The Warrior's Apprentice (Vorkosigan Saga, #2)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

The tall and dour noncom wore Imperial dress greens and carried his communications panel like a field marshal’s baton. He slapped it absently against his thigh, raking the group of young men before him with a gaze of dry contempt. Challenging. All part of the game, Miles told himself. He stood in the crisp autumn breeze and tried not to shiver in his shorts and running shoes. Nothing to put you off balance like being nearly naked when all about you look ready for one of Emperor Gregor’s reviews—although, in all fairness, the majority here were dressed the same as himself. The noncom proctoring the tests merely seemed like a one-man crowd. Miles measured him, wondering what conscious or unconscious tricks of body language he used to achieve that air of icy competence. Something to be learned there . . . “You will run in pairs,” the noncom instructed. He did not seem to raise his voice, but somehow it was pitched to carry to the ends of the lines. Another effective trick, Miles thought; it reminded him of that habit of his father’s, of dropping his voice to a whisper when speaking in a rage. It locked attention.

“His crème de meth just wore off,” Mayhew explained. “Drops you in a hurry, doesn’t it, kid?” Miles mumbled, an inarticulate groan. Bothari growled something exasperated under his breath about “deserve,” picked him up, and slung him unceremoniously over his shoulder. “Well, at least he’ll stop bouncing off the walls, and give us all a break,” said Mayhew cheerfully. “I’ve never seen anybody overrev on that stuff the way he did.” “Oh, was that liquor of yours a stimulant?” asked Elena. “I wondered why he didn’t fall asleep.” “Couldn’t you tell?” chuckled Mayhew. “Not really.” Miles twisted his head to take in Elena’s upside-down worried face, and smile in weak reassurance. Sparkly black-and-purple whirlpools clouded his vision. Mayhew’s laughter faded. “My God,” he said hollowly, “you mean he’s like that all the time?”