Anyway, Jole himself was still at the gathering-data stage, really. The final decision would not be made till tomorrow, or much farther in the future if he chose to have his sample frozen. He had not hit any point of no return yet.
He passed a young colonial family on the sidewalk; she pushed a stroller with a cranky toddler, he bore a chest pack holding a sleeping infant, its slack little hands limp on his shirt. Jole wondered briefly what was the point of avoiding carrying children around during the nine months of gestation, and then turning around and lugging them like this when they’d escaped into the wild and were even heavier, but it seemed something that humans liked to do, because they kept doing it. He tried to imagine himself in the young father’s place. Could that be his child? Grandchild, a dry part of his brain noted. Shut up.
He stepped aside around an elderly gentleman idly waiting for his dog to finish what dogs did at a lamppost. A dog. Maybe a dog would be simpler, saner…easier to explain. Many famous senior officers in history had sported famous pets/mounts/mistresses/plants…well, perhaps not plants. Although there was a certain cadre of fellows, after their twenty or twice-twenty years of service were up, who threw themselves into gardening. The more flamboyant live accessories seemed to be part of the mystique or public relations of command. Jole had always traveled lighter.
A few blocks of walking brought him out of Kareenburg’s central business area, and he found himself staring across the street to the so-called Viceroy’s Palace. The name was misleading—it was actually a low, rambling house. Surrounded, true, by a remarkable garden, gift of the Vicereine’s even more remarkable daughter-in-law, which was growing up lushly these days to lend color and privacy, or the illusion of it. The old, hand-painted sign still hung by the gate.
The original Viceroy’s Palace had been a relocated field shelter, much to the dismay of the first Viceroy. His unhappy successors had made do with several field shelters, stuck together in assorted arrays. These had at length been followed by a semi-fortified prefabricated dwelling of remarkable ugliness. The present Vicereine, in the first year of her and her husband’s reign, had ordered it knocked flat and the site cleared, and started over with a saner and far more elegant design. The barracks at the back of the premises, which had housed Count Vorkosigan’s personal armsmen during his tenure, were now converted to various Viceregal offices; the sole remaining armsman lived in the main house with a few other principal servants.
On impulse, Jole crossed the street and presented himself to the lone gate guard—another reduction from Aral’s day. The premises’ current security was thinner and much more discreet. Jole didn’t mind the second, but wasn’t so sure he approved of the first.
The gate guard, who knew him well, saluted. “Admiral Jole, sir.”
“Afternoon, Fox. Is Her Excellency home to visitors?”
“I’m sure she’s at home to you, sir. Go on in.”
Jole strolled on up the curving drive. He almost turned around again when he spotted the array of parked vehicles, many of them with diplomatic stickers from the assorted planetary consulates based in Kareenburg, that marked some kind of diplomatic meeting—ah, yes, the welcoming reception for the new Escobaran consul was this afternoon, wasn’t it. Jole had dumped the task of representing the Sergyaran military forces upon his downside base commander, to give the two men a chance to get acquainted in a less fraught setting before they had to sort out some inevitable contretemps involving, to choose an unfortunately unhypothetical example, off-duty soldiers with too much to drink and galactic tourists insufficiently briefed on the fine points of Barrayaran culture. Far better that they should first meet in the Vicereine’s garden than in a hospital or, worse, the Kareenburg municipal guard’s morgue. These elegant soirees had more than one practical function.
Perversely, being blocked from a chance to talk with Cordelia heightened his anxiety to do so. He continued on the walkway around the house, noting one security man in uniform and another pretending to weed, who made note of him with nods of greeting in turn, till the familiar murmur of voices and clink of glassware guided him to the patio and terrace that flowed out into the garden. Perhaps a hundred well-dressed people were scattered about, clutching little plates and talking. He hesitated on the fringe. Happily, Cordelia was in sight, wearing something light and flowing for the balmy afternoon, and her glance found him after only a moment. She immediately detached herself from the half-dozen people clustered around her and made her way to his side.
“Oliver,” she said warmly. “How did your visit to the rep center go?”
“Mission accomplished, ma’am,” he told her with a mock, but not mocking, salute. Her brows flicked up in pleased surprise. “I…we need to talk, but obviously not now.”
“This thing is winding down, actually. If you can hang on for about half an hour, I should be able to start getting rid of them. Or you could come back later.”
He had work on his schedule for this evening, unfortunately. “I’m not in uniform,” he said in doubt.
“Oh, let these paranoid galactics experience a nonthreatening Barrayaran officer for a change. It will widen their world-views.”
“That seems counterproductive, somehow. The whole point of having us all Imperially out here is to make our wormhole jump-points uninviting to the uninvited.”
She grinned. “You look fine. Go do the pretty. I know you know how.” She strolled away, and several persons with agendas hidden or otherwise bee-lined for her.
Jole felt himself falling with the ease of long practice back into diplomatic-aide mode. He did check in first with his base commander, General Haines, who was properly attired in full dress greens, looking suitably broad and wall-like. The tall boots would be hot and sweaty, Jole was sure.
“Ah, Oliver, you’re here!” said the general. “Didn’t think you could make it. Is there anything afoot?” And, hopefully, “Can I leave now?”
“No and no. I’m just dropping by.” He glanced around the party, which had reached a relaxed and tipsy stage. “What did you think of the new Escobaran consul?”
“Seems sensible enough, if young. At least he only has one sex, thank God.”
Jole followed Haines’s eye to the familiar, androgynous figure of Betan consul, now chatting with the Vicereine. Consul Vermillion was a Betan hermaphrodite, one of that planet’s bioengineered, double-sexed…you couldn’t call them a species, nor a race…Jole settled on minority. If the herm’s assignment here had been intended as a cultural challenge to the local Barrayarans, it had fallen flat under the Vicereine’s amused eye. Quite a few of the consulate personnel in Kareenburg were young diplomats on the make; if they didn’t screw up on Sergyar, they had a shot at a more prestigious—and less forgiving—embassy posting in Vorbarr Sultana. The Vicereine had confided to Jole that she thought Consul Vermillion might very well be the next Betan ambassador to present portfolio to Emperor Gregor, a notion that made her eyes glint in an appealing but slightly alarming fashion.
A server paused to offer Jole a drink on a tray. “Your usual, sir?”
“Thank you, Frieda.” Jole took a sip. Fizzy water, ice, and whatever mixer was available in the bar to give it a camouflaging color—he had been trained not to drink alcohol in any place that might offer diplomatic ambush back in his days as aide to the Prime Minister, and the habit had stuck.