Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [318]
Even Gregor seemed to be seeing it all with new eyes. "Space stations are really boring, y'know? All those corridors," he commented, staring out past a fountain, eye following a curving brick path that dove into a riot of flowers. "I stopped seeing how beautiful Barrayar was, looking at it every day. Had to forget to remember. Strange."
"There were moments I couldn't remember which space station I was on," Miles agreed around a mouthful of pastry and cream. "The luxury trade's another matter, but the Hegen Hub stations did tend to the utilitarian." He grimaced at the associations of that last word.
The conversation wandered over the recent events in the Hegen Hub. Gregor brightened upon learning that Miles had never issued an actual battle order in the Triumph's fleet tac room either, except to handle the internal security crisis as delegated by Tung.
"Most officers have finished their jobs when the action begins, because the battle transpires too rapidly for the officers to affect it," Miles assured him. "Once you set up a good tac comp—and, if you're lucky, a man with a magic nose—it's better to keep your hands in your pockets. I had Tung, you had . . . ahem."
"And nice deep pockets," said Gregor. "I'm still thinking about it. It seemed almost unreal, till I visited sickbay afterwards. And realized, such-and-such a point of light meant this man's arm lost, that man's lungs frozen. . . ."
"Gotta watch out for those little lights. They tell such soothing lies," Miles agreed. "If you let them." He chased another gooey bite with coffee, paused, and remarked, "You didn't tell Illyan the truth about your little topple off the balcony, did you." It was observation, not question.
"I told him I was drunk, and climbed down." Gregor watched the flowers. ". . . how did you know?"
"He doesn't talk about you with secret terror in his eyes."
"I've just got him . . . giving a little. I don't want to screw it up now. You didn't tell him either—for that I thank you."
"You're welcome." Miles drank more coffee. "Do me a favor in return. Talk to someone."
"Who? Not Illyan. Not your father."
"How about my mother?"
"Hm." Gregor bit into his torte, upon which he had been making furrows with his fork, for the first time.
"She could be the only person on Barrayar to automatically put Gregor the man before Gregor the emperor. All our ranks look like optical illusions to her, I think. And you know she can keep her own counsel."
"I'll think about it."
"I don't want to be the only one who . . . the only one. I know when I'm out of my depth."
"You do?" Gregor raised his brows, one corner of his mouth crooking up.
"Oh, yes. I just don't normally let on."
"All right. I will," said Gregor.
Miles waited.
"My word," Gregor added.
Miles relaxed, immeasurably relieved. "Thank you." He eyed a third pastry. The portions were sort of dainty. "Are you feeling better, these days?"
"Much, thank you." Gregor went back to plowing furrows in his cream.
"Really?"
Crosshatches. "I don't know. Unlike that poor sod they had parading around playing me while I was gone, I didn't exactly volunteer for this."
"All Vor are draftees, in that sense."
"Any other Vor could run away and not be missed."
"Wouldn't you miss me a little?" said Miles plaintively. Gregor snickered. Miles glanced around the garden. "It doesn't look like such a tough post, compared to Kyril Island."
"Try it alone in bed at midnight, wondering when your genes are going to start generating monsters in your mind. Like Great Uncle Mad Yuri. Or Prince Serg." His glance at Miles was secretly sharp.
"I . . . know about Prince Serg's, uh, problems," said Miles carefully.
"Everyone seems to have known. Except me."
So that had been the trigger of depressive Gregor's first real suicide attempt. Key and lock, click! Miles tried not to look triumphant at this sudden feat of insight. "When did you find out?"
"During