Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [183]
"Have I been . . . that disrespectful, sir?" Miles's stomach felt cold.
"On the contrary. Given your background, the marvel is that you conceal that, ah, little arrogant streak so well. But Vorkosigan," Cecil dropped at last into perfect seriousness, "the Imperial Academy is not the whole of the Imperial Service. You've made your comrades here appreciate you because here, brains are held at a premium. You were picked first for any strategic team for the same reason you were picked last for any purely physical contest—these young hotshots wanted to win. All the time. Whatever it took."
"I can't be ordinary and survive, sir!"
Cecil tilted his head. "I agree. And yet, sometime, you must also learn how to command ordinary men. And be commanded by them!
"This isn't a punishment, Vorkosigan, and it isn't my idea of a joke. Upon my choices may depend not only our fledgling officers' lives, but also those of the innocents I inflict 'em on. If I seriously miscalculate, overmatch or mismatch a man with a job, I not only risk him, but also those around him. Now, in six months (plus unscheduled overruns), the Imperial Orbital Shipyard is going to finish commissioning the Prince Serg."
Miles's breath caught.
"You've got it." Cecil nodded. "The newest, fastest, deadliest thing His Imperial Majesty has ever put into space. And with the longest range. It will go out, and stay out, for longer periods than anything we've ever had before. It follows that everyone on board will be in each other's hair for longer unbroken periods than ever before. High Command is actually paying some attention to the psych profiles on this one. For a change.
"Listen, now," Cecil leaned forward. So did Miles, reflexively. "If you can keep your nose clean for just six months on an isolated downside post—bluntly, if you prove you can handle Camp Permafrost, I'll allow as how you can handle anything the Service might throw at you. And I'll support your request for a transfer to the Prince. But if you screw up, there will be nothing I or anybody else can do for you. Sink or swim, Ensign."
Fly, thought Miles. I want to fly. "Sir . . . just how much of a pit is this place?"
"I wouldn't want to prejudice you, Ensign Vorkosigan," said Cecil piously.
And I love you too, sir. "But . . . infantry? My physical limits . . . won't prevent my serving if they're taken into account, but I can't pretend they're not there. Or I might as well jump off a wall, destroy myself immediately, and save everybody time." Dammit, why did they let me occupy some of Barrayar's most expensive classroom space for three years if they meant to kill me outright? "I'd always assumed they were going to be taken into account."
"Meteorology Officer is a technical specialty, Ensign," the major reassured him. "Nobody's going to try and drop a full field pack on you and smash you flat. I doubt there's an officer in the Service who would choose to explain your dead body to the admiral." His voice cooled slightly. "Your saving grace. Mutant."
Cecil was without prejudice, merely testing. Always testing. Miles ducked his head. "As I may be, for the mutants who come after me."
"You've figured that out, have you?" Cecil's eye was suddenly speculative, faintly approving.
"Years ago, sir."
"Hm." Cecil smiled slightly, pushed himself off the desk, came forward and extended his hand. "Good luck, then. Lord Vorkosigan."
Miles shook it. "Thank you, sir." He shuffled through the stack of travel passes, ordering them.
"What's your first stop?" asked Cecil.
Testing again. Must be a bloody reflex. Miles answered unexpectedly, "The Academy archives."
"Ah!"
"For a downloading of the Service meteorology manual. And supplementary material."
"Very good. By the way, your predecessor in the post will be staying on a few weeks to complete your orientation."
"I'm extremely glad to hear that, sir," said Miles sincerely.
"We're not trying to make it impossible,