Cordelia's Honor - Lois McMaster Bujold [154]
He breathed a humorless laugh. "Stretched. Yes. I guess so. It's not about the baby . . . it's . . . well, not directly." His eyes met hers squarely for almost the first time today. "You remember Escobar, milady. You were there. Right?"
"Right." This man is in pain, Cordelia realized. What sort of pain?
"I can't remember Escobar."
"So I understand. I believe your military therapists went to a great deal of trouble to make sure you did not remember Escobar."
"Oh yes."
"I don't approve of Barrayaran notions of therapy. Particularly when colored by political expediency."
"I've come to realize that, Milady." Cautious hope flickered in his eyes.
"How did they work it? Burn out selected neurons? Chemical erasure?"
"No . . . they used drugs, but nothing was destroyed. They tell me. The doctors called it suppression-therapy. We just called it hell. Every day we went to hell, till we didn't want to go there anymore." Bothari shifted in his seat, his brow wrinkling. "Trying to remember—to talk about Escobar at all—gives me these headaches. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Big man like me whining about headaches like some old woman. Certain special parts, memories, they give me these really bad headaches that make red rings around everything I see, and I start vomiting. When I stop trying to think about it, the pain goes away. Simple."
Cordelia swallowed. "I see. I'm sorry. I knew it was bad, but I didn't know it was . . . that bad."
"The worst part is the dreams. I dream of . . . it . . . and if I wake up too slowly, I remember the dream. I remember too much, all at once, and my head—all I can do is roll over and cry, until I can start thinking about something else. Count Piotr's other armsmen—they think I'm crazy, they think I'm stupid, they don't know what I'm doing in there with them. I don't know what I'm doing in there with them." He rubbed his big hands over his burr-scalp in a harried swipe. "To be a count's sworn Armsman—it's an honor. Only twenty places to fill. They take the best, they take the bloody heroes, the men with medals, the twenty-year men with perfect records. If what I did—at Escobar—was so bad, why did the Admiral make Count Piotr make a place for me? And if I was such a bloody hero, why did they take away my memory of it?" His breath was coming faster, whistling through his long yellow teeth.
"How much pain are you in now? Trying to talk about this?"
"Some. More to come." He stared at her, frowning deeply. "I've got to talk about this. To you. It's driving me . . ."
She took a calming breath, trying to listen with her whole mind, body, and soul. And carefully. So carefully. "Go on."
"I have . . . four pictures . . . in my head, from Escobar. Four pictures, and I cannot explain them. To myself. A few minutes, out of—three months? Four? They all of them bother me, but one bothers me the most. You're in it," he added abruptly, and stared at the ground. Both hands clenched the bench now, white-knuckled.
"I see. Go on."
"One—the least-bad one—it was an argument. Prince Serg was there, and Admiral Vorrutyer, Lord Vorkosigan, and Admiral Rulf Vorhalas. And I was there. Except I didn't have any clothes on."
"Are you sure this isn't a dream?"
"No. I'm not sure. Admiral Vorrutyer said . . . something very insulting, to Lord Vorkosigan. He had Lord Vorkosigan backed up against the wall. Prince Serg laughed. Then Vorrutyer kissed him, full on the mouth, and Vorhalas tried to knock Vorrutyer's head off, but Lord Vorkosigan wouldn't let him. And I don't remember after that."
"Um . . . yeah," said Cordelia. "I wasn't there for that part, but I know there was some really weird stuff going on in the high command at that point, as Vorrutyer and Serg pushed their limits. So it's probably a true memory. I could ask Aral, if you wish."
"No! No. That one doesn't feel as important, anyway. As the others."
"Tell me about the others, then."
His voice fell to a whisper. "I remember Elena. So pretty. I only have two pictures in my head, of Elena. One, I remember Vorrutyer making me . . .