Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [182]
"Where are you going?" asked Ivan.
"To see Major Cecil."
Ivan exhaled through pursed lips. "Oh? Good luck."
Did the desk sergeant hide a small smile, bending his head to sort through the next stack of packets? "Ensign Draut," he called. The line moved up one more.
* * *
Major Cecil was leaning with one hip on his clerk's desk, consulting about something on the vid, as Miles entered his office and saluted.
Major Cecil glanced up at Miles and then at his chrono. "Ah, less than ten minutes. I win the bet." The major returned Miles's salute as the clerk, smiling sourly, pulled a small wad of currency from his pocket, peeled off a one-mark note, and handed it across wordlessly to his superior. The major's face was only amused on the surface; he nodded toward the door, and the clerk tore off the plastic flimsy his machine had just produced and exited the room.
Major Cecil was a man of about fifty, lean, even-tempered, watchful. Very watchful. Though he was not the titular head of Personnel, that administrative job belonging to a higher-ranking officer, Miles had spotted Cecil long ago as the final-decision man. Through Cecil's hands passed at the last every assignment for every Academy graduate. Miles had always found him an accessible man, the teacher and scholar in him ascendant over the officer. His wit was dry and rare, his dedication to his duty intense. Miles had always trusted him. Till now.
"Sir," he began. He held out his orders in a frustrated gesture. "What is this?"
Cecil's eyes were still bright with his private amusement as he pocketed the mark-note. "Are you asking me to read them to you, Vorkosigan?"
"Sir, I question—" Miles stopped, bit his tongue, began again. "I have a few questions about my assignment."
"Meteorology Officer, Lazkowski Base," Major Cecil recited.
"It's . . . not a mistake, then? I got the right packet?"
"If that's what that says, you did."
"Are . . . you aware the only meteorology course I had was aviation weather?"
"I am." The major wasn't giving away a thing.
Miles paused. Cecil's sending his clerk out was a clear signal that this discussion was to be frank. "Is this some kind of punishment?" What have I ever done to you?
"Why, Ensign," Cecil's voice was smooth, "it's a perfectly normal assignment. Were you expecting an extraordinary one? My job is to match personnel requests with available candidates. Every request must be filled by someone."
"Any tech school grad could have filled this one." With an effort, Miles kept the snarl out of his voice, uncurled his fingers. "Better. It doesn't require an Academy cadet."
"That's right," agreed the major.
"Why, then?" Miles burst out. His voice came out louder than he'd meant it to.
Cecil sighed, straightened. "Because I have noticed, Vorkosigan, watching you—and you know very well you were the most closely watched cadet ever to pass through these halls barring Emperor Gregor himself—"
Miles nodded shortly.
"That despite your demonstrated brilliance in some areas, you have also demonstrated some chronic weaknesses. And I'm not referring to your physical problems, which everybody but me thought were going to take you out before your first year was up—you've been surprisingly sensible about those—"
Miles shrugged. "Pain hurts, sir. I don't court it."
"Very good. But your most insidious chronic problem is in the area of . . . how shall I put this precisely . . . subordination. You argue too much."
"No, I don't," Miles began indignantly, then shut his mouth.
Cecil flashed a grin. "Quite. Plus your rather irritating habit of treating your superior officers as your, ah . . ." Cecil paused, apparently groping again for just the right word.
"Equals?" Miles hazarded.
"Cattle," Cecil corrected judiciously. "To be driven to your will. You're a manipulator par excellence, Vorkosigan. I've been studying you for three