The Vor Game (Vorkosigan Saga)

By Lois McMaster Bujold

NEW YORK TIMES BEST-SELLING writer. new version OF THE booklet THAT gained LOIS MCMASTER BUJOLD HER FIRST HUGO AWARD. Sequel to The Warrior's Apprentice.


Miles Vorkosigan has shaken the excessive Command of his domestic planet Barrayar to the core and has been despatched to the opposite part of the galaxy as a result. There Miles runs into his previous neighbors, the unfastened Dendarii Mercenaries. And a great factor, too, since it seems that Miles's youth chum—Emperor Gregor to you and me—has been the sufferer of foul play, and basically Miles can keep him. In fact, Miles is aware he must save Gregor. simply because if he does not, then the single one who may develop into emperor is Miles himself, that's, for Miles, a destiny worse than loss of life!  

About Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan Saga:
“The speed is breathless, the characterization considerate and emotionally robust, and the author's narrative process and command of language compelling. hugely recommended.”—Booklist

“[The Warrior's Apprentice] could paintings simply advantageous. . . because the creation to the sequence as a complete. i believe that any one who reads one may be as charmed as i used to be and need to choose up the rest.”—SF Site

“If you're keen on stable area opera rooted in robust personality, you cannot get it wrong. . . . The Warrior's Apprentice already screens the craft and the guts which might quickly make Lois McMaster Bujold probably the most feted abilities in SF.”—SF Reviews

About Vorkosigan sequence entry Diplomatic Immunity:
“Bujold is adept at world-building and offers a witty, character-centered plot, jam-packed with beautiful grace notes. . . lovers may be completely gripped and sure to complete the booklet in one sitting.”—Publishers Weekly

The Vorkosigan sequence in Story-based Chronological Order
Falling Free
Shards of Honor
The Warrior's Apprentice
The Vor Game
Ethan of Athos
Borders of Infinity
Brothers in Arms
Mirror Dance
A Civil Campaign
Diplomatic Immunity
Captain Vorpatril's Alliance
Gentleman Jole and the crimson Queen

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Miles, half-doubled-up, felt round, his belly and internal ear protesting the spin imparted by means of the ejecting kick outward, until his shaking arms discovered what he was hoping used to be a cold-light tube. He squeezed it, and was once rewarded with a nauseous greenish glow. The silence was once profound, damaged simply through the tiny hiss of the air recycler and his ragged respiring. good . . . it really is larger than the final time a person attempted to shove me out an airlock. He had a number of mins during which to visualize all of the attainable classes of motion the Ariel may possibly take rather than picking out him up. He had simply discarded skin-crawling anticipation of the send beginning fireplace on him in desire of abandonment to chilly darkish asphyxiation, whilst he and his pod have been wrenched via a tractor beam. The tractor beam's operator, essentially, had ham palms and palsy, yet after a couple of minutes of juggling the go back of gravity and outdoors sound reassured Miles he'd been effectively stowed in a operating airlock. The sleek of the interior door, garbled human voices. one other second, and the fool balloon started to roll. He yelped loudly, and curled up right into a protecting ball to roll with the stream until eventually the movement stopped. He sat up, and took a deep breath, and attempted to straighten his uniform. Muffled thumps opposed to the bod-pod's cloth. "Somebody in there? " "Yeah! " Miles known as again. "Just a minute. . . . " Squeaks, clinks, and a rending grind, because the seals have been damaged. The bod-pod started to cave in because the air sighed out. Miles fought his manner away from its folds, and stood, shakily, with the entire gracelessness and indignity of a newly-hatched chick. He was once in a small shipment bay. 3 grey-and-white uniformed squaddies stood in a circle round him, aiming stunners and nerve disrupters at his head. A narrow officer with captain's insignia leaned with one foot on a canister, looking at Miles emerge. The officer's neat uniform and tender brown hair gave no clue no matter if one used to be a fragile guy or an strangely decided girl. This ambiguity used to be intentionally cultivated; Bel Thorne used to be a Betan hermaphrodite, minority descendant of a century-past social/genetic scan that had now not stuck on. Thorne's expression melted from scepticism to astonishment as Miles rose into view. Miles grinned again. "Hello, Pandora. The gods ship you a present. yet there is a seize. " "Isn't there continuously? " Face lighting fixtures with satisfaction, Thorne strode ahead to understand Miles's waist with effervescent enthusiasm. "Miles! " Thorne held Miles away back, and gazed avidly down into his face. "What are you doing right here? " "Somehow, I figured that may be your first question," Miles sighed. "–and what are you doing within the Ranger-suit? " "Goodness, i am joyful you are not of the shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later tuition. " Miles kicked his slippered toes away from the deflated bod-pod. the warriors, just a little uncertainly, held their goal. "Ah–" Miles gestured towards them. "Stand down, men," Thorne ordered. "It's o.k.. " "I want that have been true," Miles stated. "Bel, we now have to speak. " Thorne's cabin aboard the Ariel was once an analogous wrenching mixture of familiarity and alter Miles had encountered in all of the mercenary issues.

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