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“Not everything rumored about Crown Prince Serg is true,” Miles cut hastily across this. “Though the true core is . . . bad enough. Mother knows. She was eyewitness to crazy things even I don’t know, about the Escobar invasion. But she’ll tell you. Ask her straight, she’ll tell you straight back.” “That seems to run in the family,” Gregor allowed. “Too.” “She’ll tell you how different you are from him—nothing wrong with your mother’s blood, that I ever heard—anyway, I probably carry almost as many of Mad Yuri’s genes as you do, through one line of descent or another.” Gregor actually grinned.
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Would he ever visit Earth? Maybe.
“I can’t help it, sir, if people give me the wrong orders.” “If you can’t obey my orders, I don’t want you in my Section.”
“Hm,” Illyan said. “And yet . . . who shall I assign you to now? Which loyal officer gets his career destroyed next?” Miles thought this over. “Why don’t you assign me directly to yourself, sir?” “Thanks,” said Illyan dryly. “I didn’t mean—” Miles began to sputter protest, stopped, detecting the oblique gleam of humor in Illyan’s brown eyes. Roasting me for your sport, are you?
“Aral and I have labored twenty years to put ourselves out of work. We may live long enough to retire after all.” He paused. “That’s called ‘success’ in my business, boys. I wouldn’t object.” And under his breath “. . . get this hellish chip taken out of my head at last. . . .”
Miles caught them between his hands, the plastic collar rectangles of his new rank. He was so surprised he said the first thing that came into his head, which was, “Well, that’s a start on the subordination problem.”
Illyan softened slightly. “Your father will know better, though. And Gregor. And, er . . . myself.” Miles looked up, to catch his eye directly for almost the first time this interview. “Thank you.” “You earned it. You won’t get anything from me you don’t earn. That includes the dressing-downs.” “I’ll look forward to them, sir.”
