He slung himself into another chair in a posture similar to Gregor's. "Glad to see you, anyway."
Miles contemplated his old playmate. If they'd been even a little, closer in age, he and Gregor, they might
have fallen more into the role of foster-brothers; Count and Countess Vorkosigan had been Gregor's
official guardians ever since the chaos and bloodshed of Vordarian's Pretendership. The child-cohort had
been thrown together anyway as "safe" companions, Miles and Ivan and Elena near-age-mates, Gregor,
solemn even then, tolerating games a little younger than he might have preferred.
Gregor picked up his wine and sipped. "Sorry things didn't work out for you," he said gruffly.
Miles tilted his head. "A short soldier, a short career." He took a bigger gulp. "I'd hoped to get
off-planet. Ship duty." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]