The mercenary pilot officer's funeral was in the afternoon, ship time. Miles made it a pretext for a rigorous inspection of the mercenaries' personal gear and uniforms; a proper parade. For the sake of example and courtesy, he turned himself and the Botharis out in the best clothes they had from his grandfather's funeral. Their somber brilliance artistically complimented the mercenaries' crisp grey-and whites.
Thorne, pale and silent, observed the sharp turnout with a strange gratitude. Miles was rather pale and silent himself, and breathed an inward sigh of relief when the pilot officer's body was at last safely cremated, his ashes scattered in space. Miles allowed Auson to conduct the brief ceremonies unhindered; his most soaring thespian hypocrisy, Miles felt, was not up to taking over this function.
He withdrew afterward to the cabin he had appropriated, telling Bothari he wanted to study the Oseran's real regulations and procedures. But his concentration was failing him. Odd flashes of formless movement occurred in his peripheral vision. He lay down but could not rest. He resumed pacing with his uneven stride, notions for fine-tuning his prisoner scheme tumbling through his brain but then escaping him. He was grateful when Elena interrupted him with a status report.
He confided to her, rather randomly, a half dozen of his new ideas, then asked her anxiously, "Do they seem to be buying it? I'm not sure how I'm coming across. Are they going to accept orders from a kid?"
She grinned. "Major Daum seems to have taken care of that angle. Apparently he bought what you told him."
"Daum? What did I tell him?"
"About your rejuvenation treatment."
"My what?"
"He seems to think you were on leave from the Dendarii to go to Beta Colony for a rejuvenation treatment. Isn't that what you told him?"
"Hell no!" Miles paced. "I told him I was there for medical treatment, yes—thought it would account for this—" a vague wave of his hand indicating the peculiarities of his body, "combat injuries or something. But—there isn't any such thing as a Betan rejuvenation treatment! That's just a rumor. It's their public health system, and the way they live, and their genetics—"
"You may know it, but a lot of non-Betans don't. Daum seems to think you're not only older but, er, a lot older."
"Well, naturally he believes it, then, if he thought it up himself." Miles paused. "Bel Thorne must know better, though."
"Bel's not contradicting it." She smirked. "I think it has a crush on you."
Miles rubbed his hands through his hair, and over his numb face. "Baz must realize this rejuvenation rumor is nonsense, too. Better caution him not to correct anybody, though, it works to my advantage. I wonder what he thinks I am? I thought he'd have figured it out by now."
"Oh, Baz has his own theory. I—it's my fault, really. Father's always so worried about political kidnappers, I thought I'd better lead Baz astray."
"Good. What kind of fairy tale did you cook up for him?"
"I think you're right about people believing things they make up themselves. I swear I didn't plant any of this, I just didn't contradict it. He knows you're a Count's son, since you swore him in as an Armsman—aren't you going to get in trouble for that?"
Miles shook his head. "I'll worry about that if we live through this. Just so he doesn't figure out which Count's son."
"Well I think you did a good thing. It seems to mean a lot to him. Anyway, he thinks you're about his age. Your father, whoever he was, disinherited you, and exiled you from Barrayar to …" she faltered, "to get you out of sight," she finished, raising her chin bravely.
"Ah," said Miles. "A reasonable theory." He came to the end of a circuit in his pacing and stood absorbed, apparently, by the bare wall in front of him. "You mustn't blame him for it—"
"I don't."
He smiled a quick reassurance, and paced again.
"You have a younger brother who has usurped your rightful place as heir—"
He grinned in spite of himself. "Baz is a romantic."
"He's an exile himself, isn't he?" she asked quietly. "Father doesn't like him, but he won't say why . .." She looked at him expectantly.
"I won't either, then. It's—it's not my business."
"But he's your leigeman now."
"All right, so it is my business. I just wish it weren't. But Baz will have to tell you himself."
She smiled at him. "I knew you'd say that." Oddly, the non-answer seemed to content her.
"How did your last combat class go? I hope they all crawled out on their hands and knees."
She smiled tranquilly. "Very nearly. Some of the technical people act like they never expected to do that kind of fighting. Others are awfully good—I've kind of got them working on the klutzy ones."
"That's just right," he approved eagerly. "Conserve your own energy, expend theirs. You've grasped the principle."
She glowed in his praise. "You've got me doing so many things I've never done before, new people, things I'd never dreamed of—"
"Yes …" he stumbled. "I'm sorry I got you into this nightmare. I've been demanding so much of you—but I'll get you out. My word on it. Don't be scared."
Her mouth set in indignation. "I'm not scared! Well—some. But I feel more alive than I've ever been. You make anything seem possible."
The longed-for admiration in her eyes perturbed him. It was too much like hunger. "Elena—this whole thing is balanced on a hoax. If those guys out there wake up and realize how badly they have us outnumbered, we'll crash like—" he cut himself off. That wasn't what she needed to hear. He rubbed his eyes, fingertips pressing hard against them, and paced.
"It's not balanced on a hoax," she said earnestly. "You balance it."
"Isn't that what I said?" He laughed, shakily.
She studied him through narrowed eyes. "When was the last time you slept?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've lost track, with the ships on different clocks. That reminds me, got to get them on the same clock. I'll switch the RG132, that'll be easier. We'll all keep Oseran time. It was before the jump, anyway. A day before the jump."
"Have you had dinner?"
"Dinner?"
"Lunch?"
"Lunch? Was there lunch? I was getting things ready for the funeral, I guess."
She looked exasperated. "Breakfast?"
"I ate some of their field rations, when I was working on the regs last night—look, I'm short, I don't need as much as you overgrown types …"
He paced on. Her face grew sober. "Miles," she said, and hesitated. "How did that pilot officer die? He looked, well, not all right, but he was alive in the shuttle. Did he jump you?"
His stomach did a roller-coaster flop. "My God, do you think I murdered—" But he had, surely, as surely as if he had held a disruptor to the man's head and fired. He had no desire to detail the events in the RG132's wardroom to Elena. They looped in his memory, violent images flashing over and over. Bothari's crime, his crime, a seamless whole .. .
"Miles, are you all right?" Her voice was alarmed. He realized he was standing still with his eyes shut. Tears were leaking between the lids.
"Miles, sit down! You're hyper."
"Can't sit down. If I stop I'll …" He resumed his circuit, limping mechanically.