Captain Vorpatril's alliance

So why was he looking for me? But before she could explore further, Rish emerged refreshed from her bath to offer a shared brunch, which perforce consisted of half a military ration bar, nasty but nutritious, and half a bottle of wine each. It was surprisingly good wine, though Tej suspected the beer would have complemented the entree more stoutly. And after that, she fell into an exhausted doze on the sofa. Even after her months downside, Komarr’s short day length remained physiologically awkward. She hadn’t slept soundly since they’d arrived.

Nor since before…

Ivan was only a few minutes late, which he was honestly able to blame on the morning bubble‑car clump‑up on the tube from Dome Center out to the military shuttleport‑happily, the slowdown had been in a high section with a nice view, not in the disturbing underground stretch. Barrayar’s Komarr command HQ was somewhat awkwardly split between the downside installation next to the ’port and the orbital and jump‑point stations, but no pop‑ups to orbit were scheduled today for the visiting admiral and his loyal assistant.

Desplains, a spare and quietly competent officer in his late fifties, took in Ivan’s neat but squinty appearance with an ironic eye. “Heavy drinking last night, Vorpatril?”

“No, sir, not a drop. I was kidnapped by two beautiful women and held prisoner in their flat all night. They didn’t let me get a wink of sleep.”

Desplains snorted amusement and shook his head. “Save your sex fantasies for your friends, Ivan. Time to saddle up.”

Ivan gathered the notes and agendas and followed him out.

The three‑hour‑long morning meeting with the downside local staff was more torture than last night’s ordeal had been, in all, and Ivan only kept awake by surreptitiously pinching his earlobe with his fingernail. The afternoon’s schedule promised to be more entertaining, a private planning session with Desplains’s own inspection team, a cadre of keen and occasionally evil officers known to the inspected as the Vor Horsemen of the Apocalypse, though only two of the group had surnames burdened with that prefix.

This left Ivan his lunch hour to pursue his own affairs. He grabbed a rat bar again, poured a cup of tarry coffee, popped two painkillers in an attempt to clear the sleep‑deprivation cotton batting from his head, unwillingly contemplated his secured comconsole, and instead of starting a tedious and possibly frustrating search, called the building next door. Admiral Desplains’s name cleared his route at once.

ImpSec Galactic Affairs shared its downside offices with ImpSec Komarr, although how much the two sets of spook‑handlers talked to each other was anyone’s guess. Once past the lobby security, the hushed, windowless corridors reminded Ivan all too much of ImpSec’s parent headquarters back in Vorbarr Sultana: utilitarian, secretive, and faintly depressing. They must’ve imported the same interior designer, just before he hanged himself.

The top Galactic Affairs analyst for Jackson’s Whole here was one Captain Morozov; Ivan had been interviewed by him twice before, over his cousin Mark’s affairs. The personal touch always sped things up, in Ivan’s experience. Morozov also met, adequately, Ivan’s current who‑do‑you‑trust calibrations. Ivan found him presiding over a similar cubicle and comconsole as a few years back, even more packed with books, cartons of flimsies, and odder memorabilia. Morozov was a pale scholar‑soldier with a square, bony face, and an unusually cheerful outlook on life and his work‑ImpSec regulars could be morbid.

Morozov greeted Ivan with either a wave or an ImpSec‑style salute, it was hard to tell which, and drew up the spare swivel chair with an extended foot. “Captain Vorpatril. We meet again. What can Galactic Affairs do for Admiral Desplains today?”

Ivan settled himself, finding a place for his feet amongst the cartons. “I”‑he conscientiously did not say we – “have a query on an unusual person with a suspected Jacksonian connection.” Carefully, if vividly, Ivan described Rish, withholding her name for now‑it could be just another alias, after all. There seemed no point in describing Tej. There might be whole planets full of cinnamon‑skinned beauties out there somewhere, for all Ivan knew. Rish, he suspected, was unique. Keep it simple.

Morozov listened intently, his eyebrows climbing, fingertips pressed together in a gesture copied, Ivan was fairly sure, from his infamous former boss. As Ivan wound up he vented a Huh! Before Ivan could inquire just what kind of Huh! it was, Morozov spun to his comconsole and zipped through its file listings too fast for Ivan to follow. He sat back with a triumphant little Tah‑dah! gesture as a still vid formed over the plate.

Ivan leaned forward, staring. “Good grief! There’s a whole set!” With a conscious effort, he closed his mouth.