Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen Read Online Free PDF

directions.
    These ruminations brought Jole around again to the doors of what the sign proclaimed as Kareenburg Reproductive and Obstetrical Services. Kayross for short, the intimidating polysyllables tamed and made friendly by the nickname. The building was not one of the old field shelters, but instead purpose-built, in a utilitarian mode that spoke of constrained budgets, as a clinic—if not this clinic, which had taken over the premises more recently.
    I can do this. I can do anything. Hadn’t Aral Vorkosigan taught him that? Jole took a breath and pushed inside.
    …But, as he stepped into the queue at the reception counter, he was nonetheless glad he was wearing his anonymous casual civvies, and not his rank-heavy undress greens. Not that Imperial uniforms were an unusual sight on Kareenburg’s streets. There were several people in line ahead of him—another man, a woman, and a couple, whose heads all swung around to observe him in turn—and he wasn’t sure whether to be glad he had company, or to wish them all to oblivion. They were all sent to wait on uncomfortable-looking seats lining the side of the room, but when Jole stated his name, the receptionist jumped up, saying in a far-too-carrying voice, “Oh, yes, Admiral Jole! The Vicereine told us to expect you. Dr. Tan is right this way,” and ushered him through a door into a short corridor, which had the faint chemical-and-disinfectant smell of every med clinic he’d ever unhappily encountered. So maybe it was some visceral memory of old pain and injury that was making him edgy? No, probably not.
    She led him first into a room containing several comconsole desks, half of them manned by intent staffers and displaying dauntingly dense data readouts, or gaudy tangles that he guessed were molecular maps. The various colors and cuts of lab coats might proclaim different functions, ranks, and responsibilities, just as Imperial uniforms and insignia did, but this wasn’t a code to which he had the key. And there were a lot more personal touches—plants, toys, holocubes, souvenirs. The clothing under the coats was anything but uniform, including a couple of young people wearing what were clearly Betan sarongs and sandals, though it was less clear if they were actually Betans. The coffee mugs, at least, were familiar.
    The receptionist delivered him to the desk of a slight, dark-haired young man in a light blue coat that went to his knees, though he was wearing Sergyaran-style trousers and a shirt underneath.
    “Dr. Tan, Admiral Jole is here.”
    “Ah, excellent! Just a sec…” He flung up a finger and finished whatever he had been about at his comconsole, shut down the baffling display of vibrant light lines, then stood up to offer Jole a firm handshake and a smile. The receptionist flitted away.
    Dr. Tan was tan, and very healthy-looking, though his features were hard to map to any particular Earth ancestry—unlike Barrayar’s population, lost and isolated for six hundred years and only rediscovered a century ago, the Betans had been using gene cleaning and rearranging for generations, which meant anyone’s ancestors could be anything. “How do you do, Admiral? Welcome to Kayross. I’m so glad you came in. Any friend of the Vicereine’s is a friend of ours, I assure you!”
    Jole was a bit disoriented by that familiar Betan accent coming out of such an unfamiliar mouth, but he managed the handshake and suitable greetings. He tried not to let the accent sway him—he was here to make his own judgments…Or had he already decided, and all this going-through-the-motions was for what audience, exactly?
    “Vicereine Vorkosigan said you would have questions, and that I was to answer them all. Would you care to start with a short tour?”
    “Uh…yes, actually. Please. The only rep center I’ve ever been in wasn’t up and running yet.” That had been at a dedication ceremony in the Vorkosigan’s District capital of Hassadar, back on Barrayar, which