"Serve the right drink to the right person, it's absolutely essential. Surely even you, Har, can manage it. Hah! What a pretentious son of a whore." A tall, but very inconspicuous looking man dressed in imperial catering staff's uniform muttered to himself as he strode down the quiet corridor carrying an empty tray under his arm and three small pellets in his left pocket. To say that he was irritated with his orders would be a severe understatement, but he knew his duty and he would fulfill this mission and would gain recognition to increase his clan's esteem. Of course, if opportunity to slight his superior would arise…
He sighed wistfully. Not likely, not on this mission. That damn bastard had a good plan, even he could admit it.
Some light was visible from the end of the corridor, and bustling voices trickled to his ear. An Impsec guard with ensign's tabs straightened from his slight crouch and raised his scanner lightly. Har nodded and obediently allowed the man to do his duty. Not that the guard was very rigorous about it, after all, all the catering staff on Emperor's spring ball were already cleared and loaned from imperial security too.
"Sergeant Kaverin, Impsec?" The guard questioned. "Others arrived a bit earlier, but you are still on time."
"That's right," Har replied and turned around for the scanner, then cracked a grin; "On nights like these I do wonder why I spent all that time and effort in Vorbarr Sultana's military college wishing for glorious career just to end up as a waiter… but then I remember that there are worse duties, such as guarding the kitchen's doorway for the night shift."
The guard barked an appreciative laugh and grinned in return, "At least I won't have to watch the Vor lordlings get drunk as skunks and then discreetly carry them to sober off."
Suddenly the scanner blinked slightly orange, then back at green. "What's that in your left pocket?"
"Painkillers. I got a killer headache going earlier, and took few with me." Har said calmly, and showed the three white pills to the guard. They were the standard brand, very bland and unassuming.
The guard frowned, fiddled the device and muttered in sotto voce, "Huh... non-regulation, but the profile mentions migraines…"
Har made a slight show of twisting his lips in grimace, and the guard glanced up, sighed in sympathy; "All right, I won't confiscate them, but take the meds before going in to the main ballroom. There cannot be anything non-regulation within a hundred feet of the Emperor."
"Thanks," Har muttered with a defeated sigh.
The guard smiled a bit, and stepped to the side and motioning Har to go inside, muttering apologetically; "Sorry, but I don't made the regs and you know how paranoid Illyan's about this stuff."
"Yeah, yeah. I know."
With an absent salute to the guard, Har slipped in to the bustling kitchen. Needless to say, it was full of people carrying things, hurried cooks and tantalizing smells flowing to his nostrils. Wonderful canapés and hors d'oeuvres filled the trays, and his mouth watered despite himself. None of this was for the lowly proles' consumption, of course.
Sighing regretfully, Har slipped away from the tempting trays to fetch his own charge – the champagne.
With an experienced hold he secured the tray with dozen glasses, and stepped into the line and held the tray steady when the expensive vintage was poured. Then they were off to the servants' exit. Discreetly Har settled to be the last waiter in line and it didn't take much cunning to slip his hand to his pocket, take the pills in hand and feel the slight indention at the sides of pellets for the differentiation signs… and drop the them into three different drinks to dissolve like they had never been there.
All he knew was this; the pellet with one linear indentation should be handed to Emperor Gregor Vorbarra. The one with two dots was to go to one lieutenant Miles Vorkosigan and the last unmarked one to the lieutenant Ivan Vorpatril.
That's all.
Officially, he shouldn't know what the pellets were for, but it wasn't a large stretch of imagination to assume they were some kind of a poison. Especially considering how that bastard son of a whore had been acting condescendingly over Har's capabilities and had repeated time after another that he had to slip the correct pellet to the correct person.
Hmmph.
He would show them all what ghem-lieutenant Har was capable of. After he had the assassination of Barrayar's Emperor under his belt, he would surely be rewarded handsomely, maybe even be granted a promotion or even a haut bride…
However, he had been puzzled why the last two names were even remotely important. Sure, he had been at this deep cover post long enough to recognize the significance of the High Vor names Vorkosigan and Vorpatril, but assassinating the two young, insignificant lieutenants made little sense on the surface – but then, after hearing a curious succession theory by chance, Har had seen the brilliance of the plot. With this assassination, the governance of Barrayar would crumble into chaos and the most likely one to take the reins by the right of heritage would be old regent and the man was old, frail… everyone could see it.
Har smiled to himself, seeing the scenario to pan out; the Empire of Barrayar would be swept into civil war, getting weakened and then… ripe for conquest. And the one person in critical position for the plan's success was him. This plot was truly the sweetest reward for the thankless and humiliating duties he had been performing for years in this backwater louse nest.
As the music from the ballroom became clearer and they were closing in, Har pulled himself away from the pleasant daydreams. It hadn't been but a two minutes' walk and travel by the servants' lift tube from the kitchens, just enough for the champagne to settle into its best form. Only the finest for cream of the Empire…
A brief security scan at the door once more, scanner staying green all the way through and then they were there, mingling and offering drinks. The three special glasses he kept it the middle of the tray, close to his chest so to speak – all the while scanning the crowd for his targets. The first one he found easily, the distinctive form of Lieutenant Vorkosigan was hunched, resting near the wall.
Har swallowed his distaste for the dwarfs' physical peculiarities and how nearly skeletally thin the man was, still, even half a year after his return to duty. The Impsec gossip circles were full of speculation on Illyan's pet courier, and seeing the man in person for the first time, Har wondered maybe there was some truth on the theory of a deadly ailment.
Not that it mattered.
Har pasted a friendly smile on his face, subtly moved the glass slightly away from others for easy picking. Just a little visual trick, so that subconsciously the target would take the correct glass.
"Champagne, sir?" He murmured, and lowered the tray slightly for the short man's convenience.
"Thank you." The Vorkosigan murmured, and took the right glass, raising it to his lips.
Har smiled and turned away, quickly, so that a flash of triumph wouldn't be seen in his eyes. He did it! Only two more to go and he would finally show to that son of a whore…
"Yet, is that truly the only choice available? Perhaps an esteemed and fair lady such as you has an opinion?"
A small, coquettish smile rose to his conversation partner's fine red painted lips and her perfectly aligned teeth flashed. "Perhaps. And my lord Vorpatril, I find that we have finally come acquainted well enough for you to call me Isabell."
A deep satisfaction bloomed in Ivan Vorpatril's chest and a smile lit up his handsome face. Yes! He cheered silently; Lady Vorob'yev was finally, finally after three years of careful handling warming up to him. That smile on her lips, that look in her eyes - all very good signs. So, he pitched his voice to charming warmth, full of intimate promises and answered, "I will be pleased to do so - and if it suits you, my fair lady, please call me Ivan."
She raised her ornamental fan and covered her sweet smile with it, a demure gesture – but also an act of a controlled seduction.
Lady Vorob'yev truly was a rare treasure; a beautiful heiress of the Vorob'yev district's line and thus, her personal assets were significant. Even more remarkably, she was rumored to have a active interest, some would even say - a career – with the family's comsole network company, which was responsible for covering almost all of the northern continent's networks. On top of that, she was a true beauty, with the bluest blood and impeccable manners, but at the same time there was a touch of exoticness in her, as she had travelled far and wide with her esteemed ambassador uncle. And most importantly – she was the most coveted of unattached ladies of Ivan's generation. Her would-be suitors numbered in hundreds, and she had been careful to refuse every single one of them.
Gaining her favor and warming her bed would be the achievement of a lifetime and Ivan had been circling after her for years. Not that he was interested in marriage, she wasn't either, and it was that knowledge that had finally cemented this careful thawing in their formerly rigid relationship.
And there was this knowledge that if he could seduce her while avoiding the ties of matrimony, it would be the best form of payback to his lady mother's constant and increasingly hardening tactics of getting him married.
Lady Vorob'yev's bright and rare green eyes glinted, only hinting at the sharp mind hiding behind them and she murmured; "I shall do so. If it would so please you, I would be interested to continue this conversation tomorrow evening on a more sedate location, perhaps in a suitable dining establishment?"
"Of course, fair lady. I am at your service. Would at eight, tomorrow evening in the Galereya suit?" He suggested lightly, managing only just to convey a pleased interest instead the victorious triumph that was flooding his veins.
The Galereya was one of the most esteemed restaurants in the capital, known as expensive, discreet and most importantly – it's waiting list was legendary. However, Ivan knew the majordomo and could manage to arrange a reservation for table even in this tight schedule.
Her politely raised brow and appreciative tilt of her lips told that she was suitably impressed.
Shortly thereafter, she withdrew with promising murmurs and Ivan was left to control his wildly pumping heart in solitude. Well, as much one could call an elegant ballroom, full of the Empire's aristocracy celebrating the beginning of spring season, solitude.
I did it. Finally…
Surely the slight weakening in his knees and raging pulse was nothing to be ashamed of?
"I need a drink." He muttered. A dose good alcohol would surely calm these flutters…
Thankfully, a tall inconspicuous servant was walking close by him, with a tray half full of champagne glasses. Grabbing one at random, he ignored the servant's alarmed protest and started to the side of the room where his most troublesome cousin was looking morose and a way too sickly, still, even months after the little git's nearly miraculous resurrection.
Ivan frowned in mid of a tiny sip, and made a spur of a moment's decision.
Miles's tired crouch, waxy paleness and those deep lines etched on his face… all were just a surface causes for concern. Most worryingly, Miles was frighteningly still.
Time for some cousinly intervention and perhaps even for suitable ribbing, after all – he, "Ivan the Idiot" had managed to secure a date with the Empire's most wanted lady.
A feat worth celebrating - and gloating - over.
And the fact was that nothing turned Miles's mood away from his own persistent troubles as well as some good old jealousy. Perhaps it was little bit petty of Ivan, but then again… why should he be ashamed of his talents? Miles never shirked from parading his achievements with the Dendarii mercenaries and hinting all those grand adventures… all the while knowing that Ivan had never been granted even a chance for ship duty, not even when he had most desperately wanted it as a young man.
So with an anticipatory grin, the still full glass of champagne forgotten, he called cheerfully from a few steps too far away; "Why so gloomy, Coz?"
"…ah, you cannot…" Har started desperately as that blithering Vor bastard Vorpatril grabbed a wrong glass from his tray. What made it even worse, it was that it was the glass the idiot took and then proceeded to march away never once looking back.
'The correct pill must go to the correct person.' The bastard son of a whore had repeated to him time after another… and now, he had left only one target without the poison, the Emperor himself, and the dose was Vorpatril's.
It was a disaster!
And there was no way he could chase after the Vor lieutenant and beg him to exchange the drink and then slip in unnoticeable to the Emperor. Vorbarra was surely the most well-guarded of all his targets and if he drew attention to himself, the most important target would be left without a dose.
He couldn't risk that.
In case of unexpected difficulties, the only way was forward.
Har swallowed and looked after the retreating back of Vorpatril. The Vor lieutenant was tall and most heavily muscled of all his targets, but not really all that different from the Emperor. Even at a glance, their body mass would amount to near the same and wasn't that the most important thing with drug doses? So surely he could still manage to complete his mission?
He had to, there was no other choice – and he couldn't stand there much longer, already he was gathering attention. No, he had to go forward and finish the mission before the Champagne was too stale and no one would drink it… Har exhaled, and controlled his expression to a pleasantly distant smile and started towards the balconies where Emperor was conversing with some older aristocrats.
Thankfully, the Emperor's glass was nearly empty so it was perfectly acceptable for Har to offer another one.
It took some maneuvering, but finally when his tray had only three glasses left, he managed to move the tainted champagne to the side and politely offer the drink. Emperor Gregor Vorbarra took it without a fuss and gave his old one to the tray, and turned back to listen attentively to the disgustingly boring spiel that the nearly mummified old Vor lord was spouting at him.
For the briefest of moments, Har couldn't help but to pity the Barrayar's Emperor. He knew exactly the tone of voice the crusty old dragon was using, after all, Har's own clan elders had similar personage's intent on controlling the "disappointing generation from doing mistakes".
Gregor Vorbarra didn't seem to enjoy the lecture either, and took a deep sip of the champagne – draining half of it in one go. Then the Emperor grimaced, and Har had a moment's terror that the man had detected the poison…
Then Emperor said gravely; "I apologize, Count Vormoncrief, but I cannot say more concerning the coming vote. I am sure that we will have a chance to discuss the subject at length at the Council of Counts." And then he drained the rest of the glass and added it, too, to Har's tray and withdrew.
From the expression of Vormoncrief, the old Count was almost offended at the Emperor's curtness and even the few other surrounding aristocrats had considering frowns of their brows.
Har's earlier panic had almost fully dissolved and he glanced at the tray, grounding himself to his duty and away from the perplexing exchange. As he left to the servant's door to make his escape, he could hear another old lord to remark; "You pushed too far, Count Vormoncrief. The Emperor cannot take a stance in a critical matter like this one so openly."
"Not usually… but the Emperor's choice will matter much in this coming vote. It has been prepared for years, and would have never gone through in the Aral Vorkosigan's day… but perhaps the Emperor will take a stance of his own, so to say, in this matter."
Miles hadn't even touched his glass for more than the polite tiny sip. He really wasn't interested in getting drunk at this event and since the cryofreeze, he had been dangerously underweight. Even after his family's persistent attempts and the months he had been back with the Dendarii, he hadn't quite managed to gain back all the weight he had lost. So, he had decided to err on the side of caution on this matter as he didn't quite know his tolerance anymore. And then there was the matter of those few mysterious seizures. Always abrupt, always short… but he didn't have a faintest idea what to do about them. His personal Medtech at Dendarii wasn't any wiser than him about them, but had suggested him to stay away from any harmful substances in the meanwhile.
Not that it was a difficult thing to do as he wasn't particularly fond of spring champagne to begin with.
He was just anxious to get away. Away from Barrayar, away from all the concerned looks, sneering looks, whispering glances… away from this constricting identity as a would-be-courier who was only in the service at the benevolence of his powerful relatives and well applied nepotism. Away from the thoughtful glances of Simon Illyan.
There was something going on with his boss, and Miles Vorkosigan knew it.
Or maybe it was just the solid knowledge and guilt that for the first time in his life, he was actively lying to the man who remembered everything. Illyan and Vorkosigans had an honor bond forged between them… and deep down, Miles knew that he was trampling on it and had been for months. Ever since the fateful day when the Doctor at ImpMill had performed the final checkup and asked if there was anything more ailing him, and he had paused for a brief moment and said decisively; "No."
He was rudely pulled from his morose thoughts when a cheerful voice called out loud; "Why so gloomy, Coz?"
Miles drew a hissing breath, and closed his eyes briefly, not needing to look to know who it was. It was all too clear from the voice and that form of address, no one else would have dared. To make everything worse, Ivan was disgustingly cheerful – just radiating a need for good gloating.
"Managed to charm a Vor bud out on her first season? Congratulations, but don't you feel even slightly disgusting pawing at a girl half your age? Or perhaps they are the only ones you can still manage to get?" Miles replied scathingly, bitter despite himself.
Lately Quinn, too, had been giving him those concerned looks, and there had been something ill brewing between them. He had even avoided voicing his persistent wish for her hand. Why was he even bothering anymore? They had been dating for five years and during that time, he had begged her to become lady Vorkosigan consistently few times a year. But now, how long it had been since he had last asked? Just before his death and the resultant cryofreeze…
Maybe that was the cause for this friction between them?
Hopefully. That he could easily solve…
"No, no. Nothing you say can manage to ruin my good mood right now, Coz, so don't even try." Ivan declared firmly and set his full glass to the side table right next to Miles's.
"Oh? Why are you so sure?" Miles asked, a roaring curiosity raising its ugly head. Usually Ivan would have been derailed already, but that look… what had the idiot managed to do?
"Ask me nicely and I might tell you. After all, it's something big." Ivan declared, smugness just oozing from him.
Weighing pros and cons fast in his mind, Miles hesitated for a moment. On one hand he knew that anything that made Ivan that smug and drove his cousin to gloat at him, of all people, would be something that would spark their never ending and oddly morphed friendlyish rivalry and most likely annoy him, but on the other hand… if he didn't hear it from Ivan, he would hear it later from some other source. And if it was something important, knowing it early would be better…
…and truly, nothing Ivan said would cause his mood to deteriorate further. Of that he was deadly certain.
So, despite knowing better, the words left his tongue; "What is it?"
And Ivan grinned, "I will be going on a date with Isabelle Vorob'yev tomorrow."
Miles frowned… just where was that name familiar. He wasn't exactly up to date with the Vor dating scene at the moment, hadn't been in years, really, and Ivan knew that. His cousin was occasionally very pointed in his suggestions that Miles should attempt to socialize more during the ground leaves. So, if Ivan though he should know the name without further introduction, he really should.
Goddamn cryofreeze and the resulting amnesia.
Desperately buying more time and trying to hide the empty spot in his memories that Ivan had managed to find so easily, Miles muttered aloud what he did knew; "Vorob'yev? Some relation to our Cetagandan Ambassador in Eta Ceta?"
"Yes, actually. His brother's only daughter." Ivan said, and frowned…
Damn that concerned look. If anything, Miles hated that look. He was fine, perfectly fine and able. These blank spots would go away, they would go away with time… he even noticed them very rarely anymore.
And then suddenly, it all came together; Vorob'yev – the district's High Vor family, the current Count's brother was the ambassador, so that meant that this Isabella Vorob'yev was the lady Isabella Vorrob'yev – the rich, the beautiful, the famous and highly coveted after heiress of the Vorob'yev's main inheritance line that even Miles had been eyeing with a wistful appreciation since he had been a young man at the scene, before the Academy, the Dendarii and the rest…
"You managed to get the ice princess to accept a date, from you!?" Miles yelped, eyes wide and utterly stunned.
Ivan's pleased smile was so disgustingly happy, and Miles's surprise and resulting flash of utter jealousy so deep, the Miles's couldn't even hear the rest of the explanation - but rather he blindly took a glass of champagne from the table and drained it in one go.
"Hey, don't be like that Coz, surely you can be happy for my success?" Ivan asked lightly, but there was a sliver of hurt in his eyes.
However, Miles was beyond caring at this point, because suddenly he remembered acutely, just why he hadn't been intending to drink his champagne – the wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him and he leaned against the wall to steady himself.
His annoying cousin's frown became distinct and Ivan took a hold of his shoulder, steadying him further.
Miles waited the nausea to pass of and turned to look aside, slight embarrassed flush coloring his cheeks and he mumbled; "I think I better go and sleep this off."
Ivan inhaled deeply, and tightened his hold on Miles's shoulder for a moment and then let go. "All right… all right. Just call Pym and…"
"Yes, mother." Miles replied snidely and added dryly, "Since when have you turned into a mother hen?"
Ivan's answering blush told everything he needed to know, and his cousin clearly tried to find something other to do as he took the remaining champagne glass from the table and drained it.
There was nothing more to say between them, and Miles pressed his wrist com and murmured clear instructions to it, alerting his Armsman to bring out his ground car out front so he could go home to sulk alone.
It was late after midnight, the spring ball had run its course and Har had successfully managed to complete his shift without incurring suspicion. The Emperor had retired early, as had Lieutenant Vorkosigan… of his targets, only lieutenant Vorpatril had stayed long enough not to raise some comments. Late enough that Har was beginning to doubt if the target had ingested the dose at all…
Surely no one who had been poisoned could look so damn cheerful and healthy the whole evening?
Well, if so… it wasn't a tremendous loss, Har reasoned. Vorpatril was the least important of the targets by any stretch of imagination and two out of three wasn't bad, certainly not enough to tarnish the success of the mission.
So feeling the satisfaction of a job well done and imagining the wonderful rewards this would gain him back at home, Har made his way to the meeting spot through the Vorbarr Sultana's streets. Every now and then, he discreetly checked that no one was following him and double backed his route carefully after a drunk or two had seen him – no matter his resented superior's opinion, Har was a professional.
At a boring block of flats, he pressed the buzzer and murmured the right pass phrase. A loud beep sounded out and the hair at the back of his neck stood up in response to its suddenness. Then a click and the front door unlocked and Har let himself in. Three stores up by the lift tube, some walking by the uninspiring neutral colored hallways and knocking in the correct pattern and finally Har was face to face with the man he most hated in Barrayar – ghem-captain Tabor.
Or as he was known now, after his embarrassing need for extensive facial mods and a new identity; Lev Noskov, the underpaid Human Relations Administrator working at Vorbarr Sultana's local comsole network provider. No matter his past usefulness and widely ranging experience in the intelligence field, for Har, the man was a first class bastard.
"Don't stand there like an idiot."
"Yes, sir." Har muttered in sotto voce and slipped inside the flat. It was a modest apartment, not remarkable in any way but the barely showing form of sonic baffler's distinct casing fastened under the desk and slightly too high tech communication set on top of it… and a very odd open briefcase containing a complex device with a screen showing, of all things, diagrams of three brains?
"Report."
For a second Har hesitated. Should he tell of the complications? No matter how little it would end up mattering, the bastard would get on his case. Perhaps it wouldn't be necessary…
"The mission was a success. I successfully managed to slip in the pills to the targets. There was a slight problem with my entrance at the kitchen. The security scanner detected something off with the pellets, but I was able to cover it and explain them as pain medication as we planned in contingency plan b for entrance…" As he went over the evening's happenings, he could see his superior's tense form beginning to relax. Har added all the little details and noteworthy observations of conversations he had been privy to, but tactically left out the fact that Vorpatril and Emperor had both ended up with the wrong pill.
At the end of report, Tabor was looking very nearly pleased at him and said; "I cannot believe that I am saying this, but good work. It was a difficult mission but with this success I do not hesitate to recommend you for promotion."
The congratulatory salute felt like the sweetest honey. For some reason, gaining the approval of the Bastard did matter a great deal to Har.
Then the Bastard nodded at him, and turned to the odd device in the open briefcase. With a slight touch he activated it and suddenly the diagrams of the screen flooded with red and the device started to beep angrily.
"What in the seventh hells, how can this be… what the hell is happening?" The Bastard muttered and fiddled with the device and started to mutter under voice; "….the correct nanochip went to right target, and it has had long enough for the bloodstream to have transported the nodes to the correct position for interlocking with transmitter we planted in to the target's earlier…"
Utterly shocked, Har had a sinking feeling that he had made a terrible mistake. He swallowed, and then with a small hesitant voice he asked; "It wasn't poison, was it?"
The bastard son of a whore ghem-captain Tabor turned at it and directed his most loathing and assessing stare at Har, "Poison?! What the hell are you talking about?"
Har's satisfaction at his success shriveled and died, and he whispered; "The mission to assassinate the Emperor and his bloodline to cause civil war on Barrayar and thus to prepare them for an easy conquest, sir."
"Assassinate! Civil War! Conquest! Where in the seventh hell you drew that from! No. This was to be intelligence coup of a lifetime, to successfully plant an experimental device that allows us to track and spy the innermost secrets of the Barrayar's Emperor and both of his suspected heirs."
With every word that Tabor spat right at him, face red with rage, Har began to finally connect the dots and see where exactly had things gone so wrong-
'The right pill to the right target, remember it…'
Oh shit.
There was simply no way he could survive this, Har realized.
And suddenly the loud beeping racket that the suitcase device had been tooting ended, and both of the Cetagandan agents turned to stare at it, just in time to see the red warning color to flee the brain diagrams on the screen like it had never been there. Tabor inhaled sharply and made his way to the device and fiddled with it; "…can't believe it, what the hell? And now it is working just like it was supposed to?"
Har came over and looked at it over the Bastard's shoulder. He had never seen such a gadget, but it did seem to have settled in. Under the diagrams there was a name of the target, and a fast printout of truncated sentences and odd phases running and constantly converted to encrypted mode. Under that was transmission bar indicating data forwarding? "It's sending information?"
"Yes, the nanochip has successfully connected with the transmitter, and it now sends the information to this unit. I will forward it to our next outpost, and from there it will be saved and sent all the way to Eta Ceta for analysis. It taps into the target's brain and allows us to spy on their very thoughts. A biotechnological solution to telepathy, so to speak."
"But that's… that will change the whole intelligence field." Har muttered incredulously, utterly floored. The possibilities of that revelation…
But how come it was now suddenly working if the "nanochips" had went to the wrong targets?
And more importantly, was there any way Har could manage to save his skin and manage to keep the extent of his screw up a secret?
To say that Captain Simon Illyan had had a stressful evening would be a severe understatement. Even in the normal course of things, the Emperor's spring ball opened the Vor socialite season and as such was an exercise in patience. For some reason, the younger aristocrats had consistently picked that particular ball to conduct all their ridiculous and mischievous acts for the whole time he had been the Chief of Imperial Security.
If there was a saving grace in this whole mess Illyan had had been handed to, it was that he had been able to pass the duty of supervising the security of the event to Colonel Lord Vortala the Younger, his understudy in the Residence security operations.
The whole episode had begun when earlier that evening he had received urgent report from Galactic Operations that indicated a high probability of increased Cetagandan activity. Thankfully, nothing in the information he had received pointed towards violence, but rather a major intelligence operation. Report had told that an Illyrican rising bioscience genius had been relocated to Cetaganda to refine his groundbreaking nanochip transmission device that could be potentially unobtrusively planted in the target's brain and could from there forward information.
It was a worrying development, and the mere existence of such technology would change the whole counter-intelligence field in major way. However, his agent had managed to find out that the device was still experimental, hideously expensive and most importantly - not cost effective as the nanochips didn't yet handle the stress of transmission for long periods. The longest test phase according to the report had lasted only a month, and unless a miraculous solution arrived, it duration couldn't be increased enough to support a plot targeted to mass production.
Illyan had been going over the reports and handling the situation from his office the whole evening, and the implications had shaken him enough to keep him awake late. At three am there didn't seem to be enough reason for him to retire to his own apartment, so he had tried to catch some sleep in the headquarters' emergency bed for some time. However, after tossing and turning for an hour in the cot, he had finally given up on the possibility of sleep and started to read through the spring ball's reports just to give himself something productive to do.
It was then that he had encountered a curious report of brief alarm in one of the Residence kitchen's entrances' security scanners. The report indicated a possibility of malfunction, because after checking it, the guard had concluded that the scanner had set an alarm over three pain killers, of all things.
The thing which raised his attention was that the security scanners didn't detect organic mass. It was secret information, only available in the very highest security clearance of the Empire – the commander's inside Impsec and the Emperor's eyes only.
So, that concluded that for the scanners to react there had been something inorganic, non-regulation in the pills. Suspicious. Illyan frowned, and checked the profiles of the guard and the Sergeant with the pills, Sergeant Kaverin, Impsec – graduated from Vorbarr Sultana Military College four years ago, application by preference to Imperial Security, very nondescript service record and a note of having been complaining about migraines.
Illyan crosschecked the records in ImpMil, the doctor had subscribed standard pain killers instead of migraine medication, and had noted that the patient's headache was stress related.
Stress related?
There was something odd with the Sergeant Kaverin's profile. It was bland, even… too bland. He couldn't say anything of the person based on it, and usually in these course of things a person would achieve enough that a skilled eye could evaluate the person by merely checking the profiles.
Something wasn't right.
It was just a hunch, but the very shape of things didn't add up.
Illyan glanced at the clock, and saw that it was coming to be six am and Sergeant Kaverin should be reporting in half an hour for duty in the Residence. Usually he would assign this case for any of his analyst, but there wasn't anything in the scraps of information that they could see any better than he did. And… he couldn't get any sleep.
So, with a sigh he heaved up from his chair and redressed into his sharp uniform and called a ground car for transportation.
As Illyan settled into the car, he contemplated that he was getting too paranoid in his old age, too tired and weary for this game.
He really should retire.
However, he wanted to be sure that his successor would be the best possible person and ready for the duty. It hadn't been a question of the person, not really, not for two years. Not since the idea had first came to him. Back then, he had at first laughed at the very absurdity of it, but recently, after serious thinking and long discussions with Gregor, it had started to feel right.
After all, there was no other young man more fanatically loyal and capable in intelligence work than Miles Vorkosigan.
Vorkosigan as the Chief of Impsec, Illyan couldn't help but to ruefully smile. It was a blasphemy, according to some, but it would fit into this odd pattern honor and loyalty spawning the recent history, in an odd way. From Vorkosigan to him and him to Vorkosigan. Sure Miles would protest at being handed a promotion and a nice golden chain tying him to a desk job, but the boy could learn how to adapt.
And in any case it all came down to trust. If he could trust one man over everyone else, it would be his honorary nephew.
"Sir, we have arrived." His driver remarked and Illyan was pulled from his thoughts.
A lazy salute and briefly murmured directions, the Chief of Impsec walked down the waking halls of residence and not too long after, encountered the object of his curiosity; a tall, inconspicuous man known as Sergeant Kaverin.
The Sergeant noted him with clear surprise almost right after and snapped immediately into a sharp salute.
Illyan calmly remarked; "At ease, Sergeant. I am just on my way to the morning briefing."
Immediately the man forced himself to relax and nodded and continued his way.
Illyan waited for a moment for the best timing, and then raised his voice lightly in soft, polite inquiry at the Sergeant's back; "Oh, by the way, how was your migraine yesterday evening?"
The man froze, eyes wide and turned to look at him like a rabbit being caught by a fox, and let out in surprise; "...what migraine?"
Too tense of a reaction, too wary – the man was hiding something. What? A relatively harmless transgression, such as broken regs, or a more sinister act? Illyan narrowed his eyes in a way that some of his more easily spooked subordinates got chills over and remarked sharply; "The one that you smuggled non-regulation items for yesterday evening."
That panicked look in his eyes and the way the Sergeant blanched white – a large secret, then. Discreetly Illyan tapped his wrist com alerting for backup, and stood calmly and remarked out loud; "The pellets that you reported as pain medication contained inorganic material. Not something that was there by accident."
"I… I…. no…"
Perhaps it was cruel, but the way the man's eyes blanked in sheer terror was something that Illyan found that he really did enjoy. One of his guilty pleasures and eternally saved on his memory biochip.
"Well, whatever it was, we will soon find out. Fast penta is a useful tool, don't you agree?" Illyan suggested, raising the pressure yet again, not much more and Kaverin would spill out the beans.
"Fast penta doesn't work on me!" Kaverin burst out in panic, and looking around in distress and taking small steps backwards.
"Interesting, as your profile doesn't mention any allergy conditioning."
That broke the man, and Kaverin inhaled sharply and turned to run.
Illyan didn't bother to chase after the man, but instead he reported the description to his wrist com and issued an arrest order. It was clear that he had accidentally caught a spy. From what agency, was the question – Cetas or perhaps Escobarans? Both had managed to infiltrate the lower ranks before, but this didn't seem like them. Inorganic material hinted at high tech, which usually pointed to Betans, but they wouldn't send out men to high risk missions, especially not to a deep cover post in Barrayar.
Wait a minute.
Back track; high tech, infiltration, very effective intelligence work – and suddenly all the crumbs settled together in Illyan's mind.
Oh God…
Cetagandans had an experimental Illyrican nanotech device and there was a possibility that it had been here, at the Residence, yesterday evening.
At the Emperor's spring ball, where the cream of the Empire had been present.
Worst case scenario - they could have gotten anyone in the guest list. Counts, Ministers, General Staff… even the Emperor. The full horror dawned on Illyan and he swallowed.
He needed to get into middle of this mess. Right now and find out where they had planted it!
Taking a deep inhale and fighting to gain control of his terror, Illyan sorted through the priorities for handling this catastrophe. Among everything else, he needed to get someone to find out what the fuck had happened while he controlled the chaos.
Who?
And suddenly he remembered just who was still on the ground leave in the capitol and had the required experience and expertise, and decidedly brilliant nose for sniffing out Cetagandan plots.
Who was conveniently missing a domestic mess from his resume.
He raised his com to his lips, and murmured; "Alert Lieutenant Vorkosigan and have him arrive asap to the headquarters for briefing. We have a situation."
"Beep! Beep!"
A loud, consistent and severely annoying noise woke him up. Through the haze of sleep and oddly confused mess that his senses reported to him, he finally found the source of this unpleasant wake up call. It was a secured comsole alerting to an incoming vid call.
It wasn't very common for him to get early morning vid calls, as everyone who knew him, knew that he liked to sleep late after a long night of partying. And it was weekend, there shouldn't be any reason for the Ops to call him either... and it was weekend. Of that he was certain.
But obediently he rose up from the bed, and stumbled to walk the short distance from the bed to the comsole. Had the floor always been that close? And why did everything ache like this? Never mind, he would get to the heart of the issue after he had gotten rid of that beeping…
He settled to sit at the comsole, swept his hand through his hair to make himself slightly more presentable and straightened his pajama top. Odd, it was an old comfortably worn shipknit, and he had been sure that he had dressed into the new and stylish silk number that one of his earlier girlfriends had gifted him with.
Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes he rubbed a bit and tried to focus, then activated the comsole with his handprint and retina.
It was a Lieutenant in uniform and with shiny Impsec horus eyes on his collar. What the hell? Why would the spooks wake him up? Immediately he straightened, and tried to look more focused.
"Lieutenant Vorkosigan, Chief Illyan summons you for a mission briefing. Report to the headquarters as soon as possible."
What the fuck?
He nodded dumbly as he tried to process through this mess, but the Impsec flunkie took the gesture as a confirmation and with a salute, ended the vid call.
Illyan, mission… Lieutenant Vorkosigan?
What had happened that Illyan needed Miles urgently? And why the fuck did that flunkie address him as Miles, surely the lieutenant couldn't mistake them for each other? They didn't even look alike! And the Impsec didn't employ idiots…
He smiled as an amusing though hit him, oh boy… this would make a hilarious tidbit to rib Miles with. The twit had been away long enough that people could mistake even Ivan as him. Hah. Maybe that would make the git to realize that he should spend more time at home?
Well, he would forward this message to Miles and get back to sleep, Ivan decided and yawned.
For some reason it was then that he noticed something odder – he wasn't at his own flat. It wasn't a particularly odd happenstance for him to have spent the night at strange location, but for the fact that he was quite sure he had managed to get home last night… and more importantly, Ivan could recognize this room.
Why the fuck he was in Miles's tiny bedroom in the Vorkosigan House?
The comsole forgotten, he stood up and tried to walk to the window when he finally realized that the world was completely wrong. Everything was too tall.
Absolutely everything.
Or he had shrunk down?
Glancing down confirmed the second theory as the more likely one.
His heart was trying to leap from his chest and he tried to keep breathing despite the rising panic. In some evil foreboding curiosity, Ivan stumbled into the bathroom where he knew that the only functional mirror in Miles's bedroom would be. The git disliked mirrors, and had avoided their bitter reminder all his life.
The mirror showed him his worst nightmare.
He knew that he was Ivan Vorpatril, "Ivan the Idiot", a perfectly ordinary lieutenant in Ops – but for some reason, the mirror unmercifully proved that right now, he was Miles Vorkosigan.
Oh god…
This was a disaster.
This was horrible…
What could he do?
Idly, in macabre curiosity he touched his face, traced the deep pain lines etched early on his cousins face… which he wore at the moment. There was so many things wrong it that he couldn't keep track of it all. And Illyan had an urgent mission for Miles…
There was a situation.
In his experience, those words never promised anything good.
Oh god, where was Miles?
He needed Miles. Right now. He was just Ivan the Idiot, he couldn't do this! Miles could. Miles would know what to do!
But if he was wearing Miles's body, wouldn't it make sense that Miles should be in his body? Yes. Or at least, that was the next thing he should do. Check what had happened to his body and somehow find out how to transfer back…. wasn't that how it always happened in holovids?
Yes.
Ivan swallowed and inhaled deeply, and stumbled to the closet trying to find something suitable to wear. Thankfully most of Miles's clothes were uniforms, and finding a set of clean undress greens was easy. Never mind that he had clear the floor by kicking the parade red and blues to the side that the git had been wearing yesterday at the ball and apparently conveniently shed to the floor. Ugh, and people called Ivan lazy… If there was a thing that Ivan had learned while living alone without any servants in the household, was that a moment's laziness would come to bite him back, so it was usually better to drop dirty garments right away to the laundry basket.
No matter how he tried to not to look, he couldn't help noticing the ugly mess of scars covering Miles's body and the constant slight ache everywhere… and the way it was impossible to keep his breath steady or how his pulse was raging far faster than he was used to.
He had to find out how to get back to his own body. Fast.
So desperately trying to keep calm, he slipped away from the Vorkosigan house after dodging a few servants running still the household despite Vicereine and Viceroy already having transferred most of their retinue to Sergyar… then Ivan had to deal with the Armsmen and order them to stand at ease, explaining that he just needed to pay a brief visit to Ivan. Not a matter that demanded an armed escort, thank you very much.
And wasn't that weird, telling people that he needed to visit himself?
In any case, trying to behave like Miles would left an ashen taste to Ivan's mouth. Not that he had been too good at it either, as Pym's questioning and bland look had made it clear. Ivan just wasn't made for this stuff.
So, never mind Illyan's summons for urgent mission – this was more important.
He climbed in Miles's red enameled lightflyer and took course to the newer parts of the town where his own apartment was. Oddly, the drive with the finely tuned machine calmed his nerves. It truly was a sleek and beautiful flyer, custom fitted for Miles… and right now, it handled like a dream.
And if something, Ivan had a fierce appreciation for fine lightflyers. He liked speed.
The early Sunday morning's nice weather backfired on him though, as the time and date made sure that the Vorbar Sultana's traffic was light and didn't give himself a lot of time to gather his frayed nerves. On the other hand, maybe it was just as well.
The sooner this shit storm was over the better.
Gathering his nerve, Ivan made his way to his own door, searched for the keys out of habit before realizing that he wouldn't find them, and then hesitantly made his way to the receptionist and asked to be let up. Thankfully Miles was highly recognizable and the receptionist let him up without much of a comment.
A knock at the door and some tense wait later, the door opened and Ivan let out the breath he had been holding in.
The man opening the door was himself.
Well, someone else in his body, but close enough.
He burst out in cheer relief; "Thank god! I had a moment's fear you weren't here and my body would be lying on, here, empty and I would be alone in this absurd mess!" And with those words, Ivan pushed inside, totally ignoring the way his double's face was frozen in utter stun and how the man was way too calm for the situation.
Inside the apartment, he couldn't help but to notice that the other Ivan was in the middle of making coffee. Or at least trying to…
On the kitchen's counter was his coffee machine, a bag of special ground coffee imported from Escobar that he had developed a recent liking to and a package of filter bags which had been scattered around the counter. And speaking of his coffee machine, it was opened in multiple places and there wasn't even water poured into the tank…
The hell?
Who the fuck was so inept that he didn't even know how to use a coffee machine?
Miles certainly knew at least that much. He remembered well how Miles had once stayed over and made coffee at the morning during a ground leave few years back.
And speaking of Miles, the little maniacal git wouldn't be that silent. Or still… Ivan turned around and noted how the other Ivan had closed the door and looked at him with a distinct frown. It made his handsome face look severe…
It looked wrong.
Ivan was a cheerful person, never severe. Neither was Miles.
"You are not Miles." Ivan whispered, the realization hitting him hard.
"No. And I think I can safely assume that you aren't either." The other Ivan spoke with deceptive calmness.
"No," Ivan agreed dumbly, trying to make sense of this. "Who are you?"
"That puzzled look, the earlier outburst… your clear familiarity with this apartment." The other Ivan rattled off thoughtfully, then frowned; "You are Ivan, then."
Ivan just nodded and felt really alien standing in the middle of his own apartment wearing his cousin's body. The whole mess was getting more absurd by the minute, and what ticked him of the most, was how the other Ivan behaved in a manner that felt eerily familiar. He felt like he really should connect the dots already.
Who he knew that was always calm, often severe and had just that thoughtful frown…
Oh my god.
"Gregor?!"
The man, who was most commonly known as the Emperor of Barrayaran Imperium or occasionally, in slightly unofficial capacity as Count Vorbarra, and to an honest few as just simply Gregor, sighed deeply.
Truthfully, he had been hoping that this was just a bizarre dream. However, with every minute since opening his eyes and finding himself in a strange bed and equally unfamiliar apartment, it had become increasingly apparent that categorizing this as such was just wistful thinking.
In the first case, how could he dream an apartment he had never visited?
So, he had tried to make sense of the situation and fast noticed even more baffling notion – his body wasn't the same. It was broader in the shoulders, more muscled… and tanned. Locating a mirror had been easy, and at the moment he recognized the face he was wearing, he felt an odd mixed set of feelings, such as relief, confusion, a stab of fear – and cheer curious joy. For some odd reason, at the moment he wasn't the absolute monarch of the tri-planetary empire, a job and duty that had trapped him from his birth, but instead just a regular Vor - Lieutenant Ivan Vorpatril.
Perhaps it was horrible of him the feel that curious fascination, even joy for the situation. But then again, it was a dream come true in part. Well, at least a dream he had often dreamed as a younger man that he would escape his duties and have a chance to live a normal life.
And now… it was here.
Unasked, unexplained – it simply was.
But then he remembered all that he had been working for, in particular the law reform he had been subtly pushing through that was finally going up to vote in Council of Counts next week… it was something fully his own, not containing even the slightest handprint from his old respected lord Regent.
He had to find a way back to his own body. But if he was here, in his cousin Ivan's body, was Ivan perhaps been misplaced into his own?
At once an image of Ivan as the Emperor of Barrayar came to his mind, and Gregor couldn't help but to let out an incredulous scoff. His lazier cousin would definitely scream in terror and run the other way.
However, the bizarre situation being what it was… it was a likely possibility.
In any case, he should make and attempt to find out what had happened to his own body, Gregor decided, and took to finding suitable garments to wear.
Ivan's closet had a nice range of possibilities, and for a brief moment Gregor wondered what he should pick out – he didn't know much of the casual fashion, usually preferring simple dark civilian suits for himself. Understandable as he never had had much chance for casual interaction…
But sadly Ivan's closet was missing the suits. It was, however, rich in officers' undress greens and other relevant uniforms and even surprisingly large collection of more varied civilian options. Gregor had a distaste of dressing in uniform, he wasn't fan of them in general – and wearing a mark of other's service was equally disdainful. So in the end, Gregor ended up choosing bland and comfortable dark trousers and simple beige shirt.
The coffee was the next priority.
He was a morning person, having been in the habit of waking up early since his childhood and with his hectic days the importance of a morning cup of caffeine and breakfast was deeply ingrained into him. Besides, it wasn't like he could just march into the Residence and ask for an Imperial audience wearing Ivan's face this early in the morning.
Sun was just rising up.
And in any case, travelling there with all the pomp and circumstance wasn't a productive plan of action when he wasn't even sure what the situation was with his original body.
However, making a cup of coffee presented quickly unprecedented difficulties. The thing was that Gregor had never had a change to become very familiar with everyday kitchen appliances and while he had a good guess how the process of making coffee worked… it wasn't exactly easy to find the required items and reason out the machine's functions without having an owner's manual.
And he had tried to find it, too…
Then a peculiar knocking from the door pulled Gregor from his thoughts, and he froze in surprise – he had never once even considered a possibility that someone could have business with Ivan Vorpatril this early in the morning. Not that he knew all the exact peculiarities of his cousins living, but still… early Sunday morning visits didn't sit right in Ivan's character.
No matter, if he was to be Ivan for the moment, he should at least be polite and open the door to inquire the visitor's business. To his bafflement, the open doorway contained a panicked and loud mess that was his other cousin - and foster brother - Miles.
Gregor's eyes widened and he felt the sheer relief flooding his veins, and deliberately relaxed. If Miles was here, he would be on top of the situation and could be trusted to have a plan to rectify the matter.
However, after studying short man's actions and manner for a brief moment, it became quickly clear that it might not be that easy – for Miles wasn't behaving anything like himself.
When he finally concluded the identity of a person currently wearing Miles's body, Gregor felt even more baffled.
What had happened to lead them to this bizarre situation?
And more importantly, who was wearing his body and was thus the acting Emperor of Barrayar?
…and where the hell was Miles Vorkosigan?