Miles lunges for it, not quite bludgeoning Ivan aside. "Yes, sir?"
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," says Miles, in controlled tones. Then he cuts the com and leaps up with a glad cry of, "My eighteen million marks at last!"
"Or exciting career advancement in the field of inventory. You could count all the goldfish in the reception court fountain."
"...Ivan, did Galeni actually make you count the goldfish?"
For now, he is going straight to Galeni's office.
"Well," he says when Miles comes in. "Your orders have arrived from sector HQ, Lieutenant Vorkosigan. It confirms your temporary assignment to my staff - officially and publicly. As for the rest of your orders - they're Vorpatril's to nearly the letter, save the names. You are to assist me as required, and hold yourself at the disposal of the ambassador and his lady for escort duties, and as time permits take advantage of educational opportunities unique to Earth and appropriate to your status as an Imperial officer and lord of the Vor."
"What the hell, sir?" says Miles. "That can't be right! What the devil are escort duties?"
"Mostly," says Galeni, smiling a ghost of a smile, "standing around in parade dress, at official Embassy functions, and being Vor for the natives. A surprising number of people find aristocrats, even off-planet ones, fascinating. You will," he goes on, "eat, drink, possibly dance, and be exquisitely polite to anyone the ambassador would care to impress. Sometimes you will be asked to remember and report on conversations. Vorpatril does it all quite well, rather to my surprise; he can fill you in on the details."
"And - the rest? My eighteen million marks?"
"What!" He restrains himself, with effort, from physically leaping across Galeni's desk to look at the vid himself. "Fuck's sake, sir, we bled for Barrayar!" His mind floods with the knowledge of all the debts he incurred on entering Earth local space for which he carefully allotted ten days' grace. A grace which is about to expire. "We need that money! They can't just - I - someone has fucked something up here, Captain."
Miles's breath hisses out between his teeth. "Send again. Sir."
"Or even better, send me. Maybe I can shake loose some funds if I turn up on Sector HQ's doorstep personally carrying the message."
He waits a few seconds just to see if Galeni will have a sudden change of heart, then slumps fractionally. "Yes, sir," he says, offers an impeccable salute, and retreats to go bother Ivan for that goldfish story.
The story turns out to be about a not-well-liked guest to an embassy party who brought her cat, only for the animal to get loose. Ivan's inventory of the goldfish was intended to give them some sort of concrete property damage to complain to her about as something in the way of recompense for lost time spent tracking down her elusive creature. Alas, all goldfish were accounted for, and the cat was returned without an attached bill. Not much of a security breach.
He pauses, struck by inspiration.
"Hell, that's not a bad idea - I mean, not that literal exact idea, but the idea of putting the Dendarii to work while they're sitting around waiting to be paid. We can't leave Earth orbit or do anything especially warlike, but that doesn't mean there's no opportunities - security guards - medical personnel - computer technicians - there's lots of things you can do with a mercenary fleet that can't be used as a mercenary fleet. I'll tell Elli next time we talk."
Miles waves a hand. "One time when I was talking to Linya I compared courier duty to sitting on a packet of data disks like a hen on her eggs while they travel from place to place."