Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [312]
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Miles stepped from the Triumph's shuttle through the short flex tube and on board the Prince Serg. He stared around enviously at the clean, spacious, beautifully lit corridor, at the row of smart and gleaming honor guards snapping to attention, at the polished officers waiting in their Barrayaran Imperial dress greens. He stole an anxious glance down at his own Dendarii grey-and-whites. The Triumph, key and pride of the Dendarii fleet, seemed to shrink into something small and gritty and battered and used.
Yeah, but you guys would not look so pretty now if we had not used ourselves so hard, Miles consoled himself.
Tung, Elena, and Chodak were all goggling like tourists too. Miles called them firmly to attention to receive and return the crisp welcoming salutes of their hosts.
"I'm Commander Natochini, executive officer of the Prince Serg," the senior Barrayaran introduced himself. "Lieutenant Yegorov, here, will escort you and Commander Bothari-Jesek to Admiral Vorkosigan for your meeting, Admiral Naismith. Commodore Tung, I will be personally conducting your tour of the Prince Serg, and will be pleased to answer any of your questions. If the answers aren't classified, of course."
"Of course." Tung's broad face looked immensely pleased. In fact, if Tung grew any smugger he might implode.
"We will join Admiral Vorkosigan for lunch in the senior officers' mess, after your meeting and our tour," Commander Natochini continued to Miles. "Our last dinner guest there was the President of Pol and his entourage, twelve days ago."
Certain that the mercenaries understood the magnitude of the privilege they were being granted, the Barrayaran exec led the happy Tung and Chodak off down the corridor. Miles heard Tung chuckle under his breath, "Lunch with Admiral Vorkosigan, heh, heh . . ."
Lieutenant Yegorov motioned Miles and Elena in the opposite direction. "You are Barrayaran, ma'am?" he inquired of Elena.
"My father was liege-sworn Armsman to the late Count Piotr for eighteen years," Elena stated. "He died in the Count's service."
"I see," said the lieutenant respectfully. "You are acquainted with the family, then." That explains you, Miles could almost see him thinking.
"Ah, yes."
The lieutenant glanced down a little more dubiously at "Admiral Naismith." "And, uh, I understand you are Betan, sir?"
"Originally," said Miles, in his flattest Betan accent.
"You . . . may find the way we Barrayarans do things to be a little more formal than what you're used to," the lieutenant warned. "The Count, you understand, is accustomed to the respect and deference due his rank."
Miles watched, delighted, as the earnest officer sought a polite way of saying, Call him sir, don't wipe your nose on your sleeve, and none of your damned Betan egalitarian backchat, either. "You may find him rather formidable," Yegorov concluded.
"A real stuffed shirt, eh?"
The lieutenant frowned. "He is a great man."
"Aw, I bet if we pour enough wine into him at lunch, he'll loosen up and tell dirty stories with the best of 'em."
Yegorov's polite smile became fixed. Elena, eyes dancing, leaned down and whispered forcefully, "Admiral, behave!"
"Oh, all right." Miles sighed regretfully.
The lieutenant glanced gratefully at Elena, over Miles's head.
Miles admired the spit and polish, in passing. Besides just being new, the Prince Serg had been designed with diplomacy as well as war in mind, a ship fit to carry the emperor on state visits without loss of military efficiency. He saw a young ensign, down a cross-corridor that had a wall panel apart, directing some tech crew on minor repairs—no, by God, it was original installation. The Prince Serg had broken orbit with work crews still aboard, Miles had heard. He glanced back over his shoulder. There but for the grace of God and General Metzov go I. If he'd kept his nose clean on Kyril Island for just six months . . . he felt an illogical twinge of envy for that busy ensign.
They entered officers' country. Lieutenant