An Overture for Barrayar

General Count Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan ("Old Saddle-ass", but never tohis face) strode to his car, followed by his aide-de-camp.

"What is this thing again?"

"The title of the concert is 'Overture for Barrayar', sir. A command performance. The emperor will be there. He requested your presence. And most of the other high vor. You can't afford to be seen snubbing it, sir."

"Agh, the emperor. Yuri is not worthy of shining Dorca's shoes, let alone to fill them. Wanting to impress everybody by how he can make Vors do his bidding. Doesn't he know I have work to do?"

"I'm sure he appreciates that, Sir. But he must have his reasons."

"I suppose so. Will the Countess be joining us there? Come with me in the car, we need to finish this last set of evaluations."

"Yes, sir. And no, sir, the countess sends her regrets, Sir, she's not feeling well".

"I don't blame her", muttered Piotr under his breath.

As the car was leaving the ministry parking lot, it was blocked by the traffic jam at the exit.

"Look at them", scoffed Count Piotr. "Leaving the ministry at 5 on the dot. Like it's just a job. Disgraceful."

"Well, we are at peace, Sir", chided his aide-de-camp. "I'm sure that if it were an emergency...".

Piotr didn't even bother to comment. He just looked disgusted.

"Let's not waste any more time. Who's next?"

"Lieutenant Negri, Sir". He passed along a folder.

His aide-de-camp was looking at his notebook. "Non-vor, obviously. Couldn't find who paid his tuition. His mother is living on widow-of-a-hero pension, but that wouldn't come close to...".

"Ah, Negri.", said Piotr, leafing throught the folder.

"Yes. Good breeding. I knew his father, you know. Good man, Negri father. Don't worry about the source of his tuition, it's been paid by his father's war comrades."

Piotr knew very well that Negri's tuition was paid from Vorkosigan personal account through a twisted way. He didn't see fit to share that information with his aide-de-camp.

He continued leafing at the file in his lap.

"Aha. Continues to have good grades. Smart boy. Good leadership. Awarded for Initiative during mock battle, nice. Oh, what's this? Discipline problem?"

"He got into it with young Vorbratten sir. I understand Lord Vorbratten doesn't hold with non-vor being officers."

"And Negri wouldn't let himself be insulted, and ..." Piotr turned the page. "Ah. Finished it without doing anything that would get him expelled. Control. Measured response. Smart boy. Yes. Like father, like son, I always say."

"He asked for recommendation to Fleet school, sir"

"Ah.", Piot sighed. "I can't recommend him for Fleet school. Anytime he gets on a ship, he will have to deal with that type. End up in a court-martial sooner or later, or get his spirit broken from swallowing too much abuse. It would be a shame to lose someone of his potential. Hrrrm."

"Perhaps logistics, Sir? He had high marks on related subjects, good organisational skills, good long-term planning" and none of the vor go for boring placements like logistics. They all want ship command. His aide-de-camp didn't have to say that, they both knew it.

"And have him in charge of a warehouse somewhere? A racehorse like that? You can see he has spirit."

He looked through the window, not seeing the city.

"No, have ImpSec look into asking him to join. Don't assign him, invite him. If he hesitates too long, have him overhear someone saying that he's headed for logistics.

As ImpSec he will have opportunity for advancement based solely on merit, and any Vor that get too snippy, will think twice when they see the eye of Horus on him. Yes. ImpSec. We can use a Negri at Impsec. I knew his father, you know."

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if in pain.

He opened his eyes again.

"OK, next?"

His aide the camp handed him another folder.

As they arrived at the Opera House, Piotr dismissed his aide and had the driver take him back to the ministry. The driver knew to come back to the opera afterwards, and wait for the general's pleasure.

The foyer was packed to the brim with uniforms and evening dresses.

Piotr strode to the bar and got a glass.

As he turned, he was addressed by a familiar, older man in a gaudy uniform. A man who managed to survive the Cetagandan war without learning anything, but whose family connections still made him Piotr's superior at the ministry.

"Oh, so you're here, too, are you, Piotr? Didn't take you for a music lover. No music worth anything unless it's drum and trumpet, I always say."

"Yes, there is something to what you say, General. Not a music man myself, no. Imperial command, this. Anyway, I am reliably informed that drum and trumpet do not work for relaying orders in space. Still, one must attend these things. Expand one's horizons."

"Oh, nice to see you, General" a voice said behind his back.

Piotr, relieved, turned to the familiar voice. A political ally in the council of Counts.

"Oh, hello, Alexei"

"How's your son, general?"

"Oh, he's in his second year of academy. We have great hopes for him."

"And the other one? Karl, was it?"

"Aral. He's ..."

Piotr Pierre shook his head, sadly.

"I think he may be artistic".

"Don't they vaccinate against that?"

"Arrrrrtistic, not aooootistic. He would rather draw horses than ride them"

"Oh. Well, I hope he gets better. Anyway, there's a bill pending in the council that I'd like to discuss with you" his ally led Piotr away to a corner, and they started a quiet discussion.

Shortly after Piotr Pierre sat down in his seat, the lights started going down.

And then the music began. At first, the melody touched on several traditional dances of Winterfair. Then, harsh sounds of Cetagandan instruments started to intrude.

And Piotr remembered.

= = =

Young Lord Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan (Peepee to his friends) was stumbling home from one of the many Winterfair parties. It had been a wild evening. He had a bottle in one hand and every now and then, he would take another sip from it. He was singing the melodies of Winterfair dances. This has been a big night for him. He had organized two parties. One mixing the poorer vors who craved some fun and rich commoners who just wanted to meet a vor. That one had been tame. The other one for rich vors who wanted ... more exotic entertainment. It was tricky managing two different parties at the same time, without letting the participants of one party being aware of the other, but Peepee managed it. The evening had been profitable, both in commission from the providers of food, drinks and entertainment and in personal connections and favours he was now owed.

His family's fortunes were greatly diminished due to the market crash after contact was made with the interstellar civilizations. Piotr knew that his father could no longer afford to buy him a commission. All the years of his studies of horse tactics down the drain. He wasn't alone. Many sons of Vors suddenly found themselves without a military future. On the other hand, merchants were buying commissions for their sons. Only in infantry, of course. Only Vor were fit to lead cavalry, and standards must be kept. The ranks of the cavalry were dangerously thinned, though.

Peepee found that while his family was too poor to buy him a position in cavalry, the name still carried enough of a cachet that he could organise get togethers where people would drink and buy companionship. Some of his high Vor friends had a lot of money, and as long as he could organise the entertainment, they didn't mind footing the bill. His circle of friends expanded rapidly. Some were friends with similar tastes in fun. Others were people who could provide the fun. Friends with interesting trades and creative ideas.

As he was climbing the stairs back toward the the upper town, he heard a rhythmic thumping from the street below.

He turned to see what it was, and it was a squad of soldiers, in strange uniforms, running in step.

They saw him, and stopped. He squinted at the officer in front. The officer's face swirled with color.

"Someone must have spiked my drink", Piotr realised. He turned the bottle in his hand upside down, and let it drain on the steps. Then he started stumbling further up the stairs, hoping to find a public toilet. Or at least a discreet corner.

Behind him, the officer continued staring at his back. Then he glanced at the nerve disruptor he had drawn, holstered it, motioned his men to follow, and they ran farther up the street.

= = =

Piotr woke up in his bed, head pounding. The Vorkosigan house was full of noise of people running around, doors slamming and people shouting.

"Don't you people have any sense of decency?" Piotr shouted, wincing as his own voice made his head hurt. "I'm trying to sleep!"

His bedroom door opened, and a soldier in a strange uniform looked inside. The soldier raised a stunner. Piotr didn't remember anything after that.

= = =

Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan, student D372, sat behind his desk in the classroom. He was wearing the uniform of an ensign in the Cetagandan army. Officially he was attending the Barrayaran department of the Cetagandan military academy, but everybody knew that all the students were hostages.

The instructor was droning on about tactics. Piotr was paying attention, but it wasn't easy. The tactics were nothing he hadn't heard from his tutors since he was 5. The only difference was that here maneuver was conducted by air car instead of cavalry. Speed made a difference, but not that much of a difference. And he noted that the instructor considered anything that wasn't an air car as basically static. Piotr considered that an interesting mistake.

All the lectures were about ground forces. None were about the spaceships and their tactics. After all his study of how to command elite, fast moving cavalry troops, the cream of vor were being taught what was to his mind infantry tactics. It chafed. He knew that an important part of the war was conducted in space, and he longed to learn about fighting where it would really hurt Cetagandans.

His eyes flicked at some of the other people in the class. Yuri was in his own world. The guards had it in for him, treating him harshly for mistakes real and imaginary, and he was taking it hard. He wasn't listening to the class, and he wasn't active in the plans for this evening. Still, getting him out was important. He was the prince, after all. If he escaped, his father would have considerably more freedom of action. Piotr Pierre chaffed at the injustices Cetagandans visited on Barrayar. And the Vor had to go along with it (with some exceptions), because their heirs were hostages.

He glanced to the other side. Ezar was several years older than him, and he was paying careful attention to the lecture in tactics. He was the other mastermind in their escape plan. A natural leader, and Piotr was prod to call him a friend.

= = =

Alarms were still hooting. Piotr and several others were at the street door of the gym. Piotr turned back.

"Yuri! Move it!"

Yuri was still on the other side of the gym. He stopped.

"That's your imperial highness prince Yuri Vorbarra, to you, Vorkosigan. I'll have you know that I'm not under your"

The door behind him opened and several guards rushed in. Some grabbed Yuri, others started across the gym. Two others had stunners drawn and
were trying to get a clear view of Piotr.

Piotr turned, and ran through the door on his side of the gym, down a short corridor to the main door, and into the street. The others were further down the street running fast, but he was also fast, and he knew where he was going. He didn't follow them, he took his own way.

His way took him downhill, toward the river. The old Vorbarr Sultana, where police patrols never had fewer than 10 officers. Piotr Pierre knew it well.

He ran into a side alley, and thumped on a door.

Nobody answered, so he thumped louder.

"Go away" said a voice from inside. "We're closed. All the girls are gone".

Piotr thumped louder still.

The door opened a crack. Then wider.

"Peepee? What are you doing here?"

Piotr squeezed in. "I need to disappear".

The door closed behind him.

= = =

The music changed. Gone were the tones of the Winterfair. Now the counterpoint to Cetaganda was the old Greekie melody, the one that had became the unofficial anthem of the Barrayaran underground resistance.

= = =

One of the top men in Barrayaran underground resistance, with papers to the name of Pietros Lykaios (but also known as Pierre Loup, aka Cagey Pete, aka Vasily Volkov and many other names, known only to himself as Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan) was walking down the street of the coastal town. This was the Greekie part of the coast, and in this town, among these people, he would only be recognised as unobjectionable regular of the dockside tavern. Maybe too regular. His instincts were telling him he had been in one place too long.

He was supposed to meet his contact at the cafe, and the contact had access to a ground car and would drive him to the next town. He had never met the contact, a low level gopher, who was on probation to the resistance, but he knew the recognition signals.

The radio in front of the cafe was playing the new Greekie chanson "The Winds Bring The Scent Of Your Name".

The lyrics were sugary, but Piotr noticed something about them. The rhythm ate at him, he could feel that different words could fit it. Words that would express how he felt. About the occupation, about his longing for the Dendarii mountains, about his wish to see Barrayar free again.

He came around the corner and could see the tables. He drew back, watching intently. He recognised one of the guests. And the person he recognised was wearing the recognition signals. That was his contact. He was reading his paper, oblivious to everything happening on the street. Not even using the paper to conceal his observing the street, actually reading the thing.

Piotr cursed under his breath. Still, he had to leave town, and this was the only route he could arrange in the time available.

Piotr took the recognition signal from his lapel and put it in his pocket. Then he walked to the contact's table and set down.

"Go away", said the contact, "I'm waiting for someone".

"Hello, Bongo", said Piotr.

The paper came down.

"Peepee!" shouted the contact, then brought his voice down.

"What are you doing here? Last I heard you were at the Cetagandan academy".

"I found a chance to get out of there. Now I'm keeping low. You know how it is. What are you doing?"

"Oh", said Bongo, looking meaningfully left, and then right. He leaned toward Piotr, and said quietly. "I'm on an important assignment for the resistance. I'm quite high in the resistance, you know".

Piotr did his best to look impressed. Bongo will never know how quickly, and why, he failed his probation.

"Oh, how interesting." Piotr said. "Tell me about it".

Bongo waved for the waiter.

Some time and many incredible (and very false) stories later, Bongo shook the second bottle of wine over his glass. It was empty. He had not noticed that of the two bottles, Piotr only drank one glass, and Bongo drank the rest.

Bongo sighed. "Anyway, this guy from resistance hasn't showed. They lack discipline, you know. Need a vor to lead them, peasants can't manage."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I'm sure you will whip team up into shape in no time." Piotr assured him.

"I say," he said, as if he just remembered. "Could you give me a ride up the coast? There's a young lady there who has made me ... certain promises."

"Oh, sure. I mean, I have to stay in town in case the resistance needs me, but my driver will take you."

He stood up, and waved his arms. Piotr winced inside. A ground car limousine glided up to the cafe, and the uniformed driver walked out and opened the passenger door.

"Negri, this is Peepee. He needs a ride. Take him where he needs to go, and if you come back late, mind that you make sure the car is cleaned before 8."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir.", said Negri.

= = =

It was a different town, different coast, different year. There was a radio on a random windowsill, defiantly playing the same Greekie chanson, but now the words were the ones written by Piotr, and they were chosen carefully. The title of the song was now "The wind brings the smell of Dendarii wild roses", and the lyrics were full of allusions that flew right over the heads of Cetagandan censors, but spoke straight to all Barrayaran patriots. Even a year ago, the new lyrics were only sung around a campfire, or during a long march, or in secret. Now they were on the radio. And someone dared put the radio where anybody in the street could hear it.

The times have changed. Cetagandans still had a firm grip, but the resistance had managed to find cracks in their control in ways that the public noticed. People were no longer cowed by the high-tech might of Cetaganda, nor awed by their mysterious ways.

Piotr was walking casually around the streets, checking carefully to make sure he wasn't followed, always alert for Cetagandan patrols that would sometimes close up a street and check everybody's identity. Piotr's id was impeccable, and he wasn't carrying anything incriminating this time, but he knew better than to let himself get complacent.

Because Cetagandans too noticed the shift of the mood, and had reacted. The captured some low level members of the resistance and interrogated them until they gave up the next links in the chain. They managed to unravel some of Piotr's careful obfuscations. Some key people were captured. Some courier routes were no longer operational. He still had communications with enough of his network to make a difference, but his communications with his superiors have been cut at the worst possible time. He felt that his time in the underground was fast coming to an end. The Cetagandans were getting too close. He had some ideas on how to change the game completely, but for that, he needed permission. He knew better than to make a move like that on his own.

He finaly saw a signal on a lamp-post that told him the contact was waiting at the meeting point. He proceeded there carefully, now being even more careful about being followed.

Negri was sitting at a table in the shade of a parasol, where his back was to the wall and he could see all along the street without being observed. Piotr sat next to him, his back to the wall, too. He trusted Negri, but he could no longer abide not having a wall at his back.

Negri was excited.

"The courier came through, sir. Full contact re-established. We have new radio codes, and the radio operator has new equipment. Betan. A very sweet setup, sir."

"And?"

"Word from HQ sir. The emperor agreed to designate the Dendarii irregulars as an official arm of the empire, no longer limited by the armsmen quota. To be integrated into the Barrayaran armed forces, and you'll be reporting directly to Ezar Vorbarra. We're official now, sir. We're allowed to form a force that will be able to really start hitting Cetagandans where it hurts."

"And?"

"And your father sent you this". He handed Piotr an old dagger. Piotr felt a lump in his throat. The dagger with the Vorkosigan seal concealed in the handle. Count Selig's dagger. The last time he had seen his father, Piotr was a wastrel, swimming in a sea of drink and ladies of commercial virtue. His relationship with his hardworking father was ... difficult. This dagger meant his father had forgiven him.

Piotr nodded, concealing his happiness.

"And?" he asked. He was surprised Negri had not yet mentioned it yet.

"What about the other thing?"

Negri was almost dancing in his seat. "Everything went well, sir. I have a son!".

"Congratulations", said Piotr, warmly.

Negri suddenly grabbed Piotr's arm. He looked at Piotr seriously.

"If anything happens to me... Promise me you will take care of my son."

Piotr looked into his eyes. "My word as a Vor"

= = =

Guerrilla General Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan (known to Cetagandans only as Subject W34, no picture, real name unknown, probably the leader of a band of bloodthirsty bandits, and to Barrayarans as Commander of Dendarii Guerillas real name classified) was deep in the cave, looking at the maps spread on the table. The cave was lit by long-life lamps smuggled from Beta. Very useful technology, though he would have preferred more weapons.

He heard a commotion from one cave chamber over. People talking. He ignored them. The patterns on the map were troubling. Cetagandas were moving their troops, as if they were retreating from Vashnoi, but they didn't seem to be retreating elsewhere. Something about that pattern...

In the jumble of words he was ignoring he suddenly heard a phrase that he couldn't ignore. "Count Vorkosigan!"

Piotr's heart leaped. He turned from the table. "Da?"

His aide-de-camp entered, looking ashen.

"Sir... The Cetagandans... They nuked Vorkosigan Vashnoi."

Piotr nodded, his face suddenly made of stone.

"My family?"

"When we saw Cetagandans withdrawing, commander Negri felt it was the perfect time to extract them. He took a flyer in personally. He was still on his way in when the nukes struck. None of them made it out, sir".

Piotr turned back to his map.

He took a breath.

He cleared his throat.

When he spoke again, his voice was calm, but he was still turned away.

"The way the Cetagandans have been moving troops around, none of them will have had a chance to set up good perimeters. Get my commanders in here. I want to do some serious strikes on their ground concentrations before the end of the day."

It wasn't until that night, when he was alone in his bed, covered by his blanket over the head, that he allowed himself to cry.

= = =
The bass-drum beats that represented the nuclear strikes of the last part of the war were fading out, and the next few notes struck the familiar pattern: The Barrayaran anthem. A Barrayaran flag unfurled down from the rafters.

= = =

Dorca, Ezar, Piotr and the other commanders, stood on the podium where the armistice was signed. Looking up at the Cetagandan ships that were lifting off in final retreat.

A Barrayaran flag was fluttering from the flagpoles.

= = =

Like all the other generals and old fighters in the concert hall, Piotr leaped from his seat and froze in a salute, hand to breast, the guerrilla way, while the anthem played.

"May there always be a Barrayar!", he thought. "And a Vorkosigan to guard it!".

P.S.

Barrayaran press praised the performance of Overture for Barrayar as "The new sound of Barrayar, confident and rising to fulfil it's galactic destiny under the wise leadership of his imperial highness Yuri Vorbarra".

A Betan reporter mentioned it in passing as bloated, sentimental, unoriginal and overly militaristic piece of snot.

Cetagandan press did not mention it at all.