Chapter Text
Captain Oliver Perrin Jole watched the Vorkosigan ground-car pull away from the gates of Tanery Base, blinking against the glare of the sunlight. Or maybe it was all that water in his eyes. He hoisted his duffle from the sidewalk in front of him, feeling it crash onto his back like the outward and visible sign of his inner and wholly spiritual weight of sorrow.
He tried to take a step toward those gates. If he could just make his way through security, onto the slidewalk, that would take him to the station. Then he could catch the bubble car to the shuttle port where he would finally be brought to his ship. He recited the steps in his head, over and over, an inner mantra to get himself in gear.
But he could not move.
It was all so fucking wrong. By all logic, he ought to be elated. A ship command at last. The shining star that was his career, ascending.
But he felt only the weight, and a painful pull, like a thread tied around his heart, yanking him back to Vorbarr Sultana, or better, Vorkosigan Surleau. Back to Him. To Them really, but mostly Him. What he wouldn't give right now for one more day on the water with Aral, one last comfortable snuggle with Cordelia, the three of them sprawled together in front of the fire, chatting about the cares of the day and what they would do tomorrow.
Get it together, Rabbit, he could just hear Aral saying. And that thought almost got him moving. But he could not help feeling that if he took one more step, something would break inside him. Something irreparable. Irreplaceable. How had he let it come to this? How could he not just move? Move on? It had been the Arrangement, knowingly entered into, freely consented to. Aral had been clear. Cordelia had been clear. He had known!
Still he could not move.
Oliver realized he'd been standing outside the gates for an inordinately long time. He could see the guards getting twitchy. Watching him. Assessing. He had to go before they came to see What's all this, then?
He put one foot in front of the other at last - brushing the tears from his face - and one more step. The thread didn't snap, to his surprise. So he took a third step. And a fourth. And each step got a bit easier so he kept making them. When he was close enough, the gate guards saw his tabs and came to attention, saluting. And after that his military discipline kicked in, pushing the creeping despair into a corner, and he switched into forward momentum mode, to borrow a phrase from Aral and Cordelia's son. Forward into his future. His next chapter.
As he navigated the route to the shuttle port, he was glad anew that he'd asked Them not to come. Aral had been hurt, but Cordelia had understood. Oliver trusted her to make Aral understand as well. The optics of the Prime Minister seeing off a former military secretary, for all that Aral was a publicly acknowledge mentor whom Oliver had served for the better part of a decade, might have caused talk. And, really, Oliver didn't trust himself not to break down and cry, again, which would absolutely be a Very Bad Thing in the semi-public military shuttle port. No sense risking a dropped baton at the last pass.
There had been tears enough in the guest suite of Vorkosigan House, where Oliver and Aral had spent their last night together. Cordelia herself had clung to them both and wept unashamed for a full minute when she'd come in to tell him the ground-car was ready.
"Time to go, Captain," she'd whispered in his ear when she'd gotten control of herself. "But remember, home is where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in."
He'd just nodded vigorously, robbed of speech.
His last vision of the two of them, as he turned to go, vowing not to look back, was of them standing arm in arm, watching him leave with identical looks of love in Their eyes.
He'd wanted to die. You can die of a broken heart, can't you? But he'd left. Gotten downstairs and into the car somehow, blind and heedless as he'd been. He'd stared at the floor of the car, the whole way to Tanery, making no effort to do something as mawkish as memorize the view of Vorkosigan House as it vanished into the distance.
That part of his life was over. They'd freed him, as They must.
********
In the end they had had seven years, five more than they'd all first agreed to, a lifetime more than he'd ever had any right to expect.
The War of the Hegan Hub had been his first reprieve, all unlooked for, and a mixed damnation. Oliver had been in the middle of trying to find his professional replacement when the Emperor went missing - on Komarr! Dear gods! Aral had overridden his orders and arranged to have his assignment to the Prime Minister's service extended by two more years, quietly because There is Nothing to See Here but without compunction, because the Prime Minister was damned if he was breaking in another military aide in the middle of this crisis!
There had been no need to negotiate an extension of the personal and private contract: Cordelia and Oliver had had their hands full trying to keep the Great Man on his feet and it was all unspoken yes, ands for a very long while. They'd both despaired of him making it through, certain that his heart or his stomach would give out at any moment. They had taken turns crying on one another's shoulder, or lap, more times than either could remember. Especially after word came from ImpSec that somehow Miles was in the middle of everything. Again. Cordelia had cried on Oliver three times on that day.
Flying into diplomacy and danger at his Admiral's side, though, that had been glorious, the greatest joy of his life to that point. To see the Great Man striding the passageways of the Prince Serg was to see power in its purest form. And Oliver suddenly had a whole team of eager officers and non-coms to help manage the Admiral's ulcer and prevent him from ordering someone, anyone, shot in his frustration at not being able to shift things as quickly as he'd wanted diplomatically. Polian or Barrayaran; Oliver didn't think it mattered much to Aral after a while, just as long as it got him where he needed to be, within spitting distance of the real battle.
And, ah! the exhilaration of the campaign when the news of the invasion broke and they were suddenly, expeditiously, granted access to the jump point. It was not just the familiar ebb and flow of a real combat space mission - 95% boredom, 5% pants-pissing terror - but being blessedly, oppressively, undeniably The One that the Great Man turned to for relief in that brilliant, terrible time. He had felt a little guilty - okay a lot guilty - for reveling in all that time on that flag ship, just the two of them behind locked doors in Aral's staterooms. Plus a couple of exceptional moments in his ready room, when the tension had gotten too high for the Admiral. Those were memories that would warm Oliver in the darkest, loneliest nights for decades to come.
And the utter relief and joy when it had all come round right, the Emperor safe, Miles safe, the Hegan Hub safe, and unabashedly pro Barrayaran thrown into the bargain. Or at least pro-Gregor, as the Admiral had quipped.
They had both been ecstatic the moment the flagship turned toward home. For all that she overshadowed him in everything, Oliver had come to love Cordelia, in a Lancelot sort of way. Aral was right, she poured out honor like a fountain. A strange thing to say of a Betan, but there it was. So he'd been happy to go back home to Her, to being part of Them, to resuming the work and routine he treasured, for just a little while longer.
Then as the halfway point of his fourth and meant-to-be final year hove into view, he began to panic. His new orders came down, ship duty of course, along with the Captain's tabs - which Aral had insisted on pinning on Oliver himself, in public, discretion be damned, because he was too fucking proud of Oliver not to. Not that it couldn't be spun as right and proper, for a mentor to show his pride that way. It wasn't unprecedented.
Oliver had reluctantly started the search for his replacement a second time. He'd procrastinated more than he should have and it would be a bit tight for someone new to be chosen, put through the necessary ImpSec certifications, and still have a couple of months overlap with Captain Jole. But there were at least a few candidates from the first short list who still qualified for the new short list, which would make it easier for Aral to pick and prep a suitable successor in time for Jole to make his ship out date.
But when it came time for scheduling those interviews, Oliver instead went to Aral, in his lover's role, to beg for more time, not to be sent away just yet. When Aral flatly refused - "As your mentor, I have to safeguard your career, Oliver. Even from me. Even from you!" - Oliver had appealed to a Higher Authority. Cordelia had pushed back, too, tears in her eyes, because she did not want to tell him no but she felt bound to back Aral. When Oliver literally got on his knees, she relented and went to Arrange Matters. She later told him she'd given Aral the "persons before principles" speech that was a staple of her moral training.
"One year," Aral had declared, meaning both professionally and personally. "No more." But he'd said it twice more after that, as the subsequent years' endings approached. Oliver hadn't even had to beg, just ask. Then Aral had finally put his foot down. "Time to run your race, Rabbit," he'd said with heartbreaking finality. Even Cordelia had refused to intervene after that.
Seven years. It felt like a blink. It felt like forever. He regretted nothing.
In all truth, those seven years as aide to the Prime Minister had prepared Captain Jole more thoroughly for command than anyone, even the Great Man himself, had realized. He suspected riding herd over the lives of 400 men while cutting through the petty diplomatic challenges that arose as they escorted the Komarran trade fleet would turn out to be child's play compared to the juggling acts he'd been required to perform on Barrayar, with the lives of hundreds of millions in the balance.
Seven years with Aral and Cordelia, well, that had prepared Oliver for other things, things not in any Barrayaran service man's handbook. Not even the ones with the warnings about differences in cultural signals and taboos (dubbed the Sex Manuals by the less imaginative Vor military dilettantes.) It had given Oliver, for want of a better word, scope. He was not ready - so not ready, yet - to see what that scope might bring him personally as the fleet made their list of exotic ports of call. But he knew it would pay dividends when he was.
This first tour would eventually bring them to the infamous Beta Colony. He was looking forward to that. Oh, the stories Cordelia had told him! He was sure some of them had to be exaggerated for the effect she knew they would have on his coloring. She was fond of finding new and creative ways of making him blush. Aral had told him straight-faced she was not, in fact, exaggerating. And that had made him blush more because he did not want to know how Aral knew that, thank you very much!
Cordelia had entrusted him with care packages for her family, as she had somehow never managed to get back there after the foreshortened trip. He had hopes of bringing her back more messages and perhaps presents at the tour's end.
********
Several hours after taking those first steps toward the gates, with the burden of the Change-of-command ceremony, the Official Tour, the how do you dos and the what are your orders, sirs? with section heads out of the way, he at last unpacked the duffle in his cabin. He'd actually brought quite a bit less than the allotment to which he was entitled as ship's commander. What with one thing and another, he'd never gotten out of the habit of being able to pack all his worldly goods into one bag. He was planning to rectify the situation over the course of the next year. Aral had taught him that having odd nick knacks about one's cabin and ready room could help to spark a bit of personal connection with subordinates. While command wasn't a popularity contest, gaining the trust of one's men was critical, and, at least with officers, a Good Story was an excellent shortcut to comradely bonding.
That was why he finally decided to put up the the ink drawing of the Prime Minister pinning that medal on then-Lieutenant Jole in his ready room just before his first official shift in the Command-and-Control Center. Aral had drawn it from some official vid coverage and then presented it to him after his official sending off party. It seemed a little bit like cheating, Oliver felt, to hang it up in here, but he also knew another important part of the game of command was projecting power and influence. There was almost no greater symbol of both than the public approbation of Prime Minister Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan. He should use the tools he had been granted. Earned, he mentally corrected. The Admiral would definitely insist on the term earned.
There were a few other, more personal drawings to hang in his room. Nothing that would cause raised eyebrows or speculation, just sketches Aral had done of the the House in Vorbarr Sultana, the one at Hasadar, sailboats at Vorksigan Surleau. The one far more intimate and potentially damning portrait of himself - the one Aral had done from life - that was staying locked in the tamper resistant valise that Aral and Cordelia had given to him especially for securing it, upon the occasion of his most recent birthday. It had Shakespeare's sonnet #18 embossed below the clasp. He knew it was a risk bringing it onboard, even if the greenest batman should know better than to try to go snooping in something with his commanding officer's personal seal on it. But he couldn't have left it behind, not for worlds.
There was a knock at his ready room door. "Come," he called and the door slid aside for his XO.
"Ah, McLachlan," he said, motioning him into one of the seats across his comconsole desk. "Please, have a seat for a minute."
His XO was a tall, lanky man in his early 30s, like Jole, but dark haired and brown eyed to Jole's blond and blue. The man was also a Captain, more freshly minted by about a year than Jole so technically as well as actually his subordinate. This was to be his last tour as XO before taking up the first chair on a vessel of his own. In actual fact, Jole had probably bumped him from his chance at this command, a subject he knew he needed to clear the air about as soon as they had sufficient time. Right now there were only a few minutes from their scheduled launch and Jole needed to be out there to run the final checklists shortly. But he'd wanted a few more moments with the man before the flow of duty took over.
McLachlan noticed the drawing right away, as he was meant to. He jerked his chin at the drawing. "Nice pic," he said, with a bit of a smile, obviously cottoning onto the fact this was meant to be a casual conversation. The man had a good reputation among the members of the General Staff, Aral had informed Jole - because of course he had inquired - and Jole was already catching glimmers of why. Quick and perceptive had been Jole's first impressions. "I'd heard that was when the Prime Minister first took notice of you." Because of course the Admiral hadn't been the only one making inquiries.
"Indeed," Jole replied, affably. "I was barely back up and walking and next thing I knew I was doing the ImpSec course and becoming the last man standing between the legend himself and all comers. It was quite the whirlwind."
"You spent what, six years on his staff?" the XO asked, although he clearly knew the answer. Crosschecking.
"Seven." But who's counting?
"If you don't mind my asking, how'd that come about? Those berths are usually much shorter, aren't they?"
Jole nodded. "There were a couple of wild crises that made it inconvenient for him to slot in new aides. And what the Prime Minister wants, well... you can imagine." Well, what the Countess wants she gets, anyway. He laughed at himself internally. "We made a good team." A statement that held multitudes, which the other man would never understand.
"Must be by way of a wrench, the change," McLachlan commented, neutrally, a mild hill country accent slipping in.
You have no idea! "Belike," Jole replied, quietly, hoping he was successfully keeping the pain from his voice and face.
McLachlan smiled. "I'm from his district m'self, originally," he said, more friendly now. Jole had known this, of course. He'd wondered if Aral had been not just inquiring, but interfering. He'd dismissed this as an unworthy thought. "Not quite a hill man but close enough not to matter to the Hassadar set."
Jole grinned back at him. "Well, might be you and me'll get on fine then. I'm originally from elsewhere, but those hills hold a place in my heart now after seven years service to their the Count, who loves them well. I plan to transfer my oath to Vorkosigan District, one way or another, someday. After my twice twenty, of course."
"We'll have to swap some stories, then, when our free shifts overlap."
Jole nodded. "I'll bring the mead."
McLachlan's grin widened. "Ah, we'll be gettin' on just fine then, sir!" His XO gave him a playful salute.
Jole returned it. Yeah, he was sure he was going to like the man.
"I look forward to it." He stood and the XO perforce did, too, snapping to attention. "Shall we then?"
The XO preceded him out the door, calling in a booming voice as he did: "Captain on deck!"
The C-and-C crew jumped to their feet as one, saluting his presence. Captain Jole saluted them back, then made his way to the center of the room, where he took up his best Prime Minister Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan stance, hands clasped behind his back, taking up all the space. "As you were." They sat, their eyes still on him. He breathed in deeply, let it out slowly. "Yes, well," he began, still furiously channeling his former boss. "I'm not one for big speeches but know that it is my honor to stand here as your commander. I am confident you will render service worthy of your oaths and I promise to do likewise." Quiet nodding from the crew.
Captain Oliver Perrin Jole took one more deep breath. "Right," he says, finally taking his own seat. "Let's go make the Nexus a little safer, shall we?"