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glass and silver, soft tread of feet from Piotr Vorkosigan’s wake that penetrated from nearby rooms. “Do you realize what he’s going to think?”
    “Evil to him who evil thinks,” he flung gaily over his shoulder. “Just so he doesn’t think of this...” He palmed the lock to the comconsole, with its double-scrambled links to military headquarters and the Imperial Residence, that sat incongruously before the carved marble fireplace. Elena’s mouth fell open in astonishment as its force screen parted. A few passes of his hands brought the holovid plates to life.
    “I thought that was top security!” she gasped.
    “‘Tis. But Captain Koudelka was giving me a little tutoring on the side, before, when I was—” a bitter smile, a jerk of the wrist, “studying. He used to tap into the battle computers—the real ones, at headquarters— and run simulations for me. I thought he might not have remembered to unkey me...” he was half-absorbed, entering a tattoo of complex directions.
    “What are you doing? “ she asked nervously.
    “Entering Captain Koudelka’s access code. To get military records.”
    “Ye gods, Miles!”
    “Don’t worry about it.” He patted her hand. “We’re in here necking, remember? Nobody’s likely to come in here tonight but Captain Koudelka, and he won’t mind that. We can’t miss. Thought I’d start with your father’s Service record. Ah, here...” The holovid plate threw up a flat screen and began displaying written records. “There’s bound to be something about your mother on it, that we can use to unravel,” he paused, sitting back puzzled, “the mystery...” He flipped through several screens.
    “What?” Elena agitated.
    “Thought I’d peek into near the time you were born—I thought he’d quit the Service just before, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Did he ever say he was involuntarily medically discharged?”
    “No...” She peered over his shoulder. “That’s funny. It doesn’t say why.”
    “Tell you what’s funnier. His entire record for most of the preceding year is sealed. Your time. And the code on it—very hot. I can’t crack it without triggering a doublecheck, which would end—yes, that’s Captain Illyan’s personal mark. I definitely don’t want to talk to him.” He quailed at the thought of accidentally summoning the attention of Barrayar’s Chief of Imperial Security.
    “Definitely,” croaked Elena, staring at him in fascination.
    “Well, let’s do some time-travelling,” Miles pattered on. “Back, back... Your father doesn’t seem to have gotten along too well with this Commodore Vorrutyer fellow.”
    Elena perked with interest. “Was that the same as the Admiral Vorrutyer who was killed at Escobar?”
    “Um... Yes, Ges Vorrutyer. Hm.” Bothari had been the commodore’s batman, it appeared, for several years. Miles was surprised. He’d had the vague impression that Bothari had served under his father as a ground combat soldier since the beginning of time. Bothari’s service with Vorrutyer ended in a constellation of reprimands, black marks, discipline parades, and sealed medical reports. Miles, conscious of Elena staring over his shoulder, whipped past these quickly. Oddly inconsistent. Some, bizarrely petty, were marked with ferocious punishments. Others, astonishingly serious—had Bothari really held an engineering tech at plasma-arc-point in a lavatory for sixteen hours? and for God’s sake, why? —disappeared into the medical reports and resulted in no discipline at all.
    Going farther into the past, the record steadied. A lot of combat in his twenties. Commendations, citations for being wounded, more commendations. Excellent marks in basic training. Recruiting records. “Recruiting was a lot simpler in those days,” Miles said enviously.
    “Oh! Are my grandparents on that?” asked Elena eagerly. “He never talks about them, either. I gather his mother died when he was rather young. He’s never even told me