贵族们的游戏 - 书评
出身豪门的迈尔斯从太空军校毕业，分配到帝国的一个边陲基地。很快,他发现自己陷入了一个巨大的阴谋，成为几大星球对抗的关键人物。迈尔斯竭尽自己的智慧，周旋于各大势力之间，眼看大功告成，却因为叛徒的出卖， ...此主题为自动生成的书评内容贴，书籍链接地址: http://www.dothinkings.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=15500
书评内容会自动聚合在本帖中 总体来说，这本书是迈尔斯军事生涯的开端,同时也是格雷格皇帝真正掌权的开端。若是写一个迈尔斯个人的编年史，这是很重要的一年。
这本书的情节很精彩，但是在读的过程中，却总是觉得迈尔斯的未来暗流涌动。尤其是卡罗维对迈尔斯今后的预言，他对格雷格的忠诚不会为他换来任何东西，让人隐隐不安。
迈尔斯和格雷格的追求是不同的，迈尔斯追求的是别人的认同，而格雷格追求的是权力，无论是对自己命运的主宰还是对贝拉亚帝国的权力。在这系列小说中，关于格雷格的情节很少，可是在少有的情节中却两次写了格雷格为了权力无视情感背叛其他人。如果说背叛趁人之危利用他的卡罗维有情可原，那么背叛迈尔斯的父亲，他的养父，阿罗弗科西根就实在让人费解。这不禁让人联想，是否有一天格雷格也会因为某种无法抗拒的原因背叛迈尔斯呢？我个人希望不会，可是卡维罗的预言已经在这个系列较后面的一本书中初见端倪，那本书是个转折点，之后只需几个甚至是一个故事，就会迎来这个系列的大结局，迈尔斯一生结局，也会最终揭晓。
贵族们的游戏，也就是权力的游戏。到了最后，谁会是真正的赢家呢？ http://bbs.ustc.edu.cn/cgi/bbscon?bn=PopSciFic&fn=M413A70D9&num=1107
这个中文名跟《安德的游戏》真是冲得厉害，
可是The Vor Game就没有那种冲突的感觉。
叶李华90年（91年？）拿台湾大奖的那篇短篇
就叫《戏》，英文出来居然也是The Game。
真得很像金庸小说，读科幻到现在，最像金庸小说的，
主角当然是像韦小宝。和金庸小说比，缺乏可爱的
小女生。也许在其他部之中会出现，但是金庸小说里
可爱的小女生一部都不能少的。
武侠版这两天正在重跳万年老坑，讨论哪个武功名称最好听。
科幻版上似乎从没讨论过哪种宇宙兵器的名字最好，
毕竟太少了。郑军的科幻迷自测题上居然要求听过他的课的
同学（自测题是郑军开过的一个课程的结业试题）举出12种
“常见的宇宙兵器”，我投降。但是，我这里多少也积累了一
些不太常见的名字。最土的名字我推OSC的“小医生”，啥跟啥呀，
而最漂亮的名字，就是出现在Vorkosigan系列中的“太阳墙”，
太帅了。
但这个系列没能把太空歌剧的工夫做足，太空歌剧里，至少应该有一个
浩大的神秘宗教什么的，来点终极关怀，顿时就上升为
成年人的读物。Uplift系列好像就有如此之强，沙丘就不用说了。
Hyperion也有，阿西莫夫也把第二基地和古代机器人写得
差不多。那样一来，跟哈利波特完全不在一个档次上。
而Vorkosigan恐怕还得说是跟哈利波特在同一个档次上，
比哈利波特早、长、规模大就是了。
Vorkosigan有科幻上的遗产银河帝国，哈利波特却没能继承
史诗奇幻给它的大地。当然史诗奇幻已经把大地写烂了，可
科幻上一样把银河帝国写烂了，但银河帝国仍然是好东西。何况
Vorkosigan正式地把大地抢了过来，放到银河帝国之上，画了个
地图。这样一来，Vorkosigan占了个双份，哈利波特一样没沾着。
Vorkosigan能从阿西莫夫那里继承来骡子的形象，哈利波特
也没能继承个半身人啥的。
从文学风格来说，Vorkosigan和哈利波特有相像之处，这两位
杰出的作者倒都是大龄待业女青年出身，婚否待查。但是啊但是，
这可不是什么女性风格。康妮·威利斯写的东西比她们细腻的多，
也不缺少某种类似于终极关怀之类的东西。
Mirror Dance里我觉得大感动场面一堆，The Vor Game中却没有，
怎么回事？可能有如下的解释：1，Mirror Dance比The Vor Game
写得好，2，翻译把感动风格翻没了，这样的话，或许哈利波特
比我们想象的更加感人ft，3我读英文版读得细，Mirror Dance里
大感动场面其实不多但我体会得深些。
虽然作者以情节为重，但是偏偏在情节上也有粗糙之处。例如介绍大地
式的各个国家的时候，如果给他们一一贴上标签——狼一样的西塔甘达，
粗俗的贝塔，等等，读者会更加容易接受。这么典型的通俗小说技巧，
作者难道不屑于用么？一些关键场面，例如突然落入陷阱、或者
援军到来，都转得太平了，应赵老师号召，应该“逼得更紧”一些。
在战线尚可支撑的情况下援军到达，如果改成到战线崩溃，正待自杀
的时候援军到达，效果会更好。这样似乎太俗了些？那么到已经有人
自杀了的时候，援军才到达，那真有青年漫画的气概了，我还不知道
科幻和武侠里哪个写到过这么惨烈。
主角讨厌……主要在于两点，第一，作者太多渲染别人在他面前吃惊的
场面了。第二，他时常说一些弯子绕得太大的俏皮话，太贫。第一点
应该通过删除部分不必要场面来修正，第二点，在小说里批评一下
主角的恶习即可。主角巧舌如簧的本事并不令他显得可爱，正如韦小宝
并不因会说话显得可爱一样。令主角显得可爱的，我认为有一点，即
主角做事不考虑后果，只考虑眼前。因为他只来得及考虑眼前，这一点
既体现他能力有限，又体现他的魄力，一举两得，很好。
和银河英雄传说比较，宇宙战争场面虽然短，但是更精彩。论政治谋略，
The Vor Game几乎不逊于三国。用了三百字就描述了攻陷要塞的三种方法：
巧取、绕道、强攻。结果银英用一本书去写了杨威利的第一种方法，
剩下的九本书去写了莱茵哈特的第二种方法，又写了n多外传来讲述
同盟白痴们的第三种方法。但是，银河英雄传说也不是给比得完全没脾气了，
因为Vorkosigan系列并不是个政治寓言。但如果Bujold勉强自己去写
政治寓言的话，恐怕会毁掉作品和她的人生的。所以这样就很好了。 这本书是女作家写的。一般来说我不太会考虑去看女性科幻作家写的太空歌剧。说实话，勒古恩不是我的那盘菜。由此及彼地我打消了看同为女性作家写的迈尔斯系列的想法，如果一定要让我看女性作家的小说，我可能会选择细腻的郭敬明。
前两周，在大牙叔、星星和毛雪的推荐下，我才产生了欲望，买了十本迈尔斯，其中《战争学徒》由于缺货没买到。
大牙叔让我先看这本贵族们的游戏。
首先，要对比约德夫人表示敬意。如果她的故事能讲得更好点儿的话，我得给她的书评五星。可惜，比约德夫人的小说犯了其他喜欢写大构架的小说作者的通病：故事没有推动力。也许由于推荐人过于热情，使我对这本书产生了不切实际的期望，阅读完毕后落差比较大，稍微有点失望，感觉很对不起大牙叔。
一般来说，没有推动力的故事看上去是那样地不温不火。不温不火的故事……让我们举几个例子：《群星，我的归宿》《异光》（碟形世界的第一部）《乌有乡》。这些小说都有个共同的毛病：构架大到不得了，母牛坐在暖器上一样牛逼烘烘，开篇便造成大冲击，场景和点子层出不穷，逼着读者幻想纷纷；但故事本身却是不合理的存在，包括矛盾冲突、人物的行动和感情变化，都像是假造的、虚构的，像是一群傻逼在演戏。
我们读小说，情节和人物塑造当然是最会被关注的，我不相信一个小说读者会着眼于世界观的构造或牛逼烘烘的魔法系谱，我不相信看厚达数千页的设定书就会有快感。如果你真的这么做了，而且觉得人物和情节有没有都无所谓，请你发一份简历给我，我希望你能来我们这儿做游戏设计师。再牛逼的世界背景也得有合理的人物和合理的剧情，歌剧舞台不是为木偶戏而搭的，詹姆斯·卡梅伦估计也不会希望蓝皮鼠大脸猫来做他的大片主角。
我一直认为雷·布雷德伯里的《霜与火》才是真正的科幻小说，那是我读过的最好的科幻小说，或者说，那是我读过的最好的小说。也许你会说那小说显得很假，科幻的成分像蛋清一样稀软，没什么像样的世界设定，人物也脸谱化。
但是它激情澎湃。
不温不火的小说是最操蛋的，看这种小说，你的期望越大，失望也就越大。让这些小说的庞大的世界观带着你高飞吧。你飞得越高就越会摔得屁滚尿流，等你双飞够了就会发现整个小说的故事就是一坨屎，甚至还不如你执笔来写。你看到不温不火的情节，恨不得把主角抓出来使劲殴打，恨不得亲自跳进小说里扮演反派大魔王，好给这些不温不火的砂锅加点儿火，让主角多少有点出息，让它好歹沸腾一下。
如果一个读者这么想了，小说的作者就危险了。
让读者尿急地为人物虚构情节，不是件好事儿。
你可以让读者憋尿，但最好别让他憋出尿潴留。
不温不火的情节是大爆发的前奏，可千万别一直这么不温不火下去。这个时代需要的是雷·布雷德伯里，需要的是激情，是永不停止的创造精神，而不是凡尔纳，我们不需要慢悠悠地坐着气球在天上环游世界喝茶打屁拉屎拉尿。
遗憾的是，我们这个时代的很多银河系作家——中国的、外国的、火星的，很多很多作家——甚至可以说是绝大部分作家，都无法摒弃这个通病。慢悠悠地展开屎一样臭烘烘的情节，磨磨蹭蹭地让男女主角打情骂俏，大魔王一边刷牙一边等着他们打到关底。天哪，每次看到这样的磨磨蹭蹭，我就想把这些作者用铁丝串起来——从肩胛骨那儿穿过去，一个一个溜溜地串成一排，把他们丢进油锅里炸，直到炸得酥脆泛黄里焦外嫩，再把他们捞起来，丢在工作台上，给他们一人一台打字机，对他们说：“你妈逼的现在算是有激情了吧？”
我想如果我这么做的话，作为政府机构的作协一定不会饶了我。我只是想说，如果能显得激情点——至少在你的小说里装得有点儿激情，那都是非常圆满的一件事儿，比你进法门寺进香还管用。我每天都在想，全世界的作家们啥时候才能真正地勃起，孕育出真正好的作品。别再慢悠悠了！我们这一生不够长，经不起等待，我们读者的可悲之处就是自己不会写，只能张口结舌地等着看。我可不希望看到的还是砂锅炖排骨，我好想吃爆炒肝尖。如果能在有生之年，看到小说界有一点点起色——
我不意淫了。
给洛依德·比约德夫人的这本小说评四星的原因是（天哪，情节方面我本来想给三星的！）：
它足够机智，叙事绵密，总使我想起叙事文学的大作《漂亮朋友》。这本书让我想起了一些优秀的法国小说，我们不得不对法国人在叙事方面留下的宝贵经验致以敬意。
这是我看的第一本迈尔斯系列的小说。希望这个系列的其他小说能给我带来不同的阅读体验。就这一本来说，情节的构架真的有点儿糟糕。比约德很擅长将主人公丢在一个极端恶劣的环境里。这本来应是相当优秀的通俗小说的策略，就目前的经验来看，这么做的作者所写的作品，通常不会太差。但我们还得一再重申，再牛逼的情节也得有个合理的背景，像本书中的帝国皇帝傻逼呵呵地醉酒继而流落街头成为阶下囚的桥段，也许更适合十八世纪的法国浪漫小说。
在一个现代文明的环境里写一些不够合理的事情，恐怕不是明智之举。你能指望读者设身处地地替你想想吗？更多的情况是，作者自己想了很多，进行了周密的考证，令设定符合小说的背景和文化氛围。但傻逼呵呵的读者往往像那个醉酒的年轻皇帝一样，在你所设定的主题之外游离。他们关注的是更现实的东西，而不是理想。
作为一个女性作者，能把太空歌剧写到如此地步，实属不易。
思前想后，决定给四星。
扣掉的一星我们可以将它称作不温不火的操蛋星。 身体缺陷+人格魅力+贵族身份 嗯 我就是这么恶俗！要说情节没有很曲折也是，这是智慧的闪耀嘛，或者说迈尔斯的小聪明！非要像小兵传奇那？那不叫曲折 那叫跑情节 谢谢。而且我一直觉得小兵传奇人设借鉴迈尔斯系列
一个一米五的大头男，居然能一直觉得迈尔斯很高大很强大。。。。
击倒怒气冲冲的索恩的那段看过无数遍，多么梦幻的初遇啊！索恩没能从了迈尔斯我很怨念。。。。。
译文版看过 单行本买过，上大学从家背去毕业了又再背回来，我喜欢啊我喜欢。。。至于拿雨果奖，好像贵族们的游戏只有雨果奖吧 记忆得了双奖？一个奖而已 够机智够诙谐就拿到雨果奖 好像也就只有迈尔斯系列了吧！！！读起来轻松愉快还不够啊 这书出了那么多年就没人发现中文版少了一章吗？
英文17章，中文只有16章！OTL
准确的说应该是漏了半章而不是一章。中文版把原文第4章的后半部分加在了第3章，第3章的最后和第4章的前半部分不知被谁吞掉了。内容大概就是迈尔斯被罚扫下水道发现尸体一具，后面的书里也有提过。
以下就是无端失踪的一大段，应该在中文书第40页那两段之间的空白处。
Next morning Miles reported to the maintenance shed for the second half of the scat-cat retrieval job, cleaning all the mud-caked equipment. The sun was bright today, and had been up for hours, but Miles's body knew it was only 0500. An hour into his task he'd begun to warm up, feel better, and get into the rhythm of the thing.
At 0630, the deadpan Lieutenant Bonn arrived, and delivered two helpers unto Miles.
"Why, Corporal Olney. Tech Pattas. We meet again." Miles smiled with acid cheer. The pair exchanged an uneasy look. Miles kept his demeanor absolutely even.
He then kept everyone, starting with himself, moving briskly. The conversation seemed to automatically limit itself to brief, wary technicalities. By the time Miles had to knock off and go report to Lieutenant Ahn, the scat-cat and most of the gear had been restored to better condition that Miles had received it.
He wished his two helpers, now driven to near-twitchiness by uncertainty, an earnest good-day. Well, if they hadn't figured it out by now, they were hopeless. Miles wondered bitterly why he seemed to have so much better luck establishing rapport with bright men like Bonn. Cecil had been right, if Miles couldn't figure out how to command the dull as well, he'd never make it as a Service officer. Not at Camp Permafrost, anyway.
The following morning, the third of his official punishment seven, Miles presented himself to Sergeant Neuve. The sergeant in turn presented Miles with a scat-cat full of equipment, a disk of the related equipment manuals, and the schedule for drain and culvert maintenance for Lazkowski Base. Clearly, it was to be another learning experience. Miles wondered if General Metzov had selected this task personally. He rather thought so.
On the bright side, he had his two helpers back again. This particular civil engineering task had apparently never fallen on Olney or Pattas before either, so they had no edge of superior knowledge with which to trip Miles. They had to stop and read the manuals first too. Miles swotted procedures and directed operations with a good cheer that edged toward manic as his helpers became glummer.
There was, after all, a certain fascination to the clever drain-cleaning devices. And excitement. Flushing pipes with high pressure could produce some surprising effects. There were chemical compounds that had some quite military properties, such as the ability to dissolve anything instantly including human flesh. In the following three days Miles learned more about the infrastructure of Lazkowski Base than he'd ever imagined wanting to know. He'd even calculated the point where one well- placed charge could bring the entire system down, if he ever decided he wanted to destroy the place.
On the sixth day, Miles and his team were sent to clear a blocked culvert out by the grubs' practice fields. It was easy to spot. A silver sheet of water lapped the raised roadway on one side; on the other only a feeble trickle emerged to creep away down the bottom of a deep ditch.
Miles took a long telescoping pole from the back of their scat-cat; and probed down into the water's opaque surface. Nothing seemed to be blocking the flooded end of the culvert. Whatever it was must be jammed farther in. Joy. He handed the pole back to Pattas and wandered over to the other side of the road, and stared down into the ditch. The culvert, he noted, was something over half a meter in diameter. "Give me a light," he said to Olney. He shucked his parka and tossed it into the scat-cat, and scrambled down into the ditch. He aimed his light into the aperture. The culvert evidently curved slightly; he couldn't see a damned thing. He sighed, considering the relative width of Olney's shoulders, Pattas's, and his own.
Could there be anything further from ship duty than this? The closest he'd come to anything of a sort was spelunking in the Dendarii Mountains. Earth and water, versus fire and air. He seemed to be building up a helluva supply of yin, the balancing yang to come had better be stupendous.
He gripped the light tighter, dropped to hands and knees, and shinnied into the drain.
The icy water soaked the trouser knees of his black fatigues. The effect was numbing. Water leaked around the top of one of his gloves. It felt like a knife blade on his wrist.
Miles meditated briefly on Olney and Pattas. They had developed a cool, reasonably efficient working relationship over the last few days, based, Miles had no illusions, on a fear of God instilled in the two men by Miles's good angel Lieutenant Bonn. How did Bonn accomplish that quiet authority, anyway? He had to figure that one out. Bonn was good at his job, for starters, but what else?
Miles scraped round the curve, shone his light on the clot, and recoiled, swearing. He paused a moment to regain control of his breath, examined the blockage more closely, and backed out.
He stood up in the bottom of the ditch, straightening his spine vertebra by creaking vertebra. Corporal Olney stuck his head over the road's railing, above. "What's in there, ensign?"
Miles grinned up at him, still catching his breath. "Pair of boots."
"That's all?" said Olney.
"Their owner is still wearing 'em."
CHAPTER FOUR
Miles called the base surgeon on the scat-cat's comm link urgently requesting his presence with forensic kit, body bag, and medical transport Miles and his crew then blocked the upper end of the drain with a plastic signboard forcibly borrowed from the empty practice field beyond. Now so thoroughly wet and cold that it made no difference, Miles crawled back into the culvert to attach a rope to the anonymous booted ankles. When he emerged, the surgeon and his corpsman had arrived. The surgeon, a big, balding man, peered dubiously into the drainpipe.
"What could you see in there, ensign? What happened?"
"I can't see anything from this end but legs, sir," Miles reported.
"He's got himself wedged in there but good. Drain crud up above him I'd guess. We'll have to see what spills out with him.
"What the hell was he doing in there?" The surgeon scratched his freckled scalp.
Miles spread his hands. "Seems a peculiar way to commit suicide."
Slow and chancy, as far as drowning yourself goes." The surgeon raised his eyebrows in agreement. Miles and the surgeon had to lend their weight on the rope to Olney, Pattas, and the corpsman, before the stiff form wedged in the culvert began to scrape free.
"He's stuck," observed the corpsman, grunting. The body jerked out at last with a gush of dirty water. Pattas and Olney stared from a distance; Miles glued himself to the surgeon's shoulder. The corpse, dressed in sodden black fatigues, was waxy and blue. His collar tabs and the contents of his pockets identified him as a private from Supply. His body bore no obvious wounds, but for bruised shoulders and scraped hands.
The surgeon spoke clipped, negative preliminaries into his recorder. No broken bones, no nerve disrupter blisters. Preliminary hypothesis, death from drowning or hypothermia or both, within the last twelve hours. He flipped off his recorder and added over his shoulder, "I'll be able to tell for sure when we get him laid out back at the infirmary."
"Does this sort of thing happen often around here?" Miles inquired mildly.
The surgeon shot him a sour look. "I slab a few idiots every year. What d'you expect, when you put five thousand kids between the ages of eighteen and twenty together on an island and tell 'em to go play war? I admit, this one seems to have discovered a completely new method of slabbing himself. I guess you never see it all."
"You think he did it to himself, then?" True, it would be real tricky to kill a man and then stuff him in there.
The surgeon wandered over to the culvert and squatted, and stared into it. "So it would seem. Ah, would you take one more look in there, ensign, just in case?"
"Very well, sir." Miles hoped it was the last trip. He'd never have guessed drain cleaning would turn out to be so... thrilling. He slithered all the way under the road to the leaky board, checking every centimeter, but found only the dead man's dropped hand light. So. The private had evidently entered the pipe on purpose. With intent. What intent? Why go culvert-crawling in the middle of the night in the middle of a heavy rainstorm? Miles skinned back out and turned the light over to the surgeon.
Miles helped the corpsman and surgeon bag and load the body, then had Olney and Pattas raise the blocking board and return it to its original location. Brown water gushed, roaring, from the bottom end of the culvert and roiled away down the ditch. The surgeon Paused with Miles, leaning on the road railing and watching the water level drop in the little lake.
"Think there might be another one at the bottom?" Miles inquired Morbidly.
"This guy was the only one listed as missing on the morning report," the surgeon replied, "so probably not." He didn't look like he was willing to bet on it, though.
The only thing that did turn up, as the water level fell, was the private's soggy parka. He'd clearly tossed it over the railing before entering the culvert, from which it had fallen or blown into the water. The surgeon took it away with him.
"You're pretty cool about that," Pattas noted, as Miles turned away from the back of the medical transport and the surgeon and corps-man drove off.
Pattas was not that much older than Miles himself. "Haven't you ever had to handle a corpse?"
"No. You?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
Miles hesitated. Events of three years ago flickered through his memory. The brief months he'd been caught in desperate combat far from home, having accidently fallen in with a space mercenary force, was not a secret to be mentioned or even hinted at here. Regular Imperial troops despised mercenaries anyway, alive or dead. But the Tau Verde campaign had surely taught him the difference between "practice" and "real," between war and war games, and that death had subtler vectors than direct touch. "Before," said Miles dampingly. "Couple of times."
Pattas shrugged, veering off. "Well," he allowed grudgingly over his shoulder, "at least you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. Sir."
Miles's brows crooked, bemused. No. That's not what I'm afraid of.
Miles marked the drain "cleared" on his report panel, turned the scat-cat, their equipment, and a very subdued Olney and Pattas back in to Sergeant Neuve in Maintenance, and headed for the officers' barracks. He'd never wanted a hot shower more in his entire life.
He was squelching down the corridor toward his quarters when; another officer stuck his head out a door. "Ah, Ensign Vorkosigan?" I
"Yes?"
"You got a vid call a while ago. I encoded the return for you."
"Call?" Miles stopped. "Where from?"
"Vorbarr Sultana."
Miles felt a chill in his belly. Some emergency at home? "Thanks."
He reversed direction, and beelined for the end of the corridor and the vidconsole booth that the officers on this level shared.
He slid damply into the seat and punched up the message, number was not one he recognized. He entered it, and his chancode, and waited. It chimed several times, then the vidplate hissed to life. His cousin Ivan's handsome face materialized over it, and grinned at him.
"Ah, Miles. There you are."
"Ivan! Where the devil are you? What is this?"
"Oh, I'm at home. And that doesn't mean my mother's. I thought you might like to see my new flat."
Miles had the vague, disoriented sensation that he'd somehow tapped a line into some parallel universe, or alternate astral plane. Vorbarr Sultana, yes. He'd lived in the capital himself, in a previous incarnation. Eons ago.
Ivan lifted his vid pick-up, and aimed it around, dizzyingly. "It's fully furnished. I took over the lease from an Ops captain who was being transferred to Komarr. A real bargain. I just got moved in yesterday. Can you see the balcony?"
Miles could see the balcony, drenched in late afternoon sunlight the color of warm honey. The Vorbarr Sultana skyline rose like a fairytale city, swimming in the summer haze beyond. Scarlet flowers swarmed over the railing, so red in the level light they almost hurt his eyes. Miles felt like drooling into his shirtpocket, or bursting into tears. "Nice flowers," he choked.
"Yeah, m'girlfriend brought 'em."
"Girlfriend?" Ah yes, human beings had come in two sexes, once upon a time. One smelled much better than the other. Much. "Which one?"
"Tatya."
"Have I met her?" Miles struggled to remember.
"Naw, she's new."
Ivan stopped waving the vid pick-up around, and reappeared over the vid-plate. Miles's exacerbated senses settled slightly. "So how's the weather up there?" Ivan peered at him more closely. "Are you wet? What have you been doing?"
"Forensic... plumbing," Miles offered after a pause.
"What?" Ivan's brow wrinkled.
"Never mind." Miles sneezed. "Look, I'm glad to see a familiar face and all that," he was, actually—a painful strange gladness, "but I'm in the middle of my duty day, here."
"I got off-shift a couple of hours ago," Ivan remarked. "I'm taking Tatya out for dinner in a bit. You just caught me. So just tell me quick, how's life in the infantry?"
"Oh, great. Lazkowski Base is the real thing, y'know." Miles did not define what real thing. "Not a... warehouse for excess Vor lordlings like Imperial Headquarters."
"I do my job!" said Ivan, sounding slightly stung. "Actually, you'd like my job. We process information. It's amazing, all the stuff Ops accesses in a day's time. It's like being on top of the world. It would be just your speed."
"Funny. I've thought that Lazkowski Base would be just yours, Ivan. Suppose they could have got our orders reversed?"
Ivan tapped the side of his nose and sniggered. "I wouldn't tell." His humor sobered in a glint of real concern. "You, ah, take care of yourself up there, eh? You really don't look so good."
"I've had an unusual morning. If you'd sod off, I could go get a shower."
"Oh, right. Well, take care."
"Enjoy your dinner."
"Right-oh. 'Bye."
Voices from another universe. At that, Vorbarr Sultana was only a couple of hours away by sub-orbital flight. In theory. Miles was obscurely comforted, to be reminded that the whole planet hadn't shrunk to the lead-grey horizons of Kyril Island, even if his part of it seemed to have.
Miles found it difficult to concentrate on the weather, the rest of that day. Fortunately his superior didn't much notice. Since the scat-cat sinking Ahn had tended to maintain a guilty, nervous silence around Miles except when directly prodded for specific information. When his duty-day ended Miles headed straight for the infirmary.
The surgeon was still working, or at least sitting, at his desk console when Miles poked his head around the doorframe. "Good evening, sir."
The surgeon glanced up. "Yes, ensign? What is it?"
Miles took this as sufficient invitation despite the unencouraging tone of voice, and slipped within. "I was wondering what you'd found out about that fellow we pulled from the culvert this morning."
The surgeon shrugged. "Not that much to find out. His ID checked. He died of drowning. All the physical and metabolic evidence— stress, hypothermia, the hematomas—are consistent with his being stuck in there for a bit less than half an hour before death. I've ruled it death by misadventure."
"Yes, but why?"
"Why?" The surgeon's eyebrows rose. "He slabbed himself, you'll have to ask him, eh?"
"Don't you want to find out?"
"To what purpose?"
"Well... to know, I guess. To be sure you're right."
The surgeon gave him a dry stare.
"I'm not questioning your medical findings, sir," Miles added hastily. "But it was just so damn weird. Aren't you curious?"
"Not any more," said the surgeon. "I'm satisfied it wasn't suicide or foul play, so whatever the details, it comes down to death from stupidity in the end, doesn't it?"
Miles wondered if that would have been the surgeon's final epitaph on him, if he'd sunk himself with the scat-cat. "I suppose so, sir."
Standing outside the infirmary afterward in the damp wind, Miles hesitated. The corpse, after all, was not Miles's personal property. Not a case of finders- keepers. He'd turned the situation over to the proper authority. It was out of his hands now. And yet...
There were still several hours of daylight left. Miles was having trouble sleeping anyway, in these almost-endless days. He returned to his quarters, pulled on sweat pants and shirt and running shoes, and went jogging.
The road was lonely, out by the empty practice fields. The sun crawled crabwise toward the horizon. Miles broke from a jog back to a walk, then to a slower walk. His leg-braces chafed, beneath his pants. One of these days very soon he would take the time to get the brittle long bones in his legs replaced with synthetics. At that, elective surgery might be a quasi-legitimate way to lever himself off Kyril Island, if things got too desperate before his six months were up. It seemed like cheating, though.
He looked around, trying to imagine his present surroundings in the dark and heavy rain. If he had been the private, slogging along this road about midnight, what would he have seen? What could possibly have attracted the man's attention to the ditch? Why the hell had he come out here in the middle of the night in the first place? This road wasn't on the way to anything but an obstacle course and a firing range.
There was the ditch... no, his ditch was the next one, a little farther on. Four culverts pierced the raised roadway along this half-kilometer straight stretch. Miles found the correct ditch and leaned on the railing, staring down at the now-sluggish trickle of drain water. There was nothing attractive about it now, that was certain. Why, why, why... ?
Miles sloped along up the high side of the road, examining the road surface, the railing, the sodden brown bracken beyond. He came to the curve and turned back, studying the opposite side. He arrived back at the first ditch, on the baseward end of the straight stretch, without discovering any view of charm or interest.
Miles perched on the railing and meditated. All right, time to try a little logic. What overwhelming emotion had led the private to wedge himself in the drain, despite the obvious danger? Rage? What had he been pursuing? Fear? What could have been pursuing him? Error? Miles knew all about error. What if the man had picked the wrong culvert... ?
Impulsively, Miles slithered down into the first ditch. Either the man had been methodically working his way through all the culverts —if so, had he been working from the base out, or from the practice fields back?—or else he had missed his intended target in the dark and rain and got into the wrong one. Miles would give them all a crawl- through if he had to, but he preferred to be right the first time. Even if there wasn't anybody watching. This culvert was slightly wider in diameter than the second, lethal one. Miles pulled his hand light from his belt, ducked within, and began examining it centimeter by centimeter.
"Ah," he breathed in satisfaction, midway beneath the road. There was his prize, stuck to the upper side of the culvert's arc with sagging tape. A package, wrapped in waterproof plastic. How interesting. He slithered out and sat in the mouth of the culvert, careless of the damp but carefully out of view from the road above.
He placed the packet on his lap and studied it with pleasurable anticipation, as if it had been a birthday present. Could it be drugs, contraband, classified documents, criminal cash? Personally, Miles hoped for classified documents, though it was hard to imagine anyone classifying anything on Kyril Island except maybe the efficiency reports. Drugs would be all right, but a spy ring would be just wonderful. He'd be a Security hero—his mind raced ahead, already plotting the next move in his covert investigation. Following the dead man's trail through subtle clues to some ringleader, who knew how high up? The dramatic arrests, maybe a commendation from Simon, Illyan himself.... The package was lumpy, but crackled slightly—plastic flimsies? Heart hammering, he eased it open—and slumped in stunned I disappointment. A pained breath, half-laugh, half-moan, puffed from his lips. Pastries. A couple of dozen lisettes, a kind of miniature popovers glazed and stuffed with candied fruit, made, traditionally, for the midsummer day celebration. Month and a half old stale pastries. What a cause to die for....
Miles's imagination, fueled by knowledge of barracks life, sketched in the rest readily enough. The private had received this package from some sweetheart/mother/sister, and sought to protect it from his ravenous mates, who would have wolfed it all down in seconds. Perhaps the man, starved for home, had been rationing them out to himself morsel by morsel in a lingering masochistic ritual, pleasure and pain mixed with each bite. Or maybe he'd just been saving them for some special occasion.
Then came the two days of unusual heavy rain, and the man had begun to fear for his secret treasure's, ah, liquidity margin. He'd come out to rescue his cache, missed the first ditch in the dark, gone at the second in desperate determination as the waters rose, realized his mistake too late....
Sad. A little sickening. But not useful. Miles sighed, and bundled the lisettes back up, and trotted off with the package under his arm, back to the base to turn it over to the surgeon.
The surgeon's only comment, when Miles caught up with him and explained his findings, was "Yep. Death from stupidity, all right." Absently he bit into a lisette and sniffed.
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