Miles in Love - Lois McMaster Bujold [47]
"It's an antique." Nikki held it out.
Miles took it, his eye lighting. "I owned one of the very last of these, when I was seventeen. Now, that was a barge."
"A . . . a model like this?" asked Nikki uncertainly.
"No, a jumpship."
"You owned a real jumpship? Yourself?" He inhaled alarmingly.
"Mm, me and a bunch of creditors." Miles smiled in reminiscence.
"Did you get to pilot it? In normal space, I mean, not in jump space."
"No, I wasn't even up to piloting shuttles then. I learned how to do that later, at the Academy."
"What happened to the RG? Do you still have it?"
"Oh, no. Or . . . well, I'm not just sure. It met with an accident in Tau Verde local space, ramming, um, colliding with another ship. Twisted hell out of its Necklin field generator rods. It was never going to jump again after that, so I leased it as a local-space freighter, and we left it there. If Arde—he's a jump pilot friend of mine—ever finds a set of replacement rods, I told him he can have the old RG."
"You had a jumpship and you gave it away?" Nikki's eyes widened in astonishment. "Do you have any more?"
"Not at present. Oh, look, a General-class cruiser." Miles reached for it. "My father commanded one of those, once, I believe. Do you have any Betan Survey ships . . . ?"
Heads bent together, they laid out the little fleet on the floor. Nikki, Miles was pleased to find, was well-up on all the tech-specs of every ship he owned; he expanded wonderfully, his voice, formerly shy around Miles-the-weird-adult-stranger, growing louder and faster in his unselfconscious enthusiasm as he detailed his machinery. Miles's stock rose as he was able to claim personal acquaintance with nearly a dozen of the originals for the models, and add a few interesting nonclassified jumpship anecdotes to Nikki's already impressive fund of knowledge.
"But," said Nikki after a slight pause for breath, "how do you get to be a pilot if you're not in the military?"
"You go through a training school and an apprenticeship. I know of at least four schools right here on Komarr, and a couple more at home on Barrayar. Sergyar doesn't have one yet."
"How do you get in?"
"Apply, and give them money."
Nikki looked daunted. "A lot of money?"
"Mm, no more than any other college or trade school. The biggest cost is getting your neurological interface surgically installed. It pays to get the best on that one." Miles added encouragingly, "You can do anything, but you have to make your chances happen. There are some scholarships and indenture-contracts that can grease your way in, if you hustle for them. You do have to be at least twenty years old, though, so you have lots of time to plan."
"Oh." Nikki seemed to contemplate this vast span of time, equal again to his whole life so far, stretching out before him. Miles could empathize; suppose someone told him he had to wait thirty more years for something he passionately desired? He tried to think of something he passionately desired. That he could have. The field was depressingly blank.
Nikki began to replace his models in their padded box. As he nestled the Falcon-9 into its space, his fingers caressed its Imperial military decals. He asked, "Do you still have your ImpSec silver eyes?"
"No, they made me give 'em back when I was fi—when I resigned."
"Why d'you quit?"
"I didn't want to. I had health problems."
"So they made you be an Auditor instead?"
"Something like that."
Nikki groped around for some way to continue this polite adult conversation. "Do you like it?"
"It's a little early to tell. It seems to involve a lot of homework." He glanced up guiltily at the stack of report disks waiting for him on the comconsole.
Nikki gave him a look of sympathy. "Oh. Too bad."
Tien Vorsoisson's voice made them both jump. "Nikki, what are you doing in here? Get up off the floor!"
Nikki scrambled to his feet, leaving Miles sitting cross-legged and abruptly conscious that his recently-chilled body had stiffened up again.
"Are you pestering the Lord Auditor? My apologies, Lord Vorkosigan!