When Miles has been gone for three months, Linya wants to talk to Illyan. Specifically, she writes him a note to be read at his leisure: "You would, I trust, inform me if my husband were actually dead regardless of whether you felt at liberty to tell me when, how, or why?"

I promise you that if Miles dies on one of his little outings, his entire family will be informed, you included. At present, no such report has crossed my desk. If you are dissatisfied by the lack of solid information implied in this statement, rest assured so am I.

The captain's mouth twitches. "I had not been made aware that the extraordinary escape at Dagoola was the work of Barrayaran Intelligence. Doesn't it skirt close to an act of outright war against the Cetagandan Empire?"

"Well, yes," says Miles. "If Barrayaran Intelligence had been caught doing it. Which is why they sent the Dendarii, who have no official or traceable connections whatsoever to Barrayaran Intelligence. It was, um, also supposed to be a much smaller operation originally, but things... spiralled out of control in the field. I have a full report available, if you'd like one."

"I would," says the captain, "appreciate your report very much, Lieutenant, having never heard of this outfit and finding my Security files to contain only three things about the Dendarii - they are not to be attacked; they are to be rendered requested emergency assistance with all due speed; and for further information I must apply to Sector Two Security Headquarters."

"Oh—right," says Miles, "this is only a Class III embassy. Um. Well, Sector Two HQ being a ten-day round trip away, I can fill you in on the basics in the meantime... the Dendarii are kept on retainer for highly covert operations where ImpSec either can't get enough of the right people on the job in time to get it done, or can't risk it being known that ImpSec's people are on the job at all. Dagoola fulfilled both criteria. I get my orders from Captain Illyan, who gets them from whoever needs something done - the Emperor, the General Staff, himself - and then I take the Dendarii and go carry them out. An extremely short chain of command, but it has to be, for secrecy - I could count on," he adds them up in his head, "one hand each the number of people who fully understand the connection on Barrayar and among the Dendarii respectively. Not including myself."

"The rest of them have inaccurate but entertaining imaginations," murmurs Elli.

"This isn't in your official dossier," says the captain, looking over Miles's admiral's uniform. "You're a little young for your rank, ah, Admiral, at twenty-four."

"It's a long," and classified, "story," says Miles. "You can think of me as a figurehead. The real brains of the outfit is one of my senior officers, Commodore Tung." Currently taking a much-delayed leave of absence to visit his Earthborn extended family, much though Miles may miss him. At least Tung is neither as indispensable as Miles is implying, nor likely to be needed for his military expertise during this peaceful stopover.

"And," says Galeni, "all this has been going on for how long?"

"Seven years, sir."

Galeni sighs, inspects his fingernails, and says, "Well, Lieutenant. I'm going to apply to Sector Two Security. And if I find that this is a Vor lordling's practical joke, I will do my level best to see you charged for it, regardless of who your father is."

Miles spreads his hands. "I swear it's true, sir. My word as Vorkosigan."

"Just so," says Captain Galeni tightly.

"I'll explain later," Miles murmurs to Elli; then he turns his attention back to Galeni, with all the respect for military hierarchy he can muster. "I must get in touch with my acctual superiors, Captain Galeni. I have no idea what my next orders even are."

"I am, actually, a superior of yours, Lieutenant Vorkosigan," observes Galeni.

"While we all await clarification," Galeni sighs, "I suppose I'll have to add you to my staff. Third assistant military attaché."

"Perfect, thank you, sir. Admiral Naismith could use a break from existing at the moment. The Cetagandans put a price on his head after he embarrassed them at Dagoola. I've had two close calls since."

"...Are you joking?"

"I don't find four dead and sixteen wounded soldiers under my command amusing in the slightest," says Miles.

"In that case, you are also confined to the Embassy compound."

Right. Miles sighs. "Yes, sir. As long as I can make Commander Quinn my go-between to the Dendarii."

"Which you require because...?"

"Because they're my people, sir. Look, all I really need before Admiral Naismith departs into the woodwork is to pay some bills. I can wrap up this mission as soon as I deliver the money they're expecting."

"Assistance with all due speed," muses Galeni. "Right. And how much do they require?"

"Roughly eighteen million marks, sir."

"I have spreadsheets," Miles says weakly. "Operating expenses for more than six months - five thousand personnel in eleven ships - food, fuel, repairs, clothing, medical expenses, ammunition, equipment losses, not to mention the all-important payroll. I know it's a lot, sir, but they need it."

"I don't doubt it. But the funds don't exist here. Sector Security Headquarters is going to have to handle this one. I will arrange to drop your problems in their somewhat roomier laps as soon as possible. Excuse me for a minute, Lieutenant." And he gets up and leaves Miles and Elli alone in the room.

"So what's a Komarran's magical powers that stop you in your tracks on your way to - Naismithing people?" wonders Elli in a low voice.

"The what of his soul?" asks Elli, making an attempt to clean out one of her ears.

"Egg. Um. Old folk legend, about a man—" a wizard in the original Earth versions, if he recalls correctly; a mutant in the variations that developed on Barrayar during the Time of Isolation "—who kept his heart or his soul or his death, take your pick, in an egg inside an unlikely layering of creatures with the outermost trapped in a box and buried under a tree, so that he could not be killed or harmed while the egg was safe. But if anybody managed to dig up the box and chase down the succession of animals and kill each one as it springs from its predecessor until they got to the egg, well, as soon as it was smashed he'd keel over on the spot."

"So Galeni's going to keep you in a box. Sounds grand."

"Just about. The Dendarii are parked in orbit right now," says Miles, because otherwise Ivan might not notice that Miles is currently in his grey-and-white Dendarii uniform and draw the appropriate conclusion.

"Oh! So this is cousin Ivan. I've wondered what he looked like."

"Delighted to meet you, m'lady. If you're a sample of the Dendarii they've been improving since last I saw any."

"But the last time you saw any," purrs Elli darkly, "I was there."

"I - have a good memory for faces, and..."

"The face is new," she sings coldly. "You commented on the one I had before... you know, you were the only person to mention in my hearing how bad the plastiskin looked. I think you compared it to an onion?"

"Quite." She smirks.

Miles, now that Ivan appears to be done embarrassing himself, turns to Captain Galeni to await orders.

"Tell them their funds are in transit," Miles says helplessly. It's the best he can offer and it's not very good.

She sketches a salute, and the door closes behind her.

"The Dendarii uniform is as real as your own, sir," says Miles, once again called upon to haul back on his temper with both metaphorical hands. This is not going to be a fun ten days.

"You're in a mood," says Ivan.

He emits a wordless hiss.

"Look, Galeni's all right, if a bit regulation, and what does he know to tell apart your Dendarii from any of the questionably legal little mercenary companies that float around the galaxy?"

"Oh, Stores has the laser-map deal, same as your overpriced sartorial pirate back home. It'll even do civvies, if your tastes are conservative, which I'm assuming hasn't changed since last time I saw you in anything not a uniform?"

"Ha," says Miles, semi-humorously. "It's not like I'm going to be developing a glitzy social life around here; I have every expectation of being stuck in a box and buried under a tree. Metaphorically speaking. I'll take the boringest civvies they'll give me, just to have something to lounge around in that isn't a uniform."

"Well, maybe don't overdo the boring, guess who's on the planet?"

"Stores," Miles says firmly, unwilling to be distracted. "Stores is on the planet."

Where the computer mutters to itself about Miles's peculiar measurements and then outputs him a full set of proper Barrayaran military uniforms, plus miscellaneous civilian wear in various registers of formality from 'casual' to 'fancy dinner party'. Miles, caring little for the selection, just gets the default in everything.

Ivan goes off while the computer is still handling textiles, leaving Miles with directions to the room they will be sharing.

So as soon as he has his kit - and has changed into dress greens, the better to avoid being caught in the hall still in his Dendarii grey-and-whites - Miles bundles up everything he isn't wearing and trundles directly to said room to put it all away.

"I - no - it - fuck," says Miles, throwing up his hands in an explosive gesture that scatters his neatly stacked armload of clothes halfway across the room.

"That is who you did not guess is on the planet," chirps Ivan.

"I had arrived at that conclusion, thank you, Ivan."

"And you will calm her down on the security front?" Ivan asks, placing the call. "And let her come visit you and calm you the hell down? I can abscond from the room for three, four hours, just let me know."

Miles answers this line of inquiry with a quiet growl, directed more at a spray of socks than at Ivan.

"Ask him!"

"I miss you too - are you here or aren't you? Am I even supposed to ask?"

"Well, then, I will get off my conveyance at the next stop and turn around, Dr. Cheung can wait, I imagine. I'll be there in - perhaps two hours, depending on the schedule." It appears that she's taking the call from her pen, since it's not hanging from her neck, she's wearing earbugs, and the view occasionally bobs.

"All right. I love you." He dredges up a smile from somewhere. It looks tired.

"I love you too. I'll be there soon. You look exhausted; I will not be offended by limited hospitality if I show up and you're taking a nap."

"Noted." He manages a somewhat brighter smile.

Linya blows a kiss at the display.

Miles mimes catching it and tucking it carefully in the breast pocket of his dress uniform.

She giggles, and waves, and hangs up.

"There. That should have you behaving like a human being in no time."

He waves a halfhearted rude gesture in front of Ivan's face and then goes back to cleaning up his clothing spill.

Ivan, perhaps in an attempt to be conciliatory, helps.

Ivan beats him to it - lets Linya in and lets himself out, murmuring something about visiting the embassy gym.

And Linya comes in and summarily scoops her husband up snugly. "I missed you. What was that about no Security heart attacks - they have to have dithered for fifteen minutes before they determined that you could possibly really have a Cetagandan wife."

"Ah, damn," he sighs, thunking his head against her shoulder. "I didn't think - short version, the ranking military officer at this embassy is Komarran and if I die on his watch the effect on both his career in particular and Barrayaran politics in general will be rather like the effect of firing a sonic grenade into a pile of hornets' nests. He is going to be the most exquisitely paranoid commanding officer I've ever had, even worse than Illyan, because Illyan lets me out of his sight when my job requires it."

"Ah. Well, I was able to produce our wedding dates in various calendars on the spot when quizzed and all the other trivia they wanted to cross-reference against in their file on you, and then someone remembered Ivan mentioning me and they decided I was not liable to assassinate you." Snuggle. "You look like you've had a hell of a half-year, you poor thing."

"I have. Utterly. Ivan signalled an intention to leave us alone for a few hours, and whatever Ivan thinks we might be inclined to do with that time, I think what I am actually going to do is hide in your lap and cry. Possibly under a blanket."

Linya grabs the nearest blanket and swooshes it over the both of them, not letting go of her tiny Barrayaran. She kisses his hair and holds him and refrains with considerable if silent effort from asking what the fuck Illyan sent him into this time.

Miles curls up in his wife's lap, under a blanket, and quietly weeps.

"I - I don't even know, God, what can we talk about?"

"Well, I have been up to perfectly unclassified things. I got bored loitering on Barrayar without you, so when my semester ended - I think I'm going to pick up more physics next time I sign up for classes - I went on a pen-sprinkling trip. I hired a very efficient lady on Escobar and she's going to do future pen-sprinkling for me; she's actually handling Earth almost entirely by herself, so what I'm doing is a combination of touristing and collaboration with Dr. Cheung, that one neuroscientist, I can't remember if I mentioned him to you before you left. I am trying very, very hard to convince him to move somewhere more typically accessible, because we're very productive together, but unfortunately he's got the worst case of jump-sickness I've ever heard of."

Miles says, "Mph," and snuggles her. After a moment he adds, "Go on."

Pet, pet. "To the point where he lives on Earth because his first jump trip was to here, when he was twelve, to visit his grandmother, and rather than haul just the short hop from here home to Orient, he convinced said grandmother to raise him the rest of the way. But I think I am successfully tempting him with the offer of whatever custom-built research software he wants and more funding than he sees from his university. I'd park him on Komarr; it's a short hop from home for me, and there's no need to make him suffer through the extra five steps."

"I love you," murmurs Miles.

"So that has slowed down progress on Little Aral - a combination of working on a little program Dr. Cheung wants and seeing, well, Earth, has been diverting my attention. But I did a little bit yesterday - little postural tweaks; the heirloom human spine has not had enough time to evolve the long way into something that doesn't torture its owner. I'm saving all the revisions you haven't looked at yet separately in case you don't like one."

"Oh, I know from torturous spines," he murmurs, smiling crookedly. "I love you. Hey, here's a totally non-classified subject we can both contribute to - what's Little Aral's middle name going to be?"

"Good question. If one departs from tradition there - by choice or in this case necessity - is it still customary to name them after someone?"

"Not especially. We don't even have to make it a Barrayaran name particularly, if something from some other planet catches your eye, although of course I can't pretend anyone will be happy if we name him something that sounds recognizably ghem - or recognizably haut to anyone who can recognize haut names."

"Which is how many people?" she wonders. "But no, I wasn't going to suggest, say, my constellation-selector's name or anything like that. I find it rather aesthetically displeasing even if not paired with 'Aral', which doesn't improve it. Hmm. It's a pity Gavril is named, well. Gavril."

"Yeah, 'Aral Gavril' doesn't have much to recommend it. Hmm... halfway decent-sounding Barrayaran names that I can't attach offhand to any ancestors or friends... Aral Casmir? Aral Radmir? Aral Emil? Aral Raoul? Aral Noel? Aral Michel? Aral Joslin? Aral Evard? Aral Renard? Aral Loren? Aral Sergi? Aral Milan? Aral Adri? Aral Valory? Aral Tybalt? Aral Vasily?"

"Hmm, of those I'm most tempted by Adri. And it alliterates."

Miles giggles. "That it does! I wouldn't mind a Valory or a Tybalt or a Loren or a Raoul or a Casmir, but I suppose the second son's first name is also an open slot, if we get around to having one... what do you think? Raoul Antoly? Loren Antoly? Tybalt Antoly doesn't sound great unless I switch pronunciations, Tibble instead of Tiball... are we having a second son, do you suppose? Well, maybe better not get ahead of ourselves before we've had the first one."

"I would like to see how the first goes before cooking up a sibling, yes. Loren is a nice name, but where are you getting Antoly?"

"Oh. Did I not mention that when I was talking about the naming custom...? Well, right, if my grandfather hadn't choked on it I'd be Piotr Miles after my father's father Piotr Pierre and my mother's father Miles Mark. But if I had a brother, he'd be Mark Pierre. The second son gets the leftover names in sort of a reverse order. My father's middle name is Antoly, so our first son is Aral Whatsisface - Aral Adri, if you like - but our second son is Whatsisface Antoly. Little Aral Adri can be the second example that founds a proud tradition of alliterative Vorkosigans."

Nuzzle. "Aha. This must pile up into bewildering genealogy projects, mustn't it?"

"God, you have no idea."

"Well, I suppose I'll change the filenames for the project, then, if we've settled on 'Adri'. I like it." She produces her pen and gestures lazily through the air, summoning up a project folder and changing all references to 'Little Aral' into 'Aral Adri' instead.

"Oh, pens," sighs Miles, cuddling up. "I miss my pen. Left the bloody thing on Barrayar."

"Well, if you want an interim one, I can scare one up for you, although it won't be your pretty fountain version and I don't have a full selection of colors on this planet."

"What selection of colours do you have?"

"The demos are all black. Ivan has one, now," she adds. "He met a girl who did holo art and had nothing intelligent to say and begged one of the demos off me last month in case he finds her again and she wants to be allowed to draw things in midair."

"Oh, Ivan," snorts Miles. "Right. I'll take black, then, I guess. I love you." He makes a halfhearted effort to sit up, then desists in favour of finding Linya's hand and kissing that.

"I love you too."

"—For fuck's sake!" yells Miles, sitting bolt upright and glaring at the intruders with sufficient force he is surprised neither catches fire on the spot.

"By being my fucking wife," Miles snaps. As an afterthought, he adds, "Sir."

"I spent a quarter-hour producing my anniversary and everything else from Miles's file your security could think to ask of me to confirm it," Linya adds, petting Miles's hair. "And then one of them remembered Ivan having mentioned me, as I have been on this planet for some time now and spoken with my cousin-in-law a few times since arriving. And then I came in and as you can see I have not assassinated my husband this occasion of being in a room with him. We have been discussing middle names for a forthcoming child, Captain, I assure you it's harmless unless you really don't like double initials."

"I also showed them a wedding holo. And I am in Miles's file, Captain. Should I have hauled one of the Vorkosigan armsmen with me all the way from home, do you think? I didn't expect to have this much prejudicial treatment to deal with in the more cosmopolitan parts of the galaxy, but I suppose this is Barrayaran soil..."

"Aral Adri," chirps Miles to Ivan, by way of subtle revenge on Galeni. "And I'm leaning Tybalt Antoly if we produce a second son."

"I tried," says Ivan, as Galeni turns to go, "to stop him, but he didn't want to take my word for it, s'pose."

Miles hugs Linya. And sighs again.

"Thank goodness we were naming little Vorkosigans. I suppose wondering what in the world you're doing assigned here or why he's particularly paranoid about Cetagandans when his accent is Komarran is an off-limits question?"

"I didn't think the Komarrans were as bad about Cetagandans. I suppose if they were it might be hard to blame them particularly. I do understand the part where he's under particular pressure to look after you - via abrupt door-opening if need be, I suppose."

"The Komarrans generally are not as bad about Cetagandans. This Komarran just happens to be under a great deal of stress about my presence, and I suppose anything that gives off even the faintest and most obscure whiff of danger is going to make him sweat."

"Well, hopefully he principally takes it out on the security people who couldn't be bothered to have him in to look at me and not on you." Squeeze.

"Hopefully," Miles agrees, snuggling her. And crossing mental fingers on the wish that her curiosity has been flawlessly deflected from the subject of Galeni's Cetaganda-related worries.

Well, she doesn't ask anything more about it, at any rate. She just snuggles him. "Anyway. I don't think I like 'Tybalt' as much as you do. Makes me think of the Romeo and Juliet character. Hating the word peace. Getting stabbed."

"Sounds perfectly Barrayaran to me."

"But little Whatshisface Antoly will be only slightly less than one-quarter Barrayaran."

"He'll be a Vorkosigan. Barrayaran enough. Well, what's something you like better?"

"I like Loren, I said. Casmir's nice too."

"Anyway," he says, his mind still running along the previous track, "I don't think of myself as slightly less than half Barrayaran. I'm not sure how I do think of myself, but that's not it."

"I suppose that makes sense, I was neglecting upbringing and yours was thoroughly Barrayar. Still. Casmir? Loren?"

"Can't decide between them, neither one is grabbing me the way Tybalt did. I guess there's plenty of time to think about it. What about girl names? Any ideas there?"

"I actually like my designer's name, but it'd probably be inappropriate on a number of levels."

Miles snorts. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Sathanne. I suppose you could tweak it a bit to pass unnoticed, but maybe better not."

"Or pick something that only sounds a little like it... plenty of French-derived names end in -anne. Sylvianne? Adrianne, if we want out firstborn daughter to have a built-in excuse to despise us and our choices?"

"I like 'Adri', but not enough to do it twice. Is 'Ninon' in use on Barrayar? I know it's French but not what dialect, and it's an extremely well-disguised derivative of Anne."

"I don't know off the top of my head, so it's relatively obscure if so, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. And it's cute. I've always liked Natalia for a girl, but of N names I think I like Ninon better... should the girls alliterate too? The singular girl or plural girls or lack of a girl, depending on our reproductive choices after Aral Adri is born."

"Yes, Aral Adri first, and then we can contemplate girls and Whatshisface Antoly and so on, but it's nice to have an idea of where our aesthetics overlap. I think if Whatshisface Antoly winds up alliterating it might be a little - twee, so perhaps only one alliterative name and we can pretend we didn't notice."

"Ah. Perfect," he says, stretching up to kiss her on the cheek.

Snuggle. She makes a quick note of the other discussed names appropriately peppered with question marks and then collars her pen again.

Snuggle-snug.

Snuggling continues, nothing that would be too embarrassing for Ivan to walk in on (though when he's back hours later freshly showered, he does knock first). And eventually Linya departs to make sure she has a hotel room - "Your bed here is tiny, and I don't think I want to room with Ivan."

"It's true, it is. And he snores. You have made a wise decision."

Ivan grumbles something incomprehensible, and in short order Linya is gone.

"So, Ivan. What is there to do around here without poking my nose out of the embassy?"

"Eh, I have a pokey data analysis job, you could help with that. Checking it out when the computer beeps confusedly about public statistics. Spy work of a sort, checking up on the few hundred people we want to track - Komarran rebel expatriates and that sort of thing. And for spare time - there's the gym. I usually go out in the evenings, but... well, I suppose I could stay in some nights and keep you company if Linyabel doesn't show up on a daily basis."

"Oh, and we keep track of the other embassies, too," Ivan adds. "On top of the couple hundred individuals' comings and goings. Including the Cetagandans, couple klicks away - we wind up going to each others' parties a lot and playing I-know-you-know. I have not been able to get Linyabel to show up to one of those - the sort of people who handle the guest list aren't the sort of people who think it'd be funny, I suppose."

"Ha," says Miles. Then he straightens up abruptly. "Wait, fuck! Ivan, those people are trying to kill me!"

"What? No they're not. They gave you a haut-wife and everything. Galeni's just paranoid."

"Not me me, I mean me! Admiral Naismith! Who is just in from a long and occasionally bloody chase after he pulled an entire POW camp out from under some ghem-commander's nose at Dagoola and then turned around and delivered them to Marilac to start a rebellion! Actual teams of actual Cetagandan assassins have been after my blood for months - Galeni wasn't just being a paranoid freak. All of a sudden I'm much more thankful to be confined to the building."

"Believe me, I would dearly love to know," sighs Miles. "I don't even think he thinks she's going to do anything so much as that she is slightly more of a risk than average and he has no compelling reason to take that risk. And since I don't either, Linya must perforce remain ignorant."

"I think Cetagandan assassins after somebody whose wife is on a first name basis with the Cetagandan empress might be a reason? Possibly?"

"Yes, Ivan, let's have Linya just call up Empress Lisbet on a public channel and ask her to please call the assassins off of oh wait we don't want to be at war with the Cetagandans over what I did at Dagoola, do we. Miles Naismith and Miles Vorkosigan must remain as separate as possible."

"Rrrright. So never mind that, I suppose. Damn it all."

"My feelings exactly."

"The looks on their faces would've been priceless..."

"True," Miles admits. But then he shakes his head. "They must know Naismith's on the planet by now. I can't imagine they wouldn't have noticed, if they have anybody doing," he waves vaguely at Ivan, "your job."

"They have, I've met him. Ghem-lieutenant Tabor. But they don't have any better turnaround for orders from higher up than we do. And our security staff's bigger, what with Komarrans milling about. Theirs is a minor embassy, more than this one."

"And there's not much I can do about it either way. Staying holed up in here until my fleet's money arrives is probably the best move I can make."

"Well, at least Galeni knows what your wife looks like now. Shoo me when you need to shoo me."

From a wide array of possible responses, Miles selects, "Thank you, Ivan."

"You're welcome."

"Calm down, Miles. Read something. Call your wife? Again? You can hold still for five minutes if you try."

"I'm not calling my wife. What if Galeni pages me?"

"Well, then, do your anxious waiting from a sitting position. Come on, give the man time to get a cup of coffee and read his reports. People would be sad if their reports were never read."

"Ugh." He circles the room one more time, then thumps into a chair. "It's been an hour! He can read the reports after he gives me my money!"

The comconsole blinks. Whether Galeni doesn't understand how to contact Miles by pen or simply doesn't trust the device is unclear.

Miles lunges for it, not quite bludgeoning Ivan aside. "Yes, sir?"

"Come to my office, Lieutenant Vorkosigan," says Galeni, levelly, unreadable.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," says Miles, in controlled tones. Then he cuts the com and leaps up with a glad cry of, "My eighteen million marks at last!"

"Or exciting career advancement in the field of inventory. You could count all the goldfish in the reception court fountain."

"Ha." Miles heads for the door.

"It's tricky! They keep swimming around."

"...Ivan, did Galeni actually make you count the goldfish?"

"...Long story. Suspected security breach."

"What the hell, sir?" says Miles. "That can't be right! What the devil are escort duties?"

"Mostly," says Galeni, smiling a ghost of a smile, "standing around in parade dress, at official Embassy functions, and being Vor for the natives. A surprising number of people find aristocrats, even off-planet ones, fascinating. You will," he goes on, "eat, drink, possibly dance, and be exquisitely polite to anyone the ambassador would care to impress. Sometimes you will be asked to remember and report on conversations. Vorpatril does it all quite well, rather to my surprise; he can fill you in on the details."

"Neither such a credit order, nor any mention of one, accompanied this courier, Lieutenant Vorkosigan."

"What!" He restrains himself, with effort, from physically leaping across Galeni's desk to look at the vid himself. "Fuck's sake, sir, we bled for Barrayar!" His mind floods with the knowledge of all the debts he incurred on entering Earth local space for which he carefully allotted ten days' grace. A grace which is about to expire. "We need that money! They can't just - I - someone has fucked something up here, Captain."

"I don't doubt it, but I cannot provide you funds that were not sent."

Miles's breath hisses out between his teeth. "Send again. Sir."

"Oh, you may be sure I will."

"Or even better, send me. Maybe I can shake loose some funds if I turn up on Sector HQ's doorstep personally carrying the message."

"I'm very tempted - but no, better not. Your orders, at least, are plain. Your Dendarii will simply have to wait for the next courier. I'm sure, if everything is as you've described, that it will straighten out presently."

He waits a few seconds just to see if Galeni will have a sudden change of heart, then slumps fractionally. "Yes, sir," he says, offers an impeccable salute, and retreats to go bother Ivan for that goldfish story.

The story turns out to be about a not-well-liked guest to an embassy party who brought her cat, only for the animal to get loose. Ivan's inventory of the goldfish was intended to give them some sort of concrete property damage to complain to her about as something in the way of recompense for lost time spent tracking down her elusive creature. Alas, all goldfish were accounted for, and the cat was returned without an attached bill. Not much of a security breach.

"...I wasn't under the impression Dr. Cheung resembled an egg."

Miles waves a hand. "One time when I was talking to Linya I compared courier duty to sitting on a packet of data disks like a hen on her eggs while they travel from place to place."

"Doubt he'd appreciate being sat on, either, but point taken, go ahead, farm them out, what can it hurt."

"Nothing, I hope."

And his end of Elli's secure commlink beeps.

"Miles, thank God - you're the closest Dendarii officer to a, ah, Situation we've got down there. I'm short on trustworthy details but it appears four or five of our boys are barricaded in a shop in London with a hostage and they're armed - I will be investigating how they managed that - and holding off the police. Who are also armed. I'm prepping to turn up myself as we speak, but it'll be nearly an hour before I can get there. Tung's position is even worse, two-hour suborbital from Brazil. You could get there in ten minutes. I'm sending you the address."

No Cetagandans, but yes Ivan, waiting as solicited. Ivan corners Miles by a potted plant when he spots him. "What the hell -?"

"You've got to get me out of here," he says in an undertone. "Walk me past the guards. Camouflage."

"Are you out of your mind? Galeni will skin you for a new pair of boots if he sees you in that getup -"

"Shut up, come with me. Bring that girl you're flirting with. If I had time to argue about it, I would've gone through Galeni in the first place."

"You'll be AWOL!"

"Only if they catch me. If anyone asks, tell them - tell them I'm in our room screaming into a pillow. Sudden osteo-inflammatory attack. I'm not having one, but I could be, it's a thing that happens, it's in my medical files, they might buy it. Come on."

"I'll be meeting Quinn in less than an hour. I'll be fine."

"And you're getting back into the embassy how?"

"You have until I get back to figure that out," says Miles.

"...which will be when?"

"Miles!" calls Elli. "Everything under control?"

Elli helps usher him away from the congregating emergency personnel but is less successful at evading the media and does not at all rescue him from an interviewer. They are able to escape said interviewer a minute later, although not before Admiral Naismith is required to produce a few remarks. And then she gets Miles into a tube station, where they attract attention for his much-abused appearance but are not stopped. They have a bubble-car to themselves.

"Some bodyguard," Miles grumbles. "You couldn't have headed off that interviewer?"

"I'd've sprung into action if she'd tried to shoot you. Anyway, I couldn't deflect her very well not knowing myself what was going on."

"But you're far more photogenic. Taller, prettier, less on fire... you'd have improved the fleet's image considerably."

"I trip over my tongue in front of holovids. You did very nicely, anyway."

"Of course I did nicely. I'd just rather that instead of doing nicely I could have made my escape and let that constable talk me up. He seemed at least mildly impressed with my conjuror's tricks, pulling four penitent privates out of a belligerent drunken hat, and then rescuing the woman from the leaping flames as an encore..."

"There you go, you were the dashing hero, the media wasn't interested in me - God, you came out of that building on fire, Miles..."

He perks up slightly. "You saw that? Did it look good in the holovid?"

"It looked terrifying in a holovid, I'm surprised you're not all over third-degree burns."

"Protective clothing," he says airily. "Nothing to it."

"If you say so. I'm still - skittish around fire."

"We'd best hustle," opines Elli. "How long do you think your cousin can cover for you back at the embassy?"

"Damned if I know," says Miles. "God, Quinn, what am I going to say to my wife...? You fly the shuttle, I'm on pain meds."

Elli flies the shuttle. "Hell if I know, all I know about your wife is that she exists and does the pens - is she - good God, Miles, are you running around Naismithing behind her back while she's on this planet?"

"She's not cleared," he says plaintively. "And she's here on a business trip. And I'm on the fucking news. I'd almost rather that interviewer had been shooting at me."

"Well, there goes the possibility of hitting her up for our money, I suppose, unless she'd loan you a few million marks without wondering what they could possibly be for. Does she watch the news?"

"I'm not sure." He brightens. "Maybe she doesn't. I hope she doesn't."

"So maybe you're safe. Well, for now. If she does, though - well. I haven't met her. I'd be pissed off to boil kettles from meters away, though. Get her flowers? Pretend they're for no-occasion if it turns out she hotels under a rock?"

"It would take a space yacht to expiate my guilt," Miles says glumly. "Two space yachts. And she could afford them better than I can."

"Does she like spaceships, then? We have to mortgage them anyway..."

"I'm not sure what she likes, to be honest. Holo-pens... neuroscientists... me, inexplicably..."

"She makes her own pens, you she's got locked down until you get shot at too enthusiastically, is she short on the neuroscientists?"

"No. She's in the neighbourhood to visit one, actually. Buttering him up to try to import him as far as Komarr - he gets loathsomely jump-sick."

"Well, then. Flowers. Or other purposeless luxury items, I suppose, unless she despises them on principle. I wouldn't trust your taste in clothes, nor considering where she's from mine relative to her judgment."

"Do you propose to take me shopping, then? For what?"

"I wouldn't know. Get a catalog. Make your cousin ask her for you what her tastes are in - desk ornaments or wall art. How do you not know what your wife likes?"

Elli picks up the apricot one and swirls it around herself like a cape. "Someone's a genius. You just want to rub it all over your skin..." She glances at Miles's credit card. And sighs and shrugs off the orange fur and pats the black one and gets out her own wallet.

"Ow! Miles, what -? Let go!"

"Falling," he says on the exhale of a quick and shaking breath.

"This is the down-tube, of course we're - are you all right? - let me see your eyes -" She grabs a handhold and pulls them both aside out of the lift-tube traffic, and as an afterthought seizes their floating fur package before it drifts away and peers at his pupils.

Miles can't do much more than cling to her arm and stare. False but compelling interpretations of sensory data stream through his mind. The people descending the lift tube are a river of souls being sucked into a modernized, efficient hell - Elli's eyes are the vast black reaches of space, expanding to pull him in - he shudders and tries to collect himself.

"Do your pupils dilate or contract when you get a weird drug reaction?" Elli asks. "They're - pulsing."

"Um." He shakes his head briefly. "The - I'm - the surgeon double-checks anything she puts me on, these days. She did warn me it could make me a little dizzy. I'm fine." With effort, he lets go of her arm, quietly grateful that the strength of his grip did not break any of his fingers. "Sorry. Let's - let's just get me back to the embassy."

"Commander Quinn?" says Ivan's voice. "Is Miles with you?"

"Ivan!" says Miles. He grabs the comlink. "What's the deal?"

"I'm holding a hole in the Security net for you, and I can't keep it up much longer. Get your ass back here before I fall asleep." There is a yawn.

"My God. I could kiss you," says Miles. "We're on our way. Be there in ten minutes, if we're lucky. Where do I sneak in?"

"Don't kiss me, just book it, I can only do the trick with the vid if you're back before Corporal Veli. I'm holding down the third sublevel post where the municipal sewer and power connections come through."

"Got it. See you soon." He cuts the com and peers at the nearest subway route map, on which his eyes refuse to quite focus. "Elli? I think you're going to have to navigate; I'm still a little dazed."

Elli nods and checks the map and ushers Miles in a direction. Then she goes to submit their tokens, leaving him on his own for a few seconds.

He rubs his eyes and blinks at his dark reflection in the polished wall of the station. Haggard expression, green Barrayaran uniform - wait. He looks down at his grey-and-white sleeves, blinks again, looks up. His eyes, re-blurred, fail to make out a reflection at all this time. He groans and staggers off to follow Elli. More hallucinations, just what he needs. At least this one didn't come with the howling of the damned. Small mercies.

Miles hauls his purring bundle directly to his rendezvous with Ivan. He's in with minutes to spare.

And then they steal back into their room, and Ivan makes friends with the fur, and they get some sleep.

Ivan, toothbrush sticking out of the corner of his mouth rather jauntily, remarks, "'t likes 'oo." He pets its corner. "Soft, innit, you want to rub it all over your skin."

Miles squirms free of the fuzz at least far enough to growl, "Not an image I needed, Ivan." With some effort, he disentangles himself the rest of the way, and leaves the fur piled on his bed while he dresses and showers and generally makes ready for his day.

Where Galeni is smiling, sort of, if you can call that scary put-on false grimace a smile. "Good morning. All over your acute osteo-inflammatory attack, are you?"

"Yes, sir," he says as blandly as possible.

"Do sit down." And when Miles has sat: "I picked up a fascinating item on the news this morning. I thought you'd like to see it too."

Miles would in fact rather have an acute osteo-inflammatory attack right there in Galeni's office, but he stays politely sat.

"Oh, Lieutenant, an apology will hardly do this incident justice. You have apparently managed to teleport, AWOL, unguarded in defiance of standing orders. I have been deprived by a margin of seconds of the opportunity to inquire of headquarters where I ought to ship your barbecued corpse. And this left no ripple in my security records, this after I thought I put the fear of God into them following the incident with Lady Vorkosigan. No, Lieutenant, an apology will not suffice."

"I... was not unguarded, sir," he says. "Commander Quinn met me at the scene."

"Then there is that fraction of the matter accounted for. You may instead start by explaining how you passed through the security net in both directions without a trace." Galeni is scowling fiercely.

"I... left in a group of guests departing the reception through the main public entrance. Since I was not in my Barrayaran uniform, the guards assumed I was a member of the group." There. Fully true, and without bringing Ivan into it at all.

"There's half my answer," purrs Galeni.

Miles doesn't actually know how Ivan diddled security to get him back in last night, or he'd try to come up with a carefully true explanation for that too. Fuck.

"You cannot protect Vorpatril," remarks Galeni. "I'm simply saving him for after you."

"Your command, eh? Has it occurred to you yet that Lieutenant Vorpatril is above you in this chain of command?"

"Um. It... had slipped my mind," Miles admits. (It's Ivan.)

"His too, it'd seem," mutters Galeni.

"Besides," murmurs Galeni, "it looked like it might work..."

"Your kind permission is much appreciated, Lieutenant."

"What would you have done?" he snaps. "The Dendarii are my responsibility - as much the Emperor's troops as any who wear his uniform. I can't, I won't abandon them in their desperate need, merely to play the part of Lieutenant Vorkosigan."

"Play the part of Lieutenant Vorkosigan? Who do you claim to be?" asks Galeni, startled.

"...Um," says Miles. He blinks dizzily.

"Have you misplaced yourself?" wonders Galeni.

"I... look, sir, in a way Lieutenant Vorkosigan is just a - part. The cover for my role as Admiral Naismith. It's just that for as long as they never appeared within light-years of each other, the two sets of duties never came into conflict. Now that they have... it's apparent to me that the lieutenant must, excuse me, be subordinate to the admiral. Please, sir, I need some kind of rational arrangement through which to attend to Naismith's responsibilities."

"I am very aware, sir," he says. He considers bringing up Ivan again, and then decides against it.

"Dismissed."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am?" says Miles politely, while his internal monologue jumps up and down and screams foul curses.

"Admiral Naismith," she says, and squints at his uniform. "Or something. Covert operation?" she wonders in tones of fascination.

Miles lets the startled terror he felt on first seeing her dawn slowly on his face. "My God," he says. "Admiral Naismith - do you mean to imply you've seen the man? Here, on Earth?"

"And so have you, I must assume, in your mirror," says the reporter.

She's not buying it. She looks him up and down. "I'd imagine they know plenty about him already, as you're one and the same."

"What?" She is now fascinated more than skeptical.

"My clone," he reiterates, now that he has the thread of the lie. "Truly an extraordinary copy. We suspected initially that he was a Cetagandan creation, escaped from the failure of some intricate plot. They certainly have the resources to accomplish such a thing, and at the time... well. We were never able to prove it, and relations between our empires have improved since Naismith's first appearance; I will not insult them by suggesting they would do such a thing," except for the part where he absolutely just did. Well, it'll add verisimilitude. "Who are you, by the way?"

"Lise Vallerie, Euronews Network." She displays her press credentials.

"The news services," he says, with an expression of entirely real concern. "Excuse me, ma'am—" he gives her that bow again. "I must not speak with you without first securing permission from my superiors." Ha, ha.

"No - wait - Lord Vorkosigan - oh, are you any relation to that Vorkosigan...?"

"My father," he says stiffly.

"Aha, that explains it," she says, sounding enlightened.

Miles just bets it does. He nods shortly, and turns away.

"Please," she says, following, "if you don't tell me I'll certainly investigate on my own."

"Ma'am. I cannot," he says. Because if he does tell her she'll investigate on her own anyway, and he has already given her the minimum required amount of lie to get her to interpret the data how he wants her to. By the way she introduced herself a second time, he can tell she's hooked.

She frowns and scurries off, presumably to do her investigating.

Linya's next visit is the following day. She knocks on Miles's door. Ivan isn't even there, he's doing inventory that Miles cannot as easily commandeer as he can the desk work.

"Linya!" he says, hugging her around the waist. "Am I glad to see you. C'mon in."