Miles wakes in unparalleled luxury in his cabin aboard the Triumph. That is, he wakes after a full ten-plus hours' sleep, with no one immediately demanding his attention. He indulges in five minutes of decadent sloth, just lying there, before his comconsole chimes and he rolls out of bed to answer it.

The comm officer tells him he has a call from the Barrayaran embassy, asking for him personally.

That wakes him right the fuck up.

He tells the comm officer to pipe it through and not listen or record, then sits at his desk. Commodore Destang's face appears above the vid plate.

"'Admiral Naismith'," he says, with the quotation marks cover-bendingly audible. "Are we alone?"

"Entirely, sir," says Miles, deferentially and in his Barrayaran accent. No need to ruffle feathers.

"Very well," says Destang. "I have an order for you, Lieutenant Vorkosigan. You are to remain aboard your ship in orbit until I, personally, call again and notify you otherwise."

Damnation. "Why, sir?" he asks, not that he can't hazard a guess.

"For my peace of mind. When a simple precaution will prevent the slightest possibility of an accident, it's foolish not to take it. Do you understand?"

"Fully, sir."

"Very well. That's all. Destang out."

The commodore's face winks out. Miles swears foully, yanks on his trousers, and grabs Elli's secured comlink from the pocket where he left it.

"Ivan? You there?"