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He has his grandfather's eyes, was Aral's first thought. Around him echoed the stamp of hundreds of booted feet, as crew of Prince Serg, arrayed in formation to receive their Emperor, came to attention as one.
More than just the eyes; Gregor Vorbarra, Emperor of Barrayar, was every inch a younger Ezar Vorbarra, right down to the tiny, humourless smile that graced the corner of his mouth as he stood by the shuttle door to survey the assembled troops.
He had lost weight in the weeks that he had been away, although Miles' reports had reassured them that Cavilo had treated their Emperor well enough. The change made him leaner, emphasised the height that his last growth spurt had given him. The awkwardness that shadowed the authority that he had worn as Crown Prince had finally been stripped away – no, possibly cast aside as he outgrew its usefulness. Ezar had passed; his heir had come into his own. No longer was Gregor the green, untested youth of yesteryear, hiding behind a disguise of harmlessness until the day came when he could hold his ground. But yet he was not quite the experienced tactician that he seemed to think that he was, not when his secret mission had fallen into such complete disarray. No one was sure what the Emperor had been thinking when he had climbed out of his balcony at Komarr, evading his Security and chartering a ship off-planet. But Aral was quite sure it hadn't involved being arrested and having to be rescued by Miles, and then captured by Cavilo, and then having to be sprung out by Miles again...
And yet he stood there, a king surveying his kingdom, calm and confident as though he had not thrown the upper echelons of Barrayar into almost complete disarray, and very nearly given his Security Chief and his Prime Minister heart attacks.
"At least," Aral sighed softly, "He's safe."
The man beside him, wearing battered Captain's tabs alongside the ImpSec silver eyes on his collar, made a noncommittal sound. Aral quirked a lip and glanced over. "I'd have expected you to express more relief on the safe return of your charge, Simon."
Captain Illyan, head of the Security subdivision of Military Intelligence, only shrugged. Perhaps he had hit the point of absolute exhaustion, Aral thought – after hectic weeks of running around like headless chickens, it was a wonder any of them were still on their feet. "I'm getting too old for this," Illyan muttered.
"You're getting too old for this," Aral puffed, then quelled the laughter that had been threatening to rise up in his throat as Gregor's gaze made its round of the hangar-bay and paused on them. When had the boy become so intense, he wondered, feeling a brief chill crawl down his spine as his memory conjured up the image of another Crown Prince.
Serg. Aral wasn't sure how much Gregor knew of his father, but he doubted that Ezar would have kept the truth from the boy for long. Ezar had never been one to coddle, or shelter.
"Sire," he said, stepping forward. Illyan didn't follow, and Aral could hardly blame him. The air was so charged that it felt like several disruptor shots had been discharged in close proximity. Gregor, for all his youth, had the ability to draw the attention of every man in the room and hold it there, pinned like a butterfly to a board. A trait he had learnt from Ezar, perhaps, augmented by the effortless aura of command that he carried.
"Admiral," Gregor's smile broadened very slightly, but did not reach his eyes. Very little did. "The speed by which the Fleet journeyed from Barrayar to the Hub is commendable. It appears that you have managed to arrive, as always, in the very nick of time."
Aral inclined his head, and fought back the urge to scan Gregor's words for any unspoken implications. It was a tactic he had seen Gregor deploy often enough, a little distraction to throw his opponent off-balance. But that was just a feint, the main fight would be elsewhere – but where? He felt his mental defenses go up, felt himself slide onto the alert. In the short three years that Gregor had been crowned, they had rarely, if ever, clashed outright. But Gregor had the habit of turning everything into a battle, into another of his machinations, regardless of whether there was any actual need for it.
He sighed internally. Simon was right. They were getting too old for this. A moment of weakness, and his mind slid treacherously towards the little fantasy world in his head where he had not allowed Ezar to corner him into taking up the position of Prime Minister, where he had somehow managed to retire with Cordelia to a place where the long shadow of politics did not reach – he took a breath and pushed it aside.
Gregor was waiting, his gaze sharp and knowing. The next move was his, Aral knew, and he chose the route of least conflict - less an attempt to avoid the clash that he knew was coming, and more to sound out where Gregor could possibly be coming from. "The Prince Serg will be heading into the Hegen Hub in short order, as you commanded. Your escort to Barrayar is ready to leave at your earliest convenience."
There was a brief flicker of satisfaction in Gregor's eyes, and Aral knew that he had played just as Gregor had expected. He felt his shoulder blades tense minutely. Here it comes.
"Return to Barrayar, my lord Admiral?" Gregor said mildly, but from his elevated position at the head of the ramp, his voice carried clearly over the entire assembly.
Ah, Aral thought. He would not play. He refused to. "We are entering into a combat zone, sire," he said mildly, shooting a sidelong glance at Illyan. Back me up.
Illyan said nothing. Aral squashed a sense of annoyance – the Security Chief wasn't known to roll over where it came to matters concerning the Emperor's security.
"So We understand, given that We arrived from that very area," Gregor said, his voice cool.
"Then I believe you would appreciate the risks of remaining onboard during the operation," Aral shot back, conscious of the clock ticking in his head. Every second wasted here meant another second that Miles had to spend fending off the Cetagandans – every second could be a second too late.
"Does Our most gifted admiral intend to allow Our flagship to be destroyed?" Gregor asked, and – damn him – Aral saw some of his junior officers twitch at that statement.
"Nothing is certain in war," he said. "And any unnecessary risk to the Emperor's security is unacceptable. As I'm sure Imperial Security will agree."
Gregor's gaze slid over to Illyan. Aral's gaze followed. "I would agree," Illyan said, "...in principle."
Simon, what?
"But in the circumstances," Illyan continued, with a faint trace of reluctance in his tone, "I would say that is equal risk in allowing the Emperor to step aboard a lightly escorted fast courier in unsecured space."
Bullshit, Aral thought, through the shock. But he could scarcely disagree without challenging Illyan's competency in front of hundreds of witnesses. No, before the crew, the General Staff had to be undivided. And any dispute would cost them even more precious time. Gregor, damnit!
"Security has made its position clear. Do you have any further objections, Admiral Vorkosigan?" Gregor queried. So mild, so very placid. So much steel under those velvet coated words. "Is there another reason, perhaps, why you would prefer that We not be on board Our own fleet?"
And put that way, to object any further was to invite a treason charge. Gregor had clearly planned this, and Simon had blindsided him... and a good tactician knew when the field was lost, when to time a retreat. "No, sire," Aral replied, resisting the urge to grit his teeth.
"Very well." To his credit, Gregor did not gloat. It was perhaps the point that distinguished him from Serg – even with his tendency to go overboard in attempting to ensure that he got what he wanted, Aral had never seen him slide into arrogance.
"But there is one other thing," Gregor said. Aral's gaze snapped back to him. "The Hegen Hub Alliance understands that I will be Joint Commander of this fleet. To ensure that the diplomatic situation in the Hub does not destabilise further, it would be best to ensure that this is indeed the case. For the duration of the crisis."
Smooth, Aral thought, surprise mingling with the start of respect, even through the sting of what was effectively blackmail. Untried, untested, but Ezar trained you well, Gregor. If you had wandered in here and declared yourself Joint Commander, you would have looked little better than a power hungry fool, or a boy playing at pretending to be a soldier... His eyes met Gregor's, and he could see expectancy simmering there. Check, and mate. You know how I will move. You doubtless calculated this, even while you negotiated with the Vervaini, right down to this very end. And you're right of course. And so you win this round.
But Gregor, you would win so much more if you only learnt how to trust...
"We would be honoured, sire," he said.
Gregor inclined his head. "Then let us make all haste to the battle."
*
Flashes of light, falling like rain through the formations of the enemy. The wrench of coming out of a jump making vision meld with sound, until it seemed like the blinking lights on his console were an extension of the cacophony of his officers' chatter in his headset. Ships went down – it was difficult to tell whether he knew it from the disappearance of radar signatures or from the reports that flowed like water around him, nor did it matter; it was all information, and he navigated confidently through it, and its source did not matter.
A handful of minutes, and the worst of it was over. The glare shields across the bridge windows cut in as the Cetagandan ship in front of them fell to the Prince Serg's imploder lances, and then the rest were fleeing, fast as they could run.
Over, he thought, even as he handed out orders on autopilot – move, secure the wormhole, take up defensive positions in case of a counterattack. In the chair beside him, Gregor studied his console with a thoughtful look on his face.
"A success, then," the Emperor mused.
Aral glanced over. "You could call it that," he said, and raised an eyebrow when Gregor laughed softly.
"There is no need to downplay your tactical genius, Admiral. Never have we had such a quick or decisive victory against the Cetagandans. Commend the crew; the victory is entirely yours and theirs today."
"We had the advantage of surprise, and a technological edge over the enemy," he said, cautious. "Not every victory is quite as easy to snatch--"
Gregor held up a hand. "I understand." He smiled, eyes glinting. "The advantage of opportunity. Which is why your next order will be to ask the entire joint fleet to regroup around Our flagship, and then we will pursue the rabble.”
Aral wasn't even aware that he had leapt to his feet until he noticed that Gregor, too, had stood, albeit with more dignity. “Sire,” Aral said, before Gregor could open his mouth. “We don't have the forces to--”
“We will never again have the opportunity,” Gregor said, cutting smoothly through his words without ever having to raise his voice. “Do not pretend that you have not done more, with less.”
“Perhaps,” Aral breathed, the part of his mind that was not reeling from shock already tallying forces and making assessments. “But never against the Cetagandans. Whose technological advantages and power you are surely familiar with, sire.” Since you appear to have read my file so very thoroughly.
“Indeed.” Gregor quirked a lip. “Which is why it is incumbent on Us to strike now, before they have a chance to improve further.”
“You are proposing war. The Council of Counts--”
And suddenly, Gregor was standing right in front of him, and Aral almost had to look away from the sheer burning intensity of his gaze. “And the Cetagandans have not just declared it, my lord?” Gregor said. “Do you think that they will be content to run away, tail tucked between their legs, just because their first assault has been repelled? Can you deny the truth of that?”
He could not, and Gregor knew it.
“They are not enemies to be taken lightly,” Gregor continued. “And they have long memories. Our best defense lies in driving them back so far that they cannot threaten us for another generation.” He grinned, lightning fast. “And the Council has no say where the Emperor elects to take emergency action for the defense of Barrayar.”
And that was when it hit him, like a bolt from the night sky, illuminating the countryside for miles around: this had all been orchestrated, moves of an invisible dance as elaborate as any of the webs that Ezar had ever woven. Getting arrested, coming to this place, allying the Hegen Hub against the Cetagandan threat … none of this had happened by accident. Which meant that Gregor must have known, when he climbed out of his balcony at Komarr – no, he must have known before that that the Cetagandans were amassing a fleet, must have orchestrated Miles' assignment here to uncover the threat, to hold the fort while his Prime Minister scrambled the entire fleet to the Hub. He couldn't have done it alone. And if Miles had been in on it, Aral would have known – he had always been able to tell when Miles was not being entirely honest with him. Which meant that the other conspirator was...
...his gaze slid to the side, to where Illyan was looking on, impassive. Gregor tracked his gaze, and the corner of his mouth turned up in the fraction of a smile. “Very astute, admiral,” Gregor said. “Captain Illyan brought the report to me approximately two months ago.”
“Simon,” Aral said, eyes narrowed, certain that Illyan could hear the unspoken question that hung between them - you allowed him to put himself in this much danger to achieve this asinine plan?
“We live to serve,” Illyan replied quietly, and Aral did not miss the flicker of respect and … devotion in his eyes, as he glanced at Gregor. Of course. Of course. This was Ezar's grandson, Ezar who had held all their hearts and loyalties in his iron fist. And, Aral realised, looking at the boy – no, the man – who stood before him, power and majesty wrapped like a mantle around his shoulders, that this was who Gregor truly was, when all the charades and disguises were dropped. When the cloak was finally tossed aside to reveal the fire burning within, the flame so bright that it threatened to consume them all.
This was their Emperor.
“Admiral,” Gregor said, and the gravity in his voice was the very weight of command. “You have ever served my grandfather faithfully, body and blood, even to the bitter end, where honour itself is broken upon the wheel.”
Aral felt his breath catch in his throat. Escobar. He knew. Oh, he knew.
“You have always been my family's sword,” Gregor continued, and that grave voice drowned out all other sound, until the world dropped away, and it was just the two of them, caught in a bubble outside time and space. “And I do not say that my grandfather wielded you without care, but such is the necessity of war that sometimes our finest blades must be broken.”
Protests wanted to rise up, protests that it wasn't that way, that that wasn't what happened, that it was all ancient history anyway, that it no longer mattered – but there was something in Gregor's gaze that stripped away all pretenses, cut through all his excuses and words, burned its way down to his very soul.
“Aral,” Gregor said, “I stand here today in my grandfather's place, to repay a debt that Our family has owed you for far too long.” A pause, one that he could almost drown in. “Will you be my sword, as you have been my grandfather's?”
And I will raise you up, the look in Gregor's eyes promised. I will redeem your honour, and your family's honour.
“Honour is not so easily redeemed,” Aral said quietly. “And the spilling of more blood will not undo the sacrifices that were made.”
“No,” Gregor agreed. “But since the past cannot be undone, we can only move forward, and strive to do what we can, before the end. I will not allow that campaign to be your last. We owe you more than that. I owe you more than that.”
He could feel Illyan watching him silently, and there was a distant part of his mind that saw them scheming this up together, conspirators to the end. Brats, he thought, very faintly.
“Aral,” Gregor said, and Aral knew, in that instant, that somewhere, somehow, Gregor had learnt what Ezar had either never known, or never truly practiced – that duty between liege and liegeman flowed both ways.
I stand here today, in my grandfather's place...
He took a deep breath. “I am your sword, sire. And I have always been your sword. But not for any debt that you or your family owes me, but because you are our Emperor. In name and in deed.”
For a moment, he saw a flash of the boy that Gregor had been, idealistic and hopeful, looking to his uncle Aral for approval, then that boyish idealism seemed to blend with the new maturity that sat upon his brow, until Aral caught sight, like a distant shimmering mirage, of the Emperor that Gregor would become – strength, wisdom, and hopefully, compassion.
Ezar, he thought, You've raised a fine successor.
Then Gregor ducked his head, and the moment passed, and Aral became aware of the bridge around them again, the officers all looking to them for direction. “My lord admiral,” Gregor said, and the smile that graced his mouth was tiny, but Aral could read the warmth in it. “Then by all means, lead on.”
*