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“We may have a situation,” the head of Barrayaran Imperial Security announced, as he strode into the sitting room where Aral and Cordelia had been trying to enjoy a few rare uninterrupted moments of peace.
From a quick glance at Aral, Cordelia could tell he also didn’t know what to be more alarmed by: the situation itself, or Simon’s uncertainty. Sure enough, the next words out of Aral’s mouth were, “Define ‘may.’”
“You remember the mysterious package I intercepted a few days ago?”
For reasons Cordelia could not determine but immediately did not trust, Aral stole a look at her before responding. “Yes, but I thought you’d determined it was probably harmless?”
“I still had a few more analyses to run to be sure,” said Simon, with that same infuriating double-check in Cordelia’s direction. “And now it’s vanished, from right off my desk. No alarms; no security footage. It’s like it was never there.”
“Before we delve more deeply into the ‘hows’ and ‘whys,’ do either of you care to fill me in on the ‘what’?” asked Cordelia. “Especially as I gather it pertains to me on a more personal level than general public safety?”
Simon and Aral engaged in a long, intense bout of silent negotiation. It ended with a raised eyebrow from Simon and a defeated sigh from Aral, who stood and turned to her, eyes pleading for understanding. “Not you. Miles.”
“I was the one who recommended not alarming you until we knew more,” said Simon, interposing himself between Cordelia and the Regent as she leapt to her feet. “And I stand by my assessment of ‘probably harmless.’ Or at least I did.”
“It’s a tiger,” said Aral, anticipating Cordelia’s next demand. “A stuffed tiger. Hand-stitched, by the looks of it. It arrived in a plain box, no return address, with only a typed note: ‘For Miles.’”
A sudden, terrible realization sent a chill down Cordelia’s spine. “Where is Miles? I know he’s supposed to be napping, but—”
“—Miles never goes down for his nap on the first try,” Aral interjected. “Which means—”
“—It’s entirely too quiet,” Simon completed the thought.
The three of them took off at a sprint toward Miles’s bedroom.
“I think it’s from Father,” Aral explained as they ran. “He’s only just managed to acknowledge Miles’s existence might not be a hideous mistake. Overt expressions of sentimentality are obviously a bridge too far, but an anonymous gesture…”
“Count Vorkosigan would know better than to risk triggering security protocols,” Simon pointed out.
“And why a tiger?” Cordelia asked.
Any further discussion was cut off as they reached Miles’s door. Simon pressed his ear against it, with one hand on his stunner. “I hear snoring.”
“Cover me,” Aral instructed in a whisper.
The door slid open. All three adults took a decisive step into the room, coming to an immediate halt as they found Miles in bed, a picture of angelic repose that belied his typical waking state. In his arms was what Cordelia could only presume to be the stuffed tiger in question. She fully concurred with the handmade assessment: without its stripes and a strip of fabric that served as the tail, it might easily have been mistaken for a bear.
“I can’t remember the last time I saw him sleeping that soundly without sedation,” Aral observed in quiet wonderment.
Cordelia’s gaze remained fixed on Miles, even as she addressed Simon. “Probably harmless, you said?”
“I’d prefer to complete the…” Miles murmured something in his sleep and shifted, curling even more tightly around the tiger in the process. Recognizing an unwinnable battle when he saw one, Simon sighed. “Yes.”
“Let’s leave them, then, shall we?” Cordelia suggested, already retreating from the room with a smile. “We can find out what Miles plans to name his new friend when he wakes up.”
…
“Explain again,” said Aral, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to prevent the migraine he could tell was coming. “Slowly. And one at a time.”
“We were playing Milesball,” Miles responded, to Aral’s immediate disappointment. He’d been hoping Gregor would take responsibility, instead of hanging back sheepishly.
“Milesball?” Simon—or Captain Illyan in this moment, as he was clearly trying to impress the seriousness of the situation on the children—interjected.
That answer, Aral already knew, but Cordelia responded first. “It’s a game of sorts. The only rule is there are no rules.”
“The rules are that you can’t use the same rule more than once,” Miles clarified. “It was Hobbes’s idea. I still think we should call it Hobbesball, but he insists on being modest.”
“Ah. Hobbes,” said Illyan, as though this alone explained everything. Nonetheless, he motioned for Miles to continue.
“Well, Gregor wanted to play, and Ivan pointed out that we’d have to follow Gregor’s rules even if they’d already been used, because Gregor’s Emperor and he makes the rules. Gregor said it was fine; he wouldn’t Request or Require anyone to do anything—” Here, Gregor shrank even further into himself. “—but that felt even more like its own rule. So then Hobbes suggested—”
“You said Hobbes suggested it,” Elena corrected him.
“It’s not my fault the rest of you didn’t hear him,” said Miles, in a tone that indicated this was a point of frequent contention. “Anyway, Hobbes suggested teams. Gregor against the rest of us.” Aral could only assume the look on Illyan’s face was a result of him struggling to keep his eyebrows nailed down, as Aral himself was attempting and quite possibly failing to manage the same. “So we started playing, and everything was fine until Ivan ran into the Sinister Shakespeare Zone.”
“Which, I take it, is when ImpSec woke up from their naps and found you all reenacting the climactic scene from Julius Caesar,” said Cordelia, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice to Aral’s satisfaction.
“I’m sorry,” Gregor spoke up at last, before Miles could object that no one had been holding any actual weapons or whatever other defense was on the tip of his tongue. “We…I wasn’t thinking.”
“Clearly,” said Illyan, with a disapproval that withered even Miles’s confidence.
“Go to your rooms,” Aral ordered. “I’ll come speak with each of you shortly.” He held eye contact with Gregor and Miles long enough to convey that they in particular should expect a prompt and intense conversation.
The children trooped out, Miles of course bringing up the rear and dragging Hobbes dejectedly behind him. Aral waited until they were out of sight and earshot before collapsing into his chair and bringing his head down to his desk with a groan.
“Do not tell me they are only children and they are merely playing,” he cautioned Cordelia, as she walked over to lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “They are not just any children, and they cannot afford to be so careless, in thought or action.” He looked up at her gravely. “I think it’s time we take the tiger away.”
Cordelia drew back. “Aral,” she said, her voice carrying a note of sharp warning.
Aral stood again and paced, with more than a trace of big cat in his own stride. “I know you say imaginary friends are still developmentally normal at this age, but I don’t like the way he keeps pinning his worst impulses on it.”
“I could still take it away for scanning,” Simon offered.
“The fact he’s attributing the bad impulses to Hobbes means he knows they’re bad impulses,” Cordelia countered, waving Simon off. “With appropriate guidance and sufficient patience on our part, he’ll learn to regulate his conscience internally, and grow up as well-adjusted as any Vor lordling on this planet can manage. Deprive him of his closest friend, and we make ourselves the enemy. I don’t know about you, but that’s not a battle I want to fight if it can be avoided.”
“Nor I, my dear Captain,” Aral sighed. “Very well. I suppose I should be grateful it still appears to be encouraging him to read the classics.”
“So it is named after the philosopher?” Simon asked. “I’d wondered.”
“Yes.” A chuckle escaped Aral in spite of himself. “According to Miles, tigers agree that life is often nasty, brutish, and short.” His face fell again. “I hope that’s not him projecting any internal feelings.”
“If so, perhaps that’s something we can coax out of him when you talk,” said Cordelia, stroking his arm. “Provided you keep the roaring to a minimum yourself.”
This, at last, prompted a fond enough smile from Aral that Simon felt the need to make his own hasty retreat.
…
Hobbes tensed as his keen tiger ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming down the hall toward Miles’s room. Even recognizing the slow, unsteady thumps could only belong to Miles and Miles alone did not ease the tension in his shoulders and tail. Something smelled off, in a way he could only identify as “danger.”
Sure enough, as Miles entered and shut the door behind him, he wore an inscrutable but decidedly unfriendly expression that would have seemed more at home on Captain Illyan. In the absence of a better plan, Hobbes decided on distraction and offered up a smile. “Hey, buddy! Still want to see if we can get that transmogrifier working?”
“What are you?” Miles demanded, with a coldness that would also have done Illyan proud.
It certainly succeeded in freezing Hobbes’s grin in place. “I’m Hobbes! Your best friend, as far back as you can remember. C’mon, Miles, what is this?”
Miles remained unmoved. “Ivan says stuffed animals can’t come to life. He says I’m ‘too old to still believe’ you’re real.”
“Ivan’s an idiot,” Hobbes insisted.
“Everyone seems to agree with him on this,” said Miles, shaking his head. “And since you refuse to look or act like you in front of anyone else, I have no way of proving otherwise.”
“We’ve talked about this,” said Hobbes, trying not to sound as desperate as he was starting to feel. “If people knew I was an actual talking tiger, they’d—”
“Panic and have all kinds of questions of the sort that might get you taken away, yes. But why stay here, with me, if you’re so afraid of being discovered? I’ve been wondering that for a while now.” He fixed Hobbes with an even sharper glare. “And then in lessons, we started learning about Cetaganda.”
“You know about Cetaganda,” Hobbes reminded him. “That and Mad Yuri were the whole reason we started working on the time machine, so we could help your grandfather. At least until we found out changing the past might just make things worse.”
Miles’s eyes narrowed to almost cat-like slits. “Cetagandan genetic engineering.”
Despite his best efforts, Hobbes could feel his tail bristle. “Oh.”
“So.” Miles leaned forward, which Illyan probably would have warned him against without having a weapon at the ready. Hobbes knew better than to hope that meant Miles didn’t believe Hobbes actually would hurt him under any circumstances. He hoped it anyway. “Are you a spy? A sleeper agent? Were you cooked up in one of their labs, or on Jackson’s Whole, or some unknown asteroid?”
Get out, commanded a voice inside Hobbes’ head that sounded just enough like his own to make him question whether it had been planted there or was merely instinct. It’s too dangerous to remain here. You needn’t kill the boy; it won’t take much to incapacitate him. Just out the window, and off the grounds, and you can figure out next moves from there.
He brushed the directive away. “I don’t know where I come from. I don’t know what I am, or what I was supposed to be. And I don’t care. All I am—all I want to be—is what I’ve always been. Your friend. Forever.”
The silence stretched out long enough that Hobbes was about to offer to retreat into himself and leave Miles alone for good, when Miles held out his hands. “Swear it.”
He hesitated: not because of some alien directive this time, but something more intrinsic and primal. “Tigers don’t answer to anyone but themselves.”
Miles just looked at him, expression still implacable, but eyes glimmering with a spark of hope and trust waiting to be reciprocated.
Hobbes knelt and placed his paws between Miles’s hands.
…
“You’ll meet Admiral Naismith in good time, recruit,” Elli Quinn told the newest—and frankly, most overeager member of the Dendarii Free Mercenaries she’d encountered in a long time.
“Just one more question, Commander,” the kid pleaded. (Calvin, was it? Elli suspected she’d be giving this one enough lectures, she ought to work on remembering the name.) “Is it true he takes a pet tiger into battle with him?”
Elli smiled the sharp-toothed smile that had caused Hobbes to declare “I like this one” when Miles had finally, formally introduced them. “Careful with the ‘p’ word, if you value the idea of advancement or your jugular. That’s the Admiral’s best friend, and don’t you dare forget it.”
…
“I can see why you requested a private audience,” said Gregor, quite proud of himself for retaining his imperial composure at the sight of the bipedal, full-grown tiger at Miles’s side.
Miles bowed, and gestured to the tiger to do the same. “Sire, may I introduce Hobbes, my longtime companion. Or reintroduce, rather.”
“Indeed,” said Gregor. A number of mysteries were unraveling themselves as he spoke, and not just some of the more outlandish intelligence reports on the Dendarii mercenaries. “Please accept Our sincere apologies for the complications Our presence introduced to Milesball.”
Hobbes accepted this with a magnanimous nod.
“Hobbes long ago swore loyalty to me, and therefore to House Vorkosigan, and Barrayar, and you,” Miles explained. “But he’d like to make it official so he can accompany me on Auditor assignments.”
“I am prepared to submit to a certain amount of ImpSec testing and analysis, provided it does not result in me losing my freedom or being separated from Miles,” said Hobbes.
At the mention of ImpSec, Gregor couldn’t resist a smile. “Illyan will be furious with himself when he finds out about this.”
“I believe he’ll more inclined to issue my parents an ‘I told you so,’” said Miles, with a laugh of his own.
Still smiling, Gregor held out his hands. “Very well. Let’s see what happens.”