Miles's brows snapped down and he gave the non-com a sharp
upward glance, then controlled his gaze to a blank straightness. The omission of the honorific before his name was policy, not insult. All classes stood equal in the Emperor's service now. A good policy. His own father endorsed it.
Grandfather bitched, to be sure, but that unreconstructed old man
had begun his Imperial service when its principal arm was horse
cavalry and each officer trained his own military apprentices. To have addressed him in those days as Kosigan, without the Vor, might have resulted in a duel. Now his grandson sought entrance to a military
academy, off planet style, and training in the tactics of energy
weapons, wormhole exits, and planetary defense. And stood shoulder
to shoulder with boys who would not have been permitted to polish
his sword in the old days.
Not quite shoulder to shoulder, Miles reflected dryly, stealing a
sidelong glance up at the candidates on either side of him. The one he had been paired with for the obstacle course, what's his name,
Kostolitz, caught the glance and looked back down with ill-concealed curiosity. Miles's eye level gave him a fine opportunity to study the fellow's excellent biceps. The non-com signalled fall out for those not running the obstacle course immediately. Miles and his companion
sat on the ground.
"I've been seeing you around all week," offered Kostolitz. "What the hell is that thing on your leg?"
Miles controlled his irritation with the ease of long practice. God knew he did stand out in a crowd, particularly this crowd. At least Kostolitz did not make hex signs at him, like a certain decrepit old countrywoman down at Vorkosigan Surleau. In some of the more
remote and undeveloped regions on Barrayar, such as deep in the
Dendarii Mountains in the Vorkosigans' own district, infanticide was still practiced for defects as mild as a harelip, despite sporadic efforts from the more enlightened centers of authority to stamp it out. He
glanced down at the pair of gleaming metal rods paralleling his left leg
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between knee and ankle that had remained secretly beneath his
trouser leg until this day.
"Leg brace," he replied, polite but unencouraging.
Kostolitz continued to stare. "What for?"
"Temporary. I have a couple of brittle bones there. Keeps me from breaking them, until the surgeon's quite sure I'm done growing. Then I get them replaced with synthetics."
"That's weird," commented Kostolitz. "Is it a disease, or what?"
Under the guise of shifting his weight, he moved just slightly farther from Miles.
Unclean, unclean, thought Miles wildly; should I ring a bell? I
ought to tell him it's contagious—I was six-foot-four this time last year
. . . He sighed away the temptation. "My mother was exposed to a poison gas when she was pregnant with me. She pulled through all