Lois Bujold: Weatherman

Fly, thought Miles. I want to fly. “Sir . . . just how much of a pit is this place?”

“I wouldn’t want to prejudice you, Ensign Vorkosigan,” said Cecil piously.

And I love you too, sir. “But . . . infantry? My physical limits . . . won’t prevent my serving if they’re taken into account, but I can’t pretend they’re not there. Or I might as well jump off a wall, destroy myself immediately, and save everybody time.” Dammit, why did they let me occupy some of Barrayar’s most expensive classroom space for three years if they meant to kill me outright? “I’d always assumed they were going to be taken into account.”

“Meteorology Officer is a technical specialty, Ensign,” the major reassured him. “Nobody’s going to try and drop a full field pack on you and smash you flat. I doubt there’s an officer in the Service who would choose to explain your dead body to the Admiral.” His voice cooled slightly. “Your saving grace. Mutant.”

Cecil was without prejudice, merely testing. Always testing. Miles ducked his head. “As I may be, for the mutants who come after me.”

“You’ve figured that out, have you?” Cecil’s eye was suddenly speculative, faintly approving.

“Years ago, sir.”

“Hm.” Cecil smiled slightly, pushed himself off the desk, came forward and extended his hand. “Good luck, then. Lord Vorkosigan.”

Miles shook it. “Thank you, sir.” He shuffled through the stack of travel passes, ordering them.

“What’s your first stop?” asked Cecil.

Testing again. Must be a bloody reflex. Miles answered unexpectedly, “The Academy archives.”

“Ah!”

“For a downloading of the Service meteorology manual. And supplementary material.”

“Very good. By the way, your predecessor in the post will be staying on a few weeks to complete your orientation.”

“I’m extremely glad to hear that, sir,” said Miles sincerely.

“We’re not trying to make it impossible, Ensign.”

Merely very difficult. “I’m glad to know that too. Sir.” Miles’s parting salute was almost subordinate.

Miles rode the last leg to Kyril Island in a big automated airfreight shuttle with a bored backup pilot and eighty tons of supplies. He spent most of the solitary journey frantically swotting up on weather. Since the flight schedule went rapidly awry due to hours-long delays at the last two loading stops, he found himself reassuringly further along in his studies than he’d expected by the time the air-shuttle rumbled to a halt at Lazkowski Base.

The cargo bay doors opened to let in watery light from a sun skulking along near the horizon. The high-summer breeze was about five degrees above freezing. The first soldiers Miles saw were a crew of black-coveralled men with loaders under the direction of a tired-looking corporal, who met the shuttle. No one appeared to be specially detailed to meet a new weather officer. Miles shrugged on his parka and approached them.

A couple of the black-clad men, watching him as he hopped down from the ramp, made remarks to each other in Barrayaran Greek, a minority dialect of Earth origin, thoroughly debased in the centuries of the Time of Isolation. Miles, weary from his journey and cued by the all-too-familiar expressions on their faces, made a snap decision to ignore whatever they had to say by simply pretending not to understand their language. Plause had told him often enough that his accent in Greek was execrable anyway.

“Look at that, will you? Is it a kid?”

“I knew they were sending us baby officers, but this is a new low.”

“Hey, that’s no kid. It’s a damn dwarf of some sort. The midwife sure missed her stroke on that one. Look at it, it’s a mutant!”

With an effort, Miles kept his eyes from turning toward the commentators. Increasingly confident of their privacy, their voices rose from whispers to ordinary tones.

“So what’s it doing in uniform, ha?”

“Maybe it’s our new mascot.”

The old genetic fears were so subtly ingrained, so pervasive even now, you could get beaten to death by people who didn’t even know quite why they hated you but simply were carried away in the excitement of a group feedback loop. Miles knew very well he had always been protected by his father’s rank, but ugly things could happen to less socially fortunate odd ones. There had been a ghastly incident in the Old Town section of Vorbarr Sultana just two years ago, a destitute crippled man found castrated with a broken wine bottle by a gang of drunks. It was considered Progress that it was a scandal, and not simply taken for granted. A recent infanticide in the Vorkosigans’ own district had cut even closer to the bone. Yes, rank, social or military, had its uses. Miles meant to acquire all he could before he was done.

Miles twitched his parka back so that his officer’s collar tabs showed clearly. “Hello, Corporal. I have orders to report in to a Lieutenant Ahn, the base Meteorology Officer. Where can I find him?”

Miles waited a beat for his proper salute. It was slow in coming; the corporal was still goggling down at him. It dawned on him at last that Miles might really be an officer.

Belatedly, he saluted. “Excuse me, uh, what did you say, sir?”

Miles returned the salute blandly and repeated himself in level tones.

“Uh, Lieutenant Ahn, right. He usually hides out—that is, he’s usually in his office. In the main administration building.” The corporal swung his arm around to point toward a two-story pre-fab sticking up beyond a rank of half-buried warehouses at the edge of the tarmac, maybe a kilometer off. “You can’t miss it, it’s the tallest building on the base.”

Also, Miles noted, well marked by the assortment of comm equipment sticking out of the roof. Very good.

Now, should he turn his pack over to these goons and pray that it would follow him to his eventual destination, whatever it was? Or interrupt their work and commandeer a loader for transport? He had a brief vision of himself stuck up on the prow of the thing like a sailing ship’s figurehead, being trundled toward his meeting with destiny along with half a ton of Underwear, Thermal, Long, 2 doz per unit crate, Style #6774932. He decided to shoulder his duffle and walk.

“Thank you, Corporal.” He marched off in the indicated direction, too conscious of his limp and the braces concealed beneath his trouser legs taking up their share of the extra weight. The distance turned out to be farther than it looked, but he was careful not to pause or falter till he’d turned out of sight beyond the first warehouse unit.

The base seemed nearly deserted. Of course. The bulk of its population was the infantry trainees who came and went in two batches per winter. Only the permanent crew was here now, and Miles bet most of them took their long leaves during this brief summer breathing space. Miles wheezed to a halt inside the admin building without having passed another man.

The Directory and Map Display, according to a hand-lettered sign taped across its vid plate, was down. Miles wandered up the first and only hallway to his right, searching for an occupied office, any occupied office. Most doors were closed, but not locked, lights out. An office labeled Gen. Accounting held a man in black fatigues with red lieutenant’s tabs on the collar, totally absorbed in his holovid, which was displaying long columns of data. He was swearing under his breath.

“Meteorology Office. Where?” Miles called in the door.

“Two.” The lieutenant pointed upward without turning around, crouched more tightly, and resumed swearing. Miles tiptoed away without disturbing him further.

He found it at last on the second floor, a closed door labeled in faded letters. He paused outside, set down his duffle, and folded his parka atop it. He checked himself over. Fourteen hours’ travel had rumpled his initial crispness. Still, he’d managed to keep his green undress uniform and half-boots free of food stains, mud, and other unbecoming accretions. He flattened his cap and positioned it precisely in his belt. He’d crossed half a planet, half a lifetime, to achieve this moment. Three years training to a fever pitch of readiness lay behind him. Yet the Academy years had always had a faint air of pretense, We-are-only-practicing; now, at last, he was face-to-face with the real thing, his first real commanding officer. First impressions could be vital, especially in his case. He took a breath and knocked.