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was a depressant, it was said. "How much time? Dammit, if I don't get something to do I'm going to be
the first case of human spontaneous combustion recorded on vid." He jerked a rude finger at the ceiling.
"I don't need to don't even have to leave the building, but at least they could give me somework.
Clerical, janitorial I do terrific drains anything! Dad talked with Illyan about assigning me to
Security as the only Section left that would take me he must have had something more in mind than a
m-, m-, mascot." He poured and drank again, to drown the spate of words. He'd said too much. Damn
the wine. Damn the whine.
Gregor, who had built a little tower of tacti-go chips, toppled it with one finger. "Oh, being a mascot isn't
bad work, if you can get it." He stirred the pile slowly. "I'll see what I can do. No promises."
Miles didn't know if it was the Emperor, the bugs, or wheels already in motion (grinding slowly), but two
days afterwards he found himself assigned to the job of administrative assistant to the guard commander
for the building. It was comconsole work; scheduling, payroll, updating computer files. The job was
interesting for a week, while he was learning it, mind-numbing after that. By the end of a month, the
boredom and banality were beginning to prey on his nerves. Was he loyal, or merely stupid? Guards,
Miles now realized, had to stay in prison all day long too. Indeed, as a guard, one of his jobs was now to
keep himself in. Damn clever of Illyan, nobody else could have held him, if he'd been determined on
escape. He did find a window once, and looked out. It was sleeting.
Was he going to get out of this bloody box before Winterfair? How long did it take the world to forget
him, anyway? If he committed suicide, could he be officially listed as shot by a guard while escaping?
Was Illyan trying to drive him out of his mind, or just out of his Section?
Another month slipped by. As a spiritual exercise, he decided to fill his off-duty hours by watching every
training vid in the military library, in strict alphabetical order. The assortment was truly astonishing. He
was particularly bemused by the thirty-minute vid (under "H: Hygiene") explaining how to take a
shower well, yes, there probably were backcountry recruits who really needed the instruction. After
some weeks he had worked his way down to "L: Laser-rifle Model D-67; power-pack circuitry,
maintenance, and repair," when he was interrupted by a call ordering him to report to Illyan's office.
Illyan's office was almost unchanged from Miles's last excruciating visit same spartan windowless inner
chamber occupied mainly by a comconsole desk that looked like it could be used to pilot a jump
ship--but now there were two chairs. One was promisingly empty. Maybe Miles wouldn't end up so
literally on the carpet this round? The other was occupied by a man in undress greens with captain's tabs
and the Horus-eye insignia of Imperial Security on the collar.
Interesting fellow, that captain. Miles summed him out of the corner of his eye as he exchanged formal
salutes with Illyan. Maybe thirty-five years old, he had something of Illyan's unmemorable bland look
about the face, but was more heavily built. Pale. He might easily pass for some minor bureaucrat, a
sedentary indoorsman. But that particular look could also be acquired by spending a great deal of time
cooped up on spaceships.
"Ensign Vorkosigan, this is Captain Ungari. Captain Ungari is one of my galactic operatives. He has ten
years experience gathering information for this department. His specialty is military evaluation." Ungari
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favored Miles with a polite nod by way of acknowledging the introduction. His level gaze summed Miles
right back. Miles wondered what the spy's evaluation of the dwarfish soldier standing before him might
be, and tried to stand straighter. There was nothing obvious about Ungari's reaction to Miles.
Illyan leaned back in his swivel chair. "So tell me, Ensign, what have you heard lately from the Dendarii
Mercenaries?"
"Sir?" Miles rocked back.Not the curve he was expecting ... "I . . . lately, nothing. I had a message
about a year ago from Elena Bothari Bothari-Jesek, that is. But it was only private, uh, birthday
greetings."
"That one I have," Illyan nodded.Do you, you bastard. " Nothing since?"
"No, sir."
"Hm." Illyan waved a hand at the spare chair. "Sit down, Miles." His voice grew quicker and more
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