As an anodyne, she reopened her eyes to her surroundings. The two tables closest to hers were empty by arrangement, except for her plainclothes ImpSec bodyguard who already sat at the farther one, not-sipping iced tea and looking around as well. Situational awareness, right. Her over forty years as a subject and servant of the Barrayaran Empire had included all too many situations; for today, she was willing to default to I have people for that. Except that the fellow looked so young; she felt as though she should be watching out for him, maternally. She must never offend his dignity by letting on, she supposed.
She sucked in a long breath of the soft air, as if she might so draw its lightness into the darker hollows of her heart. The server brought two water glasses. She was only a few sips into hers when the figure she had been awaiting appeared through the building’s door, glanced around, spied her, lifted a hand in greeting, and strode her way. Her bodyguard, watching this progress and taking in her guest’s civilian garb, visibly restrained himself from standing and saluting the man as he passed by, although they did exchange acknowledging nods.
When Cordelia had first met Lieutenant Oliver Perrin Jole, back when he was, what—twenty-seven?—she had not hesitated to describe him as gorgeous. Tall, blond, lean, chiseled features—oh my, the cheekbones—blue eyes alive with earnest intelligence. More diffident, back then. After two decades and some change—and changes—Admiral Jole was still tall and straight, if more solid in both build and demeanor. The bright blondness of his hair was a trifle tarnished with gray, the clear eyes framed with what were really quite fetching crow’s feet, and he had grown into a quiet, firm self-confidence. Still with those unfair cheekbones and eyelashes, though. She smiled a little, permitting herself this private moment of delicate enjoyment, before he arrived to bow over her hand and seat himself.
“Vicereine.”
“Just Cordelia, today, Oliver. Unless you want me to start admiraling you.”
He shook his head. “I get enough of that at work.” But his curious smile grew more crooked. “And there was only ever the one true admiral, among us. My last promotion always felt a touch surreal, when I was in his company.”
“You’re a true admiral. The Emperor said so. And the Viceroy advised.”
“I shan’t argue.”
“Good, because it would be a few years—and a great deal of work—too late.”
Jole chuckled, twitched his long fingers at her in surrender of the point, if no other sort, and took up the menu. He tilted his head. “You’re looking less tired, at least. That’s good.”
Cordelia had no doubt that she’d looked downright hagged often enough in their late scramble for their new balance. She ran a hand through her close-cropped red-roan hair, curling in its usual feral fashion around her head. “I’m feeling less tired.” She grimaced. “I sometimes go for whole hours at a time without thinking of him, now. Last week, there was a whole day.”
He nodded in, she was sure, complete understanding.
Cordelia wondered how to begin. We haven’t seen enough of each other these past three years was not really true. The Admiral of the Sergyaran Fleet had moved smoothly into his tasks as the military right arm of the lone Vicereine of Sergyar—just as for the joint Viceroy and Vicereine formerly. He’d been accepted by the colony planet on his own considerable merits even when his mentor’s immense shadow silently backing him was removed by that—could she call it untimely?—that immense death. Vicereine Vorkosigan and Admiral Jole had adjusted to the new patterns of their respective jobs, working around that aching absence, tightening the public stitches over that wound. Briefings, inspections, diplomatic duties, petitions, advice given and listened to, arguments with budget committees both in tandem and, a few times, in opposition—their workload After Aral was scarcely changed in substance or rhythm from their workload Before. And, slowly, the civic scar had healed, though it still twinged now and then.
The inmost wounds…they’d scarcely touched, or touched upon, in mutual mercy perhaps. She would never count Oliver as less bereaved than herself just because his grief was more circumspectly hidden—though she had more than once, as she forced herself though what had seemed the endless gauntlet of public ceremonies befalling the Viceregal Widow, envied him its privacy.
It was only their former intimacy that seemed taken away, buried with its nexus point. Like two planets left to wander when their mutual sun vanished. It was time, perhaps, for a renewed source of gravity and light.
The server returned, and she was spared from her further internal…dithering, yes, she was dithering, by the minor distractions of placing their orders. When they were alone again, Oliver relieved her of her quandary by remarking, “If this is to be a working lunch, someone was behindhand in supplying me with the agenda.”
“Not work, no, but I do have an agenda,” she confessed. “Personal and private, which is why I invited you here on our so-called day off.” She wondered what signals he’d read in her invitation that brought him here in comfortable-if-flattering civvies, instead of his uniform. He’d always been alert to nuance, an invaluable trait back when he’d first been assigned as Prime Minister Vorkosigan’s military secretary in the hothouse political atmosphere of the Imperial capital back on Barrayar. We are far from Vorbarr Sultana. And I’m glad of it.
She took a sip of water, and the plunge. “Have you heard anything about the new replicator center we opened downtown?”
“I…not per se, no. I am aware that your public health efforts continue.” He blinked at her in his most amiable I-am-not-following-you-but-I’m-still-listening look.
“My mother back on Beta Colony helped me headhunt an exceptional team of Betan reproductive experts to staff it, on five-year contracts. They’re teaching Sergyaran medtechs in the clinic, as well as serving the public. By the end of their terms, we expect to be able to hive off several daughter clinics to the newer colonial towns. And, if we’re lucky, maybe seduce a few of the Betans into staying on.”
Jole, unmarried and unlikely to be so, smiled and shrugged. “I’m actually old enough to remember when that was new and controversial technology, back on Barrayar. The younger officers coming on take it for granted, and not just the Komarran-born ones, or the ISWA girls.”
The server arrived with their wine—a light, fruity, well-chilled white, produced right here on this planet, yes!—and she fortified herself with a sip before continuing forthrightly. “In this case, the public good is also a personal one. As, um, Aral may never have mentioned to you, and I don’t recall I ever did either, during one of the dodgier times of Aral’s regency—before you came on board—we took the precaution of privately sequestering gametes from each of us. Frozen sperm from him, frozen eggs from me.” Over thirty-five years ago, that had been.
Oliver’s steely blond brows rose. “He told me once that he was infertile, after the soltoxin attack.”