Young Miles

Lois McMaster Bujold

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YOUNG MILES

OMNIBUS TWO

Lois McMaster Bujold

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The Warrior's

Apprentice

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3616-4

Cover art by Larry Dixon

First paperback printing, July 2003

Library of Congress Catalog Number 97-2168

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven® Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

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For Lillian Stewart Carl

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The Warrior's Apprentice..................................................................1

WARRIOR’S APPRENTICE .................................................................10

CHAPTER ONE ................................................................................10

CHAPTER TWO...................................................................................19

CHAPTER THREE.............................................................................. 30

CHAPTER FOUR .................................................................................41

CHAPTER FIVE.................................................................................. 49

CHAPTER SIX.................................................................................... 66

CHAPTER SEVEN ...............................................................................76

CHAPTER EIGHT............................................................................... 87

CHAPTER NINE................................................................................. 98

CHAPTER TEN...................................................................................111

CHAPTER ELEVEN...........................................................................126

CHAPTER TWELVE ..........................................................................136

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.......................................................................144

CHAPTER FOURTEEN...................................................................... 157

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.......................................................................... 172

CHAPTER SIXTEEN..........................................................................186

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ....................................................................199

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ..................................................................... 207

CHAPTER NINETEEN.......................................................................218

CHAPTER TWENTY......................................................................... 229

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE ................................................................ 236

EPILOGUE ....................................................................................... 250

The Mountains of Mourning .............................................................256

THE VOR GAME ...............................................................................316

CHAPTER ONE ..............................................................................316

CHAPTER TWO.................................................................................327

CHAPTER THREE.............................................................................337

CHAPTER FOUR .............................................................................. 348

CHAPTER FIVE................................................................................ 360

CHAPTER SIX...................................................................................374

CHAPTER SEVEN ............................................................................ 385

CHAPTER EIGHT..............................................................................397

CHAPTER NINE................................................................................412

CHAPTER TEN................................................................................. 423

CHAPTER ELEVEN.......................................................................... 438

CHAPTER TWELVE ..........................................................................455

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.......................................................................472

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN..................................................................... 488

CHAPTER FIFTEEN......................................................................... 503

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.......................................................................... 519

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ....................................................................537

Author's Afterword...........................................................................557

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A HOSTILE ATMOSPHERE IS BETTER THAN NONE AT

ALL . . .

Miles and Gregor were seated before Admiral Oser. Oser reminded

Miles somehow of the deranged General Metzov. Was it the age, the

build? The hostile glower, the murderous pinpricks of red light in the eye?

“Miles,” the incognito Emperor Gregor whispered, “what did you

do to piss this guy off?”

“Nothing!” Miles protested back, sotto voce. “Nothing on purpose.”

Oser leaned back, crossing his arms. It was not a relaxed gesture.

“As a spy, I could have you executed.”

“Oh, come on,” Miles scoffed in the lengthening silence. “What

could I do, by myself with one man?”

“I remember the last time. You entered Tau Verde local space with

a staff of four. Four months later you were dictating terms. So what are you planning now? And who’s he?” He jerked a thumb at Gregor.

“Greg? He’s just my batman.”

“He doesn’t look like a batman. He looks like an officer.”

“You can’t go by looks. Commodore Tung looks like a wrestler.”

Oser’s eyes were suddenly freezing. “Indeed. And how long have

you been in correspondence with Captain Tung?”

By the sick lurch in his belly, Miles realized mentioning Tung had

been a major mistake.

Oser pointed at the guard, who straightened attentively. “Space

them,” Oser ordered. “If he,” pointing to Miles, “starts to talk, stop his tongue. It’s his most dangerous organ.”

“This is not going well, Miles,” Gregor observed. “Any more bright

ideas?”

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BAEN BOOKS by LOIS McMASTER BUJOLD

The Vorkosigan Saga:

Shards of Honor

Barrayar

The Warrior’s Apprentice

The Vor Game

Cetaganda

Miles, Mystery & Mayhem

Borders of Infinity

Brothers in Arms

Mirror Dance

Memory

Komarr

A Civil Campaign

Diplomatic Immunity

Falling Free

Ethan of Athos

The Spirit Ring

Omnibus Editions:

Cordelia’s Honor

Young Miles

Miles, Mystery & Mayhem

Miles Errant

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WARRIOR’S APPRENTICE

CHAPTER ONE

The tall and dour non-com wore Imperial dress greens and carried

his communications panel like a field marshall's baton. He slapped it absently against his thigh and raked the group of young men before

him with a gaze of dry contempt. Challenging.

All part of the game, Miles told himself. He stood in the crisp

autumn breeze and tried not to shiver in his shorts and running

shoes. Nothing to put you off balance like being nearly naked when all about you look ready for one of Emperor Gregor's reviews—although,

in all fairness, the majority here were dressed the same as himself.

The noncom proctoring the tests merely seemed like a one-man

crowd. Miles measured him, wondering what conscious or

unconscious tricks of body language he used to achieve that air of icy competence. Something to be learned there . . .

"You will run in pairs," the non-com instructed. He did not seem to raise his voice, but somehow it was pitched to carry to the ends of the lines. Another effective trick, Miles thought; it reminded him of that habit of his father's, of dropping his voice to a whisper when speaking in a rage. It locked attention.

"The timing of the five-kilometer run begins immediately upon

completion of the last phase of the obstacle course; remember it." The non-com began counting off pairs.

The eliminations for officers' candidacy in the Barrayaran

Imperial Military Service took a grueling week. Five days of written and oral examinations were behind Miles now. The hardest part was

over, everybody said. There was almost an air of relaxation among the young men around him. There was more talking and joking in the

group, exaggerated complaints about the difficulty of the exams, the withering wit of the examining officers, the poor food, interrupted

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sleep, surprise distractions during the testing. Self-congratulatory complaints, these, among the survivors. They looked forward to the

physical tests as a game. Recess, perhaps. The hardest part was over—

for everyone but Miles.

He stood to his full height, such as it was, and stretched, as if to pull his crooked spine out straight by force of will. He gave a little upward jerk of his chin, as if balancing his too-large head, a head meant for a man over six feet, on his just-under-five-foot frame, and narrowed his eyes at the obstacle course. It began with a concrete

wall, five meters high, topped with iron spikes. Climbing it would be no problem, there was nothing wrong with his muscles, it was the

coming down that worried him. The bones, always the damn bones . . .

"Kosigan, Kostolitz," the noncom called, passing in front of him.

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

right, but it wrecked my bone growth."

"Huh. Didn't they give you any medical treatment?"

"Oh, sure. I've had an Inquisition's worth. That's why I can walk around today, instead of being carried in a bucket."

Kostolitz looked mildly revolted, but stopped trying to sidle subtly upwind. "How did you ever get past the medicals? I thought there was a minimum height rule."

"It was waived, pending my test results."

"Oh." Kostolitz digested this.

Miles returned his attention to the test ahead. He should be able to pick up some time on that belly-crawl under the laser fire; good, he would need it on the five-kilometer run. Lack of height, and a

permanent limp from a left leg shorter, after more fractures than he could remember, by a good four centimeters than his right, would

slow him down. No help for it. Tomorrow would be better; tomorrow

was the endurance phase. The herd of long-legged gangling boys

around him could unquestionably beat him on the sprint. He fully

expected to be anchor man on the first 25-kilometer leg tomorrow,

probably the second as well, but after 75 kilometers most would be

flagging as the real pain mounted. I am a professional of pain,

Kostolitz, he thought to his rival. Tomorrow, after about kilometer 100, I'll ask you to repeat those questions of yours—if you have the breath to spare. . . .

Bloody hell, let's pay attention to business, not this dink. A fivemeter drop—perhaps it would be better to go around, take a zero on

that part. But his overall score was bound to be relatively poor. He hated to part with a single point unnecessarily, and at the very

beginning, too. He was going to need every one of them. Skipping the wall would cut into his narrow safety margin-

"You really expect to pass the physicals?" asked Kostolitz, looking

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around. "I mean, above the 50th percentile?"

"No."

Kostolitz looked baffled. "Then what the hell's the point?"

"I don't have to pass it; just make something near a decent score."

Kostolitz's eyebrows rose. "Whose ass do you have to kiss to get a deal like that? Gregor Vorbarra's?"

There was an undercurrent of incipient jealousy in his tone, class-

conscious suspicion. Miles's jaw clamped. Let us not bring up the

subject of fathers . . .

"How do you plan to get in without passing?" Kostolitz persisted, eyes narrowing. His nostrils flared at the scent of privilege, like an animal alert for blood.

Practice politics, Miles told himself. That too should be in your

blood, like war. "I petitioned," Miles explained patiently, "to have my scores averaged instead of taken separately. I expect my writtens to bring up my physicals."

"That far up? You'd need a damn near perfect score!"

Young Miles

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