Borders of Infinity

by Lois McMaster Bujold

“Of course I had sugar in my pockets. It’s called foresight and planning. The trick of handling horses isn’t to be faster than the horse, or stronger than the horse. That pits your weakness against his strengths. The trick is to be smarter than the horse. That pits your strength against his weakness, eh?”

Miles considered the peculiarities of Barrayaran law as he wandered about the clearing, watching the stream and the light, turning over an occasional rock with the toe of his boot. The fundamental principle was clear; the spirit was to be preferred over the letter, truth over technicalities. Precedent was held subordinate to the judgment of the man on the spot. Alas, the man on the spot was himself. There was no refuge for him in automated rules, no hiding behind the law says as if the law were some living overlord with a real Voice.

“Now, there’s this about cynicism, Sergeant. It’s the universe’s most supine moral position. Real comfortable. If nothing can be done, then you’re not some kind of shit for not doing it, and you can lie there and stink to yourself in perfect peace.”

We’ve done it all at least ten times. You think you’re the first reformer to come through here?” “No, Oliver.” Miles leaned into his face, his eyes boring into Oliver’s burning eyes unscorched. His voice fell to a whisper. “I think I’m the last.”

“Sh . . .” Oliver’s voice trailed off. He glanced for confirmation, oddly enough, at Suegar. “Is this guy for real?” “He thinks he’s faking it,” said Suegar blandly, “but he’s not. He’s the One, all right and tight.”

“Do you see the hat?” She was beginning to be amused. “Yes . . .” “Do you see the feathers on the hat?” “Yes . . .” “Describe them.” “Oh—plumy things.” “How many?” “Two. Bunched together.” “Do you see the color of the feathers?” She drew back, suddenly self-conscious again, with a sidewise glance at her companions. “No.” “When you can see the color of the feathers,” said Miles softly, “you’ll also understand how you can expand your borders to infinity.”

He had a sick premonition that Suegar’s death was going to be almost as bad as Sergeant Bothari’s, six years ago, and he had known Suegar only weeks, not years. Repeated pain, as he had reason to know, made one more afraid of injury, not less, a growing, gut-wrenching dread. Not again, never again . . .