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“ImpSec takes care of its own,” that’s how the saying went, and Vorberg had never once doubted it. Oh, he might complain about substandard mercenary rescues, but given the glimpses he’d seen of the rest of the Dendarii outfit, and what turned out to be top notch care from their infirmary, it seemed likely he’d been victim to a freak and uncharacteristic accident. Regardless, he was sure that ImpSec had paid good money for their service.
As soon as Vorberg was cleared to walk, Captain Illyan had summoned him to his office to apologize to him in person. Vorberg had sat in Captain Illyan’s office, quietly terrified under the Chief’s steady gaze, in the face of his Chief’s sincere apology. The fear that filled him was not of danger, but of vastness, to be in the presence of this man, who seemed so much more somehow up close, even while not one thing about him appeared extraordinary. And yet more terrifyingly, a sense of vastness in himself, that he should matter to him. And he did not for a moment doubt that he did matter, in Captain Illyan’s solemn eyes, that Captain Illyan weighed his worth as far from insignificant, on the scales of his mind’s heart, scales that weighed and valued him along with every other soul in ImpSec, along with the Emperor himself and the very Imperium. If Vorberg were to die, Captain Illyan would know, and care, and, of course, remember always.
That was all before, weeks ago. Now Captain Illyan hardly ever recognized him, lost as he was in fractured pasts. Vorberg watched, helpless. It wasn’t right, the whole thing wasn’t right. There was little dignity to be had in this situation, simply by the nature of the Chief’s affliction, but Vorberg could not help but think that he could be granted more dignity than this, that he deserved more dignity than this, more kindness than he was given.
“Impsec takes care of its own,” but that was just the trouble, wasn’t it. ImpSec had been synonymous with Captain Illyan for longer than Vorberg had been alive. He doubted that ImpSec had been known for taking care of its own in Negri’s day, unless by “take care of” you meant “silence”. So ImpSec took care of its own, but that was the same as saying that Captain Illyan takes care of his own, that’s what everyone meant by it, that’s what they all knew. There hadn’t ever been a difference, in practice, between Captain Illyan and ImpSec, until it was Captain Illyan who needed help, and now suddenly the difference was palpable.
So, who was there, to watch over this man who had for thirty years watched over the imperium?
ImpSec, the answer ought to be ImpSec, ImpSec to take care of its own with the Chief or without him. But Haroche, the doctors he had brought in, seemed only interested in the chip. Vorberg wouldn’t question his superior’s judgement, but…
Vorberg was ImpSec, a very small piece of it. He did his best.
They had Illyan tied down now, naked to the bed. Vorberg understood the reasoning, he had plenty of bruises himself, but wouldn’t any one of them be willing to die for their Chief? It wasn’t right.
“Vorberg,” Illyan said.
“Yes, sir,” Vorberg replied. Illyan was in the present now, he passed through from time to time, and when he did, he seemed to know where he was and what was happening, more or less.
“They have any idea what the hell’s happened to me yet?” Illyan asked. You could almost almost mistake his tone for calm, except that he was lying naked on the bed, and Vorberg could see the way every single one of his muscles was tensed.
“If they have, no one’s told me, sir,” Vorberg says.
“Get me Vorkosigan,” Illyan said.
“He’s on Sergyar, sir.”
Illyan closed his eyes. Pained seemed too mundane, too merely human a word to describe his expression.
“Damn, so he is,” Illyan said, “Get me Miles then.”
“Sir,” said Vorberg cautiously, “Lieutenant Vorkosigan doesn’t work here anymore, he was given a medical discharge.”
There was more to it than that, Vorberg was sure of it. There had been something strange in the Lieutenant’s eyes when he had spoken to Vorberg. And everyone had heard the rumors of how Lieutenant Vorkosigan had left the captain’s office looking like he’d been punched in the face. Vorberg didn’t believe that was what happened for a moment, but something clearly had.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Illyan said, “He hasn’t run off, has he?”
“No sir,” Vorberg said.
“Then get him for me, please,” Illyan said, “I need him. He’s a Vorkosigan, he’ll come.”
ImpSec took care of its own, and it didn’t matter if you were Vor or Prole, Anglophone, Francophone, Russian or Greekie, that’s what Vorberg loved about it.
Vorberg was Vor, Vor enough to know that there is nothing worthwhile in being one. Honor was dead in these modern times, and it wasn’t much loss since it’d been a lie to begin with.
But, “He’s Vorkosigan, he’ll come,” Illyan said, with quiet unwavered certainty.
Illyan was not sworn to the Vorkosigans. He was not a man for oaths, his promises he made silently, and behind closed doors. Illyan was not sworn to the Vorkosigans, but everyone knew he was theirs.
Captain Illyan took care of his own, and it didn’t matter where you were from, didn’t matter how insignificant you were, because you were his and he remembered. But it was Illyan who needed help now, and ImpSec didn’t seem to care. Far older loyalties were required now, perhaps one, at least, of them were real.
The Chief seemed to think so, and the Chief’s judgement was sound.
And if not, well, at least Vorberg would have someone who didn’t outrank him to yell at.
“I’ll send for him,” Vorberg said.
Captain Illyan smiled, “Thank you, Vorberg.”